no longer human

22/ multi fandom/ follows from main/ nsfw content possible/ minors + antis dni

[crossleggedonthebarstool]

i’ve been thinking of writing a little fic based on that one post about a lonely person summoning satan and them just being best friends,, but with starscream and megatron. i know megastar is not that well liked in the fandom but i’d still appreciate it if there was feedback on if i should continue writing past what i already have. (i’m also constantly sleep deprived so please don’t expect master class writing)

(human! starscream- haven’t thought of a humanized name yet so i’ve just been using he)

‘this had to be the worst idea he had ever had. what kinda of same person tries to summon a demon because they’re lonely?

well, apparently one as depressed as he is. still copying the symbols meticulously onto his bedroom floor, in his own blood, as the book required.

yeah, definitely a very very bad idea.

nevertheless, with the recent incidents at the academy, his hand had been forced. it was either this idiotic ritual that was probably only gonna end up in a huge clean up or actually jumping off a cliff or something.

either way, with the amount of blood he’d had to lose, he feels lightheaded. no thoughts of mocking sneers from other students or the demeaning comments on his essays by the professors penetrated his concentration.

finally done, he steps back. he’s never getting his deposit back now, he muses.’

[crossleggedonthebarstool]

the last text dick ever sends slade (or to a number slade used to use that he probably already forgot about) is both the inevitable conclusion of their relationship and also the most unlikely one.

i love you:

dick is bleeding out on the floor of some warehouse in bludhaven, and he knows it’s really over this time because there’s just so much blood. so so much blood and he can’t feel his face and his hands are shaking so much he keeps missing the send button.

he thinks about cursing slade one last time just for the sake of it but his heart is beating so slowly and there’s honey in his head and it would be so much easier to let go of his phone and just lay there.

dick is terrible at just laying still, always has been, but this time it feels like the only thing that makes sense, he’s so weirdly calm he can’t even make his legs twitch

there’s a hole in the roof

the stars look very beautiful today

he can still see them when he closes his eyes

[crossleggedonthebarstool]

slade sometimes calls him ‘rooftop’, which probably comes from the way robin and later nightwing would always be perched on the highest one, the best vantage point of the city he’s watching over— except it doesn’t.

he’s ‘rooftop’ because slade found him standing too close to the edge more than once with intentions that didn’t involve grappling hooks.

slade never directly asks him why he does it, although dick is sure he has some sort of idea in his head about how dickiebird is still hung up on being fired as robin and never really gaining the approval of his father mentor.

(he’s wrong.)

dick does it because it’s be so easy to just— be weightless and then nothing at all and never have to feel any pain or hurt again in this life or the next and he’d be gone and there wouldn’t be anything anyone could do!! he’d be free! of all the stupid memories making his life a living hell and the woman that haunts his every waking hour! free!

yeah, he’s aware that’s crazy. it’s why he hasn’t actually done anything yet. or maybe it’s the way slade physically holds and carries him back to safety by the scruff of the suit at his neck whenever he thinks about jumping and landing on the concrete thirty floors down.

slade always conveniently shows up whenever he even considers just ending it all, like some sort of detector of bad vibes– like he isn’t the one causing said bad vibes a lot of times. either way, dick doesn’t know what to make of an action so lacking in animosity towards him by the older man, that seemingly means something that could almost be mistaken for a certain fondness.

(it’s not that, though. it’s the desire to be the one to completely break down a strong person to his bare bones and then build him back up in your own image, possessing someone so completely there’s no space for any thoughts not centered around you.)

(hi! long time no post! i like [passively] suicidal!dick and slade who knows more than he lets on (and is always there to pull his favorite little bird back from the edge), might do a part two if i still remember to in the morning— good night and hello em dash!)

[crossleggedonthebarstool]

„it hurts“, starscream had once said to his trine, „inside and all the time. whatever i do, no matter if it’s achievements or compliments, it‘s never enough. what does an accomplishment mean when you have no one to share it with? not in the sense that i can share with you, in the sense that a conjunx would.“

(this was an unusual amount of vulnerability on starscream‘s part, thundercracker and skywarp would think)

thundercracker was the first to speak up in response, ever interested in human beings and their lives. „the humans have a concept called ‚emotional hunger‘. it‘s often caused by a lack of affection during childhood, when they’re sparklings so to say, and not loving themselves enough.“

starscream stared at him as if he‘d finally scrambled his processor for good, him, not loving himself enough??? what kind of idiot did he have for a trine-mate?

then skywarp chimed in, „but isn’t that different from what star‘s got then? he just reaaaaaally wants a conjunx“, like the idiot he was.

„i don’t want a conjunx. you don’t get it- what use is all my prowess and intelligence when it‘s never recognized by anyone that matters?“, ah, that was a mistake, he thought, the klik the words left his intake.

both thundercracker and skywarp had narrowed their optics at him, as if sensing the truth was close. „this is about megatron, isn’t it?“, skywarp, for all his idiocy, asked in that surprisingly perceptive tone he would occasionally excel in.

frag.

(i want to give him a happy end unlike mine but i’m not good at those)

[crossleggedonthebarstool]

if there is a creator, a god watching over them- he isn’t watching right now, starscream thinks. cybertron or unicron or whatever higher being you pray to has long stopped answering their calls.

the bloodshed in the streets has died down, same with the desperate voices of mechs searching for their loved ones. is this what they were meant for?

battle after battle, commanding his trine and the rest of the newly established decepticon airforce, gathering intel for soundwave and releasing carnage all the while.

megatron doesn’t say it but starscream knows. this isn’t what he intended for the revolution, this cloyingly sweet scent from dried spilled energon clinging to everyone that you can’t escape overwhelming in every intake.

prime probably still wants to have peace talks, of surrender and reparations and sentences and-

death. there’s no outcome for them other than death.

unless they win.

unless they win and every mech is equal and there’s no more of the old traditions left, of mechs that believe their superiority will last forever.

can they win?

starscream doesn’t want to think so he sneaks into megatron’s hastily claimed quarters, far from windows that would make him a target for the opposing party- stumbling over leftover energon cubes and cursing before making it to a berth that has no right to feel as safe as it does. megatron barely stirs, only grumbling when he presses close, one arm petting the back of his helm. what warlord has the audacity to sleep so soundly in a building that could collapse by the next morning? (his)

[crossleggedonthebarstool]

the boy looks so young. not in the way most people look young now, not like he looks young now. actually young. a child. his child.?

no.

the boy is the child of a dead man, long gone- before he ever got to know him. the son of the one who brought nothing but pain, sharing dna with a monster.

is he less or more of a monster?

blue skin. blue markings. tactical gear. way too little clothing. ears and a tail and whatever the fuck that freaky other thing is. a mask because he can’t breathe.

‘they can’t put babies in cryo, dipshit’

yeah. the boy has never known anything else and he has known nothing but.

does family transcend blood and atrocities and-

the boy is not his.

not like that.

but he is

his.

(multi-fandom strikes again?, the avatar curse got me and i really like complicated relationships- i too would pull my more than estranged blue alien father away from sure death, spider/ interpret as you want)

[wantstobelieve]

[♔]  - “Not in a talking mood.” 

Keep reading

[crossleggedonthebarstool]

bruce makes all of them get physical health check ups with leslie every few months. after jason comes back, mental health checks become the norm too. dick lies through his teeth with a smile on his face on all of them. fills every questionnaire with half truths and white lies, so much that he thinks leslie probably knows and just disregards them. (yes, i sleep enough. no, i don’t self-medicate. no, i don‘t drink much.)

it‘s annoying. but somehow pretending everything is fine is way easier when he‘s faced with a professional that actually wants to help him. when barbara asks him if he‘s getting enough sleep or having any nightmares, telling her the truth then and there is so much more tempting than in a clinic room. (no, i don’t really sleep. i just drink so much i pass out.)

and then there’s slade. deathstroke. internationally wanted mercenary. inviting himself into dick‘s apartment far too often for someone supposedly halfway across the world way too casually. like there wasn’t another scoffed remark from bruce yesterday about the terminator offing some rich sheikh in the middle east last night. slade doesn’t ask dick about the amount of empty bottles piled up in bags by the door, to take out with the trash. he doesn’t comment on his dark circles or the way his furniture has been rearranged to offer more sight obstruction in case dick ever gets an intruder come through the window in his living room.

(kinda a more fanfic-y approach to some things i wanna put dick through - canon is p much a joke to me, might write a part two tho)

[crossleggedonthebarstool]

slade doesn’t make any move to slit his throat or anything else to hurt him even though he‘s dressed in full deathstroke regalia. (what a shame.)

dick kind of wants him to end it, so they won’t say he drank himself to death but got murdered in cold blood by a merc hired by some evil fucker. all slade does is pick him up by the scruff of his neck and carry him into the bathroom like a cat.

„take a shower and clean yourself up.“, is what the mercenary tells him. (like okay big guy, is this a booty call with added humiliation or what?) he still strips out of the suit and steps into the shower with only minimal wincing.

when he steps out of the shower, there’s his favorite pair of sweatpants and a hoodie that’s definitely not his laid out on the countertop. he still puts it on.

slade is waiting for him in the kitchen, casually setting out a set of plates and some suspiciously healthy looking takeout on the table. the entire thing is so ridiculously domestic dick almost wants to laugh. instead, he asks, „what‘s all this about?“.

„can‘t have my favorite bird biting the grass all too soon, now can i?“, slade looks at him as if this is a perfectly acceptable answer, like they haven’t tried to kill each other more times than either of them can count.

„right. so is this spiked with fear toxin or something new ivy cooked up?“.

„neither. just regular, normal takeout. from the deli down the road.“

despite his better judgment and all bruce has ever taught him, dick sits down at his kitchen table across from a very, very dangerous mercenary and eats the offered food. it actually tastes good. which makes it all the more disappointing when he notices how sleepy he‘s getting, and how his eyes seem to close without his permission. slade totally drugged him. his last thought before his head hits something surprisingly soft is shit, i should’ve known better.

(kind of a part three of a previous post, guess some comfort after the hurt)

[crossleggedonthebarstool]

“that’s a concerning amount to drink for an always alert bird, no?”, the mercenary asks, as if dick’s apartment is a bar and he’s the bartender.

dick doesn’t need slade to tell him he’s drinking too much. still, it’s funny, coming from someone who can’t even get drunk anymore.

tonight, every time he closes his eyes, he sees her face. when she tells him she did it. when she takes his hand, giddy with excitement. when she practically drags him to a motel. when she touches him. when she-

dick takes another sip from the bottle. slade can go to hell. he doesn’t, though. just takes the bottle from his limp hand and sets it down on the table. slade doesn’t reprimand him like bruce would’ve, no angry remarks or threats of benching him if he doesn’t stop.

“i think that’s enough”, is all slade says. it still feels like being yelled at. maybe it’s worse.

dick makes no attempt to move off the couch or try to convince the mercenary to get the hell out of his apartment. what’s it matter? if slade wants him dead, there’s no reason to make it unnecessarily painful.

[crossleggedonthebarstool]

some days, the streets of blüdhaven don’t feel as freeing as they did when dick was younger.

back when he just left gotham, became his own hero. dick thinks the streets haven’t changed but maybe he did. maybe all the things he’s done and seen happening (and allowed to happen) have changed him.

how when the rain comes down like a flood, the lights seem a little dimmer and he freezes a little more, shaking for reasons that aren’t the cold.

his thoughts flash back to that night, the nightmarish bang and the sound of pouring rain and he’s powerless to do anything but try to distract himself.

he starts drinking a little on those nights.

(that’s how slade finds him, still in his suit on the couch with more beer bottles on the table than healthy.)

[crossleggedonthebarstool]

some days, it feels like the world is caving in, coming down on him. like the air is somehow more suffocating and the streets feels like they‘re closing in. if dick had claustrophobia, he‘d have already hit his breaking point. like this, he just goes on. ignores the glances his siblings, teammates and alfred throw him, like they’re searching for a way to bring up how he‘s been distancing himself more and more. he doesn’t tell them.

just sits down on his couch after patrol and doesn’t move again. he doesn’t flinch when there’s the telltale rattle of a window being pushed open from the outside or at the thudding of heavy boots on his worn floorboards. days like these, slade is gonna show up one way or another, letting himself into the apartment as if it belongs to him. dick doesn’t turn around or crane his head when the mercenary‘s shadow falls on him. he‘s too tired.

„don‘t feel well, pretty bird?“, slade asks, as if isn’t visible in the way dick‘s shoulders are hunched and he hasn’t even bothered to change out of the suit. the silence he receives is answer enough. so, he picks up the vigilante as if he weighs nothing and wordlessly carries him over to the bathroom, setting him down on the edge of dick‘s bathtub. slade knows where his favorite shower gels and shampoo are, same with the towels that are actually still fluffy. he ruffles dick‘s hair and carefully starts stripping him out of the suit- the defenses long useless.

(part one- yes i like describing too much but i learned to show not tell (or something like that) so,,, anyways i totally need a shower and thus relate to wonder boy XD)

[gravesecret]

I’ve read too many amazing fics on AO3 with DC’s Slade and Dick I just…had to quickly get it out of my system. If anybody has some great fic recommendations with those two, please tell me. <3

[crossleggedonthebarstool]

i feel like that anti spardacest post (“use this image when you see spardacest”) really doesn’t understand whose dash it comes across because hun i’m defo not the right audience,,,,

anyway feel free to block me if you don’t like it, i’m just gonna keep on having fun

[crossleggedonthebarstool]

dick doesn’t think anybody ever really sees him- they see dickie grayson, sure, or nightwing. but not him. it’s like he’s invisible, trapped in their expectations for him; how good looking and kind and strong he is.

he really isn’t. he’s just.

the only person that ever really looks at him is slade, seeing through the cheerful persona he puts on to hide the emptiness he feels inside. the emptiness that can only be filled by another.

slade doesn’t ask for anything, he just takes. it’s refreshing in a way, not being expected to follow orders like bruce wants him to; not being expected to accompany women every other evening and pretend he doesn’t hear them whispering about what a catch he is.

dick is a performer, always has been. but the spotlight isn’t warm enough to keep his heart from freezing up, deprived of real sunshine and love.

so he doesn’t tell slade to fuck off when he comes to bother him on patrol, doesn’t reject his advances or invitations to take him home.

it’s not love, but it works.

(oh hey i’m not dead, and yes this isn’t a particularly good post but i felt like talking)

[crossleggedonthebarstool]

another night, another rooftop. slade always seems to find him on the night it gets- hard to breathe.

“sad again, little bird?”, the mercenary steps almost silently onto the ledge dick is sitting on.

“not really? i just miss how it used to be when i was still in jump city with the titans? we’d used to stay up late watching bad horror movies we were way too young for, beastboy would get spooked and hide behind raven, kori wouldn’t get the scary parts- cyborg would pick apart the plot holes and i’d think an angry batman is way scariee than any monster.”

dick smiles at the memories of too much fast food, pillow forts in his room, keeping secrets from their guardians –

ah.

maybe he is sad.

(thank god slade can’t see the way his eyes water under his domino mask)

slade still notices, of course he does (there’s not much you can hide from him), and the asshole never keeps his mouth shut.

“you crying?”, (no slade he’s not crying)

“no.”, dick says, even though his voice wavers and his breathing’s hitched.

the older man sits down closer than socially acceptable, heat radiating off of him even through his armor and just waits for him to admit he’s right.

(dick peels off his mask instead)

(the tears fall a little quicker than he’d like)

“i still remember cyborg’s order when we’d get chinese. i see something green when i’m out shopping with damian and think “beastboy would love this”. or there’s an article about raven and kori in the newspaper and they still smile like they did when we were 15. i know i can call them anytime but we all have our own lives now- it’s just not the same.”

dick pauses- overwhelmed by something he doesn’t want to name.

“growing apart doesn’t change the fact that you grew side by side, that you still love them like a little kid. that love doesn’t fade away just because the people are gone.” (he’s not talking about the titans)

the words still feel like absolution (and what a thought that is, slade as a pastor and absolving him of any guilt over the past)

(more nostalgic dick because i miss my childhood)

[crossleggedonthebarstool]

the vigilante that sits on the rooftop of a skyscraper in bludhaven doesn’t move a muscle when deathstroke comes to stand behind him. he doesn’t turn, doesn’t even twitch or acknowledge the famed and feared mercenary.

“sometimes i feel like i never moved past being robin. like i got older but i didn’t grow up, grow out of the flashy cape and shorts.”

“like you’re still trailing behind the bat and waiting for him to order you around?”

“no. like alfred is waiting with cookies and warm milk with honey after patrol, like there’s still bruce in batman, like there’s-“

deathstroke waits for the young man to finish his sentence, but he doesn’t. silence falls onto them like batman’s cape onto a tiny boy, hiding him from prying eyes.

“sometimes i fall asleep on the couch and think i’m back in the manor when i wake up, like b carried me up to my room after i feel asleep in the library.”

the older man sits down next to the vigilante with a sigh, the kind that’s speaking of weariness and wisdom- rarely associated with famous killers for hire.

“it’s not like i want to go back to being robin, to being a child. sometimes i just realize i can’t go back, that i’ll never be small enough to fit under b’s cape again, to hear alfred scolding me for climbing on one of the chandeliers-“, he stops, trying to put the feelings into words.

“you don’t want to live in the past but the people you loved are there?” (slade, not deathstroke)

“yeah.” (dick, not nightwing)