#my snippets
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“Cass is the favorite.”
Bruce paused in the hallway, head tilted in the direction of the kitchen. He wasn’t aware that anyone was still up.
“Definitely.”
Bruce was aware that Tim had coordinated tonight’s patrol as Damian was sick with the flu and Bruce was laid up with a couple of injuries—they must’ve just gotten back.
“She can read everything on his face and he never has to say a word—the old man must’ve been thrilled when he found her.”
Bruce frowned. His plan to return to his bedroom was put on hold as he lurked in the shadow of the den, listening carefully.
“And…Dick is the next favorite.”
“Of course, he’s the Golden Boy. Follows orders like the perfect soldier.” There was a dark twist of bitterness to the words.
“Tim’s next.”
“No, it’s definitely Babs. She’s actually good at her job.”
“Nah, I have to go with Steph. Babs calls B out on his bullshit. You, baby bird, melt into the shadows and don’t make a peep.”
“Tim, then Babs.” When he heard the scratching of pencil on paper, Bruce realized they were actually writing this down.
“Then the demon brat.”
“Depending on what kind of scene he’s caused in the past week.” A laugh, low and not very amused.
“Then me and Jason. The outsiders. Last on the list.”
A scoff. “No, Blondie, then you. I’m not on this fucking list.”
“Jason—”
“We’re ranking his kids remember? Not the vaguely estranged undead mob boss that comes to bail your asses out of trouble.”
“You’re his son, Jason.” Bruce was gripping the door frame so hard his dislocated shoulder twinged.
“All evidence says otherwise.”
“Well, I’m not his kid either. So I guess both me and Jason are off this list.”
“You’re his kid, Blondie. You have a room in this house.”
“I don’t use it.”
“Neither does little Red, and he’s the one running the company.”
“You have a room here too, Jason.”
“No, I have a fucking shrine to the fifteen-year-old kid who was murdered in Ethiopia.”
It landed flat and whatever camaraderie had been underneath the bitterness and snark dissipated instantly. It left a heavy tension in the air.
“I don’t want it anyway. Look what happens to the poor bastards at the top of the list.”
“What do you mean?”
“Cass—dear, darling, favorite Cass. She disappears whenever anyone is talking to B. Probably too painful to watch.”
“I hadn’t noticed that.” Quiet. Guilty.
“And the Golden Boy. Trying to hold the family together while everybody in it tears it apart. Timbo here, who’s hoping that if he slinks further into the shadows everyone might actually forget he exists.”
“Hey, I don’t—”
“Babs is stuck working for a boss who constantly undermines her, the demon brat doesn’t know if he should be listening to Dick or Bruce, and you, Blondie, for the great honor of being last on the list, are the only one of us that actually managed to slap B.”
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After hours of searching, he finally gets a trace of Dick’s scent. It’s clear and sharp and not tainted by wolfsbane. It smells like blood.
The wolf runs.
Traitor, his mind hisses, Dick betrayed him, betrayed them all, Dick is the reason his son still hasn’t woken up, and if it weren’t for the babe inside of him, Slade would’ve gutted him and left his corpse in the woods. Good if he’s injured. If he dies, Slade will just cut the baby out of him. Their pack has great healers.
The smell of blood gets stronger. It’s all Slade can scent, just blood blood blood, and there’s a twisting inside of him that is tight with worry. That…is too much blood. A part of his mind whispers that it’s a trap, another one of Dick’s nasty little tricks, how deceitful all humans are, and he doesn’t know which makes him run faster.
The scent leads him to a narrow ravine. The way down is jagged—easy on four feet, but treacherous for two, and the smell of blood is so much sharper. Slade is cautious, but there is only one scent. Only Dick’s blood. Nearly overpowering.
Slade stumbles upon his mate at the bottom of the ravine.
Dick is only a few paces away from the bottom of the trail, leaning against the cliff wall, sitting awkwardly with legs spread. He doesn’t look up at Slade’s approach even though Slade is making no attempt to be quiet. His focus remains on his arms. No, on what’s in his arms, the folds of a shirt containing a small, wriggling bundle.
Slade registers the new scent, barely detectable under the blood, and shifts back before he makes the conscious decision to. Dick does look up at that, craning his neck to see Slade looming over him. He doesn’t quite meet Slade’s gaze, eyes fixed in the vicinity of Slade’s shoulder, hazy and distant.
“I just—just wanted to see her once,” Dick slurs, voice a hoarse rasp. “My baby.”
Slade has to take another glance to fully comprehend the situation. Dick is sitting in a puddle of blood. His legs are splayed wide, one knee up, his leggings ripped down the middle. The other leg lies limp and twisted, ankle swollen. Dick’s skin is tacky with sweat and his eyes aren’t focusing and that is a lot of blood.
Slade crouches without meaning to, and Dick extends his arms. His expression is soft, almost dream-like, and he doesn’t try to stop Slade taking the baby from him. His cheeks are wet and as Slade watches, a few more tears trickle out.
“Bye-bye, Mari,” Dick whispers. “I’m sorry. Mama loves you.”
The baby shifts a tiny, closed fist and makes a quiet, plaintive sound.
It’s like the world rips down the middle.
Slade falls to one knee, arms tightening around the baby—around his daughter, around their daughter, and he can’t breathe because his mate is in front of him, barely conscious and bleeding out, and memories and emotions are twisting and warping and his mind is suddenly clear for the first time in eight months.
“No,” Slade breathes out, starkly horrified. What has he done? The emotions carve through him—rage and terror and guilt and confusion and Slade throws his head back and howls.
The sound splinters through the air, grief and warning and threat all in one, and it doesn’t die until Slade runs out of breath. Slade howls again, desperate to get out the storm brewing inside of him, but the baby—Mari, Dick called her Mari, their daughter, their precious baby girl—starts crying and Slade breaks off to press his face to hers.
She smells like Dick, like Dick’s blood, but underneath that is the clear scent of a pup, is the hint of Slade, and Slade doesn’t realize he’s crying until he sees the tears splatter against his daughter’s skin. He takes a ragged breath, head spinning, before turning back to Dick.
Dick, whose eyes have closed.
No. “No!” Slade says sharply, shifting his grip on baby Mari to grab Dick’s shoulder, to shake his mate. “No, Dick, little bird, please, you have to wake up, get up!” The shaking wins him a low moan and Slade redoubles his efforts. “Dick, my love, please!”
Dick’s eyes flutter open, blue eyes glassy and unfocused. “You need to stay awake,” Slade tries to order. “Do you hear me? Dick? Stay awake.”
“Can’t,” Dick whispers, indistinct. “‘M sorry.”
“No,” Slade’s voice cracks. “No, little bird, I’m the one who’s sorry, no, please, Dick!” He shakes his mate again when Dick’s eyes close, but he’s growing alarmingly limp. “Dick!”
“Take care of her,” Dick mumbles. “Our pup.” He slides sideways at Slade’s pull, and collapses against the stone. His face is gray and his breathing is slowing.
“Dick!”
Slade, desperate, throws his head back and howls again, this time a call for help. It feels like too long before he gets a distant, answering howl, seconds stretching against each other, seconds he spends patting Dick’s cheek or watching his pulse, absently rocking Mari with one arm to quiet her fussing.
“Dick, please, please don’t leave me, I’m so sorry,” Slade’s voice is choked and his throat is tight. “Little bird, please, I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry, please come back.”
Dick doesn’t respond.
Slade’s face is wet with tears by the time his pack comes, racing into the ravine in a flurry of paws. There’s a healer among them and they grimly take charge as Slade’s led away, as he listens to the healer barking orders to try and keep Dick alive, to try and save the mate Slade all but threw away.
Hive. This is the Hive pack’s fault. His turbulent emotions seize upon the dark thread of vengeance and grow stronger, stabilizing with a clear goal for him to take. He will go after the Hive pack and raze it to the fucking bones if it’s the last thing he does.
For his mate. For his pup, who might grow up without a mother. For the aching wound in Slade’s heart.
Revenge will be his.
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any hunger au snippets for the hungry🥺 I need something to keep my brain cells active and feast on pls
Yeah i think you guys have earned a snippet at this point shdhjwndjsjs
#shouting speaks#asks#hunger au#grian#mumbo jumbo#hermitcraft#life series#my snippets#life has been crazy rn so edits are going slow but at least i can show this 😭😭😭😭😭#txt
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I think Tim should have a bat necklace
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The ICEpick was nearly finished. A few more minutes and I'd could lift the computer lockout, and get the hell out of here... The motion detector went off. Oh no, it's here.
I slam the lighting control and duck behind the desk in the sudden darkness. I hear claws scratching at the door, and I hold my breath to try and stay silent as the door slides open.
I feel more than hear the thuds of its feet as it enters the captain's quarters. It makes that raspy catching cough noise again, like it's laughing at me. And then it speaks, using the voice of one of the dead crew.
"I'm almost flattered at the attempt, but I could hear your heartbeat and taste your synapses firing when I was still two decks away. It's pointless to hide. So why don't you stand up from there and we can talk like civilized beings? Here, I'll help."
There's a click. The lights come back on. I hear the beep of the ICEpick turning off. It canceled the hack?
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Hi! I love your writing style. Can you maybe write a fic about a villain who falls in love with a civilian, and the civilian getting over their initial fear of the villain?
Warming Up To You
Be Warned: Kidnapping
“So, what exactly are you trying to get from this?”
“Would you shut up?”
The civilian’s mouth snapped closed. They were handcuffed to the wall of, all things considered, a pretty nice evil lair. The villain was a few feet in front of them, staring at multiple computer screens as they typed something furiously. A part of the civilian was very scared of the villain.
A bigger part of them was extremely curious.
“It’s just,” the civilian said precariously. “Whoever your hero is, I promise you they don’t know me.”
“Your brother,” the villain said absently.
“What?” the civilian said incredulously. “There’s no way. When would he even have the time? I barely see him anymore--he’s always working.”
The villain didn’t respond. The civilian was too far away to see the text scrolling on their screens.
“So. . .how long has he been fighting you? Like, I always knew he kept secrets, but this? How could he keep this from me? I can keep secrets.” the civilian said.
The villain let out a frustrated huff and took their fingers off the keyboard.
“If I answer your questions, will you be quiet?” the villain said.
“Sure. I mean, I’m also pretty hungry.” the civilian said.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“I’ve been here for hours!”
The villain approached the civilian, crouched down to where they were sitting, and glowered at them.
“I could always gag you and throw you in a dark room. That’ll shut you up.” they said dangerously.
The civilian swallowed nervously. But then they took a deep breath and grinned.
“I’m good. So, does my brother have any powers?”
The villain frowned. This person was no fun. With a sigh of resignation, The villain sat down.
“Your brother can stop time--so can I. That’s why he fights me, so he can stop me messing up the timeline. It’s really frustrating.”
The civilian raised an eyebrow. The villain huffed.
“Fine. We’ve been fighting for five years. I’m sure you can piece together how he finds the time with his powers. I’m sure he didn’t tell you to protect you. But it doesn’t matter, I found you anyway because I’m good at my job.”
“Hmm.” the civilian said, leaning against the wall. “Interesting.
“Now, leave me alone.”
The villain got up and started walking away.
“Wait.”
The villain turned around. The civilian saw them up close above them and knew how afraid they should be. The villain looked strong, imposing, and ready to fight. But being afraid wouldn’t help the civilian.
“Thanks. This is probably my favourite of all the hostage situations I’ve been in.”
The villain stared at the civilian, puzzled.
“What?” the civilian asked.
“. . .none of my hostages have ever thanked me before.” the villain said.
“Wait, other hostages? Who?”
The villain pointedly turned on their heel and kept walking. But the civilian was sure they saw a smile on their captor’s face. It was cute. The civilian felt themselves blush.
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8 for the writing asks pls?
Thank you for the ask and for playing this writing ask game.
8. An excerpt of my writing that hurt my own feelings to write.
I've definitely written a lot of things that hurt my own feelings to write, but I cried real, genuine tears when I wrote this scene and was so emotional over it that I actually had to stop and take a break to calm down by the time I got to Aubrey's "because you've always been that person for me" line. I've written a lot of angst and a lot of devastating moments, but I've only actually cried because of my own writing maybe twice(?) in my life (I'm usually not much of a crier), so it definitely sticks out to me and I consider the Aubrey-centric chapter of "When Sun Shines Again" some of the best writing I did last year. Here's a snippet:
With a heavy sigh, Hero turned away from her, staring out of the dark and gloomy window. “You know, I’ve…never really had a lot of fight in me…” he admitted quietly, a faint flush in his cheeks before he let out a light, somewhat self-deprecating chuckle. “It’s something I’ve always thought I should probably get a little more of. But you…” His expression softened, and he smiled at her as he met her eyes. “You’ve always been a fighter, and I’ve always admired that about you. You want to protect everyone—fight for your friends even when they can’t or won’t fight for themselves. But I’m your big brother…”—he took a shaky breath and patted the top of her head—“I’m supposed to be the one protecting you, so you don’t need to protect me, okay?”
“But that’s the thing, Hero—you’re everybody’s big brother. Without Mari, you don’t have anybody to protect you anymore. And as long as you feel like you have to protect me and Kel and Sunny and Basil—as long as you feel like you have to take care of us, you’re never going to tell us what’s wrong, so you’re just going to suffer alone and none of us want that. We all worry about you too.” Aubrey paused, wiping her eyes. Hero froze. His hands trembled. He didn’t know what to say—didn’t even know how he felt. To see Aubrey so broken up and worried about him was like a wrench to his heart. First, Kel. Now, Aubrey. Could he do anything without hurting the people he cared for most in the world?
“Aubrey, I…” he began to stumble as tears pooled in his eyes.
“No, I—” she cut him off. “I didn’t say this to make you feel bad or feel guilty. I just…I know you, Hero. I know the way that things are—the way you always push aside how you feel to take care of everyone else, and I guess that’s part of the reason why I was so upset—because I knew how much you were suffering all alone and how you didn’t have anyone you felt like you could talk to. I know you’re never really going to be able to talk to us about what’s wrong—but I just…I think we all want you to have someone you can talk to. Someone you feel like you don’t have to protect. I know that’s never going to be me or Kel or even Basil or Sunny—you’re always going to be our big brother, but I want to believe there’s somebody out there—maybe even several people—maybe Brandi or your friends from school or I don’t know just anybody…somebody who you feel like you can tell these things to, somebody you can always go to who’ll try to understand and will comfort you and support you no matter what. I want you to find that person, Hero—because you’ve always been that person for me.”
#my snippets#answered asks#omori hero#omori aubrey#hero omori#aubrey omori#i don't think there are omori spoilers here#but if you know you know
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kobd but knock out is the one smitten and pining for breakdown I feel like I always see it the other way
ahah I may have something in the works...
#its gonna be a long fic so its taking a bit of time and was put on the backburner while i finish a few things up#but i so agree with you anon i want ko a mess over bd#kobd#knock out#breakdown#tfp#transformers#pining ko fic#my snippets#im sure there are mistakes in this just ignore it
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🌈 ROYGBIV Game
Rules: Search your your writing for the colours of the rainbow and post the excerpt.
I plucked this from an open tag from @little-peril-stories <3
open tag! to anyone who sees this and wants to
These snips are all from my newest wip, ds!
RED
I rotated so my face went under the surface, opening my eyes to see through the crystal clear water. Beneath the magmum floor, I could see glimpses of red, heat rising. The heat here, the last of the extinct volcano, was as ancient as this temple.
ORANGE
A smell wafted to me, separate from the sweet roasted scent from the altar. This one was citrus, like the oranges that grew in the palace garden.
YELLOW
“Well, do whatever you want, I say.” Saya slid off the rock, her bare feet landing on the soft white-yellow sand with a thump.
“Done pestering me?”
“For tonight,” she said. “Enjoy your brooding alone time on the rock.”
GREEN
But I realized the mess they made wasn’t just from stomping, but a residue left in their wake. It left a faint afterglow, a duller green than their skin, that stuck to the dirt and strands of grass. As the afterglow faded away, even in the darkness I could tell it left the blades of grass shriveled and brown and dead.
BLUE
Before I could gawk any further, something skittered by my feet and startled me. It was a salamander, one of the blue ones. It squatted down to see it closer, where I could see its scaley skin. Each scale glowed uniquely, varying shades of blue that, from a distance, looked like one solid color. I ran my finger down the salamander and it nudged me, tail shaking back and forth to assess my threat level. It must have decided I was not a danger to it, as curled up in a circle beneath by finger and let me caress it.
INDIGO PURPLE
The people split down the middle, making room for the familiar voice. Tolai, wearing my favorite of her deep purple robes—the one with the belt made of sand dollars—stepped forth to the front before the warriors and the mysterious monk.
VIOLET BURGUNDY
As if reading my mind, a moth approached me, this one with sharp lines on its wings that reminded me of the triangular pivots of my mami’s earned marks. On the cusp of its larger wings, two small eyes looked back at me, glowing the same burgundy of seers.
DS TAGLIST: (message or comment below to be +/-) @artbyeloquent @bebewrites @careful-fear @cherrybombfangirlwrites @cljordan-imperium @cocomerocollection @elijahrichardwrites @eventideintrigue @faithfire-writes @flowerprose @garthcelyn @hope-hopefully-writes @isabellebissonrouthier @jamieanovels @kingkendrick7 @lexiklecksi @little-mouse-gardens @marrowwife @mr-writes @saintedseraph @saphoblin @thyroidhormones @treesandwords @wildswrites
#writeblr#writblr#writers on tumblr#writeblr community#writerblr#writer community#writing community#novel writing#writers of tumblr#dark fantasy#w: ds#c: sasha#c: saya#c: tolai#tag game#ds snippets#my tag games#snippets#my snippets#mj posts
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unprompted shadowzel snippet from the GIANT shadowzel fic ive been working on for a month and a half
#shadowzel#my snippets#i just hit 15k and i still have 12 scenes to go#why do I do this to myself#im still alive and writing dont worry im just writing something ridiculous and ambitious
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Jason might’ve mentioned a passing interest in meeting Robin—the old Robin, because he was going to be the new Robin, only judging from the low, furious conversation and the death glares, Bruce hadn’t exactly mentioned that to Nightwing—but he wasn’t expecting Bruce to leave him alone with the guy.
“Justice League emergency,” Bruce had interrupted, cutting off Dick’s half-hearted tour of the parts of the Cave Jason hadn’t explored, and disappeared through a zeta tube with a simple behave for Jason and a growled watch over him for Dick. Leaving Jason with the guy that spent the entire visit seething in unconcealed distaste.
Alfred wasn’t home, he had left on one of his rare days off, or perhaps he was aware of the cloud of tension that formed whenever Dick and Bruce got too close to each other, and Jason understood that heroes and emergencies were a part of life, but he didn’t enjoy that that meant that Jason and Dick were left alone in the abruptly resoundingly empty Cave.
“Right,” Dick muttered, not quite under his breath, “I don’t know why I ever expect anything different.” The bitterness was palpable. “Two and half goddamn hours, and he leaves to space.”
Jason shrunk back slightly. It had been clear from the start that this visit was not for him, and his desire to meeting the original Robin had fast dwindled in favor of getting out of ground zero before Bruce and Dick actually started yelling.
Dick blew out a sharp breath and turned on his heel, suddenly enough that Jason flinched. Dick froze, staring at him like he’d forgotten that Jason existed. Jason couldn’t read the expression on his face, and didn’t think he wanted to.
“Jason,” Dick said, carefully pronouncing his name. His blue eyes were sharp and cold. “So. New Robin, huh.” His face stretched into a smile that looked warm for all that it was plastic.
“Yup,” Jason said, inching back another step. “Uh, it was nice to meet you. I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Where are you going?” Perfectly level, calm and even, but it still forced a chill down his spine.
Jason had been terrified of Batman, but terrified in the way he was of shadows and ghosts. Abstract. Not real. Once Batman had proved himself to be human, all that was left was a man—large and trained and dangerous, but who got scolded by his butler and forgot to put on matching socks and bought Jason a stepstool to reach the books on the tallest shelves.
Bruce wasn’t scary.
Not the way that Richard Grayson seemed to be. Quicksilver manipulation of his expressions, smiling when he didn’t mean it, and cold, cold eyes—Jason wasn’t reminded of monsters or demons. He was reminded of the gang members that watched him ducking into alleys with just a little too much intent, the narrowed eyes of his mother’s dealer, the bright, fake smiles that marked the cops he had to run from.
And Jason was here with him, all alone. Robin—Nightwing—trained and dangerous and currently looking at Jason like he wanted to leave him in pieces for Bruce to find.
Jason had read a book with facts about robins just last week. Robins are territorial birds, and disputes can get physical. Fights to the death often occur.
“Upstairs?” Jason hated the way it turned into a question. “I was reading a book, and—um, I wanted to finish it?”
“We haven’t finished our tour,” Dick said, and Jason had preferred the low-voiced hiss to the casual neutrality. “Come on, there’s lots of cool stuff here I bet Bruce hasn’t shown you yet.”
Jason dithered in place, casting a glance at the stairs—Dick was already walking away, heading for the back of the Cave—but as much as common sense was shrieking at him to stay away, go upstairs, don’t stay down in the dimly lit cave with the guy that hates you, Jason was still the kid that looked at the Batmobile and decided to steal some tires.
“Fine,” Jason said, hurrying up to match Dick’s pace. “But I don’t know what you can show me that Bruce hasn’t already.”
“Oh,” Dick’s expression twitched, something flashing for a second, “You’d be surprised.”
~#~
Jason, mouth agape and neck protesting as he stared up at the acrobatics equipment, was speechless. Dick was breathless and flushed and grinning widely, and fuck, this was what Jason had wanted to see. Not Bruce’s sulky other son, or the cold, dangerous Nightwing, but Robin.
“Bruce showed you that yet?” Dick teased, calling down to him from where he was swinging upside down from the ring.
“How do you do that?” Jason breathed out, too amazed to feign at disinterest. Dick had moved like he was an actual fucking bird, like gravity was for lesser things.
“Practice,” Dick laughed, flipping off from the ring and flopping down on the safety net. Even across the rope, he was all fluidity and grace, flipping once more before he reached the ground.
“Bullshit,” Jason rebutted, looking up at the silks and the ropes and the swings, the scaffolding, the way Dick flew—“Tell me the truth. You’re a meta, aren’t you.”
Dick laughed again, bright and twinkling. He looked much happier than the sullen teenager that had met Bruce’s hesitant hope with a scowl. “Nope, just practice. Grew up in the circus. I could fly before I could run.”
“That’s so cool,” Jason said, looking back up at the scaffolding. “Can you teach me how to do that?” Flying through the air, spinning and flipping without a care in the world, unbound by physical constraints…it sounded like the best thing in the world. It sounded like freedom.
It took him too long to realize that Dick hadn’t responded. He turned towards the older boy and saw Dick stock still, expression frozen in a pinched grimace. When he saw Jason staring at him, he turned away. “Sure,” Dick said, in a voice that wasn’t even remotely believable, and Jason flushed at the reminder that Dick didn’t want him here. “Maybe later. You need a lot of training first. How about you show me what Bruce is teaching you so far?”
There was a bite to the words, and Jason had too much of Gotham in him to not respond to the challenge. “Was that an offer to kick your ass?” Jason retorted, stalking past Dick and towards the sparring area. Need a lot of training first. Well, while perfect Richard Grayson had been growing up in the goddamn circus, Jason had been living on the streets. He knew how to fight. “I’m ready when you are, Dick.”
That cold smile was back, like Dick was trying to figure out just where he wanted to stick the knife, and Jason thrummed impatiently on the balls of his feet as Dick slowly made his way to the sparring area.
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Slade isn’t expecting visitors today, so he’s annoyed that the sound of footsteps interrupts his book. The curtains are drawn wide to let in the sunlight, and he doesn’t bother getting off the chair. As one of Talia’s best gladiators, he can get away with a lot more than anyone else. He’s earned enough to buy his freedom ten times over, and Talia knows that the only reason he’s here is because he wants to be here.
It’s in her best interests to keep him sweet. A lesson Ra’s never learned.
“Slade,” she calls out before she fully steps into view, wearing a low-cut dress typical of high class fashion and yet bristling with knives, “I’ve brought a gift.”
“I wasn’t aware I was expecting one,” Slade says, still in his seat. There are two guards with her in addition to her personal shadow, and they’re holding someone upright between them.
“This was one a long time in waiting,” Talia smiles, and beckons the guards forward. It takes a long time to recognize the stumbling figure between them—clad in the typical revealing silks of a bedslave, bandages wound around their torso and half across their face, ruffling dark hair. Their head is bowed, golden cuffs around their wrists, but it isn’t until Slade spots the blue brooch clipping the silks to the unassuming black collar that he realizes who this is.
Nightwing. Richard Grayson. Up until recently, one of the Arena’s favorite gladiators. And the man that killed Slade’s son.
He doesn’t realize he’s on his feet until Talia’s smile widens. He ignores her, and stares at Grayson. The man is gaunt where he was once gleaming, a golden young gladiator now gray and exhausted and faintly trembling. The outline of his collarbones is starkly visible, as are the dark shadows around his visible eye. Grayson lifts his head to meet Slade’s gaze, expression cool and blank, and there’s no fire in that startlingly blue eye.
He looks like someone walking to their executioner.
“And what’s the gift?” Slade asks sharply. He heard of Grayson’s loss weeks ago, a startling upset with one of Talia’s young gladiators, and the Arena had voted to spare him. He assumed that Talia would’ve used Grayson in one of the games she was always playing to catch Lord Wayne’s attention, not bring him here.
To the first person in the country who wanted to tear him apart.
Talia smiles, and gestures to Grayson. There’s a flicker of something in Grayson’s eye that fades to blankness. It isn’t quite resignation or quiet placidity. It’s a mask, and Slade’s itching to tear it off his face.
“He’s yours,” she says. For what? For a night, a day, a week, a fuck, a beating, a—“to do with whatever you wish. Keep him or kill him, I do not care. His fate is yours.”
Slade blinks. This time, the fracture across Grayson’s mask spreads wider before it’s suppressed. Before Slade can fully understand what’s going on, his cell door is opened and Grayson is none-too-gently shoved inside.
“Have fun,” Talia laughs, smirking at Grayson before she walks away, “Goodbye, Richard.”
Grayson doesn’t say a word. Soon, the guards and Talia are beyond hearing, and the heavy weight of the silence is the only thing there. Silence, and Slade staring at the single person he’s wanted to tear apart for years.
He takes a step forward. Grayson presses back against the bars, clearly trembling now, expression fighting to be blank but panic too hard to fully conceal. He’s trapped in a corner and there’s nowhere to go and Slade stalks forward with all the time in the world.
“Nothing to say?” Slade asks, because he’s been waiting for this moment for so long, stoking the fires of his vengeance year after year, waiting for Wayne to finally buckle and schedule a fight between them, and in his dreams, Nightwing turns to Icarus, the boy that flew too close to the sun. And Nightwing dies, red spilling across the sands.
Now it looks like the wax wings burned on the way off but didn’t manage to take him with it, and Grayson’s thinner than he usually is, lost muscle and new scars and no matter how fiercely he tries to manage his expression, there’s a brightness he can’t quite mimic.
“Is there anything to say?” Grayson asks, voice hoarse, “You’re going to kill me. I don’t have a speech for pretty last words.” Defiant but weary.
This is a pale imitation of the golden, gleaming young gladiator that raised bloody dual swords to the roar of an Arena, triumphant over his son’s corpse, and frustration abruptly washes over Slade.
“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?” Slade growls, and he’s close enough to wrap a hand around Grayson’s throat and yank him away from the bars. “Do you really think that I’ve been dreaming of killing you for years only to give you the mercy of a quick death?”
Grayson does attempt to defend himself, long-ingrained fighting instincts unable to let him truly surrender, no matter how much resignation he feigns, but Slade flings him at the floor to avoid the retaliatory swipe.
That Grayson falls is the first surprise. The man has preternatural grace. Slade quickly calculates that the bandages across his right eye are the culprit, as are whatever injuries he’s hiding, but the thought is pushed aside when Grayson hits the ground.
Because he screams, actually, open-mouthed, screams, voice cracking in a way that indicates precisely why it’s so hoarse, and immediately rolls over to curl up on his side, gasping and shaking and nearly clawing at the floor.
That isn’t a minor injury. That is—
Slade’s not an idiot, not a mindless brute tearing people apart because he knows nothing else, no matter how much the impression suits him. He used to be in the military, used to command, used to strategize, and he’s spent years watching lords and ladies play their games.
It’s a fact that Grayson displeased Talia in some way, she would’ve given him back to Wayne otherwise. Dropping him in Slade’s lap means Grayson’s only coming out of the cell as a bloody ruin. So Talia got her money’s worth, sold Grayson to everyone that’s wanted a piece of the charming young gladiator, until—until someone damaged him so badly that Talia wouldn’t even try putting him back together.
Slade grabs that ridiculous brooch and uses it to lift Grayson off the floor. Grayson’s struggles are weak, and they cut out with a choked sound when Slade drops him on the bed. Slade finds the nearest knife.
Grayson sees the light glinting off the blade, reflected in his too-wide blue eye, and squeezes that eye shut. Stops breathing too.
Slade carefully slides the knife under the bandages and slices them all free.
The outer layer comes unwrapped easily, the cloth wrapped around Grayson’s head to keep it in place. The second layer is more packed together, but comes undone with a few more cuts. It’s the third layer that’s plastered to Grayson’s skin, and Grayson starts making those quiet sounds again, as if he’s trying not to shout.
It comes off, tugging at every inch of Grayson’s skin, to reveal a brilliantly red slash extending from just below Grayson’s right cheekbone to disappear into his hairline. In its path lies an empty eye socket.
One visible blue eye stares at him, glimmering and wide.
When Slade places the knife right under it, he gets the first true glimpse of terror.
~#~
Grayson is sitting on the edge of the bed by the time Slade steps through the curtain, a book in one hand but clearly alert. Aware of how long gladiatorial training takes, aware that Slade is back too soon, wary and—
His entire face brightens when their visitor steps past Slade. Any thought Slade had of keeping himself between the two is thrown out the window when Grayson pushes himself upright and nearly throws himself at Hood with a cry of “Jaybird!”
Hood catches him and clutches him close, spilling a long string of half-choked apologies, and now Slade’s curiosity is burning. Hood is murmuring “sorry,” over and over and over again, and Grayson is shushing him, and there’s a familiarity there that Slade hadn’t expected. Sure, he knows that Hood was trained alongside Grayson, before he went out to a match he wasn’t prepared for and became Talia’s, but Hood’s bitterness for his former master and all Wayne’s gladiators is fairly well known.
Until now.
“It’s okay,” Grayson finally says loudly, squeezing Hood tightly in a hug, “It’s okay, Jay, it’s not your fault, and I’m fine, I’m okay.”
Well, that was a lie. Hood clearly knows it as well because he disentangles enough to look Grayson in the face—and blanches. “What happened?” he says quietly, cupping the side of Grayson’s face that’s still bandaged, “Your face—your eye—” Quick as a flash, Hood turns on Slade with a snarl, “What did you do to him, you bastard—”
“Jason, stop!” Grayson gets between them, his back to Slade, holding Hood’s shoulders, “Slade didn’t do anything to me, calm down.”
The light in Hood’s eyes is a little less manic when his gaze drops to Grayson. “If it wasn’t him, then who?” Hood snaps. Grayson doesn’t immediately answer. “Dick.”
Slade crosses his arms and waits. Grayson didn’t tell him the full story, but it’s easy—“Sionis,” Grayson exhales.
Enough to guess.
Hood’s face runs a full gamut of emotions in half a minute. “Talia’s blacklisted Roman,” Hood says slowly, “That because of you?”
Grayson makes a weak smile and shrugs, “Difficult to do business with a man that insists on destroying your things.”
“Fucking hell, Dick,” Hood curses roundly, “Why the fuck—you can’t—stop trying to save me!”
The last one comes out as a shout, and far too loud. Grayson’s pressed his lips in a thin line, Hood’s eyes are flickering, and the silence is heavy and tense.
Both of them flick a glance towards Slade. “Don’t stop on my account,” he says mildly, “This is the most entertainment I’ve gotten all month.”
“Can we get a moment?” Hood asks, on the verge of rudeness.
“You paid for a visit,” Slade points out, “Not privacy.”
Grayson steps smoothly in front before Hood can retort, and asks quietly, “Can we purchase privacy then?”
Slade flicks a glance at Hood, who’s nearly vibrating in place, and Grayson, tense and desperate, and the way their hands are locked together, firm and tight. He pushes off the wall and heads for the curtain, “Fine.”
“How much?” Hood calls out.
Slade smirks before he lets the curtain close behind him, “You get to find out.”
He ends up waiting outside the cell, absently sharpening a knife, hearing a low murmur too quiet to make out distinct words. At one point, Hood’s voice rises into a tirade about Grayson’s intelligence and common sense, but it’s quickly hushed. It’s close to the half hour when Hood comes stomping out.
“Well?” Hood crosses his arms, “What’s the price?”
Slade arches an eyebrow, “You’re not the one who has to pay.”
For a moment, he thinks Hood’s going to punch him. The younger gladiator squeezes his hands into fists and his glare is vicious enough to set something on fire. “If you hurt him—”
“What, Hood?” Slade cuts him off, “What will you do? You can’t stop me, and Talia won’t stop me, so explain to me how exactly you propose to protect him?” Hood is vibrating in place, a murderous statue. “If you threaten me again, I won’t be so obliging to the next deal you want to make.”
The paleness is from fury and fear both, and Hood keeps his mouth shut as he roughly stomps past Slade. Slade watches him go until his footsteps stop sounding, and then heads back inside.
Grayson is waiting for him, again sitting on the bed, hands crossed in his lap, gaze fixed on Slade. “What is the price?” he asks quietly. Evenly, for all that he’s tense and clearly scared.
“Answer some questions,” Slade says, taking the chair, “Honestly.”
Grayson looks suspicious. “What questions?”
“What did Hood mean when he told you to stop trying to save him?”
Grayson purses his lips but deflates, leaning back, clearly resigned. “It’s not really a secret,” he sighs, “I threw the match.”
It takes a second for Slade to comprehend. “You threw it,” he repeats, “You threw the match.”
Grayson shoots him a half-irritated look, “I wasn’t going to kill Jay.” Something crosses over his face, a flicker of the death that still hangs between them, the dead boy that Slade wants to avenge. “And I—I knew they wouldn’t vote for my death,” Grayson says quietly, “Jay—I couldn’t take that risk.”
On the surface of it, it makes sense—Grayson’s made a name for himself, been pretty and charming at every sponsor that flits his way, there’s no way they’d let him die without extracting their pound of flesh.
“And Sionis?” Slade asks.
At this, Grayson’s face twists. His gaze drops, and Slade doesn’t know if he’s doing it consciously, but his hair drifts over the bandages, as if to conceal it. “Sionis—has his preferences.”
“And Talia whores out the gladiators that aren’t doing well.”
Grayson’s expression twists further. “Unless she had reason to doubt his self-restraint,” he says quietly, and Slade can see it. Can see Grayson provoking Sionis until the man lashed out with a wound too egregious to ignore. Lashings, brutality, blood and pain? Fine, when it could all be concealed under shifting silks, and everyone wanted scars on a gladiator.
But a missing eye on one of the Arena’s prettiest warriors? No, even Talia al Ghul, with all her animosity, couldn’t ignore that that was a step too far.
“Regardless of whether or not it worked, you had to know she would kill you for it,” Slade says.
Grayson doesn’t look him in the eye when he responds, “Talia was clear on my eventual fate from the very first day.”
Slade blinks. With that interesting piece of information, Grayson shifts up the bed, until he can lean against the wall, and cracks open his book. He doesn’t say anything else.
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Hi smalletho nation i needed a warmup before digging into more hunger au so i decided to write a little snippet specifically intended to make @bad12amcomic want to beat me with hammers<3 its not much but i hope yall will accept this humble offering that has literally zero context whatsoever /silly
"You suck, Etho, never come near me again," Joel snaps. Then, with the edge of a sneer: "Sorry, I didn't mean that— except I did, you loser— bet you didn't see that one coming, did you, you stupid— blimmin'— good at everything...." His voice trails off, curdling and sour as it drips to the ground.
Etho's response is slightly more measured. "I dunno, Joel... seems like you kinda want my attention over here." One white eyebrow ticks up into a perfect arch, the glint of a sly smile teasing the corners of his eyes. The bare edges of a laugh tickle each syllable as he leans in close, both in mock and in challenge. "Maybe I don't suck as much as you think."
"I wish you did," Joel blurts, then flushes all the way to the roots of his hair, entire face flaming. "I-I mean, uh— oh, wow, nevermind, that came out weird. Look at the time— goodbye Etho, I hope Gem kills you really... stupidly. So I can laugh at you. Because I'm cool, and way cooler than you. Obviously."
#joel smallishbeans#ethoslab#smalletho#boat boys#hermitcraft#hermitshipping#suggestive#WILDLY HAPPY I GET TO TAG THIS AS HERMITCRAFT LETS GOOOOOOO JOEL#tbh this was specifically bc i wanted to write joel's voice hes so fun for me..... i love the little pauses in his dialogue#guys with unique voices mon beloved#shouting speaks#mcyt#my snippets#txt
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While I have you guys here do you want to see my beautiful alpod contemplations
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What If: Kieran agrees to letting Juliana handle his hair in Chapter 15 of Azure Dive?
This is a snippet I decided to do because yesterday, it was a certain author's birthday. But I couldn't finish on time because my internet died for the remainder of my night. So @dipplinduo, have this day late birthday present ;w;
“Want me to fix your hair up a bit?” Juliana offers, showing a spare hair band in the palm of her hand. She must’ve detected the hesitant look in his dark yellow eyes. “I’m just going to put it into a ponytail, nothing fancy or eye-catching!” And there was that reassuring tone of hers which had a habit of melting away his concerns. How does she do it? How can she just easily calm his nerves like that? It was frustrating she had that much control over him, after everything.
But, on the other hand he decided to humor her a bit. His hair was a beast to tackle as Carmine liked to put it. Which is why it used to be the unruly mess it was known for. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt I guess.” He tried to come across to her in an aloof manner. That was how cool people do it right? He was cool.
“Then come sit in front of me, I won't bite.” Juliana had that irritably cute smile on her face that reminded him of sunflowers. He moves over to sit in front of her with his legs now criss-cross flapplesauce. Kieran could hear Juliana crawl up to him a bit more, she must be standing on her knees to accommodate the height difference they now shared.
“Just a ponytail.” He huffs, looking down at the floor of the violet tent they were in.
“Of course! Do you want it high, low, or in the middle?”
Frankly, Kieran didn’t really care but, if he had to answer her back. “Middle.” There was something weirdly electrifying about having Juliana this close to him. And she hugged him mere moments ago!
“Gotcha! This won’t take long!”
Kieran lightly tenses up the moment he felt her fingers run through his hair, it felt different. It felt… intimate with the way her nails lightly scratch his scalp, the strands of his hair sliding off her fingers. He eases up because it felt nice.
“You have such pretty hair Kieran, I’m jealous. Can I brush it?” Juliana asks with her voice filled with warmth and Kieran mumbles a yes. Trying to mask away his eagerness for more of her touch. Soon a brush made contact with his hair, and that felt nice too. He could fall asleep to how gentle and soothing Juliana was messing with his hair. He closes his eyes letting out a soft sigh and slight shiver over how good it is. He could get used to this. The birds were chirping outside, the tree leaves lightly rustling, all while they were in this tent. It was the two of them. No Champion of Paldea. No Champion of Blueberry Academy. Just him and her. Sharing this soft moment with no prying eyes and hardly any words between them. Their actions meaning far more than simple words. With Kieran just melting into her from the experience.
Locks of his hair were being bundled up into her hand and Kieran felt it being bound together by the hair band shortly after. Kieran turned around slowly while Juliana sat down again, grabbing her phone to show him what she did to his hair. He liked it. Rather than just one color covering over the other, there were locks of mauve and black mixing in neatly with each other. With the short ponytail being right at the middle just like he said he wanted. “Thanks.”
“Mhm, you’re welcome.” Juliana smiles fondly at him. Kieran didn’t know what overcame him but he decided to impulsively run a hand through her side ponytail. “K-Kieran?” Juliana’s cheeks were rosy.
“Your hair has grown longer too…” He murmurs, gently feeling her soft chestnut brown hair against his hand.
“Y-Yeah…” Juliana responds, her soft blue eyes with violet hues didn’t move away from his own. Even when Kieran boldly moved on from her hair to running the back of his fingers down the side of her face. He could feel his ears getting warm when he witnesses her subconsciously lean into his touch. She liked being touched by him as he liked being touched by her.
“Juliana…I-”
“HEY! I SEE YOU’RE BOTH AWAKE IN THERE!” Came the most obnoxious and loudest voice, that Kieran began having not so pleasant thoughts about the source of said voice. “FOOD IS ALMOST READY!” Crispin when I get my hands on you….
Juliana immediately flinches back, her face incredibly red and no longer able to meet his gaze. “O-Oh yeah! Don’t want the food to be cold! We should get going!” Juliana started to crawl out of the tent in a rush.
“Yeah… we should.” Kieran looks down at his hand that was just on her face. Mentally screaming at himself, he could feel his face match the same shade of red as Juliana's.
Silently memorizing and burning everything that happened in this tent into his mind for many years to come.
#dipplinshipping#juliana pokemon#juliana x kieran pokemon#kieran x juliana#kieran pokemon#pokemon#my snippets#Happy Birthday Dipplin!#And now back to working on Chapter 21
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A snippet from my next fic, featuring Mark’s crisis of sexuality and Jenson’s burning desire to have said “absolutely not” when Mark called him out of the blue to get a drink with him.
“Not to be rude,” Jenson cut in, deciding that he really didn’t need to be hearing Mark’s thoughts on the matter, “but I’m really not interested in hearing about how you want to fuck Sebastian.”
“Wh— that’s not, that’s,” Mark floundered, opening and closing his mouth, “I never said— I’m not,” he continued, starting and stopping before abruptly falling silent, seeming to realise that there was no walking it back now.
“And just for the record, most straight men don’t spend their time wondering how other men would sound if they fucked them… just food for thought, yeah?”
#I’m having the time of my life writing this#sebmark#martian#f1 rpf#my snippets#rpf#fic: the subtle art of deniability
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