Latest Posts by elowenp - Page 4

Carpenter walks up to a near complete mark of the wither tide, Faulkner muttering incoherently at its centre, and scuffs it with her boot.

Faulkner looks up with crazed eyes the moment she alters his masterpiece. Carpenter grips her shard of glass tighter and feels it cut into her hand. Blood drips to the ground and Carpenter suppresses a bitter laugh.

One last offering to the Trawlerman.

“You should run, Carpenter,” Faulkner warns, his voice quavers but not with anything so mundane as nerves. His body can barely contain his excitement, the fervency of his devotion. His gaze sharpens and Carpenter balks as she feels the water surrounding the pier pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat. “I’ve told you before that it would be unwise for you to test which of us our god loves more.”

Carpenter's pace as she walks through the wither mark, bad leg dragging against the floor and destroying all Faulkner’s hard work, does not change. She remains steady and is rewarded with a voice that does not quaver as Faulkner’s does. “You know as well as anyone that I have never proclaimed myself to be wise.”

Faulkner huffs out a laugh and Carpenter smiles a familiar smile. It drops as she remembers what she’s about to do. Faulkner must see it and mirrors her expression before his eyes go distant.

“I suppose we’re soon to part ways then?”

Carpenter pauses for a moment. “That would not be an unreasonable assumption,” she allows.

Faulkner nods as if this is the only answer he had been expecting. “Well then, I suppose if we are to end this as enemies, we’d best do it as the sort who love each other.” As he speaks Faulkner daubs himself in the marking of the Trawlerman once again. The mud from the last time he did so still stains his skin but the marks he paints now lose no clarity because of that. Once he appears to be finished he turns away from the prayer marks that have been gradually consuming his body to meet Carpenter's eyes. “May your peace find you on a lonely road."

Carpenter swallows dryly, suddenly very glad of the reminder Paige’s parting words had given her. “May your peace walk on with you for a while.”

She and Faulkner exchange sad smiles. Then Carpenter is raising her glass and running towards Faulkner as fast as her broken and bleeding legs will carry her. Then Faulkner is readying his stance and screaming his prayers to the river with more conviction than Carpenter knew a human voice could contain. Then Faulkner is raising his hands skywards and then-

~

The river rises

The river rises and it is not a flood as was written. As Nana Glass told stories of. As Carpenter dreamed would seep upwards to drench and drown her doubts in silt.

The river rises and it is a tsunami.

~

Carpenter, limping and shattered and shaking, is faster than her river.

She reaches the centre of the wither mark, reaches Faulkner. His eyes widen a bit as she does so, as if he can’t quite believe that his river would fail him in his moment of triumph.

Carpenter has known her god far to long to think it reliable.

She plunges the shard of glass into Faulkner’s left eye. He screams in pain and Carpenter mutters a quick prayer that his death will be quick, there is little else she can do for him at this point.

Then Faulkner manages to stop screaming, keeps his cries of pain trapped in his throat and lets something different flood out.

“You should have aimed for the prayer marks,” he hisses, teeth bared as blood drips down his cheeks in a crimson tide.

Shit.

There isn't much she can do after that.

~

-crashing waves full of weeds and bracken and crawling angels of the river. Water filling her lungs and mud wriggling into her eyes.

Something twists her leg. A thing with claws that are too huge to be any crab or lobster that Carpenter can't see through the filth of her god.

The pain is huge and impossible but even as tears fill her eyes Carpenter finds it in herself to be grateful. Of all the ways her river knows how to do harm this is perhaps one of its least awful.

She wonders if it’s a boon. A final thank you after her years of faithful service. Considering what she’s done for her river Carpenter finds this to be a rather weak acknowledgement of her efforts and stops feeling grateful.

Then she’s crashing tumbling through dodgem cars and her river is a whirlpool with her at its centre and if she could just breathe then-

~

When Carpenter wakes up, it’s to her shock that she’s still alive.

This is better thanks of my service, she thinks in the direction of her river. She sits up with a grunt of pain and begins to inspect the damage.

Her leg is fucked. It’s no longer bleeding but in a cruel twist of fate it’s been sanctified. The flesh is hard and rough. Calcified. Carpenter can feel layers upon layers and limpets, with other squamous things sandwiched in between, clinging directly to her bone.

Where her new flesh meets her old she itches.

There’s also the fact that she has no idea where she is.

Or, maybe she does. That patch of bulrushes looks sort of familiar and she’s sure she heard this same bird song she's hearing now at some point during her and Faulkner’s pilgrimage.

She drags herself upright and finds that she can put weight in her new leg even if it makes her somewhat unsteady. She hobbles about the bank, moving inland.

Then she sees the body.

It’s not much of a body. More like a skeleton, picked clean by birds and angels of the river alike. Despite the fact that it’s lacking most of its distinguishing features, Carpenter knows in her soul that this is the body she and Faulkner saw near the beginning of their pilgrimage. Right before everything started to go to shit.

Carpenter let’s out a harsh laugh as she realises this, the sound of her torment echoing across her still and silent river.

“You’re telling me that was all the god damn exposition?” she screams at her god, angry tears blurring her vision.

Her river doesn’t answer her.

Carpenter sighs, it’s not as if she expected anything different. She picks herself up and starts trying to figure out what to do now.

She laughs again, gentler this time. She bets that Faulkner is doing the exact same thing.

monster of the week | demons

yeah i love romance (the insatiable longing for god)

“I would like to suggest a temporary truce.”

Luz has no idea how Hunter got in.

From the looks of bewilderment on Eda and Kings faces Luz is pretty sure that they’re in the same boat. The same very confused, very concerned boat that’s being tossed by the whims of the boiling sea.

Luz turns back to Hunter who’s looking at the three of them expectantly, waiting on a response.

“Hootyyyyyy,” Eda calls into the house. Hunter keeps just standing there and Luz pinches herself to make sure she isn’t dreaming.

Then there’s an owl coming out of the floor. At least some things are normal.

“Hello!”

“How is he here?” Eda demands, “Why is he here?”

“To offer a truce? It’s a very good truce, and I said that I would recommend it, and what better way to recommend it than letting him tell you all about it himself!” Hooty pauses to check if anyone’s nodding in agreement of his clearly very sound decision making process. He’s met by a stony silence and expressions of particularly strong disapproval.

For once he seems to read the room.

“Okay, you guys have lots to talk about, bye!” His face shoves itself through the floorboards back the way it came and a hole is left in the floor between Eda, King and Luz and Hunter. Luz imagines the hole widening into a chasm, it feels more appropriate.

“As I said,” Hunter continues slowly, “I’m here to propose a truce.”

Eda scoffs. King growls. Luz glares.

“And what common ground could we possibly find to build a truce over?” Eda asks icily.

Hunter takes a breath. “I was hoping we might work together to kill Kikimora.”

Huh.

“Okay then,” Eda starts, voice full in equal measure of interest and surprise. “I’m listening.”

I can fix him [drill sound] [screaming] [chainsaw revving]

DID YOU HEAR ABOUT TIM

Asdhovhoigdittekbbknc

long time nuclear waste warnings + angels

Paige leaves behind Carpenter and Faulkner in search of a new god.

She doesn’t really know how to go about such a thing. She’s more than well versed in strengthening a god, years of practice have made her far better at cultivating worship than any preacher, but the search for a god is something she lacks background in.

At a loss for what else to do, Paige drives.

She keeps the silence for a while. Hoping that being alone with her thoughts might lend her mind to some form of holy revelation. She manages to keep that up for almost twenty minutes before she sighs in anxious boredom and starts fiddling with the radio dial.

Static gives way to whispering voices gives way to a prophet of some new religion. Paige turns the sound up in sudden interest.

“-dream is to create. Dear listeners, we have reached a new stage. An apotheosis, if you will. I have metamorphasised from a decaying, droning worker, asleep to all the things that matter, to a new man with new purpose in my heart. I have gone from a sacrifice to something sacred. Something new. My god saw me about to devote myself to a deity of unholiness and was so gracious as to call me to something deserving of my worship. And, in answer to that calling, let us sing our next hosanna-“

Paige keeps listening to the radio, fighting against the tiredness nipping at the edges of her consciousness as she does so. There’s banging in the background, the soundproofing of the room the host is in quieting it enough that you don’t hear it at first, but it’s certainly there. Sometimes it drops away, presumably when whoever’s trying to get into the recording booth succumbs to the sleep that Paige is fighting so valiantly against. It keeps coming back and Paige thinks that a lot of people must be very desperate to get this man to stop worshiping his god.

Coming to a decision, Paige pulls over and gets a map out to try and find the radio station this prophet must be broadcasting from. She wants a new god after all, a gentler one than any she’s been provided with so far. And even if this man's god is not her god, and Paige suspects that it is not, then maybe he’ll still be able to tell her how to birth something she can worship. Just like he did.

brb crying about the fact that vaughn did NOT get to choose the thing that ate them

living in gotham is like. you are going to be consumed. you are going to see your worst fears in horrific visions. these visions will be provided by someone who doesn’t even know your name. someone is going to shoot you. you are going to laugh and you will not want to. you are going to kill someone. whether or not your house gets blown up will be decided by a coin flip. someone put acid in the water. you are going to be in a hostage situation. a fucking furry is going to be the only reason you survive any of this

Miles can’t stop looking at the sword.

Gavin, the guy who owns the antiques store where Miles works, said that he got it at some car boot sale. When Miles had asked if Gavin got any contact information for the previous owner he had just shrugged and said no because it was ‘probably a fake’.

The sword is not a fake.

Miles isn’t quite sure how he knows that, nothing about the sword or Miles’s slightly vague knowledge of antiquities should inform him of the fact, but he’s certain it’s true. The sword is real and powerful and important. He just can’t figure out why yet.

It’s in a glass case in the centre of the shop although you can barely tell that the glass is there from the number of times Miles has polished it. All in an attempt to see the sword a little more clearly. The metal is shining silver steel, while the handle is well worn and a brassy colour. Twisting patterns cover the cross guard and worm their way up the base of the blade, eventually narrowing into a single line that reaches all the way to the tip of the blade. Whenever Miles focuses too hard on those patterns they seem to move and shift and it makes him dizzy enough that he has to look away.

A part of him worries that if he didn’t look away the patterns really would begin to move.

He’s sat at the till and the shop is empty so he turns his gaze towards the books he keeps behind the counter. He shouldn’t really keep them there, they belong to the shop and should be kept visible where someone might buy them. The problem with that is the fact that Miles knows no one would buy them. He knows it the same way he knows the sword is important and the patterns on it would start to shift if he dared look to long and his older sister is the most important person in the entire world. Miles knows that no one would buy the books if he left them out in the shop because they’re meant for him.

He picks up one of the books. It’s a deceptively thin volume with writing so dense he sometimes has to use a magnifying glass to read it. The pages are wafer thin but surprisingly strong, enough so that when Miles tried to tear one once, just to see if he could, he hadn’t even managed to leave a mark. The content of the book is an eclectic mix of folklore, the occult and religion. The different areas should clash horribly but somehow this book, just like all the others Miles has stashed away, presents it all in such a cohesive manner that it’s hard to remember why the different subjects shouldn’t fit together right.

Just as he’s getting into it the loud rumble of a motorbike engine pulls up outside the shop and he’s broken from his stupor. He looks out the window to see Ariana, his sister, get off her bike and take off her helmet to release a swishing curtain of golden hair.

She walks with an aura of complete confidence that Miles has always admired. The bell over the door dings as she comes in and she grins as she pushes her hair out of her eyes. The movement reveals a multitude of glinting, silver piercings in her ear that for some reason shimmer with the same aura as the sword.

Ariana approaches his desk and Miles shakes himself from his thoughts.

“Your engine’s way too loud.”

Ariana shrugs. “It’s exactly as loud as it should be, you’re just jealous.”

“It makes you sound like you have a small dick.” Miles replies, going back to his book as Ariana lovingly flips him off.

She leans back from his desk and scans across the shop like she does with every room she enters. Miles has never quite figured out why she does that but he supposes it’s just a tic of hers. As soon as Ariana’s eyes alight on the sword she begins to walk towards it, her movements somewhat trance like.

“What’s up with this?” she asks.

Miles looks up at her, not quite sure how to answer. “What do you mean?”

Ariana turns to look at him, squinting. “Don’t you get a weird vibe off it?”

“Huh.” Miles puts his book down and sits up a little straighter. “Yeah, I do. Thought it was just me.”

Ariana just nods. “Can I hold it?”

Miles is meant to say no. The shop is still open. Gavin is just in the back room and could come through to see him fucking about at any moment.

“Sure.” he shrugs.

Ariana grins the way she usually does when Miles does something she approves of. She tends to think he lives his life a little too safe so these moments are few and far between but Miles appreciates them whenever they arrive. Miles gets up from behind the counter, grabbing the key to the cabinet from the hook it’s kept on. As he unlocks the door he realises that he’s leaving smudge marks on the glass and feels a moment of annoyance that they’re going to make it a little harder to keep his eyes fixed on the patterns of the sword later. He takes the sword and hands it very carefully to Ariana. The edges are wicked sharp, a fact he knows from experience.

She grasps the handle and for a moment Miles thinks that the patterns are about to shift. That they’re about to twist and shift and creep up Ariana’s hand the same way they appear to creep up the flat of the blade. There’s a second where Miles thinks his sister’s body is about to become shot through with the silver glint of metal and instead of feeling worried he’s entirely ready to watch the process in fascination.

That’s not what happens. Nothinghappens.

Ariana lets the tip of the sword droop, a mirror of her disappointment. “I thought that something-” She waves her hands in the air, lacking the words to explain what unnatural event she was actually hoping for.

Miles nods. He gets what she means. “Not this time I guess.” Then, despite not having thought of the words before they’re out of his mouth. “It will though, when it has to.”

Ariana looks at him in confusion and Miles imagines that the expression must match his own fairly well. Instead of questioning him though she just looks back to the sword, eyes tracing the patterns that flow over it. “Okay,” she says, and puts the antique gently back in its case.

She sticks around to chat a little after that but heads off when it becomes apparent that the both of them are too distracted to make good conversationalists. Miles notices that as Ariana’s motorbike peels off she keeps the sound of the engine a little quieter than when she came in and he feels a moment of pride over her heading his advice.

~

Weeks pass.

Ariana keeps visiting Miles at work. Keeps staring at the sword, staying still for longer than he thought she had the patience for, while Miles keeps reading his books full of strangeness and tradition and magic.

On one visit she brings her girlfriend, Grace with her. Miles likes Grace. She’s been around since before Ariana even thought of forming her definitely-not-a-biker-gang. When Ariana introduced the two of them Miles may have gained a small crush on Grace but that quickly faded in the face of how an alliance between the two of them could be used to torment his sister.

“Have you come to see the sword?” Miles asks once the two motorbikes are parked outside and Ariana and Grace are coming through the door. He has an open history textbook in front of him instead of one of his more arcane times this time. It feels like a waste of time to be studying something for his a-levels instead of something he enjoys but needs must and all that.

Grace grins at him, brown skin crinkling mischievously as she raises her hands to do finger quotes. “You have to see the weird sword Grace, it’s weird and I want to have it and I would look so badass killing a dragon with it.”

Miles snickers while Ariana pulls a face of mock betrayal. “Killing dragons? Bit ambitious. Maybe you could kill a lizard or something. A small one.”

Ariana sticks her tongue out like the mature twenty year old she is and walks towards the sword. Miles throws her the keys since she’s come over for this enough times that he’s stopped being nervous about being spotted by Gavin who’s never around anyway.

Ariana unlocks the door and holds the sword carefully in her hands for a moment before passing it to Grace who takes it gamely.

“Huh,” Grace says once it’s in her hands, eyes fixed on the ever shifting patterns of the blade. “Y’know, it kind of is weird.”

“I told you,” Ariana crows triumphantly as Miles rolls his eyes and turns back towards his textbook. Ariana and Grace pass the sword between them for a little longer, commenting on the patterns and feeling the warmth of the metal in their hands. They get bored of this fairly quickly and begin to mime out some sword fights which Miles has to put a stop to as apparently his great seventeen years of life experience make him the most mature person in the room.

At least Grace looks slightly sheepish as she hands the sword back.

“You’re coming over for dinner on Sunday, right?” Miles asks as some sort of peace offering.

Grace grins. “’Course I am. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The three of them smile the kinds of smiles at each other that require a near lifetime of knowing and loving to summon up.

It’s a shame that everything goes to shit before they can make it to Sunday dinner.

~

Ariana does not panic. Ariana is a born leader full of charisma and certainty and a sly cunning that no one ever seems to expect from her. She does not panic.

“Shit shit shit shit!” Gabe yells from the bike next to her, just loud enough to be heard over the wind, and Ariana wonders if a bit of panicking might be in order.

The monster behind them, made of shadows and starlight and darkness, is gaining. Their bikes can only go so fast and apparently eldritch abominations go faster. Ariana thinks faster though.

She sticks an arm out to signal where they should turn, not confident that everyone will be able to hear her voice over the rushing wind and thunder of engines. She’s been utterly certain of the path she’s been leading the others on but it’s only now that she realises that she’s taking them to the antique store. She’s taking them to the sword.

She’s also leading the monster in the direction of her little brother. But she’ll deal with the moral implications of that at a later date.

They twist and turn though narrow streets, taking every shortcut they can. Even despite how hidden their route is, Ariana is struck by the thought that they should have seen someone by now. The sun only went down, what, half an hour ago? The streetlights have barely turned on but she hasn’t spotted a single person since the abomination started chasing them.

For a moment she wonders if Miles will even be there when they get to the antiques store.

No, she thinks, No he’ll be there.

And since when has Ariana’s little brother let her down?

They screech up to the curb and Ariana is reminded slightly hysterically of all the times when Miles told her that making her engine sound so loud was annoying. None of them bother with kickstands, letting motorbikes that all of them have put a lot of work into crash to the pavement. The sound is barely audible over the crushing, crunching, roaring the creature behind them makes as it moves but Ariana still sees some of her friends wince at the noise.

Miles must have heard the commotion coming towards him because he’s stood there holding the door open as the group of them run from their fallen steeds to the shop. Ariana breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of her brother even as fear rises in her gut over what might be about to happen to him.

Gabe gets in there first, he’s always been the fastest. Then Lance, then Grace. The rest of them follow quickly with Ariana taking up the rear so no one gets left behind.

The moment she’s in the door slams behind her. Penny and Lance, the strongest of the group, are the ones who hold it closed. Ariana turns to see the rest of the group staring slack-jawed either at each other or at the monster which has backed up in order to take a run up towards the door.

The rest of the group, with the exception of Miles.

“Miles, give me the key.” Ariana instructs.

He should know that that’s what he’s meant to do. Miles always seem to know what he’s meant to do a little better than anyone else and Ariana needs the sword. But instead of giving her the key to the glass case Miles is flicking through the strange books he keeps behind the counter faster than Ariana’s eyes can follow.

“Miles, the key,” she insists. Then when no response is imminent, “Fuck this.” She walks over to the sword’s case and shatters the glass with her elbow. When she grabs the sword it feels warm and right in her hands. The patterns appear to shift and swirl and morph more desperately than ever before and Ariana thinks that they must be mere moments from attaining the right shape.

Before she can turn to face the monster, Miles has vaulted over the desk and is right in front of the door with an open book in his hand. “It’s not ready yet.” he calls back to Ariana. “We need a few more minutes.”

“We don’t have a few more minutes.” Ariana grits out, tightening her grip on the sword.

“We will.” Miles says and cuts himself on a knife Ariana’s pretty sure he pick-pocketed from Lance.

Ariana’s pretty sure that Lance is about to make a move to stop her insane little brother but remembers just in time that it’s his job to keep the door closed. The monster is going to be crashing into it in the next three seconds so it’s probably a good thing that he does. Beside him and Penny, Miles is using the blood of his cut to scrawl weird symbols into the door frame, muttering words that Ariana doesn’t recognise under his breath.

He takes a step back the moment before the monster hits the door and for one shining instant Ariana hears the sigils sing.

The creature hits the door and glass that should have shattered holds firm, the magic Ariana now realises is reinforcing it gleaming in the hazy brightness the streetlights offer. It’s impossible. It’s wonderful.

“Nice one.” she chokes out towards Miles, a relieved grin on his face.

“Everyone get some of their blood on the sword.” Miles instructs as he stands, back straight and a level of confidence to him that Ariana isn’t sure she’s seen before. “It’s the only way this works.”

Ariana was expecting Grace to step forward first but Gabe manages to beat her to it, lowering himself to one knee with a grin on his face and exposing some of the skin of his shoulder once he’s in front of Ariana.

“Knight me!” he cries, loud and brazen and not entirely joking.

Ariana smiles in return and touches the sword to his shoulder. The blade sinks into his skin with barely any effort on her part at all. Once Gabe’s blood has touched the sword Ariana moves on to the next person. She wishes that she could linger on every one of her friends but Ariana is far to pragmatic for such things.

Everyone kneels in front of her. Grace and Lance and Kay and Ben and Penny. She touches her sword to the shoulders of every one of her closest friends and watches their blood sink into the metal. After a couple of people she realises that the blood is rising again along the patterns nearer the hilt, highlighting them in red. Eventually she gets to Miles.

“I’m not kneeling to my sister.”

“Smart,” Ariana replies with a smile. “I might kick you.”

“Go for my hand. Just above the first cut.”

Miles holds his hand out and Ariana rests the sword where he directed her. It sinks into Miles’s flesh just like it did everyone else’s. The patterns on the sword take on a sheen similar to whatever had lit up the door when magic had been all that was holding it closed.

“You have to do it as well.” Miles says once the sword has taken his blood. “We’re all equals here.”

He says it like it’s a joke but Ariana can’t imagine why he wouldn’t be entirely serious about such a thing.

“Grace?” she asks, because she wants everything to put her on the same level as her friends, “Would you do the honours?”

Grace smiles and takes the sword, grip on it firm and gentle and strong. Ariana kneels to her, thinking hard about how much she loves the woman in front of her, how much she loves everyone in the room. Grace touches the sword to Ariana’s shoulder and it burns.

Ariana pushes the pain to the furthest reaches of her mind and stands to take the sword back. All the blood that’s been offered to it now flows in rivulets through the patterns, bright and shining. As Ariana looks at the sword she realises that the patterns have finished shifting but there isn’t enough time for her to inspect their shape properly.

“What next?” she asks Miles, since although she doesn’t like to cede authority to someone else, particularly her little brother, for some reason they will definitely be discussing later he seems to have a better idea of what’s going on than anyone else in the room.

Miles shrugs rather unhelpfully. “I don’t know. Where we go from here is up to you.”

Distantly Ariana thinks that the words are meant to fill her with some sort of foreboding. That the pressure of seven lives that aren’t hers on her shoulders should be too great a burden for most twenty-year-olds to bear. Instead it just feels right. Like the weight is resting exactly where it should be.

“Okay.” she says, allowing the authority she normally tries to tone down take full control of her voice, “Here’s the plan.”

~

The plan is to hit it. Really hard.

“Is anyone else not loving this?” Miles asks uncertainly as everyone gets ready to rush the creature with whatever weapons they’ve managed to scrounge up. “I am very much not loving this.”

“You’ve already agreed to bow to my far superior judgement, so quit complaining and figure out whatever magic you can use to hit it.” Ariana calls back to him

Lance claps Miles on the shoulder. “There, there.” he grins, “Ariana hasn’t got any of us killed yet.”

Miles groans louder and Ariana gets ready to tear the door down.

“On three I’m charging.” she calls loudly. “Everyone ready?”

A shout of “Yes,” echoes through the room. Even Miles partakes in it.

Ariana takes a breath.

“One.” she shouts. Lance readies his stance a little, the wooden pole he’d found steady in his grip.

“Two.” Grace shifts slightly. The switchblade in her hands glinting in the dim light of the shop.

“Three.”

Miles makes a gesture as if cutting through the air and the glimmer that had covered the door disappears. Along with the door. The creature is so surprised at the sudden lack of resistance that it stumbles. Stutters.

They charge and edge of Lance’s pole reaches it first, pinning the creature to one of the shop’s walls. Grace gets there next, or at least her blade does. She throws her knife towards the mass of creature that had been reaching towards the pole to tear it out. The glinting silver of the knife disappears into the monster’s blinding darkness and the rumbling, crowing, crying noise the creature makes rises to deafening volumes as it flinches.

With all that distracting the thing, it isn’t so difficult for Ariana to drive her sword deep, deep into the centre of the mass of shadow and light and wrongness.

Red light arcs through the monster like lightning. It flashes from its insides in a fireworks display of destruction until the creature crashes. Shatters.

Ariana is splattered with the remains of the first thing she’s ever killed.

“Holy shit.” Kay whispers, the old metal bedpan she’d been holding like a baseball bat drooping slightly.

“Yeah.” Penny agrees. She isn’t holding anything and Ariana wonders if she’d just been planning to punch the monster into submission. “Holy shit.”

Everyone stands in stunned silence at their victory for a moment. Then Miles walks slowly forwards and pulls the bloodied sword from the remains of the creature where Ariana had dropped it. He bows down, the movement only seeming to be half-joking, and holds the sword out in his hands for Ariana to take.

“My liege,” he says, and something in his tone isn’t quite right. It’s sarcastic, sure, but it isn’t quite as sarcastic is it’s meant to be.

It’s then, looking down at the sword in her brother’s hands, that Ariana realises that now the swirling patterns are still you can just about make out that they spell the word ‘Excalibur’.

“Wait, what the fuck?”

Gus was born to be a showman.

He started doing illusions before he could walk. Adding animations and sound effects to the stories he’d watch his dad tell the world through a crystal ball. His mom would make appropriate noises of approval for every bit of magic he did. She was never one for dramatics, an academic to her core, but that just made her appreciate the pure craftsmanship that went into Gus’s magic. She was the one who saw a prodigy where others saw a show-off.

The older he got the more Gus was drawn into circles of action. Of doing. People used to think of Willow as meek but Gus always managed to see through her awful abomination magic to the core of power beneath. A core that ached to make the world around her grow. Then they met Luz and she was nothing but action. Always doing and acting and influencing the world like no one Gus had ever met.

“How do you measure up?” someone asks him. Someone who doesn’t understand the world like Gus does. “How can you change the world when everything you create is smoke and mirrors?”

Some might think that it’s a valid question but Gus is smarter than that. As a child he sat on his mother’s knee and watched the policies of the Emperor’s Coven change because of the pictures his dad painted with his words. He played god to the entirety of an enemy's world until she ran screaming from his creation. Gus knows the power of smoke and mirrors.

So Gus starts to change things. He covers up wanted posters and Emperor’s Coven propaganda. Then, when that doesn’t feel like enough, he starts to create images of his own. He writes messages in the sky condemning the Emperor. He produces satire about their practices and broadcasts his work right in the center of Bonesborough. Gus builds an insurrection out of illusions.

Gus was born to be a showman. Someone who commands the attention of his audience. Not so many years later he stands in front of a rebellion he incited and he's still holding people's attention. He's still giving them commands.

Gus stands as the architect of an uprising and knows his strength.

hii!! are u going to continue the tim/bernard thing u wrote? because i love it n i think u did so well with it n i would be really happy about a new part🤍

i'm not planning to, that was just meant to be a lil oneshot type thing but i'm glad you liked it!! <3

Not me starting my third original story of this summer

John Constantine is seventeen, angry and entirely ready to lose himself in the occult.

The open book in front of him details a particularly nasty ritual, but not one he’s unwilling to pay the price for. He bought the book from the shop on Eaton street, ‘Occult Exposition’. It’s not a nice shop. The clientele tend to be even dodgier than John and the owner always goes out of his way to make him as uncomfortable as possible.

John supposes that that’s just the price of authenticity.

The book is authentic. He knows that. One of the first things John learned was that the fakes always do well when it comes to flair but never quite catch the essence of a true ritual.

Fully set up in the back garden, John begins his ritual.

He chants and moves and shifts his thoughts in all the right directions. He slits the throat of a rabbit and cuts out the eye of the hawk that caught it. He spins a web of spider silk around the remains and watches it turn into a spun glass cage that contains something entirely different.

John lifts the same knife he used to cut out the hawks eyes and slit the rabbits throat, ready to plunge it into the beating heart the glass now contains.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” a voice calls out from behind him.

John spins around with his knife at the ready to defend himself. Instead if someone attacking him all John sees is a beautiful girl leaning against the dirty wall of his garden shed.

“Are you sure you want to stick around until the police come arrest you for trespassing?” he snarls, caught off guard.

The girl has the gall to roll her eyes. “As if you would call the police.” Considering the garden stinks of weed John supposes that the girl may have a point. “And anyway, I’m just giving you some sound advice. Nothing malicious about me at all.”

John narrows his eyes. “There aren’t many people who offer advice for free.”

“Well maybe I’m just feeling generous today.” the girl says with a grin. The smile drops promptly. “The blood rune won’t work, so you’re just going to be compelled to rip your heart out and eat it. Do you want to rip your heart out and eat it?”

John scoffs even as he sends the blood rune an uncertain look. “The rune is fine.”

The girl shoots him a withering look. “It has to be virgin's blood.”

“It is vir-“ John pauses. Resets. “Oh shit.”

“What? Are you still feeling lucky?”

“Fuck off.” John says on reflex. Then, “Thanks for telling me though. That could’ve been nasty.”

The girl finally smiles properly. Broad and shining and even John is forced to admit to himself that it’s a beautiful smile. “You’re very welcome. My name's Zatanna.” she says, sticking her hand out for him to shake.

“John.”

“I know,” she says with a wink as they clasp hands. “If you ever want a little more sound advice then just give me a call. Promise I’m a better option than you ever you got that book from.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but what’s put you in such a sharing mood?”

“I said I was feeling generous.” Her expression softens. “I think you’re going to be powerful. The kind of powerful that’s going to get people killed if you don’t know how to handle it. Call me when you’re in trouble.”

When she finishes speaking a wind summons itself up around her. Twisting and twirling until she’s stood in the centre of a spinning tornado. The speed of the wind reaches a climax and dissipates all of a sudden, leaving behind no sign of Zatanna.

John takes a step towards the space she used to occupy and spots something on the ground. It’s a business card. Pristine white with edges sharp enough to cut through flesh. On the card is a name, ‘Zatanna Zatara’, and a phone number.

There are two ‘x’s handwritten below the number and they make John feel oddly warm.

“Fuck.” he says to empty air. “Fuck.”

He turns back to his aborted ritual and starts cleaning up the blood.

Dan Powell is seven years old and if he’s certain of one thing it’s that he loves stories.

Not quite the same way as Mark. Mark prefers his words drenched in the mud and grit of the reality he thinks is true.

“Doesn’t it make the stories taste bad?” Dan asks, “Doesn’t it make them grind against your teeth and cut against your tongue?”

Mark just laughs. “I can stomach it. It’s way cooler than all that unreality fluff you like.”

Dan laughs but inside he’s frowning. The stories he likes are real. It’s just that what he counts as reality and what Mark does must be very different things.

Dan likes stories about odd things. He likes stories about monsters and cults and old, old gods. He likes weird. The stories don’t have to have a hero either, Dan is perfectly happy without a happy ending, just so long as there is an ending. When Dan starts a story leaving it unfinished has never been an option. When his parents read him bedtime stories, always a chapter at a time, he picks the book up once they leave and gets through as much as possible before passing out with the book falling wide open over his face.

Dan like stories and he likes endings and he likes weird. So when he overhears some people on the subway talking about the Visser Building and the odd happenings within, he can hardly not go searching for the endings of that tale.

The next day he walks down seedier streets than any seven year old should really be walking down to get to the Visser Building. He wonders if it’s odd that he didn’t need to look at any maps before coming here. It’s probably normal, he decides, I’m just good at finding odd things.

Dan is good at finding all the stories at the school library that probably shouldn’t be available to children as young as him and no one finds that strange. This is just more of the same.

As he walks into the Visser Building an overwhelming feeling of rightness comes over Dan. This is where you’re meant to be, it whispers, stay here forever and all will be right, right, right, it sings. Dan thinks the whispers make a very good point but he has to be home for dinner otherwise his parents will worry. So he won’t stay. This time.

He walks through the corridors. Some of them feel like mazes. Some of them tilt downwards so harshly that they feel like slides. All of them are new and interesting and definitely full of stories. Dan turns on the tape recorder he stole from his Dad. Mark is always going on about how a journalist needs a good record of everything that happens and this feels like the sort of story Dan is going to need to replay to fully understand.

“This is Dan Powell recording.” he says into it, trying to sound as serious and adult as he can. There isn’t really anything else for him to say after that since all the things he’s feeling are too new and unexplainable to put words to so he just lets the tape recorder go. The whirring of it is nice background noise and Dan likes the way the machine feels in his hand. Almost as if it’s a part of his hand.

Something about that thought may be significant, but before Dan can examine it too thoroughly he’s rounding a corner and face to face with a woman about to knock on a door and holding a tape recorder just like his own.

She looks surprised to see Dan. As if Dan isn’t meant to be there. Dan thinks this is a bit unfair as the woman’s presence doesn’t sing to him like the rest of the building does so she definitely isn’t meant to be there. She looks like she’s nice though and she hasn’t shouted at Dan for trespassing yet so Dan doesn’t say that. He just stands there, listening attentively to the twin whirring of two tape recorders.

“Hello,” the woman says after a moment, cautious. “I’m Melody Pendras, do you live here?”

“No. I’m Dan Powell.” Dan holds his hand out for Melody to shake since he’s sure that’s what he’s meant to do. Melody smiles as if this is a little funny but bends down and shakes Dan’s hand seriously enough that he forgives her.

“Then why are you here?”

Dan frowns. “The same reason as you.” He gestures towards her tape recorder. “I want to know the story.”

Melody starts frowning as well. “That’s a very dangerous thing to want.” she says.

“I know. It’s okay though. Getting to the end is worth it.”

Dan feels Melody re-evaluate her opinion of him. He feels the way her eyes land on him shift until it’s a lot more like how she looks at the rest of this strange, strange building. “I think you would fit in here very well.”

Dan nods in agreement. “Thanks. You wouldn’t.”

Melody laughs lightly. “I hope you’ll forgive me for finding that to be a good thing.” Dan shrugs. It’s not a good thing. It’s not a bad thing. It just is. “I need to get back to work but it was nice to meet you, Dan.”

“It was nice to meet you too, Melody. I hope your story doesn’t end badly.”

Melody looks at Dan very oddly but before she can say anything the door she had been stood in front of swings open and she becomes too caught up in greeting the occupant to notice Dan fading back into the shadows of the Visser Building.

~

Dan ends up having to leave to get home for dinner before finding anything else important. Then he has a playdate with Mark the next day. Then he goes to his school’s very small creative writing club the day after that. Then there’s a disciplinary meeting between his parents and his teacher about the somewhat disturbing story he wrote and Dan gets grounded for the rest of the week.

When Dan finally gets a chance to return to the Visser Building all that’s left is rubble and the odd blood splatter and something else.

The something else is calling to him. The whirring, crackling, spinning of a tape recorder with nothing left to record is loud in his ears despite the fact he know no one else can hear it. His hands are too small and his body too weak to lift the rubble but he aches to do so.

“You lost, kid?” a voice asks from behind Dan. He turns to see a woman who definitely doesn’t care if Dan is lost or not.

“No.” Dan pauses so that he doesn’t sound too demanding or rude. Then, “Can I have the tapes?”

The woman’s eyes narrow and Dan is struck by how unlike Melody she looks. Melody had a kind face, all arranged in the most welcoming shape. The whole time this woman has been looking at Dan she’s kept her face twisted into something mildly disgusted.

“What tapes are these?”

Dan points to the rubble. “The ones in there. They have a story on them, I need to know how it ends.”

“Huh.” the woman says, looking at Dan like an artefact in a museum. “If you were a little older I would know a lot of people who would be interested in employing you.” She tilts her head to the side as if considering Dan. “Do you like cities?”

Dan hasn’t thought on it much before but the concept of living anywhere less full of stories than New York kind of makes him want to tear his skin off. “Yes.”

The woman’s eyes gleam with interest. “Do you have friends?”

Dan thinks to how Mark can make him laugh hard enough to snort milk out his nose and yesterday he fixed the plaster on Mark’s knee just right when the school nurse did it wrong. “Yes.”

The interest in the woman’s eyes dulls a little. “A pity. Still, far more useful than most people will ever be.” She reaches into a pocket and pulls out a card with the letters LMG on it and a phone number. “My name is Iris Vos. Once you’re old enough to be useful, maybe get a degree or something, call this number and tell them that I sent you.” She turns away from Dan a little. “That should give me some credit with the bastards.” she mutters to herself.

Dan looks down at the card. It’s in pristine condition, just like he supposes everything of Miss Vos’s must be. The numbers have an odd shine to them though and Dan finds himself wondering if there might be something interesting there. “Thank you for the opportunity.” he says, because he’s certain that someone said that after receiving a job offer in one of the TV shows his dad watches. Miss Vos nods so Dan guesses he probably said the right words and she walks off towards people in suits holding official looking clipboards.

Dan wants to know how this story ends. He needs to know how this story ends. The curiosity burns in his stomach like acid and fire and hatred and wonder and Dan isn’t sure how many years he can last before it finds a way to destroy him. He’s always loved endings after all, perhaps a little too much.

So Dan tucks the card very carefully into his pocket and spends a moment hoping fervently that one day he’ll be old enough to be useful.

Gertrude Robinson is decisive.

She makes her choices and she backs them up with every action she takes. She does not hesitate. She does not question herself. She does not regret.

This was good for a while. It made her move forward faster than anyone else she’d ever met and Gertrude likes being fast. Overtaking peers who’d figured out far later than her that they simply were not in the same league brought her a special kind of joy. Then there was that look her teachers and professors and so-called superiors would give her when they realised that she was destined to surpass them. That was an even better kind of joy. The sort she could sink her teeth into and let fill her belly like a warm meal.

Then Gertrude was twenty five and a man she thought was called James Wright asked her if she would like to be head archivist and she said yes.

Then things started to try and kill her. Then she started to try and kill those things back. And, hey, what do you know? It turns out that killing monsters is just another thing Gertrude Robinson excels at.

It’s not like she had another option.

Gertrude Robinson is decisive and unwavering and has never doubted herself in her life. So when she looks back on the choice she made at twenty five all she sees is the inevitability of it. The way the path of her life had no side roads, there was always only one route she could ever take.

You’re wrong, the eye tells her, your choices are yours, yours, yours and you could have done all the other things you were planning to do with your life. You’re the one who blinded yourself to the other paths you could have taken and I would never presume to hide such knowledge from my beloved archivist.

Gertrude Robinson never regrets her choices. Not even when she should.

Excalibur, the legendary sword of King Arthur, was the mightiest weapon of that era. However, as time passed and mankind evolved, so did the sword. You work at a local antique shop when one day you discover something you don’t remember being there before: a rather peculiar looking pen.

You scream. Obviously. Then you run into the bathroom because you’re an idiot and that was the closest door to your bed.

You stop screaming. The coarse-rough voice of that horrible thing lets out a quiet “Shit.” through the wood of the door. Then heavy breathing and the drip, drip, drip of the tap maintenance never fixed is all you can hear.

Why is it here? What did you do? Some part of you had always thought that monster to be some demon. An agent of the devil that came after you for breaking your little brothers nose just because you could. Or for not calling an ambulance that time your grandma fell down the stairs. Or for tearing out Becky Pritchard’s earrings through her flesh for saying that yours looked ugly.

You may have been a slightly sadistic child.

That monster, that demon, had been the only thing that left you scared. The moment it shifted beneath your bed you would feel all the bubbling anger that flowed through your veins turn to ice. The moment it started whispering, promising you all the awful things it was going to do to you, that constant hunger to make others hurt would be drowned out by the tidal wave of fear that gripped you.

Well, old habits die hard, you think as you try to get your breathing under control. But now you’re twenty-five with six years in private security under your belt, so maybe they can be killed a little faster.

You remove the head from the toilet brush to turn it into a baton. The shape of it, the weight, is familiar to you. You’d always been good baseball. At least until you’d used the bat to take out a player's knee caps. You don’t think the coach would have minded so much if the kid had been on the opposing team.

You’ve never actually seen the monster and so find yourself hoping it has knee caps. It would be satisfying, you think, to feel the solid thunk of the strike and the sickly crack that would follow it.

Already lining up the shot in your head, you open the door.

Coming back to your apartment you prepare for a good night’s sleep. Upon laying on your bed you suddenly hear noises coming from underneath it. Carefully looking under you’re surprised to see the monster that lurked under your bed as a kid staring back at you. “Look man, I need a favor.”

“What do you want?” Barbara asks, voice crackling with static.

It’s a silly question. Tim wants crime rates to go down. Tim wants Gotham to be a safer city. Tim wants to be a part of making that happen.

“A code name that isn’t stupid.” he says instead.

Barbara sighs. It doesn’t sound like a sigh though. It just sounds like the static’s getting louder.

~

“Bernard Dowd, scholar of the ages.” Tim laughs, arm slung round Bernard's shoulder. “I thought you were meant to be the fun one?”

“I am.” Bernard groans, “as soon as these exams are done I’ll be back to the usual student life. Getting drunk, going on dates, Gotham won’t know what’s hit it.”

“Going on dates?” Tim asks jokingly, even as a well hidden part of him turns slightly panicked. “Any successes an old friend should be hearing about?”

“Not really.” Bernard shrugs, jostling Tim’s arm. “Just a couple of girls I was better off friends with.” He pauses, thinking, before continuing with his voice involuntarily going a little higher. “Couple of guys too.”

“Huh.” Tim suddenly becomes very aware of all the places where his arm is touching Bernard. He doesn’t move it. “Better luck next time.”

Huh.

~

Tim’s been avoiding Dick. He’s been awkward around him lately, Tim thinks that Barbara must have said something. He’s not stupid enough to have done something to send Dick spiralling without noticing it.

“What do you want?” Dick asks, curious, without warning.

Tim wants to ask if Barbara put him up to this but he knows it’s a genuine question. Dick isn’t manipulative like that, not with family.

What does Tim want? Isn’t it a little late for Dick go be asking that question? All the things that happened after Bruce’s death put a canyon of distance between them. It’s slowly been growing smaller but it hasn’t disappeared. Neither of them have had time enough to spend together for that to happen.

An awful, bitter part of Tim that hasn’t stopped screaming since Robin wasn’t his any more wonders if Dick would even be asking if Damian wasn’t out of town right now.

“For us to go train surfing.” Tim says. Petty. Just so Dick will say no and his anger can feel righteous instead of ill-deserved.

“Okay.” Dick says instead. Easy and confident. Himself.

“Oh.” Tim’s anger fizzles into non-existence. “Okay.”

The canyon grows a little smaller.

~

“We should go to a skatepark.” Bernard says, a little giggly from the beer in his hand.

There’s a matching beer in Tim’s hand although it’s still practically full. If there’s an emergency he’ll be of no use drunk. “What? Why?”

“Why not? You were so good in high school! And you had fun doing it.” Bernard’s tone turns a little less giggly. “You should do more things you find fun.”

Tim is surprised enough that the “Okay.” slips out of his lips unbidden.

So maybe the beer bottle is a little less full than he’d like to admit.

They borrow a board from one of Bernard's flatmates and catch a bus to a skate park Tim remembers using when he was younger. As they go Tim tries to remember why he stopped. He tries to remember when he stopped. He can’t recall the answer to either question and annoyance rises in his chest over it.

Then Bernard is saying something and it has Tim snorting with laughter and he forgets his irritation.

Once they arrive Bernard settles himself at the top of one of the ramps like it’s a throne. “Entertain me!” he calls, “Impress me with your wheel-board magic.

Tim manages a kick-flip on his first attempt and Bernard makes a loud noise of approval.

A lot of stuff comes back to Tim fairly quickly. Most of skateboarding had been muscle memory for him and that’s something that being a vigilante hadn’t exactly hindered. As things return to him he regains some faint memories of why he’d stopped. Nothing specific, just that feeling of not having enough time. Of thinking that going to the skatepark wasn’t a particularly useful way to spend his hours while there was still real work to be done.

Tim’s always been a vigilante first, but he thinks there must have been a point when that wasn’t the only thing he was. Well, when it wasn’t the only thing he was that mattered.

“Come on!” Bernard shouts, teeth flashing white against Gotham’s grey-black sky. “I was promised entertainment!”

Tim laughs. He seems to do that a lot around Bernard these days.

He starts moving on the skateboard, deciding to leave the existentialism for another day.

~

First Dick and now Bruce. Tim’s family has really been making a habit of being weird around him lately.

He would normally think that the Bruce was worried about him, that Dick had passed along some bullshit about his mental health and Bruce was practicing some silent vigil. The problem with that theory is that Tim’s been getting better recently, so there wouldn’t be much point. At least he thinks he’s been getting better. It’s difficult to tell sometimes.

Bruce has definitely been acting weird around him though, so maybe he isn’t getting better. Maybe Bruce spotted something Tim didn’t and he’s on the road to insanity.

“What do you want?” Bruce asks one day as they’re both working in the cave. Not Batman. Bruce.

It’s a far stupider question than it was when Barbara or Dick asked it. Bruce is the person who made Tim’s desires what they are. He’s the one who took Tim’s obsession and carved it into a goal.

“What?” Tim asks, loud and confused and maybe a little angry. “What do you mean ‘what do I want’? I want the mission! What else am I supposed to want?”

Bruce stays silent for a moment and Tim imagines him turning the words over in his head. “Nothing else?” Bruce asks. He sounds sad and it makes the anger drain from Tim’s body. “Just the mission?”

“I don’t need anything else.” Tim says hollowly.

Bruce just nods, thinking. It makes Tim want to scream even as satisfaction rises in his chest.

It’s always been a point of pride that he can to lie to Batman. He’s hardly going to change his mind about that now.

~

“People keep asking me what I want.” Tim says, sat on Bernard's bed. “I don’t like it.”

Bernard's turns away from the laptop on his desk so he can look at Tim. “You ever tell them the truth?”

Tim shrugs. He isn’t sure what else to do. “Ish?”

Bernard smiles. “Anyone ever tell you you’re impossible, Tim Drake?”

“Only everyone I’ve ever met.”

Bernard barks out a laugh before sobering up and looking at Tim with ill-disguised curiosity. “Do you want to tell me the truth about it? Or did you just want to say the thing out loud?”

“I’m not sure.” Tim admits, and he has to stop himself from acting taken aback by the fact he actually said that. Tim never says when he’s uncertain. There isn’t room for it. Bernard must know that too because he looks at Tim in surprise, then scoots his chair closer to the bed so that he and Tim are almost touching.

Bernard looks very cautious. “You know that’s okay, right?”

“I-“ Tim starts, because is it? Is uncertainty the kind of luxury he can afford? “I want to want things. But it feels like I’ve forgotten how.”

“You’ve had a rough couple of years.”

“How do you-“

Bernard smiles knowingly. “You’re not as hard to read as you think, Tim. Well you are. But it’s not difficult to tell that some bad things must have happened since I last saw you.”

“Yeah.” Tim says hoarsely, thinking back to the burn of his muscles as he dug up Kon’s grave, the stinging of desert sand in his eyes, the moment of confusion when he woke up in a league of assassins base unsure if he’d had to die to get there. “Yeah. Bad things happened.” He shakes himself a little, because those aren’t the thoughts he wants lingering. He focuses back on Bernard who’s closer than Tim had realised, worry creased between his eyes. “What about you?” Tim asks, trying to exert some measure of control over the conversation. “What do you want?”

“Thought we were talking about you?” Tim might have let it go with that if not for the note of nervousness in Bernard's voice and the red creeping up the back of his neck.

“We can talk about both of us.”

“It’s not important right now.”

Tim reaches out then. He takes Bernard's hand in his because Bernard makes him laugh and he looks so nervous and Tim wants to. Bernard looks down at their hands in surprise and Tim doesn’t actually feel worried. Just expectant that Bernard is going to squeeze their fingers together more securely. He does. “You sure?” Tim asks.

Bernard just looks at him. Mouth parted with shock. He seems to come back to himself though and his expression of surprise turns into something more confident. More familiar. “What if I wanted you?” he asks, hesitancy and confidence rolled into one voice.

“Give me some time to remember how to want things, and I think I’ll want that too.” Tim replies, just as unsure and utterly certain.

Bernard tangles their fingers together a little more firmly in response and Tim feels more hopeful than he has in a long time.

me, watching the first few episodes of the owl house s2 and realising that the Very Long fic I have planned out is going to have to change Drastically: cool cool cool cool no doubt no doubt no doubt

part 1, this on ao3

~

It’s a normal night, until it’s not.

Dick had been purposeful when he had said that Damian could make mistakes. He remembers the way the necessity of perfection had eaten at him when he was younger. He knows that Damian is even more susceptible than he was to that burning self-disgust at anything less than a flawlessness. Upon taking over the mantle of Batman, Dick had decided that Damian needed to know there was at least one adult in his life who wouldn't disown him for delivering anything less than perfection.

He hadn’t thought so much about what would happen when Damian actually did make a mistake.

It happens when Dick is in the middle of congratulating Damian on a particularly impressive move, one with a more gymnastic slant which Dick is sure is based on one of his own trademarks. He’s telling Damian what a good job he’s doing and Damian is puffing up with pride, a smile playing around the edges of his expression. Then Dick catches the glint of the sniper rifle scope.

The ability to dodge bullets is a trademark of members of their family. Damian should feel the whistle of the bullet coming his way, he should jolt back from the air parting in front of him. But Damian's too caught up in his pride to do any of those things quickly enough so within a moment of Dick spotting the rifle scope there’s a bullet in Damian's leg.

Dick is so used to falling that he doesn't remember a time when it didn't feel like flying. The way his stomach drops now though, it doesn't feel like flying. It feels like the kid he said he'd take care of has blood spurting from his leg and it's all Dick's fault.

To his credit Damian is very calm about it. Dick knows he’s been shot before although he doesn’t know if it was a purposeful part of the boys training or not. His blood boils at either prospect. Even as the crowd is still screaming for their heroes to come save them Dick grabs Damian from the blood soaked ground and rushes to the batmobile, putting it on autopilot as he tries to stabilise the patient.

“I’m sorry.” he whispers, “I’m sorry. We’ll be back at home in no time and we’ll get you all fixed up, okay?” Dick blinks away the tears at the sight of Damian bloody and pale in front of him. Impediments to his vision will only make it harder to get Damian stable.

“Okay.” Damian replies, voice remarkably steady.

Now aware that someone he trusts is going to make it all better, Damian promptly passes out.

“Shit.” Dick says, young ears now unable to hear him. “Shit shit shit shit shit. Fuck.”

He swears to his heart's content for the rest of the ride back to the manor and it does very little to make him feel any better.

No, the swirling sea of worry-guilt-anguish in his stomach only begins to abate at the sight of Alfred in the bat cave, perfectly calm and with all the necessary medical supplies ready. They get Damian to a bed and Dick tries to make himself useful as Alfred treats the bullet wound.

He isn’t particularly useful and spends most of his time fretting.

“He’ll be fine, Master dick.” Alfred says once he’s finished up and washing the blood from where it had stained his skin.

“Of course he will.” Dick replies, attempting to sound a little more nonchalant than he actually is. From the look Alfred gives him he doesn’t think he succeeds.

He’s spared the indignity of having to say anything else by the rumble of Tim’s motorbike pulling into the cave. Tim gets off with an urgency Dick isn’t sure he expected and when he takes his domino off there’s genuine worry in the frown between his eyes.

“Is he okay?” he asks, his tone frantic.

“He’ll be fine.” Dick's grateful to find that his voice is far more level now than it was ten minutes ago.

Tim tilts his head to the side, looking at Dick. His expression narrows into something slightly more analytical than concern. “Are you okay?”

Dick tries to say yes. He really does. He's Tim’s big brother, he’s Batman. Of course he can tell his little brother that he’s okay. But after a moment of silence Dick glances towards where Damian lies far too still on their operating table and feels the tears he's been fighting off resurface in his eyes.

Tim nods as if this is confirming something. “Come on.” He says. “Let’s get out of here.”

Dick tries to protest that Damian needs someone to be here when he wakes up but Tim just continues to pull him gently out of the cave.

“He’s going to be out for the next few hours. I can make you hot chocolate in the meantime.”

Dick wants to keep protesting but he’s been left tired and weak by the nights events. He allows himself to slump as his little brother leads him out of the darkness.

~

Dick talks. Significantly more than he had intended to.

He talks about how he can’t balance this awful dichotomy of guardian and commander. He talks about how he’s still not entirely sure how to be Batman, let alone a parent. He talks about how he can’t keep doing this without something breaking.

Probably him. Possibly Damian. Both answers are unacceptable.

“I’ll to fix this” Tim says. The determination in his expression reminds Dick of when he came to his bludhaven apartment all those years ago and demanded Dick reprise his roll as Robin. “I’m going to make a call, we’ll sort this out.” he promises.

Tim’s always been good at that. Tugging on the fraying strings of their family tapestry until it resembles something whole. It’s how he came into the family in the first place and Dick has always been grateful for that.

Tim leaves, already dialing a number into his phone with a look of intense concentration. Dick wants to go check on Damian but Alfreds got that handled so it’s not like he’ll actually help. Sitting idle at the boys bedside will probably just make him feel worse.

So Dick hangs his head and waits for someone to save him.

~

“Give me a lift to the airport?” Tim asks far too sweetly. The tone of voice doesn’t suit him.

“You can drive.” Dick points out, suspicious.

Tim gives him a look, like Dick's being difficult on purpose. “It’ll be a bonding opportunity.” he says, his tone lowering to something closer to his usual cadence. Dick still feels suspicious but there’s a million things he has to do today that are more important than arguing with his only sane brother, so he nods. Tim grins in response and gets up with a lot more energy than he tends to these days.

Dick decides that there’s little use in thinking on it more. He’s in charge of far too many things at the moment, he’ll let Tim control this one.

~

Cass appears in the collection area, suitcase in hand, and Dick feels the weight of the world become significantly lighter.

She's more muscled than she was when she left. Her footsteps are more confident. It makes pride rise in Dick's throat as he realises how brave his little sister is for growing so much all by herself.

She picks up her pace once Tim and Dick are in view, almost breaking into a jog as she approaches. She wraps an arm around each of them and Dick can feel her smile pressing against his cheek.

Dick realises that his own smile is pressing against Cass’s cheek. His chin is somehow resting in Tim’s hair.

He savours the moment and feels more full than he has in a long time.

“Welcome home.” He says into Cass’s neck. He feels her smile even wider in response.

~

That night as Dick is about to go on patrol Cass taps his shoulder.

“I can do it.” she says, pointing at the Batman suit Dick had been about to start putting on.

Dick frowns, pushing away the golden hope bleeding into the edges of his soul. “It won’t fit.” he says.

Cass shrugs. “I won’t wear it. But I can do it.”

Dick feels his frown deepen. Cass is younger than him and she hasn’t been in Gotham for so long. It’s not a good idea for her to take on the mantle. She’s already got far too much weighing her down without adding another impossible burden for her to bear.

Dick looks past Cass for a second to allow his eyes to rest on Tim, busying himself with sorting his own gear out but none too subtly watching the exchange between Dick and Cass. He gives a slight nod. An endorsement. Dick looks back to Cass who is smiling very gently at his indecision.

“Okay.” he says, and the room releases a sigh of relief.

~

Cass has been Batman every night since she got back a week ago and Dick hasn’t felt this light since Bruce died.

She was always the best fighter out of them. Always a little faster, a little more cutting, than any of her brothers. She isn’t as used to the detective aspect of things but she's surrounded by enough people trained in that aspect of the job that it isn’t a problem. Dick wears the Nightwing suit and flies higher than he has in months. Damian tends to work with Cass, Batman needs a Robin after all, but will pop up on Dick's patrols with silent requests for ice cream and a shoulder to lean on.

Cass can be Damian's Batman. Dick can be his guardian. It was always too much to ask of Bruce, for him to be both. For him to be their teacher and their hero and their father. Splitting the load seems to be going far better than anything Bruce used to try.

~

Sometimes Dick will catch Tim smiling at him the same way he does at a problem just solved. He wants to say thank you. Thank you for letting me outrun that awful burden for a little longer. Thank you for saving me. But he supposes that’s just what brothers are for.

Instead he asks Tim if he wants to go train surfing. They haven’t since before Bruce died. Dick was far too busy trying to keep the world from collapsing in on itself and Tim was too busy trying to find a way to stop Dick from crumbling under the pressure of it.

“Yeah.” Tim says, his smile twisting and morphing until it goes from analytical to soft and relieved. “Yeah I’d like that.”

~

"Do you miss him?" Damian asks one day. Dick doesn't need any clarification on who he's talking about.

The two of them are sat on a rooftop, legs swinging over the side. Damian is holding a rum and raisin ice cream Dick had pressed firmly into his hand. Dick decided a while ago that Damian should be offered the opportunity to try all the flavours he missed out on in the earlier part of his childhood and he thinks they're making some pretty good progress.

Dick considers for a moment. It's a complicated question. "Yes," he starts, because of course he does, "But it doesn't hurt like it used to. Not now that I can focus on being myself instead of squeezing myself into the shape of the person I'm mourning. And you?"

"Yes." Damian starts, because of course he does. He pauses for longer than Dick did but that makes sense. Damian's thoughts are complicated enough that Dick can't help but be proud of the kid for being able to untangle even a few of them. "But I know a lot of people who've died. And at least this time I gained what I came searching for regardless of what happened to Father."

It's not a thank you. Dick knows that it's going to take a little more time for Damian to learn how to shape his mouth into those words. But it's a start.

Dick looks at all the life surrounding him and smiles.

Head Archivist Sasha AU:

- You’ve heard of Sasha’s head archivist with Tim Martin and Jon as her assistants, but have you heard of Sasha’s head archivist, replacing Jon, with Tim and Martin as her assistants?

- Gertrude got killed ~4 years earlier than in canon. Elias gave Jon the job of head archivist almost as soon as he started working at the institute in a move which everyone, including Jon, found Very Weird.

- Elias thought it might be funky fresh to make Jon very isolated to make sure it would be easy for the lonely to get him in the future and hence gave him zero (0) assistants.

- Jon spends the next 4 years getting up to hijinks, becoming more and more isolated, gaining more trauma, and just Not having a good time.

- Jon stops being head archivist/disappears for reasons I am yet to decide on and Sasha gets promoted.

- Elias doesn’t have any particular plans to make Sasha The Archivist since he still reckons Jon is going to fulfill that roll and decides to give her some assistants when she starts running the archives. As a Treat™.

- Sasha is an excellent head archivist and her Martin and Tim are all Besties.

- One of them discovers a tape Jon made when he was Archivist. It implies some very spooky things about the institute as well as some of Jon’s fears about what Elias and the dread powers have planned for him.

- The gang collectively goes ‘oh shit’

- Shenanigans ensue.

Someone draw talia wearing this I beg

MILF

man i love friday

To be Batman is a job that should have been impossible. A job that should have required more than what any one man is able to give. Somehow Bruce had managed to do that and keep the company running well enough to use it to fund practically every programme helping keep Gotham safe.

Dick thinks Bruce was about three people. The vigilante, the businessman and the father.

When Bruce dies Dick and Tim are forced to divvy up his responsibilities. Who else is going to do it? Cass is in Hong Kong and Jason hates Bruce far too fully to contemplate becoming any aspect of him. Steph and Barbara are staying in the business but they never really belonged to Bruce. Not like Dick and Tim did.

Damian is a whole separate issue.

So that leaves Dick and Tim to slice Bruce into pieces small enough for the two of them to swallow. Dick takes on the mantle of Batman. Obviously. It’s the heaviest burden to bear and Dick’s the oldest. He’s been doing this the longest. Tim takes on the mantle of the businessman. He’s always been the smartest. Dick knows that he’ll be the best fit for tricking a boardroom full of sharks into pretending they're something benevolent.

After they finish tearing off fistfuls of their father's legacy, Tim looks at Dick with something exhausted in his eyes. Something that makes him look like he's given up. “I can’t be your Robin, can I?” he asks.

Dick knows that Tim must already know the answer. Dick also knows that his little brother deserves the closure of hearing it out loud.

“No” Dick confirms, refusing to look at Tim. The air of the room, already saturated with grief, grows heavier with a new type of loss. “You’re my little brother." Dick says haltingly. "I couldn’t be him, not for you.” He hopes that Tim can understand what he means, even though he knows the words aren’t quite right.

Tim nods and Dick feels the bittersweet lifting of some of the burden from his shoulders. Neither of them talk about how to split the final third of Bruce's responsibilities, the ones he'd taken on as a father. That's a legacy the two of them let slip into a grave unspoken.

In fairness, that particular role of Bruce’s wasn’t essential to fill. It’s not like he’d even been that good at it.

~

Dick doesn’t think any more on it for a while, not until the first time he sees Damian wearing the Robin costume and looking so much more nervous than Dick had expected.

“Are you okay?” he asks, fighting the urge to shift under the weight of the suit. It doesn’t fit quite right yet but he’s sure it will suit him better with time.

Damian's eyes narrow. “Yes.” he responds far too quickly.

Dick hesitates for a moment, trying to remember what he wanted to hear when he filled the same role as the boy stood in front of him. He tries to remember what Bruce had said, wearing the same suit Dick does now, and looked at a nine year old kid ready to twist his childhood into a crusade.

“You don’t have to be flawless." Dick starts, thinking of how imperfection is a luxury Damian has been unable to afford in the past. "You can make mistakes and you can do things wrong and I promise that it won’t change anything.” He leans down so that he’s on Damian's level, praying that he used to be similar enough to the boy in front of him for these to be the right things to say. “I’ll be right here to fix things if anything happens.”

Damian huffs. “As if I would ever display such amateur behaviour.” But Dick thinks he might look slightly less tense than he did a moment ago.

Dick isn’t meant to have to act as a father. That wasn’t the deal. He’s meant to become Batman, to handle this part of Bruce so that the world can keep on spinning. He wasn’t meant to have to become Bruce. He wasn’t meant to have to give more than what he has.

But Dick has always been good at taking on a little more than he should be able to handle. So he touches Damian’s shoulder and uses all his best words and hopes that maybe this will be enough.

of course he’s the kid you wanted, dick thinks, he says, he yells because he is eighteen and so full of hope for life that he forgot about the chains he put on himself that drag him back to bruce’s stupid fucking cave no matter how hard he tries to break free of them. and he’s tried to run away, he’s tried and tried and tried, from the very first fight he had with bruce when he was a burnt-out cluster of stars in the shape of a nine year old boy to two weeks ago, when he realized that there are papers that turn jason peter todd into jason peter todd-wayne. jason peter todd-wayne likes going to school and helps alfred cook and actually enjoys doing weapons inventory and reads books curled up in the big armchair next to the mahogeny desk in bruce’s chamber of an office. dick did backflips on the chair for all of ten minutes before bruce’s quiet scribbling and the walls full of books felt like they were closing in on him, and he had to tumble down the steps of the batcave and throw his body around the parallel bars just to keep his soul from ballooning out of his body with the need to move. jason made bruce smile the day his parents died in the alley his parents died in. jason is quiet enough to put bruce at ease but loud enough to fill the space and bruce loves him like a son. maybe bruce loved dick, but dick made him rub his forehead in exasperation and look over dick’s prescriptions every couple of months and slump with exhaustion after they spent a day together. dick made bruce tired, but jason made him smile, so dick bent his neck in submission and let the kid wear robin on his chest with pride. 

of course he’s the kid you wanted, jason spits out bitterly, the winds whipping past him and bruce on a rooftop like riptides carrying people to their deaths. he can pinpoint the minute his rage turned to hopelessness, because this new robin ran to the edge of a cliff and jumped off without a hint of fear, flying higher and higher until he reached the moon, until he reached the stars, until he reached the outstretched hands dick motherfucking grayson held out for him. dick held his hands out for jason too, but jason’s wings melted with the heat of dick’s stupid stupid stupid perfectness, and no matter what he did, icarus always fell. jason wasn’t an idealistic little annie with stars in his eyes; he braced himself for the burn the minute bruce took him into wayne manor, because rich white men always want things and jason spent months waiting to find out what bruce wayne wanted. the answer was companionship, the answer was someone to protect and care for, the answer was a child to love as his own, which was so hopelessly pure that jason’s skin felt bleached by it. tim’s skin didn’t have to be bleached by it. tim had skin as white as porcelain and eyes like shattered diamonds and an aristocratic little accent that jason could practically see jewels and precious metals dripping off of, his wealth and privilege locking jason in place like the midas touch. jason was a kid bruce picked up off the streets, and even though he’d spent his life knowing that he was smart and strong and clever enough to earn robin, to survive the league, to be red hood, there would always be someone better, someone worth more, someone who fit the robin mold like they were melted and poured into it. so jason snarled and screamed and broke down as loud as he could, because he thought he meant the world to bruce, thought he was his son, but tim was a much better son than jason could ever be, and jason didn’t just outgrow those pixie boots, his feet grew so big they tore them to pieces, and he’d never be able to wear them again.

of course he’s the kid you wanted, tim says to himself, on the precipice of turning his entire body into an ice-cold sculpture near unbreakable with the fire of emotion and letting the tears that had bubbled up into his throat burst out with all the fury of a supernova. tim had chip, chip, chipped away at himself until he’d become the perfect partner, the perfect robin, because that’s all he ever wanted to do. he wanted to be useful, he wanted to work for something with his own two hands and have earned his victory, he wanted someone to tell him they were proud of the work he had done. but tim had fucked it up, he’d fucked it all up, because he hadn’t been able to accept nearly everyone he loved being ripped from his greedy fingers, and all of the satisfaction he got from crowing about how he was right and how bruce was alive and they brought him back because of him turned to acid in his mouth because of the things he’d done to get there. damian was broken too, damian was shattered into so many little pieces that the shards pricked dick all over and made him bleed until damian was seeped into his skin so deep that dick didn’t have any other choice but to love him. tim was just fractured. he had bold lines running across his skin, a map of his strengths and things he overcame and survived turning into a map of his failure, and splinters running across his soul. a streak for trying to clone conner, a streak for mutilating the robin costume with his own grief, a streak for letting ra’s come as close as he did to compromising tim, a streak for not being able to convince cass to stay, a streak for getting kicked out the window and letting himself fall, letting dick believe he’d known he was there and quietly wishing that dick hadn’t gotten to him in time. damian, for all his faults, had only ever tried to claw his way up with bloodstained hands to morality and kindness and good, somehow ignoring the siren call that was the league at his back. so, with a silent and motionless tantrum as violent as someone locked inside arkham, tim screamed at the unfairness of it all, at the audacity of it all, but let himself become accustomed to the r sitting on damian’s chest.

Keep reading

your art is so beautiful i’m gonna cry just looking at it i stg

Yeah, yeah, you can have one too @the-thunderhead067

people do NOT talk enough about the concept of bruce as a creator like??? two face??? joker??? himself???? the idea of him trying to make up for all his monsters by creating children vicious enough to fight them?????

new fic!!

Word count: 4,552

Summary: Damian has been doing well since moving to Gotham.

His training has become far less punishing, he's gained a frankly fantastic number of cats, every day he becomes more convinced that his mother made the correct choice in picking Selina as a partner over Damian’s birth father.

Damian has things now that he gave up on dreaming for years ago.

So why can’t he stop thinking about meeting his father?

compilation of quotes i have saved on my phone that make me lose my mind

Jenny Slate, Twitter

Maggie Smith, Good Bones

Unknown, Untitled

Christopher Citro, Our Beautiful Life When It’s Filled With Shrieks

Anne Carson, Euripides

I.B. Vyache, Conversations Over Sanguinaccio Dolce

@bipeds, Tumblr

Natalie Wee, Our Bodies & Other Fine Mechanics

HBO Succession

Richard Siken, Landscape With A Blur Of Conquerers