#when magic goes wrong

[bafflement]

Deaged Oz AU - Finding Oz

Felt like that very first scene needed expanding, so here it is.

Qrow flew… literally… through the devastation that Cinder had wrought on Beacon, heading for the vault. He wasn’t too late, he couldn’t be… he couldn’t lose Oz. Not like this, not when everybody had already lost so much. Yang was injured, Pyrrha Nikos was dead, and yet he’d only just be informed that Oz was… missing.

Missing, dammit. Not dead, he wasn’t allowed to be dead. The man he loved was meant to be bomb proof, indestructible. The thought that he’d fall so easily to someone like Cinder, of all people? One of Salem’s pawns?

And yet… and yet that would be exactly the damn fool decision Oz would make, wouldn’t it? His life for his students, he’d always told Qrow that was the way he wanted to go out. Protecting the youth, protecting the future. Yes, he’d come back… but it wouldn’t be Oz anymore, would it? He’d be filtered through whoever the next version was. There’d be no more quiet nights spent in Oz’s ridiculous sitting room, sipping whiskey and watching Oz consume those sugary beverages he adored so much. No more evenings spent under the stars while his lover told him all the names they’d had however many thousands of years ago Ozma had lived… or during the vast  gulf between then and now. One taloned foot clenched at the thought of just how lonely Oz must have been, however long this stupid war had consumed him already. The talons bit into his leg slightly, but Qrow was far too panicked to feel it. If he’d died, alone… if Qrow hadn’t been there to save him, to help? How could he claim that he loved him, if he hadn’t even been there for him as he died. From the scorched walls he was flying past, the rubble… it would have been many things, but never an easy death.

He wasn’t going to think about that. Not yet, not while there was still a chance that Oz was still alive. Magic could do a lot, after all. Maybe there really was time for one last miracle? For Oz, of course… not for Qrow. He hated his semblance, had tried to keep away as much as possible but what if it hadn’t been enough? What if his mere background presence had… had… no. No, Qrow had NOT killed Oz. That wasn’t the way things worked. If he was dead at all. Oz was a competent Huntsman, one of the very best, after all. This was hardly his first fight, he would be okay.

But then… Huntsmen fought Grimm, not each other. Human targets were rare enough to need entirely separate fighting styles. Oz was very old, or a part of him was, he had to have killed before. But. But Cinder Fall had been masquerading as a student and if his ridiculously perfect lover had one major flaw, it was his protective streak. She had been a student, had posed as a student… could Oz have bought himself to fight her at his full strength? He would have seen her as a child, she’d fought in the Vytal festival, for the Brother’s sake. Oz… could he hurt a child, or would he just have let her kill him?

The vault, by the time he made it there was a mess. The air stunk of burned hair and blood and some of the walls were collapsing into heaps of masonry. He glanced at the ceiling and swore as it bowed. Whatever… whoever… was down here might not have much time.

He started the search, hoping against every fibre of himself that he’d find Oz. Every instinct in him was screaming that it was hopeless, that this was a tomb, but he had to try at least. If nothing else, the next version of… him… would need his cane. Finally he spotted it, the scrollwork seemingly untouched by the devastation around it. He scooped it up, eyes still scanning and froze. There was a figure, curled up in a heap and surrounded by rubble, but as he watched, astounded, their chest moved with a breath. Then a second, could Oz somehow still be alive? He felt his heart race for an instant before it sank like a misaimed stone skipping on a river. Whoever this was, they were far too small to be Oz. His lover was six foot six and big with it, this figure was, well… tiny. Diminutive and child like, and… what was a child doing here, how could they have found their way into a situation like this? Oz would never have let… but no, there was no time to wonder.

Qrow snatched the child up, cradling them protectively in arms that were shaking from adrenaline. Most of the smell seemed to be coming from the kid, but he’d know more once they were both out in the light and he could take a good look at them. If Oz was still here… he’d run out of time to find the body. At least he had the cane, and this unexpected burden… blessing? From such a tragedy. As Oz would have implored him, ‘save the child.’ He just hoped that, somehow, the lift was still functional, there was no way he could carry the kid out of here as a bird.

Miracle on miracle, the lift seemed untouched. As it made its slow rise towards the surface, he glanced down at the child. The kid hadn’t stirred, a dead weight in his arms. At least they were breathing, which was something, but… were their arms meant to be that skinny? He wasn’t at all certain how old the kid was, but surely Yang and Ruby had had more muscles at however old this poor brat was? If so, if they were truly a civilian… had Salem bought them there, had that been why Oz had let her kill him. And he really would have had to have let her kill him, there was no other way she should ever have got the drop on him. But threatening a child, one she’d bought there for that very purpose? That seemed very Cinder like, from the little he’d seen of her. He clenched his teeth, gripping the kid harder as he did so. They still didn’t stir, whatever had been done to them seemed to have knocked them out pretty good. That was worrying, for more reasons than one. Hopefully someone could help once they got to the surface?

Dammit Oz, how long was this lift going to take? There was making an entrance, then there was overkill. This lift fell in the latter category at this point. He concentrated on the kid. Boy, girl? He wasn’t sure at this point, just glad that they were still breathing. As long as he was concentrating on that, he wouldn’t break down. He couldn’t, he couldn’t afford to. Not yet, not with what was looking like a child’s life on the line. They were so young though, far too young for Beacon. Where were their parents, had Cinder or… worse… Salem killed them when they snatched the poor kid up? It would certainly track, but…

One tiny hand seemed to shift slightly, reaching for something. With a pang, Qrow realised that they seemed to be reaching for the cane, but… surely he was imagining things? Oz had told him about the reincarnation process, what was likely to happen when he died. This wasn’t it, not in the least. Yet the child smelled of ashes and blood and he had found him very close to that cane. He’d been the only sign of life Qrow had spied down there, though his eyesight wasn’t as good in the dark. Was it possible? He spent a second, daring to hope, before dismissing the thought.

Qrow could never, ever hope to be that lucky. After all, it wasn’t in the cards for someone like him.

He squinted at the sudden glare as that damn lift finally came to a halt. At least they were out of the vault, the probably-a-tomb. Wherever Oz was, whoever he was now, he’d find him again. At least the child was safe.

He glanced down at the kid, only to blink in shock. They seemed to be dressed in clothing that was far too large for them, torn, bloodstained and badly burned. But what little was visible under the burn marks was a worryingly familiar shade of emerald. The child’s skin and hair were dirty and soot smeared, but just as pale as Oz’s were now he could see them in the light of day. Too pale, actually, though at least they were still breathing. If this was Oz, if they hadn’t just snatched a kid that looked similar and decided to torment the adult Ozpin with this kid who could have easily been their child, then what had happened? What could have gone so badly wrong that this could occur? What would happen, now, anyway? As it was, the boy was far too young to return any feelings that Qrow still felt for him. Oh, he loved Oz, he always would. But this child? No, he needed his protection but… what if they woke and their mind was as young as their body? What if he truly had lost Oz? Forever… what if his initial thought down in the vault was right and this wasn’t Oz at all. He scanned the surroundings, but although there was frantic activity in the distance, nobody seemed to have noticed him or his burden just yet. Could he risk handing maybe-Oz over to the medics, though? There didn’t seem to be anything too wrong with him that he could see, and as the surge of adrenaline left him, he could feel the kid’s aura tickling against his own.

It was strong, too strong to be coincidence. Familiar, too, though it was a painful thing to realise. This had to be Oz, it couldn’t be anyone else. But he hadn’t stirred, hadn’t woken. Was entirely vulnerable. Qrow ached to go and see to his nieces, but Oz needed him right now. He couldn’t leave the boy alone, if Salem found out that he was trapped like this… there was no telling what she’d do with the unconscious, too thin child Oz currently was.

Well, there was. He knew exactly what she’d do if she got her hands on the little boy. She’d torture him, make an example of him. Swallowing back sudden bile, he gripped the kid harder. Just hard enough for the clothing to shift slightly, revealing a half melted pin in the vague shape of a cross. Qrow let out a sob at the state of it, at the state Oz was in. How could they keep going, like this? What if he never woke up? What if he died, would Qrow be forced to watch as his heart shattered even further than it was already? What if this was actually a ten year old Oz, devoid of any memories, no longer the wizard? If he died, it might be possible after all. There was too much he didn’t know and for all the warnings, Oz had never mentioned anything even remotely similar to this.

Blinking down at the weakly twitching fingers, the only sign of life beyond the rise and fall of Oz’s chest, he placed the cane in the outstretched hand. Oz gripped it tightly enough that his knuckles went white, but some of the tension seemed to drain out of him. As his face relaxed, Qrow readjusted his guess as to age downwards. If he was eight, that might explain the size a bit better. But then, Oz had always been small until he suddenly wasn’t. There were very good reasons it was referred to as the growth spurt from hell, after all. He shook his head, glancing over at the medics again. They still hadn’t noticed, or if they had then they were choosing not to get too close to him. But then Qrow had rather a reputation, they had to know that even if he was injured he was unlikely to go to them willingly. Besides, they had far more important people to treat.

He couldn’t see Glynda, or any of the others from Beacon. That was good, to an extent. It meant that he’d have a chance to get Oz to safety, somewhere he could heal from whatever had happened down in the vault. Time to think of a plan of sorts, to get things sorted… to learn what had happened, if Oz even knew that, either. To prepare, if the worst should happen and he really was just a little boy now. Although, had he been, Qrow rather doubted the cane would have calmed him as much as he did. Where was the easiest safe house, though? Who could he trust to have Oz’s best interests in mind when he could not be there, and he would have to check in with Tai and the girls soon enough. Oh. Oh, yes, she was rather the obvious choice, wasn’t she? Besides, Mistral was the closest kingdom anyway, Salem’s probable next target. Hopefully she’d think Oz was dead, he was pretty certain Cinder would have thought that or she wouldn’t have left the body long enough for whatever had happened to happen. She would have just killed him again, or worse, presented him as an offering to Salem. Qrow shivered at that, Oz’s still form shifting slightly but not waking, not stirring.

Rise and fall, rise and fall. Watching him breathe seemed to take up most of Qrow’s attention at the moment, but he needed to get moving. He could wrap Oz in a blanket once they were far enough away from Beacon so as they wouldn’t be stopped. Hopefully anyone that saw him would assume Oz was an actual kid and Qrow his caregiver. In a twisted way, he was right now. And to think, the day had started off so well.

He managed to make it away from the aftermath of the fall of Beacon without being stopped of questioned. That was odd, considering the lack of luck that Qrow always carried with him like a miasma, but maybe something somewhere knew just how important this was? They might not be looking out for Qrow, but maybe they were looking out for Oz?

He glanced down at the kid again, taking in the familiar features in rather unfamiliar sizes. Maybe his first guess was right and he really was nearer ten, but either way he wasn’t anywhere near old enough to fight yet. He would still be at least three years too young for even one of the primary Huntsman’s academies, after all. Maybe they could stop him from fighting if and when it came to it? Probably a bad bet though, knowing Oz, but it was an amusing one none the less. Oz had always been the protector, but now? It was rather likely that he’d be the one being protected. Qrow couldn’t help the snort at the image that bought up, but as he lay him down to wrap him in a blanket, his eyes were very sad. What would happen, really, if Oz never woke up? He was breathing, true, but there was no telling what sort of damage could have been caused by whatever it was that had turned him into a kid. It was probably magic, [Qrow was one of the few people who had been privy to Oz’s semblance and this certainly wasn’t it] but that just raised more questions. If it was magic, was it even something that they could reverse? Should they? From the state of Oz’s suit, it was more than likely that he’d be gravely injured as an adult if not… worse than injured. Ah well, it was only a decade and Qrow could wait. He just hoped Oz would still love him, when the time came. If it was Oz, and, well, that remained to be seen.

At least the person he was counting on knew he was coming. If it turned out Oz really was just a kid now, then that would be as safe a place as any for him to be raised, it wasn’t that likely Salem would really go looking as long as she thought he was dead after all. Qrow felt like the weight of Remnant was crushing him at the thought, though. If they’d lost the wizard, if Oz woke as a child and nothing more and the wizard never reincarnated… then they’d lost. Salem would run unchecked with nobody to counter her. So few people even knew about her to start with, how would they ever get them to believe that she was real? And without Oz, they’d have to. Without Oz, it was hopeless. They weren’t even certain where all the maidens were, and one of them was Cinder of all people… and Cinder was on Salem’s side.

Maybe their powers would vanish if the wizard died? Qrow was trying not to think about it, but the worst possible situations usually happened around him. After all, what was his semblance if not a curse to himself and those around him? Dooming Remnant, though? That would be a new low, even for him. Maybe Oz really should never have trusted him, never kept him around. If the worst happened, then the Tribe was right.

He swiped away the tears, angrily, watching Oz as he slept. It was getting dark, Qrow really needed rest himself, but Oz was too vulnerable to leave. Oh, Qrow could deal with any Grimm that popped up, he could really do with something to hit right now, but that wasn’t the point. Oz was never still when he slept, not really. That this sleep was too deep even for his normal nightmares… was that a good thing, or a bad thing? Could anything about this particular situation be viewed as anything bar a disaster? But no, Oz was still alive, even if he was a kid right now. He’d wake up, he’d be Oz, everything would be as okay as they could make it. Or at least as okay as anything really could be under the circumstances, weird though they very much were.

Qrow pulled a face, even as he got out his bedroll, positioning it so as to be between Oz and anything that might want to attack, trusting the fire to act as a sufficient barrier on the other side. He did need to rest, even though he knew he wouldn’t actually sleep.

They still had a long way to go to reach Mistral and safety, after all.

[justaz]

semi-dark king merlin au, someone from ealdor tells king cenred about merlin and he is captured and held as a slave in essetir. since merlin despises captivity and servitude, he’d rather be dead and free than alive and in chains so he acts out and pisses people (especially the king) off so they’ll think him too much trouble and kill him. at first they stick to beatings until merlin manages to get his chains around a few necks and now has a body count so they kill him…..only he wakes back up a few hours later and king cenred is Intrigued and keeps him close. merlin keeps acting out but no matter how many times they kill him, he won’t stay dead. merlin has this moment after waking up perfectly fine after his twenty seventh death where he is hopeless and believes there to be no escape, not even thru death. a few other sorcerers in chains come and help him clean up and give him a lil peptalk, realizing him to be emrys, and then they revolt and take over the kingdom and crown merlin as king and now uther is like “wtf” bc his neighboring kingdom who was kinda sorta on his wavelength about sorcery, though uther did not approve of keeping them alive, is now a kingdom ruled by magic. he goes to war with them but with magic running free and fucking emrys on the throne, they don’t make a lot of headway. anyways merthur meet on the battlefield, enemies to lovers, you get it

[kurthummeldeservesbetter]

To me (because I like making myself suffer) there are 2 other types of universes where Jayce and Viktor make hextech. If Viktor is always the mage, able to go to all universes where Jayce gets stuck in that blizzard with his mom, maybe he doesn't exactly know how that particular universe ends and is just searching for the exact one Jayce (and also Ekko) can save.

Viktor dies before Jayce can save (also doom) him with the hexcore. Maybe it's before the explosion, maybe he dies with Sky, maybe he just goes to bed and doesn't wake up. Jayce deals with this however you interpret. Maybe he goes crazy and destroys universes trying to find a healthy Viktor who won't die before their dream can be fully lived. Maybe he intentionally creates The Machine Herald this time. Maybe he stops inventing and just. Becomes a loner.

They are able to create hextech without any death/damage at all. Maybe Jayce and Viktor (who could find out about it before Jayce's place is robbed) and discover it's potential somewhere else. Maybe they start in Zaun and end up improving the lives of everyone there that Silco and Vander reconnect, Powder and VI stay sisters, everyone stays alive. Maybe Viktor is able to find a cure for his illness (and therefore find no need to experiment, since the fear of death will no longer control him.)

[starry-bi-sky]

I had a thought, dear However scary About that night The bugs and the dirt Why were you digging? What did you bury Before those hands pulled me From the earth? I will not ask you where you came from I will not ask you, neither should you

-------- an extension of this excerpt because I've been thinking of Femme Danny and Jason all week. It's mildly suggestive, but that's really the only heads up needed. --------

Music blaring, bass heavy in her ears, Danny finds him in a ditch at the bottom of the bluff. She was leaving the observatory, and she nearly misses him as she turns out onto the last stretch of road leading back into the city.

She catches sight of him, just barely. A glimpse in the corner of her eye; something reflecting on the light. She thinks it's a deer at first, and instinctual terror that only the idiocy of a deer denting her car can give her, strikes her hard. There's no one behind her, so she slams the breaks.

Her car stops; there's no deer. She looks and looks, but there's no deer, no deer buddy — they always come in pairs. But something still catches her eye; light reflecting off leather, in the ditch below just a few feet in front of her.

"What the fuck is that?" Slips out of her mouth before she can really think it through, and she's pulling off to the shoulder, wheels crunching gravel, before she thinks that through either.

Danny's climbing out of her car within seconds, putting it in park and hitting her hazards as her door clicks open and she stands up on the ledge. The trees block the sky, and there is no moon beholden to brighten the land, only the dull light of the stars and the brights of her car.

There's a man in a ditch. And he's not moving. From the distance, Danny's not sure if he's breathing.

She breathes out for him; "Fuck." She's running around the front of her car, not thinking it through. Her feet crunch the gravel, bugs buzzing at her ears, and she's sliding down the small hill into the ditch to reach his side.

"Please don't be dead, please don't be dead." Repeats in mantra under her breath, she can smell blood; heavy and iron, mixing with the dirt and the grass. Her hands find his side, Danny rolls him over onto his back. Her fingers find his pulse, and she breathes relief. He's alive.

—---------

Danny finds no less than two — no, three guns, four knives, and an actual, goddamn shiv on the half-dead ditch man. But not a single ID or wallet.

The man reeks of danger, even in his unconscious state it lingers on him like a rich cologne. It's the human instinct to be curious, and maybe it's the blood and dirt that tells her he's bad news. Common sense, naturally.

She doesn't know what to do with him. Danny wants to help him, but the ghostly part of her, the one that seeks safety above all else — for herself, for her loved ones. Because growing up in a house of weapons on the tables for sticky, pudgy fingers to play with, and food that needs killing twice, and labs full of half-broken beakers and radioactive substances spilling onto the floor robbed her of it entirely, — tells her to leave him.

He's dangerous. Her core hums cold, freezing the tips of her fingers, making her ears ring. She forgets to breathe, her hands going numb. Leave him for the coyotes to find; for the bugs to feast on; for the mud to swallow whole. Leave him for the land. Nobody carries this many weapons on them unless—

He groans. In only the light from her high beams, his cracked lips split and makes a noise of pain. His chest rises, shuddery and slow, and he doesn't wake. The man slips back down into unconsciousness. But he's alive.

He's alive.

Danny exhales. It's springtime, wreathed in life. It's cold; he's cold. But alive. She shakes the chill from her fingers, resolution warms her lungs.

Carrying him up to her car isn't easy — dressed like fucking Dean Winchester and wearing half as many layers, the man is probably two hundred pounds. But she's been working out and taking boxing classes since sophomore year of high school. She throws him over her shoulder in a fireman's carry, and hikes them both up the hill.

She drives them home. Don't ask her why she didn't take them to the hospital; she can't give an answer. Not one that makes sense. She knows enough first aid to fix almost anything he might have.

Danny blasts the heat and turns the music on low; switches to something softer, more comforting, in case he wakes up. She kicks the passenger seat back far enough so that if he does, he's reclined comfortably.

He doesn't wake up, she can't keep her eyes off him anyways.

—---------

Danny lays him on the couch in her house. He gets blood and mud on the fabric, and she'll need to get a new one because of it. But she takes off his boots, strips him of his shirt and jackets, and flies to the bathroom to get her first aid kit.

He doesn't wake up the entire time she's putting stitches in his side. Nothing is broken, but he's bruised and cut. Some get band-aids, others get bandages.

The man has half as many scars as Danny does. Stabs, cuts, a few burns here and there. Danny has those too, but she doubts the man has been impaled before like she has. The luck of ghosts that they can't die by mortal means. Or curse, depending on how you look at it.

(There's a thin scar on his throat, like someone tried to slice it open. She sees it while she's stitching up a laceration near his collarbone, and Danny can't stop herself from huffing.)

("We match." She murmurs, joking dry and ingenuine. She doubts anyone's survived a botched decapitation like she has. At least his scar is thin and hard to see. That wasn't a good night for her; she had to sew it closed herself, alone out of refusal to let her friends help.)

When she's done, she collapses into the recliner beside him, and falls asleep. She slips in and out of dreams all night.

—---------

When she wakes up, the man is staring at her, sitting up on the couch like an animal listening for the predator nearby. It's a good thing she hid his weapons in the floorboards when they arrived. She stares back at him, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

He's handsome. She thinks, and wakes up fully.

—---------

His name is Jason Todd, he doesn't remember who he is.

That's... a problem.

—---------

She makes them both food, and she'll never stop appreciating the fact that she no longer needs to fight her fridge before the food inside lets her eat. She hasn't lived with her parents in years, and yet the awe still hits her some days.

"I thought I told you to stay seated." She frowns when Jason Todd enters her kitchen, a hand hovering over his bandaged side. They're both tense; awkward and wrong-footed. Off-kilter. It's not a surprise to her. He's amnesiac, she's a stranger.

Jason Todd blinks at her, leaning against the doorframe. From her periphery, he shrugs, only to suck in his teeth in pained regret moments later. "I got bored." He tells her.

"Well, I don't have painkillers," Danny retorts, cheek comes easy to her. Too easy, sometimes. "if you tear your stitches then I'm giving you a rag to bite into while I redo them."

Well, if anything, it gets a snort from him.

—---------

"So, do I have a shirt, or did you just find a half-naked, half-dead man in the woods and decide to take him home?" Jason Todd asks her from the table a few minutes later. She can see, even standing a few feet away, the gooseflesh rising bumps against his skin.

Her cheeks color pink, and she moves to the hallway. "You have a shirt," she says, "you have two actually, and a jacket. I threw the shirts in the wash because they were filthy."

The jacket was leather, so during the night, when she woke up from her many bouts of restless sleep, she got up and cleaned it by hand. "I would've done the same with your jeans, but I can take a half-dead man home," she opens the dryer and pulls out the shirts, "but I draw the line at taking off his pants when he's unconscious."

It gets a short laugh out of him; harsh and brief, and it makes her relax, just a little. Laughter meant just enough comfort to not be tense... most of the time. She returns to his side and drapes the still-warm clothes onto the table.

"What if my legs were hurt?" He asks her, raising an eyebrow even as he reached for the first shirt.

"Then that is called an exception to the rule, ditch man."

—---------

He stays with her. He has nowhere to go — and trust her, they looked. Or they tried to. But he has no social media that shows up under the name ‘Jason Todd’. Oh, there are Jason Todds, but none that match the way he looks — none of them his age, none of them with black hair and blue eyes, no white streak in the curls at the front.  

Well, there was one possible candidate. A Jason Todd-Wayne, infamous adoptive son of Bruce Wayne. But he died the same year Danny did, and unlike her, he didn’t come back. 

“Great.” Jason Todd sighs heavy, “I match with a dead kid.”

“I’m honestly kind of impressed.” Danny tells him, frowning despite her laughing disbelief. She scrolls through every social media she can find, and he just doesn’t show up. There are no warrants out for his arrests, no celebrity interviews with him in it, no missing news reports matching his description. Nothing. “How do you not have any socials? You’re like a ghost.” And she knows a thing or two about ghosts.

It’s equally as suspicious as it is impressive. Who are you, Jason Todd? She wonders, looking over to him.  

He merely shrugs, careful of his injuries, and slumps into his chair. “Don’t ask me, I don’t remember.” 

She gives him the guest room, and they go out and buy him clothes with what budget she can afford. She drags him to a thrift store first, to every thrift store in the city, and they come back with a decent enough haul that he has clothes for at least two weeks. 

—---------

“Danny, what is that?” 

She takes a long sip of her drink, Jason lingering at her side like a shadow. “A smoothie, Tucker.” She says, deadpan like it's the most obvious thing in the world as she slides into their favorite booth with practiced ease. “You know this, I always get one on Fridays.” 

Jason follows her easily, slow and careful, mindful of his sides. He’s back to awkward, tense, acting like an outside looking in. Like he’s not quite sure what to do in the face of her friends. They’ve been together for a week now, and she asked him if he wanted to meet Sam and Tucker with her. 

(“You’ve been cooped up here all week.” She says when he asks her why, her hands shifting the purse at her shoulder. In shorts and a tank-top her scars lay on display for the world to see, and while she's long since shed the worst of her self-consciousness, it still creeps up on her. She can feel his eyes on them, even after a week. “Some fresh air and a change of scenery might do you some good. Maybe even jog that noggin of yours.”) 

Sam and Tucker stare at her, expressions unreading on their faces. Their eyes flick to Jason at her side, and then back to her. Danny takes another longer sip of her drink, and when she lets go with an obnoxious smack, she jerks her head to Jason. “Oh,” she says like an afterthought, an impish smile shadowing over her lips. “This is Jason, I found him in a ditch on Sunday.” 

"You what!?"

—---------

She doesn’t know how it happens. It sneaks up on her like sunlight creeping across the grass, melting away the morning dew and warming the dirt. She loves him. She loves him, she loves him, she loves him. It’s a terrible, choking thing. Wonderfully beautiful, melting her from the inside out. 

She loves him, she loves him, she loves him.

It’s greater than anything she’s felt before. Different from when she nearly dated Valerie in high school — but so, so similar to it at the same time. Warm in its certainty, in its similarity, burning in its difference. 

Danny doesn’t even realize it until half a year living with him, maybe just a little bit longer. But she realizes when she comes downstairs in the early dredges of the morning, sleep clinging to her lashes and sunlight unfurling through the windows, and finds him in the kitchen making food already. 

It’s not the first time she’s woken up to him doing this. But it’s, for some reason, only now that it hits her how fucking domestic it is. With music playing soft through the speaker of his used phone, barefoot in nothing but sweatpants, and humming along under his breath. He’s gotten so comfortable here; he laughs easier now, smiles easier. It was like watching a flower bloom in real time. 

And the sunlight cards through his hair like fingers, caressing over his face in that loving way it does when it wants someone to see the breathless beauty of their eyes. 

Something constricts in Danny’s chest, tight, fond, wanting. Mine, her mind whispers, faint and distant, and knocking the air from her lungs like a fucking train. Her fingers curl tight around the stairway rails, she has half a mind to crack it in two. 

Then he turns and sees her, he always notices her quickly, and Jason smiles at her. 

Somehow, Danny manages to smile back smiling with the ease of breathing, even when her mouth runs dry.

(If she kisses him, will she taste sugar? She hopes not — white sugar is unfilling, sweet but with nothing else to it. If she tastes Jason Todd, she hopes she tastes caramel.) 

—---------

“Want to go throw axes with me?” Danny asks, draping over the back of the couch and hanging her arms off Jason’s shoulders. Her hand finds his hair, and her fingers tangle with the dark curls. She can smell his shampoo when she hooks her chin on the top of his head.

Jason stills, a book in hand — he’s always got a book, and Danny’s never had much artistic talent but she always want s to find a pencil, maybe some charcoals, and sketch the sight down on paper. Memory isn’t enough, she needs it burned into something tangible. She wants to burn everything he does onto paper, wants to remember every little thing about him.

Then he hums, questioning and low, and Danny tries not to shiver with greed to hear it again. She hums back, her next inhale clearing her head. “Well, it’s not just me, but Sam and Tucker too. A new bar opened up downtown and we were gonna check it out, and we have enough time to add another person to the reservation.” 

A silence, thick and thoughtful. Jason tilts his head back to look up at her, and she removes her chin and hand to look down at him. Her hair curtains over them both, locking her into his eyes — impossibly blue, and beautifully so, with teal lining the iris. 

He wears his thoughts on his sleeve, his brows furrowed and mouth puckered in lighthearted thoughtfulness. Quit making me want to kiss you, Danny thinks, and forces her eyes to remain on his face. Idly, her hands trace over his shirt, rising slowly to drag the back of her nail over his collarbone. 

Jason shudders, sighs out slow, and smiles easily. “Sure, what time are we leaving?”   

—---------

Danny sighs as if she aches; she does. Her fingers find Jason Todd’s hair, soft and slipping between her fingers like silk. He’s so close to her face she can feel his breath on her lips, it’s driving her crazy with it. 

“My god.” She murmurs, her voice slipping out without her consent as her fingers drop from his hair to trace featherlight touches down his temples, down his jaw. His eyes haven’t left hers, half-lidded they are, and heavy, staring at her like he might just swallow her whole. 

Please do, she thinks, tilting her head to the side to slot their noses next to each other. His hands tighten at her waist, fingers digging through her hoodie into her skin. He hums, questioningly, low and rumbling like a thunderstorm on the horizon. As if he can’t trust his voice to say something instead. 

Danny chokes on nothing’s heat and runs her thumb over his bottom lip, the flesh catching briefly on her nail. She can’t think straight with him so close to her. Not when he’s so close she can smell his cologne, not when he’s so close she can lean down and sink her teeth into his throat and leave a bruise. She should, it might clear her head. 

Instead, she sighs again, her mouth so close to his that she brushes over his lips when she says; “You’re divine.” 

In the end, she doesn’t need to think about leaving bruises on his throat, because Jason closes that centimeters’ worth of distance between each other and kisses her like he needs air. 

—---------

“Do you have to go, love?” Arms snake around her waist, slipping easily over her dress, and Danny laughs, soft and easy, as Jason pulls her flush against his chest and drops his head into the crook over her shoulder. He dwarfs her in the mirror, capable of curling around her entirely, and she raises a gloved hand to rake her fingers through his soft hair.

Danny hums deeply, tilting to bare her throat as Jason starts pressing kisses to the skin. “Vlad will be upset if I don’t show up.” She wasn’t sure of the importance of this party, but Vlad had promised her a hefty bribe to show up, and call her greedy but damn if she wasn’t going to turn it down.  

Teeth bite gentle at the underside of her jaw, and Danny laughs out of surprise. Jason smiles, indenting it into her skin, and his hand finds the slit of her dress and covers the burn scar on the outside of her thigh. “What about running late?” He asks, something impish in his tone. “I’ve never seen you wear this one; you look good in red.” 

Danny laughs again, turns her head to catch his lips against hers, and kisses him long and sweet. “Yes, he’ll be mad if I’m late.” She says when she pulls back. 

He pouts, and really, how else is Danny supposed to react other than kiss him again? So she does, happily. ���Wake me up when you get back,” Jason murmurs against her mouth, chasing after her, “I want to help you undress.” 

—---------

Some days, death creeps up on her, and the phantom pains of it render her coiled into a ball in her bed. She wakes up at three am burning, her starburst scars rooting down to her bones to remind her of the feeling of being torn apart by the atoms and stitched back together again. 

Danny can feel her heart beating in her ears, fast and panicked like she ran a marathon, filling her mouth with iron and the urge to cough out her lungs. There’s a scream stuck in the back of her throat like a spider sac, and she writhes with her head in her arms for what feels like an hour before she forces herself out of bed, mind half-muddled like a zombie. 

Jason is still asleep, Danny doesn’t have half the mind to be grateful, she shuffles herself down into the garage and grabs a compressed canister from the fridge, hidden in a false shelf. She might not keep ectoplasm in the kitchen, but she does in the garage. 

She returns on second nature to the bathroom. She locks the door, shuts the drain, and runs the water to boiling, and doesn’t stop the faucet until the water reaches the little drain in the wall beneath that prevents overflow. The compressed canister cracks open with a hiss, and Danny dumps what’s probably an ounce of ectoplasm into the steaming water.

The effect is instantaneous, the water swirling and turning bright with ectoplasm all the way down. It’s diluted, and Danny only remembers to take off her sleep shirt before she slips into the water. 

Relief sinks into her, and chases away the worst of the pain. She sighs, she can breathe again, and dunks her head beneath the water. 

Then doesn’t get out until she’s freezing again and nearly peeling with wrinkles. 

(She goes downstairs when she’s changed into dry clothes and her hair is damp, and then collapses into Jason’s lap. Her face finds the crook of his neck, and Danny slumps, arms wrapping around his neck.)

(Jason’s hands find her waist, and his thumbs rub circles into her side, slipping under her shirt to run over the raised skin of the burn there. “What’s wrong?” He asks, murmuring low and close to her ear.)

(“Phantom pains.” Danny mumbles.)

(“Where?”)

(“Everywhere.”) 

—---------

When Danny returns home after finding Jason again, she feels numb, she feels cold. Her engagement ring is heavy on her finger and she feels like an outsider looking in when she looks down at it. 

She can’t get the way he looked at her out of her mind. It’s seared into her brain. 

Her back hits the door, and slowly she slides down it, a sob building in her throat. Her lip curling, her heart aching, her heart breaking. Too many questions inside her head for her to try and sort through them, but one is prevalent; Jason Todd is a liar.  

Danny shrieks his name so loud that she breaks her ceiling lights, and takes out the power throughout the entire block. There are dogs howling, cars wailing outside. There’s broken glass beneath her, scattered across the ground, cutting into her palms, and she hurts so much she wants to take the biggest shard and shred herself into ribbons. 

—---------

The memory fades away back into its small star-shape, and floats back up to the ceiling of her lair’s observatory. Danny watches it go, something small and aching still in her chest. Two weeks since she moved into the Zone, and she hates that she still loves him. She loves that she still loves him. 

She hates that she still misses him. She still visits Sam and Tucker, but Amity Park is tainted with the memory of Jason Todd; she needs away from it for a little while. Maybe a long while. She’s not too sure right now, she just needs to stay away. Somewhere where she can’t run into him. 

Danny pulls down another star to watch another memory again. One where they're dancing.

[anxiously-awaiting]

hi his outfit is a fucking MESS rn but <3 bedi alter for your thoughts

[anne-is-confused]

"firstly, i ABHOR the use of blood magic" SINCE WHEN???????

[themoonking]

finally finished the priory of the orange tree after putting it off for like a year, and putting aside the fact that it's insanely boring, way too long, and the romance is lackluster, it certainly was a choice to, in a book at least in part about finding common ground and coming together, basically go "religion a is correct and good and its believers can continue on their merry lives, but religion b is a 100% incorrect wrong bad lie founded by a wrong bad misogynistic lying liar, and everyone who believes in it should convert and in fact we're going to end the book by heavily implying that the recently-converted queen is going to slowly but surely pressure the entire country to convert because their faith is wrong and bad". like that was certainly a decision that samantha shannon made.

[art--harridan]

[Image description: A digital drawing of Paul Hackett from the film After Hours. The piece is landscape, but the bold dark blue background has a lot of empty space, with Paul confined to the right side. The piece is drawn upwards of his shoulders. He has a exhausted and apathetic expression on his face, with his head tilted to one side slightly. His skin is coloured with exaggerated tones, with dark purple shadows circling his eyes. He is covered in a white plaster dust, which congregates on his disheveled hair and suit jacket. Behind him, there's an askew streetlight, which has a glaring red light at the top. It is the brightest part of the piece, and is drawn with spikes of red protruding from the lighter light yellow in the middle. To the left of this, there's the phrase "stop him!", written out like it is on his wanted poster. The lineart is a very dark navy colour, although it veers redder on Paul. It has stark shadows but also sections of softer, more textured shading.]

Inktober - Day 8 (Hike)

Film - After Hours (Martin Scorsese, 1985)

[lord-squiggletits]

"Rodimus is a better Prime because it didn't hurt for him to bond with the Matrix while for Optimus it did" headcanon/theory my beloathed.

One day I'm literally gonna snap and make a whole post addressing why what's wrong bc I'm tired of the inaccuracy and tired of ppl not understanding the Point TM of IDW and its version of the Matrix/Primacy and even more tired of people putting down Optimus in favor of Rodimus by essentially arguing that being unworthy means you deserve to be punished/put in pain bc you just weren't good enough to hold the Symbol of Ultimate Authority

[enter-drfrog]

What if I say that watching Mischief Theatre is the only thing holding my life together right now? What then?

[bafflement]

Deaged Oz AU [continued]

Emerald Pine sighed as she noticed that her scroll was ringing. Who could it be at this time of... oh. Qrow. Hopefully he wasn't drunk again... Picking up rather hesitantly, she could hear his voice on the other side. He didn't sound drunk, weirdly enough. He just sounded... panicked. "Hey, Em? Y'know ya said I could always come lay low at your place if I needed to? Well... we need to." "... we?" "Yeah, we. I'll tell ya when I get there? Bit busy trying to keep the kid alive right now." "... kid? Qrow, did you kidnap a child?" "S'not that simple... you'll see. Besides, ain't your nephew there? Maybe he could use a friend..." There was a desperate hint of hysteria in his tone, as though whatever it was that had happened had well and truly upended Qrow's world view. "This child you found, they're not dangerous, right? And where are their parents?" "As said, tell ya when I get there." Qrow muttered something too low to be easily picked up through the scroll and the connection cut. Em sighed as Qrow rang off. Well then, that was obviously as much information as she'd get out of him... she didn't even know if the kid in question was a boy or a girl. Oscar came through into the room, looking curious. "Who was that, auntie Em?" "Oh, just an old friend, he's bringing someone to stay with us for awhile. Mind sharing a room for a week or two?" "Huh? Who're they bringing?" "I don't know, Oscar. All they said was that they're a kid. Qrow's a huntsman, though, so whatever it is can't be that dangerous?" "A huntsman? A real one? Here?" Oscar sounded excited 'Can I meet him? Can I ask him stuff? What's he like?" "Qrow is... Qrow. Hard to describe, really. No idea who trusted him with a child, but I might need to have words with them, too." Qrow breathed a sigh of abject relief as he came to the door of the farm. The bundle in his arms hadn't moved once since that terrifying moment he'd first found him. He was breathing, but he was so frightfully still in his arms, pale skin even paler than normal, moonlit hair half burned off. Em came out to meet them, glancing with concern at the boy in Qrow's arms before her eyes widened slightly. Looking back up into Qrow's face, all he could do was nod as he lay them down on the sofa. Their clothing was mostly rag, bits of it seemed to have flaked off in some terrible heat, but the boy himself seemed untouched. Em wrinkled her nose slightly at the smell of blood and burnt hair, but tucked an old blanket around him anyway, Qrow tucking something familiar beneath it, wrapping one tiny hand around the hilt. The boy wasn't very old. Ten, maybe? It was a bit hard to tell, but he was definitely younger and smaller than her nephew. This was all absolutely impossible, of course. She'd wake up from this at some point, but for now... "Qrow?" She bit out. "Explain. Is that... what happened to them?" "Magic bullshit, Em. I don't have anything better. Maybe he will when he wakes?" Oz moaned as he came to, the light bright against his eyes. He groped for glasses that he couldn't find and winced. He tried to ascertain if there was anyone else, if he'd become just a voice in their head but was met with silence. A slightly sleepy murmur that he knew to be Ozymandias, but beyond that, nothing. So, this was likely still his body, then. "Where am I? Qrow? What happened. What happened to my students, to Beacon, to..." "It's okay, Oz. You're alright, you're safe for now." "Maybe but... everybody else? This feels odd, it's still me but everything seems far bigger than I think it ought to. If I died, I don't understand how I'm still here." He raised a hand in emphasis, blinking at just how small it looked. "... Qrow? How old would you say I am? Physically, at least? Because on one hand I am so incredibly glad that my curse has not claimed someone else, but on the other, I sincerely doubt that this was Miss Fall's intention."

[itsalwaysdark]

how it feels to want to dress very fancy and accessoried but unfortunately have the autism where i think im supposed to just be lounging in a field naked or in like. a plain linen dress. and any accessory or makeup or nail polish or ehat have you makes me want to rip my skin off

[thesorcerersshadow]

merlin whispering “don’t let him get too close”, already the advisor on arthur’s shoulder when society says he really has NO BUSINESS being so, and arthur listening and drawing his sword and warning uther. okayyyyy.

[pzyii]

Need. content. of. Jenny. acting. Like. Willows. Mom.

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[designernishiki]

I think I’ve said this before on here but. it really baffles and somewhat annoys me sometimes how people hear that a character is in their 40s-50s and immediately assume they should be weak or feeble or less attractive than they are. like. no. i think everyones just been brainwashed to think that attractiveness/health/worth is determined by how young someone is. why is it more understandable to view a teenager as more attractive and capable than a fit 40-50-something year old. kinda wack