@cora2ons / sc.
â was that a friend of yours? â

#dc comics#batman#dc#bruce wayne#tim drake#dick grayson#batfam#dc fanart#batfamily



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@cora2ons / sc.
â was that a friend of yours? â

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âyou cannot be seen here.â
POLDARK SENTENCE STARTERS (33/?)
stretching herself up on her tiptoes, clara tries to look over cora's shoulder, face-splitting grin catching the confused stare of one of her co-stars before the actress succeeds in pushing her into her dressing room, the door closing and locking with a loud click.
ââ now, what sort of lies are you telling about me? cause let me tell you, i'm not one of those girls. winner and wine, i need dinner, wine and a plate of cheese before i do something cheeky in a closed room,â ââ â she says, wagging her finger.â â ââ why does this keep happening to me?â ââ
the moon landing was an elaborate marriage proposal.
"i think i want an elaboration on that one," she says, eyebrows raised. "is this something you know because you were there? are you proposing to someone? am i taking you too seriously and you were saying it as a joke?"
@cora2ons said: â Nonono, donât come any closer. â
Consciousness slams back into Wesley like a souped-up Chevy going thirty miles over the speed limit â which makes sense, because that's exactly how the life was knocked out of him. He can feel it, the broken bones that have his limbs bent at awkward angles, the blood that's pooled beneath him and clotted in his throat, his death rattle echoing off the cold brick buildings in a hollow rasp that only makes him feel more sick. Or maybe thatâs the flies still buzzing around him, feeding off the rot; do they know how wrong he is, too?
Sitting upright is a clumsy process hindered by muscles still locked in a state of rigor mortis, but he does it anyway, fighting with his foreign body until it finally heaves him forward. Breath panting, he stops, snapping his spine back into place with a gurgling yelp; only then can he scrub the grime from milky eyes, blinking up at a sight he's both relieved and horrified to behold: the faded front of an old-fashioned diner.
( How long has he been dead this time? )
For a moment, all Wesley can do is stare. He barely remembers making the call now, but he knows whatever he had to say must have been really important if he decided to bother Cora. Most things, as he'd told her before, can be dealt with on his own; even, and maybe especially, his death. He doesn't want to think about what might happen if anyone else witnessed the truth of him, if they saw the mockery of life that twists his bones, never staying in one place for fear that someone might smell the rot on him.
But now it seems like he doesn't have a choice.
Shuffling sounds from further down the alley, and he only twists slightly â stumbling on a mangled joint, ribs seizing, heart shuddering with the shock of being alive â before a trembling voice stops him in his tracks. Familiar, and so frightened, but firm in its assertion: stay away.
She's probably right to say it. He knows the sight he makes, covered in gore and starting to tremble, with his breath caught up in a horrible gurgling rasp; a similar ghoulish vision had shattered the mirror in his family home, leaving him to be sick over every fractured reflection that dared to tell him the truth. He still dreams about it sometimes: the glass sticking in chunks to mottled grey flesh that hung from his bones, and the black ichor splattering over white tile, never-ending. It's all he can ever really see, when he looks at himself.
But Cora wasn't prepared for any of this. She probably doesn't even know it's him, whatever the fuck that means, and here he is like a revenant at her door. ( He should've never called her. Hasn't he learned by now that he's just meant to be alone? )
"Okay," Wesley mumbles, after a beat of internal agonies. He tries not to grimace at just how much the words slur over sharpened teeth that never fit his mouth, pushing through even as he feels them start to crumble. "I won't." He takes a stumbling step backward for good measure, swearing softly at the creak of shifting bones; it's a warning, he knows. It's only going to get worse from here. "You should go," he tells her. "I still can't move real well. So you have time." A pause, and then he adds, "Sorry. Didn't mean for you to be here for this."
" take it easy. you're safe now, but you need to relax. "
her head thunks back against the first surface it can find. it's hard and metal and she winces at the impact, eyes shuttering closed for just a moment. behind her eyelids she can still see the bright white light of whatever it is you're meant to call those circle light things in the tardis.
( it's not just the lights she recognizes. she can feel the grate underneath her head, recognizes it as the tardis floor she walks on more days than not. )
she groans.
"sorry." warily, donna opens her eyes again. "ah, sorry. sorry, i didn't mean to -" she closes her eyes again. "no danger anymore?"

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one of the things mostly uncontrolled time slips have taught her about herself : her innate respone to ' fight or flight ' varies greatly, depending on the era. back in her own time, oh, she's been known to give will at the record store an earful. she has her moments, where, if someone dares to cross her, they'd be lucky to get by unscathed. when she's out of her comfort zone - or era, really - that's a whole 'nother story. when in doubt, it's flight, always flight. she's simply not especially keen on getting herself into trouble, only to slip back to her own time and find herself in pentonville prison.
so, naturally, flight is her choice now, again. leisurely strolling through the wes endt, walking off her time slip, a curiously dressed figure catches her attention. it's like her blood freezes in her veins, icy shivers down her spine - like herself, the person looks out of place. out of time.Â
running into fellow time walkers is both highly unusual and absolutely terrifying. what's even more mortifying is that, before she has the chance to duck into a doorway, or turn away on general, she catches their eye. " oh - bollocks "
@cora2ons
" what was that for ? " asked by @cora2ons .
he'd gotten carried away . truly , he had . hands had bordered her face and pulled lips against his own , fleeting and ineffective . a part of him that had once adored the sensation of physical affection to show appreciation had been triggered without realising . ( visions of curled hair and a cravat come to mind . ) smile sits still content against lips , excitement brightening aged hues . " what ? you were amazing ! "
@cora2ons said : â i knew you would be here. â
" YOU know me too well " is what comes from the depth of the tardis wardrobe. clothes go flying as he speaks, he's in the far, far back, digging for ... something ? he's not sure what. something special, maybe - that who he is now ? some bird of paradise ? ( not that he minded it particularly much, did have a ring to it ) it's also what takes his mind off things, when they've returned from a particularly trying adventure. it's half preparation, half ... compensation ? it sure is hard to keep a life-adventure balance in these halls, so likes this little escape whenever he manages. " you know, i promised myself one thing when i took off after the whole bi-generation - " he strains to look at her " - after which, by the way, i was runnin' around in a dress shirt, underwear and trainers - long story - " a moment of pause, he does often wonder if his fourteenth self had been left to fight the toymaker without his pants, but that's another issue for another day " - but i promised myself to stop looking like a cartoon character, get some variety. " done were the days for being known for a bowtie, suit and converse, a leather jacket or, god forbid, a fez ( although he reckons he'd still be able to rock that ) with a grin he pulls out a white pinstripe leisure suit, complete with a wide-brim hat. " what d'you think ? too boney m. ? "