#informal ficlet

[rainbow-nerdss]

Buck goes over to Tommy's place late one morning, coffees in hand. They agreed to go out today, maybe go for a walk in a nearby park or something, no solid plans for the day other than spending it together.

When Buck gets there, though, he feels something is wrong. The curtains are closed, for one thing. And when Buck knocks, he doesn't hear any immediate movement towards the door. Usually, Tommy opens the door before Buck even makes it up the drive.

But today, Buck knocks, and he waits.

Had Tommy gotten held late at work? Buck knows he had a shift that was supposed to end a few hours before, but maybe he got stuck with overtime and didn't have a chance to call or text. But his car is there, in the same place it always is, and there hasn't been anything on the news about any major disasters.

Buck knocks again and considers calling or texting when he finally hears shuffling on the other side of the door, then the jingle of keys before the door opens.

Tommy is... A mess, honestly.

His hair is sticking up in every direction, old sweatpants with a hole at the knee, and a worn out old hoodie which Tommy shoves his hands back into the pockets of when he sees Buck.

"Hey, Evan." He swallows, voice think with some heavy emotion. "I'm so sorry, I... I forgot we had plans today, I—" he's hunched into himself, and he looks smaller than Buck's ever seen him.

"Tommy," Buck reaches for him with the hand that isn't holding the coffee cups. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Tommy shrugs, hesitating before stepping aside to let Buck in. "Rough shift," he says after an extended silence. "Everyone... The team all made it out, but... We lost someone. I lost someone."

Buck sets the coffee cups down on the entrance table and pulls Tommy into a hug, tucking his head into his shoulder and holding him tight. Slowly, Tommy's hands raise enough to wrap around Buck's waist.

"I don't think I'm gonna be much company today," Tommy sniffs after a while. Buck can feel a wet patch on his shoulder, but doesn't mention it.

The fact that Tommy trusts him enough to be this vulnerable with feels like something sacred, something he's been searching desperately for. Up to now, Tommy has been the one adjusting to make space for what Buck needs, but it's time for Buck to step up, to be there for Tommy.

"I get it, but I'm here." Buck kisses Tommy's cheekbone, just below his eye and he tastes the salty tang of tears there. "If you'd rather be alone, I-I get it. I can go home, and we can reschedule this. But, Tommy, I don't care if all we do is sit on your couch in the dark, okay? Whatever you need, I'm here."

Tommy holds Buck tighter for a moment.

"Evan," he says, in the same way he always says it. Like it's a something precious and delicate and wonderful. Buck's not sure where it came from, but he adores it.

"What do you usually do after a bad shift?' Buck asks.

Tommy sniffs, and it takes a while to answer. "Usually..." He clears his throat. "Usually I curl up in bed or on the couch and watch a rom-com. I know, it's a little—"

"Don't you dare say it's embarrassing," Buck warns, cupping Tommy's jaw and running his thumb over the stubble there. "Go make yourself comfortable, drink your coffee, pick a movie. I'll make us some snacks and join you in a minute, okay?"

Half an hour later, Buck settles on the couch—the coffee table full of popcorn, chopped vegetables and dips to snack on.

Buck reclines against the arm, and pulls Tommy on top of him, head on his chest. It's a tight fit, but from the way Tommy settles into him, Buck knows it's what he needs.

Tommy hits play, and Buck smiles at the opening monologue. "Love Actually?" He asks.

Tommy makes a sound, a soft sort of hum. "It's... kind of my favourite," he admits.

Buck smiles and kisses the top of Tommy's head, then replaces his lips with his fingers, running them over Tommy's scalp.

"That's really cute."

Tommy nestles in closer to Buck's chest, and neither of them say anything else for a while.

"Thanks," Tommy says, when they're about halfway through the movie. "For staying."

Buck kisses his head again, and Tommy lifts himself up a little so he can turn and kiss Buck on the lips, instead before settling back against his chest.

"Thank you, for letting me stay. For letting me look after you."

The words are on the tip of his tongue as he looks down and watches Tommy turn his attention back to the movie, watches him mouth along to a handful of lines.

I love him, he thinks. He doesn't say it out loud, not yet, but the realisation is soft, and warming, and perfect. And he will say it, soon. When the time is right. And he hopes Tommy will say it back.

For now though, Tommy is like a weighted blanket on his chest, comforting and warm, and Buck's content to just stay here for as long as he can.

They'll put on another movie, finish the snacks, maybe order takeout for dinner later, and Tommy will smile again, will laugh again, will kiss Buck the same way he says his name.

[gregorovitch-adler]

Snowed In

I write this piece of document as 221 Baker Street gets covered in a blanket of snow, as the last month of the year dies.

Holmes and I are both comfortably seated in our armchairs beside the fireplace with thick, warm blankets draped around us.

Writing this document like this is somewhat challenging, to be honest. I carry on with it anyway.

A lit cigar rests between the long and thin lips of my companion.

Holmes' eyes are closed, and all the fine lines on his face have momentarily smoothed out. He looks as though he just left all the problems and worry in the world outside of this room - or even outside of this flat - before stepping in.

A rare sight indeed.

Somehow, all of his carefree energy and attitude - no matter how temporary it is - transfers into me.

I sit back in my chair and let all the heat of the flames coming from the fireplace thoroughly warm me up. A smile slowly spreads across my face of its own accord.

I decide to set aside my piece of paper and try to live in the moment, promising myself to continue with this unfinished document later.

I close my eyes.

Deep down, I do not wish this particular evening to ever come to an end.

***

Prompt: Snowed In by @fluff-cember

Tags: @lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @jamielovesjam @gaylilsherlock @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear @calaisreno @nowiamcoveredinyou

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

When Harry talks to the townsfolk, he makes awkward jokes about the bones that keep appearing in the graveyard. Jokes about the burgeoning skeleton war that are a real hit with certain groups, about how they’re practising their backstroke, about underground No Vacancy signs. The locals have accepted the spontaneous emergence of bones as a fact of life; visitors are either fascinated or find it unpleasant. In all honesty, it’s the reason why Harry took up the job as the cemetery groundskeeper. And the town was more than happy to have someone maintain the tiny cemetery for the pittance they could pay Harry, in addition to allowing him to live in the former rectory.

It’s probably a biohazard – it definitely was at one point, that’s why they stopped burying people there. The small plot of land teems with remains (overcrowding – not just for the living). With some assistance from the busy nearby road, errant bones work their way up and out of the ground.

At least, that’s the explanation Harry gives.

The truth is this: the skeletons seek him out.

He plants grasses and shrubs with thick, sprawling root systems in an effort to hold the soil together and prevent the bones from surfacing. It helps, if only a little. It stops the less determined bones – the ones that really are escaping due to something about the fluid dynamics of soil and lorry vibrations. The ones that are so old that they’ve forgotten every bit of themselves and their desire to be close to Death.

(Harry feels he’s a paltry substitute; the skeletons clearly disagree.)

So there are parts of the yard that Harry has to avoid, lest he find himself suddenly in the ground up to his hips. It’s a constant task, filling the tunnels the skeletons leave, and occasionally it’s just easier to cordon off an area and let them gather there before magicking their bones back underground. It settles the skeletons – at least for a little while – to be in contact with Harry’s magic.

It’s an odd life, but it’s his, and he wouldn't trade it.

(Harry ignores the fact that he feels much more comfortable around the dead than the living these days.)

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

The box at the back of his closet rattles more and more frequently as the months and years pass. He tries to ignore it, but then again, he keeps those bones close for a reason.

One day, in a fit of nostalgia, he pulls the box out of the closet and sets it on his bed in front of him. And stares at it.

The box doesn’t move now.

Harry inhales deeply, exhales in a gust, and opens the box.

It’s a complete skeleton, well-preserved and undamaged. Harry stole the body before it could be examined or interred, not trusting anyone else with it. It belongs to Harry, if it’s anyone’s.

(The man had tied them so tightly together in life, it’s only fair he stays with Harry in death.)

He moves the box to the side of the bed he doesn’t use and lays down, facing it. After a brief moment of debate, he pulls out the skull. Without the flesh, there’s nothing that really separates this skull from any other skull. The arm and leg bones are long, indicative of a tall stature in life, but not inhumanly so. And yet, Harry is almost certain he could pick these bones out of a heap.

He holds the skull to his chest, curling up around it. This is the most he’ll ever have, now.

Harry falls into a deep sleep, the weariness that dogs him constantly abating for once.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

He didn’t close the box last night.

Harry wakes with the skull still tucked against his chest, close to his heart. That’s unchanged. However, the bones that make up the fingers, hand, wrist, and left forearm are now resting across Harry’s face and neck, index finger lying along his scar.

He lets out a shuddering breath, remaining as still as possible so as not to disturb them. He’d never been sure how much of Voldemort remained with the bones – whether the box’s occasional shaking was simply another skeleton trying to reach Harry, or the result of the man’s hatred persisting even after death. 

The phalanges of the finger touching his scar move subtly, almost as if they’re stroking the skin that will forever bear the man's mark. Harry’s throat feels tight and his eyes begin to burn.

He supposes he has his answer. Something remains of Voldemort, but it isn’t hatred.

(the inspiration)

[unclewaynemunson]

prompt idea! :D

steve being a poet and eddie being a songwriter. they both reference each other in their works and no one has put it together yet.

( also hi you're awesome )

Oooh anon I love this, this is such an intriguing concept bc the possibilities are ENDLESS with this one! I hope you like the direction I ended up taking it in :) (and thank you so much for dropping this in my ask box! <3 )

EDIT: I wrote an expanded version for this one and it's also on ao3 :D

---

Jeff was the one who introduced Eddie to Ronan Right. His mom was moving and when Eddie visited to help, he found his friend with his nose buried in a small book that was nearly falling apart in his hands.

“What's that?” Eddie asked, flopping down next to Jeff among the boxes.

“My mom's favorite poet,” Jeff mumbled, barely glancing up from the page.

And as soon as Eddie got a chance to pick up the book from where Jeff had left it, he was hooked. He was no help at all for Jeff's poor mom, completely engrossed in poem after poem, reading them again and again and again.

Eddie liked reading poetry to get some inspiration for his songwriting, but a lot of poetry had this atmosphere of pretentiousness around it. This didn't. It was surprisingly simple. To the point, with a rawness to it, mostly short poems that had a simplicity with which they managed to cut right to the heart of things.

Ever since that day, Ronan Right became Eddie's biggest source of inspiration. He'd never start working on new songs before reading one of Right's poems first. And whenever he got stuck on his lyrics, he'd pick up one of Right's books – and every time, without fail, he'd find something in there to help him find the right words.

---

When people would ask Steve what inspired him, his answer was always the same, always simple: music. Most people probably assumed that by that, a poet would mean classical music or maybe jazz of some kind. They were wrong: Steve Harrington, professionally known as Ronan Right, liked to blast the most screamy metal imaginable whenever he was writing – much to the discontent of his poor neighbors. He didn't care much for lyrics, it was all about the sound for him: about volume, about harmonies, about a combination of ingredients that somehow managed to flip a switch inside of his brain that unlocked the more creative ways to look at words.

His favorite band was called Corroded Coffin. Something about them stood out in the long list of metal bands he loved to listen to. It was something about the sound of the singer's voice, about the guitar riffs, that simply made sense to him, made the words that he was looking for bubble up to the surface naturally.

He got halfway through the first song on Corroded Coffin's newly released album, when he froze at his desk. He didn't care much for lyrics, but those words... There was something familiar about them.

He replayed the song from the beginning and started frantically flipping through the pages of one of his earliest poetry bundles... Yeah, there definitely was something familiar about those lyrics.

They weren't copied, exactly. It could just be a coincidence.

But the album kept playing on and Steve kept getting distracted by the lyrics because there was so much familiarity in them. It wasn't like the singer was stealing from him, it wasn't even like he was taunting his copyright or anything like that... It was like he was building on Steve's words. Like Steve had laid a foundation that had sparked Corroded Coffin to make something beautiful. Like the two of them shared a mind, a soul, an inspiration.

And Steve wrote the best poem he had ever written, in one go, that day.

---

More bundles followed. More albums were released. And they kept interlocking with each other, one causing the other to do something new, try something different, figure something out.

Ronan Right was still an obscure poet, well-respected but not mainstream enough for bigger successes. Corroded Coffin was still an obscure metal band, praised by the connoisseur but too experimental to ever get anywhere bigger than the verge of the metal scene. The only one who noticed the textual similarities between the two, was Jeff's mother. She'd smile her knowing smile and chuckle quietly, delighting in her own private understanding.

---

A new book was about to get published. Steve had to drive down to Chicago to meet with his publicist and talk some things through, but his car was in the shop so he got on a train instead. The meeting went well, Don't try to be a hero officially got the green light, and feeling content, Steve pulled out the latest Corroded Coffin cd to put in his walkman as soon as he got on the train back home.

“Hey,” the guy opposite him said with a smile and a nod towards Steve's walkman, just before Steve could put on his headphones. “Corroded Coffin, nice.”

“You know them?” Steve asked, taken by surprise, a matching smile creeping onto his own face.

“Yeah.” The guy chuckled. “Yeah, I know them.”

Sunlight fell through the window and shone on the big rings around the guy's fingers, catching Steve's eye – and pulling his gaze towards the tiny book he was holding in his hands.

“Hey,” he said, “Ronan Right, nice.”

The guy stared at him for a few seconds, something like disbelief in his big brown eyes. “You know him?!”

Steve felt laughter bubble up in his chest. “Yeah, I know him.”

[ahllohehn]

gem gem gem gem gem gem gem

maybe how she became the oracle in the first place?

definitely not gonna use this as a base for smth no siree

Gem swallowed nervously, keeping her gaze on the small table that separated her from the two older teens across from her.

She doesn't know how she got in this situation, or maybe she did but she found the reasoning too insane to actually believe it.

All she remembered was accidentally almost causing the death of her senior after attempting to backseat how he should fight a chimera who broke in during their school basketball event. Honestly, if she were in the right mind that time, she would've known to keep quiet and run away along with the other kids. But, unfortunately, she wasn't. She couldn't help but hype up the person fighting off the chimera, only for her hype to backfire as the next thing she knew her senior was too distracted by her shouting that he got flung across the gym. She was too high on excitement when she first saw how one of the students stayed and directly confronted the monster who Gem would've otherwise assumed she was hallucinating about again.

But alas, excitement gets her nowhere. Or, actually, excitement gets her a free meal to one of her favorite cafes with the downside of being inspected closely by her very much alive schoolmate and his concerningly curious hawaiian shirt wearing companion.

Gem was picking at her pasta for the 10th time before Xisuma finally spoke up.

"You saw the chimera," he started.

The ginger haired girl nodded, "I also saw you get absolutely destroyed by it."

Silence, and then followed by badly hidden snickering from... Keralis, was it?

The snickering helped to ease Gem's nerves a bit before the nervousness returned after glancing at Xisuma's unmoving figure. Even under the mask she swears he never wore to school, she could tell he didn't take this situation as lightly as the other did.

"That... Yes, you did," the masked teen sighed.

She hunched over herself and tried not to overthink his sighs and his stiff body language, but she must've made for quite a pitiful figure if Xisuma had to will himself to transform into a friendlier appearance to make her talk.

Gem's eyes sparkled as she came face to face with a brown furred bunny rabbit with purple eyes.

"Do you feel more at ease if I talk like this?"

"Yes," the answer was immediate.

Shamelessly, Gem's hand went to gently pinch at Xisuma's furry ball form as he nonchalantly continued to converse, ignoring the way he was getting petted and cooed at by both of his companions as he seriously oriented Gem on why they gathered in the first place.

"It is not always that mortals can see what we can--" Pinch.

"The oracle is on her last legs and we--" Pet.

"--think that you seem gifted enough to take on the job on her behalf--" Stretching both of his cheeks.

"Apollo had informed us that he--" A giggle and another pinch to his furry form.

"-- had prepared you long before you knew of him and your own abilities--" A poke to his floppy ear.

"He told us to send a message--" A pause.

"Little sunseed, the future is now--" Xisuma was once again cut off as Gem excitedly patted his head like a button.

"....Gem,"

"You're too cute!"

"..."

Keralis finally couldn't help but cackle.

[cluelessbees]

A concept okay—

Mike and Will are sitting together. Maybe they’re in the upside down hiding in a house, maybe it’s the middle of the night and they’re the only ones awake – but they’re talking and opening up about some stuff from the past. 

And Will goes,

“Do you remember our eighth grade Snow Ball?” 

“Hm?” 

“Y’know…the Snow Ball after El closed the gate?” 

“Oh yeah, right –” Mike pauses, a sense of discomfort grewing in his chest at the recollection of the day. He takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself. “I remember.”

“Yeah….I don’t know if you remember this but,” Will begins – his knees drawn up to his chest and his eyes remaining glued to the ground. “We were all standing together and this…girl came up to me. I think it was Amy Peters or something?” 

Mike clenches his jaw (for unrelated non-jealousy reasons of course), whilst Will continues.

“She asked me to dance and I remember turning to you in a panic because I didn’t want to dance with her at all” Will laughs a bit at the thought (which leads Mike to smile).

“And you just— I don’t think you realised it at the time because you sorta… egged me on. You gave me this look like… 'What are you doing? Dance with her.’ And I didn’t know what else to do in that situation so I said yes…and I danced with her.” It’s silent for a minute as Mike waits for Will to say something or for something to happen– something or anything to finally connect the dots in Mike’s mind – why was Will talking about this? Why bring it up now? What was he thinking about right now? Wh--

“I wanted to dance with you that night”

What?

 “….you did?” 

 “Yeah.” Will breathes out. His voice cracking as he quietly whispers to himself. “I really wanted to.”

And it’s silent again. Because Mike doesn’t know what to say or what to do but he can’t help himself from grasping onto Will’s words – fixating on his face. Even in the dark he can still trace the outline of Will’s jaw, the broadness of his shoulder, the placement of his mole, the curves of his lips--

Wait what?  

“A part of me thought you did too” Will speaks up again, his head now resting against his knees. Mike can’t breathe at this point, his eyes glued onto Will.

“I think I just…wanted to believe you felt the same. I wanted to believe it was possible, y’know?” Mike watched Will's hands tighten its grip on his jeans. “But you told me to dance with someone else, and you danced with El….and you kissed her….”

He pauses.

“And I realised that I was alone in this.”  

“Will—” 

“I’m gonna go check outside for any Demogorgan,” Will starts to stand up, rubbing his sleeve against his eyes. 

 “No Will— don’t go please” Mike grabs his wrist, “I’m really sorry”

“It’s okay Mike. It’s not your fault.“ Mike purses his lips, he doesn’t really know what to say at this point. 

“…..do you know why I told you to dance with her?” 

“You were being a good friend” 

“I was trying to be a good friend” he corrects Will. And Will looks at him confused as Mike sorta gestures to him to sit down again – which he does as he waits for Mike to continue.

 “I didn’t want to be selfish- y'know? The whole year was just…so hard on you. You went through so much and I-I didn’t want to take this— this normal opportunity from you. I thought you deserved to feel normal for once…like— like any other kid.” 

“I regretted it the second I did it.” Mike laughs – but it’s more of an awkward laugh to defuse a bit of the tension. “I remember just sitting there and moping because why did I encourage you to dance with her? What is wrong with me? But then…” 

“But then El came.” Will completes the sentence.

“But then El came…” 

“You don’t have to continue, Mike. Seriously, it’s fine” 

“I want to.” He affirms. “I do….please let me.” So, Will just leans back against the wall and waits for Mike to continue.

“It was just…. I missed her- a lot– I think. And I didn’t think I would see her. And I just remembered how I promised her we’d go together and there she was. It all felt so….surreal…I think– just the whole thing helped me forget about missing you for a second.”

“Which— I know is very fucked up. I didn’t think it through and I was dumb and stupid and young and I didn’t like seeing you dancing with someone else and I just needed a way to ignore that and—- El was there and she was being El and it helped take my mind off of it for a bit.” 

“I really just wanted to spend the night with you,” Mike admits.

“You did?” 

“I did- yeah…..I think a part of it was also just…seeing Dustin and Lucas both starting to care about having a girlfriend or going out and dating and i thought… oh am I supposed to feel that way?”

“I guess I was…. self conscious about it. I wasn’t growing up the way you’re supposed to. And I- I panicked…and I was stupid and you got hurt because of it and I’m so sorry.” At this point, Mike is looking back up to Will, and he places his hand above Will’s. “I mean it. I just– I hate that I hurt you.” 

“It’s fine Mike.” 

“No it’s not— don’t dismiss it. Don’t dismiss it- I hurt you and you’re allowed to be mad at me and you’re allowed to stay mad at me. Because I deserve it. And- this isn’t me self deprecating or anything. I fucked up- I know I did. And it’s okay— I won’t hate you for being mad at me. It’s okay. I’ll still be here and I won’t leave and I’ll work on myself and I’ll show you that I’m better.”

And he pauses before pursing his lips and continuing, looking up at Will. 

“Okay?”

“Okay” Will smiles.

---

There's actually a second part/scene to this but yeah – (lmk if you want it (?))

[frankenjoly]

"A diamond is precious precisely because it is rare." + fukumori? 👀

“A diamond is precious precisely because it is rare.” Mori was saying, somewhat absentmindedly, with his eyes fixed on the book he had been reading. “But, at the same time, there truly is something exceptional about science surpassing more and more limitations each time.”

Fukuzawa hummed in agreement, then became silent again. Not for long, though, since an amusing idea crossed his mind pretty soon.

“Speaking of diamonds, do you think Natsume-sensei’s saying was something he held onto when getting tired of us?” The first response he got was laughter, sudden and genuine. Something he always treasured.

“Bold of you to phrase it like a hypothetical, and to assume he stopped.”

“Fair enough.” Fukuzawa conceded with a brief snort. “Does that mean you did the same too, then?” Now Mori did turn his head, moving away just enough to stare at him with a smirk.

“Oh, you have no idea. In fact, if Akutagawa-kun and your tiger kid ever manage to test Dazai-kun’s patience like that… serves him right. Not only that, but if one of those two ever tries to keep the tradition, then he shall suffer the same annoyance as a side effect. Unlikely so far, though, since none of them seems exactly the scheming type.” Definitely not, opposite to Natsume, Mori there or Dazai.

“Dazai-kun says more or less the same.”

“Yes? And what else does Dazai-kun say?” Funnily enough, when Fukuzawa answered next, he hadn’t meant for those words to be teasing, merely informative.

“He sometimes laughs at your expense with Yosano-kun.”

Of course, it became crystal clear as 1) he  had finished speaking and 2) his partner pouted.

(Also on ao3.)

[asmoshoebox]

you weren't wondering what asmoraius tastes like, but that's okay, because i was. here u go

he tastes like green wheat in the sun, like the hot damp earth painting their knotted fingers, like fresh sweat on old linen

he tastes like fall, sticky figs and honey in the corners of his lips, the wine on his breath a libation over their offered flesh

he tastes like salt and oil, red fruit juices on his cheek, gristle and spice between his teeth

he tastes like human-bacon grease and cherry chapstick, until his lip splits under their teeth, spilling fire and copper and brimstone over their tongue

he tastes like shampoo and vaseline, hairspray and lipstick, like a dirty knife with the silver and steel hooked through his mouth

he tastes like sleep, like rain, like beer, like blood, like the dmv carpet, like misroch's office chair, like cigarettes in bed, like a G flat major chord

like nothing else

[an-inky-fingered-lass]

illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs

A collection of ficlets set in the 'get out my machete and battle with time once again' universe. And yes, I'm realizing I definitely need a catchier name. Full series on Ao3.

chapter 3 -- as we lay our wars to rest

It was a restless night. 

Pines whipped, thunder crashing like someone was bowling with furniture on the roof of the world. May lay awake for a long time, listening to the rain, and thought about myths that bled just like they did, about the pieces this world would never be. 

It was hard to reconcile how small it was, in the grand scheme of things. The world. May had spent so much of her life flying over greens and blues and browns, looking down, but that had still been under the sky. You couldn’t see it the same way once you’d looked down from the other side.

Her dreams, when she finally fell asleep, were a jumble of familiarity. A warehouse, a little girl; but this was a girl with faraway eyes and trust in her hands-- and another girl, with rumpled blond hair and her father’s eyes, her mother’s nimble, curious fingers. It was an old home, not a warehouse, walls that were no longer hers but that she remembered loving. May dreamed of her cockpit, no splinters in her palms; peaceful evenings and threat she’d spent years comfortable in, safety she was learning. She awoke slowly, as dawn arrived, like her body hadn’t decided whether it had actually gotten any rest or not. 

It was an indecisive sort of morning. Melinda liked those even less than the bad ones; she’d spent years learning to live with those, live through them, and they didn’t come around often any more. The indecisive, thin unease was just annoying.  

Tai chi helped. There was a reason why she’d settled herself into routines, why she’d built them into herself and her time even when nothing much else in her life had been predictable. Phil did fine with less structure to his days, could unwind easily in that flexibility, but these had always been her hours, the first rays of sun crawling into a drowsy sky. 

It had brightened into a pale, breakable blue by the time Phil was up, the air cold and crisp and no longer so heavy with damp. There were pine needles scattered everywhere, a thick bed of leaves that swallowed up sound instead of crackling, but the storm had come and gone without doing any damage. 

May went out to coat her boots in mud after breakfast. There was a worn old trail out back that looped around on itself, that brought her back home if she just walked far enough. 

Phil had been gentler than he needed to be, that morning, patient enough for the both of them. He'd set the kettle like there were at least five people waiting for tea. It just wasn’t a day for talking, at least not yet, and there wasn’t any urgency to their days any more. She hadn’t known how to breathe without it, at first, but she’d had a handful of years now to ease into the relief of it. She was starting to be able to feel like they’d been doing this for a long time. 

May stepped back onto the wood of the porch with her pockets full of wild golden raspberries (she hadn’t been planning on going that way, but once she did she couldn’t just walk past the bushes). Her thigh was aching again, knees putting up a protest she was staunchly ignoring, but she felt steady for the first time that morning. 

She came through the front door to the sound of music. 

It was acoustic, earthy tones. Folky. Phil was sitting by his desk, but he’d gone still, probably forgotten all about whatever he’d been doing. She knew he’d heard her come in, but she leaned one shoulder against the wall and just listened, eyes on the window and the sunlight tumbling in. 

Their tastes in music were as wildly different as ever, but this was nice, whatever it was. Something about sunshine and the time that you have. 

May watched the curve of Phil’s shoulders, rubbed a gentle palm against the wood paneled walls. 

They had grandkids now. They’d get to watch them grow. 

She stepped across the floor as the song ended. 

Phil stood to meet her, eyes soft and damp, and she smiled at them, at him, at how easy the peaceable emotion still came to him, after everything. She would never have that. She didn’t mind. She was learning her own peace, laying down her arms without needing it to feel right. This was a choice, calmness and patience and birdsong in the birth of a new dawn. 

She was burying her wars in long walks home and raspberries in her pockets. There were ghosts to both their names, hanging around this little cabin, and they were welcome to stay as long as they needed, provided they held their peace.

[branmuffins22]

Could you write a bit of Small Town Paranormal Investigations for WIP Wednesday please?

Yes I could, thanks for the push!

"Huh," Luz's voice pulled her out of her head, as she too looked around, "Looks like they got rid of the jukebox." And just as she was starting to get her confidence back, a new, confusing, human thing had to rear its head. "The… jukebox?" "Oh, it's like a— actually, I never figured out what you guys call 'em in the Demon Realm." She pulled out her phone, likely to look up a picture, "It's a box full of vinyl records, you stick a snail— er, a quarter— in the slot, then you pick a disc, and it plays it. They're like, classic staples of retro diners, even if most of 'em are just there to sit around and look pretty."

[euclydya]

hey guys. i um. accidentally started writing a ficlet (???) based off a joke When it's finished does anyone wanna read it.

[himbosandhardwear]

This is a literal nightmare.

He can see her cheery orange sweater from the doorway, glowing under the sodium desk lamp. As if the library wasn't hateful enough, with it's enforced hush, they had to make everything hard to fucking see too. Ugh, great, she's got fucking note cards! Pink ones!

“Wheeler,” he growls at her, hoping to startle her with his slammed history book.

Unfortunately it doesn't work, only earns him a shush and a few annoyed glares from fellow patrons.

Wheeler looks up from under her lashes, quietly entertained if anything. “Munson. Glad you could finally make it.”

“Yeah well,” he straddles the wooden desk chair, “got caught up sacrificing virgins. You know how it is.”

She rests her pointed chin onto her hand. “So you trekked up to the middle school?”

Shit. Does she have a sense of humor?

“Yeah… Anyway, I'm here now. What torture have you got in store?” He eyes the note cards warily.

“Not these.” She swiftly wraps a rubber band around them and tucks them back into her bag. “I think I know what your issue is.”

“Childhood neglect?”

She gifts him with a snort. “Maybe. I was referring to your complete lack of interest in US History.”

“You can't make me care about it, Wheeler, that's not how this works.”

Her eyes do something that feels patronizing but also like maybe she knows something he doesn't.

It becomes apparent, hours later, that he shouldn't have thrown that gauntlet. Nancy Wheeler is a certified genius. No wonder St- Mmm, no.

“I can't believe you did it,” he admits after successfully passing her pop quiz. “How did you… I mean, I literally just learned all that against my will.”

“Easy. You like Tolkien, right?”

That takes him aback. He stares back at her for a second. “...yeah?”

“So you can absorb details when it's something you're interested in. All I had to do was make it interesting.”

Wow. Yeah, that actually makes sense now that he thinks about it. All she did was humanize the people involved, make them real. He couldn't care less about memorizing the dates of the battles but knowing forty-five hundred men died from Cholera that winter, seven hundred more from infection, it did something to Eddie's brain, forced it to latch on.

“Huh. What are you doing tutoring an idiot like me? You should be getting tenured at Yale or whatever.”

She does something no girl has done to Eddie since the fifth grade, she reaches out and holds his hand. He's too confused to pull away.

“You're not stupid. You're not even apathetic, not really. It's just that no one has ever bothered to teach you in a way that speaks to you. I want you to know that.”

He blinks at her. “Okay. Um. Kinda hard to keep hating you if you're gonna say shit like that.” He tries to laugh it off but she just keeps staring up at him with those big, blue eyes.

“You don't have to hate me, Eddie.”

What the fuck? Why is there a sudden undertone here?

“Sure thing, Wheeler. We should-” He doesn't have much to gather but he uses the little bit he did bring to avoid eye contact. She's gathering her things a lot slower and for some reason Eddie can't make himself leave her here. Fucking stupid white knight syndrome. “Hey, uh, how'd you know I like Tolkien?”

She doesn't look up from wedging a folder into her bag as she says, “Steve told me.”

Eddie’s nervous system goes ice fishing.

When he doesn't, can't, respond, she looks up, sees him staring, wide eyed and shaking. Instead of doing anything to calm him, she makes it worse by saying, “He talks about you more than he realizes. I might've actually been scared of you if I didn't know you have a favorite Christmas movie and that you stress bake.”

This is…cruel? He's not sure what her motive is. Shove their happy relationship in his face? She shouldn't want to do that, because she shouldn't know that Steve and Eddie were…anything. There's no way Steve told her that. The fact that he can feel that his face has gone white and he hasn't responded yet probably isn't doing him any favors.

“I can see there's some confusion happening.” Eddie nods, slowly, certain only that, if anything, he's confused. “Okay,” she drawls. “I feel like you're a cool person to talk to, that I can trust you. You're…safe?”

“Sure?” He has no idea where this is going.

“Right. You know my friend Barb,” she waits for his nod before explaining, “well we've been friends forever. Like, kindergarten forever. And one day, almost out of the blue, we get the idea to try out for Color Guard.” Yeah right. Wheeler and Holland are the last two girls Eddie can picture joining any kind of team sport activity, but he keeps following her story anyway. “We're practicing, right, and we've got our…flags…and we see each other's...flags...and we realize, we don't like…sports. So we quit and decided to do our own thing. Yeah?”

Holy shit. No way. There's no fucking way. Except Wheeler is nodding along with Eddie's shock, as if to say, ‘Yeah, you're getting it.’

He laughs, quiet so as not to alert anyone. The library is nearly empty but they're not the last ones left.

Eddie has to rub his eyes to stave off an impending headache but all in all this session has been quite eye-opening.

“That was pretty slick, I have to admit.”

She shoots him a wicked grin. “It usually is.”

“Ah gross! Don't make it weird.”

Now they're both laughing. Christ.

“I am cool. For the record. Scouts honor.” He holds up the devil horns just to make her laugh again, which she does.

“I know you're cool, Eddie. Inside scoop, remember?”

So much for their budding friendship. The reminder that Steve has said anything about their shared…whatever that was…puts him right back in the frozen pond.

“Steve and I weren't-” He lowers his voice. “That wasn't anything. I don't know what he told you but-”

“He misses you.”

Eddie's frozen guts shatter. Nancy doesn't even have the decency to let him scoop them up before she goes in for the kill.

“He'd be livid if he knew I told you that but it's true. He hates the way he ended it. Thinks you hate him for it, could never forgive him. But you wanted to hate me. Didn't you? Those aren't the feelings of a man indifferent to Steve's life.”

He trembles like an animal caught in a snare. “Why are you telling me this?”

A bittersweet look crosses her face, she looks over at the people sitting four desks over. “I know why he ended it. And…it's not like his reasons have suddenly disappeared. We both know things are precarious for us,” she meets his eye again to make sure he understands, of course he does, “but he's different now. Changed. A good friend. A person who deserves second chances. Deserves to be happy. He said you made him really happy.”

A traitorous tear slips down his cheek. He brushes it away, angry and embarrassed.

This was really fun, Eds, but I can't risk it anymore.

The worst part was, he couldn't argue the first bit. They did have a lot of fun.

God, he misses Steve too.

“If you've moved on, that's okay, I get it. No harm done, like I said, he doesn't even know we had this conversation. But, if you were wondering if he still thinks about you, the answer is yes.”

He nods. That's all he can do at the moment. She cups a tiny hand around his clenched fist and squeezes.

“Oh! Also, I'm thinking of starting an unofficial after school club. You too cool to hang out with me outside of school?”

Whiplash would feel like a pleasant massage compared to this woman, lord have mercy.

“What kinda club?” He asks gamely.

“Friends of Dorothy. You don't think it's just us waving flags, do you?”

Eddie's attention is caught mid-rant by the abhorrent sounds of Carol and Tommy H.

"Oh, Steve! Steve, oh, God, Steve-"

Eddie turns in time to see a pretty blush fill Steve's cheeks. Ah, he must have finally slept with the Wheeler chick. She's seated next to him, looking less than pleased about Steve's friends.

From what Eddie can remember, that's actually the opposite of what sleeping with Steve is really like. He's the noisy one, the one who moans and whines and whimpers when he's feeling so good.

"Fuck, Eddie, you feel so perfect-"

"Yeah, right there, Eds-"

"Keep going, I'm gonna, Eddie, Eddie, Eddie-"

"Eddie!"

"Yeah!" He turns away from King Steve and back to the rest of the Hellfire club.

"You were saying, about that cantrip?"

"Right," he says, shaking off old memories. Now isn't really the time to be revisiting them, anyway.

[fonulyn]

since I've seen it talked about in several places recently:

if you are going to do a whump- or kink- or ANY-tober or other similar challenges please please please don't post them as one fic with 31 chapters unless it actually is one coherent fic. if they're 31 completely separate fics or ficlets then please just make a collection for them or just post them as separate fics. it doesn't matter if they're only 100 words or if you think they're too small or insignificant to post alone, they're not.

and why this?

because if you post all 31 of them in one fic the tagging is absolutely useless. if I look for things to read on ao3 I'm gonna look at the tags, and if the tags include something that's a dealbreaker for me, i won't even click on the fic. I might not even SEE the fic because I've filtered out the nope-tag! so I'm gonna lose out on reading 30 perfectly nice fics because of one fic that my nope-tag applied to.

ao3 is about archiving. it's about clear tagging and being informative. there is nothing informative about it if the tags in the fic apply to random chapters while others have nothing to do with it. it makes so much more sense to have each work as an individual fic with its own individual tags and warnings, so readers can make informed choices.

of course, you do you. I can't police what other people decide to do. but personally, I find it incredibly frustrating to weed through 31 chapters to find the ones I actually want to read. so I don't. I automatically scroll past all works posted like that. and I know some others do, too.

there is absolutely no shame in posting short things on ao3. there is no minimum word count. no one is going to look at you funny if you post a small ficlet on its own, I promise. it's just going to make some readers very happy when they can actually find the things they want to read.

so, please. at least consider the upsides of posting each work as their own fic.

signed, one very frustrated fandom grandma.

[mtchacffinz]

what a blunder!

prompt!!! Arlecchino personally deals with your unwanted marriage proposal in her own unique way.

content!!! fem!reader x arlecchino, SFW, impatient arlecchino, violence mentioned, marriage proposal, possessive arlecchino

note!!! "Farlahr" is a made up character for the sake of this ficlet. The Doctor here is NOT Dottore. something about arlecchino tweaking and losing a few screws is so hot to me so here you go girls this one is for my strap on arlecchino riders 🙏 im so normal

"He told me that if I consider him as my betrothed, I would be set for life." You smile up at her, albeit nervous. "Huh? Oh— Where are you going?"

Long empty corridors could carry even the faintest whispers. The moon peeks from the shadows, it's serene light softly caressing the harbingers figure— still, quiet, tensed. Her heels clang echoing all throughout the corridor, her gaze that was pinned straight forward seemed to pierce through the thick air surrounding the atmosphere.

Long empty corridors could carry even the faintest whispers, and Arlecchino failed to notice she started to hear her uneven breathing.

Peculiar. Truly peculiar..

"Right this way, Ma'am." Arlecchino set her gaze towards the head butler, greeted with the sight of a tensed figure in return. The head butler winces, stammering on his words. Was she glaring? She doesn't know. That's not important. She's needs to get through the door. "I- I will inform the Master of your arrival—"

"That will not be necessary." Her sultry voice cut through his words. "We have been long collaborators, a reunion shan't wait too long."

Her monochromatic figure heaves a soft breath, looking blankly towards the excessively pretentious door, it's sheer size looming over Arlecchino's figure— the entrance towards an office.

Eloquent and graceful, although her lips were painted with a polite smile, the person before her couldn't tell if the crimson woman was brewing something from within. The Knave was calculative and perceptive, an expert at keeping herself cold despite the scorching flames imbedded within her. The man kept his gaze at the floor, lacking the courage to even contest her gaze.

Those eyes, terrifying crimson hued crosses that could mess with your head tried to dare his optics to even catch a small gaze. Staring into them was ill advised indeed. The butler knew this for his heart was racing, and what added to the cold sweat undeniably trickling in his jaw was that Arlecchino stood unnervingly still— as if contemplating something under deep thought. Before anything could be done, Arlecchino firmly gripped the mansion door's handles in a few momemts, swinging it open with great force.

There had always been an air of nobility in Arlecchino's presence. As soon as she stepped foot into Farlahr's office, the doctor stood up in shock, startled.

"Please, excuse my abrupt visit, Doctor." Arlecchino deliberately spat out the title, a composed smile tugged at her lips. Farlahr's eyes widen at the sight of her monochromatic elegance painting his mansion floors with her presence.

"You're not too busy, I presume? Do let us catch up, I insist— I truly do." It was way beyond the wee hours of the night, the breeze was cold and unforgiving, and the doctor could feel it crawling up his spine. The Harbingers assertive words leave no room for arguments. As if there was an invisible wind from the room, forcing every bit of his movements to bend at her own will.

"I admit that it's quite off fashion to visit at this hour empty handed, Lord Harbinger." The man chuckled in an attempt to disperse the growing tension in the air. He swings his hands— decorated with glimmering stones to mask his nervousness. The woman quickly responded.

"I won't be empty handed for long."

"Pardon, Lord Harbinger?"

Arlecchino doesn't clarify any further, but directs her unwavering gaze to him. Dark, piercing. It was like a warning, a ticking bomb for the doctor to diffuse except there seemed to be no signs of dismissal any time soon.

His crisp smile quickly dropped.

"...I merely jest." Farlahr quickly followed up, as if it was the most amusing joke in the world. Arlecchino doesn't seem to share the same opinion, as her expression stood the same. Whatever The Knave came here for, he doesn't know just yet. And if he fails to catch on, Farlahr just might lose something. His head fell from the deep crevices of his panicked mind falling into one topic he suddenly could bring up as distraction.

With their history of collaborative partnership of 13 years, Arlecchino didn't have a single problem in regards to the business and it's contributions to the House of Hearth. Arlecchino didn't care for his obsessions with women and adulterous activities, the poised lady simply stood her ground due the information the Doctor withheld about the history of medical fallacies and treatments alike.

Arlecchino's rigid gaze quickly looked relaxed, unbothered. Her voice had voice lowered and her arms and legs sit crossed.

"I came here to offer a deal."

"And that is?"

It was no surprise to Arlecchino that Farlahr was a worldly man. Riches to riches, he has re-married at least three times and he's proud of that. Arlecchino didn't bother to comprehend his thought process. She believes that his brain was processed waste ideally converged with multiple nerves. His body reeked of metals, teeth gleaming brightly with silver. She kind of wishes she could rip it all out of his jaw..

"You will retract your marriage proposal." Arlecchino starts, "And I say this, your wealth, status, and people— all safeguarded as per usual."

Farlahr was taken aback by the sudden demand. He doesn't know if her statement stemmed from concern for his safety or a wake up call to his unethical hobbies. The opportunist in him say the opposite, it says that maybe you are some sort of leverage in this world— so valuable that even the 4th Harbinger of then fatui would personally come and abolish his plans of marrying you.

But the curiosity of his consciousness gnaws it's way out of his lips, asking one particular question.

"You disapprove of my wife and I?"

How disgusting. Utterly repulsive. Its almost an offense to your whole existence to be called a wife to someone as repugnant as him. The monochromatic grace managed to suppress her disgust by responding in a more poignant tone.

"Ah, forgive me." Arlecchino very slowly tilts her head, eyes unblinking. She effortlessly stands up from her seat, her coat elegantly swaying with her refined and poised movements, breath light as a feather— a shadow cast on her face.

"But I don't disapprove of your proposal, pig." In a moment, there was a switch in her tone. Her pointed high heels shoes dragged themselves against the expensive velvet carpet, dreaming to at least peirce through the back of a certain crisp, fragile cranium. With every step closer Arlecchino gets, the more Farlahr's heart pounds in his chest, daring to jump off.

She raises a hand and firmly places them on his shoulder.

"...I forbid it."

Serenity was all that could be described throughout the night. And you, as a person of idle leisure in the evening, appreciated the tranquil breeze that brush past your cheek. A soft sigh escapes your lips, falling into deep thought. What is there to do? With the last 28 hours you were given to decide on an answer, you're left quite bewildered. Tapping your fingernails on the terrace by muscle memory, your train of thought was disturbed when you head familiar foot steps behind you.

You turn around to see a sight of dignified beauty, standing before your sleepless eyes. Arlecchino's presence, despite the abruption, quickly calmed your disgruntled nerves down.

But something was wrong. Before you could ask about the residual crimson stains on her cheek and darkened hands, she speaks in a tone softer than any voice you've heard her.

"If I may ask, my dove, could you marry someone with an absent ring finger?"

Wow. What a random question. Completely uncalled for. Maybe the ungodly hours of the night got to her? Despite the conspiracies flowing through your mind, you try hard to think of an answer.

"Hmm. I should rephrase that. Could you marry a man with no fingers?" Arlecchino ponders out loud, "Despite a marriage contract, you must need a ring to put on his finger, right? Quite a shame, really.."

"No, I don't think so. Wedding rings are to be put on ring fingers, if I recall correctly."

"That's a relief." You raise a brow, completely lost. You gaze at Arlecchino, a subtle triumphant look paints her expression, her fingers play around with her numerous rings that sit comfortably on her fingers. Taking one out, she approaches your figure.

"May I embrace you, my lady?" Suddenly, the Harbingers sultry voice was sullen, sulking. My, what's up with this woman? A moment ago she shows up with (possibly) blood around her person, and now she's asking for sudden physical contact? After just a consonant of the reply 'Yes' was uttered, Arlecchino quickly took you in her arms, embracing you deeply— taking in your presence wholely.

"How I wish I could rid you the scent of that swine." She loosens her grip for a moment, putting a stray hair strand behind your ear. All this feels like a fever dream.. you remember that just mere hours ago, Arlecchino's face looked grim and unpleasant when she received news of your sudden proposal— her reaction left you perplexed. You thought it would be a good idea since Farlahr was a good business partner of hers, why the grim expression?

You pat her back comfortingly. Before you could say anything, Arlecchino quickly lets go of you, standing perfectly straight. Her face once again unreadable— she speaks in a calm and collected manner.

"That fool said that if you'd marry him, you would be set for life." She recounts, almost irritated. Arlecchino's crimson crosses gaze was away from you, but hands traced their way back to your arms, carefully holding them in hers. Her thumbs brush the back of your hands affectionately, with tenderness and care in her voice. Arlecchino's knee made contact with the floor, and her hands delicately handled yours as if they were the most precious thing in the world.

"You must marry me. All he could offer you, I could provide tenfold."

All of the sudden, the wind started to pick up, and the ethereal lady before you never looked so grand. Her monochromatic hair danced with the cool breeze, and her crimson eyes looked from above, transfixed on your figure. Your throat felt like there was too many words you could spit out in one go, and you were terrified that you'd ruin the atmosphere by stammering over your words.

"Marry me so you are mine to gratify. This is a promise I can keep, unlike that farce. Even at your grave, my everlasting flames will be buried with you in the dirt where you lay— in turn that you will never freeze from the cold kiss of death." The Harbinger adds, tenderly placing a peck on your knuckles. Her gaze could contest even the eyes of Archons at this very moment, possessing full confidence that upholds the standards of her capabilities.

Compared to her, what could a limbless man offer you?

my dumbass just woke up and decided to edit it a bit cus I was writing this at like, 3AM LMAOO, hello (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠) its me again, just dipping my toes in the water to see if I could still write 🤔

[reconstructwriter]

Jocasta Nu lives. Her life the hardest-won under the Empire. But Sidious wants her dead. So Jocasta concludes that it is most prudent she survive, even over killing the monstrosity Anakin chose to be. She flees, for the Force is life and life is its own salvation. The Sith apprentice’s denial echoes in the empty Temple

Her beloved Order is so scattered. So lost. The barest glimmers of light dim against a hungry void. Yet she is a Jedi. She will follow the Force. Her faith is rewarded for she finds a Padawan lost, another betrayed. In one universe, they Fall. Here, they Rise.

AotJ is the galaxy’s biggest secret. Billions if not trillions know about it, despite the Empire’s purges. A place where anyone can post anything (except fascism) or read weird poetry and ancient history from ten thousand worlds – whatever floats your ship.

The site gets taken down periodically, as the Empire tries to infiltrate, but the mods and admin are good. Anytime the government gets too close to user data, the entire thing is purged, moved elsewhere and put up under a new name.

“This isn’t right,” many rebel groups hear from new recruits. “You read on AotJ, or whatever it’s called now, about what’s really happening out there? You hear it confirmed? You can’t just…not do something. Everyone has a breaking point.”

Sidious kept burning out rebellions, but each ash-choked remnant of the last fuels the buds of new growth as the news of his atrocities spreads. Farmers and factory workers alike take comfort in old, strange beliefs – and spark Light in new ones.

Jocasta Nu can’t run and hide forever. Not with every Inquisitor and Sith wanting her dead so badly. But her new archivists, Reva and Hett, Trilla and Vos, they will continue the archive. A million civilians will continue the archive. A billion will spread the archive

When Darth Vader finally catches up to her, finally defeats her, she raises her head for the killing blow. “You can kill me, but you cannot kill the archive.” And as he takes her head, the brutal execution is streamed to a hundred billion users.

DARTH VADER #7 written by Charles Soule art by Giuseppe Camuncoli and Daniele Orlandini YES, LET ME TELL YOU WHY THIS IS THE PERFECT STORYLINE. The Grand Inquisitor doesn’t understand why they’re going after Jocasta Nu as a primary target, he never even saw her fight or anything!  So why her? Because Palpatine deals in lies and propaganda.  Because his Empire isn’t just vulnerable to people wielding lightsabers (though, it is that, too) but people who have information and who would know what to do with it. Sidious wants the information she has, he wants it to use it for his own nefarious purposes (the list of names she has, for example), but also he wants to make damn sure the entire galaxy forgets about the Force being a thing (the Empire was intolerant to any Force-based cultures (x)), he wants to make damn sure the entire galaxy never knows the truth about the Jedi, only what he tells them (and it’s horrifying how successful he is in this! (x) (x) (x)), wants to make damn sure no future Jedi can learn of the history and culture and selflessness of the Jedi that came before.  And one of the biggest threats to that? The Jedi who holds the information. The Jedi who would know exactly how to pass on their history, their culture, and the truth.

[akela-nakamura]

DPxDC Prompt

Summoning is an imperfect art, mispronouncing a name or having an incorrect symbol can lead to unexpected, and sometimes explosive results. Summoning can open unexpected doors. No one's prepared for what--or who--steps through when a rising gang tries to summon backup.

My little ficlet for this is below the cut:

Smoke. The acrid slam of it in the nose, brought on by the screaming wind. Chanting. A chorus of voices, steady and thrumming. Pain. Everything is hazy, and it’s equal odds on it being from the smoke or the potential head injury. 

Bruce stumbles to his feet, body throbbing. 

This was not how he’d planned this night. 

Of course, he hadn’t planned for Gotham to suddenly be overrun with a new…gang? They claimed to be a government organization, but Bruce has his doubts. He hadn’t had a chance to go through the GIW’s information, but according to Barbara, their claims were sketchy at best.

The shouting about ghosts and waving around sci-fi weapons with no trigger discipline certainly didn’t help their claims. 

Government organization or not, they had no right to raid homes, to drag people out onto the street, or overall threaten his city.

His ears ring, and the chanting rises in volume, impossibly. His chest reverbes with the sound. It’s steady enough to feel like a second heart. His blurry vision locks onto the center of the summoning circle. Because this night couldn’t get any worse, of course. 

First the GIW had rocketed up his list of threats with one simple move. 

They’d gone after Jason.

Jason, who even now was laid out in the middle of the summoning circle, eyes bright, bright, bright green through the haze. 

First they’d taken his son. 

Then they’d used him as a sacrifice. 

Bruce bared his teeth, locking eyes with the closest GIW agent. The man held up his weapon, a glowing baton. His form is weak. 

The baton gord flying, Bruce’s armored elbow slamming the man to the ground. The agent curls up, groaning. Nightwing’s escrima sing electric in the background, followed by the whip of Tim’s bow staff. Damian’s sword glints through the haze, and purple flashes through the crowd of white, white, white. 

He can’t see Cass, but he doesn’t expect too. 

The ground rocks under his feet, and it takes several precious seconds to regain his balance. There seems to be an almost endless flood of agents, with more and more meeting his fists as he tries to make it through the gauntlet. 

Suddenly, the air shifts, the scream of it heading for the circle instead of out. 

The circle glows toxic green, and Jason’s at the center, frozen in the light. 

“No!” Bruce shouts, the sound ripping from his soul. 

It’s echoed by Dick, who stands just outside the circle’s boundaries. His hands are pressed against the light, his blue eyes a shock against the green. 

It’s a confusion of people - GIW white and the summoner’s black. The GIW is here to end whatever it is they need Jason to summon to them. The summoners themselves seem to have broken away from the “agency” and want power from the being they’re calling. It’s a fight on multiple fronts, with the GIW fighting the summoners and Bruce and his family fighting them all. 

The temperature drops. 

“HOOD!” Dick screams, as Jason is swallowed by the green. 

The chant is all he can hear, even as he shoves towards the circle, even as he slams against the same wall Dick’s against. 

The world goes bright and he can’t keep his eyes on Jason. On his son. 

When the light fades, Jason’s not alone. 

A being sits six feet in the air, Jason collapsed over his lap, somehow hovering with the - what is he? He looks human, but there’s something wrong. Off. Bruce can’t quite pinpoint his age. A crown glows on his head, an ever shifting cape spills down his back, dragging close to the floor. His eyes are green as Lazarus, and just as deep. Jason is breathing, Bruce notes. The being’s hands curl in Jason’s hair, playing with it idly. 

The air is *rigid, and everyone’s stopped fighting. No one can draw their eyes away from the being. 

“You dare to summon me with one of my own?” The being speaks, and it’s like crackling glaciers. Someone whimpers. 

“We - wanted to give you a gift,” One of the men in black says, his voice chattering. 

It’s like breathing in ice. 

“A gift?” The being says and the sound is fury, banked in a waiting avalanche. “What kind of gift is this? A denizen of my Realms, trapped and tortured? Used to summon his king, against his will? This is no gift.” 

“B-but we didn’t know,” another speaks, and then obviously realizes he shouldn’t have. 

“Ignorance will not save you,” the being says, and it - he’s? - still holding Jason like he’s something precious. “And I am not the only one you have infuriated. 

“I am not the only one you have awoken.” 

To a man, the GIW agents cry out in panic. Bruce turns, looking for the threat but - the agents are buried to various depths in the cracked concrete floor. The ground is decidedly solid beneath Bruce’s feet but the agents would obviously not agree. They flounder, like the concrete is quicksand. The summoners are next, but it’s ice that gets them, crawling up their bodies until they’re locked into place. 

“My lord!” One cries and promptly finds himself gagged. 

Bruce can’t stay silent any longer. “Hood was used against his will to summon you,” he starts. The being’s eyes meet Bruce’s. “He didn’t want this. Is he alright?” 

“Your son is fine,” the voice is rough, but feminine, and obviously not from the being. It’s around him, dancing through the steel beams and pushing through concrete. “You are mine, my knight. You and yours are mine. The little king will not harm him, nor you.” A figure forms off to his right. 

“Holy shit,” Dick whispers. Bruce has to agree. 

She’s made of concrete, of broken brick and dust, of bone and police tape, of twisted metal and more. 

“Gotham,” Bruce breathes, and he doesn’t know how he knows but he does.

“Hello, my knight,” she says, her form shifting. She turns slightly, and there’s something sharp in her movement. “Hello, little king.” 

“Lady Gotham,” The being - the king? - returns. “You look well,” 

Lady Gotham laughs, a ringing sound - it’s bells and gravel, fresh air on a summer day and rising wind. “How you flatter me, little king. Do you fear me?” 

The being grins, mischief dancing around him, white hair floating high. “I respect you. It’s good to see you awake, Milady.”

“What is happening?” Tim asks no one in particular. Dick shrugs and Steph just leans harder on Tim. Cass holds Damian’s shoulder firmly, watching carefully. 

Bruce wishes he had an answer. 

“It is good to be awake,” Lady Gotham says, and she shifts closer to the circle, fingers skimming against the barrier of light. “How long do you intend to keep my reaper from me?” 

Reaper. Bruce thinks, and it’s a gut punch. 

It makes sense, to describe Jason. Jason can go where Bruce cannot, do what Bruce cannot. 

The king laughs lightly. “The summoning harmed him, Milady. I’m just keeping him safe. I’m not here to undermine you,” the king’s eyes glow. “But remember who is king.”

Lady Gotham smiles. “I’m aware of hierarchy little king.” 

“My son,” Bruce says, because there’s no point in pretending Jason is anything less. He’s talking to - the embodiment of gotham and a king of - something. “He’ll be okay?” 

Lady Gotham sighs. “He will be fine, my knight. The little king cares for his own.” 

“What - what are you the king of?” Tim asks, bold. 

The being smiles. 

“I am Phantom,” he says. “I am the Ghost King.” 

Jason stirs in his lap, and the implications crash over Bruce. Maybe Reaper has more meaning than he’d thought.