#mu1tiverse ─ an independent, private, and selective writing blog for multiple characters from various forms of media. permanently iconless, very minimal formatting.
links: rules. muses. memes. pinterest. tracker. jaime reyes. tim drake.
mobile muse list . . .
** = test muse
**annabeth chase ─ percy jackson and the olympians.
america chavez ─ marvel comics. (not mcu)
caitlyn torres ─ motorheads.
cal kestis ─ star wars.
cisco ramon ─ cw's the flash (canon divergent).
clementine jones ─ telltale's the walking dead games.
this Thanksgiving consider donating to Indigenous Women Rising a native run org that helps native/indigenous women in the US access abortion and reproductive care
( i do not know much of [ our father ] at all. ) that is because i have shown up far too late for far too many things. anthony bridgerton of netflix's bridgerton. written by oz, a private and selective portrayal.
he's always surprised at just how much jon can sleep through.
yet, as damian climbs through the already-ajar window, the younger boy doesn't stir at all. he stands at the foot of the bed, taking a moment to look around the familiar bedroom of his best friend. old posters have been replaced with new ones, including at least two related to the metropolis meteors. the corner of damian's mouth tugs upwards unconsciously at the sight of a familiar drawing of krypto hanging above jon's desk, but as quickly as it's there, damian shakes it away.
he turns back to jon's sleeping form, whose long limbs are haphazardly falling off the side of the bed. he waits a moment before he pokes the boy's cheek. " kent. " no reaction. he pokes again. " get up, kent. "
jon had quickly gotten used to leaving his bedroom window open overnight - he and damian usually planned their joint patrol nights in advance, but the last thing jon wanted was to accidentally burn his whole house down because damian broke his way in. . . . again. he fell asleep wrapped in multiple blankets to fight the chill, his switch (previously hidden under his pillow) providing the faintest bit of light and sound to the room.
he doesn't wake at the opening of the window, or at the near-silent padding of feet on the carpet - only when a finger prods at his face. ❝ huh? ❞ hums jon, still half-asleep, immediately reaching up to try and move the hand away. his eyes open, eyebrows furrowing as his brain slowly catches up. ❝ damian? what're you.. ugh, what time is it? ❞