#i do plan on writing a fic about this

[sadlybeans]

No More Batman AU

It became too much eventually but he was willing to deal with it… Batman was a good thing for Gotham, even if he wasn’t good. Bruce had his doubts but they always seemed like such a selfish thing to consider when the city was becoming safer and safer and safer. But still… Batman was cold and cynical, he had to be in order to do his job, but this conflicted directly with the fact that Bruce Wayne is a father.

Dick leaving was a huge crack in an already fragile wall. Bruce couldn’t really express why, how could he? For Dick -and to everyone else- he and Batman are the same, how can he explain he is not? Sure, Batman isn’t a separate entity, but he also cannot be Bruce Wayne.

Everything is crumbling.

And then.

Jason.

Dies.

Batman cannot understand the pain of losing his precious son, the pain of knowing he will never see him again. Batman lost a soldier but Bruce lost his son and he can’t pretend otherwise.

The cowl is put into a commemorative case. Bruce shuts down the computer and turns off the lights. The grandfather clock doesn’t move again for months.

At first everyone thinks Batman must be wounded, or he must be grieving Robin, but days pass… then weeks… then months.

The rogues start running rampant again.

And Batman never returns.

Timothy Drake knows who Bruce Wayne really is and he knocks on his door to ask for the impossible.

Batman doesn’t come back, and neither does Robin.

Dick sometimes calls Alfred but he’s never stepped foot into the manor since he last spoke to Bruce, crying and screaming at the other end of the line.

He comes home when he hears the news about a new young vigilante in Gotham.

They fight, they scream, they cry, and at the end he hasn’t forgiven Bruce but he stays.

Tim is scolded to hell and back, but Bruce cannot be too hard on him because… he was there. This weird child knocked on his door to make him company like one would a seniour citizen down the block, he tried to console him on his son’s death despite not knowing either of them.

Tim isn’t giving up.

Bruce and Dick decide they’re only letting him out until he’s been properly trained, since they can’t stop him.

Gotham is too dangerous for an inexperienced kid playing vigilante, so Nightwing picks up the slack, but it soon becomes clear that Gotham needs only one thing when the Bat Signal keeps shining night after night… so they get creative.

Shadowy figures, obscure sightings, tales of criminals scared nearly to death…

Batman is back, they whisper, just as when he first came; little more than a myth or an urban legend.

In reality, the cowl has never left its case.

Batman is no more than an illusion and Oracle’s cleverly written reports, but Gotham doesn’t know any better.

The team grows despite Bruce’s best efforts to prevent it. Dick, Barbara, Tim, Cass, Steph, Duke… All of them dear to him, all of them making a better job than Batman ever did.

Gotham isn’t safe but it’s better, and it becomes better by the day.

Batman is never coming back.

… Robin is never coming back.

Until he does.

[choccy-milky]

sometimes you gotta lure your overly-studious ravenclaw gf into spending time with you 🥰 📚 ( from 'Every Teardrop is a Waterfall' by Kat_12739 on ao3, GO READ IT!!! the first story is about seb falling sick and still pushing himself/not admitting he's sick until he ends up in the hospital, the second story is about the birth of seb and clora's daughter and seb's reaction to clora almost dying in childbirth, and the third is about dealing with a fussy newborn lewis😭🥹THEY'RE SO GOOD AND SWEET AND SOMEWHAT SAD (not to mention beautifully written) so go check it out!!💖💖 )

[ninety-two-bees]

regulus black serial killer AU in which james and barty are dating, so regulus kills barty out of jealousy and then wiggles his way into james’ life to “comfort him” until james falls in love with him

except, james is fully aware of all of this and is very, very into it. so sometimes he’ll make regulus jealous by talking for a bit too long with someone else, just so regulus will come home that night covered in their blood. and james doesn’t care how many people regulus kills as long as regulus is safe and unharmed

bonus points for barty as a bitchy ghost “haunting” regulus after the murder and constantly complaining or encouraging regulus’ violent behaviour

[fiveredlights]

old habits die screaming - chapter 1

(alternatively known as the daniel team principal au)

Visa Cash App RB @/VisaCashAppRB • 1 Nov 2027 Ricciardo Returns! Visa Cash App RB is excited to announce that former Red Bull & RB driver Daniel Ricciardo will be taking up the helm as team boss from 2028, following current team boss Laurent Mekies reduction into a part time role. Read more at the 🔗 in bio.

When Daniel’s Zandvoort injury turns out to be much worse than it first seems he officially retires at the end of the 2023 season. Five years later, he’s announced as the new team boss of RB and many people in and out of the paddock have lots of thoughts.

Told through social media integrated through work skins.

(read here)

[just-j-really]

Unsoulmates AU, part two!

Part one is here.

Hob isn't exactly expecting to run into his not-soulmate again. The man doesn't text him after Will's engagement party, not even to provide his name, and after a week of valiantly staring at his phone and willing it to buzz Hob is forced to admit that maybe he hadn't been serious.

It stings. For once it would have been nice to have someone realize he means it when he says that soulmates are bullshit.

But he's too busy to dwell on it, much. He has sets to build and an anxiety-inducing new job to get used to and about seventeen different hobbies he's accidentally abandoning.

He's at a party with some of Will's Strange Art Friends, digging through the top shelf of Will's absurdly tall cabinets, when a deep, familiar voice asks, "What are you doing?"

"Banditry," Hob says cheerfully, once he's finished not concussing himself on the cabinet door in shock. "Will promised me he'd bought some of 'those gross licorice things only I like' but he was really unclear about where they are." The cabinet he'd been rummaging in is clearly not the place, being full of expired soda and electrical tape, so Hob closes the door and leans over to the next one. "Did you come in here for snacks, too?" he asks, when there's no response from behind him.

"No," his not-soulmate replies, blandly. "I was hoping for a moment alone." His tone clearly implies that Hob's presence is ruining his evening, and Hob should either leave the room or cease to exist immediately.

"Ah," Hob replies. It stings, again, even though that's utterly absurd and he barely even knows this man. "I'll be gone in a sec," he adds, because he'll be damned if some asshole sabotages his Snack Quest, "just let me find my licorice."

The man- Hob should really get his name if they're going to keep running into each other like this- sighs loudly, but doesn't make any sort of verbal objection to Hob's continued presence. Hob ignores him, and resumes his Quest.

It takes three minutes of stony silence, but Hob eventually uncovers the licorice in a bowl on top of the fridge, which is not even close to being 'in one of the cabinets', Will. He's about to retreat from the kitchen with his prize, when the man says, "You actually do know Will," in a tone of utter confusion.

"Yeah," Hob says, slowly turning to face him. The man is sitting sprawled on the counter, his bearing almost regal except for the part where he's staring at Hob like Hob is a dog who unexpectedly started doing calculus.

"How???" the man finally asks. Hob can hear the extra question marks in his voice, even if his tone stays even.

"Used to date his archenemy," Hob says, with a shrug. "We stayed friends after Kit moved."

If anything, this seems to confuse the man further. "Or we became friends after Kit moved, anyway," Hob adds, possessed by a desperate need not so much to fill the silence as to keep voicing his thoughts. "Up until that point I'd wanted to support my boyfriend and all, but then he left and I wanted to keep building sets so I started to work with Will instead."

"You. What?"

"I volunteered to help build sets at that little theater Will used to work at," Hob says. "That was how I met both of them, actually. But then Kit and I started dating and that doesn't actually matter to what you were asking, does it?"

To Hob's utter bafflement, his not-soulmate nods at him to continue. Again, 'regal' is the only word for the gesture, even though he's sitting on a grimy counter in the nasty, yellowish lighting of Will's kitchen.

So Hob makes himself comfortable against the fridge and starts again, detailing the entire stupid saga of Kit-and-Will-and-Hob-making-the-whole-thing-much-worse-in-an-attempt-to-be-a-supportive-boyfriend. And at some point he swerves off into just talking about Kit-and-Hob, which is nice, because most of his friends were there for Kit-and-Hob, and don't find his sappy reminiscing terribly interesting.

And somehow that loops all the way around to how he was technically working for the government at that point, which, of all things, was the root cause of him getting on speaking terms with Will again. That and Kit moving, although it is really weird talking to Kit now because he can't avoid talking about the fact that he's accidentally befriended Kit's mortal enemy-

"You're still in touch with him?" Hob's not-soulmate asks softly.

Hob turns to fully look at him and regrets it immediately. Over the course of his ramblings, he'd moved from the fridge to the counter next to his not-soulmate, so that he could sit down and also easily share his licorice.

This means that his face is much closer to his not-soulmate's than he'd expected it to be, and for a moment he's lost in the blue of the man's eyes, the open intensity of his gaze.

"Oh. Uh, yeah," he says, when he's managed to remember the question. "The breakup was..." he trails off, looking for a word, and finally settles on, "amicable?"

His not-soulmate gives him that little 'go on' nod again. And Hob knows- he knows- that he should get some higher standards, but the quickest way to his heart is, and always has been, prompting him to keep talking, and he can feel himself falling as surely as he can feel the blush overtaking his face.

So he tips his head toward his not-soulmate, so that he can keep his voice low and still be heard above the crowd in the next room, and says, "Faustus got picked up. And like half of the filming was going to be overseas, but I couldn't leave London, at least not right then." His not-soulmate gives a look that isn't so much 'confused' as 'entirely uncomprehending,' so Hob adds, "I'd messed up my knee real bad." He gives the offending kneecap a hard tap and immediately regrets it. "Long story. I spent most of that summer in doctor's offices. And hospitals. So. 'Quit your job to travel with your boyfriend for a few months' was not really an option, for me. And he didn't want to do long-distance. So we broke up."

"Your soulmate left you alone, in pain, because he 'didn't want to do long-distance'?" Hob's not-soulmate asks. There’s something raw, close to pity but more tender, in his face, which makes Hob feel unbelievably guilty for laughing at the question.

"Oh, god, no," he says, with an expressive wave of his hand. "Kit wasn't my- No. Met his soulmate while he was filming Faustus, actually, otherwise we might have-" And then Hob shuts that sentence down, hard, because the breakup itself doesn't hurt as much as that part.

"Anyway," he says, and is about to ask if his not-soulmate wants to hear the story of how he busted his knee, it's pretty funny, actually-

"But if he wasn't your soulmate-" his not-soulmate asks, leaning toward Hob.

There hadn't been much space between them in the first place, is the thing. And now Hob's not-soulmate is leaning even closer, staring at him like an entomologist studying a particularly fascinating insect, and leaving Hob with exactly two options: tilt his head up, just a bit, and kiss him, or succumb to gravity and fall backwards into the sink.

"Hey, Hobs, I just realized-" Will says, walking into the room. He proceeds to choke on his own tongue, while Hob's not-soulmate jerks away from Hob like he's on fire, and Hob gracefully avoids the sink by falling off the counter entirely.

Will is the first to regain his composure. "Oh. Morpheus," he says, nervously, "I thought you left."

Hob looks sharply up at- at Morpheus, apparently, biting back a litany of questions. It makes sense that his aloof, mysterious stranger is the same aloof, mysterious stranger that Will credits for editing his first successful play to the point that it was a success. But with the way Will talks about Morpheus he'd been half-expecting a deity.

"I did not," Morpheus says. He's back to looking bored and regal, not a hair out of its artfully disheveled place, which is just rude given that Hob is still in a heap on the floor.

"Well if you're planning to stick around," Will says, "I'd been meaning to ask you about Midsummer-"

Morpheus' eyes light up, and he slides off the counter and sweeps out of the room, Hob clutching his candy in both hands to stop himself from physically reaching out to say, No, wait.

Will, at least, lingers for long enough to mouth, "Sorry," and shrug, before following him.

"What the fuck was that?" Hob asks aloud, when he's left alone with his bruised dignity.

The cabinets have no response.

He's not sure what he's expecting after that, but it certainly isn't for Morpheus to text him, Would you like to meet for coffee? the next day.

Of course Hob says yes.

He's smarter about it, this time. Makes sure he's seated in the café, with a double espresso and a plan, by the time Morpheus comes in. He doesn't even ask so what the fuck was that when Morpheus sits down next to him, no matter how much he wants to.

Instead, he says, "Why did you ask me to come here?" with all the frustration he'd felt the exact moment he'd hauled himself off of Will's kitchen floor, knee protesting viciously, trying to make sense of Morpheus, who'd willingly listened to him talk for close to an hour and then left without bothering to say goodbye. It's a step above what the fuck was that, but not by much.

"Because I'm interested," Morpheus says, his voice low.

"In. Me?" Hob asks.

"In your experience," Morpheus says, with more exasperation than Hob thinks is really fair for someone who just said he was 'interested' while staring at Hob's lips. "I want to know what it's like. Dating without looking for your soulmate."

Ah, Hob thinks. At least that makes sense. He's aware that avoiding his soulmate makes him an anomaly- sure, actually Waiting For Your Soulmate is less common these days than it used to be; plenty enough people are willing to have casual relationships in the meantime, but even then in the meantime is an implicit part of the equation.

He can accept it, if Morpheus' 'interest' in him is purely curiosity, as long as he knows where they stand.

And, to be honest, the fact that Morpheus is curious at all is... gratifying. Most people aren't even that.

So Hob downs his drink, grins at Morpheus, and proclaims, "It's fucking brilliant."

[Part Three]

[tcfactory]

I should be writing something else, but it requires more brain juice than what I have atm, so what if cute moshang thing where Mobei-jun has to learn music as part of his training as a prince (yes, even in the demon realm) so he practices in Qinghua's living room when SQH is away on head disciple/peak lord stuff.

Then, without ever meeting them face-to-face, he finds kinship with the senior disciples/hall masters on An Ding who do music as a hobby (they are burning to know who Shang Qinghua's shy boyfriend is, like, it has to be serious if SQH keeps sneaking the guy onto the peak, right?) Has a courting related epiphany when Qinghua uses his limited free time to (re)learn an instrument just to play music with him.

Then he sort of befriends someone who he assumes is one of the hall masters by talking to him/playing music together through a window opened just a crack so they can't see each other. Sorts out a misunderstanding by talking about his childhood trauma and finding just the right way to explain that sometimes the words just refuse to be said, no matter how much someone wants to say them. And if the other person keeps trying to reach out then the immortal master should try reaching back, if he can bear it, and see what happens.

Then there's this whole upset where Shen Qingqiu wants the An Ding hobby musicians to do a concert for the whole sect to show people that not being on the scholar peak is no reason to be uncreative brutes, Liu-shidi, and to shut up some of his own disciples who are rich brats and can't imagine people from different backgrounds outdoing them in the arts - and he wants Shang-shidi's secret definitely-a-rogue-cultivator boyfriend there to perform, that's not optional, he wants to meet the man who fixed his relationship with Qi-ge face to face.

Shang Qinghua does a whole lot of running around trying to hide it that Mobei-jun is a whole ass higher demon, but either he can't find anything in time or they decide not to use it in the end because you know what? Yue Qingyuan and Shen Qingqiu both owe Mobei sooo much for sorting them out and Qinghua is tired of having to hide his boyfriend. So when they all walk out to take their spots in the orchestra there's a big buff ice demon in the lineup like that's normal, the sect leader has Liu Qingge in a headlock and it all goes off without a hitch. By the time Luo Binghe comes to disciple selection, there's an alliance with the northern demons and a very annoying demon hall master at Shen Qingqiu's side who almost falls off the cliff because that boy, the fluffy one, he thinks that's his son!! So Binghe gets the cringiest dad in the realm and he couldn't be happier, honestly.

Or basically: the one where there's no system, but instead there's music and it makes everything better.

[eddiestommy]

actually no i can't be normal and stop thinking about this post and this post and hurting my own feelings because like

here's eddie diaz who's not very good at making friends he doesn't work with and who's so repressed even the pope thinks it's a tad bit much and he's meeting this older firefighter pilot who's so fucking cool and he's got so much in common with and he actually wants to be friends with him. and eddie's never had a friend he can actually talk sports and martial arts with, someone who actually understands the trauma of being in the army, and maybe tommy also comes from a family like his that's not without love and it wasn't exactly bad but his parents never truly understood him or supported him in anything. maybe tommy is also an older brother who had to take the mantle of "man of the house" because his dad was too detached from it, had to take too many responsibilities at an early age.

and eddie just connects with this dude in a way that he's never connected with anyone besides buck and even then, there's things buck can't never understand but tommy does. so he starts hanging out with this guy, starts texting him and talking with him basically anytime he's not on call or with his son

and one day he brings up this fight he's excited for and asks tommy if he'd want to watch it with him and tommy's like "actually, i've got a mate who got me two ringside tickets for it and i've been looking for someone to go with, you'd be interested?" and eddie is over the moon about it. he's nearly giggling and kicking his feet up as he calls carla to ask if she can look after chris overnight because he's going to fucking vegas with a friend. when he arrives at harbour to get on the chopper tommy is flying them to vegas in he's just a bit disappointed to see buck is there too but it's also great because buck is his best friend and he loves him and he's the only person who ever made eddie feel this way once upon a time (and he's trying so hard not to think too much about that) so it's great they're friends too but actually, no, buck's not coming and eddie feels only a little bit bad that he's relieved about it.

so they go to the fight and it's fucking great and tommy gets into it just as much as eddie is. after the fight they go out for drinks with tommy's promoter friend and they get a little drunk and in that drunken haze he lets himself think about the things he usually tries to keep at bay. he thinks about how cool and impressive tommy is but also about how fucking hot he is, he's 300lb of muscle and the strength he's got, how easily he'd manhandled eddie when they were practicing muay thai the other day, how when he looked on top of eddie when he pinned him to the floor and how eddie had wanted to taste the sweat on his muscles, lick the vein in his neck, get those hands that were holding him touching way below. but he gets a hold of himself and when they get to their hotel room with the two queen size beds he makes himself stop thinking about they way he wants to touch him everywhere, find out if he can make him make some of the noises from their sparring session in a different context. tries not to think about how his cock would feel on his hand, how tommy would look as he came.

so anyway, they get back to LA the next morning and eddie tries his best to pretend he never thought any of that and then the basketball game from hell happens and tommy tells him he's gonna talk to buck, try and make peace and eddie doesn't think twice about it, they're both his friends and they would get along well. when he sees them hanging out at the restaurant he pretends that what he feels at the pit of his stomach isn't jealousy, and later that week he only wonders a little bit if marisol being a nun before truly is the only reason why he can't have sex with her anymore, if the fact that sometimes when he sinks into her deep in his brain in a corner he never goes to he thinks about a different person, one with broader shoulders and strong pecs instead of breasts isn't part of it too.

and then he's in buck's kitchen and buck's telling him "it was a date" and when eddie asks "wait, tommy's gay?" it has nothing to do with buck and all to do with him knowing in an instant that if he'd known that back in vegas he might have risked it, might have followed his deepest desires and touch tommy like he wanted to. but now his best friend is talking about him with that doe eyed look in his eyes and eddie knows that means he really likes him and eddie does his best to push his own feelings aside because that's what he's good at and buck needs him to be supportive, that he's being vulnerable and confessing something scary to him and eddie wishes he could be like that, too, so he tells him to call tommy even though eddie wants him to do the opposite, wants to be the one tommy kissed in the kitchen and took on a date

he's not lying, exactly, when he tells buck he also likes tommy but not in that way, because whatever buck feels for tommy can't compare to what eddie's going through. he doesn't know if his desire outweighs the shame, doesn't know if he'd be able to be like buck and jump straight into it with blind hope, he knows he'd never be able to talk about it tho. not for a long while. and when he goes home that night and he's laying on his marisol-free bed staring at the ceiling he gives himself permission to be fucking angry that buck gets to have what he wants so bad, lets himself be a shitty friend and wish tommy maybe also wants eddie the way he wants him, want him more than he wants buck.

in the morning he'll feel guilty about it, in the morning he will be the supportive friend buck needs. but tonight he wallows in his jealousy and his anger and his shame and if he comes from jerking off a little too hard with tommy's name in his mouth no one has to fucking know about it.

[tunastime]

no place for strangers

in which BigB realizes that there are a significant number of difference sbetween him and his friends, and in which BigB decides he doesn’t really care that much.

(2333 words)

A portion of the night sky, night for only a fraction of time, is blotted out by the shape of two dark, mottled-grey wings. 

He supposes he's a little jealous of that, the wings, how they shed loose feathers, how they flutter and swish and practically make no noise at all when extended. He's a bit jealous of Grian, known Watcher, much more powerful, hands twisted in the reigns of his own creation—the games. He's as much a pawn in this one as he has been in the others. But unlike BigB, he's hungry. The killing doesn't do it for him. Neither does the dying. Grian’s new—the Watchers don’t let him stay full. They chastise him for a million things and make sure he suffers, and at this point, BigB watches it happen. There isn’t much left he can do. He does less Watching and more supervising.

Maybe he's jealous of Pearl, with thin black and gold wings like a moth, ears wispy and pointed up toward the sky. The way her drooping eyes never dim, the way they both glow, silver and gold. She’s got it just as good as him, doesn’t she? Secretive and distant. Away enough to matter but not enough to cause a fuss.

But maybe he isn't. Isn't there something lurking behind his eyes when he stares at his reflection too long? Wouldn't redstone glow in his presence? Wouldn't the forest go silent and the earth hold its breath as he waited, as he watched? Wasn't there the purple remnant of where he once stood?

It doesn't matter. BigB stares up at the messy splotch that is Grian against the night sky and sighs something profound. He tried to understand him. To love him. But Grian is a widow, and everyone that loves him suffers the same. They just have, actually. Joel and Jimmy. And now Grian perches and watches and BigB watches him and there's a muted sting behind his eyes as he does. Grian doesn't turn. But his wings flutter.

"Good to know that some things stay the same," BigB says, cutting through the warm night air with a voice he hopes matches it, but he isn't sure. Grian hums, mostly questioning. His feet stay planted. BigB starts to scale the wall.

"Don't know what you mean by that," Grian questions. He turns his head slightly to the sound of BigB climbing the ladder to the top, but doesn't do much else.

"You," BigB huffs. He rests his hands on the top of the wall, pulling himself over the flat edge. He swings his legs over, and his heels bounce against the cobbles. It’s an uncomfortable resting place. He watches Grian shift from foot to foot, and wonders if the same cobbles are digging into the soles of his feet, the same way they dig into the underside of BigB’s thighs. 

“Me?” Grian parrots. His eyes flick over to BigB, quick, but not so quick that BigB doesn’t catch the nervous glint of them. He rests back on his hands. The rough rock presses back against his palms, cold and uncomfortable. Luckily, the air around them is thick with humidity, heat, and a faint metallic smell. And the hum of cicadas. Their drone blocks out everything else, except the words bouncing around in BigB’s head.

"You're still no good at the emotions thing, are you?" he asks. He tilts his head as he says it, cocking it to one side as he looks over at Grian. He watches Grian’s nose wrinkle, the beginnings of his teeth baring back, as if he could bite and make anything more than an impression. BigB almost laughs. He gets it, he really does. 

The thing about Grian is that he’s not an easy shape to love, and an even less easy shape to hold. Like every bird, he fears being caged, and arms are no more than a cage, and someone holding his heart is no more than a cage, so he can’t sit still, even now, even on the edge of a wall. BigB watches his wings twitch. They’re gorgeous, but there’s a sharp line through them where the flight feathers should be. They’re not much more than deadweight. Anyway—where was he? Right. Grian. Impossible to love, impossible to hold. A widow, of sorts. The words tumbled out of Scar’s mouth one time, scorned and scoffed. Grian was no more than a widow mourning the first partner he took—Scar—trying to find someone who fit the hole but wasn’t him. 

But Grian kills. Who could say it was even his fault? Scar. BigB. Jimmy. Joel. Everyone he tries to love, in any shape, dies. He’s forced to starve. He’s forced to feed a higher cause. 

BigB can see Grian’s calloused fingers from here, at least the pale shape of them, balanced over his shins as his wrists drape over the sharp edge of his knee. He studies him in the dim lighting before he looks away, feeling something curdling in his stomach. BigB knows his time is short. Unremarkable. And normally forgotten. That doesn’t really bother him, though. He knows the importance of his impression, here. But he wants to tug this string, just once. He knows where all the strings lie—even his own, unfortunately. Maybe that’s the one thing he knows better than Grian—he’s aware of the outcome before it happens. He doesn’t have to stop to wonder what his odds are.

“That’s not nice,” Grian begins, and BigB shrugs. The cicadas stop singing. BigB’s voice cuts through the night like a knife, cool and even.

“I’m just being honest,” he starts. He watches the stone of the clock tower for movement, eyes flicking over the shape in the dark. “Jimmy and Joel just died and you’re already trying to replace them.”

Grian huffs. He sounds indignant, almost twinged with hurt. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

BigB raises his eyebrows, tilts his head again. Grian catches his eye for a second longer, this time, and his eyes are dark and wide. His jaw is tightly set. He looks like, at any moment, his lips might curl back and expose blunt, powerless teeth. BigB wonders what that might feel like—surely unpleasant, to have someone bite down on you with the intent to do harm, but he wonders if Grian could kill him on purpose and if it might rid him of anything. It might make the smell of guilt worse, actually.

“I think you do,” BigB says.

“Enlighten me, then,” Grian grits out, teeth closing around the words with a sharp snap. “Since I can feel you trying to figure me out.”

“Not me,” BigB says. Grian shuts his eyes, pinching his eyebrows together, before he twists his body around, fast enough to hear the slight pop of his spine as it cracks. BigB can feel the hair rise on the back of his neck as Grian searches, eyes scorching the earth for any sign of—

“Pearl—”

BigB hums, but it sounds more like a laugh.

“You’re just no good at it,” he says after a beat. Grian resettles, but his wings stay fluffed, body tight with tension. He radiates energy like a coil tightly wound. BigB can feel it seeping into the seams of him, and shifts as it prickles over his skin. He leans back on his hands a little further, hoping they can carry the weight. He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know what that means, BigB,” Grian sighs, short and through his nose. His hair blows into his face. “What d’you—” He sighs again, cutting himself off with a wave of his hand. 

He seems annoyed about the whole prospect of their conversation. It’s not unfounded, honestly. BigB did just climb up the ladder and start unpacking years worth of issues in front of Grian, trying to dig at the soft, bleeding center of the thing. He’s pretty sure Joel’s blood is still under his fingernails. He’s not sure if he saw it all happen. He definitely didn’t see Jimmy’s body hit the ground. Lucky, that. He’s not sure if he could watch people so used to flying be unable to use their wings when they needed it most. He thinks he might’ve seen Joel in the moment before Jimmy disappeared—Joel who was never one to let fear and grief trump anger. Or maybe the anger was his grief, like it was Tango’s, or Scar’s. Not that he saw much of that, either. Stories, mostly, things that get passed around a dim campfire at the end of the world. 

Jimmy was probably just a near-lifeless body in Joel's arms, right before he was gone. Poor guy. Grian didn’t even get to them in time before it was too late. He was too late for Joel, too. Joel was ash before Grian could even make his mouth into the shape of his name. BigB wonders if they got a grave. Grian was good at building graves, so he’d like to think so. It only made sense. Grian seemed to get over it faster when there was something to mourn to.

BigB takes a second to think, pressing his tongue between his back teeth. The air is quiet around them, still, like it, too, holds the tension in Grian’s spine, like it might be twisting it taut. 

“You just don’t understand how it works, you’re not good at grieving, and you’re not good at the whole grief thing, either.” BigB shrugs again, shoulders lifting just enough to be visible. He’s still not watching Grian, as much as Grian isn’t watching him, aside from the hum of them both, something wholly inhuman brushing shoulders with something that craved humanity more than anything else in the world, but could never figure out how to get it. 

“You don’t get it.”

“I do.” Grian starts.

“No, you don’t,” BigB turns toward him, finally, furrowing his eyebrows. “Grian, dude—you’re faking this whole human thing to begin with, and it’s not working—”

Grian whips around to face him. His face is sharp, jaw set. “Stop—”

BigB waves him off. His voice, unlike Grian’s, stays level, twinged with annoyance, rather than anything else. 

“You don’t understand what you should be guilty of, but you’re feeling it like it’s like…rotting something inside of you but you still don’t know why, and jeez, Grian, you’ve made it a crime for you to feel something.” 

He sighs, waving his hands around as if it could help bolster his point any further. He feels something ache in his chest—something aching to explain it in a way that Grian could understand, in a way that he wouldn’t just fight. Grian visibly bristles, feathers on his ears rising, the red and yellow tips of them stark in the night, even in the lantern light. 

“You’re on this planet too, you know, you’re allowed to let yourself feel. Messy and gross as it is. I mean, they died, man, is that anything?”

Grian swallows. BigB doesn’t watch the bob of his throat, or the way his feathers are still raised in alert as he jerks his head away. He follows Grian’s line of sight down the clock tower, where Bdubs and Cleo are talking. Bdubs looks over after a second. BigB feels a cold line run down his spine, but refuses to break his gaze. There are no sounds now, not even of his own heartbeat.

“No,” Grian manages.

BigB relaxes. Something of an easy smile finds his face, softening the shape of his eyes and the line of his jaw. He shakes his head. Grian shies away from him, but his feathers lower, and his posture sinks. He finally lowers himself to a sit, throwing his legs over the side of the wall. His hands cradle in his lap, and he stares into the palms of them. BigB remembers them as calloused, cold, and hard to hold properly. But he’s sure someone out there enjoys them. 

“You’re a really bad liar,” he laughs. Grian shakes his head. His voice is much quieter as he speaks.

“I don’t care. I don’t care.”

BigB turns his head. There, for a short moment in the moonlight, he watches the shape of Grian’s left shoulder turned toward him. They rise and fall as he breathes, shudder when he sniffs and sighs, move as he shifts his body, likely feeling those same, cold, hard cobbles pressing into the soft back of his legs. He sees where the back meets the wing, where the wing relaxes down and where feathers brush stone. He sees where they rest against the cobbles, half held and half upright, as if he wants to be ready to leap at a moment's notice. As if he doesn’t know that he, too, would die on impact. BigB reaches out, settling one soft hand on his shoulder. Grian tenses, but does not jump. 

“‘S alright, buddy.”

Instead, Grian deflates. BigB runs his thumb over the side of his shoulder, a friendly, comforting thing, as Grian leans back to his hand. His posture sinks to the touch, muscles weakening, wings folding back and down. Every molecule of his body, and BigB almost feels this in the air, grows heavy and tired at the subtle comfort. Grian draws what he can from it before he speaks. His voice sounds even, now, and tired.

“I miss them…” He starts. He swallows. “I missed you, too. I missed Scar.”

BigB sighs, giving Grian’s shoulder a long, warm squeeze before he lets go. Grian sways but catches himself on his hands. His body stays curved into itself. 

“I know,” BigB says. “But you’ll never be over it if you never break that cycle.”

Grian shrugs. The steel starts to slip back into his voice, firm. 

“I will when I win.”

BigB smiles.

“Maybe,” he says. He’s not sure he can see the end of that string yet, but the results don’t exactly look promising. “Who knows what’s in the cards?”

[doumekiss]

To any readers out there that might be wondering if an author would like to know of your disgust and disappointment that they made a character you headcanon as a top a bottom in a sex scene I can answer for sure that they do not 🙂

[maenecoon]

tw (mostly mild) depictions of violence and blood, bc it's involves vampires, also major spoilers for a fic im working on rn

so

i may or may not have a vampire kimchay fic idea

except the execution of it is going to have me combusting into flames??

anyways, thoughts about kim finding an annoying baby bat in the forest. he wants to ignore it, but he can't. so fine, he takes it in.

except...

kim definitely doesn't know how to care for a feral bat.

anyways! cue sweet/fluffy/bat-and-vampire shenanigans! like babybat so sated with blood that he becomes a little drunk, or at least the bat-version of drunk. babybat who flies into the window trying to escape because he's not good at echolocatio. babybat who sneaks into kim's closets to bite holes in every single one of his silk shirts.

vampire!kim somehow being whipped af for this cute but annoying little shit that he's somehow adopted. feeds him blood pudding and gives him many head scritches. shows him his red string murder board and rambles about his murder plans and all. vampire!kim who started off detesting or tolerating this pest at best but unable to imagine starting a day without the weight of babybat curled up on his chest.

then the murder plan happens. kim wants korn (his father/sire) dead, bc who doesn't, and he sneaks in to "kill" him.

he's gone in, wooden stake and holy water and all.

he goes bat-shit crazy. bodies of full-sized vampires drop to the floor around them as kim works with ruthless efficiency. he's memorised the techniques of his father's men and their weaknesses. he's dreamed about this for centuries. and it's pays off.

and then enters korn.

korn was always going to be the issue.

kim had no plans of returning alive - he knows to end lorn by all means necessary even if it means his own life - but korn has gotten more powerful. sire bonds are difficult to break, and even if kim has been diluting the bond and doing his absolute best to weaken their link, korn still has kim in an iron grip.

(if you'd read my phayurain vampire fic, there's this thing about sires being able to control their fledglings because of a bond they share when a vampire (sire) turns someone into a vampire (their fledgling). )

anyways.

when suddenly a weight in his pocket starts to stir. it's the little shit, the bat. and kim's all panicked because little shit is small and harmless and now barely the size of half his palm? like, kim's on his knees and has his hands shaking with effort not to plunge the stake into his own chest, by the command of korn.

it takes just a second, but bat flutters out of kim's pocket. bat, with all the rage that a bat can muster, swings himself right on korn's face and digs his fangs into korn's eyes. the eyes are part of what maintains the sire-control that korn has over kim, and kim is able to use that split second to drive the stake into korn's heart.

the moment that korn falters, falling to the ground with a thud, is the moment that the bat drops to the floor.

kim thinks like yeah, fuck, that must've taken a lot out of this poor baby bat, and god that fall looked bad, when all of a sudden the bat is expanding. almost like his bones are breaking (and kim winces because that sounds anguishing) and reforming and he keeps growing bigger and bigger and bigger until kim realised that this was no bat.

this was a vampire, trapped in the form of a bat.

this is his fledgling, his fledgling who was supposed to have died.

chay.

yeah anyways!! fun little story that i'm working on rn!! lmk what you think/want to see, if you got to the end of this! !

[naffeclipse]

do you ever sit and think about everything that is happening to you and what you need to do and what you want to do and you're sitting motionless completely locked into your brain and it all goes nowhere but it's filling you to the point of overload

yeah anyways

[wikiangela]

seven sentence sunday

tagged by @diazsdimples 💖

I'm still jumping between wips so here's another snippet of the cheating fic, this time a bit of Buck and Taylor arguing - I can't explain how much fun I'm having with this fic, this is so not my usual thing but it's just so fun haha

prev snippet

___

“Can we do this tomorrow?” he asks, bringing his hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose. He’s getting a headache.

“No, we’re doing this now. Tell me what’s up.” she says, pulling at the covers when he tries to cover himself and turn away again. 

“Jesus, Taylor, let it go. I’m fine. And it’s none of your business.” he snaps, pulling at the duvet a little harder.

“Fine.” he hears rustling, then the bed shifting. She got up. The light on her nightstand is still on. “I thought since we’re together, and live together, we’re pretty serious, and now you’re weird around me, and you don’t even touch me, so I thought it was my business, but clearly I was wrong.” she talks as she walks up to his- their closet and starts getting dressed. Now Buck looks at her, leaning up on his elbows.

“What are you doing?” he asks with a sigh, watching as she takes off her nightshirt and starts putting on jeans. “Where are you going?”

“None of your business.” she replies, her tone feeling like a slap in the face. Buck deserves the real thing, actually.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gaydiaz @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @911onabc @housewifebuck @watchyourbuck @underwater-ninja-13 @eowon @loserdiaz @evanbegins @ladydorian05 @wildlife4life @diazpatcher @lover-of-mine @monsterrae1 @thewolvesof1998 @puppyboybuckley @weewootruck @loveyouanyway @spagheddiediaz @rainbow-nerdss @sunshinediaz @giddyupbuck @epicbuddieficrecs @pirrusstuff @spotsandsocks @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @hoodie-buck @nmcggg @jesuisici33 @exhuastedpigeon @rogerzsteven @hippolotamus @disasterbuckdiaz @honestlydarkprincess @theotherbuckley @fortheloveofbuddie @steadfastsaturnsrings @tizniz @daffi-990

[brb-on-a-quest]

I had a thought last night, and even though the only canon bat source I've had is WFA, and I've only *just* started getting into fanfic, so characterizations may not be accurate/have been done before, but IDK. I need this to exist out there.

Timothy Drake-Wayne writes fics sometimes.

It started off with the necessity of creating so many fake IDs. One thing led to another and Tim was coming up with backstories for all the Johns, Marys, and Joes that he invented while doing his Gotham digital surveillance. After all, he was trying to make these people's fake IDs look as real as possible, which meant more than just a name on a couple of sheets of paper.

It means creating a fake digital footprint. For each one.

So, on the rare occasions when things are calmer, and he's not immediately needed, he sits on his computer and types out head cannons for each of the OCs he has created. He spends a lot of time doing research on different cultures, neurodivergencies, physical abilities, and backgrounds to try and 1) paint accurate pictures and 2) learn. He hides the world building tidbits in a secret folder that he's taken so many measures to hide from Oracle (she already knows, but she doesn't actively look after finally figuring out what the folder of names, complete with physical descriptions, life stories, and preferences is out of respect for Timothy). (Also, all this writing knowledge actually comes in handy for crime-solving things, but he doesn't fully realize it at the time).

Tim even went as far as to make social media accounts for some of his favorites and posts bits and pieces of the head cannons to make them, again, seem like real people. Just in case. As a precaution. You never know.

Jason finds out somehow, in a freak accident and collision of siblings that so often happens. Tim is sweating bullets, trying to steel himself for the endless teasing. He is fully prepared to delete every single file that's in that folder and deny that it ever exists for all eternity.

Except Jason doesn't. Jason's too much of a literary nerd (granted, he prefers more classic literature than social media fics, but this is another thing he can connect with his little brother on- he's *excited*) to tease Tim about the writing. He kind of persuades Tim to take more time for his hobby because Tim has some markings of talent in his very specific creative niche. Tim may have also convinced Jason to try it exactly once, to create a fake Twitter profile for Mr. Darcy and create shitposts from his point of view. He has a great time with it once, and then he moves on (but sometimes he creates other accounts for other characters that Tim doesn't know about).

They make a pact between the two of them not to tell the others; they'd ask too many questions and make it less fun.

But every once in a while, Tim would walk into Jason's place to crash for a bit, steal all of his Red Bull, update Jason on his writing projects, and get writing advice.

[chiropteracupola]

a wee dormouse perkins for @aranov!

[redsea8me]

Tfp soundchet what are your headcanons. How do they meet? Did they like eachother prewar? Do they continue to have one-sided feelings for megatron/optimus? How do their teams react? How do the kids react? I need a 34 page doc rn

okay, so in my mind there are no one-sided feelings for Optimus + Megatron, mainly bc neither one of those ships are my cup of tea and I don’t really like them anymore sorry gang 😭

I think they probably had chance encounters when Soundwave was on the Council and stuff, but avoided Ratchet bc of how often his mind sort of sparked w/ agitation and annoyance constantly and SW was kinda like yeah don’t need that thanks and left him alone (Ratchet never noticed any of this)

they’d meet officially through Orion and Megs bc yknow, and Ratchet after awhile became the twos sort of private doctor bc he didn’t like how the Gladiator medics were doing it and they both got along a lot better than expected (also SW’s cassettes really like Ratchet too bc he treats them like actual individuals which automatically made him worthwhile in SWs eyes)

I think they formed a very tentative relationship together after some blooming feelings and a not so subtle push from the cassettes, it was kept quiet from Orion and Megs, it was a very sweet baby’s first relationship type deal and SW would get to confide in his telepathy w/ Ratchet which he took in stride though of course that would burn in flames when the war started me thinks. Ratchet would be left angry and resentful while Soundwave tried to bury any remaining attachments, but he’s sad and lonely and doesn’t want to admit it

After a lot of encounters in the battlefield and forced time together they.. kind of talk it out? As much as these two possibly can? It takes a bit to put it lightly but they kind of continue their relationship, with both of them doing what they can to keep the other safe (eventually they make the horrible decision to bond but yknow, it’s easier than trying to be in the same place together ig)

After the series, Ratchet is (somehow) able to convince the Autobots that leaving SW in the shadow zone is super unethical guys 😭 can we at least throw him in prison 🥹 and everyone’s sort of like yeah okay ig 😒 and then after a little more convincing SW eventually gets to be under house arrest at the base with Ratchet and they live on Earth together now yippee!!! They keep their relationship on the down low of course but probably get caught by Miko or something and both of them decide to play it off as something that happened totally during SW’s time under house arrest and never before I promise

[walking-existential-crisis]

Me realising I have to actually write my whole fic and not just little paragraphs in between with no context: Fuck