Bernard (indifferent shrug): They made me feel like I needed that to function in society, like I had to punish myself for… something. Cults are weird.
Tim (frowning, searching for the right words): Yeah… yeah, sorry for asking it like that, but I’ve wondered for a while. After hearing that, I just wanted to say—you don’t have to punish yourself for being you. That’s why I love you.
Bernard (softening, appreciative): I appreciate that, I do. I eventually learned to love myself thanks to people like you, but cults like that always warp your mind. Plus, I do kind of enjoy BDSM, but that’s consent-based.
Tim (nodding, chuckling lightly): There was also the whole using you as a vessel for a God.
Bernard (grinning, somewhat sarcastic): That makes sense though; my body is a temple and perfect. I just didn’t realize that at the time.
Tim (rolling his eyes with a smile, playfully): Of course you think that.
He leaned in and kissed Bernard on the cheek, a gesture filled with warmth and affection.
Been looking back through my WIP folder for old fics I might want to finally get around to finishing.
I found the one of Alastor and Vox's first meeting I started last year, but given what we now know thanks to season 2, I'll probably rewrite most of this. So here's a snippit from the first draft:
So a while ago, i found this dp x dc post that had a really interesting lore headcanon for Danny’s ghostly wail. Idk if I’ll be able to find it again, I’ll link it here if I do, but essentially it posited that every ghost has something called a “death echo”, which is an ability unique to them based heavily on their deaths. These echoes are the most powerful move in a ghost’s moveset, but they’re also extremely volatile and draining, typically damaging the ghost in some way when used, with Danny’s being his Wail because he died screaming. The original post then went on to some really cool halfa!Jason ideas based on these death echoes, but for this lil snippet with an extremely long intro I’d like to focus on Danny a bit more.
Edit: Apparently I may have extrapolated a lot of the actual lore behind these death echos myself? The inspiration post was a lot longer in my memories. Or I might've mushed multiple posts into one mental box and then forgot lol. So a lot of the actual detail from this point on is seemingly mostly original material? I think? Idk man, sometimes my brain spits out information without giving me any clues as to where it got that information. Anyway, this post got kinda long and since I'm... decently sure this is where I shifted from summarizing @ailithnight's post to writing all my own thoughts I figured here would be a good place to throw the cut lol.
So! with all of the context-for-the-context out of the way, let’s move on to the actual context for what I’m writing cause I can’t be bothered with writing an intro XD
Essentially, this is an au where Danny is an established member of the Justice League, or maybe one of the teen hero teams? I’m a slut for eternal teenager Danny, but maybe he’s enough of a powerhouse to be on the main team despite him both looking and acting like the dumbass fourteen year old he died as. Either way, he’s on a League/League-sanctioned mission and things go bad. Like, everyone-almost-dies bad. And so as a final desperation attack, Danny uses his Wail, a power he’s never told anyone on the league he even has. And it works, and they make it out, but after the fact everyone has. Questions. And because in this au death echoes are deeply personal, Danny dodges those questions, but the league coughbatmancough isn’t satisfied with that. So they push for answers. Answers Danny’s not willing to give, because. In my mind death echoes aren’t just based on how a person died, but also their experience of that death. What their last thoughts were. When Danny died the only thing that he could process beyond just an all-encompassing painpainpainpainpain was the sound of someone screaming. His screaming. And so his death echo is the sound of a fourteen year old child screaming in deathly pain and terror weaponized, which definitely gave the league Even More Questions than they would’ve had already. Which finally brings us to the actual snippet, which is a conversation between John Constantine, who was brought in for his experience with the supernatural once it became clear Danny wasn’t going to talk, and Danny himself.
~~~~~~~
“So, kid. Batsy tells me you’ve been hiding some of your abilities, wanna tell me what's up with that? Call it an occultist's intuition, but somethin’ tells me you’re not just being stubborn for the hell of it.”
“It’s... complicated. And not anyone’s business, either!”
“Kid...”
“Why does it even matter?! It’s not something I want to or am even able to do on a regular basis! I saved the mission, can’t they just accept that and move on???”
Sighing, Constantine reached up to start massaging his brow. “Kid, you and I both know that ain’t gonna be enough. Now I know that some things are better left alone, but the rest of these idiots? They can’t accept that, Batsy especially. That man’s never left bloody well enough alone in his life”
He looked up just in time to see the otherworldly teen shrink into himself, looking every bit the child he was. “I know but... why? Why do they need to keep asking questions? And why do they only ask the ones that hurt to answer?”
A sharp glance. “The fuck kinda questions are they asking? Batman was speaking in more grunt than word, so I didn’t really catch all the details of what this power you’re supposedly hiding even is.”
Phantom shrinks even more into himself at that, and responds in a voice so small it’s more sigh than speech. “I... I can scream. And it breaks things and pushes people back. But it, it sounds. Bad. And it brings up bad memories and I don’t like to do it or listentoitoreventhinkaboutitandtheywon’tletmeforgetand-”
“Breathe kid. I know you don’t need to but just take a deep breath with me. Don’t you go getting lost in your own head on me now., Constantine reassured the kid automatically, the sheer hopelessness prompting action long before the words themselves could be understood. Then the rest of him caught up, and he had to pause. Looked up at the kid, saw just how distressed he was. A picture was starting to form in the back of his head, and Constantine didn’t like what he saw one bit. A last-resort power that the normally open Phantom was strangely reticent about. A scream so horrible sounding the rest of the league would not to stop asking questions about it. Terrible memories to match said scream. And one truly miserable child who couldn’t bear to even think about any of it.
“Phantom... is that your Echo? Screaming?”
A miserable nod is his only response, the tears that had been welling up in the kid’s eyes finally starting to fall. Cursing softly to himself, Constantine stood to leave, bracing himself for the Bat’s inevitable questioning. “Well then you just take all the time you need love, and leave the rest to me. I’ll make sure the rest of those idiots know not to ask you about this ever again.” And with that Constantine turned and strode towards the door, leaving the quietly sobbing child to collect himself in privacy.
~~~~~
I had a whole-ass lore dump conversation between Constantine and Batman planned here, explaining how death echoes are deeply personal, and asking about one is a taboo on par with, potentially even worse than, asking a ghost about their death outright. Because they are formed from an amalgamation of how a ghost died, their last thoughts, and their final emotions, in some ways asking a ghost about their Echo is like asking them to describe their death in painstaking detail. But uhhh... inspiration bug left. So yea. Side note, I’d like to apologize if my depiction of Constantine’s accent was Bad, I’m but a lowly USAmerican whose only exposure to British accents is through tv ^-^’
here's the first little bit of the next brave face chapter:
The twilight black. Lanterns flicker all along the Hogsmeade platform as the Hogwarts Express glides into the station, but the light does little to push back the rain-swollen shadows. The waxing moon is so faint it might as well not be there at all. Remus is about to say so when James, forehead pressed to the fogged glass, says in a low voice, “Who are they?”
Typically, it is Mr Filch who stands waiting on the platform, shepherding students from the train towards the carriages that will carry them up to the castle. Hagrid often lends a hand too. But tonight, neither Filch nor Hagrid is anywhere to be seen. Instead, in the dripy circle of lamplight, stands a group of twenty men—cloaked in dark linen and leather—watching the train as it squeals to a steamy halt.
Sirius elbows Remus out of the way to join James at the window. “They’ve got Ministry badges on—hang on. I recognize that one at the front. That’s Rodolphus Lestrange. He’s dating my cousin. Or maybe they're married by now…what would I know?”
James tuts, fixing Sirius with a look and then fixing his glasses. “Is he…er…nice?”
“He’s a sodding Death Eater, mate, if that’s what you mean.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Small snippet under the cut if you don't want to read the fic
Alastor laughed, his shadows forming around him and propelling him upwards in a sea of smoke and inky tentacles. His crimson coat flared around him, before the fabric shimmered and transformed. A set of large wings burst behind him, followed by four more. Red, with white tipped black feathers. The wings and glowing black halo were reminiscent of the Exorcist Angel's.
He landed on the top of the hotel sign, wings spread out behind him. His head was bowed, but when he looked up, the whole glamor flickered and faded from his features.
Red and black fluffy ears changed to long curved horns, two more small sets beneath it. His black tipped bob inverted colours, two distinct streaks of gold appearing to frame his grinning face. Almost bone white skin, bright piercing gold irises, practically glowing against the black scalatra of his eyes. He straightened up, the long black military-style coat he now wore whipping behind him in an artificial breeze.
“Surprised, brother?” The Radio filter was gone, and a familiar but ancient voice from the past sealed the final nail in the coffin on who this individual was.
“Azrael.” Lucifer half growled, his own wings bursting forth in a flash of blinding light, soaring up to be face to face with his fellow Angel. His glare spoke for itself that he wasn't happy to see him, let alone realising that they'd been here the whole time, hiding in plain sight.
for injury prompt post: 29 with dick and robin jason?
29. "Tell me where it hurts, and be specific."
Send me a whump prompt and a character and I'll write a snippit
Okay, so maybe stealing Nightwing's bike and driving it through Bludhaven by himself was a bad idea. Maybe.
In his defense he had no idea there’d been gravel on the road when he started breaking. So him being thrown from the bike was totally the road’s fault! Not his.
And now he was sat in his sort-of brothers apartment with a growing bruise the size of Texas and a face scraped to hell and back. And that was just what was visible.
“Alright, since we don’t have an Alfred or Leslie here,” Dick said, sitting down on the chair in front of him at the table. “We’ll improvise.” Jason eyes the first aid kit he’d set on the table warily. It was looking a little… empty.
“I think I can wait till I get home,” He tried. Which, no offense to Dick’s EMT skills. But maybe a roll of gauze and some vaseline wouldn’t cut it this time.
“Nope. You’re not leaving this apartment till you’ve been looked over by someone,” Dick stated. “Now, tell me where it hurts. And be specific.”
Ugh, older brothers were the worst.
“Wrist kinda hurts,” Jason mumbled, holding up his left arm. He’d landed pretty hard on it, but it didn’t really feel broken.
“Any head pain?” Dick asked, moving to inspect his arm carefully. Jason just shook his head. “And you’re fully coherent,” Dick added, still focused on his wrist. “So hopefully we can rule out concussion. But you seriously need a helmet next time.”
“Hey, you ride that thing without one!” Jason argued, wincing as Dick pressed down on a certain spot.
“Cuz I’m a trained acrobat who’s been doing this longer than you’ve been alive,” the man pointed out, testing the tender area again, humming thoughtfully at Jason’s pained reaction. “And you’ve only been Robin for six months.”
“Batman doesn’t wear a helmet….”
“And we see how well that goes for him,” Dick smirked.
Rules for your Copy and Paste: Free form a blurb or drawing based on the weekly lyrics prompt. It doesn't have to include the prompt just whatever you're inspired to write, write it! Then tag some friends so they can play as well. It doesn't have to be finished on Thursday just post it whenever you can (you have a whole week between Thursdays).
I was tagged by the fabulous @woundedsoul12
I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met - Lord Huron
gently tagging @thedissonantverses @mythals-whore and @caughtnyact
So here's a little something with Cassandra Pentaghast and another crowd favorite companion. TW For for Major Character Death
She pushed the door open and entered the bar, one glance around the low lit room telling her it was empty except for the bartender behind the counter. Music played over the bar’s stereo system, fading easily into the background as she moved towards the bar. She took a stool, and carefully pulled the one next to her out as well before looking towards the bartender.
The beautiful Rivaini woman met her patron’s gaze, and then pulled two glasses out from under the bar, putting ice in them and pouring a generous amount of whiskey into each. She set one glass in front of her patron, and the second in front of the empty barstool.
Isabela watched the patron as she lifted the glass of whiskey and took a slow sip, before setting the glass back down on the bar all too carefully.
“It’s been awhile, hasn’t it, Cassandra?” Isabela asked softly.
Cassandra ran her fingers through her short cropped dark hair and nodded. “We always meant to come back to Rivain,” she admitted. “Visit the Hilt again. But we never got the chance.” Her eyes turned towards the empty barstool.
“Yeah,” Isabela sighed. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”
“One more trip, he told me,” Cassandra said with a sad smile. “Just one more, Cass, I promise. I believed him. I suppose he wasn’t entirely wrong about it being just one more trip, just not..” her voice trailed off, and Isabela could see the tears in Cassandra’s eyes.
“Just not in the way he intended,” Isabela murmured.
The stereo continued to play, the lyrics of a Lord Huron song filling their ears. “<i>I don’t know what I’m supposed to do haunted by the ghost of you.”</i>
“Take me back to the night we met,” Cassandra’s voice picked up the last words of the song. She lifted the whiskey glass in a toast. “To Varric.”
Bemused by Miss Hound's flirting, Cat Noir decides to humor her just a little, and asks what kind of ground rules she has in mind.
Miss Hound raised her hands in front of her in an X. "No kissing! Only smoochin'"
Cat Noir tilted his head in confusion. "What's the difference?"
She bounced once on her toes, then darted up. Her lips touched his briefly but firmly before she slipped back, "That's a smooch!"
While he was momentarily stunned she reached up, her motions fluid this time. Her fingers caught the edges of his collar and drew him down. No bouncing this time, she raised herself daintily on her toes. Her hands let go of his collar, only to cup his face. Their lips met, a gentle pressure that lingered. Time seemed to stop, sounded faded, and Cat Noir's mind blanked except for the most immediate of sensations. The brush of her bob against his cheek. The light sound of exhale through her nose. One of her thumbs brushing his chin. She stepped back, the world swarmed back into focus.
Miss Hound touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip then giggled, "And that's kissing."
