#i will post on AO3 later I think

[paintedcrows]

Some Fords! (and Martin K Blackwood is also there)

[umblrspectrum]

"smaller mass" you say

[s0fter-sin]

thinking about the way ghost doesn't hesitate to start killing shadows when graves betrays them but soap only takes one hostage

you can almost hear the voice in his head telling him it doesn't have to be this way; they can still talk it out

"i'm calling shepherd"

his first instinct when confronted with betrayal is to play it by the books: to go up the chain. that goes against everything we've seen him do. he bucks authority at every chance except for the one time he's confronted with the barrels of his allies' guns

he wants a peaceful resolution; for the first time we've ever seen, he doesn't want violence to be the answer. there has to be another fix, a solution that doesn't end with him killing the same men he's been working with; his friends

nothing's happened yet

it doesn't have to go this way

but ghost has been betrayed before. he knows the way this ends; either with him six feet under or his enemy

he doesn't hesitate

it's only when they knock alejandro out that soap shoots; when they spill the first blood and cross a line they can never come back from

only when ghost orders him to run and he has to cover his retreat

and somewhere along the line, between civilians’ screams and taunting voices, between his shaking breath and ghost steady in his ear, that naivety is stripped away; his trust turned to teeth that he uses to sink into throats of men he'd have given his life for

"be careful who you trust, sergeant; people you know can hurt you the most"

he's learned the price of trust

just like ghost did

but unlike ghost, he has someone to guide him through the aftermath

"good advice, It"

[strawbubbysugar]

The base Y/N design for my soulmate AU!!

[blindmagdalena]

The Fall

2.8k mostly sfw homelander x reader. christmas adjacent. depowered homelander.

Summary: After being struck by an unidentified projectile that renders him powerless, Homelander crash lands in your backyard, wholly at your mercy.

this is a rework of this original prompt. inspired by the fable of the mouse that aids the lion whose paw has been stuck by a thorn.  ♡

Homelander is over a hundred feet in the air when he hears something whistling through the sky behind him. Some kind of projectile. A small missile, maybe. It's nothing he hasn't handled before: It could blow up in his face and he would be fine. He’s more curious about what exactly it is, who’s stupid enough to fire it at him, and where it’s coming from. 

With that in mind–in that split second he has to react–he decides to forgo dodging it and instead attempt to catch it.  However, as the mystery projectile gets nearer, his vision begins to tunnel. 

What the fuck? 

His reflexes slow, and before he knows it, the projectile strikes him hard in his left side rib, exploding in fumes that fill his lungs and coat his skin. In an instant, he feels pain like he's been turned inside out, a sensation worse than anything he’s felt since childhood. Instantly he's plummeting towards the ground, crashing directly into your backyard in an eruption of snow and yard furniture.

With his vision going black, the last thing he hears is the sound of the world turning deafeningly quiet.

When Homelander comes to, he's being shaken. No–compressed, hands over his chest, pushing again and again in a steady rhythm. Warm lips press against his, and a rush of air fills his lungs. His eyes snap open, and out of pure reflex, he drives his fist into your unfamiliar form, sitting up with a frenzied look in his eyes.

You should have flown back thirty feet with a hit like that. Instead, you only fell back onto your ass, coughing. Homelander's hands are shaking as he looks at them, and he can feel blood dripping from his ears, taste it in his mouth. He's disoriented, his whole body heavy. He's having trouble breathing, every ragged inhale a struggle, and his heart is pounding.

"Someone tried to kill me," he rasps in disbelief. Not surprised that someone tried, but that someone very nearly succeeded. "Someone... Someone tried to fucking kill me," he says again, growing more hysteric the more the pain sets in. His own brain is hammering against the confines of his skull, beating at the backs of his eyes.

He’s certain that he’s halfway to cardiac arrest, but no matter how he tries to focus, he can’t calm himself. His strength is gone. It’s gone. He looks at you, you, who should have a hole punched through your chest. Instead, you’re staggering to your feet, totally unharmed. 

"Homelander!" You address sharply, audibly trying to rein in your own bubbling panic. He can see his own fear reflected in your eyes. You’re just as confused as he is. Just a stupid little mouse that crawled out of your hole and found him like this. "I can help you, okay? Let me help you."

There’s something about the sharp authority in your voice mixed with an undeniable quiver of compassion that catches his attention. It could be the degree of his vulnerability sinking in, but after a second of dumbfounded staring, Homelander nods.

It must be pure adrenaline that gives you the strength to help him into your house. You don’t look like you should be able to carry him. He's practically dead weight in your arms, barely keeping himself on his feet as you both stumble into your living room. The height difference does neither of you any favors.

You get him down onto the couch before fetching a wet rag, a bottle of water, pills, and a first aid kit. He watches you fumble with it, hands shaking. He assumes it’s adrenaline, though you lack the acidic stench of it. No, you probably don’t. He just can’t smell it anymore. He can’t smell anything except the faint tinge of blood, and whatever nauseating scented candle you use to stink up your home. Though, even that’s distant compared to what he’s used to. However, he finds he doesn’t have it in him to panic. Is this what shock feels like?

He takes the water you offer him, but denies the pills. “No, no. I have no idea what that shit will do to me right now.” You nod, setting the bottle aside. You then lean over him, inspecting the level of damage. His ears are ringing, and his whole body is throbbing with sharp, painful aches. Maybe the pills would help, but he’s never had to take painkillers before. He’d rather swallow tacks than lean on something so pedestrian.

As you work, he notices a mottled mark blossoming darkly across the center of your chest, just under your collarbone, approximately the size of his fist. Without thinking, he reaches up to touch it, remembering the blow he’d dealt you.

You startle, looking down where he touches with a wince. The skin looks as tender as he feels. It must sting. Is he bruised like this beneath his suit? The thought of these same ugly dark marks mirrored on his own body brings him visceral disgust. 

"Don't worry about me," you tell him, as comforting as your voice can muster. You grasp his wrist and gently lay it back down at his side.

I'm not worried about you, he thinks derisively. "That should have caved in your chest."

"Guess it's my lucky day, then," you say absently, more focused on using a wet cloth to wipe away the blood from his temple, up into his hairline, seeking the injury. You're meticulous but gentle in the way you handle him, cupping the side of his face to turn him one way, then another.

If not for how clumsy your movements feel, he’d think you’ve done this before. There is care and determination in the way you tend to him, but no obvious medical expertise. Even the kit you pull from looks out of date and sparse. You probably picked it up from a gas station on a whim because you needed safety pins. "I think these need stitches," you say as you carefully apply bandages, brows furrowed. Homelander's gaze lingers on your lips as you speak. What kind of person sees someone fall out of the fucking sky, blowing a crater in their yard in the process, and then thinks to give them CPR?

"I'm calling an ambulance," you say, moving to stand. That breaks him out of his stupor. He catches you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks, despite how pitifully weak his own grasp feels. "No, no, not... Don't do that," he says, screwing his eyes shut briefly. No one else can know that this happened. Besides, if those psychopaths are still out there, it will draw them right to him. "Too much attention, I just... give me a fucking minute," he says, flexing his hands. They still feel weak, tingling like they've fallen asleep, but the bizarre sensation is gradually beginning to abate.

Whatever was done to him, it doesn't seem to be permanent. 

He hopes to fuck that it isn’t. "Okay," you say tentatively. Instead of leaving, however, you reposition to continue wiping the blood from his face, gently rubbing from his temples down his jaw. He watches you like a hawk, rolling his fingers in and out of fists, gradually feeling his strength return to him.

He's unaccustomed to the way you're handling him. One hand cupping his jaw, ginger in the way you move his head only when you absolutely need to. The concern wrinkled between your brows is so palpable, so sincere, that for a moment he almost forgets you're strangers to each other.

"What're you doing?" He asks eventually, voice low. You pause, looking down to meet his eye. "Oh, I just... There's still blood, and I didn't want to leave you alone."

Your response tightens something in his chest, like a steel coil wrung too tight, leaving him uncomfortable. He feels small, vulnerable, and the tenderness of your touch is doing nothing for it. "I don't need you," he snaps defensively. "I'm fine."

"Okay," you respond, aggravatingly calm. Still soothing. "What do you need?" Homelander opens his mouth, but hesitates. Your earnestness is infuriating, waiting on bated breath for what you can do for him. He closes his mouth, jaw tight. His gaze flickers back down to the bruise on your chest. It's darker now, varying shades of purple and yellow fading into one another.

Looking back up at you, he schools his expression into calm focus. "Close the blinds," he says, gesturing with his head to the window, where you have twinkling white Christmas lights strung up. 

"I need to lay low awhile." He can feel his powers steadily returning. Once he gets back to Vought, he'll find out who it was, and rip out their fucking spine.

You've already gotten up to do as he asked, drawing the blinds down, and then closing the curtains over them. Afterwards, you turn to leave.

"Hey," Homelander calls, frowning. You stop in the doorway. "Where are you going?"

"The kitchen," you answer, hand on the doorframe. "You can call if you need something."

"Stay here," he says, ignoring the bit of petulance he can hear in his own voice. He doesn't care if you're confused. He doesn't care that he doesn't entirely understand himself. He just wants you to stay.

He watches you take a seat at the end of the couch, near his feet. He exhales, closing his eyes. It isn't as though you could do anything if proficient killers did appear, but for whatever reason, no matter how useless you would ultimately be, he feels better for having you near.

Even a curtain is better than no door at all.

After half an hour, his senses begin to sharpen again. It begins as a dull, irritating buzz at first. It has him rubbing at his ears, screwing his eyes shut. It rolls in and out of focus, making it difficult to adjust to. “Are you okay?” You ask from the other end of the couch, where you’ve been sitting with remarkable patience. Maybe you’re afraid of him. He hates not being able to tell by the rate of your heart.

“Peachy keen,” he replies flatly. “Hearing’s coming back.”

“That’s good,” you say, though the inflection you end with makes it sound more like a question.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good, it’s just… Loud,” he says, grinding the heel of his palm into his temple. His skull is still pounding. “Everything’s all… Coming back in a jumble. Giving me a fucking headache,” he says, though as he speaks, he realizes he’s able to focus fairly well on the conversation, drowning out the more intrusive ambient sounds. “Keep talking.”

You look surprised by his demand, but after a beat, you oblige. After maybe an hour of idle conversation, he learns your name, that you work from home, you like decorating for Christmas even when you spend it alone, and that you've lived a thoroughly dull, ordinary little life until this very moment.

That’s just what you’ve told him.

From his personal observations, he's learned that you’re a perpetual fidgeter, that you touch your face when you're nervous, and that you would rather laugh than take any of his disparaging remarks about your mundane life to heart.

"I think it's lucky for you that I’m so boring. I might not have been here otherwise," you counter. Your smile is so inexplicably charming–nose wrinkled like you’ve somehow pulled a fast one on him–that Homelander forgets to refute your point. Instead, much to your alarm, he sits up.

"Oh, steady! Are you sure you're okay?" You ask, standing as he does, hands out as if to catch him. He stretches his hands out in front of him, and then curls his arms back in. Exhaling, his eyes flare crimson. He likes the way it makes your heart jump when he looks at you through the red glow.

His lips quirk, lasers fading out. "Good as new," he says confidently, though the aches of his fall still linger in his joints. Not quite new. He takes a few long strides across your living room, pausing in the doorway to your kitchen, where he can see through to your yard, and the absolute crater he left in it. "Vought will... take care of that," he says, gesturing vaguely to the destruction.

You can't help but laugh, crossing your arms loosely to survey the damage with him. "I appreciate it, but really, I'm just glad you're alright," you say honestly, staring out into the wreckage of your yard.

Homelander purses his lips slightly, glancing at you from his peripheral. Above him, he feels something brush the top of his head. When he glances up, what he sees hanging in the doorway makes him smile deviously.

Without warning, he puts his hands on your waist and spins you to him, lips landing warm and firm on yours. He absolutely devours the surprised little noise you make against him, halfway tempted to see what other sounds he can wring from you.

Your heart quickens to a race in his ears, and much to his delight, you kiss him back. You even surprise him by grabbing the back of his head with both hands, deepening the kiss of your own volition.

Not one to be out done, he adjusts his hold on you, one arm wrapping properly around your waist while the other slides up to cup the back of your neck, gloved fingers gently squeezing your bare skin.

To his delight, you retaliate with your tongue, slipping it between his lips and coaxing his forth.

Just full of surprises, little mouse.

Maybe you aren't so boring after all.

He meets you eagerly, exhaling a rough, excited little huff through his nose, dropping the hand at your waist to grab a cheeky squeeze full of your ass, wringing a soft moan from you that sends a bolt of heat straight to his cock.

When Homelander pulls back, you're flushed warmly all over. You smell of antiseptic wipes and peppermint, like Christmas in a hospital. It’s bizarrely appealing.

"What was that?" You ask, dazed.

"Mistletoe," he purrs, tipping his head back without taking his eyes off you, settling his hands back on your waist.

You look up slowly–taking a solid few seconds to process–and huff a gentle little laugh, nodding at the aforementioned ornament dangling above you. 

"Is this your way of saying thank you?" You manage to ask after swallowing back the lump in your throat, your shoulders relaxing, though your heart continues to gallop in your chest. "I hope you're still going to pay for my yard."

It's Homelander's turn to laugh. "Oh, no. I haven't even begun to say thank you yet," he assures you, hands lingering on your hips. 

The kiss had been pure unrestricted impulse, nothing he intended to follow through on. However, now that you're toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, your skin warm against his, your eyes half lidded, he’s not sure that he wants to let you go. Your lips shine where you’ve licked the taste of his from them. 

“I think for your good deeds, you’re owed a very merry Christmas,” he says, waggling his brows. 

You give a flustered, incredulous bark of laughter, covering your mouth as you look away from him, that flush of yours intensifying, making your whole body thrum warmly. You wouldn’t need to worry about keeping warm on these cold winter nights if he had his way with you.

“Okay, well, uhm, thank you for… for that thought,” you say, tripping over your words in a way you haven’t this entire encounter. “You hit your head pretty hard, though so maybe before you make any promises, we make sure you get checked out by an actual doctor,” you say, pushing lightly against his chest.

He maintains his hold for just a second longer, utterly immovable. It feels good to be himself again. He runs his tongue along his teeth, downright predatory in the way he stares down at you, but he does relinquish his hold.

“You should come with me to the tower. You know, now that you’re… Compromised,” he says, folding his hands behind his back. “Someone might come looking for me here. Interrogate you on my condition.”

Real fear flashes in your eyes at that. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he gives back gravely.

“Uh… Okay. Uhm, let me… I’ll pack a bag,” you say nervously, stepping away from him to do just that.

“Okie-dokie,” he gives back simply, glancing around your home while he waits. He picks up an odd little gnome with a big red hat that covers everything but a little button nose, and a long white beard. Maybe he’ll convince you to bring along some of your festive decorations.

Merry Christmas to me, he thinks, already daydreaming about twisting the head off of whoever hit him with some kind of neutralizing agent.

He might thank them for the impromptu date while he’s at it.

[quietly-sleeping]

Shen Qingqiu wanted to kill one of his fellow Peak Lords. 

At least, that was what the rumors swirling around Cang Qiong said. The disciples couldn’t seem to agree on who the Qing Jing Peak Lord wanted to kill; just that he had sent his disciples out with an order to retrieve. 

Shang Qinghua was the first of the Peak Lords to hear the rumors, his disciples had gotten more chatty than usual, the typical workload for anyone on the peak not leaving much energy to do much of anything. Other than gossip, as it turns out.

“Shizun,” His poor, overworked Head Disciple spoke up while they were sorting out yet another tower of papers into only mildly less intimidating stacks. “This disciple was wondering, has Shen-shibo said anything…worrying lately?” 

“In what way, Wu Xiaoli?” Shang Qinghua didn’t stop his work, he really couldn’t, he barely had any time at all to himself after working to the bone every day, if he stopped at all he’d have to forgo sleep to get it all done. “In a murderous way?” Wu Xiaoli was hesitant as she said this, her hands barely slowing as well, what a good disciple. 

“Your Shen-shibo is almost always like that, is something specific supposed to be happening?” Shang Qinghua glanced over at her, her prolonged silence stretching for a moment more before she spoke again. “In the way that most of Cang Qiong believes he is trying to capture and then kill one of his martial siblings.” Wu Xiaoli let that sit in the air for a moment before adding, “It should be fine, right Shizun?” 

Shang Qinghua really regretted being reborn. “Yes, you could say that Wu Xiaoli.” He felt faint. The paperwork, just the thought of the paperwork a murder like that would spawn nearly sent Shang Qinghua into a panic attack, nausea starting to build in his throat already. 

Which would lead to a visit from Mu-shidi, who while nice, was still trying to drug him with anxiety meds that Shang Qinghua did not need, thank you very much. He could feel Wu Xiaoli staring at him as he pondered how viable throwing himself off the mountain would be for knocking him unconscious, very viable, with only a mild threat of death, before she looked out the window and jolted. 

“Forgive this disciple, Shizun, Tan-shijie requested a meeting about the salary allotted for building a new garden on Qiong Ding.” Wu Xiaoli hurriedly sorted the last few papers in her hands before standing and nervously brushing at her yellow robes. 

“Don’t get scammed too badly this time.” Shang Qinghua said around the lump in his throat as he fished another very late work order for Bai Zhan, thank you Liu-shidi. Wu Xiaoli pouted for a moment, looking ten years old rather than nineteen before turning on her heel and marching out the door. “This disciple will try her best, Shizun!” She called out behind her.

Shang Qinghua did not hold back on the panicked sobs of dread now that his disciple was gone. He was more open with his sobbing response to issues when she was younger, but that led to a good year or so when Mu-shidi was very blatant in drugging his food and tea with anxiety meds. 

The despondent Peak Lord angled himself so any tears wouldn’t hit the delicate paper covered in ink. He may have to appear red and puffy later, but by the gods that had forsaken him, he would not ruin his paperwork.

Qi Qingqi was the next to hear about the rumors. Her usually on-top-of-things Head Disciple, Shi Fa, was distracted by the adorable new addition to their Peak, little Liu Mingyan. The four-year-old giving the poor girl a run for her money. 

It was amusing, but it did prove that perhaps Shi Fa wouldn’t be a great fit for Peak Lord. Which was an utter shame, the girl was perfect in every other aspect, Qi Qingqi mused on the issue for a moment before nodding to herself, a Hall Master then. 

They’d do better only interacting with the students in a more detached manner, still there to advise or support the Peak Lord’s decisions. Qi Qingqi looked back down at the report that had made its way onto her desk, the handwriting hurried with ink blotches and missed strokes. 

Shi Fa had heard the rumor while attempting to track down Liu Mingyan on Bai Zhan and extract her from the feral child colony that populated the Peak. One of the eldest of the feral children had been hired by a disciple of Qing Jing, needing their help since they had left the sect more often and to varied places. 

Shi Fa had located Liu Mingyan and managed to contain the delightful ball of fury while gathering more information, Shen Qingqiu had ordered a fetch mission on a martial sibling. None of the Qing Jing disciples actually fessed up to which martial sibling it was, but Qi Qingqi was certain it was not one of the Peak Lords. 

Since a murder had not happened during the last Peak Lord meeting, and Shen Qingqiu had been no more nasty than usual. The true question was, out of the martial siblings wandering the world, which had managed to offend Shen Qinqiu so deeply while having not stepped foot into Cang Qiong in roughly ten years at this point? 

Truly, what an amusing situation, Qi Qingqi could barely keep herself from giggling like a young maiden at the possible reasons this whole situation played out. Her darling wife would suggest something along the lines of a romantic falling out, which Qi Qingqi would normally agree with, as her wife was always right, but it was Shen Qingqiu they were talking about. 

Honestly, the man wouldn’t know romance if it bit him in the ass. 

Shen Qingqiu heard the rumors and felt deep distaste for his gossiping martial siblings. They must be the ones to fuel this, the rumors wouldn’t have spiraled out of such control that they suggested he was hunting down a romantic partner that had scorned him. 

Truly, the imagination in his disciples was utilized in everything other than their studies. He’d be much more comfortable in sending his disciples out into the world if he didn’t have to read multiple poems about bamboo after every assignment. 

Other plants existed on Qing Jing, they had gardens, and they didn’t have to write about Qing Jing specifically. He could only read so many synonyms of the color green before he began to feel a deep frustration at the mere mention of poetry. 

However, there had been progress, of a kind. Sightings of his wayward shidi were documented in various areas along the border between the Human and Demon realms. Shen Qingqiu was reluctant to mark them as true sightings, at least the sightings given to him by his disciples. 

His network of spies, at the very least, gave more reliable sightings. He’s thrown out so many reports in the last year of a tall man with dark hair and some sort of pet. They fit the most basic description of his shidi but lacked any truly distinctive markers. 

It was infuriating. Shen Qingqiu knew that his shidi wasn’t hiding on purpose at least not anymore, his shidi probably wasn’t even aware he had forgotten about their meeting. A broken promise, Shen Qingqiu seethed. 

The only thing keeping Shen Qingqiu from actually ordering his spies to hunt his stupid, airheaded shidi down was that it would freak the man out, drive him into actually hiding himself. It had happened before, roughly around the time of the Qing’s ascension. The previous Ling You Peak Lord had ordered a manhunt of their youngest shidi. 

The forgetful man had hidden so deeply that the previous Peak Lords were half certain he’d died in some remote hidden realm. Of course, anytime Shen Qingqiu felt like vanishing for a while, he was always dragged back. 

If this continued for much longer, Shen Qingqiu might have to, with deep disgust, call in the brute to track down his shidi. Shen Qingqiu shuffled through the papers stacked neatly on top of his desk, however, other measures could be implemented before he had to rely on the brute. 

He paused, long fingers tapping on the paper he was holding as he hummed thoughtfully. This could do. Qi Qingqi certainly had contacts of her own, even the sniveling rodent of An Ding had his channels. A polite request for tea from his shimei was certainly unexpected, ah her wife must be coming along. 

Shen Qingqiu felt the corner of his lips twitch slightly, for a woman of such brutal background, Qi-shimei’s wife was such a stickler for formalities. 

Yue Qingyuan, despite the pains he went to keep an ear and eye on his Xiao Jiu, couldn’t keep track of everything the strategist did. So when Wei-shidi mumbled over his cup of tea about a manhunt, Yue Qingyuan felt a deep twist in his gut. 

He knew that Xiao Jiu had his reasons, but his Xiao Jiu had grown even more reticent since the ascension, but that had never stopped Yue Qingyuan. Wei-shidi had fled quickly, muttering about checking on a volatile sword, but the sect leader barely heard him, just nodding with a small polite smile. 

Blankly he stared at the wall for a moment, lost, before he called out. “Tan Liu?” Soft steps walked towards the office, “Yes, Shizun?” Tan Liu was the oldest of the Head Disciples and her command over her shidi and shimei made Yuq Qingyuan certain she knew about what was going on. 

“What is this about a manhunt?” He asked, his thumb rubbing along the teacup. Tan Liu hesitated for the barest moment before she straightened, “Shen-shishu issued a retrieval order for a martial sibling of the Qing generation. The general description has made its way to this disciple's ears, but not the name. I apologize.” 

Yue Qingyuan hummed for a moment, gently setting his teacup down on the low table. Tan Liu scuffed her feet gently on the wooden boards before speaking up again, “This one knows she should have reported this earlier to Shizun, however, this one felt she didn’t have enough information or evidence.” Yue Qingyuan glanced over at her with a small smile, “This master understands, the description?” 

Tan Liu relaxed slightly, before reciting the short description she had made sure to memorize. “A taller man of slight build, favors lighter colors such as white and pale blues and greens, wears a simple hairstyle, typically braided, dark green eyes, with a slightly crooked nose.” Tan Liu paused a moment before continuing, “Likely to be spotted with a creature of some sort, the creature will be tame, likely rare. Will take requests regardless of reward or how simple the request may be.” 

Yue Qingyuan closed his eyes as his Head Disciple’s voice tapered out. He knew exactly who his Xiao Jiu was hunting. The man was difficult to pin down, even harder to keep in one place, the only person who had succeeded before was the man’s own Shizun, who had defaulted to tracking talismans. 

“Good. Thank you, Tan Liu.” Yue Qingyuan didn’t look over at the woman as he waved his hand. They both had paperwork to return to, and she didn’t need to be standing around waiting for him to come to a decision. He heard her soft footfalls as she left the room, the door shutting behind her. 

Yue Qingyuan sat in silence for a long moment, a deep exhaustion beginning to form deep within his eyes, Xiao Jiu was certainly hunting someone. Their youngest shidi in fact, someone they hadn’t managed to track down before their ascension, his courtesy name still sealed within a final letter from the Previous Ling You Peak Lord. 

It had been ten years, perhaps the man had slipped out of hiding, his guard falling enough for them to herd him back to the sect. If Xiao Jiu didn’t bring this up at the Peak Lord Meeting next week, Yue Qingyuan would, if only to bring their shidi and shimei into the hunt. 

Shen Yuan, the missing Ling You Peak Lord, and the youngest shidi of the Qing generation. He was still out there, at the very least, Shen Qingqiu believed he was, which knowing the man, was probably as good of evidence as Yue Qingyuan would get. A soft sigh left his mouth before he stood, his paperwork was still waiting for him, and if he was going to be ascending another Peak Lord soon, he’d need his schedule as free as possible to plan a ceremony. 

part two

ao3

[too-much-tma-stuff]

Hail Black Sheep

“Mind if I bum a cigarette?” A voice asked behind Hood, startling him so bad he nearly fell off the edge of the roof where he was sitting, taking a little break from patrol. He had made sure there was no one up here and no way to get up here before taking off his helmet, and yet when he turned around there was another man on the roof. Dark hair and sunken blue eyes that reflected an odd unnatural green when the light hit them wrong.

Jason’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized the stranger. He had appeared in Gotham months ago and had immediately pinged the bat’s radar as a potential threat. There was something very wrong with the young man and none of them could figure out what it was, any attempts to find out more had gone nowhere because attempts to follow him never worked! More then that it seemed like any mention of him had been erased from the record, they knew he went by Danny and that was all. And here he was standing on an inaccessible roof right in front of Jason.

“Sure,” Jason said as casually as he could manage, shoulders tense and ready to fight if he needed to. He didn’t know why Danny had sought him out but this was the best chance to learn… well, anything about him that they’d had. He held his smoke between his lips as he shook another out of the pack and held it out to Danny.

The other man smiled, revealing canines that were a little to long and pointed to seem entirely human, not long enough to be vampiric though. He came over and sat down on the edge of the roof as well, out of arms reach but close enough he could reach out and take the smoke, Jason was glad he wasn’t any closer. Danny seemed to be making an effort not to seem threatening as he let Jason hand him a lighter as well, lighting up before passing it back.

“Thanks,” Danny said before taking a drag and exhaling slowly. “I hope you don’t mind I messed with your coms, they’ll work again just fine once I leave but I just wanted to talk in private.”

“What do you want?” Jason asked, tense beyond belief, his hand twitching towards his gun, Danny didn’t seem worried which made him all the more nervous.

“Just to talk. I know you and the Bats have been following me.” Danny said with a casual shrug, leaning back dangerously over the ledge.

“And yet we never manage to actually track you,” Jason said a little accusingly.

“No one sees me if I don’t want to be seen,” Danny told him flashing a cheeky grin. “I don’t exist~”

“Yet here you are,” Jason argued and Danny shrugged again.

“Here I am,” He agreed taking another drag, slow and deep, exhaling just the same to create a break in the conversation before he glanced over at Jason. “That looks like a nasty story,” He commented, touching his own cheek where Jason knew the scar of a J still sat on his own. He snarled wordlessly and Danny held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “I won’t ask, I have some nasty stories too,” He murmured rolling up his sleeve to show Jason Lichtenberg scarring shooting up along his arm.

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you, I guess. You and I have a lot in common really, and you don’t follow the laws when you don’t agree with them, that too,” He chuckled.

“You know that’s why we’ve been following you right? You’re suspicious as fuck,” Jason said accusingly.

“I know,” Danny said with a little sigh. “Have you found anything at all?” Jason scowled and looked down, not wanting to admit that they really hadn’t. Danny just nodded. “You could look up the GIW to find out, not about me, but about what happened to me. Who declared me dead and erased me from the world so they could smuggle me away into a lab and figure out how to use me. I won’t let any of the bats follow me because if you know where I am then others might be able to find out. And I can’t promise they won’t add me to the wanted database again and they’d take that at face value.

“Interdimensional terrorist sounds pretty damn bad huh? Nevermind that I was fucking born in this world and it was scientists they hired that made me this way.” Danny grumbled, looking up at the smog covered sky.

“What way?” Jason asked, because everything Danny had just said was concerning as fuck but that was what he wanted to follow up on.

“Don’t worry about it,” Danny chuckled. “I’m not going to cause any trouble. I was a hero for a couple years as a teenager, before it got so dangerous with people hunting me, and now I’m retired as fuck, the only person I can afford to protect anymore is myself. But I want you to know that too, I’ll defend myself if I have to. If any of you or the GIW come for me again I’m not going to go quietly and I can do a lot of damage when I have to.”

“You know making threats does not help me believe that you aren’t going to cause trouble,” Jason said bitterly and Danny at least had the decency to look sheepish.

“I know, I’m sorry. I genuinely don’t want to cause any trouble for you, us black-sheep should stick together right? I’ve noticed that about you, all the folks the other bats and birds tend to overlook, you look out for them. The whores and the addicts and the street-rats. I like that, I was hoping you might look out for me too, I’ve been mostly haunting your area recently anyway. I could look out for you too? No one sees me if I don’t want to be seen and I can get into anywhere. I’ll keep an eye on things, if I find anything that you should know I’ll come tell you.”

“You’re offering to spy on me as a bonus?” Jason asked incredulously and Danny winced.

“Not on you, for you,” He promised quickly. “I’ll stay out of your business and I really won’t be any trouble! I’ll just keep an ear out and tell you if I hear anything in the way of plotting or people breaking your rules. Like I said, I like how you run things here, I’d like to help.”

Jason was quiet as he thought about that, Danny shifting nervously on the wall next to him as Jason finished his smoke and put out the butt. “Alright, you can stay in my territory, the bats don’t come here often. But I want some sort of accountability from you, at least regular check ins, once a week here and a way to contact you.”

Danny hesitated, biting his lip for a moment before he nodded. “Alright, Saturday night at midnight? I won’t come if I see anyone else around. I don’t have a phone or anything.”

“I’ll get you a burner next Saturday but this is basically a trial period. I know that the crap cops and the other bats say about ‘if you have nothing to hide’ is bullshit, you’re allowed to want privacy especially if you’ve been targeted. But you’re still suspicious as fuck and you’d better be telling the truth about not making trouble on my turf.” Jason said pointing an accusing finger at Danny before putting his helmet back on.

Danny nodded eagerly, looking relieved, tired, and a bit sickly. It wasn’t hard to believe the guy had had a hard life, if that hadn’t made him violent he was a better man then Jason. “You got it! No problems here, cross my heart!” Danny assured, actually making the motion which made Jason chuckle a little.

“Alright, see you Saturday,” He said before pushing off the edge of the roof, using his grappling gun to swing to the next building. When he turned around to look back at the building he’d just left Danny was already gone.

“O are you there?” He asked, tapping at his com to see if it was working again.

“Ya I am, what happened there?” She asked through the voice modulator. “Did you turn off you coms?”

“No, you’re not going to believe this,” Jason chuckled, but he wasn’t going to tell Oracle everything Danny had shared, wanting to meet Danny halfway with trust. Just enough to get her looking into the GIW, maybe if they could get whatever that was off Danny’s back he’d be willing to come out of the shadows and stop acting so fucking shady!

[flowercrowngods]

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 (these make one big story, you won't understand this part without the others)

day 07: free space a happy ending

Wakefulness embraces him so slowly and gently that Steve’s not entirely sure he isn’t dreaming when he sees Eddie lying next to him, watching him with an easy smile as his fingers tap out a slow beat on his pillow. Steve looks at him, blinking away the remnants of sleep, not quite daring to do anything more than that for fear of it being a dream after all, scared that Eddie would disappear if Steve reached out to touch. 

But then Eddie’s smile widens. “Good morning, sunshine.” 

Steve gasps a little and moves his hand to Eddie’s cheek, tucking a few strands of hair behind his ear, his breath hitching when Eddie leans into the touch. 

“You’re here,” he whispers, his gaze wandering over Eddie’s features, taking it all in and looking for any indication that this is a dream. 

Eddie hums. “And you’re pretty.” 

It hits him out of nowhere, the open sincerity in Eddie’s voice, the fondness in his eyes, the honesty in everything about him. The love, open and free now — or getting there, at least. It’s still so raw, though, so new, that Steve doesn’t know how to handle it yet. 

“Shut up,” he huffs once he’s caught his breath, rolling over to hide his face and the way his cheeks are heating up. He rolls right into Eddie's chest, though, and he's so warm, so close, smells so good that Steve wants nothing more than to bury his face in his neck and stay there for the rest of the morning. Or maybe the rest of his life.

The reflex to pull away is there. The urge to run and hide, to laugh it off, to freeze up and find something else to do, something to occupy his hands and stop them from reaching for Eddie. Years and years of muscle memory telling Steve to leave. 

But Eddie's arms come around him, holding him close and pulling him even closer. And Steve breathes him in, remembering that it can be okay. Remembering that they get a chance now. 

Remembering the words. 

What are you doing? 

Changing the world. 

So he tries that, too. Changing the world. He tries by winding his arms around Eddie, too, and breathing in again and again, learning that Eddie won't disappear if he does. 

Slowly, he dares to move his arms, stroking along Eddie's back in slow, gentle patterns, lulling himself into a safety he hasn't felt in a while. Maybe ever. At some point Eddie begins to hum, and Steve thinks that it's just another one of his audible smiles, inviting Steve and the rest of the world to join in if they're so inclined. But then he detects a familiar melody in the vibrations of Eddie's neck against his skin, and he holds his breath to find out what it is. 

His heart jumps when he recognises the song as one he used to listen to on repeat like a lovesick fool around the time his feelings for Eddie turned into something more, something better, something infinitely worse. 

It skips and he forgets how to breathe as he lets his hands travel over Eddie's back, slowly and tentatively daring to slip underneath his shirt and touch his skin. 

Eddie begins to sing, then, and Steve wonders if he's even been in love with him before, because nothing of what he's ever felt compares to Eddie's gentle, hoarse, sleep-rough voice as he sings Somebody to Steve, to their little bubble, or to the world outside. 

"I want somebody to share, share the rest of my lifeShare my innermost thoughts, know my intimate details."

He closes his eyes as he listens, focusing on the vibrations, on the warmth, on the closeness, on how this moment is everything he's never even dared to want. Everything so perfect that he couldn't even dream it up. 

Everything. You're everything. 

He needs to be closer still, so be buries his nose in Eddie's neck and breathes him in, tangling their legs, filled with a breathless kind of joyful bliss when Eddie's breath hitches, too, and he stumbles over the words of the second verse as Steve tries to climb into his skin. 

"I want somebody who cares for me passionatelyWith every thought and with every breath."

You have me, Steve thinks, pressing his lips to Eddie's pulse point. It's not a kiss, not quite. It's something deeper. It's a promise. 

Eddie's hands come up to hold him there even as his voice carries through the drumbeat of Steve's heart in his throat, running fingers through his hair, lightly scratching at his scalp, making him purr along to the melody. 

"But when I'm asleep I want somebodyWho will put their arms around me and kiss me tenderlyThough things like this make me sickIn a case like this, I'll get away with it."

When the song ends, Eddie's words faded out, replaced once again by the gentlest silence, Steve feels raw. Vulnerable. Open and exposed. But he also feels safe, and loved, buried in Eddie's skin and held there, as though Eddie is just as scared of fading away as Steve is. 

He lifts his head just slightly, enough to meet Eddie's eyes – only to find that they're closed, an expression so serene like Steve has never seen before. Mesmerised and overflowing with affection, he reaches out to trace the line of his brows, down to his cheeks and all the way to his lips, where his eyes are glued for a second. 

The thought of kissing Eddie is right there. The opportunity is, too. But he doesn't. He barely dares to move as it is. But he does roll them over the rest of the way until he lies comfortably on top of Eddie, and tucks his head underneath his chin, finding one of his hands and lacing their fingers. 

"You've got him," he breathes eventually. "That somebody. If you—“ 

"Yes," Eddie says, his other hand finding its way to the nape of Steve's neck to play with his hair again. "I want."

"Good." It's lame; far from what he wants to say. From what he has already said last night. It feels like they're doing this backwards, starting with the I love you and catching up with the slow build-up afterwards. "Good. Me, too." 

"Good," Eddie hums, and there's that smile again that Steve can't help but mirror. 

They fall asleep again like that even though it’s already late in the morning; cuddling and holding and cradling each other, still trembling slightly. Maybe that's what changing the world will do to you. Maybe that's the bravery more than the love. 

Or maybe it's just Steve and Eddie. Steve and Eddie. SteveandEddie. 

I love you. 

~*~

It takes a bit for Steve to relearn loving Eddie. To not associate it with tragedy and sadness and a bone-deep loneliness that'll leave him breathless even on the best of days. 

It takes a while for Steve to learn a whole new kind of breathlessness, a whole new kind of aching when it comes to Eddie. 

And Eddie's not much better than Steve, pulling away when Steve wants him closer, swallowing his words and needing a second, third, fourth try until he learns that he gets to love Steve now. 

Years of unrequited love, or feelings unreturned, of words put out into the universe with no one to receive them, are not easily or quickly unwritten. But every time Steve's breath gets lodged in his throat and he wants to run away, Eddie is right there to remind him of what they can have now. Every time Steve tries to be a little less of who he really is, Eddie is right there to coax him out of his head with gentle touch and a lot of hugs. 

Every time Eddie starts to doubt himself and all the ways he makes Steve the happiest person on the planet, Steve is right there with the words he only has for Eddie. Words that don't get stuck anymore. Words that finally get a recipient. 

~*~

Their first kiss, the first real kiss, doesn't happen that first morning. They spend the first week only holding each other, barely wanting to let go, hiding their vulnerabilities within each other. 

Steve is worried about it at first, seeing Eddie so quiet, so reverent, lacking his usual cheer, his energy and snarky comments. He asks about it one night, ready to prove right that he isn't and can never be enough for him, that all he will do is steal the things that make him Eddie. 

Eddie stops then, lifting Steve's chin with a finger when he's too scared, too ashamed, too vulnerable to meet his eyes on his own accord. 

"Stevie," Eddie says, his voice so gentle that Steve immediately feels stupid for doubting. "I have loved you for ten years. I've had you for three days. Let me bask in it. Let me be unable to be myself with how absolutely and utterly overcome I am with the knowledge that I have you now. That I get to hold you. That I get to kiss you and keep you and... God. I'm not unhappy. I'm so much the opposite of that that I'm not sure there's a word for it. Other than devoted. Smitten. Bewitched, body and soul."

Steve wants to kiss him then. Almost does, with the way they're just staring at each other, breathing the same air —air that smells like Eddie now. In the end, Eddie just holds him, brushing a kiss to his cheek, his forehead, his temple, and whispers, "Let me bask in it." 

And so they do. 

Wayne called Eddie not long after with the words, "Chrissy just told me the wedding's off. Please tell me that means what I think it means." 

Eddie just blushed, reaching for Steve, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. "Yeah, I, uh. I finally talked to Steve."

There was a very loud cheer on the other end that made Steve laugh, falling into Eddie's side, holding him tight, a weight falling off his shoulders knowing that Wayne was okay with them. 

You know, I always figured it would be you. 

No matter what happens, you'll always be a son to me.

It made his eyes sting again, but he basked in the moment and in the knowledge that Wayne was on their side. Always has been, always will be. 

"You better come here on Sunday, and bring Robin and Chrissy, too." 

"Robs and Chrissy?" Eddie asked. 

"Oh, you're in for a treat. I'll see your asses on Sunday, boys." 

And with that, he hung up. Steve immediately went to call Robin, hopeful and giddy with Wayne's implication, knowing that Chrissy was Robin's person just like Eddie was his. 

"She loves me," Robin said, on the verge of tears, and Steve joined here right then and there. "She's– Steve. She's so– She... God!" 

"Yeah," Steve laughed at the ceiling above his bed, grinning because Robin sounded so happy, not even caring that she didn't have the right words for it, because he could hear Chrissy laughing in the background, too. Laughing and saying hi to him and interrupting Robin's ramblings and groans and giggles with kisses that always left her dumbstruck for a good two seconds each time. 

When the call ended, he went right back to the living room, where he and Eddie started watching Pride and Prejudice before, and fell right on top of him with a happy, happy smile. 

~*~

It happens at Wayne's, exactly one week after Eddie showed up at Steve's in the middle of the night. One week after the phone call. One week after I love you. 

It happens in the soft glow of the fairy lights Steve and Eddie helped him put up years ago. I happens after Wayne hugged him tight once more, after he pulled Chrissy to the side and promised her that she's still his kid, that he still loves her, and that he's happy to see her smile like that. After he promised the same to Robin.

It happens when Wayne's inside to refill their drinks and Chrissy and Robin are caught up in each other that they're blind and deaf to the rest of the world. When Steve turns to find Eddie looking at him with the softest, gentlest expression. 

"Eddie," he whispers, leaning in to rest their heads together, lacing their fingers and stroking his thumb along Eddie's palm.

"Yeah, baby?" 

Baby. It fills him with butterflies, with the urge to scream, to shout from all the rooftops that he loves Eddie, and more importantly, that Eddie loves him back! Baby. Baby.

"I love you." 

"Hmm. I love you more." 

No, you don't. Just longer. "Can I kiss you?" 

He can feel Eddie's little gasp before he leans in even closer, rubbing their noses together, cradling Steve's face with his free hand. "Please," he whispers. 

And Steve does. He captures Eddie's lips, pouring into it everything he feels and more. Sealing the promises he's made and all the ones he's yet to make. The promises to love and cherish Eddie. To be brave. To be there. To stay and keep and bask. 

It's nothing like their first kiss all those years ago. There is no question behind it this time. Only declarations, only promises, only the beginning of a shared future. 

And there are many, many more after this one.

🌷🤍🌷 THE END 🌷🤍🌷

tagging: @sexymothmanincarnate @mcneen @livsters @eddiemunchondeeznuts @abstractnaturaldisaster @steddie-as-they-go @hyperfixationgoddess @goodolefashionedloverboi @stxrcrossed186 @eddiemunsonswife @bidisastersworld @ghost-ly-s @romanticdestruction @walkingaftermidnight07 @anaibis @rainydays35 @mightbeasleep @sunfloweringstories @korixae @tuesdaycats @totoroinatardis @ilovebookshowboutyou @musical-theatre-gay @theluckyalien @copingmechanizm @srra @changelingbaby @sassygoop @obsessivelyme @r0binscript @hardboiledleggs @estrellami-1 @bisexualdisastersworld @space-invading-pigeon @swimmingbirdrunningrock @y0urnewstepp4r3nt @oxidantdreamboat @spilled-jar @phirex22 @littlemsterious @captaingigglyguinea @animecookie95 @sharingisntkaren @haluton @littlemsterious @animecookie95 @suddenlyinlove @bisexual-bilingual-biped @jinx-nanami @makewavesandwar @scheodingers-muppet @morcantinon @hexdbog @homosexualhomocide13

god i can't believe it's over. i thank you, every one of you, who cheered for me, cried with me, screamed and yelled at me, and stayed with me throughout this past week. i have no words right now other than thank you 🤍🌷 and i hope this is okay

[cowchickenbeefpork]

"“Just spit it out Edward, it can’t be weirder than anything you’ve said before.” He rolled his eyes at Edward, who quickly began to smile in glee again as he raised their intertwined hands next to both of their shoulders. The elbows of their suits brushed one another slightly from the action.

Oswald felt his expression…soften after Edward had done that. Any ounce of spite in his confusion toward Edward that came from this conversation was replaced with something else, something like hope. A hope that it could lead there, despite what Edward had said about it before."

hey uhm,mmmmm😇😇😇😇😇😇😇😇😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁 drew a scene I wrote in the fanfic I made….. you should totally click on the link to it below here….. please please please pleas( you don’t have to the desperation in this is a joke, I would really appreciate it tho)

[varpusvaras]

Still thinking about this morning's little thought...about the post order 66 au...and how Fox has to learn how to walk again. And how Leia is also learning how to walk. So they're doing it together. Taking little steps. And later when they both can stay on their feet Leia will hold onto Fox's hand and they will walk on their own speed. And she is so, so supportive of her Buir and always cheering on him and they bond over their little walks.

[mithrilhearts]

.

[johnslittlespoon]

ch1 of the leaving!bikeriders au done. fuck

[th3archivisst]

Hob had been very annoyed with the downfall of modern sweets. The chocolate no longer had as much taste, it was just sugar. And all the best candies had been out of production for years. He mostly missed Cadbury’s Aztec bar, but that had been gone since the 70s.

He had been planning on complaining about that to his stranger during their meetup in 1989, but well. That didn’t happen.

So, he’d just gone on with daily life, no longer going out to the store everyday to get his favorite sugar bombs. The only thing that was still good was the ice cream, and every once in a while a cake or cookie. He mostly just stuck with savory foods though.

And then, his dear stranger had returned. And not only had he returned, but he had told Hob his name.

Dream.

It was so fitting that Hob had laughed when he heard it first. And then, later that night, he had murmured it over and over again, cheeks hurting from the smile he hadn’t been able to get rid of since his friend came back.

He hadn’t had the chance to tell Dream everything he’d wanted to that day, but to his surprise and delight, Dream had showed up not a week later right outside his classroom door. He’d almost given the student who opened it a heart attack.

They had walked through the park together, talking amiably. Or, Hob had talked, and Dream had listened attentively, smiling from time to time and adding a thing or two here and there.

It was during this friendly conversation that Hob had remembered how awful modern day sweets were. They had just been passing a shop, and a pair of kids had walked out of it, one holding a chocolate bar and breaking a piece off for their friend.

Hob had looked at them for a second, then remembered.

“Oh yeah, and did you know just how bad all the sweet stuff has gotten?”

He’d gone on like this for around a minute before-

“I really miss Aztec though. That was some really good stuff. Too bad they discontinued it in the 70s, dammit.”

Dream had looked up at him then, brow furrowed and eyes twinkling. He’d left shortly afterwards, to Hob’s immense disappointment. Though he had promised to come back before next century.

For two weeks after that, everything was quiet. No sign of Dream, just regular old brilliant life. Although it would be a fair lot more brilliant with a certain gorgeous pale goth in it.

Now, Hob sat by the window in the New Inn, checking the assignments his students had handed back to him earlier that week. It was around 9pm, only just getting dark. (Thank god for summer, shortens the electricity bill)

Suddenly, a cat meowed just outside the window. Hob jumped a bit, then looked over.

It was beautiful black tom, with silky fur and eyes like the cosmos. Those eyes were very familiar…

With a grin and a sneaking suspicion, Hob got up and moved to the door to let the thing in. It meowed up at him and rubbed against his legs as it entered.

He went back to his spot and sat back down. The cat hopped up on the chair opposite him. For a while, Hob just continued checking the essays, not paying the cat any mind. If his suspicion was correct, that was the best way to prove it, he though.

And he thought correctly.

Twenty minutes in, a slight breeze flowed through the inn.

Another minute later, a quiet cough sounded across from Hob.

Hob grinned and liften his gaze to meet Dream’s.

“Dream! How lovely to see you.”

He teased his friend, amused at how his brow creased with slight annoyance. He knew Dream wouldn’t run off from some casual banter, so he could afford this little thing every now and then.

“What brings you here, my friend?”

Dream blinked silently. Then, he reached into a coat pocket and pulled something out.

“Close your eyes, Hob.”

Hob did.

“Give me your hand.”

And Hob did. He was confused, but interested and eager at the prospect of touching this ethereal creature.

He realized he had never done so before.

Dream’s skin was softer than any silk Hob had ever known, though it emanated no warmth.

Maybe Hob could rub some into it some day.

Hopefully that day would come soon.

A small, plastic package settled in his hand, and cold fingers closed his own around it.

When Hob opened his eyes, he was alone at the table again, holding a candy bar. He blinked a few times, perturbed.

Then, he looked down at the bar and his breath hitched.

It was an Aztec.

It was a damn Aztec.

A laugh escaped him, incredulous and delighted. He pocketed the sweet, determined to get Dream to try it with him later.

And also maybe kiss him senseless as thanks.

This post was inspired by @gabessquishytum’s post, which you can find here

[truly-morgan]

It's been 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 of them fighting, a perfectly rehearsed dance on a tightrope, close to tipping over the edge at times yet always managing to come back to perfect equilibrium.

It's a routine. It's something familiar. It's nearly boring how it always happens the same. Arguing the same thing over and over, like a broken record.

The other one simply becomes a part of your life. There's a thrill to the fight, one that cannot be found from fighting anyone else. Not the latest villain of the month. Not the new upcoming Hero. Those are nothing compared to what they have.

But then one day they can't bring back the perfect equilibrium.

But then one day even the broken record won't play anymore.

It had started like every other fight.

It ended like none other before.

All Hero can do is stare back at the Villain, a strange feeling of dread spreads through them. This is what they had been fighting for so long, yet none of this feels right.

They can't even move to get closer, body too sore from the final attack, too stun to even be able to try properly.

Their heart sinks when they hear a soft chuckle, something they never heard before. Something they feel they would never have wanted to hear.

"Come on…" the Villain says, voice raspier than ever, breath wheezing unevenly, "You knew this would happen eventually".

And the smile. The painful smile, unlike anything ever seen on Villain's face, they wish he was smirking in an evil way instead. Not something so weak, so fragile and so 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵.

Before they know it their vision blurs, tears spilling over.

"Now now, don't cry," a chuckle, quickly followed by wet coughing and blood, "The hero shouldn't be crying for the villain of the story". Yet the tears can't stop, not when some are also welling in the Villain's eyes.

The silence is deafening.

And before Hero can even say anything, he sees the light dim, glossy eyes growing lifeless.

When they finally managed to scream their name, it's too late, there was no one to answer anymore.

It's too late.

They keep screaming, weak body crawling to the motionless one.

The next thing they know, they wake up to worried faces, who grow relieved quickly. Wake up to congratulations and thank yous.

Wake up to a deep void inside their chest.

And the void doesn't go away.

Not even after recovering. Not even after attending, hidden afar, a small clandestine funeral held by a loyal right-hand man. Not even after going back to the crime-fighting life.

All that is left is a lone funambulist.

All that is left is a broken record without a turntable to play it.

And it is now too late to regret. Too late to realise something that had been hidden deep inside for so long.

------------------------

Twt original Inspired by this tweet (picture under the cut) ↴↴↴

[marsafter-dark]

More Bloodweave being freaks for each other because these past few weeks have been rough (ft. everyone’s favorite freak, Ascended Astarion 🔞)

[puppetmaster13u]

You may regret this @phoenixcatch7 lol, what if I start spamming you /j

Less cryptid Batman in this particular WIP since it's semi-outsider pov lol (one of two outside person not unnerved by them lol)

🦇👻🪆🦇👻🪆🦇👻🪆🦇👻🪆🦇👻🪆🦇👻🪆🦇👻🪆🦇

   Clark knew Batman wasn’t human, even before that disaster of a mission where he had let it slip to the others. 

   He’d known for a long time, from one of their early meetups, when Batman had first referred to him as Clark Kent instead of Kal-El, and he had panicked. He hadn’t ever lied to his teammates when he said that the cloak prevented him from seeing his body, but his ears still worked. 

   He’d tried to listen to a heartbeat, to see if his at the time temporary ally was lying when he stated he wasn’t going to tell anyone and… Nothing. There was no heartbeat, no breathing, nothing even remotely human, and if he didn’t know any better, nothing even remotely alive about the silence. 

   He couldn’t help but to pay attention more, to seek out the strange almost silence-feeling that accompanied the Gotham vigilante each time he felt it. It was… almost comforting, like the swaying of branches and the rustling of cloth over stone. Familiar, compared to the hustle and bustle surrounding him in the city. 

   The first thing he had noticed, physically that is, was Batman’s ears. Previously he’d thought the man unemotional, what with the rough voice, expressionless white eyes, cloak-covered body and the gas mask covering a good chunk of his face. 

   Yet the longer he watched, even idly, the more he noticed that while the man’s face or body didn’t show much, his ears did. 

   While Batman could stay silent and still for hours, the long ears twitched and swiveled, catching on the hood that he’d always wear around them. They’d pin back sometimes, a near silent sound he couldn’t quite place accompanying the movement, while other times they’d twist a near full three-sixty, as though searching for whatever sound it had caught. 

   Sometimes, when he’d startled the other vigilante, there’d be rattling noise, like wood and metal clacking together before it was cut off. It was a strange sound, one he’d not heard anywhere else, except with his… friend. 

   Were they friends? He’d like to think so. 

   The next time he was reminded that his friend wasn’t human was when he saw him get injured. It hadn’t been a bad injury, even if the Gothamite’s head had hit the wall with a very loud cracking noise, but he’d still smelled what he’d eventually come to recognize as blood. There was an almost pickle-like scent to it though that wasn’t quite it either. 

   Honestly the closest he could think of describing it was some sort of formaldehyde. And once he focused, he could pick out other things beneath it. Maybe not flesh and blood in the traditional sense, but still. 

   There was always that scent of cloth and wood, but he could smell the black liquid, paint, a metallic thing underneath like iron and steel. No heartbeat, no breath, but life all the same. It was honestly beautiful in a way, like a part of the city the other vigilante called home had come to life. 

   And it wasn’t like Batman minded whenever his own human mask slipped. Clark may have been raised by his Ma and Pa, whom he loved, but it didn’t make his body any more human in nature. There were just some things that he couldn’t change, and it took effort to move like one all day as a civilian when his body wasn’t designed to do so.

   So he stayed quiet for the most part when their group of three grew, and people started to speculate. He diverted the conversations whenever it turned to him, lightly admonishing over the various rumors. 

   It didn’t matter if Batman wasn’t human, he was still his friend, their ally and teammate. Was he curious? Oh of course, he’d gone into journalism for a reason after all, but it was still his friend. If he wanted to tell, he’d tell, and Clark wouldn’t break his trust.