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Timestamp Meme Results
Recently, I offered to write timestamps for some of my stories, and I also offered to do so in conversations earlier and only got around to those now. Forthwith:
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brown_betty asked me to write a timestamp sometime after The Lady and the Tiger:
Dick glances at Babs as she reads, back straight and hair neat, wondering how she can look like butter doesn't melt in her mouth, after everything she did to rescue him. After Slade arranged them in some pretty outrageously porny positions -- now he knows what it's like to have her mouth trembling around him while she's being fucked, what she looks like watching him wide-eyed as Slade fucks him into her. After she rolled out of bed while Slade had both hands on Dick and impaled the man with his own sword -- Dick didn't even know she could lift it -- and dragged Dick away as Slade laughed weakly, his chest-sucking wheeze echoing in Dick's memory.
Like he didn't come down to the Cave this morning and hear her crying in the shower.
Babs looks like nothing happened, and Dick has no idea how she can.
miakun asked me to write a timestamp "two years and six months" after Than Are Dreamt, though not in current canon:
"So, Short Stuff," Jason says behind Tim, and it really isn't good that Tim didn't hear him coming. At least he doesn't startle. He nods, because there's no point in not responding; Jason tends to escalate if ignored. He leans a little further on the railing as if he's completely absorbed in viewing Gotham's glittering lights; if Jason attacks, there are at least three ways Tim can divert his rush right over the parapet.
Jason doesn't lunge. He walks up, footsteps flat and loud, and Tim might have smiled at that, a lifetime ago. Instead he shrugs in greeting, edging over to give Jason room to stand beside him. "Good ol' grubby Gotham," Jason says, almost quietly. For Jason.
Then Jason asks, "Who was she?" and his voice is quiet.
Tim should snidely respond, "who?" or demand of Jason how he knows. He wants to lunge for Jason's throat, or swing over the parapet, or perhaps just scream. But he doesn't. He doesn't move a millimeter, and Jason's used to masks but he can't see through Tim's. When he can, he forces himself to breathe, cool night air sliding into and out of his lungs.
When he can, he says, "her name was Stephanie Brown."
lomedet asked me to write a timestamp "15 minutes" after Some Sunlit Cafe:
They sit around three sides of the table, none of them looking at any other. Charlie clutches his paper. Don holds his sunglasses in one fist. Megan's hands are folded in her lap, her right wrist not quite throbbing.
She could have run. She should have run, as Charlie flailed in shock and Don shot out of his seat, dodging through the cafe towards her. She spun belatedly, but Don caught her wrist, caging it within his fingers as he begged, "Megan, please."
Megan had always wondered if she could take him. Turning, she centered her stance, but Don's glasses were off, his eyes wide, his stance completely open. If she hit him he'd just take it, he wouldn't even try to dodge or block.
So she sighed, "Let go, Eppes." Now she sits with Charlie and Don in a little bubble of silence inside the noisy cafe, and how long has this even been going on, all this time, under everyone's noses? Alan can't possibly know. Neither could Terry Lake.
"Tell me something," Megan says, breaking the silence, watching Charlie and Don twitch, glancing at her, glancing simultaneously away. "How do you two even fool trained behaviorists?"
Charlie looks at his hands. Don shuts his eyes. But it wasn't like she was really expecting an answer.
tigerbright asked me to write a timestamp after this ficlet:
Men sitting on stools, women on little couches, and Jack's drunk enough to make it pleasantly difficult to balance, so he leans back against the bar and watches the spaceport cafe. He can't remember why everyone's so firmly sorted by apparent gender in this time and place, when men and women keep trotting across the room to talk to each other, so it obviously doesn't really matter. Maybe he'll go sit on one of those plush little couches just to mix things up, as he waits here for the Doctor and keeps an eye on Rose.
Who is... sitting with her head leaning against another girl's, blue curls meshing with her blonde locks, their laughter intimate and their fingers interwoven. Jack grins to watch Rose finally getting away from those rigid little turn-of-the-millenium categories; the blue-curly girl is lithe and honey-warm with a soft-looking red mouth, and Jack idly wonders what might happen if he wanders over.
A gentle tap on his shoulder from the bartender. "Need anything, sir?" Two of her other hands hoist bottle and shaker, the fourth supporting her as she leans closer, looking up with bright amber eyes and a smile shading warmer than the merely professional. "Anything at all?"
The Doctor brought them here to unwind, and Rose is doing just fine. "Well, maybe something," Jack drawls and spins on his stool, leaning in towards the bright eyed bartender.
runespoor7 asked me to write a timestamp after this little drabble:
"So I finally got her off the guy," Dick concludes, "and she'd pulped his face but I don't think she really broke anything besides his nose. Anyway, the last we saw he was being handcuffed to a stretcher, so there we go." Facing away from Bruce, Dick types a few keystrokes, shaking his head as he saves the night's report. "Tim told me Cass thought Steph was like Jason, and I could kind of see it, but man... now I can't help but see it."
Bruce remembers Jason's arm straining in his grip as Jason knelt over a rapist caught in mid-act, the criminal's shattered cheekbones, Jason's thwarted scowl. He remembers the roof he took Jason to, the glowing carpet of Gotham's lights spread out beneath them. He remembers Jason's knowing smirk, as Bruce drew breath to lecture and lost it when Jason stepped up to him, chest touching chest. And he remembers Jason spread over a gargoyle, clinging with gauntleted fingers, swearing breathlessly as Bruce thrust into the impossible resilient heat of his body.
"She isn't Jason," Bruce says, turning away.
brown_betty asked me to write a timestamp sometime after The Lady and the Tiger:Dick glances at Babs as she reads, back straight and hair neat, wondering how she can look like butter doesn't melt in her mouth, after everything she did to rescue him. After Slade arranged them in some pretty outrageously porny positions -- now he knows what it's like to have her mouth trembling around him while she's being fucked, what she looks like watching him wide-eyed as Slade fucks him into her. After she rolled out of bed while Slade had both hands on Dick and impaled the man with his own sword -- Dick didn't even know she could lift it -- and dragged Dick away as Slade laughed weakly, his chest-sucking wheeze echoing in Dick's memory.
Like he didn't come down to the Cave this morning and hear her crying in the shower.
Babs looks like nothing happened, and Dick has no idea how she can.
miakun asked me to write a timestamp "two years and six months" after Than Are Dreamt, though not in current canon:"So, Short Stuff," Jason says behind Tim, and it really isn't good that Tim didn't hear him coming. At least he doesn't startle. He nods, because there's no point in not responding; Jason tends to escalate if ignored. He leans a little further on the railing as if he's completely absorbed in viewing Gotham's glittering lights; if Jason attacks, there are at least three ways Tim can divert his rush right over the parapet.
Jason doesn't lunge. He walks up, footsteps flat and loud, and Tim might have smiled at that, a lifetime ago. Instead he shrugs in greeting, edging over to give Jason room to stand beside him. "Good ol' grubby Gotham," Jason says, almost quietly. For Jason.
Then Jason asks, "Who was she?" and his voice is quiet.
Tim should snidely respond, "who?" or demand of Jason how he knows. He wants to lunge for Jason's throat, or swing over the parapet, or perhaps just scream. But he doesn't. He doesn't move a millimeter, and Jason's used to masks but he can't see through Tim's. When he can, he forces himself to breathe, cool night air sliding into and out of his lungs.
When he can, he says, "her name was Stephanie Brown."
lomedet asked me to write a timestamp "15 minutes" after Some Sunlit Cafe:They sit around three sides of the table, none of them looking at any other. Charlie clutches his paper. Don holds his sunglasses in one fist. Megan's hands are folded in her lap, her right wrist not quite throbbing.
She could have run. She should have run, as Charlie flailed in shock and Don shot out of his seat, dodging through the cafe towards her. She spun belatedly, but Don caught her wrist, caging it within his fingers as he begged, "Megan, please."
Megan had always wondered if she could take him. Turning, she centered her stance, but Don's glasses were off, his eyes wide, his stance completely open. If she hit him he'd just take it, he wouldn't even try to dodge or block.
So she sighed, "Let go, Eppes." Now she sits with Charlie and Don in a little bubble of silence inside the noisy cafe, and how long has this even been going on, all this time, under everyone's noses? Alan can't possibly know. Neither could Terry Lake.
"Tell me something," Megan says, breaking the silence, watching Charlie and Don twitch, glancing at her, glancing simultaneously away. "How do you two even fool trained behaviorists?"
Charlie looks at his hands. Don shuts his eyes. But it wasn't like she was really expecting an answer.
tigerbright asked me to write a timestamp after this ficlet:Men sitting on stools, women on little couches, and Jack's drunk enough to make it pleasantly difficult to balance, so he leans back against the bar and watches the spaceport cafe. He can't remember why everyone's so firmly sorted by apparent gender in this time and place, when men and women keep trotting across the room to talk to each other, so it obviously doesn't really matter. Maybe he'll go sit on one of those plush little couches just to mix things up, as he waits here for the Doctor and keeps an eye on Rose.
Who is... sitting with her head leaning against another girl's, blue curls meshing with her blonde locks, their laughter intimate and their fingers interwoven. Jack grins to watch Rose finally getting away from those rigid little turn-of-the-millenium categories; the blue-curly girl is lithe and honey-warm with a soft-looking red mouth, and Jack idly wonders what might happen if he wanders over.
A gentle tap on his shoulder from the bartender. "Need anything, sir?" Two of her other hands hoist bottle and shaker, the fourth supporting her as she leans closer, looking up with bright amber eyes and a smile shading warmer than the merely professional. "Anything at all?"
The Doctor brought them here to unwind, and Rose is doing just fine. "Well, maybe something," Jack drawls and spins on his stool, leaning in towards the bright eyed bartender.
runespoor7 asked me to write a timestamp after this little drabble:"So I finally got her off the guy," Dick concludes, "and she'd pulped his face but I don't think she really broke anything besides his nose. Anyway, the last we saw he was being handcuffed to a stretcher, so there we go." Facing away from Bruce, Dick types a few keystrokes, shaking his head as he saves the night's report. "Tim told me Cass thought Steph was like Jason, and I could kind of see it, but man... now I can't help but see it."
Bruce remembers Jason's arm straining in his grip as Jason knelt over a rapist caught in mid-act, the criminal's shattered cheekbones, Jason's thwarted scowl. He remembers the roof he took Jason to, the glowing carpet of Gotham's lights spread out beneath them. He remembers Jason's knowing smirk, as Bruce drew breath to lecture and lost it when Jason stepped up to him, chest touching chest. And he remembers Jason spread over a gargoyle, clinging with gauntleted fingers, swearing breathlessly as Bruce thrust into the impossible resilient heat of his body.
"She isn't Jason," Bruce says, turning away.
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That is so exactly what would have happened. Is it wrong of me to love seeing all of them be so uncomfortable?
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I'm really glad you liked this, especially since it got me in trouble. ;)
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- Oh Babs. Oh Dick. So confused and so lost, and Babs being this pillar of repress-and-soldier-on, strength and dignity.
- Oh Tim. Oh Jason. I love the sensation of Jason's footsteps being 'flat and loud', and Tim's snark at rating Jason's quietness on his own scale. Jason approaching Tim to ask about Steph. Tim wanting to not deal. I want this scene to be canon so much.
- Oh Bruce. This detail makes me happy: Tim told me Cass thought Steph was like Jason. It's a current and everyone's here - except Babs, but she probably has tapes on both of these conversations.
The next paragraph - I'm sorry for leaving useless feedback - I smile every time I think of it. Bruce and Jason in a nutshell of messy perfection and DOOM. I can see Gotham in your description, I can see them both drowning in that city.
Oh oh oh that last line. Owie. I can see so many shades of 'oh, Bruce, no' in that line. The disappearance of the 'like' between Dick's remark and Bruce's reaction. The denial of existing Jason-ness. The doomed doominess of doomitude that is Bruce point-blank proceeding to blind himself. (turning away, o rly, Bruce.)
...Of course now I want to know what Dick thinks of that conversation. ...So ...what does he think of it?
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I have to admit, I never love them quite so much as when they're suffering, so I don't at all mind "oh, honey" as a response. In fact, I kind of feel a wee bit accomplished now. *delights*
Any feedback with a line like "I can see them drowning in that city" is nothing at all like useless! And oh, Bruce. When I was figuring that ficlet out, and I got to his response, I said aloud, "you asshole!" and knew I had the right last line.
After Bruce said that? Poor Dick screwed up his face, thought, "asshole," then shrugged it off -- he knows Bruce in all his intransigencies, after all. But after Stephanie's [putative] death it was one of the kajillion things that made him break and quit.
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Great line!
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PS I just thought of something. You might like my story "All Love's Lemmas Prove." It's Don/Charlie, explicit. http://rubynye.livejournal.com/340537.html
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