a drawing of a snippet of the no chip au that @yellowocaballero is working on! here is a link to it, it’s such a fun and interesting au she is working on and i heavily recommend it to any star wars fan. i love how she writes the clones soooo much and i cant wait until the whole series is out
in another universe theyre just stupid teens on a modern day earth with too much free will—such as frying chicken in engine oil in their "perfectly organized for bs that isnt bachelor in science" schedules
All The World's A Stage, But The Soul Is The Real Show
A Night Culture AU One-shot
Word Count: 1.1K
Warnings: Explicit Language
Author's Note: @bunnvoid and I are starting our endless cycle of fic/fanart again. I had to do it to 'em after they gave me TWO Vamp!Hal's yesterday. Based on this Wraith!Jason that I felt like making somewhat cheery because the Angst Queen should be nice sometimes. Enjoy! -Thorne
Edit: FUCK I FORGOT A TITLE AND TO ALSO ANNOUNCE THIS IS MY 7K POST
It wasn’t unusual to find Damian with a paintbrush in his hands. After coming back from the dead, the family often found him staring out the various stained-glass windows of the manor, dragging an expensive brush across the canvas, painting the deepest lines of what his soul cried out to be shown. The agony, the remembrance, the pain.
Most of his paintings were dark. Elegant and tortured lines of black, gray, and blue, horrific recounts of the worst memories in his life.
Few of his paintings were light. The crimson sun peeking across the still darkened landscape, a field of wildflowers as colorful as the eye could see.
Sometimes though, he would paint his family.
Jason stalked past the room only to back up a few feet and stop in the doorway, eyes narrowing as he watched the young teen shift left to right and right to left, evergreen eyes narrowed in scrutiny as he examined his handiwork. “Whatcha doin’, kid?”
“Painting,” Damian merely responded, holding up the brush in one hand, a pallet in the other.
“No shit,” Jason griped, figuring it safe enough to step inside the boy’s dark room. It wasn’t uncommon for Damian to paint by the moonlight. He found it soothing to his disruptive soul. “What’re you painting?”
“See yourself.”
“It’s see for yourself,” he said as he shifted, eyes narrowed at one point, widening the next as he realized Damian was painting him. “Is that—”
“You? In your wraith form? Yes.” Damian tipped his chin up. “Walk to the right and gaze at it.”
Jason followed his command, jaw going slack as the features began to shift before his very eyes, the tones began to change from light and dark hues of blue and gray to an almost eerie crimson color; Jason could see the way the flesh began to melt away like it did in when he would transform, the outline of his jawbone and teeth emerging from his cheek.
“Go all the way.”
He did, going to a standstill at the emergence of his full form, scarlet skull and protruding, pointed canines, with glowing sea green eyes. Jason couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. “How on earth—”
Damian pulled him back over the beginning of the portrait, where the blue tones still resided, the only semblance of a wraith coming from Jason’s left eye, like a whisper of smoke. “Soul canvas.”
Jason’s eyes shot wide, gaping down at his brother. “How the hell did you get your hands on a soul canvas? Let alone using it, these things are damn near impossible to come by.”
“You think I’m that little resourceful?”
“I mean you either found one or you took the ones Bruce has stored away, in which case I’d run, because those are family portrait canvases only.”
Damian sneered. “Please, I didn’t take anything.” He drew the paintbrush up the side of Jason’s cheek on the canvas, refining the tint of orange at his cheekbone. “I purchased it in town the other day.”
“You know Bruce doesn’t like it when we go into town during daylight. Our glamours only work best at night.”
“I’m well aware of how our magic works,” Damian retorted matter of factly. “I didn’t say I went during daylight. I merely said the other day. Day also encompasses night.” He turned to Jason, a dark brow cocked as he said, “I went during the night when we were on patrol.”
Jason’s brows furrowed. “You were with us the entire night. How’d you manage to get a soul canvas back?” he shook his head. “Wait, back up, where did you get this from? No store in the city carries magic this powerful.” He gave Damian a stare. “You didn’t summon a demonic merchant, did you?”
“Yes,” Damian mocked. “As if I’d be as stupid as Timothy and summon something beyond my capability.” He rolled his eyes. “There’s a demon merchant who has a shop set up in the back alleys of the dark quarters. I went there.”
“Alone?”
“Titus was with me.”
As if beckoned by the call of his master, the hell-hound appeared in the doorway, pointed ears raised, poised and ready to hunt…or kill on his master’s command.
Jason blinked. “Riiiiight.” He looked back at the canvas, suddenly uncomfortable with how clear he looked in his own eyes.
“You dislike it?” Damian asked in that tone that told Jason he was mentally going to pick apart any answer he was given.
He shifted on his feet, a telltale sign of his discomfort. “No,” he admitted. “The work is phenomenal. Like it usually is.”
His brother gazed at him a long moment before his face split in a knowingness. “Ah,” he smiled, no, smirked. “That’s it then.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Damian responded, going back to the canvas.
Jason’s face pinched. “Don’t do that shit. What?”
His brother snickered. “You like that to the world you are inscrutable, but to those of us who have seen Death’s gates, you are scrutable.” Damian’s hand glowed as he set the brush on the palette and waved it across the canvas. Each shift made Jason quietly unsettled. “Your fathomless soul is a depth we have all witnessed, brother,” Damian murmured. “You are measured by our dives.”
He looked down at Damian, expression a subtle suspicion, and said, “And what of your own soul, Damian?”
His brother met his gaze. “You know the restlessness of mine better than most,” he replied. “For what ties brotherhood further than love?”
Jason glanced back at the canvas, eyes narrowed as the scarlet skull appeared again. “Death.”
“Indeed,” Damian agreed, setting the palette and brush aside before clasping his hands behind his back, the very picture of haughty elegance. “Come,” he commanded. “We must allow the painting to seal in the light of the full moon.”
“I know how soul canvases work,” Jason griped. “And who are you giving orders? You’re like two feet tall.”
“I am perfectly normal for my age and weight,” he retorted, exiting the room. “And I am the Son of—”
Jason grabbed the door-handle as he left and paused, turning to look back at the canvas, now facing the window. Ivory moonlight filtered through the glass panes, and he watched as the dimensions shifted, showing each portion of the portrait as they sealed.
As it came over the last dimension, the scarlet skull seemed to shift in the reflection, glowing green eyes catching his, and then, it winked, sealing back across the canvas. He turned away, expression drawn with an unsettled perturbation as his soul restlessly rattled its confines.
Summary - Today's the first day of the rest of Jack's life. So what's his choice?
Content Warning - implied physical abuse/torture
----
Everything hurts. A pounding throb is threatening to tear my head apart while my limbs ache, every muscle feels over-stretched, and I’m pretty close to just slipping back into unconsciousness. Something itches though, at the base of my brain, something pushing me to stand and look. I have no idea at what.
It takes some time to drag myself up, every muscle crying out in overworked agony. With a stretch, my joints crack and pop back into place, releasing pressure I had no idea I’d been carrying and drawing from me a long sigh of relief.
You’d think standing would be easier now that I’m sat up. You’d think. Not even halfway up, my head reels, swirling worse than a snow-globe. Everything’s spinning around me and I land heavily back on the bed. I think I might be sick.
I don’t know what happened. I vaguely remember my friends, there was dancing, but after that there’s nothing. No faces, no names, not even a vague feeling in any direction. Just a great blank slate where my memories should be and the more I look at it, the more my head hurts. It takes a minute or two but I finally manage to stand. My balance is still off and I stumble into my dresser which isn’t fun, and all thoughts leave my head when I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
At least I think that’s me. Same pale complexion, stellar cheekbones, striking jawline, but that’s not my hair. I’ve had the same hair my whole life, short, red, gently styled. Easy to maintain and iconic; but the hair in the mirror is an inch shorter, and black. Well except for a small pink streak near the top of my head.
I reach for it in shock, barely believing as my reflection does the same. What the-?
“You’re awake.”
The sudden voice scares me near shitless. My knees thud against the dresser but I don’t have time to feel the smack, turning to see Wanderlust standing a short way away. At least I think it’s Wanderlust. He looks taller; his clothes and his crown are darker, more twisted. Over his shoulders is a feathered cape that can only mean one thing. Mother.
“What happened to you!” I blurt, but he doesn’t even blink.
“What do you remember?” he asks.
“Nothing. I-”
Wait.
Cold. I remember being cold. I don’t remember what happened to my blazer, but my shirt was torn and damp and I was littered in cuts and bruises. I look down at my chest. My smart shirt isn’t torn. It’s purple and neatly pressed and fits me perfectly. As ever it’s good at hiding Mother’s sins.
A hollow ache blossoms in my chest. I’d been alone. Restrained and locked away. Never mind days it had to have been weeks. Had anyone even realised I was missing? Did anyone care?
I start to cough, hacking and spluttering; desperately trying to catch my breath as my chest spasms over and over. My stomach twists, wrenching violently as I drop to one knee, trying and failing to catch myself against the dresser.
I’m going to be sick, or I would if there was anything in my stomach. For a few minutes I’m retching as my body tries and fails to eject something, anything from my mouth. When was the last time I ate something?
Then comfort floods me as something warm comes in beside me. An arm wraps around my shoulder and pulls me in. I look up. Wanderlust holds me, his grip firm and strong as he pulls me close, gently hushing me. The ache in my chest fades to a dull pain.
I remember.
Wanderlust was the one who found me. Walked right in with a new smile, some new clothes, and quiet promises to keep me safe. I’d flinched away but he didn’t care.
‘Trust me.’ he’d said. The two dumbest words I’d ever heard him say. Of course I trust him.
Wanderlust moves to stand, pulling me up with him and without thought, I follow his lead. I hold tight as I try to get my legs to take my own weight. I’m not ready to let him go; he’s so warm. His fingertips drag along my forearm, sending goosebumps dancing across my skin and I think he knows what he’s doing because his lips are quirked in such a shit-eating smile. I just might melt in that smile. Gradually, he drags them towards my hand, taking it and interlocking our fingers, holding tight.
My head is swimming as we stand there; he’s holding my hand up, while the other has dropped to my back, holding me close; it’s almost like we’re dancing. As if we’d ever be allowed to stand this close.
But we are.
With a gentle twist of my fingers as he lifts my hand, Wanderlust encourages me to turn, wrapping his free arm around my waist again and pulling me back against him.
“Look at us,” he tells me.
So I look.
This can’t be us, I tell myself. The arm around my waist tightens like he’s afraid I might walk away. I should. We agreed a long time ago that we can’t be together. No one will accept us, and there’s more important things to focus on.
But look at how entwined we are. Wanderlust’s chin on my shoulder, his chest pressed firm against my back, his arms tight around me. His lips brush against my cheek as he presses a soft kiss and I can’t help but drown a little.
How many times have I let go for the greater good? For the sake of safety or sacrifice? Don’t I deserve this? Don’t I deserve to be happy?
“What do you think?” There’s a sly smile on Wanderlust’s lips as his reflection pins me with an unyielding gaze.
I stare at us. At my hair. At his crown. In his eyes. My eyes flit to every point of contact; like a drink of cool water after hours in the hot sun, it’s all too much and not enough. I push myself back into his hold, and Wanderlust pulls me closer. He’s only too happy to give me what I want. Finally.
