#yet another snippet

[elejah-verse]

elejah_au

*

Divination

_fanfic

_snippet

_au

a/n: Elena and Elijah are detectives, working in a special homocide unit that deals with paranormal occurences. It is New Orleans, of course and nothing is ordinary.

_yet another snippet. Blame it on the gif...lol

*

Darkness followed them. Sucking them bit by bit on a daily basis. There was not escaping it. The deeper the dug into the murder of Estelle Claire.

"You know what this is?" Elijah said to Elena as he brushed the dust of the amulet that was sitting in the middle of the circle.

"Yes. Vegvisir - way finder. The Viking compas. But why is it here?" Elena wondered.

"My aunt - a dark witch, used it to get into the Underworld. I have a bad feeling about this." Elijah turned to Elena as he stood up.

"You think this has something to do with your family again?"

"Not necessarily. But feels close to home. You see - centuries ago she taught my then girfriend Antoinette the craft." Elijah said.

"Another witch you dated wants to mess things up." Elena remarked recalling the incident they had with Celeste Dubois when she joined Elijah as his new homicide partner two years back.

"OMG!" Elijah suddenly exclaimed. "She possessed Ariane's daughter."

"Sybil? That means that she knows about Selma, Hope's baby" Elena looked at the Original with painful worry.

"Yes." Elijah inhaled inwardly, before he hurried out of the cemetery.

[mewgatori]

[shycorvid]

Instead of beating the shit out of Tim at the tower, Hood just kidnaps him. He regrets this almost immediately, because Tim immediately susses out what Jason's planning and abruptly starts arguing with him about it.

Robin- (sulking) I can't believe you want to beat up our dad. Hood- I’m not beating him up. Robin- Emotionally, you are. Thanks for that. I worked hard making that disaster of a man into a semi-functional human being after your death and now you’re just going to go and undo all of it. Hood- If Batman can’t handle a simple philosophical discussion, that ain’t my problem. Robin- (screeching) You want him to watch you kill the Joker and not do anything! Hood- I don’t see anything complicated about that.

[envysparkler]

“Got Scarecrow,” Nightwing chirped through the comm, accompanied by a stream of mad rambling about worst nightmares and reliving terror that thankfully cut off when Crane was passed off to the police.

“Everyone, report,” Bruce ordered, finishing with the zipties around the hands of the last of Scarecrow’s thugs.  The battle had been hectic, and Bruce had lost sight of all his children during the melee.

“Nightwing, heading away from the police, no injuries.”

“Robin, southwest corner, no injuries.”

“Robin, you have a sprained wrist,” Nightwing chided.

“No injuries,” Robin snapped.

Bruce suppressed his sigh and dropped down to the alley where his eldest and youngest were bickering.  “Red Robin, report,” Bruce reminded across the comms, before kneeling to check Robin’s wrist.

It was sprained, and Bruce called the Batmobile to their location instead of letting them grapple back to it, ignoring Damian’s pointed huff.

“Red?” Nightwing said warily, and Bruce felt an icy curl of dread in his stomach.  “Red Robin, check in.”

No response.

“Who last had eyes on him?” Bruce asked, heading back into the warehouse and ignoring the police picking over the scene.

“I lost him at the start, I was trying to stay close to Robin,” Nightwing said, following him.

“I saw Red near Crane,” Robin huffed, “The next time I looked, Crane was alone.”

“Red?” Bruce called again, scanning the warehouse for any hint of red-and-black in the shadows, his unease growing stronger.  Crane had been raving about the prototype of his new toxin, had Red Robin—

A ping sounded, and Bruce pressed the button to connect to whoever was trying to reach him—had Red Robin’s comm been accidentally disconnected during the fight?

“Will someone,” Jason’s growl cut through the comms, “Tell me how the hell—” he sounded furious, and an alarm started blaring in back of Bruce’s head—“The Replacement knows where I live?!”

“Hood?” Nightwing froze, twisting to look at Bruce—he didn’t need to see past the mask to know that Dick’s eyes were wide and worried.

“What is Red’s status?” Bruce asked, wincing when it came out more like a demand—Jason’s temper was fickle at the best of times, but if he was already in a bad mood, then Bruce was one misstep away from waking up to see half of Gotham levelled.

“He broke into my safehouse while I was sleeping,” Jason snarled, “What do you think his goddamn status is?”

Not good.  Very not good.  They had all breathed a sigh of relief when Jason decided to stay off patrol due to his broken ribs, and doubly so when they received word that Crane had broken out of Arkham.

“Hood,” Bruce tried as they exited the building—Jason had safehouses scattered all over Gotham, and Bruce was sure he didn’t know about half of them.  “Where are—”

“Robin?”  That was Tim’s voice, echoing oddly through the line.

“The demon brat’s bedroom is on the other side of the city,” Jason snapped, and Bruce registered the too-fast breathing and desperately wished he was standing between his sons.

“Hood, Red might’ve been hit with fear toxin,” Bruce managed to get out, but it didn’t do anything to calm Jason down.

“So, what, he came here to finally finish off the big, bad Hood?” Jason sneered, and it was difficult enough to talk Jason down when he was standing in front of Bruce, Bruce had no idea how he was going to do it over the comms.

Jason, stop he discarded.  Wait, Jason listen except Jason wouldn’t definitely not listen.  Jason, please but Jason would take offense at that.  Don’t murder your brother was unlikely to be received well.

“Hood, just tell us where you are,” Nightwing tried, “We’ll get him out of your hair, I promise.”

Jason inhaled sharply and Bruce inwardly winced, waiting for the diatribe—

“Robin,” Tim sounded distant and choked, “Help.  Please.”

Damian jolted forward, visibly surprised.

Jason’s connection closed with an audible click.

Bruce stared at Nightwing and saw his own trepidation reflected in his son’s face.

~#~

It took them twenty minutes.  Twenty minutes of Oracle hacking the security cameras to figure out where Tim had fled, twenty minutes to confirm that one of the prototype vials of fear toxin was missing, twenty minutes to listen to Crane’s cackling about trapping people in one of their worst memories.

Between Tim and Jason, there was enough past trauma to cause several murders.  Everything about Jason’s past was a landmine, and while Tim was usually good at navigating it—better than Bruce, at any rate—he would be oblivious while trapped inside his own head.

Finally, Oracle managed to catch Tim slipping into a side street in Crime Alley, and not appearing out the other side.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Nightwing murmured as they followed the coordinates, “You know how protective Jason is over his safehouses—”

“When Hood stops being an insane murderer, he can have his privacy back,” Robin snapped.

“Come on, baby bat, Jason won’t actually hurt Tim,” Nightwing said quietly, “He just needs some time to calm down and get out of his bad mood.”

“Drake is currently drugged and vulnerable, it would be the height of foolishness to place your faith in his continued survival in the hands of Todd,” Robin sneered, taking the fire escape down, and Nightwing shot a startled glance at Bruce before following after him.

Jason’s apartment was the third one Bruce checked, and he felt the tension in the air as the window slid open with a near-soundless squeak.

“Get out,” Jason said, voice low and rough, before Bruce had even cleared the threshold of his room.

“Jason,” Bruce started, slow and quiet, but Jason cut him off.

“Get out,” Jason snarled, but his voice cracked halfway through and Bruce stepped inside the bedroom, alarmed.

“Jason?” he called out, finding the curled up figure in the shadowed corner.

“You found him,” Nightwing said breathlessly, and Damian shoved past him with a terse, impatient sound.

“Get. Out,” Jason snapped, his breath…hitching.  He sounded like he was crying.

Bruce immediately turned to find the lights.

Jason was sitting, back pressed to the corner, with Tim in his lap, head pillowed against his brother’s chest.  The mask was gone, as was the cape, and Tim blinked open half-closed eyes at the sudden emergence of the light.

Jason was hunched protectively around him, a glare already forming on his face, but there were splotches of color on his cheeks and his eyes were suspiciously shiny.

“Robin,” Tim breathed out as soon as he saw Damian, reaching out a hand.  Damian stared at him, clearly taken aback, but shuffled forward until he was close enough to touch.  Jason watched them both with narrowed eyes.

Tim made a half-lunge forward, snagged Damian’s cape and dragging the younger boy into an embrace as he curled back into Jason.  Damian squawked, but Tim was holding him too tightly—Damian would have to break something to get out of his grasp.

They could all see the exact moment that Damian realized this and subsided with a scowl.

[green-eyedfirework]

It was a slow day, and Dick was finally getting around to reorganizing his herbs after Tim and Cass had gone through them.  He loved his little siblings, he really did, but Tim’s organizational system could only be comprehended by him, and Cass had a bad habit of not cleaning up after herself.  His last client had hobbled home to finish resting her once-broken ankle, the house call to the new mother and baby was over in early morning, and he had all the time to rearrange his cupboard.

The door creaked, and a shift of fresh air tugged at his hair, accompanied by heavy, bold footsteps.

Well.  Dick stared at the array of herbs spread around him and sighed.  Maybe he should invite Jason over, his little brother wouldn’t be able to help himself from organizing Dick’s stuff.  “I’m coming,” Dick called out, levering himself off the floor and clearing a path to the front with a snap of his fingers.

Three sets of footsteps and no greeting, so Dick wasn’t expecting anyone from the village.  He lived a little further into the woods—closer to the plants he needed and the wild call of nature he used to replenish his magic—but most of his clients came from the village.  They were familiar and friendly.

He sensed the spark of wild magic a second before he saw the scowls on their faces.  Werewolves.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly.  “What can I do for you today?”

The one in the lead, silver hair bound tightly in a braid, bared her teeth at him.  It would’ve been a lot more intimidating if she wasn’t a teenager.  “You can come with us, mage,” she sneered, “We require your services.”

There was a chill down his spine, easily brushed off.  Everyone and their pet wanted a collared mage—the trouble was putting the collar on them in the first place.  Someone like Dick, who’d honed their magic for years?  It would be easier to put a leash on a werewolf.

Healing and killing were two sides of the same coin, after all.

“Are you injured?  Is someone in your pack injured?” Dick asked, still pleasant as he sent out a testing probe.  Three werewolves here, three more skulking at his back window, two outside the front door.  No more in the immediate vicinity, but their pack had be close by for a show of force this large.

The posturing werewolf snapped her teeth.  “We have enough wolves to take you down,” she threatened, “Either you come with us quietly, or we’ll drag you behind us.”

Dick let his smile drop.  “Well,” he said in the tone of voice he used whenever he found Tim and Damian fighting, “That’s rude.”

On his little brothers, it could barely quiet a vehement argument.  On the wolves, it sent them skittering a step back, hackles raised.

“You’re coming with us,” the wolf said, but her voice wavered, her gaze locked on his hands as he rested them on the table.

The door behind them swung open.  In the distance, they could hear growls and curses.  “You should probably not threaten a mage in their own home,” Dick chided lightly, and flicked his fingers.

The wolf’s eyes widened to pale blue saucers, but she couldn’t get out more than a half-strangled, “Wait—” before they were spun out and the door slammed shut behind them.

Dick exhaled slowly, and let the sparks of magic recede back under his skin.  Then he stepped back, over the piles of unsorted jars, and picked up his satchel.

~#~

The curse is a nasty, sunken, barbed thing.  Half of it is hidden, which means that Dick spends more of his magic than is wise before he realizes the scope of the thing, realizes he can’t just yank the thing out.

Under his hands, the wolf is screaming.  He does his best to tune it out.

The surge of magic battling magic is enough to keep any interference away, so Dick settles into the slower, longer, more meticulous path of prying the curse out, tendril by tendril.  It fights his attempts to destroy it as he goes, so he has to expend even more magic on containing it until he can get the whole thing out.

It’s tedious, draining work.  It’s gone firmly dark by the time he finishes sliding the last piece out, and the twist it takes to compress the curse into a tiny speck and shred it to whispers nearly makes him stagger.  His magic reserves have gone distressingly low.

Dick abruptly remembers where he is.  The camp around him is full of wolf growling, loud and agitated.  His patient is passed out, skin gray and clammy and looking ten times worse than when Dick started.  The cuts—the cuts are bleeding freely, red and thick.

He needs to leave.  He has just enough magic to put on a show of force if needed, and he needs every last sliver to bluff his way out.  He cannot be caught here.  Not by a pack that’s already expressed interest in putting a collar around his neck.

The boy is bleeding.  He will die, werewolf healing or not.  Dick can sense the corruption the curse wrecked, magic gone but its effects lingering.  If he heals this, it’ll take every scrap of magic he has left.

It’s a choice that’s not a choice.  Dick’s a healer.  He can’t go against his nature.

Dick breathes in and breathes out, and lets his magic pour out.

Heart and lungs and kidney and liver, a thousand tears in muscle where the wolf tried to fight the curse, blood loss and weakened bone and a hundred small damages.  The cuts, large and bloody, slowly knitted together under his trembling fingers.  Too slowly.

His vision is going black.  Dick fights it, fights it with every breath.  As long as he can remain upright when it’s done, as long as he can walk out—he’s proved his fighting capabilities, as long as he gives them no reason to doubt him—

Dick’s head swims.  When he forces himself back to consciousness, he’s half-collapsed against the bed.  He uses the movement to examine the wounds, as though that was his intention all along, his heart pounding loud and sluggish.  They’re almost closed.

Something pops in his ears and the growling disappears to a low buzzing.

He does one last check for any lingering damage as pink, waxy skin unfurls across the wounds.  There are some minor injuries left, but the werewolf can heal those on his own as soon as he’s gotten some food.

It’s time for him to go.

Dick curls shaking hands on the edge of the bed and allows himself one breath before he lets go.  Everything is curiously muffled, muffled and ringing, and when he drags his head up, he can see the alpha on the other side of the bed.

Mouth moving.  He’s saying something.  Dick can’t hear him.

He takes a step back, away from the bed, away from the alpha—he needs to get out, needs to watch for a path, needs to avoid being cornered because all he has is dregs and it’s not enough to scare off a bear.

His head aches, like someone took a hammer to it.

Dick needs to leave.  Now.  Only he’s not sure he can turn without everything spinning.  The ground feels like it’s roiling under his feet.

He blinks, and the alpha is suddenly much closer.  Dick stumbles back another step in surprise.  His stomach turns over, but there’s nothing in it.  He worked too long and without food.

Dick has to get out.  He has to—everything inside him is screaming danger—he can’t stay, they want to keep him, he needs to leave—

Something wet touches his lips.  Dick raises a hand, feeling like he’s moving underwater, and wipes it across his mouth.

It comes away red.

It’s the last thing he remembers seeing.

~#~

No one can get to Grant, no one can even touch him with all the magic swirling around the mage, and Slade is forced to stand there, a few steps away, and watch his firstborn scream under the onslaught.

Nothing works to stop it.  Not words, not weapons, not every magic-dampening sigil they’ve ever collected.  Slade can do nothing but wait.

Grant stops screaming.  His wounds run red and red and red.  Slade’s claws are fully extended—he will tear the mage from limb to limb if it’s the last thing he does.  He just needs an opening.

Slade doesn’t know how long before the magic falters.  It’s just a second, but the second is enough to register how much worse Grant looks, like the mage is draining his life away.  By the gods and the moon, they should’ve left it alone.  At least Slade would’ve been able to hold his son while he died.  At least he wouldn’t be in so much pain.

The magic swirls back before anyone can attack, and the pack paces restlessly along the perimeter.  Everyone’s expressions are twisted in grief and fury.

The mage will not leave here alive.  That much Slade swears.

The magic is…quieting almost.  Like it’s slowly winding down.  Still impenetrable—Rose tries and fails to get past it, but the shimmer is receding.  Slade stares at Grant, half-dreading that his son is already dead.

But Grant’s chest still rises and falls.  The amount of blood loss is…shrinking.  The wounds seem to be closing over.  In fact, when Slade darts a glance at his son’s face, Grant appears to be getting better.

His skin is no longer ashen, his breaths are fuller, and as the magic recedes, Slade steps forward, stuck in an incredulous daze.  Grant looks better.  Grant looks like he’s healing.

Slade pays no attention to the mage’s movements, his gaze fixed on the miracle in front of him.

The magic dies down to nothing but flickers, and Slade can finally touch his son again.  Grant is warm and alive and healthy under his fingers, and Slade lets out a shuddering gasp.

“Thank you,” he says hoarsely, lifting his gaze to the mage.  He doesn’t know what the man did, but Grant is alive, Grant is healed, Grant is safe.  “I don’t know how I can ever repay you—”

The mage looks terrible.  His skin is waxy and gray, his eyes sunken, his frame curled in on himself.  He’s trembling, and his breaths keep breaking.  As Slade watches, the mage takes a step back and nearly trips on flat ground.

“Hello?” Slade calls out slowly, tension creeping back in.  “Hello, can you hear me?”

The mage looks at him blankly.

Slade rounds the bed, casting one last glance at Grant—alive, healthy, alive—before inching closer to the mage, who looks as worse as Grant had at the start.  Slade doesn’t know a whole lot about mages and magic, but he doesn’t think this is a good thing.

“Can you hear me?” Slade repeats, before he notices the red creeping down from the mage’s ears.  The mage’s expression has gone unfocused.  There’s red creeping out of his nose too, blood smearing across his lips, and the mage raises a hand to wipe it off.

He blinks down at the blood on his hand.  And then he crumples.

Slade is close enough to lunge and catch him before he cracks his head open on the ground, and the mage is alarmingly light.  “What’s the matter with him?” Slade growls as the pack presses in, all concerned murmurs.

Villain manages to fight his way to the front.  “Magic overuse,” he diagnoses after taking in the mage’s—too weak—pulse and examining his face.  “He’s drained himself nearly dry.”

Slade looks back at Grant, sleeping peacefully on the cot, and down at the mage, who appears to be two and a half steps from death’s door.

“Will he recover?” he can hear himself ask.  Slade was willing to do near anything for his son’s health, but to use a life to restore life?  That kind of sacrifice, from someone not pack—

“He should.  Time, and rest, and enough food.  Come, he’s too cold, he needs to be kept warm.”

[luv-again]

@pepperacity @ivelostmymarblez @starburstsobsessions

iiiitty bitty morsel from my shadamy pirate au >:)

completely out of context bc i don't wanna spoil too much, but a peaceful shadamy moment is always good, right ? <3

[write-it-motherfuckers]

Person A: "Are we even allowed to be in here?"

Person B: "I don't know, I stopped caring about their bullshit rules after they repaid my loyalty and devotion by framing me for their own misdeeds."

Person A: "...What if someone recognises you?"

Person B: "Recognise me? Ha! I was nothing but a faceless tool to them, I might as well have been part of the wallpaper! Honestly, I could probably walk right up to them and introduce myself with my former name and those fools still wouldn't realise it was me."

[wordsofwilderness]

I'm obsessed with this scene, like I'm pretty sure I've peaked with it, so have a tiny snippet:

“This wouldn’t be a such problem if you would stay out of my life,” Regulus scowled, flexing his fingers around his wand. At least it wasn’t currently pointed at James. Progress, you know? “But oh no! Let’s bother Regulus at every chance you get. What a fun little game,” Regulus continued as he made a wide gesture, “Is it then, Potter? Are you having fun?” “I—” James started, his voice nearly a whisper, “Is that really what you think?” “Yes, it is.” James took a half step closer, his eyebrows furrowed. “And what if I just like your company?” “Then you are truly a fool,” Regulus scoffed with a shake of his head. The corner of his lips lifting, James insisted, “Well, I do.”

[havenshereagain]

WIP Wednesday! I've got three this week: the two from last week (TimKon 6+1 of Tim dreaming about Kon and JayTim pranking Bruce and Dick) and a DPxDC fic based off this post https://www.tumblr.com/im-totally-not-an-alien-2/689723734673784832/danny-bit-back-a-sigh-from-his-place-on-the-throne but from Tim's POV

6+1

Tim let out a frustrated sigh - he'd have to take a shower and then do laundry. He forced himself up and took a glance at the time. His dad would probably be on his way to work already, but Dana was a wild card. If he was lucky, she'd be getting in a workout before heading to work. And thankfully, luck seemed to be on his side - he didn't see her going to or coming out of the bathroom. By the time she came back, he already had his laundry in.

JayTim Prank

She looked considering before conceding, "it felt similar to the way you'd banter with me or your team." Tim nodded. The way he and Jason "argued" was similar to the back and forth he'd have with Kon. "But Dick and Bruce seriously have no idea about the two of you? Like, still think you're a bad night away from getting shot no idea?" Tim snorted and nodded.

DPxDC

The more he watched, the more uncomfortable he was with the situation. While the group hadn't been connected to any other in Gotham, it seemed they were some sort of cult - likely a new branch started by someone looking to spread the message. They began to gather in dark robes, talking amongst themselves while one person in a white robe looked over a book nearby. Tim assumed that was the leader - the one who brought this cult together. He couldn't get a good enough look to run their face through his facial recognition program, but he was able to get the title of the book - Infinita Regna. Infinite Realms.

[snarky-wallflower]

me: I could write some fic around the new characters and relationships we've got so far! After all, Sam's clearly got some history with the Magnus Institute, and Alice is amazing and I love her--

also me: screw you, the angles cut them when they try to think.

[averycutesalamander]

NO!! SNAKE BITE BOOTHILL I'LL FOREVER WAIT FOR YOI...... MY BELOVED

Silliness apart I 100% understand. I'll love anything you write. Can you give a taste of what ur writing right now? The 18k draft? I'm curious.....

by the way, do you think boothill would like whiskey? With 2 ice cubes?

-Snake Bite anon

edit: i wrote most of this like right when i got the ask (like two months ago i am SO sorry 💀) and meant to finish it immediately after but uhhh obviously that didnt happen. and in retrospect it is extremely funny how nervous i was to talk about this considering how bad my newest newest draft is. anyway here you go

-

oh god anon the can of worms youve just opened.. 😭 im sort of nervous talking about it but. im too obsessed with it to not finish and post it eventually so i guess i should just rip off the bandaid now.

cw pseudoincest under the cut but HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT

ok so for the record this is NOT MY FAULT. i was talking with (redacted) about how sad it is that one of my favorite writers sees him as an uncle. like, it's a familial thing. and we were joking like "well that wouldnt stop me lmao am i right guys" and it was all in good fun.

and then i started. Thinking About It. and entirely against my will my brain formed a plot. and at first i was just gonna write like a drabble or something to get it out of my system but uh. well.

yeah. so. yeah. so. ok. i know this looks bad but HEAR ME OUT. also spoilers for the first uhhhhh maybe half of the fic ?? two thirds of the fic???

ok so. this initially takes place before the IPC arrival. the reader gets adopted by one of his sisters when she's 5 because she was alone in the desert. she cant talk, and by the time she can, she doesnt remember what happened, so whatever. she meets boothill (who i am presently calling ahiga because i literally could not dodge around the name for that long) when she's 7 and LET ME EMPHASIZE THAT IT IS COMPLETELY PLATONIC AT THAT POINT. 100% PLATONIC. THERE IS NO GROOMING IN THIS FIC. OR UNDERAGE. ZERO. ZIP. ZILCH.

so reader is like.. cripplingly lonely with some major attachment issues. her mama's farm is pretty far from everyone else and there aren't many kids her age in the family, so she doesn't have many connections when she's younger. and she's a quiet kid, so she doesnt get much attention from the rest of her relatives. boothill can kinda see this to some degree, and i think hes sort of acquainted with loneliness (although his is largely self-inflicted at this point) so he kinda goes out of his way to include her in stuff and be nice to her. NOT in a creepy way, just in a regular cool uncle way. he teaches her how to ride horses, gives her sweets when mama isnt looking, that kind of thing. they don't see each other all that often but it's enough that they have a pretty solid, positive relationship.

so when shes like 16 she forms a teeny tiny itty bitty crush on him. just like. a little thing. and shes VERY aware that that's fucked up and she should cut that out immediately, but the thoughts kind of linger. but like.. presumably that'll just.. iron itself out eventually. with time. it's fine.

and almost immediately after that the IPC shows up and shit goes down. she and mama get kicked off their ranch and have to go shelter with nick and graey, and in the next week or so many other relatives follow. boothill ends up dropping off his daughter (who im calling manaba in this fic for the sake of naming consistency) to join the rebellion. reader helps out with the war effort, does supply runs, that kinda thing. when the ipc finally gives the kill order, shes between towns, and since they're targeting population centers, she escapes the direct blasts and shelters in a river to avoid the ensuing wildfires.

not everyone is so lucky, obviously. no one in her family (that she knows of) survives. some shit happens, but she ends up getting picked up by a group of survivors. skipping the details, several years go by. she doesnt really make any new friends, and the loneliness sinks its teeth into her - so she relies on the past to keep her grounded. the memories of her mom feel too painful, but her memories of her uncle feel.. safer. kinder, in a way. and in the back of her head, that tiny crush starts to fester. subconsciously, she starts to feed it, because the loneliness is ripping her apart, and this weird fucked up little fantasy feels like the safest way for her to keep it at bay. it's not a conscious thing, though. she's actively disgusted and disturbed by it every time it crosses her mind. it just kind of.. stews in the background.

she starts sleeping around to sate that loneliness. "There's a void in you that you haven't managed to fill. Something about having someone's hands on you makes the ache a little quieter, a little more manageable, but not by much." it's not born out of love, or any kind of affection - just a feral sort of desperation.

she never really feels like her partners fit her. when she finally realizes that shes chasing people with features that remind her of her dead fucking uncle, she promptly declares herself a freak forever and sentences herself to celibacy until she can figure out whatever the fuck is wrong with her brain.

she ends up leaving the planet, because staying is too painful. im a little foggy on the details here, but tldr she finds a mentor and gets into the tech scene, then the hacking scene, then starts doing what she can do fuck with the ipc wherever possible, etc etc. somehow, experiencing the impossible vastness of the universe, being surrounded by a functionally infinite amount of people, feels more lonely than ever. she's just kind of adrift in the world - sending money back home to help people make end's meet, generally just trying to find a reason to live beyond fear. there's a storm of emotions brewing inside of her - the hatred and the terror and the grief. she does all she can to spite the IPC, but it never feels like enough. it never feels like it does any good.

and then, years after the massacre, she's at a bar meeting with a client, and she sees him, and he sees her. and she's thinking "holy fucking shit that's my dead uncle" and he's thinking "holy fucking shit that's my dead niece" and they reunite and stuff. very heartwarming, very sweet, lots of tears (well. from her at least. he can't partake obviously 💀) and they start catching up over drinks.

and that's when he tells her his mission - that he knows who pulled the trigger, and who was behind the slaughter of their people. and she latches onto that HARD, because now she has a specific target for her emotional turmoil instead of the vague, amorphous concept of "the company." etc etc etc they agree to team up because he could use someone to help with behind-the-scenes stuff. and also because it's really nice to have someone around from home. so they exchange contact info and stuff, yay yay yippee

so they chat more, and they drink more, and reader maaaaaybe kinda sorta drinks a little too much. more than a little, actually. more than enough that her hold on her inner monologue slips and she starts thinking about how pretty he is. and suddenly that dormant little harmless crush that she was subconsciously feeding is swinging back around with a vengeance, because now it's real, and he's here, and he's ALIVE, and god did his lips always look that soft or-

and. well. eventually she uh. she might maybe kinda sorta ask if she can kiss him. and then processes the words that just came out of her mouth and starts CRYING because what the FUCK is wrong with her. and he like.. never addresses it directly. he just calms her down and makes sure she gets back to her hotel room and fucking DIPS.

BUT THE THING IS. THE THING IS. SHE WAKES UP THE NEXT MORNING. AND DOESN'T REMEMBER DOING IT. SO NOW HE KNOWS!! BUT SHE DOESN'T KNOW THAT HE KNOWS!!!! AND THEY HAVE TO ACT NORMAL!!!!!!!!!!!!

so the next bit is kinda loose and im probably gonna tweak some things. but. but. they have to go on a mission together. and.

yeah. im. yeah. they have to go to a bdsm club. together. and im sure you can guess. where im going with that. theres a particular section from the club scene that has been absolutely CONSUMING ME but idk if i should share that yet jawhbdjahwdbjawbajd unless somebody asks nicely ig. but jesus christtttttttttt it makes me feel insane. this whole fic makes me feel insane. the ending makes me want to chew my hands off but we'll get there when we get there. fucking pray for me because im not seeing the gates of heaven with this one

[nerdfins]

Transformers One AU Snippet

(Transformers One Starscream getting to know Transformers One Ricochet, long before the betrayal of the Primes.)

"Tell me, Starscream, what do you know about Gladiator matches?" Ricochet asked with a conspiratorial grin.

"I know they are brutal fights to the death. Highly illegal." Starscream continued playing a little dumb. "You watched them?"

"No. I participated."

Looking back at what Starscream witnessed of Ricochet's fighting style, it all made sense. She never held back when confronting an enemy, except to watch how they moved. She'd let them take a shot or strike at her to see how they worked and where their weak points were. When Ricochet struck, she struck hard and would go for the kill. A normal soldier when killing an enemy combatant would do so out of duty or self-preservation. Most were done at a distance with blasters. Starscream had seen plenty with haunted looks in the optics of soldiers when remembering the moments they snuffed the life out of another being. Quintession or not, death was not easy to mete out.

Ricochet was no ordinary soldier. When Ricochet fought, she did it up close and personal. There were rare times she'd use a rifle, and Starscream wasn't sure if she even had any internal blast weaponry. When not helping Megatronus Prime guide troops, Ricochet would be out in the skirmish. Megatronus used to be heard bellowing for her to get back to his side, but eventually that lessened to a shake of his head as the Captain would take off again. When Ricochet fought, it was a sight to see.

Starscream had seen her rip apart Quintession troops with her bare hands. Seen her covered in their blood, the green against the grey and purple of her paint. Heard her roar as she slashed with her dual-ended sword or the blades hidden in her arms. And, most chillingly, witnessed her grinning as she looked down at her kill. Ricochet would sometimes be laughing in an adrenaline-fueled rush before turning and going after the next opponent.

He never saw the hollow-eyed stare from her.

Ricochet was a killing machine.

"You're judging me, I can tell," Ricochet said.

"Does it bother you?"

Ricochet responded with a shrug. "Meh, not really. I've always been judged in some way for being a Gladiator. Sometimes with awe, sometimes with disgust. Which one are you?"

[envysparkler]

So far, Jason’s return to Gotham was going horribly.

Sure, it had started on a high—the drug trade had been easier to take over than he’d expected, even if he had to hold back the nausea every time he saw a collection of syringes or packets of pills.  Black Mask had done exactly what Jason predicted he would do, and the Joker had escaped from Arkham exactly as planned.

And then Batman had looked him in the eyes—as Jason begged, as he pleaded his father to kill the greatest monster of Jason’s nightmares—and walked away.

Even the explosion he’d wired hadn’t managed to do its job—not on him, not on the clown, not on the Bat.

Jason had managed to recoup some of his losses by going after the Replacement—the kid that Bruce actually cared about, the black-haired blue-eyed heir he wanted—and proving that he was still the superior fighter, but it was a hollow victory.  There was no real satisfaction in trashing the Tower—it had never been his the way it had been Dick’s—and his enjoyment had soured by the time he met Drake’s wide, scared, hurt eyes and choked him out.

He’d managed to demonstrate that their security was laughable and their baby heroes pathetic, but he’d left a fifteen-year-old unconscious and beaten on the floor in the process.  It had left a bad taste in his mouth, one even the soothing, green-laced rage couldn’t wipe, and he could still hear the kid’s lost, confused, desperate voice.

“Jason—stop—why are you doing this?  Bruce loves you!  Just come home!”

In the moment, it had only stoked his fury.  Now it matched the roiling disgust in his stomach.  The disgust at Batman.  At the oh-so-sanctimonious heroes.  At this filthy, stinking garbage pile of a city.

At himself.

He—he needed a break.  From the violence.  From the killing.  From the rage.  He needed to get out of this fucking city before he lost his mind, and there was only a couple of things he wanted to take with him.

Unfortunately, some of them were in the Manor.

A photo of him and his mother.  The old, faded red hoodie Jason had refused to let Alfred throw out.  His books.

Before, Jason might’ve asked Bruce’s permission—before he broke into the Tower and beat up the kid—but now Jason was forced to wait until he got news that Bruce Wayne was in London for a business trip—coinciding neatly with the intel that the Justice League had a big, week-long space mission—before he dared to sneak into his old home.

He didn’t try his security codes.  They would’ve definitely fixed that after he pointed out that glaring mistake in Titans Tower.  But Jason had spent more than three years at the Manor, and he’d long since mastered getting into or out of the house without setting off any alarms.

The first bedroom after the stairs was the one with the window that didn’t latch all the way, and the security system couldn’t register whether it was open or closed.  It was a little difficult to reach, involving free-climbing up two floors, but Jason had been Robin and now had League training under his belt and it was easy to haul himself up on the ledge and jimmy the window open.

The bedroom remained barren, bed stripped, desk and closets empty, the room cold with the chill of desertion, and Jason shivered as he toed his shoes off on habit and headed for the door.  Alfred usually went with Bruce on his ‘business trips’, so the Manor should be empty, leaving enough time for Jason to get whatever he wanted.

He had the petty thought that he could leave behind some random destruction—if he was leaving Gotham anyway, he might as well leave a message that even their precious Manor wasn’t as safe as they purported.

But Alfred was the one he’d really hurt, and Jason didn’t want to do that.

Jason tiptoed across the hall on automatic, his steps silent and muffled as he crossed to his old bedroom door.  He paused for a moment to scan it, making sure no one had added any traps, and hoped that his stuff was still inside this room.  He didn’t want to have to hunt through the massive house, and if they gave his room to the Replacement, he was going to fucking set something on fire.

Slow, shuffling steps sounded from the stairs, accompanied by the tinkle of glass and china, and Jason paused.  That didn’t sound like Alfred.  The Manor was supposed to be empty.  Who—

Messy black hair came into view, blue eyes firmly fixed on the wobbling tray held in one shaky hand, the other attempting to hold up a crutch as the Replacement limped up the stairs.

Fucking fantastic.  Jason wondered if he had enough time to slip inside the room before the kid looked up—his attention was pretty firmly fixed on the tray with a bowl of stew and a slice of cake—but he was frozen by the dark, fading bruises across the kid’s face.

Around his throat, finger marks obvious.  The awkward way he was holding the crutch—Jason remembered dislocating that shoulder.  The cast wrapped around the left ankle—Jason could still hear the sickening snap of bone, the scream, the sound of his chuckles over suppressed sobs—

The kid looked up, three steps past the edge of the stairs.  And Jason watched the blood drain from his face.

The tray hit the floor with a resounding clatter, china splintering and skidding in all directions.

The Replacement stumbled back—and abruptly remembered that there was nothing behind him but empty space, jerking sideways before Jason could even start the instinctive ‘look out’.  He flinched, and Jason realized that he’d just stumbled onto the china shards.

Another panicked step—but the shards were clearly digging into the kid’s bare feet and when his good leg spasmed, his bad leg buckled completely, sending the kid crumpling to the ground.

Jason stepped forward automatically, one hand raising—and froze when the kid jerked back, pressing against the railing and all but scrambling into the corner.

Blue eyes were wide and shining, face drawn pale, breaths too fast and too shallow as his chest fluttered, knees drawn up and hands slightly extended, as though to ward him off.  Jason swallowed, and stepped back.

Okay.  He got the message loud and clear.  He was clearly the monster here.  Jason kept his mouth shut, and stalked back to his old bedroom.

~#~

His bedroom was just the way he left it, which was both exactly what Jason wanted, and also extremely creepy.  No one had even tidied up the homework sheets on his table.  It would make sense if the room had been locked and dusty, but it looked as though Jason had just stepped out yesterday.

It was enough to make anyone a little bit dizzy.

Jason retrieved the items he was looking for—the picture with his mom, his old hoodie, a couple of worn copies of books that had ‘property of Jason Todd’ marked in loopy handwriting.  He wanted to take more stuff, but that meant sitting down and figuring out which stuff was his, and which stuff Bruce had bought him, and the Replacement would’ve already set off the alarm so Jason didn’t have much time.

He hadn’t considered the kid in any of his plans—he’d figured that the kid had gone with Alfred and Bruce, or with Nightwing, or somewhere—and barely managed to tamp down on the seething annoyance.  The Replacement was always getting in the way.

Well, at least Jason was going far, far from here.  He’d never have to set eyes on that scrawny little shit again.

Jason collected his stuff and headed for the door—he’d planned to stay another night in Gotham, but he wasn’t up to dealing with the return of a furious Batman and Nightwing.  He’d have to pack the rest of his stuff quickly, and get out, and—

The lunch tray was still on the floor, stew in a growing puddle, cake a soggy lump, shards of the broken plate and bowl scattered all over the hallway.  Jason hadn’t exactly expected the kid to have cleaned the mess, but he had expected the kid to be gone.  Hiding.  Or confronting him with that stick, if the kid was particularly determined and had no common sense.

He hadn’t expected the shivering, curled-up form in the corner, knees up, head tucked down, arms wrapped firmly around shins.  Or the quiet, shuddering breaths, or the choked gasps.

Jason stared at the Repla—at Robin, pressed firmly into the corner like he was trying to make himself a smaller target, and felt the pit of his stomach drop.

He hadn’t moved.  Jason had spent—had spent at least five minutes in the room, and the kid hadn’t moved.

Jason took a step towards the room he’d entered through.  He needed to leave.  Clearly the kid thought—and Jason couldn’t exactly fault him—but Jason needed to go.  Once he left, the kid would come out of it.  Eventually.  Jason couldn’t exactly call anyone, the only numbers he remembered were the ones to the Manor, and they would’ve locked him out of everything in the Cave.

Red.  There was red pooling under the kid’s feet.  The pieces of broken china littered the floor like a minefield, and that was way too much bleeding to be a minor wound.  That was the kind of bleeding that needed immediate attention and probably stitches.

Jason swallowed.

[sainteclectic]

And yet there She is, knees to Her chest, resting on their dirty living room carpet. It feels too mundane, too pedestrian of a way to meet divinity. Soul feels like it should be ashamed somehow, seeing Him like this, but he can't bear to look away. It's the only thing that's ever been different, the only change in—

There's a sudden impact hitting his side. Then another. Then another. Its eyes finally tear away from Him {when did he look back down?} to see Heart’s ratty sneaker kicking his arm.

“...What are you doing.” Soul deadpans, eliciting a groan from Heart.

“Ugh, finally! I thought I was going to have to start bruising you!”

“You could've just waved a hand in his face,” Mind points out.

Her nose wrinkles as she sticks out her tongue. “I can't see where it is, smartass.”

Soul just rolls its eyes.

“I know you can, you've done it before. You just wanted to kick me.”

“I did not!”

“Heart.”

Heart relentless at his tone. “...Okay, maybe I did.” A pause. “Wait, when have I ever done that?”

[idliketobeatree]

"he should be at the club" he should be sitting on the front porch with me, long limbs streched out on the last step, a cup of lukewarm black coffee by his hand, feet bare and buried in the overgrown grass. he should be wearing freshly washed linens still smelling of wind. and i should come up to him quietly, unhurriedly, resting a hand on top of that head, maybe even thread my fingers through his sun-bleached hair if he'll let me. it's midday in may and all is buzzing and content.

[n0bluev]

I always render the face first (its not even fair...)