#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.

[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.”

[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

[talktonytome]

all the little pieces of you

for day 1 of bucktommy positivity week

They had just finished a workout at the gym and Buck’s waiting on the bench, while Tommy's refilling their water bottles, which… is taking longer than normal. He cranes his neck toward the water fountain and finds a tall, attractive woman talking to Tommy, reaching a hand out to touch his arm. He watches as Tommy frowns and backs away politely, then says something and points at Buck. The woman's face falls and Buck chuckles- he almost feels bad for her. Hello, have you seen his boyfriend?

"What was that about?" Bucks asks when Tommy makes it back to him. He stands up from the bench to collects their belongings.

"Oh you know," Tommy shrugs, handing a bottle to Buck.

"She was flirting with you, wasn't she?"

"Well- yeah, but I told her I was here with my boyfriend."

"I can't say I blame her for trying," Buck grins. "My boyfriend's a hottie."

Tommy laughs, shaking his head and wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him toward the exit. They're both sweaty and hot, but neither seem to care. Buck might feel a little smug when they walk by the woman on their way out of the gym.

That's the thing about Tommy. Every time they go out, it never fails that someone will flirt with him, ogle him, ask him for help with something, offer things "on the house"- really nothing short of someone handing him their baby like he's the pope or something. You'd think Buck would feel jealous and okay, maybe he does but--

He also feels an overwhelming sense of pride and affection at the fact that other people, strangers, can see how great Tommy is. They might not know him the way Buck does, but they know there's just something about him that has them vying for any sort of attention.

So, he's content with letting the harmless old ladies enlist Tommy for help crossing the street (holding on rather tightly to his arm, might he add), he laughs when baristas stumble over their words when Tommy orders their coffees, and his heart swells when the 118 argues over who gets to hang out with Tommy next.

When it's just them, he loves the way Tommy looks at him all soft and starry-eyed over the rim of his coffee cup in the morning, while Buck cooks breakfast. He loves that little shiver he elicits when he presses up behind Tommy and kisses the nape of his neck when he's washing dishes or bent over the hood, working on his car.

He loves that he can just drop everything when he walks through the door after having a shit day, and Tommy's there waiting with open arms. He loves their movie nights, and hosting get-togethers for their friends, lazy mornings in bed and he even loves the mundane little things, like doing laundry together, or the way putting away their groceries takes more time than it should because Buck decides it's insanely hot how Tommy labels their produce drawers, and he just has to do something about it.

He loves their sick days, their gloomy days, the bright noisy days, and all the ones in between. But most of all?

He loves the way Tommy feels like home.

@bucktommypositivityweek

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XXVI)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts 💚 (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... Danny has another hashtag breakdown! Diana helps mediate. Stinky Dad and the Alien Guy observe.

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

“His control over his emotions slipped during the interview,” J’onn sighs, hovering alongside Bruce as they carry down the hall.

Bruce grunts. He isn’t quite capable of complicated speech yet. The teenage alien crying, too scared to let even the internationally-favorite, universally beloved Wonder Woman hold him without screaming…a person he already knew would take care of him…

J’onn continues, nevertheless. The thin privacy of his mind aside, Bruce has always appreciated the Martian’s understanding of Bruce’s oft-shifting moods. “His memories of his home and his family were tied up with extensive pain. I would continue under the assumption that his human family turned on him after discovering his nature—there may have even been collateral damage to others around them at the time.”

Bruce breathes in. Bruce breathes out.

“He thought himself akin enough to humans to be betrayed when he was seen as an 'other'. He knows that he is far from home, he knows that he has been targeted for his non-human traits and abilities, and he has reasons to think that he may not return again—what they are, I could not tell, but the sentiment was clear. This escape was purposeful, as was commandeering the vehicle he used to do so. He is alone. He is scared.”

“Known or unknown threat?” Bruce growls, not quite up to elongating his bite into a full sentence. J’onn is more than skilled enough to skim lightly over the words, and match them to Batman’s pointed fury.

“Our patient is familiar with the threat. I could not recognize the insignia or acronym from his memories, but they had enough resources to keep him captive and alive—without food or water. Likely, for a lengthy amount of time.”

Bruce’s near-running stride slows to a stop. J’onn, ever-patient, floats to a standstill beside him.

“No food,” Bruce confirms, just to make sure he heard correctly.

J’onn nods.

“No water.”

“There was an alternative method used to keep him alive, although the details weren’t significant to him in his flashback. The method may have been possible due to his minor healing ability, or something unique to his species.”

No food, Bruce thinks. No water. Kept alive as a function. Worried that he’s meant to be used as a weapon, kept in isolation, afraid of what humans in uniform might require of him for help.

This isn’t just torture. It is, specifically targeting a half-human entity, entirely purposeful dehumanization.

Of a child.

Of a child.

Bruce inhales. Bruce exhales.

This is not something that will be solved short-term. He has to keep an eye on the long-term goals for this teen—safety, recovery, reassurance, and reintegration.

Doable. All he has to do is break larger goals down into reasonable steps.

“Update the pediatric psychiatrist that Dr. Martin referred him to on the details.” Bruce’s demand comes out as flat as it gets. It is hard, when he’s stressed, to make his words hit with any intonation. Everything he forces out is precise. To the point.

J’onn nods. “I will.”

“This is personal medical information, to be accessed only on a need to know basis.”  

J’onn floats slightly higher, something relaxed in his face. This is a significant gesture, meant to remind everyone involved that this is a child, not a resource, and not a mission to be solved. This is a patient. “Understood.”

“If you pass this on to Diana, do it in person. Minimizing documentation…” Bruce falters. There isn’t a strong, authoritarian way to phrase how he feels about being someone to store clinically cold information about a boy who had likely been imprisoned, if not actively experimented on, if not actively tortured. How he needed to minimize behaviors that would exactly model what was done to the boy by his captors.

A smile flickers over J’onn’s expression. It’s suitably fleeting, but it comes and it goes—and it’s extremely polite of him to emote so visibly for Bruce’s sake. He makes sure to project his appreciation as best he knows how—blindly, without a telepathic sense to know what J’onn will and will not see.

“Understood, Batman.”

Bruce grunts.

They split at the end of the hallway, each dedicated to their own tasks.

J’onn will inform the medical team of what triggers may affect their patient’s long-term recovery and the quality of their stay. He is a thorough and patient coworker, and Bruce is grateful to have him on his side.

Bruce, in the meantime, has a favor to ask of Alfred and Dick on their way back into Gotham; more importantly, this is a favor he has to ask of Alfred’s employment-provided Costco card.

*

There’s something new in Danny’s room.

He transfers himself into the wheelchair to look at it, scrambling down the bed the way the physical therapist taught him to—the new thing isn't at bed height, but it is pretty low, and it has a door that he could probably reach from seated height or standing.

The square thing’s door swings open.

Inside are…little water bottles. Canned juices. Those mushy fruit-filled bars, and something so obviously wrapped in a yellow Fig Einstein wrapper that even the gibberish non-English is super clear.

There’s a bunch of things. Just. So many; and all in a few different types, too. The whole thing is filled with so many choices.

…Huh.

There are disposable straws in the door. Danny has to borrow a nurse’s ID card to open the can tab in the end, and his unwrapping of a straw is more than a little shaky, but Danny takes his medication with a mango-pineapple juice blend instead of his usual cup of water, and he’s perfectly fine with that.

[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.

[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

[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.”

[cuubism]

Idk if you are still taking prompts, but: After their first meeting, while Hob still thinks it is a joke, he escorts Dream out. It is only when Dream returns to the Dreaming that he realizes his ruby has been stolen by Hob. Thus begins a game of cat and mouse through the ages, and Hob keeps slipping through his Endless fingers.

oh dear, this was from last year. fun though! could be the basis for a much longer fic. i love thief hob

-

Hob knows better than to gloat openly about his winnings, but he can't help tossing the ruby a few times in his hand as he walks, admiring it. Such a stunning gem, he's never seen its like but in paintings of kings, and even those are rare enough. Invaluable. And the strange lord had just had it about his neck, for all to see.

Hob shakes his head, tucking the ruby away in his tunic. Money can't buy common sense, it seems.

He finds his horse in the stable and leads it outside, stepping into the stirrup and swinging up into the saddle. After a find like this, best to disappear. Easy as the ruby had been to snatch, that strange young lord will doubtless come back looking for it, once he notices it's gone.

Night is falling by the time Hob reaches the treeline. He hasn't been followed--the path behind him has been empty for hours, and the trees show nothing but birdsong as he steers his horse into the darkness. Hob knows this route well, and by the time the moon is high above, he's navigated to a familiar clearing, untacked his horse, and sat back against a tree for some rest.

He can't help but look at the strange ruby one more time before going to sleep. It glows unnaturally in the moonlight, a blue-white reflection on a background of venous red. He tilts it back and forth in his palm, studying the cut. Who, exactly, is going to buy this from him, he can't yet say. But it'll pay his way for years once he finds them.

Hob kisses the ruby's cool surface, then tucks it away in his tunic again, chain wrapped around his fingers for safekeeping. He quickly falls asleep.

-

The moon is still high when Hob wakes, startling back to awareness against the trunk of the tree. He scrubs a hand over his eyes, looking around, disoriented. Strange, it's like it's been only moments since he fell asleep--

His horse is gone. So's his pack. And for that matter, the clearing is smaller, closer, darker than he remembers--

Heart pounding, he scrambles in his tunic to find--

"I imagine you are looking for this," says a low voice, and from the darkness emerges the wine-red glint of the ruby. Following it is the dark shape of the lord Hob had robbed in the tavern, only he's-- he's--

He's horrible. His eyes glow white in the dark, his hair waves in a strange wind, and everything about him is sharp and wrong, like an uneasy nightmare Hob might have in the wee hours, consequences coming back for him.

"Look," he says, holding up his hands in self-defense. Shit, his sword's gone from his belt, too. "S'really your fault for swanning about with that thing, innit? 's bandit country, m'lord."

"Is it?" He... doesn't seem angry. He's smiling. Oh, it's a terrible smile, but nevertheless. "How foolish of me, then. To expect to maintain ownership of my belongings."

"Like I said, thieves about," Hob says. "Got to be careful, now." Really, what did he expect Hob to do? Let someone else get the score?

The strange lord sits down on the grass across from Hob, still with those glowing eyes and that terrible smile playing about his lips. "And what, Robert Gadling, ought I to do, having caught one of these thieves?"

And the thing is. Authority doesn't work very well on Hob. One of his 'flaws' most like to get him killed, 'cuz Authority didn't tend to care whether it worked on you or not. Hob's been hauled before the magistrate for theft before and no matter that he knew he'd be lucky to get away with his life he could never quite bite his tongue. Always a smart mouth, his mum used to say.

It's no different with this lord. Hob's hardly about to bow his head and apologize. He remembers the smirk on the other man's face at his challenge in the tavern. Pretty little thing to be talking big words about punishing thieves.

"Dunno," he says, tracking his gaze over the soft lines of the man's dark robe, his fine neck and narrow shoulders. The longer Hob looks, the less frightening he seems, though there is still something of the otherworld about him. God's teeth, if Hob's brought the ire of the fey about him... "What would you like to do?"

And the strange creature laughs. Just a chuckle, but nevertheless. "I could make you spend your next one hundred years paying a thief's price over and over again in the Dreaming, as penance for taking my ruby," he says. "Should I do that, Hob? Cut off your hands, and again and again as you regrow them?"

"If you did you wouldn't get to see what they can do for you," Hob says. Hell, Hob'll do it even without threat of punishment. He's a pretty little lord, for certain, even if he is fey.

The lord chuckles again, and closes his fist around the ruby, stealing its light. Without the reflection, his eyes seem even wilder. "Hm. Perhaps not this time. I am too curious to waste your next century in sleeping punishment." He takes Hob's face in one hand, holding his chin in sharp fingers. "Be wary what your hands touch in the Waking World, Hob Gadling. Not all creatures will find your insolence humorous enough to wish to be merciful."

He lets go, and Hob falls backward through the tree at his back, falls into darkness--

And wakes in sunlight, his pack beside him, his sword at his side, his horse grazing a few feet away.

Heart pounding, he shoves his hand into his tunic, though he already knows what he'll find.

Or what he won't find. The ruby, gone into the darkness, into dreams, with his strange, fey lord.

Hob shivers.

Well. He'll certainly have to meet him again in 1489, now. Not to retake the ruby--that hardly matters in the end.

But answers to all the mysteries it's brought: those Hob would gladly steal.

[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."

[addie-your-queen]

Instead of a confession Edwin came out to Charles on the staircase

~O~0~o~0~O~

“I’ve never actually really thought about it until you asked me,” Edwin said into the quiet air, pulling Charles back from his own thoughts.

“Huh?” Charles asked.

“What it’s like.” Edwin said. “Being in love.”

“Oh.”

“It’s like- no words can describe it, right? But at the same time, I feel like I could use every word in every language, and it would still never be enough.”

Charles didn’t say anything. What was he supposed to say to that?

“Honestly I feel like I could probably talk forever about it.” He seemed to realize what he was saying and looked over at Charles. “It’s not like I could ever talk to our friends about it though. I mean- not that I don’t trust them. It’s just not really the kind of thing you tell them.” Charles got it. If Edwin ever brought anything like that up to Crystal and Nico, he would never ever hear the end of it.

“You can talk to me,” he offered, his voice more of a whisper than he meant it to be.

Edwin looked at him a minute, his expression unreadable. “Thanks,” he said finally.

“Yeah,” Charles said softly and his heart rate sped up, just a little. Silence fell between them again. …

“You really want to hear about it?” Edwin asked later that night.

“If you want to talk about it.”

“I don’t want to feel like I’m just making you listen to me talk.”

Charles shrugged. “I like listening to you talk.” That seemed to be enough to assure him.

Edwin thought for a moment. “It is,” he said, “the most amazing and terrifying feeling I have ever known, at the same time.” He closed his eyes as if trying to picture it. “It feels almost- almost unreal,” he said once he opened them again. “Like maybe I’m just imagining everything and I’m going to wake up at any minute. And yet it’s like the most sure thing I have ever known. It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff, and someone is supposed to be at the bottom to break the landing, but I’ve already jumped off before checking if they’re there. Every time I see him, it’s like the breath has been stolen from my lungs, and my whole world has been turned upside down. And yet- he makes everything fall into place. And it’s breathtaking. Like when we’re together, everything is how it’s meant to be. Like right there, in that moment, everything is right. Like nothing else matters when I’m with him. And then I look at him and… Looking at him is like looking at forever.”

“Oh,” Charles said, because what else could he say?

“It’s everything,” Edwin said softly, looking over at Charles. “He’s everything.”

Charles caught his gaze and his smile was breathtaking. And oh. Because that’s how Edwin had described it. Breathtaking. But Edwin was talking about the boy who held his future. And this was just Edwin. His best friend. So maybe it didn’t have to be the love of his life to find someone breathtaking. Maybe best friends can be breathtaking too, he decided.

Charles flopped back onto the couch, letting his head fall against the arm. “Tell me about him?” he asked.

“Okay,” Edwin agreed, then paused. “I’m not very good at describing people,” he said.

“Tell me anyway.”

Edwin was quiet a moment, like he was trying to gather up the courage to speak. “He has the prettiest brown eyes that light up when he talks about something he loves, and the most charismatic smile you’ve ever seen. He’s kind and he’s smart, even if he doesn’t think he is. He’s brave and compassionate and spontaneous…” his voice trailed off. “And he’s perfect,” he said. “I wish he could see that.”

“You could tell him,” Charles suggested, but when Edwin smiled, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“He wouldn’t listen,” he said quietly.