shadow tech

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An Emoji Spell that everything will be alright.

No matter what, you will be safe, happy, and flourishing. Do not fear loss or pain, as nothing will come that you cannot overcome. This is just a process.

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10

american gods episode 1 : the bone orchard

We have reprogrammed reality. Language is a virus, religion an operating system, and prayers are just so much fucking spam.

What other witches do: cast circles, visualize, use expensive oils/herbs/crystals, set aside time for rituals/Gods

What I do: open the windows and blinds, set a stick on fire, scream “I aint get no sleep cuz of yall, yall ain’t get no sleep cuz of me” at spirits in my house, wave stick fire smoke in circles above my head, use a red dollar store pen to carve sigils into tea candle, throw salt at windows aka “little bitch gtfo my house boy bye”, uses 37493927 emojis in texts to significant otter for good vibes, cries on my dog to ward her and also bc she’s So Good, wines to Zeus about my Problems™, watches Friends with Aphrodite and laughs, whispers “please fix my car” to hephaestus and offers him a burnt match, stares pointedly at Hermes offerings and squints at tip jar

For years now, some of the best, wildest, most moving or revealing stories we’ve been telling ourselves have come not from books, movies or TV, but from video games. So we’re running an occasional series, Reading The Game, in which we take a look at some of these games from a literary perspective. This week: A storytelling failure.

On a crag of volcanic rock, overlooking the wastes of Udun, I crouch silently in the rain, watching the orc hordes of Mordor milling around below me.

They march and they argue. They taunt their human slaves and, when they pass close enough, I can hear them talking about me — Talion, called Gravewalker, murdered Captain of Gondor brought back to life by magic and the influence of my mostly-invisible elf/wraith buddy, Celebrimbor, who is a ghost that lives in my head.

They fear me, these orcs. As they should. Thirty or so hours into the game and I am a Middle Earth murder machine, capable of slowing time, teleporting, exploding orc heads with my magical elf powers. I can orchestrate a ballet of death — by dagger, by sword, by bow and explosion and poison and mind-control — that is as ferocious as it is beautiful.

But instead, I sit still, watching, waiting. In the distance, my nemesis (my current nemesis, the one who hates me most for this ten minutes) walks in stupid circles, just out of my sight. His name is Malmug Face-Stabber. Or something like that. I forget exactly what he’s called, because I have already hung so many of his kind on the end of my sword that they all blend together. He is Malmug The Plot Device, really. And as I sit and wait I wonder why the makers of Shadow Of Mordor didn’t include a button that would make Talion sigh.

I am bored out of my elf-inhabited mind.

Reading The Game: Shadow Of Mordor

Photo: Marian Carrasquero/NPR

American Gods 1x08: Do You Believe?

I feel like we only just began this magical journey together, but here we are at the end of season one of American Gods! You can go ahead and cancel that Starz subscription now, I’ll wait here.

This final episode told the stories of two goddesses and how they have learned to adapt in America. And as much as I am enjoying  Laura Moon, there haven’t really been any other female characters with meaningful emotional arcs. Similarly the gods we have gotten to know (with the exception of Bilquis) have been overwhelmingly male. So I was v pleased to see that this episode attempted to delve into the power wielded by female icons (ya know just the small stuff like life and creation) and the often violently adverse social (and male) reactions to women who wield that power, as well as their continued attempts to control that power for themselves. 

Like the previous episode about Mad Sweeney, the finale also boasted a more “integrated” Coming to America story where instead of having a vignette separate from the main storyline, the Coming to America tale oozed over to mingle with the main proceedings. Instead of Ibis and his big book o'stories, this week featured a welcome return from Mr. Nancy who took over the storytelling duties. This also marks the first time we have seen Mr. Nancy in the modern world where he a) looks as fly as ever b) is clearly an ally of Mr. Wednesday and c) tailoring bespoke suits for Wednesday and Shadow. (PS Ricky Whittle is a man who can wear. a. suit. and it drove me crazy how wrinkled his jacket was all episode! Could no one have steamed that for him? Sorry. But also, infuriating.) But with a captive, bathrobed audience, Nancy proceeds to weave the story of Bilquis.

After seeing the modern “down on her luck” Bilquis it was pretty fucking fabulous to see her in her hey day bedecked in the golden jewelry she longed for in the museum. This is also a good place to shout out Yetide Badaki, a relative newcomer who has found her breakout on this series. Bilquis is a tricky role, she rarely speaks, doesn’t get to play off any of the other heavy hitters in the cast, and often has to act scenes of intense emotional (and physical) vulnerability. She doesn’t get to bounce off Ian McShane, or deliver sweeping monologues. Most of her acting is done through physicality or her impervious gaze. So major worship to Yetide who made this character feel like, well, a goddess. No matter how much she is (or isn’t) wearing it is impossible to look away from Bilquis’ eyes and her unyielding stare that reveals as deep an inner life as any dialogue. This is unique and exceptional acting, and in a show with such a range and breadth of performances, Yetide stands tall. Also I’m sure that role was absolutely batshit to cast, so claps for casting as well. #NeverForgetCasting.

So we finally get to see Bilquis as a Golden Queen, loved, worshipped and equal to any (male) challenger who comes her way. Times change, but passion is immutable and Bilquis continues her reign on the disco dance floors of Tehran in the 1970s. By the way Disco Queen Bilquis was everrryyttthinnng. Everything. But after the Iranian Revolution in 1979, Bilquis is forced to travel as a refugee to Hollywood, California just in time for the AIDs crisis of the 1980s. The loss of worship after these two events leads to Bilquis’ decline and she finds herself wandering the streets of LA. Bilquis is stripped of her power because nothing is scarier to an American (white) culture than a confident black woman fully in control of her sexuality and power.  But when all seems lost, Tech Boy rolls up on Bilquis, Tinder in hand, and shows her how to use technology to get her groove back. Now, however, it seems that Bilquis is under Tech Boy’s thumb, but is she really just a tool for the New Gods, or is this just another misguided King that thinks he can conquer her? Hopefully Bilquis is a character we will get even more of in season two, the entirety of her material from the book has already been exhausted so I am excited for a fresh Bilquis story, especially with such a capable actress at the helm.

So with their new (wrinkly) suits Shadow and Wednesday make a pit stop on their way to Wisconsin in Kentucky. At a palatial estate, during a full swinging Easter Sunday party, we meet Easter herself (human carbonation Kristin Chenowith). Easter (or Ostara) is an old pagan goddess of Spring who has had the good fortune of having her namesake tied to the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. Even though the masses might not know who she is, her name is widely celebrated (both secularly and liturgically) every year. Like Bilquis she has found a way to adapt and thrive, even if it may not be in the way she is accustomed or would prefer.

In attendance at Easter’s fabulously over-the-top Easter blowout is almost every Jesus! Literally 14 unique Jesus. JC doesn’t appear in the novel (well he does sort of) but it is impossible to deny his influence in modern (esp American) religion and so it makes sense for the show to utilize him more frequently, or 14 of him. Unlike the other gods on the show, Jesus is pretty chill and doesn’t seem to have any hidden agendas besides spreading the JC love. He’s sweetly benevolent and gets drunk and drops things in the pool. Classic Jesus.

Wednesday has come to Easter’s party to enlist her help in the war between old and new gods, and hopes she will starve the people into praying for mercy (the goddess of Spring giveth but she can also taketh). He brazenly lies to her about the death of Vulcan, and promises her worship of her own in exchange for her alliance. 

Also crashing are Laura and Sweeney (who I have started to develop weird feelings for after last episode? Ugh I know, I know, I hate it too) who hope that Easter will bring Laura back to life. However no luck for Laura as she has been killed by the will of a god (Wednesday), and that kind of miracle is above Easter’s pay grade. So we leave Laura worse for wear, and more than a little maggoty, but she has finally been reunited with Shadow at least.

Also rolling up on what is fast becoming the party of the year is the entire contingent of new gods: Media (as Judy Garland in Easter Parade obvi), Tech Boy and Mr. World, reminding Easter she is in their debt for popularizing the Easter holiday in (you guessed it) Media. As all of our characters converge Mr Wednesday reveals himself to Shadow to be none other than the All Father Odin of Norse mythology (all around viking god and papa of Thor and Loki). Odin/Wednesday does some good old fashioned lightening smiting, which rallies Easter to his cause, and she proceeds to render Kentucky into a barren wasteland (chalking up a temporary win for the OGs.) After witnessing stepping Fred Astaire henchman, a baker’s dozen Jesus’, and a woman made up of flower petals, Shadow finally submits that he believes. In everything.  

The season ends with a procession of various transports journeying to the House on the Rock in Wisconsin, which was the ultimate destination for all of our road trippers this season and honestly where I thought the season would break but I guess they ran out of episodes..

So now that the dust has cleared, what happened this season?

Shadow Moon lost everything, got picked up by an old god on a serious recruiting mission, went on a road trip and learned to believe.

We met a whole bushel of old gods: Mr. Wednesday/Odin, Czernebog, the Zoryas, Anubis/Mr. Jacquel, Ibis/Thoth, Mr. Nancy/Anansi, Bilquis, Vulcan, Easter, and Jesus.

We also met a few new gods: Media, Technical Boy and Mr. World.

Also some mystical creatures: Zombie!Laura, Mad Sweeney, the Djinn and the White Buffalo.

And a couple plain old humans in over their heads: Salim and Audrey.

In conclusion:

American Gods was a breath of fresh air in the jungle of peak TV. It was bold, crazy and naked. It was brazen, unapologetic, and borderline nonsensical. It managed to exceed the promise of its original material and was a frighteningly timely allegory. It had a festival of unique characters backed up by some of the best actors in television. Also it looked gorgeous. While this first season sometimes struggled with pacing and the rate of exposition, there were moments and episodes that were unlike anything else currently on TV.  I was a particular fan of the Coming to American openers across the board, as well as both Laura Moon episodes. So did American Gods make you a believer? Who is your favorite scheming deity? Love it or hate it, you can’t say that this wasn’t a wild ride.

XO MD

PS. Disco Queen Bilquis forever

Looking for witch blogs to follow!

Since this is a new blog and I’m just starting out as a witch, I’d really like to find some more blogs to follow.

Reblog if you post about:

- green witchcraft
- kitchen witchcraft
- eclectic witchcraft
- tech witchcraft
- witch tips
- divination (tarot cards, runes, pendulums, etc.)
- altars
- spells, sigils, etc.
- book of shadows
- crystals
- nature
- witchy aesthetics (outfits, crystals, inspiration, etc.)

Follow-backs are appreciated as well! I make custom sigils and emoji spells. Let me know if you’d like one made for you.

Thanks!

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Emoji Spell for protecting and helping our beautiful LGBTQ+ community, all of those who are persecuted for who they love or who they are. You are loved by the witch community.

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anonymous asked:

Is there any chance you can take up this prompt?: Dick did something that had him accidentally switching bodies with Tim. Imagine his surprise when he finds himself in Tim's body. Tim who he has not talk to in ages and Tim who is now Dick, but in some dangerous situation that makes him wonder what Tim has been up to. Poor Tim would not be happy with the situation he finds himself in, because of Dick. Sorry for my babbling. Can you PLEASE take up this prompt. You always do it best. Thank you!!!

Hey babe. Merry Christmas and whatnot, yeah?

**

He sucks in a breath like he’s dying.

And the brain is still in fight mode, adapt to your surroundings, assess, place the dangers, find the shadows, palm the tech, and motherfucking move.

He’s a Red Robin that’s had a seriously bad stint of year; one that’s weary down to the bone. One that is scrawny and scrappy, more raw and ruthless than he ever was wearing the R. Sometimes you have to evolve to deal with things like Lex Luthor, dick bag aliens, and terrorist organizations bent on any assortment of world domination.

Magic users suck ass too.

Case in point:

Twenty-eight seconds ago he was in the middle of a fight in downtown Los Angeles against a magic-user; right now, he’s in Gotham. Really, he’d know the Wallstone anywhere.

“N, what the fuck was that?”

The Red Hood is literally Right. Fucking. There.

Shit,” he snarls out, already kicking into yet another type of fight mode, but—

The voice.

The body difference.

One look at his hand and—finger stripes

Motherfucker.

“Dick?” Is Hood’s voice coming out low even with the synths, “what is it?”

Red (or N) holds up both hands in the universal I’m not that dangerous, don’t kick my ass kind of way, but he can already see Hood going for his sidearm, just, you know, very fucking familiar.

“Magic users are dick bags,” is the first thing he comes up with, and it just sounds wrong in N’s deeper baritone. “Don’t shoot me, Hood.”

“…fuck, Replacement?

“I’d say good to see you, but well, I’ve already stated the obvious.”

“Hn. Dick bags, yeah?”

Oh yeah,” he takes a second to feel around for where N kept his cell now since the damn suit is just a second skin really because some people had no shame

The iPhone is literally such an antiquated piece of shit that he almost drops it, just ick.

Before he gets the thing unlocked, “Addicted to You” cuts through the dark Gotham night, permeating soft lamp light.

Of anything he could have expected (shot, stabbed, a dance-off, a game of banter-fight, whatever really), the Red Hood to hold up a just a minute finger while bringing the cell up to the side of the helmet, is not one of the scenarios.

“Uh-hu,” Hood nods.

He subtly checks the Nightwing suit for weapons, grapple, pellets, well, something so he doesn’t get stabbed on top of everything else.

“Aw, Dickie, I’m hurt. Like I’d shoot the lil’ fucker er something.”

Red stays wisely silent, pellets palmed. You know, for just in case. Extra grapple line is still in the back of the waist, just like when they used to—

Hood is making a hurry it along, asshole hand and finally holds the thing out (and is an Android of relative control thank God), “here y’are.”

“Red Robin,” sounds stupid in N’s deeper baritone.

“The Titans say hi!” N yells enthusiastically, and his voice sounds so off with Dick Grayson behind it (and it takes effort to swallow down the bitter regrets, righteous anger, and old hurts anytime he has a break between catastrophes to wonder where it all went so wrong—)

“The fight?” And his (N’s) throat clicks slightly.

“Uh, well—I only got here half-way through and all, Baby Bird—“

Don’t fucking call me that.

“He got away.”

“Magic users. Am I right?” And his voice sounds too amused, too smug, and he just wants to punch himself in the face right about now, but there are plans in the works for what he could realistically do to Dick’s body without permanent damage.

“Put Superboy on,” is ground out between clenched teeth.

“Aw, c’mon, we can fix this, Tim. I’ll—“

“It happened on our side,” is clipped, precise, “I’m on it. Just put Kon on the phone.”

There’s a hesitation on the line and whooshing of the background, soft zaahs of movement (well, Bat-movement, that is), “Tim, I know we haven’t—we haven’t been okay in a while—“ and Dick in his body isn’t even winded while dodging something. The grunt following tells him it is indeed Kon.

“This isn’t happening,” he interrupts, “at all. Thank-you but fuck you, Dick. You give me a member of my team, I get this shit reversed, and we wave bye-bye from a safe distance of several continents.”

“Jesus Tim, I thought we were at least—“

“Apparently you thought wrong. Give me Kon or I’m hanging up and throwing you in front of a train.”

The audible click by his temple is just the Red Hood taking that for the threat it really is. “Do everyone a favor, and don’t try it, asshole.”

He turns very slowly, thinking how fucked up it is that he’s not shorter than Jason this time around, “my brain in Dick Grayson’s body,” is all he needs to say.

“You little shit—“

“Go die, Hood,” he sneers, pellets already between his fingers.

“All right, all right,” N shouts through the phone in his voice, “I’m giving the phone to Superboy, just…dammit, Jay, calm down. Please?”

Something unintelligible comes through the synths, and surprise, surprise! the Red Hood backs off, easing the trigger down. He points a finger at Red, tension in the lines of his stance, “you want I really put some effort into the dance, Red, try to make good on that shit.”

And he doesn’t know if his smirk is anywhere near N’s own evil expression, but he grins white in the night.

On the other end of the phone, Kon is apparently amused as hell (and oh yeah, he believes in karma—just all the way), “Hey Red! Or N…?”

“Fuck you,” Red snarls out, deeper with Dick’s vocal chords.

“Look at it this way,” Kon continues, “you can beat the hell out of his body instead of yours?”

And Red just walks right over that comment with, “I’m going to my Perch here and start on the usual list of magic users to get this crap reversed. Drop him off at the Manor, try following the Mystic if he left any kind of trail.”

“Well, someone pissed in your cornflakes fearless leader.” And yes, that’s his best friend right there, the epic douche bag. Bart probably already has a list of shit he intends to say.

“Not amused,” he replies and hangs up the phone without a good-bye, tossing it in Hood’s general direction, and throws the line, takes the appropriate swing in the direction of his Perch, reverently hoping for something to kick the shit out of on the way.

**

Five hours later, Dick Grayson (in his temporarily shorter body) is scowling like mad, taking the steps down to the Cave with rough, jerky movements. He’d spent the last twenty minutes in front of the bathroom mirror adjacent to his old room; it had been a rough twenty minutes of cataloguing the mass of new scars marring Tim Drake’s back, the new ones on his front (one right across his abdomen, too clean for the usual array of sharp, pointy things). He’s on his way down to the Cave for some computer time, start looking into what Timmy had been up to in the last few years since he’d been the Red Robin.

He lifts a small hand in greeting to Dami, fresh out of the Cave showers after a long patrol, and barely gets a word.

Drake,” and all the venom is there, hitting Dick right in the chest. “Haven’t you learned you no longer have a place here?”

Dick almost chokes, staring down at Little D, his mini-bro, his partner, his Robin, hurt and almost betrayed before he remembers he’s not wearing his own face.

And Dami hesitates, narrowing his eyes when he isn’t met with the usual scathing retorts he’s come to expect. The utterly crushed look on the former Robin’s face is not one he can ever remember seeing before now.

“It’s Dick,” he admits, numb, “Dami…do you really say that kind of thing to Tim?”

But the youngest Robin’s brain is switching gears, “Grayson? Grayson? How—?”

“The Titans were facing magic users,” and his face firms, crossing Tim’s arms over his chest while he stares his little brother down.

Tt, useless. Drake allowed himself to get hit and take your body from you?”

“Little D—answer the question. You really don’t try to keep Tim from coming home, his home, do you?”

Now the smallest gives Dick an impatient look, “honestly, how is it that you have managed to live this long will forever remain a mystery.”

Dami—“

“You are well aware,” the youngest rolls right over him, “the Robin legacy is mine by blood. He had no rights to it. He has no place here once I took over the mantle.”

“How could you do that to him?! God, Dami, he was Robin in his own right. He’s part of the family whether it’s by blood or not—“

“We have argued this before,” Damian just raises a hand, “and we will never agree on it, Grayson. I believed that is why we stopped having the Drake discussion in the first place, I believed you finally began to see reason.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” B interjects, scaring the shit out of both of them (because, you know, the night).

Dami goes stiff immediately, face carefully neutral, “Father, I—“

“The role of Robin has nothing to do with blood,” the Batman admonishes shortly, striding right past his son, cape swirling around him.

Dick just turns Tim’s back and follows B to the computer, leaving Damian to his own churning thoughts while he climbs the stairs to retire in the Manor for the rest of the night.

“I need to do some research,” he fills the boss in, automatically throwing a hip against the chair, and almost falling on his ass because, well, height difference and such.

B hums while the system comes to life, his way to indicate yes, hyperactive child, I’m listening.

Instead, he steps to B’s peripheral and raises the shirt off Tim Drake’s abdomen, then waits for it.

The cowl comes off, blue eyes narrow on the incision scar, the calculating gaze going up to Dick’s (Tim’s, who he hasn’t seen in too long without a mask—usually when the criminal world shit has hit the fan and either the Bats or JLA need Red’s brand of talent). Dick just turns and raises the shirt up to the mass of white scars marring Red Robin’s back.

“So, yes, I need some intel,” on what the fuck he’s apparently missed.

But B’s mouth gets that crazy little moue when he’s already got theories and evidence to back him up.

Dick points an accusing finger, “you already know.”

Well, World’s Greatest Detective.

“I’ve been keeping track,” B fills in shortly.

Dick catches himself this time and can lean on the console to give B all the attention in the world.

**

The security system shows him his own face standing outside the penthouse perch, and Tim sighs, considers the benefits of staying in lockdown to work the spell from Zatanna (who had likewise laughed like an asshole, really, superheroes are just a community of gossipmongers that enjoy the shit out of it when he actually gets screwed over for once), and hoping Dick goes back to the Manor.

He interprets the expression on his own face to the one he’s currently wearing, and yup, that’s the former Batman’s got your number look.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“I’ll have it in another few hours,” he says when he cracks open the door enough to show his taller, more flexible self, “and I haven’t done anything to your body.”

“That’s what worries me, Timmers,” is Dick’s hard tone from his own mouth when the smaller of the two pushes himself inside and flicks the who knows what pellets back into hiding.

“How did you find me?” Is what he asks instead, crossing the arms over the chest broader than his own.

“I’m also this thing called a detective,” Dick deadpans and…it works, really.

Tim nods for the touché, giving Dick a mental point, “all right, I think we’ve already covered all the basis, so there’s no need for you to—“

“Be here, Tim?” And his smaller body gets right up into his bubble. So, regardless of what body he’s in, Dick’s understanding of personal space is non-existent as usual. “I don’t have to acknowledge you? To deal with you? Is that what you were going to say?”

And what Dick is pissed about goes right over his head, but he’s on the defensive by tone and body language alone.

“Maybe I’m missing something here,” he starts slowly in a voice that used to mean something, “but whatever crawled up your ass and died—“

“You don’t have a spleen,” shuts him right the hell up.

So? I can still do my fucking job, Dick. I lead my team, it doesn’t affect—“

“You told me,” Dick jabs a finger right into his sternum, “you told me, Tim, I was still your big brother and you knew I’d always catch you. I believed it.”

Tim makes the face he’s wearing go neutral, blank.

“And Dami…I just learned to let 75% of the crap he says go in one ear and out the other, but he’s part of the reason you’ve stayed gone? Dammit, Tim. You should have told me what it was doing to you. You’ve always been able to come to me,” and Dick’s voice is picking up, anger making it well up and spew out, “I’ve always tried not to let you down, no matter what. You’re my brother, and yes, you asshole, I love you, and—“

“You thought I was crazy,” he admits, low and completely empty, “you took Robin with some bullshit about being equals and you tried to get me into Arkham.”

Dick eases down, staring up into his own face intently, the expression looking as though it actually belongs on the face.

“After I brought B back, when I didn’t come to Gotham, I figured it was a done deal. You made your choice, and your choice told me I didn’t have a place there, that I was never really a Robin anyway. Him saying it? Just like you saying it, Dick, so I stayed the fuck out until some catastrophe or one of you needed tech support or some shit.”

Dick’s jaw tightens, but Tim doesn’t back down.

“You want to know what it did to me, Dick?  It made me realize what my place really was, so it’s fine, I get it. You’ve got the real thing, the right Robin, so spare me this big brother act.”

He shoves past his own body, back to his system, to his comfort pot of coffee ready to be devoured, and the pressure in his chest is completely inconsequential because he’s had time to come to grips, to accept the unavoidable truths.

“Now, like I said, I still need a few hours, and you obviously know where the door is.”

But, the body standing shock still hasn’t moved, has barely breathed, his own eyes taking in everything possible for the detective in Dick’s hindbrain while his fucking heart gives a lurch.

“I made good choices,” Dick finally admits, “I didn’t carry them out like I should have. I didn’t… I didn’t take care of you like I should have so you’d never doubt your place, so you’d always know you’re a Bat. No matter what happens, Tim, no matter what Damian might have said to you, you’ll always be one of us.”

Sitting at his system with Dick’s longer legs stretched out and the translation finally ready, the laugh that comes from his chest is one that makes the older vigilante flinch.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” and he soothes away the utter bullshit vibe, not looking up when the door opens and closes.

**

Getting his body back means peace, I’m out.

Because, well, the Manor and such. At least he’d left Dick’s body in a complex system of Gotham’s sewers, conveniently without a cell phone or comm.

Oops.

Well, whatever. Croc is in Blackgate for the moment, just taking a vacay.

So, he has the time to get back to the Perch, get a quick shower, and take a ride to Titan’s Tower, get back on his usual crazy ass workload and conveniently forget he ever got stuck in some terrible trope.

He goes down the back staircase, hitting an alternative vent leading down into the back side of the Cave where he can just hop a Ducati without running in to any other Bats that might be writing down notes from the night’s activities, fixing random vehicles, making more tech, running the gambit of analysis, or feeding the odd gathering of animals.

Once he hits freedom without any snags, he can take in a full breath again, riding out into the familiar countryside paths back into Gotham proper.

The hidden entrance to his underground garage opens up to the sub-basement where he parks the bike, and takes the stairs two a time to get to the penthouse. Suppressing a shudder at the thought of whatever Dick might have done to his body, he rips the borrowed Gotham Knights t-shirt off, hand already moving up his abdomen before he gets the door closed and faces the mirror—

And winces.

Black sharpie with Dick’s careful block printing is all over his chest, upper arms, and abdomen, each scar recorded with a date, time, place, weapon of choice, and injury statistics. With a slow turn, he glances over his marked shoulder to the scrawling chicken scratch of the Red Hood on his back.

Dick took his time mapping out the last couple of years—on Tim’s own body.

His eyes trace the pathways, read the commentary, look at that neat printing with things like could have died again, and maybe…maybe some part of him wants to step back, give Dick an inch, even though he’s just fucking tired of being the last one standing.

It’s not a big enough part to stop him from getting in the shower and scrubbing his skin raw and red with harsh soap usually for abrasions. It’s not a big enough part to stop him from suiting up and riding out to the Batwing twenty minutes before Bruce Wayne shows up at the door to his Gotham penthouse. It’s not a big enough part to answer his phone when it’s Damian’s number ringing through.

It’s not a big enough part to stop him from leaving.

๐Ÿ‘ฆ๐Ÿผ๐Ÿ‘ง๐Ÿป๐Ÿ‘ง๐Ÿฝ๐Ÿ‘ฆ๐Ÿพ๐Ÿ“šโค๏ธ ๐Ÿ’› ๐Ÿ’™ ๐Ÿ’œ๐ŸŒˆ๐Ÿซ

{One that has particularly touched my heart, so much.}

An Emoji Spell for the  victims and families of the victims of the bus crash in Tennessee. May the survivors be healed, may the families find solace after this horrible loss, and may the lost souls find peace. You are missed.

Loves Charge

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