RedWritingHood



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  1. Summary

    Steven is the favorite son despite or maybe because of being a criminal, Jake is the local funnyman, and Marc runs away and joins Tony Stark's emo band to get away from Khonshu's anime references.

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    2,126
    Works:
    2
    Bookmarks:
    7
  2. Summary

    Bruce has scars and dimples. Everyone is soft and they love each other.

    Words:
    3,345
    Works:
    4
    Bookmarks:
    149
  3. Summary

    You don't want to hear the story
    of my life, and anyway
    I don't want to tell it, I want to listen

    to the enormous waterfalls of the sun

    And anyway it's the same old story--
    a few people just trying,
    one way or another,
    to survive.

    Mostly, I want to be kind.

    - Mary Oliver.

     

    A series of unconnected stories set in the same universe of a Flashpoint AU in which Thomas Wayne has adopted a ton of people, up to and including Superman, most of the Batkids, Harold Jordan (Power Ring from the Crime Syndicate and an alternate world), Thomas's own son from an alternate world, and a very young Cassandra Cain from yet another alternate world.

    Words:
    3,186
    Works:
    8
    Bookmarks:
    9
  4. Summary

    The A/B/O Reincarnation AU

    Words:
    3,258
    Works:
    2
    Bookmarks:
    26
  5. Words:
    1,217
    Works:
    2
    Bookmarks:
    3

Recent bookmarks

  1. Public Bookmark 49

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    Summary

    It's 1966, the Cold War is well underway, and the Winter Soldier has escaped his handlers. He makes it to the United States and shows up at Avengers Mansion. He'd like to defect to the west and join the Avengers. Tony isn't the only one to wonder if the team can trust an ex-Soviet ex-assassin, and yet he finds himself falling for this mysterious stranger, a man who has a shadowy past, who has done a great many things he regrets, and who won't talk about why he doesn't want to be in the same room as Captain America. Over the years, the Winter Soldier has gathered quite a wide variety of secrets. And the secrets the Winter Soldier and Tony learn about each other could bring them both down.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
    108,711
    Chapters:
    10/10
    Collections:
    1
    Comments:
    274
    Kudos:
    243
    Bookmarks:
    49
    Hits:
    4154

    18 Jan 2023

    Bookmarker's Notes

    The Winter Soldier, of course, was still impassive, unreadable, his face fully covered. Tony envied him for it.

    Without the armor, Tony had no masks, and that meant he had to wear the mask he hated the most: that of Tony Stark. He gave the best parts of himself to Iron Man: his courage, his determination, his kindness. His heart, ironically enough, worn on his metal sleeve. Tony Stark got everything that was left over. Tony Stark was cold, callous, uncaring.

    So here Tony was, walking into the front parlor where the newest Avenger was sitting with a file folder of team regulations and mission reports. Here Tony was, trying to decide which parts of himself he should be.

    The Winter Soldier looked up from his papers, and even without being able to see his face, Tony could tell that the Winter Soldier was trying to read him. Trying to figure out what kind of man Tony Stark was.

    He knew how he should act. Nice enough, but distant. Remote. Unfeeling. The Tony Stark that the world got. The one he detested.

    Tony stared at the Winter Soldier's dark goggles, knowing he was meeting the Winter Soldier's eyes, and thought: what if I didn't?

    It was a dangerous thought, but, God, he wanted to.

    Steve was the Avengers' current leader and it was part of his job, more or less, to be friendly to the new recruits. To be approachable. To be someone they could come to if they ever needed anything, even if what they needed was just to have someone to listen to them. Tony had the impression that, for the current team, Steve actually was that guy, no matter how much Clint made fun of him. He had their respect. He was there for them.

    But the Winter Soldier was, for some unknown reason, terrified of Captain America. He wasn't going to let Steve be there for him. And Tony was just going to guess that an American who'd spent -- years, maybe? -- unwillingly serving the Soviet Union probably didn't have a whole lot of friends still around here in America. If he did, he'd have gone to them instead of the Avengers, a team of strangers.

    So the poor guy needed a friend. And maybe Tony could be that friend.

    It wasn't a side of Tony that most people got to see, but it also wasn't like the Winter Soldier was going to run and tell Steve that Tony was actually a decent human being because, again, the Winter Soldier wasn't talking to Steve. And none of the rest of the current team knew Tony well enough to know or care. So Tony could be nice to him, if he wanted, and it would be a secret. Tony would be safe. Who was the Winter Soldier going to tell? Nobody.

    It would be so much more of his real self than nearly anyone ever got more than a glimpse of, these days. Tony's nerves jangled with fear; his terrible, broken heart lurched in his chest. But maybe that would be okay, for someone to get to think Tony Stark had feelings. It would help the Winter Soldier, and maybe it'd help Tony, too. It'd be nice to just be himself. No masks.

    So Tony stepped forward and smiled. It was his real smile. "Hi," he said. "I'm Tony. And you must be the Winter Soldier, I'm guessing?"

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    It’s September 18, 2008. Castiel is being deployed to rescue Dean Winchester from Hell.

    He lands in Dean Winchester’s motel room in 2003. Things go from there.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
    40,546
    Chapters:
    4/4
    Comments:
    589
    Kudos:
    3577
    Bookmarks:
    1304
    Hits:
    40279

    17 Jan 2023

    Bookmarker's Notes

    Castiel blinks into the passenger seat. “Hello, Dean.”

    Dean yells. The steering wheel jerks in his hands, and the car nearly veers into the other lane; Dean rights it at the last moment. He has one hand on his chest, eyes wide. “Jesus, dude. You scared the shit out of me.”

    “You attempted to leave without me.”

    “Guess that’s a lesson learned.” Dean shakes his head as if to clear it, darting a glance at Castiel. “How’d you find me?”

    Castiel looks around at the dashboard, the upholstery. “You have a fairly distinctive car.”

    “A fairly —” Dean repeats. He sounds like he’s having some sort of medical problem. “A fairly distinctive car?”

    “Yes.”

    “A fairly — dude, this is a ‘67 Impala. 327 four barrel, 275 horses. This is —”

    And he’s off, rattling equivalencies that Castiel can’t begin to understand. Castiel has counseled with Solomon, laid judgment on the people of Canaan, watched Noah fill his ark; but however Dean is reckoning the power of horses in ratio to African antelopes, it’s beyond him.

    He listens, though. He finds he likes listening to Dean talk.

    It’s some time, then, before they circle back to the situation at hand. Dean has seemingly talked himself out; Castiel has gleaned that the car is to be referred to as Baby or The Impala, despite its utter lack of resemblance to a young gazelle. He says into the silence, “You said you wouldn’t run off.”

    Dean’s shoulders rise, as if he’s about to fire some incomprehensible insult at Castiel; then they slump. “Yeah. Sorry.”

    “Were you lying?”

    The question seems to make Dean sad. He glances around swiftly as he drives, away from Castiel; then he says, “No. I just — things changed.”

    “Your father?”

    “He’s got a hunt he wants my help on, back in Colorado. I figured — I can’t let him see you, and you’ve probably got better shit to be doing, so —”

    “My mission is to save you. There is no better shit.”

    Dean runs his hand through his hair. He has that look in his eyes again, darting down; they might be shining more than usual. He says, softly, “Right.”

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    The briefing was simple: ‘Stand guard over the Michael Sword until the battle is ready to commence. Await further instructions.’

    Castiel doesn’t mind working security duty; he was briefed shortly after the initial salvation of the Sword from the pit, and again before taking up his position. He knows what to do. However, it’s easy to forget that the green room isn’t real. Time moves differently there, the space ever-changing to make a prison of mountains, cathedrals, salt flats, orchards, and whatever Castiel was led to believe about Heaven’s greatest weapon—Dean Winchester is something entirely unexpected.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
    85,217
    Chapters:
    11/11
    Collections:
    12
    Comments:
    882
    Kudos:
    6777
    Bookmarks:
    2571
    Hits:
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    17 Jan 2023

    Bookmarker's Notes

    At last, the Sword clears his throat. “So, the travelling thing. I, uh—I don’t like flying. But my whole issue… it’s not just that.” The Sword leans forwards, scratches his thumbnail idly over a scuff on the toe of his boot. “It’s dumb.”

    “I’m sure that’s not true.”

    The Sword scoffs, rolls his eyes. He is quiet, his mouth half-open, as though tasting the words before he surrenders them. “I get nervous around people from other places,” he mutters, at last. “Not like—I don’t think they’re bad, or whatever, I’m not like… it’s not a race thing, I just—shit.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I was real bad at a lot of stuff in school. We moved around a lot so my classes were all out of order and I was always missing shit and, you know, ganking monsters was always more important than homework, anyway. I sucked at school, mostly. I sucked most of all at languages. Hell, I was bad enough at English. Then some schools did Spanish, some did French, or German—didn’t matter what language it was, I’d always missed the basics and couldn’t catch up. Spent all my time in those classes feeling dumb as dirt. So, uh. The idea of being in some other place, surrounded by people laughing at me and I can’t understand, and I’m just some big, dumbass American doing the wrong thing and saying the wrong thing and everyone staring at me—”

    He is talking fast now, near rambling, and then abruptly he cuts himself off, shakes his head. It’s the most Castiel has ever heard him say at one time.

    The Sword clears his throat. “Yeah. So—that’s, I guess, why.”

    Castiel looks at him for a long moment. Then he sets down the bottle of wine, and he turns, shifting his position, so that he no longer sits parallel to Dean with his legs stretched out before him, but facing him. He says, “Repeat after me.”

    The Sword frowns. “What?”

    Castiel leans in closer. He says, “Ciao.”

    At last, the Sword realises what is happening. He rocks back in his seat with a dry half-laugh. “Shut up,” he says, and he grabs a new bottle of wine.

    “I said, hello.”

    “Yeah, no shit. I know that one.”

    “Mi chiamo Castiel.”

    “Yeah, yeah. Nice to meet you, Castiel.”

    “Penso che tu sia molto più intelligente di quanto credi,” Castiel says.

    The Sword looks across, uncomprehending, but there is no hostility or resentment in his expression. He watches Castiel’s mouth.

    “Credo che tu abbia passato dei momenti difficili e credo che il fatto che tu sia diventato l’uomo che ora sei nonostante le circostanze sia una conquista straordinaria.” Castiel speaks slowly, evenly. He doesn’t look away from Dean’s face. “Credo che meriti solamente il massimo del rispetto, a prescindere dalla lingua che parli.”

    The Sword swallows. He says, “I didn’t get that one.” His voice is quiet.

    “It was complimentary,” Castiel says. “Would you like the translation?”

    His eyes dropping to his boots, the Sword shakes his head. “No, I’m good,” he says. This time, it doesn’t sound like, fuck off.

    He uncorks the bottle of wine and drinks. He takes several long pulls from the bottle, rather than speaking. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

    The Sword sighs. “Okay, okay,” he says loudly, shattering the quiet. “I’ll bite. Teach me.”

  4. Public Bookmark 43

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    It's winter again, and the harsh cold dredges up unpleasant memories. Red Hood has a rough time. Red Robin notices. An unexpected visitor appears.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
    3,562
    Chapters:
    1/1
    Comments:
    27
    Kudos:
    243
    Bookmarks:
    43
    Hits:
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    02 Jan 2023

    Bookmarker's Notes

    Tim watched him for a moment before finishing up the bandages. That hadn’t been so bad, all things considered, but---

     

    “Tim,” the older man choked, and it sounded scared.

     

    Tim pulled the sleeve of Jason’s hoodie down, tugged a tattered blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it tightly around Jason’s shoulders. Then he clasped numb trembling fingers in his own, clearing his throat. “It’s okay. It’s… heavy, I know. It’s not addictive; you’ll be okay. You’ll just pass… pass out for a bit. You’ll wake up grumpy as ever.”

     

    “I can’t,” Jason whispered hoarsely, and he jerked, but the anesthetic had taken too much effect by now, and he wasn’t able to move.

     

    Tim squeezed Jason’s hand in his, swallowing. “It’s okay, I swear it. I’m here.” Like that’s any consolation, dumbass; you’re the one that did this to him. “I’m here.”

  5. Public Bookmark 16

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    The rest of the room would be deep and blue and dark at the corners. And it would almost seem—for a moment—that there was something in there with Bruce: twisting, like a body, on the floor.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
    963
    Chapters:
    1/1
    Comments:
    7
    Kudos:
    59
    Bookmarks:
    16
    Hits:
    250

    31 Dec 2022

    Bookmarker's Notes

    Bruce has spent a long time alone in this house. When he was young he’d grow so engrossed with his books of pathologies that he’d find, looking up at the library windows, that the sun had set without his noticing. The room would be turning deep and blue and dark at the corners. It would almost seem—for a moment—that there was something in there with him: twisting, like a body, on the floor.

    But scintillating scotomas are a common symptom of acephalgic migraines. Even as a child, Bruce knew this. So he says to Dick instead, “Are you keeping the angle of the string consistent for your measurements?”

    Dick gives him a withering look. “You’re avoiding the question, B.”

    Of course he is. Here is the crux of it: Bruce sleeps in staccato naps through the morning and wakes poorly most afternoons to the sun weeping in under black curtains. His dreams stick, itching, in the hollow edge of his palpebral commissures. His old habit is to take a moment to remember who’s dead. It’s a newer one, to remember who is not.

    This afternoon he’d woken to a child’s voice murmuring his name. The timid tug of a hand at the edge of the sheets. Years ago, Bruce would have lifted his arm, the sheet veiling the air like a great wing for the voice’s owner to crawl beneath. But Jason’s voice hasn’t sounded as soft and high as that in a very long time.

    Bruce had still reached out. Still grasped at the empty air.

    And sometimes, as he trudges out into the dim hall, Bruce might catch a flicker of yellow from the corner of his eye. But his migraines still come with those rolling blooms of un-colour and static. Midday buzzes the way flies settle on a carcass: it’s easy to misinterpret visual stimuli, when he’s still shaking off sleep. There’s no reason to look and see what’s at the end of the hall.