#little short fic

[your-stranger-halfblood-things]

Eddie cought himself from falling by propping himself up against a tree. He slumped down to the ground. "Steve, I need a break. I'm out of blood and I'm really dizzy," the vampire said with a shiver.

Steve looked at him in concern. "If you need blood, you can always drink some of mine," he offered.

Eddie shook his head. "I'd kill you."

"No. The bats bit me too, so I'm kind of immune to it now. I'm sure I'll be immune to your bites too," Steve insisted. "And you're dying...again. You need to drink."

Silence.

"Fine. How do you want to do this?" Eddie asked. "Wrist or neck?"

"I think wrist would hurt more, so maybe my neck." Steve came closer to Eddie and dropped to his knees so he was leveled with the other man. "Do your worst."

"Don't tempt me," Eddie muttered, eyeing Steve's neck. He was hungry and the thought of drinking blood from a live human made his head swarm.

Eddie leaned in on his knees and touched Steve's shoulders. The younger man tilted his head to the right and gave the vampire room to drink from. Then he waited. He waited for the pain, but none came.

"Ed-" Steve started to question, but then Eddie kissed his neck. It made him question everything. Eddie kissed my neck. And before he could dive deeper into the thought, Eddie sunk his fangs into him. "Ah-"

The feeling was odd, but not bad. It stung a little, and he could feel the blood moving, but he didn't mind it. All he could think about was how Eddie's lips were on his neck. And Eddie was being so gentle with him that it made Steve wonder why he ever doubted Eddie ever.

Eddie started making noises as he drank more and more, sucking harder and harder. Eddie backed away from Steve, blood dripping from his lips, and he stared at the younger man before lunging at him. He knocked Steve onto the leafy, dirt ground and crawled on him. He went back to licking and drinking from his neck. The younger man whimpered.

Steve looked up at the sky with tears in his eyes. It hurt, what Eddie was doing to him hurt. But he liked it. He didn't know what was wrong with him. "Eddie, please." He didn't know what he wanted, he just knew he wanted Eddie to continue whatever this was.

They didn't talk about it after. Eddie was busy cleaning his face and Steve was bandaging up his neck with the first aid they brought. It was as if it never happened, but it did happen. And it meant everything to Steve.

[ultravioletbrit]

“prank” - Jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 234 words

Regulus is sitting in a secluded alcove on the far side of the courtyard when James finds him.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” James asks, gesturing to the spot across from Regulus.

“Why?” Regulus narrows his eyes skeptically.

“Because this is a nice place to read, and I’d like to sit with you.” James smiles.

“Is this a prank?” Regulus glares at James. “You’ll sit here and distracted me then my brother will jump out and do something ridiculous?”

“No.” James shakes his head with a sweet smile. “Not a prank. I just want to sit with you.” He shrugs and Regulus continues to glare. “I’ll be quiet, I promise.” James adds.

“Fine.” Regulus sighs after a moment.

James smiles at Regulus, and it’s bright and beautiful and Regulus feels like he could melt.

Then the most unexpected thing happens. James sits in the alcove across from Regulus, takes out a book and reads quietly and… nothing happens. No pranks, no brothers, just comfortable silence.

They read for a while and Regulus can’t help stealing small glances at James. At one point, Regulus looks up and James is already looking back. James smiles sweetly and Regulus bites his lip to try and hide his own smile. They gaze at each other for several moments before turning back to their books.

They continue to read and… nothing happens. But Regulus also feels like something might be happening.

[sincerelybubbles]

Spencer holds your hand while you argue.

"Physical connection with a partner, especially during tense moments, is proven to aid in communication and connection."

It's something you found odd at first - annoyed, you tried to shrug him off, but he persisted, fingers clutching yours and dipping his head to hold eye contact. Now, though, you appreciate the habit.

"You have to trust me to do my job," you're saying, one hand linked in his and the other tapping along his forearm. "I'm the exact type the unsub is looking for. Emily will be right beside me, she'll have her gun-"

"But you won't," Spencer interrupts, squeezing your fingers and avoiding your eye.

The connection reminds you that he's simply concerned for your safety, not doubting your ability to do your job. Still, annoyance flares in your chest and you fight the urge to roll your eyes.

"He's looking for women he finds attractive - women with my eye color, my weight, my height, my hair color. He's got military background, he'll notice if I'm armed."

"He'll notice if you're wearing your vest, too," Spencer argues, nostrils flaring.

You both know that this argument is pointless. You're not going to say no to Hotch's assignment and it's been cleared by him already. Spencer doesn't have the rank to outvote him. Still, it's important to you that he understands, that he's comfortable, that he trusts you.

You keep holding his hand, returning his squeeze, and massaging his other forearm. You're in a small office in the small-town sheriff's office the team set up in. You can smell the sour dust in the air and the Texas heat causes sweat to gather on your forehead.

"Love, Emily will be right there. Morgan will be in the bar, too, and Hotch and Rossi will be outside. They're not going to let anything happen."

"I don't like it," Spencer says, voice firm. Compromise isn't clear - you can't say no, he doesn't want you to say yes.

Despite your best efforts, you sigh. Truly, you're just proud of yourself for not letting the eye-roll escape. You kind of think you deserve a reward for the effort.

You want to tell him that he doesn't really have a say in any of this. You're leaving in twenty minutes to get ready with Emily and JJ. An hour after that, you'll be in a bar pretending to sip a vodka cranberry and waiting for your unsub to hit on you.

Instead, you lean forward to catch Spencer in a hug, untangling your hands and looping your arms around his neck. "I know."

You meet him in a soft kiss, brief because of the setting. It's the best comfort you can offer him.

He sighs softly against your forehead when you pull away, hugging you tight.

"I'll be there too. Outside with Hotch and Rossi. I don't care where Hotch wants me."

"Okay," you whisper into his shoulder. Despite how high-strung you are considering the circumstances, the hug is calming you down, rapidly slowing your heartbeat.

He's right, as always -- the physical connection has you calmer instantly.

[moodyvoid]

Touya’s been slumming it on the streets for a while now. Pick pocketing here and there, even mugging and robbery in desperate times.

He’s eyeing a couple walking down the alleyway, deciding they look like good enough targets.

You and your sort-of-ex-boyfriend have finally gotten together to grab lunch after some time separated. You consider maybe giving him another chance, after all, he really didn’t mean to steal $200 from your bank account to spend on Onlyfans.

You pause in the alleyway as another figure approaches you. Before he can even finish his sentence, “Hand over your wallet—” your boyfriend pushes you forward, you falling to the ground in front of the attacker.

Touya pauses watching the absolute pansy of a man high-tail it out of the alleyway, you sitting on the ground also watching him scramble back out to the street.

Did he piss himself?

You slowly turn your gaze to the pierced man. He looks down at you, pity on his face as he holds out his hand to you.

You take his hand, standing up. “I don’t have much.” you begin.

“Nah, forget it.” Touya replies.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you need the money for?” you ask.

He hesitates for a moment.

Why would you care?

“Food.” Touya says.

You pause, looking down at the bag that carried your now definitely ex-boyfriend’s leftovers. You hand it over to him.

“Here. It’s soba.” you say.

Touya takes the bag, looking it over. “Thanks…”

You nod and turn to exit the alleyway.

“What’s your name?” Touya asks.

You turn back, “Y/n… yours?”

Touya pauses for a moment, he’s been going by the name Dabi for a few months now, but for some reason when he opened his mouth— “Touya.”

You give a soft smile, “Enjoy your soba, Touya.”

Touya nods in response and watches you as you leave the alleyway.

Why did he tell you his real name? Why did it sound so sweet when you said it?

“Y/n…” he repeats, your name tasting just as sweet on his tongue.

“Y/n?!” A man calls out, Touya seeing the ex-boyfriend poking his head into the alleyway. Touya’s eyes narrow and he walks towards the man, his hand igniting in blue flame.

Names are so special.

The man screams in agony as the smell of burned flesh fills the air, blue flames eating him alive.

He doesn’t deserve to say your name anymore.

[moechies]

kinktober ⋆౨ৎ entry #4 ; brat taming w shuji hanma .ᐟ

dear diary ♡,

i hate hate hate shuji hanma so much! god, he makes my life unbearable -- walking into that office everyday is like a form of torture! he's always teasing me, making fun of me non-stop, and every time i walk into his office completely fine i come out a huge, frustrated mess! and it ruins my entire day too, god. why does he have such a huge impact on me? it's so frustrating . . . anything he says to me or says about me will stick for at least a week -- he doesn't even seem to stop pestering me when i get off of work. how long will i last in this stupid office before i break? ugh! that would be so embarrassing . . . ironically i'm writing his from work so i better hide this away before hanma catches me! i'll see you later diary :(

"little lady, come in here." hanma commands with a lithe finger, pointing a low finger at your trailing body outside of his office. you had tried your best to sneak by his office and back to yours without being seen by the man, but the tall glass panes that are only see through from the inside of his office are of no help. you cringe, the hairs on the back of your neck standing frozen when you hear the familiar, sultry grime of his voice, walking defeatedly into his office before gently shutting the door behind you.

"yes, sir? what can i do for you?" you grin subtly, hiding your distress with fiddling fingers behind your back.

"so formal today? you're in my office wearin' a skimpy little skirt and a sheer shirt that barely covers your nipples, hun." he grumbles with a laugh, setting his arms down against the marble desk.

you scoff — dropping your previous dear little secretary act with a subtle roll of your eye. "shut up, hanma. you're not any much better than me . . . having s—sex with all those workers on this very desk." you point to the marble stable in front of you, mumbling a soft 'gross' under your breath — the least bit repulsed that you're standing in the same space as this satyriasis you call your boss.

"are you jealous, little lady? he laughs.

"n—never." you huff, tugging your skirt down out of habit. the atmosphere is tense and warm, and you can feel his glare boring into the side of your skull. he takes a sudden move, leaving his original seating and making his way towards you. he fumbles with his sleeve, fixing the crease slightly before stepping before you — nearly chest to chest. “you're so weird, hanma."

hanma leans low, lips inches away from your ear. it's disgustingly seductive — how close he is. it’s even worse when you find yourself not minding the intimate position.

“don't call me that name, doll. no need to be so formal, remember?" he turns his head to grin besides you, but soon moves back to his original position to whisper again, "by the way, i can see your cute little nipples, doll."

you scramble away from the man, arm defensively coming to cover across your chest. “per—pervert! ‘s cold in here.” you cry with a heavy blush that paints your face. you're met with a smug grin with no means to punish you for your indecency, but rather low glinting eyes with the opposite intent. "come here, girl."

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

it hurts. everything does — your thighs are sore, red streaks left across your bare tits, and your cunt aches despite shuji’s spent stuffing you full.

“s—shuji,” you cry. you’re met with a soft hum besides your ear, the sultry noise making you wince. his slender fingers force the small of your back against the table, arching you nicely before taking his cock head to your pussy. “n—n’more…”

“hmm, she’s holding all my fuckin’ nut in so well.” he groans, dragging his cock head through your spent folds. the action causes cum to dribble slightly, warm cum coating your clit and dripping onto the ground.

“c’mere.” hanma lifts you from where you had been bent over previously, switching positions with you. his back leans against the table, hoisting you onto the slant of his lap and forcing your naked body to face the glassed windows of his office. you’re quick to panic, whining and you fumble in his grasp. it’s especially terrifying when you see one of hanma’s hookups walk past, pointing at hanma’s office to her co-worker — and giggling.

her glare looks directly into yours, twisting your body to face hanma’s as you hide your face in the crevice of his chest. “n—no, shuji !”

“doll. you know they can’t see anything, right?” hanma chuckles. “what, you don’t want her to see you like this?”

you whine, looking up at hanma with large, watery eyes. “don’ wanna face the glass, p—please.”

he hums at your request -- but faces your body outwards once again. he lifts you onto his lap once again, but this time, slotting you on top of his cock and dragging you down his length by your arms. you're quick to squeal, filled up by shuji's heavy dick yet again in mere seconds. he groans at the feeling of his own nut painting his cock once he's inside.

"shuji!" you quip when another co-worker passes by -- what if the glass were to suddenly malfunction and everybody could see your naked body? you spiral. not to mention, your naked cunt lodged onto your boss' cock? what if—

"need to show you and your pretty pussy off. how these office sluts can't take me like you can. you're perfect, damn it." shuji moans, pumping roughly into your sore cunt. "you're c—creamin' all over me, little lady."

"s--shut up, shut up.." you cry, body damn hot. his hands feel as if they're burning against your skin. “g’cum ‘gain—“

“mhm, yeah you are. ‘cause you’re a little slutttt.” hanma moans, stifling when he feels your gummy walls clench at his crude words.

“n—not a slut ! shuji, shuji— !“

“that’s impossible, slut.”

[celestialvoid-fanfiction]

Little Handprints

There are little handprints on the walls. Eli has little hands. Case solved.

Based on the incorrect quote

Read it on AO3, here

Stiles leant against the kitchen counter, dragging his hand down his face as he let out a heavy sigh. A heavy case load and late nights were starting to wear him thin. And even when he wasn’t working late, his mind ran rampant, making sleep near impossible.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to wake himself more.

The sound of plastic clattering caught his attention. Stiles turned to look where Eli sat in his booster seat at the table. The food tray on his seat was splattered with toast and jam.

“You okay there, Trouble?” Stiles asked.

Eli giggled as he snatched up one of the pieces of jam-covered toast that he had knocked over and took a bite out of it.

“Yeah,” he chirped through a mouthful of mushed toast.

The nickname that had come from Eli’s comedic timing; Stiles’ dad said something about trouble following wherever Stiles and Derek go, and Eli toddled in after them at that moment, prompting the

Sheriff to say, “And here’s trouble!”

The name stuck. And it proved to be fitting on several occasions.

Stiles slid the coffee pot from the percolator and poured the dark liquid into his mug, heaping in spoonfuls of sugar before walking around the corner of the bench and into the dining room.

“Yummy?” Stiles asked as he walked over to the table and sat down next to Eli’s booster seat.

“Yummy,” Eli replied around another mouthful.

Stiles gave him a soft smile before resting his elbows on the table and letting his heady fall, heavy, into his hands.

“You okay?” Eli asked, his sweet voice coiled with worry.

“I’m okay, bud,” Stiles replied, unable to lift his head. “Just tired.”

He felt something tap his cheek. He lifted his head and turned to see what was poking him.

Eli held out a half-eaten piece of toast for him.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile.

“Thanks, bud,” he said softly, taking the piece of toast offered to him. He ate the toast, dusting the crumbs off his hand before laying his head back in his hands and watching his son eat his breakfast.

He let his mind drift, the world blurring into swirls of colour and movement. His eyes grew heavy as the seductive embrace of sleep crept into the back of his mind. His heavy eyes drifted shut and he sank into the darkness.

“Stiles?” Derek called from the hallway, starling Stiles.

“Hmm?” Stiles hummed questioningly—the most he could muster up.

“Why are there little handprints on the walls?” Derek asked, peering around the open doorframe of the dining room.

Stiles blinked a few times, his mind rattling through the mess of thoughts for an answer. He lifted his head slightly and turned to look at Eli in his high chair.

“Why are there little handprints on the walls?” he whispered.

“Because I have little hands,” Eli answered, holding up his jam-and-crumb-covered hands to show him.

Stiles turned his head to look at Derek.

“Because he has little hands,” he repeated.

Derek let out a soft chuckle, turning back towards the hallway to hide his smile.

It took a moment for Stiles’ brain to catch up with what he said, realisation stirring him enough for him to sit up and drag his hand down his face.

“What is it this time?”

“Markers,” Derek answered. “Thankfully, it’s the washable ones that Lydia got him.”

“I’ll clean it,” he volunteered, pushing back his chair as he tried to summon what little energy he had left.

“No,” Derek said softly. “Trouble and I will clean it after we finish breakfast.”

“I’m Trouble!” Eli said excitedly, perking up at his nickname.

Stiles and Derek couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yes, you are,” Stiles said softly, smiling lovingly as he reached out and gently tousled Eli’s hair.

[keferon]

Do you possibly have any more vortex doodles...? He’s my fave and you draw him so good 👉👈

Oh thank you fkfjfj. And yeah I do :D I just kinda stopped posting them bc people didn’t really look interested. But since you asked

These were made by me and @hodd1 during some Magma sessions👆

[frownyalfred]

Broke: Dick hates being Batman because he’s his own vigilante and doesn’t want the responsibility of the cowl

Woke: Dick hates being Batman because he has to bulk for a few weeks beforehand in order to look convincing in the suit

I feel like Dick gets the heads up text from Bruce, groans, and turns around to hit Costco for chicken breast and greek yogurt.

Because he’s muscular as Nightwing, absolutely, but he’s not carrying as much muscle on a given day like Jason and Bruce are. He needs to be more agile than them, and as a result he’s a little leaner.

Taking on the cowl, even temporarily, means bulking up as quickly as possible. Because even if he pads the suit, the goons don’t know that. They’re still gonna hit Batman like he’s carrying the same amount of mass.

[stellewriites]

ghost and soap that move in together in between missions to save on money and eventually - inevitably - fall into bed together. but somethings missing

they’re both a little too sharp around the edges, need something sweet to ease their cravings and soften their bites, but no one fits right

until you, that is. so don’t be surprised when they make sure you’re sticking around by any means necessary

[liseytopia]

i know the spider-verse hype is over but hear me out ..

another visit at your boyfriend's apartment meant another cleaning day for you and him, which obviously resulted in a helpless, whining hobie on the bed.

"babe, it's not even that hard. you just have to throw some shirts in a washing machine and press a few buttons," you laughed, shaking your head as you stared at hobie from the doorway of his bedroom after you'd designated him a small task to start. he was lying face down on his bed, groaning.

without lifting his head from the mattress adorned with misplaced and rumpled blankets and pillows, he replied, "still don' wanna."

hobie was never one for keeping his place clean. he was great at nearly everything else—he had surprisingly good hygiene, a charming personality and a pretty face, but cleaning.. wasn't his specialty. he wasn't trying to live like a slump, but sometimes he couldn't help it. fighting crime and dismantling systems of oppression didn't leave a whole lot of time or energy for something as minimal as cleaning a room—or at least, according to his protests.

you sighed, swiveling around to his in-unit mini laundry room, picking up a laundry basket, and walking back in hobie's bedroom. you began throwing various clothes lying about the room into the basket.

apparently he heard you cleaning up after him, and finally rotated his head off the bed, studying you picking up his clothes. "you don't have to do all 'tis," he murmured as you slowly deteriorated the pile of clothing.

"yeah, but you won't, so i will," you replied firmly, not making eye contact.

"awww, c'mon, love.. you don't gotta be like that," he drawled, rolling off the edge of the bed and standing up toward you. he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, the tall boy's head on top of yours. your stomach fluttered at the contact, his arms acting as a restraint to keep you from moving. it was obvious he had some sort of plan with this.

you whined in defeat, "hobie.."

"hm? what's that?" you heard him hum against your head, trying to act innocent. the vibration of his deep voice was sending all throughout your body. "'m just tryna help."

"shut up, no you aren't," you grumbled, though your attempts at sounding annoyed only failed when you accidentally let a giggle slip out.

hobie hummed again. "see, i knew ya loved me," he smiled as he dragged you a couple feet back down to his bed. you collapsed on top of him on the mattress, the laundry basket and pile of clothes both long forgotten on floor.

you wrapped your arms up around his neck once he sat up, scooting back against the wall with you in his lap. he leaned forward to kiss you, his large hands holding you in place by your waist. you returned the kiss gently and slowly, resting your head down on his shoulder when you were finished.

"i take it we ain't cleanin' today?" he questioned, a smile persistent on his lips as he gazed down at your body lazily attached to his.

you shook your head in response, your eyes closed and your face still buried in his neck. that was all the indication he needed to know you were convinced. hobie would live in that messy apartment for as long as he could.

⊹₊⟡⋆

[quadrantadvisor]

DP x DC, revenant!Jason Todd

Shortly after meeting, Danny and Jason have a late night conversation about what it means to come back. 1281 words

On AO3

-

Danny woke groggily, in a dark place that he didn't recognize, and took a moment to get his bearings.

He felt the warning ache in his neck that came from being propped up against an arm rest. There were two sources of dim light in the room—the glow of city street lights, muffled behind a curtain, and the green eyes of the man whose lap Danny's feet were propped on.

Right. Danny hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the revenant’s—on Jason’s—couch, but they’d been talking for so long, he must’ve dozed off.

Jason had had so many questions, about ectoplasm, about the zone, about Danny’s own experiences. Danny had done his best to clear up everything he could. A revenant may not be quite the same as he was, but still, it made Danny happy to be able to pass on his hard won knowledge and maybe save someone else a bit of the hurt and confusion that he’d gone through. It was what he’d always wished someone would do for him.

Jason was slumped into the couch, but he didn’t look relaxed. Danny examined his still profile, cast in strange shadows by its own green glow, and wondered how long it had been since he’d moved.

Danny shifted slightly, purposefully producing the fabric sounds of a body against upholstery, to make sure Jason knew he was awake. No reaction. Danny gave him one more moment, then asked, “You okay?”

Jason didn’t look at him when he answered, “You told me I’m basically possessing my own corpse, and I’m supposed to not be upset about that?”

Really, Danny should’ve predicted something like that. How long had he spent, trying to pretend that death hadn’t really touched him? It wasn’t an easy thing to accept.

“What’s the difference between a body and a corpse?” Danny asked.

Jason’s eyes snapped to Danny, their glow intensifying. “I am not dealing with riddle bullshit right now, I swear to-”

“No, I’m being serious,” Danny interrupted, pulling his feet from Jason’s lap and sitting himself up. “There’s one difference between a corpse and a living body, and that’s that someone is living in it. Jason—” he reached out, gripping one of Jason’s hands in his “—you’re alive. That’s what matters. The rest is details.”

Jason’s shoulders bent inwards, his other hand raising to rub at his chest. “You don’t get it,” he said, quiet. “People don’t just come back from what they did to me. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“However you died, it’s not-”

Jason huffed an ugly sound, a short and bitter laugh that Danny hurt to hear. “Is it crazy that that isn’t even what I was talking about? I meant after.” The motion on his chest was repetitive, like he was tracing something underneath his shirt, and Danny got the sinking feeling that he knew just what sort of scar it might be. “I was gone, okay? I was gone, and this body was still here. And they took it, and they cut it open and rummaged around inside to figure out what happened. Which is—” he cut off, sniffed, and Danny gripped his hand tighter “—which is stupid, right? It’s not like it wasn’t obvious.” His fingers twitched, and he continued, haltingly, “I mean, I’ve read the report. Pulled it off his stupid files. The smoke inhalation did me in. After everything that happened, it was the smoke.”

Jasons’ hand pulled out of Danny’s, and they both rose to cover his face, cutting off the glow while he curled in on himself even tighter. His voice was slightly muffled when he said, “And then they had to ship me home, right? So they bled me dry and pumped me full of formaldehyde, and they prettied me up so they could pretend I wasn’t just some empty thing, and Bruce held the tiniest most depressing little funeral known to man and put my ass in the ground, and I had to wake up down there.” His words and his breaths were coming too quick, and Danny didn’t know how to help. He didn’t want Jason to stop, not when it seemed like he needed to say all of this, but he could see just how badly the revenant was hurting.

“But you did wake up,” he whispered.

“Woke up in my own mutilated corpse!” Jason snarled. “Everything I’ve forgotten, and that memory is still crystal fucking clear! It stank in there, like death and vinegar and mud, and it was so small, and I couldn’t even try to scream for help because they sewed my fucking mouth shut—!” He broke off into a sob, and Danny couldn’t stand it anymore, had to lean into Jason’s side and wrap an arm around him as he shook with all the emotion he couldn’t reign in.

“Okay,” Danny said. Not you’re okay, just okay. “Okay, so that’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard, and I regularly hang out with a guy who wants to skin me.”

Jason sniffed. “What?”

“Nevermind. It’s just-”

“No, I think we should go back to the skinning thing-”

“I just don’t want you to let it define you,” Danny interrupted. “I did that. I got into my head about it, the whole ‘being dead’ thing, feeling like I was…” Danny gave himself a second, swallowed, “like some sort of freak. A thing that didn’t belong anywhere. But I’m still alive, and you’re alive, and even if we weren’t, it wouldn’t matter, because we’re still here, and as long as you’re here you can find something that’s worth staying for.” Danny rubbed what he hoped was a soothing pattern into Jason’s admittedly impressive bicep.

Jason let out a sigh. “I must really be pathetic if you’ve gotta pep talk me like that, huh?” he said, and Danny pretended not to see him wiping at his eyes. “Sorry,” he added, “about all this. I’ve got some shit I haven’t dealt with, and this ‘revenant’ stuff brought it up pretty bad.”

“I get it,” Danny said, and hoped Jason could tell how much he meant it.

Jason sighed again, heavy, like he was trying to release something else with his breath, and said, “It still doesn’t make any sense. Logically, I can’t be alive. Where did my blood come from?”

Danny shrugged. “Do you have blood?”

“I definitely have blood. I’ve seen a lot of it.”

That gave Danny pause. “Just like, around?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Jason said, deadpan. “I’ve got a surplus, so I like to leave some here and there, make sure everyone gets a chance to appreciate it.”

“I have no idea how much you’re joking and it frightens me,” Danny told him.

“Weak,” Jason replied.

“Anyways, you gotta not think about it too much. The interdimensional goop is already logic-defying, and you’re mixing magic with it with your special soul willpower or something. Your brain will explode if you try to make it make sense.”

Jason huffed a little laugh, bouncing Danny on his shoulder, and this time it made him feel lighter. “Can I just say that I hate that I’m full of interdimensional goop?”

“Valid,” Danny said.

Even without looking at Jason, Danny could tell that he just rolled his eyes by the way the soft green light moved.

Danny had his ear pressed to Jason’s shoulder, feeling his warmth, and if he focused, he could just make out the revenant’s pulse. Personally, Danny thought it was pretty cool to be full of magic and goop and blood. Much cooler than Danny, who was way more science goop than magic goop. They’d have to compare notes on that sometime.

Maybe Jason would come around to it.

[riality-check]

Viktor does not have many friends at the Academy, but he is rarely alone. Such is the nature of university life. The academic environment is inherently social; he attends class with other students, eats alongside them, and must frequently bang on his wall so as to alert his neighbors that he can, in fact, hear… whatever activities they decide to do on weeknights. Being alone at the Academy is a difficult feat, and it is one that does not go out of his way to accomplish.

He has learned that surprises some of his classmates. They often remark, when they are paired with him for group projects, about their perceptions of him.

“I thought you’d be meaner.”

“I thought you’d be quieter.”

“I always assumed you were just shy.”

Every time, Viktor must refrain from rolling his eyes. Topside politeness is a strange thing, he has learned. It is very performative, with its big smiles and friendly, useless greetings. He finds it difficult to imitate - why, for example, ask someone “how are you?” if neither they nor him truly care for the answer? - and so he sticks to Undercity standards.

Nod politely as a greeting. Give people space unless they require conversation. Offer a chair or a coat or a snack if someone is in need, with the understanding that the debt will be repaid.

Back home, his parents were often praised for raising such a polite boy. Here, at least once a semester, someone comments on his standoffishness.

It does not matter. He is not here to slack off. He is here to learn. He does not need anything more than the pleasant, occasional company of his classmates, who, he is discovering, will offer their smiles but never their coats.

Every once in a while, he does get more. Someone will stay in his room for a night - they always think they are the ones in charge at the beginning, a fact that Viktor finds equally amusing and irritating - and coo sweet words about his appearance and his intellect.

He is lucky if they look at him the next morning. He learns the hard way that they are perfectly content with a trencher in their bed but never on their arm.

When this finally sinks in - it does not take long; he has always been a quick study - Viktor swallows back whatever odd thing it is that rises in his throat and determines that this attitude suits him perfectly well.

______________________________________________________________

The brace is simple in its concept but difficult to perfect. Considering the amount of time spent constructing his current cane a few semesters ago, Viktor is not surprised. Engineering for biological systems is far more complex than, say, pure mechanical engineering. Pain and discomfort, for example, are complicating factors for his leg bug not for air filtration systems.

Viktor would much rather design air filtration systems than leg braces or canes. They are far more interesting and useful on a larger scale. But the truth of the matter is that he cannot trust anyone else to construct these devices for him. Only he knows how they feel for his body, and the effort he would have to undergo to translate the abstract (but very real) sensations of wrongness, in all their varied forms, into words that another person can understand is not worth it. Not when he can just grab a wrench.

What is that saying? “If you want something done right, do it yourself.”

Story of Viktor’s life.

He sits on his bed, right leg crossed at an uncomfortable height over his left, and tightens a screw. The previous designs are all documented in his notebook, which he flips through using his unoccupied hand. With every problem he eliminates, a new one arises. It is the worst haggling he has ever partaken in.

The brace must be worn underneath his trousers; he will not wrinkle his uniform if he can avoid it. Until recently, this meant that the cold, harsh metal of the brace would chill and bite at his skin. He only had so much salve (fresh unopened tin, left in the communal bathroom for a week with no takers) left, and he intended to save it for injuries that mattered.

He tried once, a few days ago, with a long sock on underneath the brace, but it rolled down so often and so severely that in a fit of exasperation, he nearly cut it off with scissors. Then he remembered that his sewing kit did not have enough black thread to repair that level of damage.

He only had three pairs of socks left, as they had a proclivity for vanishing inexplicably each time he washed his clothes. So, he could not cut it.

This design should, hopefully, “do the trick.” He attached cushioning (A petite girl he had taken a calculus class with, when she woke up the next morning in his room, asked, with a glance at the sewing kit left on his desk, if he could hem a dress for her. She repaid him by purchasing his next meal - real food, finally, not from the university - and letting him keep the scrap. He never saw her again.) to the parts of the brace most uncomfortable to wear.

All the old problems - tension, pressure, weight, bulk - have been resolved. There will only be new ones.

Viktor tightens the last screw. Time to see what those will be.

The brace is multifunctional. Primarily, its design is intended to correct the abnormal inward rotation of his right leg. Secondarily, it supports his knee and ankle to both allow his muscles to stop carrying that burden and prevent the joints from overextending and subluxating, as they often tend to do.

It will be uncomfortable, compelling his leg away from its natural state. But Viktor can live with discomfort if it is in exchange for improvement.

He has been haggling in this manner for his entire life.

With assistance from his cane, he stands. Then, he divides his weight evenly between his two own feet, holding his cane aloft.

There is the discomfort, as he had expected, but there is no pain.

He paces up and down the length of his dorm without his cane. His joints are relegated to a normal range of motion, which is restrictive but more stable. They do not feel as loose. A dull stretch, induced by the rigidity of the brace fighting against his body, along the side of his leg runs from thigh to calf, but that is all.

No other pain. No true pain, other than the dull ache of adjustment.

He nearly falls over with the realization before he catches himself on the wall. He has had days free of pain before, but they occurred far more often when he was a child. Now, they are so few and far between that he had nearly forgotten what it was like to have the distraction of it removed almost entirely. 

He can think more clearly without it whispering talking shouting in his ear. He can breathe more easily.

Walking is awkward, what with the new rotation and the added weight, but he conjectures that he will get acclimated to it. He wants to get acclimated to it.

Outside of his window, he has a nearly unobscured view of the Academy clocktower. It takes him one glance to realize he is very nearly late for his systems course.

In his haste, Viktor nearly forgets to bring his cane with him to class. With how his brace reduces the pain, it is merely a failsafe in the event his balance is compromised by the awkwardness of his gait.

He barely uses it. Once he gets used to the new positioning of his leg, walking is a little easier. Slower, but easier. And the whole time, his cane barely makes contact with the ground.

The whispers are loud as always.

“Did he get better?”

“Has he been faking?”

“I knew someone our age couldn’t actually need it.”

He holds his head up and ignores them. When he catches a look, he returns the stares and wins.

He knows he will never be able to run. He could not when he was a child, and the unfortunate fact that the many non-functioning components of his body will only degrade - a fact he greatly prefers not to dwell on - has prohibited the notion for the rest of his life.

For the first time, he wants to run. So badly, in fact, that it is heart that aches instead of his leg.

He walks into class without the assistance of his cane, with the brace hidden underneath his pant leg, and believes, entirely, that this could work. That maybe he can walk like this, with no outward signal that he is different. Non-functional. Built incorrectly in the compounding of each and every failure inflicted upon the Undercity.

Maybe this is something he can overcome with his intellect. He already crawled up. What is stopping him from walking upright?

What is stopping his brilliant mind from allowing him to run?

He spends all day testing this notion, barely using his cane.

Viktor should have known the haggling would not work entirely in his favor. It never has.

When his body comes to collect, he pays in full. With interest.

The other installments, if you're interested: 1, 2, 3. 5 6.

[ultravioletbrit]

“new” - Jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 234 words

 

Regulus is making tea in the kitchen in the flat he shares with Sirius when James walks in and casually leans against the counter.  

“You want some?” Regulus asks him.

“Sure… So, I was thinking---” James starts.

“That’s new for you.” Regulus smiles at him.

“Ha ha. I was thinking maybe you and I could hang out this weekend.” James says.

“We hang out all the time.” Regulus states simply as he moves to the cabinets to get some mugs down.

“Right… yeah… but I was thinking maybe we could hang out alone… together… you and me… together, alone… hanging out… together.” James rambles.

Regulus pauses as he’s trying to reach the mugs on the top shelf, he swears Sirius puts them just out of Regulus’ reach on purpose. He slowly turns around to see James against the counter, not so casually anymore with his eyes squeezed shut.

“Are you asking me out, Potter?” Regulus says with a smirk.

“I’m trying really hard.” James replies with his eyes still closed.

Regulus walks over to him and gives him a small chaste kiss on the cheek.

“I’d love to hang out alone, together with you.” Regulus says nonchalantly, quickly turning back to the tea so James doesn’t see his blush or his smile. He can tell James is smiling also without even looking at him.

“Stop smiling like an idiot and get the damn mugs down.”

[wyyvoren]

Bingyuan or scumcum with Eldritch shen yuan? I think shen yuan deserves to be the monster half of the monsterfucker equation... As a treat

i will also be doing a scumcum one… but it’ll be based on a little twitter thread i did a while ago so it’s gonna be too horny for tumblr lmao

[virescent-v]

Subconsciously Green-Eyed

Summary: Jealousy? Emily's never heard of it.

A/N: So...I tried to challenge myself to do a 500 word drabble. I didn't make it. LMAO. But lucky for ya'll you get two fics from me within 24 hours! There's no warnings to this one; there's no smut.

Word Count: 983

Emily cast her glance back and forth across the table. It wasn’t unlike her team to joke and lighten the mood during debriefs, but something about this instance was getting under her skin. 

She eyeballed the table, looking intently at each person present trying to figure out what was bothering her. It was the usual group of people; Tara, Penelope, JJ, Luke, and Dave. But there was also a new addition to the table. 

A young, attractive agent from New York. A bright mind in the Cyber Division office, if she were to go by what your section chief said. You were down in DC helping out on the case they were currently working on. Everyone on the team was besotted with you already after only having known you for two days. 

You were a bright light in the otherwise bleak office. You were average in height, but loud in personality. Your optimism rivaled that of Penelope, as did your technological savviness, and your humor meshed well with both Tara and Luke. You were confident and extroverted without being cocky and knowledgeable without being a know-it-all. 

Everyone was captivated by you, trying to work closely with you over the past couple of days. You had knowledge that seeped into various topics that made you an asset at the round table. More importantly, you were creative with directions to take the case that opened up a few different leads that impressed everyone, including Emily. 

As Emily continued surveying the table, you were in the middle of a funny story from your first New York case and everyone around it had their eyes on you. You were leaning lightly into Penelope’s personal space, your hand on her arm, sharing a quick giggle at something techy. You made sure to make eye contact with everyone around the table, keeping everyone’s attention on you. It felt natural, the way you worked the small crowd, and Emily could tell that each member was enamored with you. 

She noticed that Tara and Luke’s eyes were more heavily focused on you than the others, something dark and gleaming. Watching them watch you, their eyes trailing sneakily but lazily over your body, Emily could feel something swelling inside of her. Something unnamed, something she hadn’t felt before. 

As she was internally cataloging whatever feelings were swirling inside her, she didn’t notice the room clear out leaving only herself and you. 

You noticed Emily’s distraction during the past few minutes, especially as the team made their way out and she stayed behind. Her gaze was directed at the table top, but it looked befuddled, distant. 

“Agent Prentiss?” When you didn’t receive any response, you timidly walked around the table and gently put your hand on her arm. You spoke quietly, not wanting to scare her out of her reverie. “Emily?” 

Regardless of your trying to be soft spoken, Emily still startled, jumping a little. “Wha- oh. Sorry, I was in another world.” 

You laughed lightly, breaking the tension a bit. “I could tell. Is everything okay?” 

Emily cleared her throat, still unsure of how to name the emotions rippling inside her. “Oh, ye-yeah. It’s nothing. Just a lot on my mind.” She looked around, finally registering that the team had left. “Are you enjoying DC?” 

You tilted your head a little at her, your eyes softening. “I am. It’s a nice change of pace from New York,” you stepped a little closer to the section chief. “I really like the team. Everyone’s, uh, great.” 

Emily had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Go figure you enjoyed the attention of her agents. She figured you probably noticed the glances that some of them were throwing your way, your personality clinging to the admiration. “I can tell,” she said with just a hint of something venomous. 

Your head tilted a little further as you scrutinized her. You were not as proficient in profiling, but you weren’t blind. You leaned back on the table and crossed your arms over your chest, regarding Emily with a hint of amusement. “Agent Prentiss, are you jealous of my newly budding relationships with your team?” 

“Jeal-? Jealous? No, no. Why, why would I be jealous?” 

Emily felt her face flush, confused by the emotions rushing through her. Was it jealousy? But why would she be jealous of her team showing you attention? 

“It doesn’t take a profiler to spot jealousy.” You walked closer to her, close enough that you could feel her body heat. “You’re stuttering over your words when you’re normally very well spoken. Your hands are clenched at your sides right now.” You trailed your hands over Emily’s hands, loosening them. You trailed your hands up her arms, keeping your eyes on Emily and her reactions. 

As your hands brushed her shoulders, Emily’s breath caught. “I can feel your muscles, you’re pretty tense right now.” Your hands continued north, brushing the underside of her jaw. “You’ve been clenching your teeth and frowning with narrowed eyes since you noticed Luke and Tara checking me out.” You trailed your thumb over her lower lip, which she had pulled between her teeth at your movements. “So, yeah, I’m not a profiler, Agent Prentiss, but all signs point to jealousy,” you said, arching your eyebrow. 

Emily slowly released a breath, gently closing her eyes in a way to relax herself. “Maybe I am jealous,” she whispered. 

You watched as Emily steeled herself, confidence lighting up her eyes. You grinned fondly as you gently shook your head, opening your body language as Emily prepared herself. 

“I think,” she started, her hands landing on your hips. “To avoid all further jealousy, I should beat Tara and Luke to the punch.” She took a deep breath. “Want to get dinner with me tonight?” 

You couldn’t suppress the teasing smile that broke out across your face. “Why, Agent Prentiss, I thought you’d never ask.” 

[faggot-friday]

Nimona looked between the two of them. "Did you... choose your names?"

Ballister frowned. "I believe so? They didn't actually let me, so the Queen had to choose mine for me."

"The rest of us chose, however," Ambrosius clarified.

"Uh huh. Well then, Goldilocks, care to explain why your name is Goldenloin?"

Ballister looked between Ambrosius and Nimona. "I don't see —"

"It's just that," Nimona continued, "you know, I've been around for a while. And after the first hundred years of solitude and banishment and whatever, you get a little bored. So, blah blah blah, I basically know every language ever. And Goldenloin is a wonderful synonym for, well, a lot of things."

"Things like what?" Ambrosius asked, a slight crease in his forehead.

"You know. Goodinbed. Sexhaver."

Ballister snorted.

Nimona grinned. "Fucksalot, even."

"Ambrosius Longschlong."

Ambrosius's cheeks went pink. "Alright, calm down."

"How old are you when you first start training?" Nimona exclaimed. "Like, three?"

"Ten," Ballister corrected.

"Who even knows what sex is at three?"

"Ten."

"We don't choose our names at three," Ambrosius said (Balliser muttered "ten" from beside him), "there's a whole week of classes on it about a month and a half before the actual knighting ceremony."

"A whole week just on choosing a name?" Nimona flicked a pink spark towards the ceiling. "That seems excessive. I grabbed mine in, what, thirty seconds? Just smushed a bunch of letters together and called it a day."

"We have to go through a lot of testing to see if the name's right for us," Ambrosius explained, "and the Director can reject it if they don't think it fits. Or they just don't like it."

"I remember she rejected at least three of Todd's suggestions," Balliser said. "How Longschlong got past her, I have no idea."

"I was a different person back then," Ambrosius protested, "not as mature as I am now."

"Wow, I didn't realise maturity levels could reach below zero," Nimona deadpanned.

"Hey now," Ballister said, "you have to give him some credit. Anyone else with a negative maturity level would have given up by now, but Ambrosius keeps powering on in denial!"

Ambrosius covered his face with his hands. "Both of you shut up."