little glimpses into their lives

Do you think, because of Rebirth, people start getting little flashes of memories? Brief glimpses of a life they don’t remember living?

Batman remembers, in the back of his mind, the phrase “nobody dies tonight”, but has no idea his adopted daughter once said it.

Arsenal sees a little girl in his dreams, but isn’t quite sure where he saw her, or why he dreams of being a father so often.

Green Arrow gets flashes every so often of another life. One where he has a son, or he’s taking his daughter to see a doctor. But he doesn’t have children? Why is he seeing these things?

Renee Montoya looks in the mirror every morning, and nearly has a heart attack when she sees her reflection has no face. It happens so often, she rarely notices anymore.

Anissa Pierce goes to a bar one night, and has a nagging feeling that she knows the bouncer, a giant woman with hair like a flame.

Press Delete

Reaper76 Week Day 1 - How We Were

They were erased, like obsolete lines in a code.


Something crnched beneath his boots, debris leftover from many other lives. The air was still, the rooms themselves tombs to preserve the dead past. It was often like this when visiting old Watchpoints, the private quarters of the agents tended to be undisturbed. Laboratories, server rooms, armories, anything of ‘official’ import had been picked over long ago. Only the private rooms were left alone, left to preserve little knickknacks and glimpses of the people who lived here.

Gloved hands manually wrenched open the doors as he went, looking into red-tinted museum displays of ‘life’. Someone didn’t make their bed, someone didn’t pick up their trash, someone didn’t take their teddy bear before they left the base for the last time. The forlorn stuffed toy stared at him from it’s place laying against the pillow, it’s owner either dead or driven out with the rest of Overwatch.

The Soldier stepped back, glanced at the name plate next to the door. It wasn’t a name he remembered. Once upon a time, it would have grated at him not to know. Now he knew there was a lot he hadn’t known. The owner of an abandoned teddy just one more thing on the list.

His footsteps resumed, harsh and loud in the stillness. More incomplete pieces of agents in every room. An easel, a set of model cars, an alarmingly large collection of shoes spilling from a closet. A guitar. The last object made him pause, though once again the name on the door was one he didn’t know. A moment later he moved on.

These walks always terminated in a similar place. Beyond the museum exhibit of The Everyday Overwatch Agent, came the wrongness. At the end of the hallway there were two more doors, two more names right across from one another. Every other bedroom was untouched, but these two would never be. These two were always disturbed, picked over, the sacred preservation of the past violated by the people who had killed them.

Morrison to the left, and Reyes to the right.

The left door was pulled open first, fingers finding the deep grooves in the metal left by the previous visitor. He knew what he’d find, or rather what he wouldn’t find. What neither of them would find.

The room before him was perfect, in a clinically clean sort of way. There were no clothes, no decorations, no personal effects. Jack Morrison had been a neat person, but not to this extent. He still had things that marked him as a living person. Even if they were stupid knickknacks that he picked up while traveling, even if it was just a rock that someone had handed him because it was pretty. These things were always neatly and orderly displayed with pride. This room couldn’t have belonged to someone. Less than even a hotel or a hospital that at least tried to pretend, to have some semblance of life. Someone or someones had scrubbed away Overwatch’s commander from this place, just like every other Watchpoint he’d visited before. It didn’t hurt as much as it used to, and it wouldn’t hurt as much as opening the door across the hall.

His gaze landed on a corner of the bed, rumpled as if a weight had been placed there and disturbed the otherwise immaculate space. He’d seen it before and he’d see it again, and he still wasn’t sure how to feel. A shake of his head, the man stepped from the room and let his fingers trail down the door. Gloved fingers couldn’t feel, but he saw how the leather dipped into the marks left by claws. He was stalling, though.

The door seemed to loom with threat but he grit his teeth and dug in, hauling against mechanics that were meant to operate with power and electricity instead of the strain of muscles.

It was still like a slap in the face, no matter how prepared he was. If Jack Morrison had been a neat person with a few things, Gabriel Reyes had been a very precise sort of hurricane with many things. And it hurt to see how that organized chaos had been erased. Gone were the notebooks and clothes that seemed to materialize in every Watchpoint the man had inhabited, regardless of how long he actually stayed there. There were no stacks of data tablets on the floor, no piles of fabrics and clothing hogging the bed. It was as clinically scrubbed, empty, and dead as the room across the hall.

There was a hesitance before one foot stepped in front of the other, carrying him into this sham of a bedroom. Gloves trailed across sheets and he sighed heavily as his bottom met the mattress. Sometimes he sat there for a few minutes, sometimes he lost track of time. Sometimes he didn’t sit at all. His thoughts briefly flicked to the bed in the other room, but then slid away.

The silence was deafening here, the emptiness blinding. This wasn’t a day he could linger.

The door was shut behind him as he left, sealing in the wrong, dead, gone, erased. The red-hued gaze went back to the opposite door again, the dents from his own fingers warped the metal in a way that almost camouflaged the deep scratches of the one who came before.

The Soldier shook his head, walking again down the hall. Every door he passed was like that of the one marked ‘Morrison’, the marks of his visitation melding with the claws of someone else.

There were never any claw marks on one door though.

He was the only one who ever visited ‘Reyes’.

anyone else love the little glimpses you catch of your internet friends’ lives you catch in their selfies? the pillows they’re leaning against? the cabinet full of grandma’s crystal figurines? the cluttered desk covered in schoolwork and stuffed animals? it makes their friendship so real. like they are real people that live in rooms and talk to other real people and their space is full of signs that they are alive and real and they still care about you from the other side of the country

I love the idea of Sherlock and Molly’s phones being full of photos and videos of their kids. Imagine the cute little glimpses into their lives they’d have tucked away.


The clip opens with a little girl in a baby bouncer, babbling along to a song on tv.

“You’re so good at singing Imogen. You’re very good at that!”

Imogen starts bouncing and squealing, smiling a wide toothy grin at the person behind the camera.

“You are! You’re so good at that!”

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Oh my god but if the whole Jody Mills’ House for Wayward Girls spin-off isn’t already a fantastic enough idea IMAGINE THIS:

Dean/Cas in the final episode. It’s all good and big and dramatic, but then the show ends so we really don’t get to see anything of them as a couple of whatever. Which makes sense, Supernatural isn’t really meant to be about romance, or at least not functional romance.

But then!!! We get the spin-off focusing on Jody and Donna and the girls there! With Claire as a major character or even the protagonist! And because of that, every now and then they’d have to bring up her dad(s), right?? Not as major characters, just like guest stars a couple of times a season or something! And we’d get to see Dean and Cas taking care of her and occasionally Sam as well and get little glimpses into their lives together and because they’re not the focus they could just be cute and domestic and we’d hear about little squabbles or everyday things and ohhh my goddddddd I need this in my life.

George [Harrison] tells tales of the Beatles - of the hugely dominant Yoko who has reduced J Lennon to a housewife, of George’s liking for Paul and his ‘ego’, and Ringo who’s… ‘You know, very simple’. Other little glimpses into the lives of the rich and famous - like the fact that George admits (with a smile acknowledging the absurdity) that he doesn’t buy clothes any more. Clothes come to him.
—  Michael Palin, The Python Years: Diaries 1969-1979 Volume One

you’re both in a coffee shop with your friends, laughing and talking and having a good time.  she is so beautiful and you are blushing, you feel the need to look away from her; but you live for the little glimpses of her you steal, before you shyly turn away and look back down into your drink again

All the Gin Joints

Happy AU Week everyone! I think I got this done in time for Day Two: Butterfly Affect.


Caroline liked bars.

When she’d been turned a century ago, the best a poor unmarried widow could hope to do on her own involved being flat on her back. At seventeen, she’d commanded quite the price, with her blond curls and blue eyes. Then one of her customers had gotten greedy and she’d woken with an appetite that had little to do with sex and everything to do with blood. Freedom tasted like metallic wine on her tongue and as a vampire, she’d thrived.

But she’d never quite lost her pleasure in being near people.

So at night, she worked as a barkeep. She liked to bounce from bar to bar, and over the years, perfected several languages exchanging stories with drunks. Caroline liked the little glimpses into human lives, the reminders that eternity only stretched out endlessly if you let it, and she enjoyed coaxing laughter from those who needed it. If occasionally, she ended up eating a sleazebag or two, well everyone had their vices.

She rarely stayed at one bar for more than a few months, and only stayed in a city until her feet knew them. Then she walked away as easily as she arrived, thirsty for the secrets the world had to tell her. She knew dozens of languages proficiently, spoke a few smattering he of a dozen more. As the years ticked on, there were faces here and there that she knew, even the occasional friend she’d send post cards too.

But those were rarer, as the years carried on. In all her three centuries, Caroline had never really found herself looking for a familiar face in the crowd. But as she deftly poured a drink, eyes scanning the milling patrons in their modern clothes and childish enthusiasm, she found herself wondering if maybe it was time to start putting down roots.

“When Marcel mentioned a bit of blonde trouble, I wasn’t expecting you,” a familiar, clipped voice cut into her into her musings. “Hello, Caroline.”

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