#SNIPPET

[puppetmaster13u]

Who Wants a WIP of a thing I'm workin on of Batkids messin with the JL. Well technically they're going to, as soon as Bruce can be convinced to introduce them.

================================================

   “Hey,” a figure crouched on the edge of a building chirped, the sound borderline literal as an easy-going grin spread across their face. “Hey B. B, I know you can hear me~” They poked a larger figure, one who was barely noticeable in the shadows and only by the glimmering white-out eyes that gleamed in the distant lamps below. 

   The first figure grinned wider when their prodding got a grunt, canines sharp. “C’mon B, you can’t just keep us here our entire lives,” they sang, voice dipping into twittering as they giggled. “Your League is already snoopin’ around Blud, and already tried to contact Auntie.” 

   Another grunt, the larger figure grumbling as though to say bet. The smaller snorted. “Seriously, you’ve never been able to get us to do what you say, you won’t be able to suddenly do so now!” 

   They squawked when a gloved hand with claws tugged them beneath a cloak, tucking them against the one they were heckling. “B, seriously! We’re not babies anymore, we can take care of ourselves y’know!” 

   An insistent grunt, claws combing through black hair. They rolled their eyes, even if it wasn’t visible beneath the domino-esque mask on their face. “I know you’re an adult now, Nightwing,” they said in a mocking exaggerated growl. “I trust you, Nightwing. I’m not a worry-wart Nightwing. Weren’t you the one to say we could trust the league?” 

   His ear was cuffed for his trouble, causing him to roll his eyes again. “Geeze, Batman, don’t be so excited and jumpin’ for joy now.” 

   Another grumble, insistent. 

   “No no, you don’t get to pull but my babies,” Nightwing mocked. “I don’t need your permission y’know! I could stop hiding whenever the J-L goes into Bludhaven and boom! Besides-” He grinned, tucking himself against his companion. “If we can go up to the Watchtower you can see us more often, Dad!” 

   Bingo. 

   Batman grumbled, arm tightening around him in a sort of side-hug. But he was thinking about it, which was more than a start. Bruce had a ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’ sort of mindset when it came to him and his siblings after all, so all that was needed was for one of them to start asking. 

   “Please Dad?” he wheedled, poking his head out from under the cloak to look up at B with wide eyes. “I’ll stay right next to you or auntie the entire time so you know I’m safe!” 

   The older vigilante faltered, head turning away. Nightwing was stubborn though- he’d managed to convince B for him to go out when he was younger, and that was in Gotham- so he could definitely convince him of this. 

   “Pretty please Dad? I won’t take off my trackers or anything!” he made sure his voice was earnest, even if he was pouting. “I’ll even… ergh,” he fake gagged. “I’ll even wear the child-leash.” The dreaded child leash, the thing that haunted him as a child, and now haunted his siblings just as much. 

   “Hrn…” He was squished more against his father’s side, the hug tightening before he was let go. “We’ll discuss it at home.” 

   Well.

    It wasn’t a no.

#my writing #batman #batman au #cryptid batman #cryptid batfam #dc #dcu #batfamily #dick grayson #batfam #nightwing #bruce wayne #cryptid batfamily #writing wip #snippet #also feel free to use this as inspiration or a prompt #prompts

[defectivehero]

Hello! If ur requests are open, I'd love to see a villain or hero trying to break down the walls of their enemy, who's whole purpose is to be a tool. Denied everything for the sake of a single goal, a mere sacrifice, destined to die :)

this ask is so peko pekoyama & izuru kamakura coded. and i love it so much. warnings: manipulation, child abuse, graphic depictions of injury/violence/blood, dehumanization

"Ah, you're awake," the villain realizes aloud, looking at the hero. "I was hoping to get some answers from you."

The hero is silent. They look surprisingly calm, despite the situation they find themself in: bound to a chair, a blindfold secured around their eyes. They don't look unnerved, startled; there's no emotion in their expression—no modicum of energy or presence to denote them as even remotely human.

Admittedly, this hero has intrigued the villain, ever since the moment they met. The hero had moved with a mechanical precision, and the villain was surprised to find that their precision extended to every other facet of their life. There is no boundary between work and personal life for the hero—because they simply don't have a personal life. At least, that's what the villain has found. They'd love to be proven wrong at this point—would love to be proven wrong about their lingering suspicions regarding the cruelty of the local hero agency.

"What did you want to ask about?" The hero asks, as if they are the one controlling the conversation. And maybe they are. The villain blinks, thrown back into reality.

"Why are you...?" The villain tries to say. They're not quite sure how to proceed. They take a slow breath and start pacing around the hero, hoping to quell their restless energy. They are the one in control. "No. What did the agency do to you?"

"Why do you care?" The hero hums. There isn't a denial of any kind—"They didn't do anything to me" wasn't a response. The villain's stomach stews in unease.

"Answer the question," the villain demands.

"Very well," the hero answers carefully.

In hindsight, the villain should've braced themself for the answer. They were so focused on the question that they neglected to prepare themself for the nearly infinite amount of possibilities—unspeakably cruel possibilities. They're suddenly grateful that they blindfolded the hero—grateful that the hero won't be able to see their expression. Because what they say next breaks the villain’s composure.

"I was seven when it happened… My powers manifested. I didn't know how to use them. It was bound to happen."

"...What was bound to happen?" The villain hears themself say. Their voice sounds like a stranger’s.

"I was kidnapped walking home from school. One moment, there was a sharp pain on the back of my head; the next, I woke up to a glass cage and a manacle secured around my ankle."

The villain is biting the inside of their cheek so hard they can taste blood. They shouldn't be surprised, but they are.

"I didn't know where I was or what was happening. I was just a child." The hero continues. The villain wants to think that there's a trace of emotion in the hero's voice after the latter statement, but they get the feeling it's just their imagination.

"For a while, I was alone. I don't know how long. I tried to summon my powers, but they still weren't under control. I nearly killed myself in my attempt to escape.

"Then, someone visited. It was a man in a dark suit. He unlocked the cage, or manipulated it, I can't remember—and walked up to me. There was a glass of water in his hand. I was so thirsty.

"I was too young to know any different, too young to question what was clearly a kind gesture. I took a sip... My vision spiraled and I fell to the ground.

"I woke up on an operating table, with people staring down at me through advanced medical equipment. Tears were slipping down my cheeks, from the brightness of the lights above. Someone secured a mask on my face. I tried to stay awake, but I couldn't move.

"I woke up on the floor of my cage, in a pool of my own blood. There was a giant wound on my forearm, leaking pus. I dry-heaved over and over again. Nothing came up.

"I got a lot of visitors after that. It was clear that they did something to me. Suddenly, I was getting meals three times a day, books and video games to keep me busy... I must've been eight or nine years old at that point—old enough to understand that I was nothing more than a lab rat."

It takes them several moments for the villain to find their voice. "...And then?" They manage to ask. They stopped pacing minutes ago—now they're standing across from the bound hero.

"Then I was trained," the hero says. "Brought to the brink of my exhaustion over and over again, day after day. Months passed, then years... like granules of sand slipping through my fingers."

"I was soon trusted to participate in missions. I didn't know what was happening, why I was fighting who I was fighting. All I knew... was the hollowness in my chest and the commands inscribed on my mind itself."

The villain is silent. They don't trust themself to speak—they know their voice would break, betraying their thoughts.

At some point, the hero is the one to break the silence. They tilt their head to the side slightly, leveling the villain with what they can assume to be a curious gaze under the blindfold. "Why have you captured me? Do you hope to rehabilitate me?"

"It won't work," the hero says before the villain can answer. Somehow, they've ascertained that their capture was motivated by that exact desire: the wish for rehabilitation, the visceral need to do something good for someone other than themself. "They have broken me beyond repair." The hero's voice is hollow.

"Everyone can be fixed," the villain responds.

"But I am not a person. I am just a shell, an empty husk. An amalgamation of observations on human behavior, with no memories, no passions, no opinions. I don't even have a name."

Somehow, this is what breaks them. Somehow, the villain survived the onslaught of horrible information, suffered through the retelling of dehumanizing events and cruelty beyond measure. Yet this is what breaks them: the hero does not have a name. A name: a concept so simple. Even animals have names—they are ascribed names by humans. What does it say that this person has no name? They have been deemed lower than humans, lower than animals. They are merely a tool. A weapon.

The villain's thoughts are spiraling. They feel themself moving before they can stop. They robotically break the distance between the two of them, until they're standing over the hero. The hero must sense their proximity, but they do not respond—do not even flinch or move. The villain bites the inside of their cheek hard and begins untying the ropes around the hero's limbs.

"What are you doing?" The hero asks. They sound vaguely surprised. But the villain is nearly certain it’s just an act.

"Leave," the villain demands, their hands shaking ever so slightly as they finish freeing the hero. "Go."

There's a brief flicker of emotion on the hero's face—a quick flash of complete, utter confusion. It happens so fast that the villain can just barely comprehend it, can just barely grasp that the hero may, deep down, have the freedom to express genuine emotion. But as quick as it appears, the confusion is gone: smoothed over by an infuriatingly blank slate.

The villain watches the hero leave. The moment the door clicks shut, the bile on their tongue rises and they dry-heave. They cough and take deep breaths, feeling their throat burn with more than just acid. Unshed tears linger in their eyes, in the back of their throat.

Is the hero past saving? More importantly, do they even want to be saved?

The villain rubs a hand over their face and walks back to the wooden chair where the hero sat moments ago, kicking it over in a rush of pure frustration. It slides across the floor with a horrible screeching noise.

The villain is overcome with an intense desire to do something rather uncharacteristic: they want to free the hero from the agency's chains. And, hell, it's not out of a foolish desire to do something good. Not anymore. Somewhere, deep down, the villain wants the person they just spoke to—who has only known cruelty—to be given a chance to truly live.

It's ironic. The villain has been fighting heroes for years, unaware that the real evil has been under their nose this entire time. Because, while the heroes may be purveyors of justice, the nature of that "justice" is determined by the agency. It's the agency that contributes to the systemic oppression running rampant in their city, it's the agency that manufactures people and turns them into weapons.

The villain clenches their restless hands at their sides. It seems they have to make a slight change to their plans.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. reblogs are greatly appreciated—just please don't steal my writing or share outside of Tumblr.

i can't tell if i'm happy with how this turned out or not. i feel like the ending kind of sucks, but whatever. it is what it is.

tag list: @lateuplight @wit-is-wisdom @greengableswriting @whump-me-all-night-long @noawhite @rekhyt-of-arcadia @the-blind-one-speaks @sufferfictionalcharacters @basically-psyduck @alexkolax @subval01 @emerald-blade @felicia609 @surplus-of-sarcasm @ilickedanenvelopeandilikedit @a-chaotic-gremlin @unknownogre @prompt-fills-and-writing-spills @whatwhumpcomments @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @agayprince @starsick1979 @a-lonely-little-ghost @agayprince @plum-tello

click here if you’d like to be on/off the tag list!

#defectivehero #hero x villain #hero and villain #heroes and villains #superheroes and supervillains #writeblr #writing #short fic #snippet #writers on tumblr #spilled ink #etc

[bigfootsmom]

seven sentence sunday

i was tagged by the lovely and talented @tizniz, @try-set-me-on-fire, @underwaterninja13, @smallandalmosthonest <3 <3 <3

I've been ping ponging between several wips and the list just seems to be getting longer. but here's something from the 5+1 hands fic which has turned into smut surprising no one.

Tommy’s hands drift to his ass, squeezing two fistfuls before using his grip to spread Buck’s cheeks. A strangled noise gets caught in the back of Buck’s throat as two of Tommy’s fingers dip into the cleft of his ass. “Look at you, kid.” Tommy’s hot breath ghosts over Buck’s collarbone as Tommy leans in to press a kiss over Buck’s thundering pulse. “So desperate to be filled you’re gagging for just my fingers.”  “Fuck—” Buck pants, hips jumping with an aborted thrust, torn between grinding against Tommy’s abs or pressing back against his fingers. “Thought about it— you’re always touching me and–and— I keep imagining your fingers inside of me,” Buck’s words stutter out in his throat.

tags <3

@usersiren, @honestlydarkprincess, @swiftietartt, @holdmygum @bibuddie,

@eddiebabygirldiaz, @shyaudacity, @housewifebuck, @colonoscopys, @homerforsure,

@princessfbi, @monsterrae1, @loserdiaz, @giddyupbuck, @father-salmon,

@devirnis, @buddie-buddie, and you if you're reading this and want to post something!!!

#tag game #seven sentence sunday #911 #911 fic #bucktommy #evan buckley #tommy kinard #hands fic #molly writes #snippet #wip

[acapelladitty]

Still aboard the Cooper/Lucy train 👀💦

#any excuse to stab a guy and he's FOR it lmao #snippet #lucy maclean #cooper howard #ghoul x lucy #ghoucy #cooper x lucy #cooper howard x lucy maclean #fallout #fallout 2024 #fallout amazon

[fromagony]

sunday snippet

thank you for tagging me @ecstarry @godsofwoes @soreddieforit @orbitfalls @honeybcj @certifiedl0verboy

; where you go, i go

“Just because he is my best friend, it doesn't mean I'm gonna listen to him all the time.”

“You never listen to anyone, Barty. You just act like it. Anyway, it doesn't matter anymore,” He put his glass down right next to his knee and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

“It isn't?” Barty asked, there was something in his voice. It wasn't a cocky reply, it was genuine.

Regulus slowly turned to him, knees touching Barty’s. He could cut the tension with a knife, he could climb on his lap and settle there too. There were many choices he could make.

He slowly raised his hand and touched Barty’s cheek, he could feel his stubble poking his skin but he didn't care, he slowly caressed his cheek and Barty closed his eyes, slowly melting under Regulus’ touch.

“I missed you,” Barty whispered, eyes still closed.

Regulus trailed his thumb under his eye, he was being careful as if he was touching something that could break any minute. There was nothing that could break Barty, not even Regulus. He was sure of it, but Barty didn't seem to acknowledge that.

“Did you, now?”

np tags: @salty-wench @star4daisy @ninety-two-bees @veryinnovative @sommerregenjuniluft @orchideous-nox @bellaxisworld @spacexcowgirl @malchai @a-lilypad

#bartylus #fic: where you go i go #regulus black #barty crouch jr #stalker james potter #trans james potter #trans james/cis regulus #stalker au #snippet

[nyoomfruits]

tagged by @blueballsracing for a no context snippet!!!

“Hm,” Oscar says, glances at hm. “Give me your hand.” “What?” Oscar extends his own hand, opens and closes it a few times. “C’mon, give me your hand.” Lando frowns, but extends his own hand, interlaces his fingers with Oscar’s. His hands are smaller than Lando’s. More delicate. But they feel rough, warm. It's nice. Grounding. “We won’t fuck it up,” Oscar says, letting their hands swing together as they walk. “We got this, yeah?”

tagging @theory81 @ocontraire @jennarations

#landoscar #snippet

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Crash & Burn - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Vi's memory plays tricks on her. Or Silco does.

tw: war, violence, aftermath of bloodshed, childhood trauma, PTSD

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

Powder loved bundt cake.

Every year, at the Equinox Bazaar, she'd beg Mom for a slice from the stalls, even though coins were scarce. At Janna's Temple, she would sneak off and steal a piece from the open kitchens, despite knowing Mom would tan her hide if she found out. Or, if they had flour and sugar and time she'd beg Mom to bake it from scratch, and it was always the sweetest.

Then Mom stopped baking.

In the lean months before the Day of Ash, sugar was sold for six cogs a thimble. In a week, it cost ten. In a month, thirty. The price of survival doubled and redoubled. Soon, the bakeries could barely keep up. Then, there were no more bakeries: just shuttered windows and empty stalls. And then, no more Equinox Bazaars. No more open kitchens.

No Temple of Janna.

Some nights, Vi would've given anything for the taste of sugar on her palate. Nights when she and Powder would lay huddled face-to-face in bed, and talk of anything—anything but hunger. Other nights, the hunger was all they could think about, and they'd trade whispers about all the things they'd eat if they could. Vi had her favorites: a hot bowl of sump-vole stew, or a whole roasted squab, or creamy butter biscuits. Powder had her favorite too: bundt cake, bundt cake and more bundt cake.

"The way Mommy makes it is the best," she'd say, back when they had a mommy who could make bundt cake. "It's all crispy at the bottom, and soft and warm at the top. And when you bite into it, it's like a cloud. A fluffy, sweet, melty cloud."

"Powder, stop." Groaning, Vi would drag a pillow over her face. "You're making me hungry!"

"But it's so yummy. It's better than yummy. It's the bundist bundt cake ever."

"It is. But we can't have it. Not now."

"Why not?"

The plaintive quaver in her little sister's voice was the only thing that could drag the pillow off Vi's face.

"Because—because it's hard to buy stuff. Mom told us: everything is getting too pricey. And most shops don't sell sugar or flour or eggs, anymore. So..."

"But once we have money, we can have it?"

"Sure," Vi would say, even though the lie hurt worse than the hunger. "We'd have all the cake we want."

Powder's little pink tongue would peep out between her teeth: the childish ardency in her expression was like someone wishing upon a shooting star.

"I'll make us money," she'd say. "Tons of it."

"How?"

"With my drawlings—" drawings "—and inventions and stuff. That's how."

Smiling, Vi would reach out to tweak her baby sister's nose. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. And we'll have bundt cake every day. For breakfast and lunch and dinner. We'll have a huge stack of cakes, as tall as a building."

"We will, Pow." Vi's smile hurt worse than the lie, because she knew how much Powder wanted it to be true. "One day, we'll have it all."

And, as days came and went, they got their wish.

At a price.

On the Day of Ash—the eve of the uprising—everyone gathered at the Last Drop. They'd attended as family: merchants, miscreants, mendicants, shoulder-to-shoulder. That was the dream: a city of equals. A nation unto itself. They'd sat at Vander's scarred wooden table, elbows polishing the edges. There were bowls of mushroom stew thickened with cream, and platters of boiled greens, and crusty brown rolls still steaming from the oven.

And there was bundt cake. A golden wheel as big as a wagon's, crowned with sugar icing.

In retrospect, the repast must've cost a fortune. The Lanes were in a stranglehold of rations. Vander must've pulled strings to get the supplies shipped in from the black markets. But that was Vander for you. When times got tough, he'd put the screws on. He'd bend the world to his will.

Anything to keep the Fissurefolk happy.

"This is our year," he'd said, holding the carving knife aloft. "Tonight, we'll fight. We'll win. And when the sun rises, this city will be ours."

The room erupted into cheers, and the beating of fists on wood. Vander had carved the first slice. It was so soft the knife sunk in like butter. He'd passed it to Mom, who'd broken it in half, and then passed it on to Vi, who'd split her half into quarters, to share with Powder. The cake was just as it should be: soft and fragrant and sweet.

Vi let it melt in slow-motion on her mouth, and thought, This is what life'll be like.

When the Lanes are free.

When the city's ours.

She and Powder had stuffed themselves until their cheeks bulged. Mom hadn't paid them mind. She and Dad were neck-deep in conversation. Vi remembered little beyond the low cadences of their voices, and the furtive glances they kept trading. The rest of the Drop was oddly quiet too. Ordinarily, such large gatherings presaged festive tavern ditties, foot-stomping reels and overflowing laughter.

Not that night.

That night, there was silence, and the occasional scrape of knives on plates. When they did talk, the pitch was barely above whispers, as if the walls might have ears.

As if death was on the prowl, beyond the bright ambit of their table.

Afterward, the plates were cleared, the tankards drained. Dad, humid-eyed and gravel-voiced, swept both Vi and Powder into his lap. A surprise. He was a deeply giving man: the type to turn his pockets inside-out if you were in a pinch. But he wasn't demonstrative. That was mom's purview.

That night, though, he'd been uncharacteristically touchy. He'd also smelled, for some reason, like metal polish. As if he'd spent the evening cleaning a gun.

He'd kissed them both, and ruffled their hair. Vi had noticed the tremor in his hand.

"Look out for your sister, eh?" he'd told Vi. "Keep her out of trouble."

By late evening, Mom had folded two slices of bundt cake into a napkin, and stowed it away in Vi's rucksack. Taking both Vi and Powder by the hand, she'd guided them down to the Drop's cellar. Inside, there were a gaggle of other children, and a few old-timers. Vi remembers glimpsing a knobbly-kneed boy her own age, with a bristling dark mane of hair and teeth too big for his mouth. Mylo. And next to him, the same age, a stout, square-faced boy with solemn eyes. Claggor.

Two strangers who would, in time, become the brothers of her heart.

But not yet. Not then.

That night, they were no more than strangers. The cellar was stuffy with them: thick with the staleness of tight-packed bodies and too many fogged breaths.

"This is a hiding place," Mom explained. "You'll be safe here."

"Safe from what?" Vi asked.

Mom hadn't answered. Perching on the staircase, she'd gathered her daughters close. Her features were composed. But her smile seemed screwed on too tight. Vi remembers how hard she'd squeezed her and Powder. Remembers the skid of her heartbeat, and the acrid sting of metal polish that clung to her clothes beneath her usual fruit-punch fragrance.

Just like Dad.

Above, Vi heard the rhythmic click-click-click like keys sliding home in locks. Only afterward had she understood it was rifle-bolts.

Mom had kissed her and Powder, three times each. Then, as the moon rose at the casement window, she'd bid them goodnight. Rising, she'd mounted the stairs to where a man waited, hands in pockets, his features shadowed with a hangdog grimness.

Vi had thought it was Dad: they had a similar build. But the man was smoking a brightleaf cigarillo, and Vi couldn't recall Dad ever touching the stuff.

Through the halo of smoke, his eyes met Vi's. Lips quirking, he flicked his cigarillo, and the glowing ember spun, spiraling down. Vi remembers how it hit the floorboards, and sparked like a tiny orange star, before winking out of existence.

And something strange, an epiphany in reverse, crept through her.

She knew then.

Knew, with the certainty only a child can possess, that something bad was coming.

"Look out for yourself, Pet," the man called out.

The timbre of his voice was weirdly familiar. Like a dream spun with motes of half-dissolved memory.

Then the cellar door swung shut.

The lantern were dimmed, one by one. The cellar plunged into gloom. There was a chorus of frightened whimpers from the children, and hushed murmurs from the old folks. Powder, reflexively, snuggled closer. Vi's arms passed around her. Together, they'd nestled in the corner, and finished the last slices of bundt cake.

"I'm scared," Powder mumbled, when the last crumbs were licked clean.

"It'll be okay."

"When's Mommy coming back?"

"Soon," Vi said. "She's just busy upstairs."

"With Daddy?"

"Yeah. They'll be back soon." Vi hoped the promise wouldn't choke her. "Everything's gonna be okay. Let's go to sleep."

Powder's voice was a wavery flute-note. "Will you sing me a song?"

"Which one?"

"Our favorite."

"Okay." Vi took a breath. She pushed the thoughts of Mom and Dad away. Right now, her sister was all that mattered. "But you gotta promise you'll go to sleep."

"Promise."

Vi closed her eyes. She could hear the ebbing soundtrack in the bar above: muffled voices, footsteps receding. Vi imagined her parents exiting the bar, arm-in-arm, the scent of bundt cake wrapping them in its own cozy embrace.

The Drop's door thudded shut, and all fell silent.

"Ready?" Vi managed.

Powder nodded. Vi began to sing.

Dear friend across the River…

She wasn't sure how long she kept up. Powder had fallen asleep midway. Vi had continued, a little voice inside warning that if she lapsed to silence, the world would end.

And so she'd sung until her throat was raw, and the lyrics a hoarse whisper. By the end, she must've succumbed to sleep. Because the next thing she knew, a blast split the night. Outside, the awful echoes rolled. A moment later, she smelled smoke. The stench, a blur of charred metal and burning timber, seeped into the cellar.

Cries of alarm and confusion spread. Powder jolted awake in her arms.

"What's happening?" she whimpered.

"Don't worry." Vi gathered her in. "Everything's fi—"

The gunfire began.

It came from far-off. At first, Vi mistook it for firecrackers. Then, with a chill certainty, she knew it was bullets. The shot-spaced reports multiplied. The smell of smoke thickened. From the cellar window, there was the unmistakable glow of flames crawling their way through the sky. The children, woken from their fitful dozing, began crying. The old-timers tried to calm them. But their own terror was a contagion.

Outside, screams spread.

Screams that went on and on—and ended with a sudden bone-juddering boom.

"Mommy," Powder sobbed. "Daddy!"

Vi circled her close. "Sssh. It'll be okay. Everything will be—"

Above, the Drop's door slammed open. Boots thundered overhead, cutting through the children's sobs. Vi saw the old-timers tense. An elderly Yordle with a cane mounted the cellar stairs. The delineations of an antique pistol were visible under the band of his trousers.

He put a finger to his lips. Then, slowly, he withdrew the weapon.

Below, the remaining adults corralled the children into a flock. The old-timer reached the topmost step. His free hand was on the doorknob, ready to pull it open. His jaw was set. There was a resoluteness about him that Vi would later understand as the knowledge of imminent death.

The cellar door burst open.

On the other side were no Enforcers. Just a girl. Or, as Vi would later think of her: The Girl.

Nao.

She'd been only twelve years old then, and scrawny as a rake. Her cat-eyes held the adrenalized wildness of a hunted animal. The terror leaping off her was palpable. For a moment, she just stood there, panting.

"Dead," she choked out in Va-Nox. "All dead."

The old-timer's shoulders squared. "Steady, girl. What's happened?"

"We're dead. We're—" Nao's eyes skated across the cellar. She spotted the other children, and her voice hitched. "They ambushed them. The Enforcers. They were ready. Gunfire. Everywhere. All over. Then—then a grenade blast." Her breathing was ragged. "Everyone's dead."

"Where're the backup units?" the old-timer rapped. "Where's the Hound?"

"I—I don't know. I couldn't see anything. Too much smoke. I ran." A convulsion shook her. "I just ran."

"Easy." The old-timer squeezed Nao's shoulder. "Are the Enforcers still belowground?"

A headshake. "They're on their way back up. They've killed everyone. Cut us all down." Tears streaked Nao's face. "All of us. Dead in the streets. On the Bridge. Everywhere." She started to sob. "We never had a chance."

And Vi, cradling Powder, had felt her childhood crash.

And burn.

And yet, worse was to follow. Hers and Powder's feet, traversing the alleys of a city in flames. A city that, in a night, had mutated into a nightmare. The streets were strewn with bodies. Flames crackling; smoke rising. In the aftermath, they'd all spread out. Strays and stragglers crawling from the corners, in search of their loved ones.

Vi held Powder's hand, and made her cover her eyes with the other.

Then she'd led her sister, through the red-tinged haze, from body to body. She saw faces she'd known. Faces she'd barely recognized. Friends. Playmates. Neighbors. And, in the distance, the echoes of Enforcer boots. The crack of their rifles. And their silhouettes, receding into the gloom.

Back to Piltover.

There were bodies on the Bridge. So many, they formed a carpet. A macabre red road straight to Hell. Some corpses, charred and broken, were strewn along the embankments. Others bobbed in the murk of the river. The wind carried a strange stench, a smell that reminded Vi, irrationally, of bundt cake. Smoky, soggy, warm.

Beneath ran the undercurrent of iron.

Blood.

At the Bridge's epicenter, where the bodies were thickest, Vi saw a silhouette loom. A broad-shouldered goliath with mallets for fists. He was swinging lefts and rights, clearing a path through the carnage. A man, bleeding, struggled beneath him.

Crack went the fists, encased in gauntlets. Crack went his feet, clad in spiked-steel greaves.

Crack, crack, crack—and the man was no more.

Terror spewed stickily inside Vi's chest. Her grip tightened on Powder's hand.

Then the goliath turned, and Vi recognized Vander. The flames, playing off his hard-hewn jowls and bristling brows, gave him a ferocious aspect. He resembled hound forged in flames: heated, hammered and honed for a single brute utility.

Then his eyes met Vi's.

All at once, the violence leeched out of him. In the span of heartbeats, he somehow shrunk from a looming giant to a dejected man.

Slowly, he lumbered forward. His eyes held Vi's. A miserable query passed between them.

Vander jerked his chin.

That was when Vi saw her.

Mom.

She was lying on the Bridge's flagstones, arms outflung. Her face, uptilted, staring sightlessly into the sky. Blood spooled in a thin line from the corner of her mouth.

Vi's breath congealed. Her legs locked. She wanted to run. To scream. To turn back the clock, and undo everything from that awful night. Except, her body was rooted, and her brain, a blank. She could only stand there, caught in a paralytic loop, as the seconds stretched into infinity.

She hadn't cried in the cellar. Hadn't cried during the blast. Hadn't cried all the way through the city's death throes.

But here, now, it was different.

This was Mom.

Vi gasped, and there was no more air. Her knees gave out. Then Powder's little arms were around her, and the sobs began.

She remembers Vander's gauntlets falling, and his arms gathering her close. Remembers the rough, reassuring span of his body, and the strength with which he hefted her and Powder away. Remembers how safe she'd felt, despite the inferno smoking at her heels.

Now, Vi remembers something else. A moment, before the smoke engulfed the bridge, when her eyes locked on the sprawl of Mom's body. How her arm lay outstretched, fingers reaching. A final, involuntary gesture, as if straining to touch the hand of a loved one. As if, in her last breath, she'd sought a rescue that was too far.

Vi remembers, too, the man.

The man from the Drop. The one with the hangdog grimness and the brightleaf cigarillo. The one whose lips had quirked when he'd looked at Vi. Whose eyes, blue, had met hers, and softened with something that wasn't quite farewell, but wasn't quite anything else either.

The man was splayed on his belly. His blood had pooled and merged with Mom's. His arm, flung outward, was a mirror of hers. Their hands, in perfect alignment, nearly touching like the clasp of a broken necklace. Or like two ends of the same fuse.

And between them, a star-shaped blot of blackness where the explosion had gone off.

A grenade blast.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #forward (never forget)/xoxo #arcane jinx #jinx #arcane vi #arcane violey #vi #arcane powder #powder #arcane vander #vander #snippet

[too-much-alphabet-soup]

"Je veux vous embrasser, mademoiselle." Sanji said, his breathing heavy as he looked over at her. His tone embodying the change in language, and while she couldn't understand his words she could see the way his eyes drifted to her mouth and the faintest pink flash of his tongue licking his lips.

Nami reached across the space of the kitchen from her perch on the counter and caught his tie in her hand and drew him closer. Adequately following his leash he moved her, his hands placing on the counter on either side of her hips as she pulled him closer.

"I want you to kiss me." she said her eyes half lidded, catching his eyes before pulling him closer; showing him that she hungered for something more than food.

#one piece #black leg sanji #cat burglar nami #nami #one piece sanji #one piece nami #sanami #snippet

[brandileigh2003]

Snippet Sunday: ty @sophsicle for the tag

“Do you… See me differently? I know that it doesn’t paint me in the best light?” Remus whispered. “No. I see you as stronger, and more beautiful and resilient and so bright. You have such a big heart and you still laugh and love and let people in after that pain and hard relationship. He hurt you in so many ways that has changed your life, and you have just kept right on fighting. I love you the way you are, no matter what happened to you in the past, or what might happen in the future. You’re perfect to me, and I love you so, so much.” “Thank you,” Remus said. “Anything for you, my love,” Sirius replied.

I'll no pressure tag: @lucigoo @theresthesnitch @blitheringmcgonagall @lavenderhaze @heartofspells @just--vi @amethystheart2421 @littleoldrachel

#wolfstar #remus lupin #marauders #sirius black #fanfic #inbox #snippet #snippet Sunday

[jemgirl86]

So… my AU for the “Ghosts” prompt for the anniversary event has turned into a whole thing, as usual 😬. Who knows when it’ll be done. It’s already over 6500 words, and I’m not even sure how I’m going to end it yet lol. So, have a snippet ‘cause it might not be finished for another two weeks, or another two months 🤷🏾‍♀️

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you look it,” Bucky said, sarcastically.

“If you have something to say, Bucky, then just say it.”

“Okay.” Bucky nodded, steeling himself. “You’ve been killing yourself, and me by association, ‘cause you’ve been trying to distract yourself with work since the second Sam left. It’s finally starting to catch up to you though — to both of us really. We’ve both been running on nothing but fumes and adrenaline for months now. And if we don’t cut it out soon, somebody is gonna get hurt. You, me, hell, maybe one of the poor bastards we’re trying to save, is gonna get killed, if we. Don’t. Slow. Down.”

“We’re fine,” Steve bit out. “We’ve been getting the job done fine.”

“Barely,” Bucky snapped back. “Damn it, Stevie. That zombie almost had you last night. A freaking zombie. They’re some of the slowest, easiest to kill monsters we come across, and one almost took you out yesterday, ‘cause you’re off your game. Your head isn’t in it, and your heart really isn’t in it, and it hasn’t been for a long time now.”

Steve had to seriously fight the urge to roll his eyes and say something smart. Of course his heart wasn’t in it anymore. His heart was wherever Sam had disappeared to when he’d decided that hunting wasn’t for him anymore, and worse, that Steve wasn’t for him anymore, and dropped off the face of the earth.

Sam’s regular cell was cut off, and so was his backup. He must’ve started permanently using one of his aliases too, because Steve had searched and searched, but hadn’t been able to find a trace of Sam since he’d called things quits between them and broken Steve’s heart in the process.

Steve still didn’t know why it had happened, or what he’d done.

#shana writes #snippet #sambucky #samsteve

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

TF141 reactions to "can you get this thing off the top shelf for me?"

inspired by @cod-dump's height hcs :)

chronologically:

you ask PRICE first. seems like a harmless enough question to you but he just says, "what kind of captain would i be if i solved all your problems for you?"

what the fuck, you think.

"you can do it," he says. "problem-solve. think tall thoughts."

then SOAP walks by, so you ask him next. he sees price standing there looking highly amused (and you looking highly irritated). soap would never, never miss an opportunity to cause problems on purpose, and if price is already picking on you, well...

you're relieved for half a second when soap reaches up and grabs the box you wanted. he opens it, grabs a handful of the granola inside (THAT YOU WANTED) and tosses it into his own mouth. then he puts the box back. on a higher shelf.

by the time GAZ notices what's happening, you're halfway climbing up the shelves to get it your damn self. he sees the shelves leaning away from the wall dangerously and obviously he pushes them back into place with one hand and pulls you back to the ground with the other. does not understand your exasperation with him; he was keeping you from cracking your head open??

so finally GHOST comes up behind you both and grabs the box you want. he turns. offers it to you. finally.

when you go to grab it from him, he keeps ahold of it and leans in. he would like you to share.

...

more multi-141 and poly 141 / masterlist tag

#mine #snippet #poly 141 #cod #cod x reader #call of duty #call of duty x reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii #tf 141 #tf 141 x reader #poly!141 #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #gaz #simon ghost riley #john price #captain price #captain john price #price cod #ghost #ghost cod #soap cod #simon riley #ghost riley #soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap x you #johnny mactavish x reader

[ghostgoing]

“YOU!”

Jason turned his head to see a small guy with black hair pointing at him. He was wearing a light grey hoodie and jeans.

“Your ancestor has been haunting me for MONTHS!” Danny tilted his head, looking at Hood’s chest. “They weren’t wrong, you really do need to see a ghost doctor. What the fuck is up with your ecto?”

“My what?” Red Hood said. “ are you the guy people around here have been talking about? The one who can talk to the dead?”

��More like the dead won’t stop talking to me.”

#dpxdc #snippet #my writing #Ghost ambassador au

[stormsthatrage]

Imagine: Samantha Manson rents an apartment with other students in university because she wants to pay her own way through college. One night, the other students throw a party. Sam takes refuge in the campus library during this, because she does not want to be around that. But eventually the library closes for the night, and Sam has to go back.

Sam walks in on the partygoers, still there, hanging out around a "summoning ritual" for fun. They're cleaning up -- the ritual didn't work, obviously.

Sam wordlessly halts the clean-up efforts in their tracks by taking one look at the summoning circle, seizing a paintbrush, bodying people out of the way, and making a dozen minor adjustments to the summoning circle.

It's Sam. No one stops her, and no one is brave enough to ask any questions.

Sam finishes, then walks off without saying anything.

The partygoers look at each other, and then immediately try the summoning ritual again.

(Look, Sam has a reputation as a goth and, if you believe in that stuff, as a witch. Not to say that any of them actually believe in that stuff, but sometimes it's fun to pretend like you do, and, well. They already decided to give it their best shot tonight, and they know that a Sam-approved summoning circle is the best shot they'll get.)

They read out the spell. The candles flare, the flame turning a dark, poisonous green, then blow out. A surge of black light shoots up from the summoning circle, and a presence thickens the air around them.

Before them appears a being that they know, in their soul, is not of this world.

A creature of the realm of the dead looms before them, crown ablaze with fury. "Who dares--"

Sam, nonchalant, wanders back into the room. Wanders over to the summoning circle. Casually erases, with the tip of her shoe, what they know from their brief study of their occult book to be the containment layer of the summoning circle.

Casually says, "Hey, Danny, what pizza toppings do you want?"

The presence fades, but does not vanish completely. "Oh, come on Sam," says the being that an animal part of them recognizes as of the realm of the dead. "What the hell, you know I hate that."

Sam wanders back out of the room, calling over her shoulder, "Well, I hate having my thermos broken!"

The being floats out of the summoning circle, and takes on the shape of a boy, touching down to the ground. The presence fades even further, until they wouldn't be able to tell the creature wasn't a boy if they hadn't already seen.

"Okay, first of all, that was at least 50% Tucker's fault--" it says, trailing after Sam. The conversation becomes unintelligible as they go to Sam's room and shut the door.

The partygoers are left in silence, with paint that has been turned to ash, brand-new candles that have been burned to stubs, and a terrifying new knowledge of the existence of the beyond.

And, for the unluckiest of them, terrifying new knowledge that the person they share a roof with has regular, real, dealings with the dead.

(Twenty minutes later, the pizza arrives. With a pineapple topping, of course.)

#danny phantom #danny phantom headcanon #danny phantom snippet #snippet #samantha manson #danny fenton #everyone who witnessed the events of the party is suddenly very wary of all of sam's friends #they don't know who is a human...

[rosaacicularis]

“you want a mending book, right?” scar asked, head peeking barely above the water, the gills on his neck still submerged in the water.

“if i were to want anything, it would be a mending book, yes.” grian cast his fishing rod back out into the water, his voice was careful and hesitant.

“what if i told you i had one?” scar swam closer to grian, still keeping his distance but grian could feel the water shift from the movement.

“you’re not a mermaid,” grian said, eyes closing into a squint at scar. “you’re a siren, aren’t you?”

“i’ve been called many things,” scar dodged the question. he brought his hand out of the water, brushing shapes into the surface with his fingers. “siren has been one of them.”

“you’re trying to lure me,” grian phrased it like a question, a rising intonation at the end. he reeled his fishing rod back in, another salmon.

“that depends,” scar smirked, his eyes followed the movement of grian unhooking the fish and throwing back into the sea. “is it working?”

#they are on my mind i’m sorry #USSHKSSHBSNS i’m not normal about them #i wonder if my work knows i’ve written gay fanfiction in their lounge several times #scarian #desert duo #hermitshipping #grian #gtws #hermitcraft #fisherman au #snippet

[avvail]

a villain that can hypnotise people through touch

The hero feels themselves tripping over their own two feet as the imposing figure advances on them, until their back hits the wall with a solid thud. They attempt to keep their breathing under control, but it’s a difficult game.

“Where are you going?” The villain asks simply, as if they don’t already know the answer to the question. The hero grits their teeth, baring them viciously.

“Stay back,” they hiss. “I mean it.”

“Or else what?” The villain chuckles humourlessly, their cold eyes not leaving theirs for even a moment. “You know you can’t win this fight.”

“No,” they shakily whisper, their eyes desperately searching for a way to escape. They are not ignorant to the power that the villain possesses. The power that had kept them trapped in their clutches for far too long. “Give me a ten foot pole and I’ll find a way to keep you away from me.”

The villain raises a brow. “You don’t have one of those, doll.”

“Yeah?” They spit. “Wanna bet?”

The villain takes a measured step forward, and the hero’s narrowed eyes suddenly widen, pressing themselves closer against the wall until they’re impossibly flat.

“No, please,” they breathe, their face wrinkling in fear. “The people need me, Villain. Please, let me go back out there.”

The villain laughs coldly, like that’s funny.

“You should see yourself when you cling to me,” they respond coolly, their eyes flashing with something dangerous. “It’s cute. You make these little doe eyes that drive me crazy.”

“That’s not me,” they choke, their hands pressing into their chest. “These gaps in my memory, not knowing how much time has passed, what you’ve made me do – it’s torture.”

“It’s far from torture, doll,” the villain frowns, taking another step forward. The hero’s heart hammers in their chest, lodging in their lungs and making it difficult to breathe. “You don’t see how much you’re spoiled.”

The hero chokes on a hitched breath. “You get off on this sick power play. You take away people’s free will, make them into—”

“—nothing?” The villain interrupts sharply. Their expression darkens. “You’d never understand what it’s like from my perspective. You’re thinking too hard, yet so little. Why don’t you come here?”

The hero instantly shakes their head. “No. Stay away from me.”

“Then I come to you.”

“Stay away.”

The hero makes a desperate lunge in an attempt to escape, but the villain’s hand seizes their wrist instantly, and they gasp. Tingles reverberate through their skin, and they desperately try to yank away. Their grasp is unrelenting, and with each second that ticks by, the tingles grow stronger, spreading through their body like wildfire.

“Stop,” they gasp, their knees weak when they’re tugged closer. “Please, please stop.”

“Shh,” the villain hums, a warm hand cupping their cheek, making the hero’s throat close up. Their mind goes haywire. But when the villain speaks, when their skin touches theirs, their thoughts begin to die out.

“That’s it, doll,” they purr, brushing a thumb under their eye when a stray tear leaked down their cheek. “Just like that.”

It’s always beautiful when the thoughts leave their eyes, when their weakening struggles die down, and they go slack and pliant in their arms. The villain’s eyes crinkle with a smile, admiring the dazed expression on their face. It takes moments until all the fight is drained out of them.

“There you go,” the villain hums, and their touch makes the hero go all fuzzy and lightheaded. “Let’s go back, shall we?”

The hero obediently follows them along.

#ask #hero x villain #villain x hero #hero and villain #villain and hero #heroes and villains #villains and heroes #hero villain #villain hero #hero #villain #hypnosis #writing snippet #snippet #writing #my writing #avvail

[escapismsworld]

“A fondness for reading, properly directed, must be an education in itself.”

#dark academia #light academia #classical #academia aesthetic #escapism #academia #books and libraries #classic literature #books #architecture #film #movie #scenes #snippet #pride and prejudice 2005 #jane austen #reading #period film #quote #royal core #cottage core #aesthetic #mood #vibe #tumblr