Roach My Beloved 🪳🧎‍♀️

Concept art by Ryan Church, of the Mandalorian, Din Djarin, in the cockpit of the Razor Crest as it is half filled with water from the ocean world of Trask. Image from The Mandalorian, Season 2, Episode 3, The Heiress. Calendar by DateWorks.

What if....

Grogu thought about all the things that he could do using the Force and then he thought about all the things he couldn’t do. He really wished that he could change some of those things. Like right now. This very moment. That should be a thing, right? After all, if you were climbing to higher ground to avoid being given a sea water bath, wouldn’t you wish that there was something you could do about it?

Of course, that’s not how any of it worked. You actually had to practice using the Force. You generally needed a Jedi Master or an experienced Jedi Knight, or even a really knowledgeable padawan to help you even figure out what you should do. You couldn’t just make things up as you went along. Which was a pity. 

Grogu didn’t the blame the Mandalorian. He didn’t blame the Frog Lady either. She needed to get her eggs to Trask, or her line would end. He didn’t want that to happen. It didn’t sound good. It didn’t sound right. It didn’t sound fair. 

Nope. He blamed Emperor Palpatine. If that guy had never been in power, well, the Jedi Temple on Coruscant would still be a Jedi Temple. Grogu would probably be someone’s padawan and Din Djarin would be doing whatever Mandalorians were meant to be doing. Probably bringing guys like Moff Gideon in cold. And he wouldn’t even be called Moff Gideon. Nope. He’d just be Gideon.

Imagine that. Gideon just being this guy who worked with data systems and sees his chance to steal a lot of credits from someone. Probably an orphanage given his general cruelty. The Old Republic figures it out immediately. Gideon is arrested and while he’s out on bail (whatever that is) he skips town. Then Din Djarin picks up a bounty fob for him and the guy is brought in cold. 

This time, no one gives Gideon a chance to run away and he’s locked up, under surveillance, wearing a uniform, the whole bantha. Gideon goes to trial, he’s found guilty because of course he is, he did it, and he’s taken to a place where he can just sit around and contemplate what he did and why it was wrong. 

Huh… so why would anyone steal from an orphanage? It’s not like they had a lot of credits laying around. Was it just because they didn’t know they needed to protect themselves from bad actors or because they didn’t have the funds to do it? Was it just a theft of convenience or was that the orphanage that Gideon had grown up in and this was his way of getting revenge on the people who didn’t love him? 

Uff! Grogu really needed to get a grip. Just because Gideon didn’t have a great childhood, that didn’t mean it was okay for him to be mean to other people. Grogu hadn’t had a perfect childhood by any stretch of the imagination. He was still a happy person. He still helped people when he could. He didn’t have to be mean to anyone. Except stormtroopers. 

Uff. Stormtroopers. Now there was another whole big group of people who wouldn’t have existed if Chancellor Palpatine hadn’t decided that he wanted to be something like Supreme Ruler of Everything He Could See and Everything He’d Been Told About. Those people, mostly humans, would have stayed on their home planets. They would have done the work they had always done. Grogu was pretty certain that none of that work included hitting small green Jedi younglings or trying to hurt their adopted dad, or chasing them all over the known galaxy. 

Nope. Those people would have built roads, protected folks from the local syndicates, and carried on the way the good people did on Chandrila or Alderaan. It’s not that Grogu thought that all of those people were good and law abiding. A bunch of them were probably like Moff Gideon. Creeps with a grudge against civil society. But the Jedi and the Mandalorians would help sort that out. As long as they stopped fighting with each other.

Uff. That was another thing that Grogu wished he could change, but he couldn’t entirely lay that on the former senator of Naboo. Mandalorians and Jedi had been fighting for millennia according to the history lessons he’d tried to stay awake through. It was usually over something like, the Mand’alor wanted to add a new planet to the ever expanding Mandalorian protectorate and the Jedi, often at the request of the planet’s leaders, worked to stop them. 

It drained both groups of precious time and resources and maybe that’s what the Sith affiliated had wanted the whole time. To weaken the two groups that could actually stop them. The groups that had actually stopped them, time after time. Huh. So maybe it was all the Sith’s fault? No Sith, no Emperor Palpatine, no Moff Gideon, no Din Djarin rescuing Grogu from the Nikto gang, because he was still on Coruscant. 

Of course, Din Djarin wouldn’t have been there anyway, because he would still be on Aq Vetina because there wouldn't have been a Separatist  attack and the Mandalorians would never had to rescue him. Hmm. Which meant that he wouldn’t have been the bounty hunter to collect Gideon. Someone else would have done that. But who? Not Boba Fett. He might not even exist. No Sith, no Clone Army because no Separatists.  

What about Fennec? Or Peli? Would Kuiil have ever been on Arvala-7?! 

Dank Farrik! 

Grogu knew you had to be careful about what you wished for. Sometimes you lost things you didn’t even know you needed. 

I absolute LOVE stories of Ghost getting to meet the Mactavish family dynamic 🥹

Ghoaptober # 4

Prompt: Home

Words: 3100~

TW: Phonetic Scottish Accents (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

This one did not at all go in the direction I meant it to. I genuinely thought this one was gonna be short, that's my bad for thinking a MacTavish family reunion wouldn't be chaotic.

So a bit of Premise, I have a headcanon that Soap's actual name is Coinneach John MacTavish, but only his family calls him Coinneach.

Enjoy!

Ghost tried to steady his breathing as Johnny led him up to a picturesque country home, then around the side, under a few lines of drying laundry, to the backdoor. Johnny gave the door a cursory rap as he pushed it open, he’d barely gotten one foot over the threshold when delighted cries resounded. 

An older woman, maybe fifty years old came into view as she hustled over to yank Johnny down into a hug. A smile lit Johnny’s face, the likes of which Ghost had never seen before. It was warm and relieved, happy and teary. It looked like Johnny had been told ‘It’s all okay’ and, for the first time, actually believed it. Johnny and his mother held each other for a long moment, each just breathing the other in. Through the door Ghost could see that the space behind them was crowding with people, all impatiently waiting to have their go at hugging the returned MacTavish. 

Mrs Mactavish pulled away, reaching up to clasp Johnny’s face between her hands, planting a long kiss on his forehead, then pulling back again to look him over, murmuring to him in Scots Gaelic. Something Ghost, thanks to Johnny, could now recognize.

Johnny had warned him that it was the primary language spoken under the MacTavish roof, in deference to Johnny’s Grannie, whose grasp of English isn’t the best. Ghost had been forbidden from worrying about it and Johnny had assured and reassured him that "Ma an’ all ae mah wee siblings speak English jus’ fine", so he was trying his best to obey and not stress out. 

Mrs MacTavish released Johnny, prompting even more people to crowd into the room to get at him and Ghost redoubled his efforts to not freak out. Wishing he hadn’t been so adamant in rebuffing Johnny when he’d said no one would care if Ghost wore his mask. Being able to hide behind his balaclava would be really nice right about now. 

“Ye mus’ be this Ghost fella mah Coinneach is always yammering abou’,” The voice piping up at Ghost’s elbow does not make him jump. Ghost is a highly trained Special Forces Operative, he would notice a middle-aged Scottish woman approaching him before she spoke.

He Would.

“Oh! Ah’m sorrae, laddie. Didnae mean tae spook ye,” Mrs MacTavish apologises, “Come in, Come in, Donnae stan’ on the stoop like y’ur nae welcome.” 

Ghost finds himself ushered into what he discovers is the kitchen of the house. To his right was the kitchen proper, there was what Ghost could only guess was a genuine wood stove crouched directly in front of the door, guarding the threshold, in direct competition with the gas cooker that was against the far wall, bracketed by counters covered in various appliances that looked like they'd hopped straight off the pages of a fifties home catalogue, but still seemed to be in good repair, the cupboards hanging over them were closed with curtains rather than doors. The only acquiescences to the modern era were the nice big fridge humming away like an afterthought at the end of the counters, and the washer tucked away in the corner. 

It was a nice kitchen, it looked homey, lived in.

To his left was a long oval table with an assortment of chairs surrounding it. Ghost could pick out a few chairs with carvings that matched the ones on the table’s legs that could only be the matching set, but they were outnumbered by chairs that had clearly been added as needed. He could also spot a leaning stack of metal folding chairs half tucked behind a hutch in the back, clearly the MacTavish house was well accustomed to crowds. 

Ghost was chivvied into one of the seats around the table, his Special Forces joints extremely grateful for the soft cushion padding the chair and guarding him from the ache of the hard wood. A glance at his table mates revealed whom the cushioning was truly intended for. A lady that must be around seventy sat to his right, and to her right, at the head of the table, sat a man in the same age range. The man was watching him. 

Ghost took an educated guess and presumed that these must be Johnny’s Grannie and Grandad. 

Fucking Hell.

Johnny never told him their names. 

He’d always just referred to them as Grannie and Grandad, so Ghost had always called them ‘your Grannie and Grandad’ when asking after them. He didn’t even know if they were MacTavishs. Thinking about it, they were probably Johnny’s mother’s parents.

Oh, Bloody Fucking Hell.

What the fuck was Mrs MacTavish’s first name. 

How the hell had he managed to have a panic attack over memorizing the names of Johnny’s five siblings and never have the thought cross his mind to learn the names of his mother and grandparents. Ghost is in their house, sitting at their table, and he doesn’t have a single clue what their names are.

What the fuck, Johnny. 

The awkward staring contest he’d been entered into by Johnny’s Grandad was only growing more and more uncomfortable. It’d be rude to look away without saying anything, but what the fuck was he supposed to say, ‘Sorry for barging into your home, Johnny demanded Simon Riley crawl out of the grave that Ghost left him in to come meet the extended MacTavish family’?

Johnny rescued him by coming to the table, leaning down to accept his Grandad’s seated one-armed hug and back pats, then pressing kisses to his Grannie’s cheek as he passed by on his way to drape himself over the back of Ghost’s chair, because sitting in chair like a normal human eludes Johnny. 

He talked back and forth with his grandparents for a moment then turned to Ghost to make the least helpful introduction he has ever been forced to be a part of, “Ghost, this ‘ere’s mah Grannie and Grandad,” then turning to his grandparents, “this is mah L.T, Ghost.” 

Johnny’s Grandad seemed well used to Johnny’s foibles and reached an arm across the table to shake Ghost’s hand and supplement with his own introductions, “Ah’m Amhlaigh Milne, an’ this is the missus, Fionna Milne,”   

Amhlaigh Milne’s hands were broad, with liverspots speckling the backs, textured by hard calluses and soft wrinkling skin. His handshake was cursory and firm. He was a man that had shaken a thousand hands before and had no interest in adding pomp or frippery to the exchange.

“Simon Riley, sir, ma’am,” Ghost replied, nodding to Mr then Mrs Milne, “Thank you for having me in your home,” 

Mrs Milne said something to Johnny in Scots, sounding almost despairing. Johnny cried a shocked ‘Seanmhair!’ and a wild barking laugh carvoted out of the kitchen, followed by a multitude of variations on the same. Mrs MacTavish had been puttering about the kitchen getting tea and nibbles together, and was now bracing against the counters to not fall off her feet laughing. The people that Ghost hadn’t been introduced to, but could only assume were Johnny’s siblings, were leaning against each other and various pieces of furniture as they fought to stay upright on knees weakened by their cackling. 

Well, it was good to see that Johnny came by it honestly. 

Mrs MacTavish pulled herself together enough to pick up the tea tray and bring it over without spilling, the occasional giggle rattling the teaset before she made it to the table. 

“Ma says-,” Mrs MacTavish cut herself off, planting a hand on the table as a new wave of laughter wracked through her, Johnny was hiding his face behind a hand, but the deep red of his ears betrayed his blush, “Ma says, it’s guid tha’ Coinneach is the firs’ ae her grankids tae bring ‘ome a fella, bu’ did ye have tae be a fuckin’ sassenach!” 

The last of the translation is squeaked out in between laughs, but Ghost thinks he’s gotten the jist. Mrs Milne was hoping her grandchildren would bring home partners that were Scots. 

Add her to the tally of people Ghost had lived to disappoint. 

“None of your siblings have had partners before?” Ghost turns his head to address the question to Johnny, getting some vindictive pleasure from the offended squawks coming from the peanut gallery of siblings milling about in the kitchen.

“Nae, they’ve ‘ad partners, bu’ all ae 'em 'ave been too feart tae bring ‘em fer a visit,” Now Johnny is the one laughing, and the greedy beast that weaves through Ghost’s ribs squeezes tight, viscerally glad to have been the one to cause it. 

A succession of offended noises comes charging out of the kitchen, followed by the siblings in question. 

“Oi!” barks a young man with Johnny’s mousey brown hair, Mrs MacTavish’s straight nose, and hazel green eyes that Ghost doesn’t recognise, “Ah’m nae feart!” The rest of his defense is in Scots Gaelic and therefore lost to Ghost, but by the gasps and laughter it triggers, it’s nothing good. 

“Artair!” Mrs MacTavish scolds, and Ghost assigns the name to the face on the internal profiles he’s been habitually building in his head for Johnny’s family, “Donnae say tha’ we’ve company!”

“He cannae understan-” Artair complains,

“Tha’ donnae matter. Artair MacTavish, ye’ll watch y’ur tongue or so help me Jesus, Ah’ll give ye a doin’!” Mrs MacTavish asserts, hands on her hips. Nodding sharply when Artair obediently subsides, “Noo, did ye wan’ a cuppa, Ghost?” She presents the full tea service to Ghost.

“Please, call me Simon, Mrs MacTavish,” Ghost almost begs of the woman, being addressed by his callsign by such a motherly figure is disconcerting in ways that Ghost refuses to analyze. 

“Simon i’ tis,” Mrs MacTavish easily agrees, and starts identifying the nibbles she's brought over, “These ‘ere are egg an’ cress pieces, bridies, butteries, tablet, an’ shor’ bread. Have y’ur pick ae the lot.” 

“Mah ciallian, did ye-” 

“Nae, Da. Ah didnae pu’ onions in the bridies,” Mrs MacTavish supplied before her father could finish his question.

“Guid lass. Pass us up a few, noo. There's a guid lad,” Mr Milne chivvies Johnny into popping a few on a plate for him, Ghost was fascinated to see Johnny automatically make up and pass along a cup of coffee too. His family had never had that kind of camaraderie. A sudden wave of despair welled up to drown him as the unwelcome thought that he had no idea how his mother used to take her tea and there was no one left that he could ask struck him.

Johnny gently squeezed at the nape of his neck, bending down to put their heads in line, so that he could mutter to Ghost what exactly was in all the snacks Mrs MacTavish had just offered him. If Ghost leaned into the contact, buoyed by Johnny’s presence, that was between him and the devil, thank you very much. 

Having clocked the identity of the coffee pot, Ghost got himself a tea from the teapot. Opening dishes until he found the milk powder, he mindlessly filled a mug with coffee for Johnny and slid it over along with the milk bowl, setting the dish back amongst the teaset when Johnny had taken what he wanted. The teapot was ensconced in a nicely knitted plaid tea cosy, a brief glance up at Johnny netted him a nod, and he studied the cosy with more interest. 

So this was the MacTavish… hmm.

Another glance to Johnny, with a tip of his head in Mr Milne’s direction. Another distracted nod from Johnny, one of his sisters was ranting to him about an incompetent chef. 

So this was the Milne tartan. 

A woman burst through the backdoor, a small dog following at her heels. Another ecstatic cry went up and the family rushed to welcome her home. Johnny had told him that this was the first time all the MacTavish children would be under the same roof in years, Johnny’s mother had been planning it for months. 

“Kennie!” the latest addition cheered, breaking free of the scrum to tackle Johnny in a hug, “How’ve ye been! Still ten, ten, an’ two?” 

Johnny threw his head back in a laugh, then held up his hands to wiggle his ten fingers at her, “Aye, ah’ve still go’ all mah bits, Maggie.” 

Ghost watched the crease of his eyes, the flash of his teeth, the jump of his chest. Glutting himself on Johnny’s happiness. 

“So ye finally brough’ us y’ur man,” Maggie nodded in Ghost’s direction, a released Johnny coming to perch at Ghost’s shoulder again. Memorizing her face Ghost updated his profiles, this must be Maighread, the youngest. 

“Aye, doin’ Ma proud, Ah am,” Johnny retorted, “Pickin’ up the slack ae allae youse,” 

“Oi,” Maighread barked with a laugh, bending to pick up the dog that had been standing on its hindlegs to paw at her thighs, “A’ leas’ ah’ve brough’ Ma her firs’ grankid,” 

“Aye, right.” Johnny conceded, reaching forward to give the dog a few pats, “An’ how’s wee Calum been farin’?” 

“He’s grand! Vet said he’s great joints for nine,” Maighread enthused, then gave Calum a smooch on the head and pressed him into Johnny’s arms, “ ‘ere, be a lad an’ hold him while I say hullo to ar seann-phàrantan,” 

Watching Johnny juggle a small grey dog and a hot mug of coffee twisted a smile onto Ghost’s face. 

“Calum?” He let the question stand on its own and was gratified by Johnny’s response.

“Aye, he’s Maggie’s wee lad. A mini schnauzer. She go’ ‘im off a breeder, he didnae qualify fer a showdog, so noo ‘e’s the first MacTavish grankid. Ma’s go’ ‘im in the albums an’ every’hing.” Hearing Johnny’s accent thickening with every second that he spent amongst his fellow Scots was captivating, “Maggie trea’s ‘im like ‘e’s her own bairn.”

Ghost is not legally obligated to confirm or deny whether he did or did not open a mental profile for Calum the nine year old miniature schnauzer. 

“Why’re you holding him?” Ghost asked,

“Dae ye wan’ tae?” Johnny asked in return. That hadn’t been why he’d asked, but he wasn’t going to say no. 

Ghost nodded and scooted back from the table to give Johnny room to set the warm armful of dog on his lap, carefully bringing his arm around to make sure Calum didn’t accidentally fall. 

Calum the miniature schnauzer snuffled at his face, his shirt, his hands, then seemed perfectly content to take a seat on his lap, propping his forepaws up on the table, like he truly was part of the family. 

“Aye, tha’s fine,” Johnny supplied at Ghost's questioning look, “Donnae le’ ‘im jump up or no’hing, bu’ it’s fine as long as ye wipe the table after ‘e gets doon.”

Ghost was then perfectly content to sit, drinking his tea and petting the dog weighing down his legs. Normally the hustle and bustle of the many people talking and swarming about the rooms would quickly become too much for Ghost and he would need to take a break or else risk disassociating or having a panic attack, but oddly he was feeling fine. 

With Johnny standing sentinel at his shoulder, his hip pressed against Ghost’s side, and his arm arm idly draped across the back of his chair, Ghost was able to feel secure where he was. In spite of the commotion and chatter around him. 

Eventually the whole MacTavish brood was sat to the table, including Calum, who had abandoned Ghost to curl up on Maighread’s lap as soon as his owner had sat down. With cuppas and plates of nibbles close to hand, the air thrummed with idle chatter. Everyone updating and catching up, sharing the newest gossip about people that the table’s occupants would never meet. Mr Milne clearing his throat muted the room, though the silence wasn’t the oppressive tension that Ghost’s father had loved to employ, rather it was more of a curious waiting. 

“Riley, ‘ave ye met,” Mr Milne cast a wide gesture out to encompass the entire room, grunting like he’d expected as much when Ghost replied with a quick ‘No, Sir’, and then proceeding to efficiently go around the table, putting names to faces.

“Mah oldes’ daugh’er, Oighrig.”

“Oh, jus' call me Effie, dear,” Mrs MacTavish interjected,  

“Oighrig’s oldes’, Iseabail,” Mr Milne spoke on, unphased, 

“Izzie,” the woman sat to Johnny’s left offered,

“Ye know Coinneach o’course,” Mr Milne didn’t miss a beat and Ghost got the feeling that this was routine for him,

“Folk ‘roun ‘ere call me Kennie,” Johnny grinned up at him, his chair leg-to-leg with Ghost’s letting Johnny easily press up against Ghost’s left arm,

“Then the twins, Donella-”

“Nella,” Chirps the woman directly across from Ghost

“an' Eilionoir,”

“Ellie,” Spoke the identical woman sat to Donella’s right, 

“Artair,” The young man sat to the right of Eilionoir offered only a nod, “our younges’, Maighread,” Mr Milne indicated the woman sat to his own right,

“Call me Maggie,” She offered with a bright smile, 

“An’ Maighread’s Calum,” Mr Milne rounded out, giving the dogs ears a ruffle.

Ghost gave the table a nod, “It’s good to meet you all, thank you for having me,”

His thanks are immediately waved away, eight separate voices speaking their denials of any thanks being necessary. Ghost holds his hands up in surrender and sits back to sip his tea 

“So Ellie, did ye tell tha’ man wit’ the gormless ring idea tae get tae fuck?” Maighread’s question forces an aggravated sigh out of Eilionoir, and with that the conversation moves on. 

Ghost is happy to have the attention off him, but is even happier to revel in the line of heat that comes from Johnny pressed tight against his side. Planting a hand on Johnny's leg, Ghost silently urges him impossibly closer, appeased by the way Johnny immediately obliges him. Scooting half off his chair he pushes down on Ghost’s shoulder and tugs him around by the waist so Ghost's slumped back against Johnny’s chest. Perfectly aligned for Johnny to drop his head down to rest his chin on Ghost’s shoulder, the soft scratch of the shaved sides of his warhawk rasping over Ghost’s ear and rubbing intoxicatingly against his cheek. Ghost squeezes at the leg he hadn’t released and revels in the tight squeeze Johnny returns to him.   

No one at the table gives their new seating arrangement a second glance and Ghost allows himself to wholly relax. Dropping his weight back onto Johnny without any fear of falling. 

There aren’t words for the feeling that fills up Ghost’s chest. The closest might be devotion, a gluttonous loyalty, content to share only because it gains him ever more of Johnny, others drawing out sides of him Ghost can’t. A burning obsession that banks and surges with every moment, every glance, every touch that Johnny allows him. 

What else is he meant to feel for a man that brings him home.

Thank You For Reading!

So the idea I set out with was "Soap takes ghost home to meet the family, ghost gets a bit overwhelmed by the amount of people, and realises he’s treating soap like some absurd mix of a touch/worry stone and a therapy dog. Thereby realising that soap makes him feel safe, and that wherever soap is, is home to him." I don't know how that became 3000 words, but here we are.

For anyone curious here are my notes on the MacTavish family:

Amhlaigh Milne -Grandad Fionna Milne - Grannie 69yo Oighrig MacTavish - Mother 53yo Iseabail(lesbian, the devil's advocate, she likes to look like the reasonable one and sometimes she is, trained as a professional chef, Job: restaurant owner) 34yo +1yr Coinneach John, 33yo +2yrs Eilionoir(Poly, is used to sharing Donella's partner, is not attracted to Donella, thoughtful and assessing, judgemental, realist leaning pessimist, job: makes jewelry) Donella(Poly, is used to sharing Eilionoir's partner, is not attracted to Eilionoir, more outspoken, open-minded, optimist, Job: professional horse trainer,) 31yo +3yrs Artair(sarcastic, always has a comment, acts like the baby of the family, Job: broker, he gets a budget from his client to find a specific/rare item for them, he bids in auctions and stuff), 28/yo +1yr Maighread(is the baby of the family, no one asks Maggie to do anything she doesnt want to, kind, warm, obliging, but not selfless or overly giving, Job: house sitter). 27/yo

Eilionoir and Donella live together and have four cats, all of which used to be stray cats. Their names are Sir Gawain, Darcy, Croissant, and Soot.

A photo of Calum to make it fair.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

bruce: duke please stop jumping out of moving cop cars as a civilian there’s not enough protection in your normal clothes for that

duke: do you just want me take racial profiling lying down then??? in black history month????

Fic Search!!

Looking for any well written JayRoy fics, especially along the lines of the Batfam realizing that JayRoy is a thing. (Bonus points if Dick takes psychic damage from it) . They can be funny or serious, just so long as there's at least a hopeful ending. Thanks!

I've already read (and enjoyed) :

Oh by AlexaAffect

Dick Grayson and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Two To Three Weeks (But Who's Counting) by dietpudding

another try not to cry christmas by fadinglight123

P.S. To anybody saving this for their own recs, these are also some favorite JayRoy fics, they just don't have the theme of the Batfam finding out. Enjoy!

raised in the tall grass by SafelyCapricious

4 am at Denny's by bittercape (JayRoy + Slade!)

And everyone thinks I dodged a bullet, but I think I shot the gun by Daisyapples

the halfway home for washed-up sidekicks by moth_tille (JayRoy + Kyle!)

duke thomas 😄

& him hanging out with the waynes :)

Do you have any good irondad fics that aren't just fieldtrip to stark tower (I do love them but there is a 99.9 percent chance I will have already read it)

Oh boy do I have any good irondad fics without the field trip trope?? OF COURSE I DO !!!! the field trip trope lowkey isnt that large amount of the irondad fics, and its even less of a big amount of the WELL WRITTEN irondad fics. only a few field trip fics are good. but anwyay. here are my 6 recs (keep in mind some of these might be hella angsty, bc im a BIG ANGST READER): Expirement!Peter Parker & coparenting with May

Shameless Inspired Fic & Bad May Parker

Skip Wescott & Foster Kid! Peter

Emancipated Peter Parker & Chaos

MJ/Peter & Identity Shenanigans

Heroin Addict! Peter & found family

let me know how many of these you've already read <3

Roach! You will forever be my #1!!! 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

This is sabotage.🚬

People out here really be using c.ai to unleash the most toe curling, thot driven sin out there

Meanwhile I’m out here writing myself either totally hammered while singing to Billy Joel at a karaoke bar, or living a normal life as a high school student whose unaware that my parents live a double life and secretly turned me into a sleeper agent, or as an indoctrinated child experiment who has no concept of their own humanity.

What I’m trying to get at is; ever written crazy adventures on c.ai? If so do tell, I’m curious 👀

Guys please I’m begging as an Arabic speaker when you’re talking about Damian referring to Jason as “akhi”, the only context that would work in is if he actually speaking to someone else and refers to Jason. Sentences like “Damian thinks of his akhi” don’t work cause “akhi” is MY brother so you’re basically saying “Damian thinks of his my brother”. If you really wanted to use an Arabic word (which you absolutely don’t have to you ca just say brother in English it flows much better) you could just use “akh” which is just “brother” OR “akhah” which is high Arabic for “his brother”. So it would be “Damian thinks of his akh” or “Damian thinks of akhah” which like… in sentences like these, again… just say brother dude.

Alternative pronunciations of “akhi” based on dialect also exist. I’m Iraqi and we say “akhuya” for example. Gulf dialects use “akhooy”

Conjugation for “your brother” could go something like “akhook” (male, dialect), “akhaak” (male, high Arabic), “akhooki” (female, dialect), “akhaaki” (female, high Arabic (also known as fus-ha)) some dialects use a ch sound instead of the k at the end when talking to a woman (aka: akhooch in place of “akhooki”)

Conjugation for “his brother” is “akhah”, for “her brother” is “akha-ha”

I hope I didn’t confuse all of you😭 if anyone has any questions about Arabic don’t hesitate to reach out!! It IS one of the hardest languages to learn and even as a native speaker I struggle sometimes so it’s completely understandable. In case of doubt just go with the English word cause unless Damian is also talking with a bilingual person who knows Arabic, he’s not gonna drop random Arabic words in the middle of the sentence.

"Stop hogging the ciggy"-

Scene from "earthmover" commissioned by the author of the fic <3