#''oh it's so not going to be a wip right''

[silas-lehnsherr]

I can tell you right now I have a story I’m about to start writing that I’ve already decided I won’t update as I go, because it will involve setting up a whole story before a known character shows up. (It’s a prequel to a larger story I’ve been telling, but considering it starts in 2001, and the character from the show doesn’t show up until 2004, I think I’ll wait until it’s either done or I get to his part to post.) I’ve decided to do this primarily because I have a wip that centers around some less popular/well known characters, and it hasn’t been getting a lot of love. The lower readership has been getting me down, and it has affected my overall mood when it comes to writing. There are times where I’ll look on ao3, see no one has even clicked on it in days, and forego writing. I dnf’d a series because of low readership on the latest installment. I finished the last fic, announced that it would be the last, and then got multiple people saying “oh I really liked this series”. Well, you never told me that, so how was I supposed to know? I’m thinking I might finish that series for me but not post it. Because what’s the fucking point?

I feel like this is an unpopular opinion, but more people should read incomplete/unfinished/in-progress fanfics.

I've noticed this huge trend where creators on tiktok and tumblr who will be explaining how to use Archive Of Our Own to new users and they always say "and make sure to scroll down and click completed only" or how people will go out of their way to mention they only read completed fics 'because they were traumatized when they forgot to check the dates and didn't realize this fic hadn't been updated since 2012'.

The thing is - I think by not engaging with and/or actively avoiding writer's WIPs readers are potentially adding to the aggregate of abandoned works. Now this obviously isn't the case for all abandoned fics, anything from major life events, to loss of interest, to getting busy can be a reason for a fic getting abandoned - but at least on some level I just know that writers are quitting while they're ahead when they aren't garnering any response or feedback because reading WIPs has become unpopular. If you're worried about reading something that hasn't been updated since 2012 then you can use the date updated function to sort out old fics.

Anyways, support your favorite fanfic writers by engaging with their WIPs.

[maroonshirt81]

WIP Wednesday Friday (thanks to @seaplease for the tag! <3)

I actually have five million WIPs right now, because I had so many ideas, I've started to put them all into a spinny wheel and now I just hop from fic to fic and write 500 words on whatever the wheel lands on. Works surprisingly well for me, but now I'm like 2k deep into six different fics and don't get to post for a while. So I'm very happy to share some snippets.

This is from a request fill that asked for landoscar merman au (siren!lando and ace4ace):

“Heya!” the siren called, waving at Oscar with a smile so bright it was almost blinding. Oscar waited for the inevitable click in his brain, the sudden shift in desire. He’d never in his life felt the urge to stick his dick into another person, but he had no idea what would happen when magic got involved. “Won’t you come over and say hello?” the siren asked, tilting his head. He was the prettiest thing Oscar had ever seen. As if someone had rummaged around in Oscar’s brain, pulled out everything he found attractive, and shaped it into a cheeky, waving figurine. Oscar’s hand lifted automatically, to wave back, though he couldn’t say for sure whether it was because of the magic or just his deeply ingrained instinct to be polite. “No, thank you,” he called back with a regretful smile. “We’re good.” Their little boat sailed past the ring of rocks without swaying, just a waving Oscar and a bound, squealing Carlos on board. The siren watched them go with wide, unblinking eyes. Oscar didn’t look back at him – he was glad his logical brain had withstood the test, and he wasn’t about to challenge it further by staring at the beautiful creature they had just passed by unscathed. The splashing sound that followed didn’t bode well, though, and Oscar was right not to untie Carlos too early, because only a few minutes later, something caused their boat to suddenly lurch to the side, and when Oscar turned to look, he found a disgruntled-looking siren hauling himself right over the edge of their boat. “Oh, shit!” Oscar blurted. No one had told him this could happen. He’d only ever heard of sirens luring people in, not leaving the rocks to hunt them down! The siren’s massive fishtail flopped down onto the wooden planks with a wet splat. Right. Because he was half-lying on the floor, the siren was only about half Oscar’s size, which made him a little less scary than expected. “That was rude!” the siren complained, crossing his arms. “Um,” Oscar said, frozen in place. “Sorry? Didn’t mean to offend you or anything, just trying not to get eaten.” “I don’t eat people, you muppet!” the siren huffed, looking Oscar up and down. “You look like you’d taste super bland anyway!” “I have a spicier companion right here, if you change your mind,” Oscar said, stepping aside to offer a good look at Carlos, still bound and gagged and making very questionable sounds through the wad of cloth in his mouth. Oscar eyed the oar again, then turned back to the siren. “Are you sure you don’t eat people?” “Generally prefer to drown them, but… I mean, I’ve never tried one before.” The siren was eyeing Carlos with wide-eyed curiosity, and Oscar was very close to offering him a nibble from Carlos’s big toe, if not for Carlos’s enthusiastic nodding, which was so pathetic, it drained all the spite right out of him.

non-pressure tagging @testarossa and @seaplease right back, because I'm always desperate to read more of their writing :D

[thatrandyalexfroma03]

WIP of my post 8X17 fic chapter two:

Link to chapter one vv https://archiveofourown.org/works/65578906/chapters/168831739 Authors note: This might be the start of chapter two of the fic where I deal with the way the 118, mainly Eddie, treats Buck after BOBBY's death. To be fair, I'm kinda pissed at Chim too, because instead of talking to Buck about why he'd want a transfer, Chim is just like nah, no transfer, you stay out of loyalty: Anyway - the WIP starts here (warnings for slight Eddie bashing)

Eddie is back. 

Turns out the note was a joke, and he had gone to the airport to pick up his son to surprise Buck with and everything was fine. Everything was fine. Fine. 

So fine as Tommy drove back to his place with Zach sitting next to him watching bloody tik tok’s on his phone on repeat. It actually took Tommy a few minute to realise Zach had stopped watching his stupid videos or reels or whatever they were called and notice the silence in the air.

“You know, if I did that to a chick and then like told you over a beer, I feel like you would accuse me of…” He thinks of a solid minute before looking over at Tommy, who is not in the mood for talking. Not that it matters to Zach, because Zach is always ready. “What’s that word.”

“What word?”

“That word when you do a shitty thing and then don’t actually say sorry, you just act like you didn’t and do something nice.”

“Lovebombing.” Tommy says.

“Yes, and to be fair, I was like how is that a bad thing, but you know dawg, like it’s kinda rough, like ya know Buck totally deserved a proper acknowledgement of his feelings right? Like that’s not cool, Buck was totz upset last night. I don’t even know if your dick fixed it… did it?”

“Zach…” Tommy warns, although he is right - not about the dick then, but it was a form of lovebombing wasn’t it - instead of saying sorry, Eddie just blindsided Buck with Chris and he knew Buck would crumble because he loves that kid and because at the end of the day, Buck believes everything is his fault.

“And then did you notice the dude totally gaslit Buck, like oh my, so smooth, almost impressive. You would definitely yell at me if I did that to someone.”

“Zach’s that not funny…” but then Tommy thinks to himself, was it gaslighting? 

“Like, T-Bone, the dude wrote a note knowing what any reasonable person would take from it, then acted like Buck was crazy for assuming that. He even made that weird Texas, Airport joke about the number of letters in words. If I did that to a chick you’d be crazy mad at me, but your friend did it your not boyfriend and you just, like, drive home bro.”

Tommy stares at the window at the red light. “What’s your point?”

“Maybe I don’t have a point, maybe I’m just saying the other dude is a bit of a dick and you should make your man realise he’s better than that… unless, does Buck have a humiliation kink? Like does he let you piss on him? Oh my god, does he…”

“ANDERSON.”

Zach has the good sense to look a tad guilty, “Too far?”

“Too far.” Tommy agrees.

“Huh, too far because it was out of line, or because I’m right?”

Tommy pulls over, stopping the truck. He hasn’t made up his mind yet on whether he’s kicking Zach out of the truck or turning around to head back to Buck’s place. Would he just be making a scene? Buck was really upset last night but now things were healing right?

And everyone was hurting, their Captain died. A man who was important to all of them, who touched all of them, who improved all of them. Sure Bobby meant a lot to Buck, but he meant a lot to Eddie, Hen and Chim too.

“Buck’s allowed to have emotions,” Tommy says out loud before he realises it. “And he deserves a proper apology.”

“EXACTLY!” Zach yells, slapping the dashboard, “THAT’S WHAT WE’RE TALKING ABOUT, GO RESCUE YOUR MAN DADDY-T” WIP Ends Now, I use to love Eddie, and I'm sure I could in the future but the show made him a dick, even without meaning too - so after the breakup, Eddie just stops talking to Tommy, the man who flew him to Vegas? But this is the same show that created that weird competition comment which doesn't make sense when you watch the show and just gave the bvddies fuel. Sometimes fuck this show

[tinytalkingtina]

WIP Weekend

Oh goodness I did this late so thanks for the tags @vthx @hbyrde36 @pearynice and @helpimstuckposting!

Rules: Send me an emoji in an ask, and I'll write 3-5 sentences and/or paragraphs from that WIP. No limits to the amount of emojis you can request, please feel free to send multiple!

In an effort to catch up on the other outstanding asks I have for B.A.D. D.O.G. and my Star Trek Steddie AU gonna have only two options for new emojis this week!

🏴‍☠️ Eddierotica: "Eddie writes the world's worst erotica about characters who are just poorly disguised versions of himself and Steve. They're not dating" now features Steve playing mind games right back at Eddie heh heh.

💥Steddie Big Bang: Secret fic is at 9k words now! This can't be publicly shared yet, so if you send in this emoji feel free to pick another fic as well, and I'll write 3 sentences for both. Hopefully by next week I can start sharing snippets :D

Tagging some folks to join in on the fun and work on their own WIPs this weekend:

@apomaro-mellow @eriquin @zombiethingy @dame-zoom-a-lot @fkinkindagauche

@wynnyfryd @fuctacles @stevesjockstrap @shares-a-vest @runninriot

@onirislanding @strangerthingswritersguild

Enjoy a snippet from 🏴‍☠️ below the cut:

Yeah, he could just tell Eddie his hopeless crush wasn’t completely hopeless, buuut...there was no reason Steve couldn’t play a little dirty. See just how far he could push Eddie before he cracked.

The plan formed in Steve’s head pretty fast: The walls of their apartment were pretty thin. His roommate had mentioned he could hear Steve busy pleasing his partners before, usually with some sort of teasing snarky comment once they left.

Eddie had obviously taken those noises and let his imagination run wild. So now Steve had to step up his game and put on a show to inspire his voyageristic audience.

If Eddie wanted more, but was too chicken shit scared to ask? Well now he was about to get almost everything he wanted and listen in on a completely new side of his roommate:

It was time for Daddy to have some alone time with his toys.

Operation Fuck With Eddie (Then Maybe Fuck Him For Real If Things Work Out) got thrown into motion earlier than Steve expected it to. Robin and Vickie called in sick to their usual football/potluck/movie night, which meant the two of them would be alone in the apartment all Sunday. Steve barely kept a shit-eating grin off his face while he promised Robin that no, she wouldn’t have gotten rabies from her girlfriend sneezing on her, and yes, he’d drop off some soup tomorrow if they didn’t feel better.

Right after halftime, he gave a totally real and not fake-sounding yawn to interrupt Eddie’s rant about some burrito commercial ‘violating the sacred trust of documentarians’.

“Wow I’m sooo tired man, think I’m gonna head to bed early today,” he said, doing an exaggerated stretch. His would-be author of a roommate raised an eyebrow.

“I know you get up stupid early for your job but last I checked it’s four pm Steve.”

“Uh, yup, I see that.” Shit, think fast Harrington! “I’ve...got an early morning meeting! Yeah, the principal wants us there at five thirty. AM. Yup, early meeting. At the school. Where I work. With kids in it sometimes but not at five thirty in the morning.” Smooth.

Eddie stared at him for a second before shrugging.

“That sucks. Go get your beauty sleep Harrington. I’ll let you know if the world ends and the Browns win somehow. Really hope they don’t," he added with a wink, "Or I’ll have to let Gareth dye my hair. Think I'd look good as a blonde Big Boy?”

The combo of imagining Eddie posing like the sexy lady from that movie about the cross-dressing musicians and the college nickname nearly took him out.

“Haha, yeah, totally. Well, night! Shower time for Dadd-Steve!” He capped his train-wreck of a sentence off with finger guns, the classic.

Eddie laughed and turned back to the game. Fuck yeah, he bought it! Take that Robin, he totally could be as sneaky as a ninja if he wanted. He should probably tell his roommate to stop making bets with Gareth though, what if the guy tried to shear him like a sheep next?

[holdmyquinoa]

New blog, new masterlist! (If you previously sent a fic request to my old blog @/imabillyami, please send it again? I lost all the requests in my old inbox that I wasn't working on already.)

Request a fic (requests are OPEN, a post about rules & limitations will be up again soon, for now just know that I write Samijey & JimmyKev for the most part, but I'm open to prompts for other pairings (mlm & wlw) too!)

Link to my Ao3

Samijey fics

-> I've got you to lose series - In a universe where things go a little differently for them at the end of the Rumble, Jey and Sami try to navigate the rising tensions within the family, the Tribal Chief’s ever growing expectations, and their seemingly inescapable feelings for each other. -> Part 1 (completed) - Part 2 (completed) - Part 3 (WIP)

-> Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop - Jey Uso has no idea he’s going to meet the love of his life on a regular Thursday afternoon OR: a Samijey Coffee Shop AU (WIP)

-> jealousy, jealousy - 5 times Jey acts like a jealous prick and 1 time Sami finally gets it (completed)

-> The Taste of Freedom mini series - He chose himself tonight. He had to. Can he make one more choice tonight, now that he’s finally free? Only one way to find out (aka the Samijey tattoo worship fic) -> Part 1 (completed) - Part 2 (completed)

-> Of hair ties and superheroes - To Jey Sami is a damn superhero. Sami doesn't quite see it that way (completed)

-> Punch me in the mouth and set me free (or kiss me, either works for me, really) - "Oh my god, you’re such a boy. Sometimes I don’t know if I want to lick you or punch you in the face." (completed)

-> Bad Habit - "Kevin proposed to me." "Wait, he proposed to you and the first thing you did was call me?" (completed)

-> Holding on to heartache - Sami and Jey have a hard time letting go of each other (completed)

JimmyKev (Jimmy Uso/Kevin Owens)

Forbidden pairing series (collab with @mahi-wayy) - A collection of unrelated JimmyKev onehots, that so far includes my fics:

-> Basking in your heat - Kevin and Jimmy engage in some backstage shenanigans (completed)

-> This was a mistake - It was a mistake, yeah. One he might be ready to repeat (completed)

-> Make it Right (co-author) - "Kevin makes everything right" - Jimmy Uso OR: Jimmy has a bad day and his boyfriend makes it right (completed)

Ambreigns/ Romox

-> alone, finally - Mox is horny. He had plans, okay? Thankfully he can trust Roman to match his energy, always (completed)

-> Don't leave - Dean leaves WWE. He also leaves Roman. They both have feelings about it (completed)

Rolleigns

-> A Gift Worth Unwrapping - “I got you something, Ro.” OR: a Rolleigns Christmas fic of sorts (completed)

[ace-malarky]

maybe I just pull tarot cards to plot out the shapeshifter wip huh

since it's not fucking giving me anything otherwise

[molathesunfish]

assorted lcb art

[quadrantadvisor]

Pairing Off, in which the Waynes meet the Fentons, just not all at once. 2,443 words

-

Damian feels less than positively about the new girl in his grade.

Danielle Fenton has already garnered a bit of a reputation. Her uniform is clearly second hand, and rumors abound about whether she has joined them at Gotham Academy on a merit scholarship or as “one of Wayne's charity cases.” Neither is true; Father has offered no fiscal support to the Fentons, and yet both she and her older brother attend the Academy, leading Damian to believe they've somehow paid their own way.

Her lower class status and midwestern accent ought to make Fenton a target, but her response to being cornered or talked down to by other students was an unsettling combination of cheerful and aggressive. She is now mostly left to her own devices, despite her notoriety. 

Damian has no interest in the girl. While it is true that she excels in both mathematics and social studies, her performance in English and science are unremarkable, and she poses no challenge to his rank at the top of the class. If he finds himself pushing harder in certain classes this semester in order to maintain the edge, it's no one else's business.

Now if only she would leave him alone.

Damian preemptively slams his sketchbook shut, just as a brash, inconsiderate, annoying girl hops up to sit on his desk. “Hey Dami, what're you drawing?”

“It is none of your business,” Damian seethes. “Remove yourself from my personal space before I-” he isn't allowed to threaten classmates with bodily harm, imply that he has brought weapons to school, or use words that are derogatory to women “-do so myself. By force.” He would avoid her altogether if he could, but Fenton is annoyingly (suspiciously) sneaky. He can only ever seem to sense her when she's just about on top of him.

Fenton merely laughs, high, bright, and joyful, and Damian grits his teeth. “Did you draw me yet?” she asks, and doesn't move an inch.

“No, I have not drawn you. I never said I would, and I have no plans to. Stop asking me.”

She shrugs and kicks her feet. “Maybe you'll change your mind. Can I see what you're working on?”

Damian pulls the sketchbook a tad bit closer to himself (a protective reflex that shows his weakness, he should be better than that by now.) “Never, imbecile.”

Fenton sticks her tongue out at him like a child. “Mean,” she says, still smiling. “I wanna see your art. It's so good!”

Damian tilts his nose up at her. “Of course it is, plebeian, I have standards-” he starts, but is cut off by the teacher entering. Fenton slides off his desk and heads to her own seat. Damian stows his sketchbook in his bag and tries not to think of the unfinished work inside, featuring a girl with dark hair, light eyes, and a mischievous grin.

-

There's this brownstone on the outskirts of Crime Alley, an old townhouse recently converted into commercial space. There's a coffee shop on street level, a tattoo parlor down the stairs, some sorta wine emporium on the second floor, and on the third, a little second hand bookshop

It's outside the border of Jason's territory, but he feels sorta responsible for it, given that he frequents the place.

It's a little out of his way, but the atmosphere is nice, alright? Clean, with soft lighting, but not sterile or corporate like the bigger places downtown. The owners are an older couple who Jason has met a couple of times, and they seem pretty happy with the new location. They're collectors, really, who run the shop to make ends meet.

Mostly, Jason talks to their employee. Jazz.

Jazz works in the afternoons and evenings, after her classes. She goes to Gotham U, double majoring in pre-med and psych, on top of a full time job, because she's almost as insane as a bat. She assures Jason that she does alright, gets a little downtime to study on her shifts.

She always makes time to talk to Jason.

Jazz is an interesting person to talk books with. She cares less about plot and literary themes, and more about diagnosing every character with their own personal malady of the mind. She dissects their thought processes and behaviors, ruthless in her analysis.

She's gonna be a brain surgeon someday, open people up and see what really makes them tick. Jason doesn't doubt it for a second.

So maybe Jason is a little bit in love with her.

It's not a big deal. Obviously it's not going anywhere. It's just nice to have something normal, to talk to someone normal, about normal stuff like books and college and sibling antics.

Jazz's stories about her sibling, Danny, rival Jason's own, and his family is fucking disastrous. Jason isn't actually sure if Dan is older or younger than Jazz is, or, for that matter, what pronouns he should use for them, since Jazz mixes it up pretty regularly. He knows that Jazz absolutely adores them, though, and it's heartwarming, the way she smiles as she talks.

All of that to explain why Red Hood is keeping an eye on a brownstone that technically falls outside of his territory.

There's a girl inside that he needs to keep safe.

-

“Hey bud, late night?” Dick asks the man lying prone in an alley, a block away from the Iceberg Lounge.

The response is slurred with sleep and muffled by a cheek pressed hard into asphalt. “S'at you, Dick?”

“Sure is. We've got to stop meeting like this,” Dick tells him, and means it.

The guy's name is Dan. No last name offered, which was fair, since Dick hasn't mentioned his.

What was weird was that Dan didn't give Penguin his last name, either, when he signed his employment contract. Just Dan.

Penguin has been trying to expand his influence into Bludhaven, and Dick's been trying to figure out why. Cobblepot is a very Gotham sort of gangster, all wrapped up in the city's ideas of style and respectability; Dick honestly would've thought that Blud was beneath him. He needs to figure out who he's contacting and what they're offering him, and he needs to do it before Penguin can get a foothold on his turf.

Running into Dan was a side effect. Dick didn't mean to keep doing it. It's just that Dan has this weird habit of completely disregarding trivial concerns such as his own health and safety, and doing weird shit like, as a random example, getting tired, laying down, and passing out. In the middle of the street. In Gotham.

The main part of Dan's job seems to be bouncing at the club. It makes sense—if you wanted to hire a guy as muscle, you couldn't do much better than Dan. He's at least 6 and a half feet tall, with a chest wider than Jason's. 

But Dick has also seen Dan traveling with Penguin before. Add in the fact that it's almost impossible to dig up info on him, and that tailing him is somehow even harder, and a picture starts to come together. A very vague, very suspicious picture.

It's too bad that Dick sort of likes him, and that he's incredibly hot.

Dan has removed his face from the alley floor, and is in the process of pushing himself up. “Not your business, man,” he retorts. “What are you, a cop?”

Dick can't help a wry chuckle at that. “Not anymore.”

“No shit?” Dan asks, hauling himself to his feet. He towers over Dick like that, but it's hard to be intimidated by a man whose cheek is red and pockmarked by little bits of gravel. Dick is legitimately embarrassed that he finds it charming. He needs to get better taste in men. “Yeah, no, that makes sense,” Dan continues, looking Dick up and down. “No way they could keep your ass on the force.”

“Oh yeah?” Dick asks.

Dan snorts. “I can smell the idealism on you from here.” He starts walking, heading straight past Dick, who falls into step beside him. “You remind me of this kid I know.”

Dick gives an interested hum, hoping that if he doesn't interrupt, Dan will elaborate, but no dice.

“So, where're you taking me this time?” the big man asks, still leading, and Dick stifles a grin at how silly the whole thing is.

“Maybe if I take you out for coffee, you won't faceplant onto any more concrete,” he says, reaching up to brush off some of the little rocks. Dan stutters to a stop as Dick touches his cheek, letting him, then strides off again as soon as he's done.

“Don't care, as long as you're paying.”

Dick stops him with a tug to his arm. “Coffee shop's this way,” he explains, pointing, and Dan doesn't hesitate, pivoting to take the lead once again. Dick rushes to keep up with his not-date, a criminal who he literally picked up off the street and who has no idea where he's going. He can't see his own smile, but he knows from experience that it is both delighted and a little manic. He admits to himself, begrudgingly, that he likes his men with something wrong with them.

-

The biggest reason that Tim played so much Doomed with Ghost_Boy, a couple of years ago, was that they were the only player he knew who kept hours as weird as his were. There were worse reasons to form a friendship. Ghost_Boy was a great player, and was always funny in chat. They were upbeat when things went well, and they were sarcastic but not bitter when things went poorly. Playing for the game's sake eventually changed to booting up the game to hang out with Ghost_Boy. They talked about how different their lives were, with Ghost_Boy in the midwest and Tim in the crime capital of America, and they talked about the things they had in common, like falling asleep in class. It was Tim's favorite form of stress relief, back then, when being Robin was new and overwhelming.

Then Tim got busy. No, that wasn't true—Tim had always been busy. More like, Tim's life fell to shambles, over and over again, and he stopped making time for stress relief when the very concept seemed out of his reach.

That was over dramatic. Tim fell off the game, and didn't keep in contact with his friend. That's all there was to it.

That was all there was to it, until a few nights ago, when he booted up his old Doomed file for nostalgia's sake and found a message from Ghost_Boy, sent a couple months back, that said he was planning to move to Gotham and, if Tim wanted, he'd be happy to meet up.

Tim immediately replied in the affirmative, and then he freaked out that he'd done that and started cyber stalking the guy. He couldn’t be bothered to pretend to be embarrassed by this behavior. He knew who he was.

Daniel Fenton was, in fact, a real teenager from a real midwestern town (Amity Park, Illinois.) He had moved to Gotham right when his message said he would, and lived with his older sister, Jasmine (who had custody over him,) and his younger sister, Danielle.

And that was where Tim was planning to stop his research, for the sake of his friend's privacy. Once he confirmed that he wasn't being catfished by either a supervillain or a run-of-the-mill creep, he was going to stop looking.

But Danielle Fenton's situation was incredibly weird.

Apparently, she had never lived with Daniel, Jasmine, and their parents before. Instead, after she was born, she'd been adopted by the kids’ godfather, eccentric billionaire Vlad Masters, and he was still her legal guardian. It was only after the Doctors Jack and Madeline died that she moved in with her siblings and started attending Gotham Academy, states away from her adoptive parent.

Vlad Masters was a man of eclectic tastes. The stories about him in the news were always covering some weird investment he had made, like purchasing a cheese castle in Wisconsin, or buying up property in Green Bay just to have a stake in the Packers, or pouring money into experimental forms of alternative energy. He was always refined in his public appearances, but he had the desperate edge of new money wanting to fit in with the old. Tim knew of him, but had never given him much thought before. He'd never made a move into Gotham, after all.

But the whole story was bizarre. Masters had gone to college with the Fentons, the three of them creating their own field of study in “Ectology,” before Masters had been contaminated in a lab accident, bedridden and unable to finish his degree. Jack and Maddie had continued their research, garnering just enough interest in their work to receive the funding needed to keep afloat, until some sort of breakthrough a few years ago added validity to their theories. They were practically celebrities in the niche forums Tim skimmed through. Masters, meanwhile, stopped working directly in the sciences and instead turned to networking, gaining some generous help from the friends he made and playing the stock market like a fiddle, until he was one of the most well known and lucrative investors in the world. He owned a few companies publicly, and managed some others under the table (Tim had to snort at the ridiculous naming of Dalv Co.) 

And then the Fentons had kids, and they raised two of them (seemingly quite happily, if the photos on their memorialized facebook accounts meant anything.) And then, for some reason, they named the third one nearly identically to their second child and gave her straight to Vlad. Masters raised the girl in Wisconsin, until suddenly relocating to Amity Park and becoming the town's mayor. There he stayed, until the Fenton's recent passing in a lab accident of their own.

Tim doesn't know what it all adds up to. But there was something going on, with both Vlad Masters and the Fentons, and if there's something nefarious in Masters’ actions or his wealth, it could be entirely possible that Daniel was a plant—a way for him to get an in with the Waynes. Tim has to be cautious, and he has to get to the bottom of this.

That's why Tim is waiting in a coffee shop, pretending to be engrossed in his laptop while keeping an eye on the door, waiting for the appearance of a teen with black hair and blue eyes.

Tim idly thinks that Bruce had better not adopt this one.

[screwpinecaprice]

Oh oof I slipped and hit them with dark and serious beam. 😣

[emioliravioli]

@majesticn3wt what if tiger shark blaze and anglerfish silver..........

[vynnyal]

This is a pretty good point in the wip to share this, methinks :]

Map part for the hole dwelling map, starring... Not my ocs! I wanted to use ocs, but I don't have any-- so I just used the characters from a fic I was reading at the time 😂

Turns out, the symbolism was so much fun to twist into the 11 seconds I had to work with, I ended up going way more complex than I meant to. If you wanna read the fic this was based on, please do!! And tell the author I said hi! :D

[vacantgodling]

HE WHO SMITES THE SUN : Dori-Tsokhizhemasonen

CHAPTER 1: SANO'NYON KI MANYENYA (The Rain Dance)

The light of the bonfire was so bright, that even standing atop of the outside wall of their ancestral city, far removed from the center of their encampment where it blazed, Tsokhizhe could still see it. The flecks of stray warmth and light traced its paws against his dark skin, still drawing him into its orbit. The flames rose higher than they would ever dare at a normal pyre, but tonight was a special night, and so special exceptions were made. Every clan and tribe south of the Gingi’nga Nanmoso would be celebrating tonight; there would be no need to worry about an attack, safe within their wall with guards like Tsokhizhe to keep it. There was a mysticism in the air tonight—one that made the flame’s reds closer to oranges, and oranges closer to white; and the colors danced, interlocked and interwoven against the backdrop of the pitch black sky. Music and laughter fueled the mirthful, heady flame, up to the very heavens above where the Affinities, named and unnamed, lie; surely enjoying the spectacle. It was a celebration worth the ages, and then some, better yet than any they had before.

Yet, unsurprisingly, Tsokhizhe was purposefully left out of the festivities. While other guards may have traded posts with one another to each take their turn at the pyre, the dances, or the feast; he was not permitted; despite being the Khoda’s own eldest child. However, he was used to this. His mother, Khoda’nga Kori-Yadeno, approached him with quiet steps at his lone hut—sequestered away from the rest of the clan’s residential huts, or the nobles grand estates; hidden in the overcast of their city’s walls—just before dawn had risen that morning. Her face was hardened, yet there was no other expression he was used to from his mother. When she spoke, her words burned, with quiet disgust barely hidden on her tongue:

“You are to be stationed at the Eastern Gate tonight.”

Tsokhizhe quickly got out of bed, still in his sleep-dress, and knelt at her feet, his head bowed respectfully to the earth. “Yes, Khoda’nga.” He said, devoid of all inflection. It was hard to be hurt by something he already knew was coming. When he was a child and first took watch-duty during this festivity, he hadn’t understood why he was not allowed to join. But now, he knew, even if no one said. He knew it in the way that his parents avoided him, the way other Kori and Dori avoided him, how even those of the diminutive gender would not meet his eye when he walked past. Every meal he took alone, hunted by his own hand. Every mission he braved alone, only speaking to his father for duty and his mother for instruction; never an affectionate word or hand given to him. These sins he bore, and wore, not with pride but obligation. 

“Kori-Tsokhizhemasonen, do not disobey me.” His mother scolded. Even his name: She Who Smites The Sun, spoke of this great transgression of his: his very birth, under the most evil of all nights, and that omen of misfortune would forever follow him, to the rest of his days.

“You are to be alone and you are to stay away from the festivities. Do you understand this?” 

“Yes, Khoda’nga.” If Tsokhizhe could bow his head lower, he would. He could feel his mother’s steely gaze lie upon his back for a moment too long, then she finally turned on her bare heel, whisking herself away towards the main grounds. Still, out of a long borne habit, Tsokhizhe stayed that way, waiting until he no longer heard the pad of her feet against the ground before he allowed himself rise. 

The Eastern Gate was the furthest away from the festivities of the night. It is why, whenever they were short on guards, he was stationed here. Even the guards did not meet his eyes, and instead kept their gazes turned away towards their mounts, or their sword hands that always rested just so on their scabbards when he passed. They were ready to strike him down at a moment’s notice, he knew. But he did not bow his head in defeat, nor shame. He only bowed to his Khoda, and father, Dori-Darada’ngomakhadzonki—Chief, He Who is Master of Mounts; his mother, Khoda’nga Kori-Yadenomanyozhango—Chieftess, She Who Guards The Store; to his younger sister if their parents bore witness to an interaction; Kori-Chazomakenan’nyopinyi—She Who Breaks the Dying Season’s Song; and most of all to the power of the Affinities named, and unnamed, who lorded above all. He may be cursed, and he was not proud, but Tsokhizhe knew better than to show weakness. If his mother taught him anything, it was to bear your sins for they define you and it is folly to expect another to bear that burden in your stead.

Still, watch duty was Tsokhizhe’s least favorite occupation. He would rather be hunting—out in the far off fields away from the reminders of his misdeed and the ire of his betters. But kenan’nyo had fully set in now—the nights were long, and the frost had begun to pepper the ground with its kisses of chill. The store was full and there was no need to go out—only perhaps, for water runs. But even that had been circumvented by the canal that as of last year had been finally completed. Now, freshwater flowed through their ancestral streets, confining Tsokhizhe more and more to these walls of clay and mortar.

Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice the shadowy figure coming to approach him until a friendly hand tapped his shoulder. Tsokhizhe was long practiced in never startling—and he was thankful he hadn’t—the moment he recognized Yanyado, the shorter man was immediately throwing his arms around Tsokhizhe in a hug, a joyous cry of  “Sonenko!” leaving his lips. The momentary discomfort at the ko at the end of the fond name, did not stop Tsokhizhe from putting his arms around Yanyado in turn.

Yanyado—or, Yanyanagape’nyodo, Moon Crier— was his closest friend—only friend. And despite their friendship spanning for nearly two decades, Tsokhizhe still had never become accustomed to the affection that his friend handed out in doles. Yanyado was the only one who never besmirched him. Why Tsokhizhe never knew. But even if they were from totally different worlds—with Tsokhizhe being a Kori, and Yanyado being of a lower gender, nevermind the omen that hung about Tsokhizhe like a frightful, impenetrable cloak; he never seemed to mind this. Like the sun, Sonen, and the moon, Yanya, the two of them were inseparable and complementary, and despite his mother’s warning from this dawn, Tsokhizhe still found some part of himself happy to see him.

“How did you find me here?” Tsokhizhe asked when they pulled apart. 

“Your mother always stations you here when she does not wish for anyone to find you.” Yanyado’s voice was coy. “She is not as subtle as she thinks.” He said so conspiratorially, as though it were a lighthearted and playful secret between friends but instead a lump of basalt lodged itself in Tsokhizhe’s throat; he nodded along. “I see.” 

“Don’t look so sullen!” Yanyado lightly punched his shoulder. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” Tsokhizhe nodded, but he could tell that his expression must still be far away since a frown pulled over his friend’s features. “I know what will cheer you.” From the folds of his brightly colored parka, he pulled out a wrapped cloth. “Take it, take it!” He urged, holding it out to him. Eventually, when Yanyado did not pull his hand back, Tsokhizhe took the proffered parcel. It was warm to the touch, and the sweet smell of freshly cut herbs and flowers, rolled in sweet dough hit his nose. He had not eaten anything since sunrise, after his mother visited him and informed him of his disinvite, he charred one of the rabbits he felled the day before, gnawing on its grisel, then armed himself for the day’s activities—namely, to make himself scarce. His stomach growled, but still he could not bring himself to unwrap the parcel.

Yanyado noticed his hesitation. “I will be upset if you do not eat it. After all the work I put in to make it, I would hope you appreciate it, Sonenko.”

Something that could have been a smile tugged onto Tsokhizhe’s face, and he slowly unwrapped the cloth. “You made this?” Yanyado puffed his chest out, beaming. This made the traces of a smile that tried to bloom fully blossom on Tsokhizhe’s face. “My Yanyado does not know how to cook. Are you sure you aren’t a sopiro?”

Sopiros—fables told by parents to scare their children into behaving. People who denounced the order of things, such as the genders assigned to yokhe’nyo and kenan’nyo, who believed themselves mighty enough to hold even a speck of power that the Affinities wielded. Outsiders, hated by everyone, and shunned from all the Southern Tribes; forced to wander the wilderness unto the end of their days. Even if they warred amongst each other for resources, hunting routes, ancestral cities and land—they all agreed that sopiros were not to be trusted. 

Tsokhizhe himself, perhaps in another life, could’ve been a sopiro. He wondered it when he was small; and he heard snatches of stories around the campfire of those treated just as he. But try as he might, no otherworldly confidence came to him. No sparks of affinity flew from his fingertips or burned strong in his chest. And after the first time he was discovered and was beaten for it—he tried no more. It was then that Tsokhizhe learned that sopiros could not be feared; it was those who feared them who posed the real threat.

“Do you really think a sopiro could be so handsome as I?” Yanyado asked indignantly; but the jest was heard in his light tone. “But furthermore, I have the burns on my hands to prove my labor for you.” Yanyado held his hands out in the far off light of the bonfire, and even further light of yanya and the stars that attended it—there, on his forefinger and his thumb, Tsokhizhe saw the telltale angry welts from a few burns from a hot iron pan.

“Yanyado.” He tsked, but it was fond. “You ought to be more careful. For my sake.” He added when he noticed Yanyado’s mouth open to protest. He tucked the parcel of food underneath his arm to take Yanyado’s hand into his own. There wasn’t much he could do to heal the burns, but he did still rub them between his hands, the cooling of his skin hopefully a balm to heal it. Yanyado smiled—he was always smiling around Tsokhizhe. Tsokhizhe still hadn’t learned what fondness to his friend he held, but it did warm something broken in him. 

“For my sake, my burns will be for nothing if you don’t eat.” Yanyado reminded him. Tsokhizhe gently let go of his friend’s wrist, and finally took a bite from the doughy treat. It melted in his mouth and the taste of lemongrass and chamomile danced along his tongue. He hummed appreciatively, but before Yanyado could say more off in the distance, the songs began to grow louder, as though every voice in their clan were joining as one to cry out to the heavens their thunderous, joyous celebration. They both turned their heads. After a moment of listening, Yanyado’s eyes lit up, recognizing the melody.

“They must be doing the Sano’nyon Ki Manyenya.” Yanyado held out his hand invitingly, the beads of the colorful bracelet around his wrist jangling just as joyfully as the sound. Tsokhizhe… hesitated.

“I… do not know the steps.” He slowly admitted. 

“I know you do!” Yanyado replied. He didn’t wait for an answer and grabbed Tsokhizhe’s hand anyway. The wall was too narrow to do the dance properly, and Tsokhizhe really did mean it when he said he didn’t know it—at least, he didn’t know the ko part; the follow. They bounced together awkwardly trying to find the faint rhythm’s steps, and it was everything Tsokhizhe could do to try and keep with his do’s lead. Their hands were tangled awkwardly together; just as their feet marched arrhythmically in place. Tsokhizhe’s scimitar bounced at his hip and the jangle of the ties and beads of its scabbard just added to the confusion. At last Yanyado gave up and released him with a breathless laugh. 

“You have two left feet, Sonenko! I have not danced the steps that badly since my mother showed me how nearly a decade ago!” 

If his dark skin would allow him to blush, perhaps Tsokhizhe would’ve; but not of embarrassment but shame. The only part of the Rain Dance that he knew was the lead—the do. That is what he taught himself, observing from a closer wall station as a child; when he was yet too young to be fully left alone but still wholly excluded from the festival’s activities. He’d returned to his little far off hut at the end of the night and while all the tribe slept, whisper sang the words that had entranced him all evening until his voice went hoarse:

Ki yin nana ma’sen

I do not talk much

Ranmi renin ke petono’ni sikhona’nyo

But the rhythm knows my desires

Manyenya naro ke, ki’ngi da zhazhana

Watch me dance and I will show you

Nimon da soson da ki’ngi chon

If you leave I will follow

Nimon da kasachi pon ke, ki’ngi zhino dechi soson da

If you tell me to stay, I will never leave you alone

Nimon da sano’nyo ki’ngi yangipan

If you are water then I will drink it

Sano’nyon-ki’chi. Ki’ngi yangipan. Ki’ngi yangipan.

It’s raining. I will drink. I will drink.

“I’m sorry.” Tsokhizhe could hardly find it in himself to make his voice louder than a whisper. Even in his mirth, Yanyado was still attendant to his friend; a frown pulled down over his round, heart-shaped face, and he stepped into Tsokhizhe’s space, pushing his friend’s twisting blue locs away from his eyes.

“Old friend, you have nothing to apologize for!”

“You believed in me, and I failed.” It was childish, how much the thought of failing Yanyado hurt to admit—but Tsokhizhe admitted it anyway because he was not proud. He was honest. But Yanyado wouldn’t have it. He quickly reached for Tsokhizhe’s cheeks, squishing them together until Tsokhizhe tore his golden hazel eyes from the space between their shoes. 

“To not know is to partake in the joy of learning.” Yanyado was always wiser than his youthful face would suggest. He squished Tsokhizhe’s cheeks harder. “And anyway. If you wanted to dance the do part, why did you not tell me?” 

Tsokhizhe felt as naked as the day he was born. “Wh… Why would you assume that?”

“You didn’t deny it, no?” Yanyado smiled cheekily. “And anyway, we kept messing up because you stepped the same ways that I was. I hop right, and you hop right with me. You must know enough of the dance to know do hops right, unless you knew not at all, where perhaps you would only stare at me.” 

“I would not stare.” Tsokhizhe sputtered.

“You stare during every other festival that I have seen!” 

“And when have you seen me during other festivals?” Tsokhizhe countered—a fair question. Now it was Yanyado’s turn to look bashful, but it too seemed borne out of shame rather than embarrassment. 

“I have sought you out, on occasion.”

“Perhaps?” Tsokhizhe asked, and Yanyado nodded, confirming it. “Why have you not approached me until now?”

“Our Khoda—”

“I understand.” Tsokhizhe didn’t want to hear anymore. Tomorrow would still come, and he would face it as he had faced any other day.

“Would you like to try leading me?”

“I would not want you to disgrace yourself.” Tsokhizhe grunted. The music from the pyre had finally died down, and with it, the flames, as their stokers departed, perhaps to the awaiting feast. The warm glow that touched and glimmered on every far off rock and blade of grass outside of their ancestral walls, was now bathed in the serene light of yanya. It was too dark for Tsokhizhe to see Yanyado’s expression.

“You are above me, Kori-Tsokhizhemasonen.” Tsokhizhe winced when Yanyado used his full name—even if it were true. “That I should lead you at all is not fair to you. Ki’ngi chon da.” I follow you.

Tsokhizhe pulled away from his friend, turning his back to both him, and their city. He looked out into the night; willed it to swallow him. “The feast has begun, and I would not wish you to miss your meal.” 

“Just one verse.” Yanyado held out his hands again, palms flat and inviting. But Tsokhizhe did not turn back to his friend; he was not weak. He crossed his arms over his chest until Yanyado finally sighed and began his descent down the wall—back to the rest of the clan, where he belonged. Tsokhizhe belonged here. Guarding him. Them. From those like him, who would expect others to bear their burden.

[aldisobey]

WIP Word Game!

Always love a tag, and I seriously appreciate it @caffeinatedmunchkin (and also @ollypopwrites because this is the actual game you had tagged me in before). Alright here we go. I’m letting myself be messy here.

Rules:

You will be given a word. Then you share one sentence/excerpt from your WIP(s) that start with each letter of your word.

My key word was S a t i n

I’m breaking the rules and giving you ‘cut content’. I’m toiling over wips in a weird way. I don’t know how else to let some of this see light of day and I’m taking the opportunity to make this what I want. Because these are fun…uh, character studies? These are bits I want to get at, these are things that are true and real for the characters, but I don’t know if I’ll ever have time to flesh it out. They all need editing okay but have fun, here is some writing process, these are all technically 'wips'. You could say they are different stages of stories or scenes. S - is from Nevarran Noble Anatomy, currently dropped shortfic A - is a pulled paragraph from post-epilogue I'm still looking at T - is a silly I - is a look at a dialogue first draft N - is a flowy first draft.

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“See that ya shits? The fuck you think might happen if dead tissue gets in there hmmm? You gonna explain that one to dear old Professor ‘I’m not taking more than ten students’ Volkarin that you killed his lover?” Rook’s entire body went red. “Think that’ll help ya make the list?” the botanist was snapping and pointing her fingers, “Yeah and you! I know your family is gonna have a goddamn inheritance war if you can’t find a competent corpse whisper. Mother’s knickers. Idiots.” “Well he can’t be more than a paramour. A proper Nevarran Necromancer would never fail to lavish a lover.” The noble’s jangling limbs gestured to the bare arms of the Warden, smirk on his face as he sneered towards Emmrich. Rook hopped off the examination table with a heavy thump, slammed that muscled weight down, and strode over to that noble. Spit on his shoe. Locked eyes on the shocked countenance before him as he hissed out a, “Hey, darling dearest heart, can I have a knife back. Please. Time for the practical demonstration. I can show where to stab so he’ll live.” “Rook, I think it’s time we took our leave.” Emmrich finally spoke, voice hushed. Rook leaned forward and grinned wide, “I don’t wear rings for a reason, want to see why?” Smile too wide the Warden extended his hand as if in greeting. The laborious movement drew the eye. Bent, bruised, one could tell numerous bones had healed incorrectly. Movements were stiff, cracking, fresh cuts and life long calluses ran the surface. Menacing. It held an air of strength that promised instant injury if the brat dared lay his own there. Emmrich paused overlong. Mind reeling. Rook didn’t know it, but he faced someone with royal connections. And the necromancer knew that stance, this silence. The gathered Nevarrans might think it acting, bravado. But Rook was still. Quiet. Loose. Every nerve primed for movement. He’d kill that man. And for a moment…Emmrich considered letting that happen. Rook didn’t need the knives. Normally the Warden was kind, de-escalating, talking things out if possible. But the moment a threat appeared he removed it. Mercilessly. And Rook wasn’t wrong, a man such as this would be a threat. But only alone, only if Emmrich were to disappear. This was no trouble, this was a fight won by Professor Volkarin long ago. Emmrich smiled pleasantly and swept in between them, back to the student, took hold of Rook’s outstretched hand in both of his, gave it a gentle squeeze, raised it to his lips and held it there as he cooled the Warden’s gaze in the depths of his longing stare. “You needn’t sully your hands darling.” Emmrich spoke slow into the knuckles. One would think the room had emptied but for the two of them. The professor dropped their hands from his lips, twined his fingers with Rooks, and held firm as he drew the rogue away with a gentle pull, “Come, we have a reservation to make.” Smiling dumb Rook let himself be taken away, threw a bright laugh at the noble over his shoulder. “Ooh, those undead cooks again?” “If you desire it dearest.” And they were gone. Rook forgot his shirt.

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All Rook’s build. Close as possible. Venatori freshly caught. Spaces of the Necropolis were his alone. The peers that dubbed him ‘young Volkarin’ would be the only few that could check, possibly even see. And their attentions were elsewhere for decades. He could keep them here alive. Long as their lives might permit. Had to remain alive. Material. Simple reagents. The shift in Emmrich’s mind came crashing. He’d saved these men. Had saved many in the chaos of the aftermath. They would be dead without him. The moments of life left were owed.

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“Turlum!!” Rook throws a truffle at Davrin, and with a squawk and a ‘dammit Rook’ Davrin never gets to finish the joke he started as he’s smothered in a rush of fur and feathers.

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“It…it’s that, but Emmrich it’s mostly not. I’m worried about you.” -this is Harding- “And Rook.” -taash- “And Rook. But Emmrich look at where we’re at. Why did you want to go to the Deep Roads?” “You’re a bad liar” -taash shrug- “Taash, not helping. But they're right. You’re studying the Blight aren’t you?” “And what of it? I’m researching a cure. Harding. It’s changed. Who knows what it will be tomorrow, someone must endeavor to understand it.” -Emmrich- “Should that someone be you? You might be too close. Maybe…maybe just enjoy what you got with Rook now? And if that blight stuff ever changes I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

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Night never really came to the Lighthouse. The name alone forbid it. Yet dusk arrived. The pots and pans washed and returned, baths steaming but empty, and the warmth of quiet wrapped the near atmosphere. Rook sat on the floor of Emmrich’s study. Cross legged and hunched on a plush rug before the fire, book propped by a pillow before him. The rug was relatively new. Rook had protested. Floor’s fine! I’ve called worse a bed. Sincerity rang in laughter and a chair sat empty across the room so it must be a preference. But Emmrich had taken it upon himself to see to some comforts. Smiled soft from his desk now as he peered up to see it in use. Recalled it’s christening. Oh pretty! Boots had gone flying the first time Rook spotted it, clothes nearly followed but quick words halted the excess, Emmrich, it was a long day in Arlathan, I don’t want to get twigs in it. Emmrich had ‘nearly’ rolled his eyes at that one. Taken Rook by the shoulders and pushed him to it. Darling, I’m a mage, tidying the thing is a triviality. Please. Rook needed no further encouragement, spun in Emmrich’s hands, placed a peck on his nose, and fell back starfished onto the rug. Landed with a loud thud. Barefoot, grinning, and stretching like a mabari in the mud the rogue sank into the fine fibers sighing. That had been some weeks ago. A few pillows and stacks of books surrounded it now. Rook’s back warmed by the fireplace, furrowed brow visible to Emmrich at his desk. The Warden snorted, almost a laugh, shook his head, brow smoothed and smirking he turned the page. “An error darling?” “Hmm?” Rook didn’t catch it at first. Mind taking a moment to shift from realm of reading thought to listening ear. Blinked as those warm round eyes flicked up to the necromancer. “Oh!” It clicked then and Rook chuckled. “It’s entertaining, but they talk too much in the fights.”

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All my moots have been tagged from what I've seen. Okay I haven't seen I'm just not sure who to go to and am crippled by perception and want to throw this out before I don't. use BONES if you see this and want to throw something at me.

[n0bluev]

@fushiglow hmm….wonder who i’d draw this for all of a sudden and why… 🤔🤔

[quadrantadvisor]

Multiverse, Reverse Robins au, 2,514 words

-

Jason (Red Hood)

The imposters are good, Jason will give them that.

They need to work on their looks, unfortunately, because each one of them is a little off. Their Nightwing is too bulky, and his costume isn't made with Dick's flexibility in mind. Besides that, he's got an undercut that doesn't match the shaggy way Dick has his hair now, and his blue is too dark. And the swords. Those are different.

Their little Robin looks more like Dick, actually, Dick as he was before Jason's time, with his happy grin and his bright yellow cape. He doesn't match Damian's style at all, and Jason wonders if their intel was out of date. He tucks away his anger (the way he's used to doing, now) at these bastards roping some little kid into whatever con they're trying to pull. They can help the kid after they subdue him, and he stops trying to flip-kick people in the face.

The Red Robin outfit isn't bad, but the guy playing him is way too tall to be Tim. He doesn't use a bo staff, either, clearly preferring the armory of sharp little implements he keeps tucked away in his utility belt, including a wicked looking combat knife.

Which brings Jason to the current pain in his ass, the idiot trying to pass himself off as the Red Hood.

Yeah, they'd split off into pairs to fight. First off, for practicality's sake. Less risk of friendly fire if the only guy you're trying to punch is the one who isn't you. And secondly, it's just what you do, isn't it? Somebody gives you a set up like this, you go along with the poetic justice. No bat is immune to drama.

Jason is regretting that a bit, now. Fake Hood had taken him for a ride, leading him, he now realizes, far away from the warehouse where Nightwing and Robin had initially called in the disturbance. This other guy isn't the powerhouse that Jason is, but that doesn’t matter if Jason can't ever get in a hit. His movements are precise, deadly, and familiar in a way that makes Jason suspect League training. Jason is keeping up, but barely, and that's with the advantage of his guns. The other guy hasn't touched his, still gleaming red in his holsters, and Jason has a sneaking suspicion that they aren't filled with rubber bullets.

They're at a bit of a stalemate, standing on opposite sides of a dark rooftop, and Jason's trying to catch his breath but he can't relax, not when his gaze is locked onto his opponent, waiting for the minute twitch of muscle that will indicate his next move. He's wondering if he could get a shot off, wondering where to aim, when his comm crackles to life.

“Stand down!” Tim snaps in his ear. “Hood, Wing, the alternates aren't currently a threat. Deescalate however you can, and get back to the warehouse. We can explain this whole mess there.”

“Really?” Nightwing asks. He goes on to say something else, something about his doppleganger being incredibly threatening, thank you very much, but Jason stops listening, because there's something going on across the roof.

A mechanically distorted voice says, “What? No, I'd be able to tell. This guy isn't-” The imposter(?) cuts off suddenly, presumably listening to a response.

And then he… giggles.

“That isn't funny, Red,” he says, in contrast to the little peals of laughter making him subtly shake. “You- you get how fucked up that would be, don't you?”

Jason can't figure out what to do. Tim's intel is almost always good, but he can't get himself to stand down, not when, for some reason, that laughter is setting his teeth on fucking edge.

(He knows the reason. He'd know that cadence anywhere, he hears it in his fucking nightmares, but it isnt possible. He's in Arkham, right now, because Batman won't kill him and Jason isn't allowed to kill him and that uncomfortable truce is what got him his family back. Jason would know if he'd broken out, they wouldn't have kept that from him. They wouldn't.)

“Oh shit,” Tim says, and it makes Jason wonder how he knows, “Hood, is your alternate having some kind of fit right now?”

The sound escalates, from breathy little giggles to screeching laughter, and even with the hood's distortion, it's unmistakable.

It's the Joker's laugh.

It's the Joker.

And isn't this exactly some shit that Joker would pull, making a mockery of Jason's family, a twisted parody that fucks with his head? Tim's lying, he's trying to get Jason out of this situation, and Jason gets why, he does, but obviously the rest of them can't (won't) protect him from this, so if he has to take fate into his own hands, he will.

The green is creeping up, but Jason doesn't let it haze over his vision because he has to be in his right mind while he does this, not for them, for himself. As he stalks across the roof, he empties the clip from one of his guns and pulls out the live rounds, loads them into place.

He thinks Tim is calling for him, maybe the others, too, but the chatter over the comm is getting further away the closer he gets to his target. He should be smart, should take the shot, but maybe he's got more pit in his head than he wants to admit, because Joker, still laughing, pulls a knife, and Jason steps into his range to disarm him.

The strike is fast, but compared to the careful movements of before, he's practically telegraphing his actions. Jason sidesteps, and if the blade knicks him when he twists Joker's arm, he doesn't feel it. He's got the clown in a hold, now, and forces him to his knees with the gun against his temple.

If the hood is anything like his own, the bullet won't do it, not even at point blank range. Jason would like to get it off him, would like to see the life leave his eyes, but he doesn't have to. Jason moves the barrel beneath his chin, right where the armor ends. The pit rages inside of him, says this is too easy, says to make him suffer. Jason pushes it down. This is the compromise he'll make, this is what he'll do to try to maintain both his humanity and his peace of mind. The bullet will ricochet off the hood from the inside, will tear through Joker's brain at least twice, and he'll never come back from that, and Jason will finally be free.

It'll be easy.

This is too easy.

“Nothing to fucking say?” Jason growls, jostling the clown in his grip, because there's always some joke, some shitty twist.

The Joker just laughs.

“Unhand him this instant!” someone snaps, and Jason's finger twitches but somehow the trigger stays still. And now what's he supposed to do, because of course fucking Nightwing- but wait, that isn't- but it is, he's right there- it's both of them, two Nightwings. Fucking fantastic. Twice the guilt trip.

“Come on, Jay,” the Nightwing who's actually Dick pleads, and hey, what the fuck, codenames? In front of the fucking Joker, Dick? “Let him go, we can explain everything.”

“I'm not doing this again!” rips itself from Jason's throat, and he'll think later about just how wrecked he sounds. “I'm not just standing here and letting him go, Wing, not when one bullet can put a stop to all this, not when I can end him.”

“Jason,” Dick says, slow with forced calm, “that's not the Joker.”

“Don't you fucking lie to me!” Jason seethes.

His hand is wrenched to the side, the barrel facing open air, and before he can make a move the unfortunately familiar feeling of a high voltage shock courses through him.

By the time he's stopped seizing, Dick is at his back, supporting him with his own body and with arms under his pits and around his chest in a weird reverse hug. Technically, Jason's hands are free, but they're empty, the gun skidded to somewhere else across the roof.

Dick is murmuring into his ear, “Sorry, Little Wing, I'm so sorry,” and, “You're okay, you're okay, you're okay,” mantras meant to soothe his brother as much as himself. Jason wants to be angry, wants to snap at him to let go and fucking cut it out, but he's feeling strangely disoriented. He only has enough brainspace to pay attention to one thing, and that's the scene playing out in front of him.

Dick had clearly hauled them back a few steps, but Jason is still uncomfortably close to the bastard version of Nightwing (who, Jason realizes in hindsight, had tazed him while he'd been distracted by his brother, not cool) and the laughing maniac he should've killed. Nightwing is holding onto Joker's shoulders, his hands bouncing as the gasping, shrieking laughter continues.

“I'm going to remove your helmet now,” Nightwing says. He has a slight accent that Jason knows he's heard before, and his tone is professional, almost clipped. And yet, somehow, Jason can tell that this is a gentled version of the man's voice, the sharpest edges sanded away. His hands move from Joker's shoulders to the back of his head, carefully inputting whatever sequence allows for safe removal of the hood. Jason hears a hydraulic hiss when some sort of catch releases, and as Nightwing starts pulling the red metal up and away Jason can't help holding his breath.

At first, he sees what he expected to see. It's the Joker's expression, after all, his laughing face pulled into a rictus grin.

But the grin isn't right, somehow. The man is pale, but his face is unpainted, and the smile stretches wide, too wide, wider than even the Joker ever managed, and after a moment Jason recognizes the red, raised scar tissue on either side of his mouth for what it is.

Then, Jason takes in the actual features of the person in front of him. Dark hair, pale blue eyes, the cheeks, the jaw, the nose.

It doesn't make any fucking sense.

The Red Hood, collapsed on his knees in front of him, scarred face bare with no hood or domino to protect him as he struggles under the weight of his own laughter, is Tim Drake.

He's crying.

Jason is suddenly glad that Dick's holding him, because he's certain that he'd be on the ground, otherwise. Then, he realizes that he can't breathe.

Jason knows, logically, that his hood has sensors and filters that keep him safer than he could ever be without it. It is only every once in a while, when something stupid happens, that he regrets that he, a man with claustrophobia, decided to stick his head into a metal bucket.

Dick can probably tell that he's hyperventilating, and doesn't fight him as Jason gets his hands on the back of his neck and pulls off his hood.

Jason gasps in polluted Gotham air, and Tim's eyes snap onto him. Nightwing says, “I'm administering the emergency dose of your medication,” and then stalls, like he's waiting for a response, but all Tim does is laugh and stare. Jason stares back. He can't look away.

Nightwing retrieves a small tubular device, almost like an epipen, and presses it against Tim's leg. That shouldn't work. Tim's wearing body armor, same as the rest of them, and there's no way a needle could pierce it, but Jason looks as Nightwing draws the device away and there's a small raised circle of hard plastic on Tim's thigh that the head of the device fits into perfectly, like it was designed for that purpose. An injection spot, built into Tim's clothing, specifically for whatever drugs fake Nightwing just pumped into him.

Immediately, there's a difference. He doesn't stop laughing, or smiling that horrible fucking smile, but the manic tension is gone. He doesn't look like he'll shatter at a touch anymore, too brittle to be handled. The curve of his spine gentles, muscles no longer pulling it to the point of snapping. Jason watches as slowly, oh so slowly, Tim gets quieter, leans more into Nightwing's hold on him, starts gasping more than laughing.

Dick is talking behind him, into his comm, it sounds like. If it's important, someone will get his attention.

Finally, Tim breaks eye contact. “T- tell him,” he says to Nightwing, struggling between gasps and giggles, “tell him what you, gave me. Jay doesn't, he doesn't like, needles.”

The strange Nightwing turns his head, and Jason gets the impression of a sharp, searching gaze behind his domino. He's nothing like Dick, not at all, but something niggles the back of Jason's mind, some sense of familiarity regardless. He tosses something, and Jason automatically reaches up to catch it.

It's the empty tube of medication, which does seem a lot like an epipen, up close. “It's a combination,” the man says. “The antidote for Joker venom, an antipsychotic, and a mild sedative.”

“What the fuck?” Jason hears from his own mouth as he looks down at the innocuous little tube.

“It's only used in emergencies,” Nightwing adds, and does not clarify any further.

Jason doesn't know what to say to that. He shakes himself out of Dick's hold and grabs an evidence bag out of his jacket. He watches Nightwing, to see if he'll object, but he doesn't. Jason slips the medicine tube inside the bag and tucks it away.

“There you are!” Dick says in a bright tone, one meant to cover his anxiety and relief.

Jason turns, and finds that their roof has gotten a little crowded. All four Robins have arrived, his brothers mingled in with their copies, copies who don't quite match in ways that are now sticking in his brain. Tim, Jason's Tim, is standing right there, pressing his mask against his face like he'd broken the seal on the adhesive, and it isn't sticking quite right. Other than that, he's normal. He's fine.

The Robin, the one in the classic colors who Jason had thought looked a bit like Dick (oh God, could that be-?) gives a little whistle. “Trust Red Hood to cause drama!” he says in a bright tone that is too too familiar (fuck, fuck he is). “Must be a universal constant.” He grins, cheeky, looking past Jason.

Jason isn't processing fast enough to be offended for his own sake, but he turns and checks on Tim, other Tim, the Tim who apparently also has a claim to the Red Hood name. Tim is propped up on Nightwing's shoulder, looking drowsy and relaxed. He's looking back at Robin, and his lips are pressed tightly closed, but he's smiling, and it reaches his eyes.

Alright, then. This is probably fine.

Jason snorts, to get the kid's attention, and rolls his eyes. “Comes with the job description,” he snarks.

The kid lights up. Jason feels distinctly weird, having that smile directed at him, but it's not… bad.

Yeah. This is fine.

-

I'm planning to add a reblog with more information on this au/fic idea, so if you're interested, watch this space.

[littleplantfreak]

oh to be the person Umemiya Hajime meets and falls for as he’s traveling after graduation