#noone will see it

[pangur-and-grim]

what’s happened now?? oh pangur….

[riot-ghost]

Commissioner Gordon was ostracized within the Gotham Police department. He knew this was because of his ties to the Bat, his late hours, constant overtime. He knew that even the good officers, while he couldn't tell too much who was who, didn't mean to ostracize him. It happened on accident, he's sure. He picked up some clues from the world's greatest detective. Rumors went around, running rampant about him. He just couldn't care so much about them.

Everyone knew that Commissioner Gordon always took his late dinner at 9:37 at night. Everyone cleared from the break room. Gordon opened the door, taking a heavy breath. He was still expecting the empty room. It felt empty, in a way Gordon had picked up from The Bat. He pulled his burrito out of the fridge, opening the styrofoam container and eating a bite. "You're not going to heat it up?" Gordon barely manages to catch his burrito, his whole soul leaving his body.

"Jesus Christ, kid, you scared me." Gordon lets out a heavy breath, seeing the new detective sitting at a table in the corner. He's eating... Something indescribable. He looks tired, his long black hair bulled back into a high ponytail. His face seems disproportionate, large prominent features. A crooked nose, a wide, thin mouth, large eyes accompanied by large bags. His skin was pale, dusted with faded freckles and litchenburg scarring. The young man- still a boy, practically, shrugged at Gordon's words, eating another bite of the odd food. "No one warned you I'd be in here?" Gordon decided to sit with him.

"No, they warned me. But the past couple of days they've been... Avoiding me." Dr. Fenton, Gordon remembers his file passing over his desk. He could never be a cop- he was a detective-by-hire because of some medical condition. Gordon feels a pang at the emotionless words.

"Ah, they avoid me too." Gordon takes another bite of his cold burrito. "So, how have you been enjoying working here?"

"Well, it's been alright, I guess." Fenton took a drink from his thermos- which has a straw in it. It goes unsaid that this was the only job Fenton could really get. Close to the force, anyways. His medical condition refrained him from being a proper officer, so he wasn't officially a Gotham PD detective. He was an out-contract detective, receiving the same work, pay, and hours as the regular detectives.

"Getting around the town well enough?"

"Well enough, I suppose. Almost got robbed." Fenton held three doctorates- criminology, psychology, and natural sciences. All at the young age of 22.

"Almost?" Gordon snorts a bit at that. "Scared them off with your badge?"

"I don't have a badge. And I don't have a gun, if that's what you're thinking. I guess they just thought I was too pathetic to have much cash." Danny shrugged.

"Oh come on, you're not pathetic." Gordon is a bit taken aback that the boy doesn't carry any weapons. He makes a mental note to get him a badge.

"I looked pathetic enough not to rob."

Gordon feels like he missed something there, because Gotham robbers would rob a kindergartner if they were unattended. Regardless, he and Fenton sat in silence for a good couple of minutes. "What are you eating?" Fenton asks eventually.

"A burrito from the Mexican stand on Westwood."

"Why are you eating it cold?"

"Because if I reheat it, then the sauce becomes a solid liquid and everything gets soggy. What are you eating?"

"It was supposed to be stir fry?" Danny stared down at the leftovers container. "I'm not good at cooking. No videos ever make sense, so they don't turn out right."

"Your parents didn't teach you?" Gordon asks.

"No, they weren't the best chefs. They did pass on the family fudge recipe though. I can make some killer fudge." He laughs a little bit at that.

"I'll bring you lunch in from now on." Gordon says. "Until we can get your cooking sorted out, anyhow. Normally my daughter and I spend Tuesday nights fixing dinner together, so you'll get the best meals Wednesday."

"You don't have to do that." Danny seems a little caught off guard by the kindness.

"I can't have one of my youngest detectives going hungry!" Gordon smiles. "Besides, you're the first person in the precinct to eat dinner with me in nearly twenty years. You keep eating with me, it'll be no problem. I enjoy the company." Danny smiles at him and Gordon is reminded of someone, but he can't remember who.

Over the next couple of weeks, Gordon and Danny get well acquainted in their overlapping shifts. Danny works the nights and sometimes early mornings, similar to what Gordon does. Gordon finds himself feeling fatherly to the young man, who's working and picking up significant overtime to pay off his student loans. He learns that Danny moved here from Illinois- it was the only PD he could work at. He had no formal fighting training, but apparently his mom had taught him some moves. They had yet to overlap in the field, and it was easy for Gordon to forget that the boy was really a detective.

"Danny?" Jim paused, having finally made his way to the crime scene. Danny was crouched over a dead body, using his gloved hands to inspect the wound- the word Joker carved using some sort of knife.

"Gordon?" Despite all insistence, the boy still used his last name.

Jim has to stop himself from asking him why he's here. Danny's eyes shift to a spot behind him and James sighs. "What happened?" Batman's voice startled the last officer in the room, who quickly stuttered an excuse and left.

"The Joker broke in, tortured her, and left." Jim says. "We just have to figure out why."

"No, we don't." Danny looked back at the body, his eyes unfocused. "It was political. Do you see the swelling here on the neck? No lacerations, and no bruising. Allergy, I suppose, or a poison that reacts similarly. No clawing at the neck or face, but heavy rope burns on the wrists and ankles. The cuts were sloppy, and from the bleeding, it was done after she had died. Maybe five, ten minutes after? The window wasn't fully closed when it was broken into, do you see how the glass fractured there at the top?"

Jim blinked, and Danny continued. "It doesn't fit the motive of a mad-man like the Joker to do this. Who you're looking for is a woman, younger than the victim, maybe around twenty or thirty?" His eyes unfocused again. "Hmmm." He snaps back, looking around. He stands, his hands shaking a little. He looks around, eyes landing on the shelf. He scans it, using gentle hands to lift the potted plant. He pulls out a camera, unplugging it. "A Direct Link- model E47C." He sets the camera in an evidence bag.

Batman gives a grunt- and if Jim isn't mistaken it was one of approval? Danny held the camera out to Jim. "That was some fine detective work today, kid." Jim sets his hand on Danny's shoulder. Danny glances off to the side nervously. He locks eyes with Batman. "Danny, this is Batman. Batman, this is Dr. Daniel Fenton, the newest detective on the force."

Batman holds a hand out. "I look forward to working with you." Danny pulls off one of the disposable gloves, reaching out to shake his hand. "You're shaking a little, are you alright?"

"Medical condition." Danny answers. "You're taller than I expected."

"It's the ears." Jim represses a smile. "You go ahead and get your deductions filed. I brought pasta." Jim watches Danny leave. He turns to Batman, who's staring him down with that signature I-know-everything™ face. "What?"

"When are you going to let him know that you're mentoring him?" He says it like a sentence, and was that amusement in his tone?

"I'm not." Jim turns to the window.

"You brought him pasta."

"He never learned to cook."

"So you're teaching him." There was definitely amusement in his tone now.

Jim huffed. "We're getting old." He finally sighs. "We both have full grown kids. Crime and corruption are still thick in this city." Batman is standing next to him with a swoosh in his cape. "Retirement... I could see myself with it. Sipping cocktails on the beach. A beach with sunshine and no broken down carnivals."

Batman is silent for a moment, as if considering this. "So you see Fenton taking your place?"

"Like you see your Robin." Jim admits.

[sygneth]

I have had a lot of thoughts on the original story after listening to the Sherlock&Co "Gloria Scott" and a new headcanon just dropped.

Chapter 1: part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6

Masterpost (Index)

AO3

thoughts, if you're curious:

As far as gay Victor Trevor absolutely got me, I don't think there was anything serious between him and Holmes. This all comes down to my reading of Holmes, who is (to me) too aroace-spec to get involved in a regular relationship (althouuuughh about Holmes, his sexual and romantic orientation and him discovering it I have had so many thoughts I could write a whole essay). He likes to have a default person though, someone who will take him as he is, and maybe even admire a little - now that's Watson, earlier it was Trevor.

And yea I think Victor got a crush straight away after their first meeting, maybe they even talked about this at some point. Maybe Holmes said that he won't be able to reciprocate this affection but if Victor is fine with keeping things as they are, then he is too. I like to think they stayed pen friends even after Trevor's leave.

I feel like I should emphasize this? My intention in the comic was to make Trevor visibly flustered because he didn't expect a young attractive boy (he's hopeless in my head), while Holmes simply didn't expect to see someone his age and so sincerely sorry.

[ants-personal]

listen if i could get any merch for dead boys i want edwins notebook i want pages with notes on cases and edwins little tidbits i want to see his full map of hell and even little doodles edwins draws in the corners or quotes from charles

[thesherrinfordfacility]

[magnetic-rose]

"varric just works better as a friend than a romance option" well then fuck you're free to stay his friend in your game.

so cuz you're not hungry at the restaurant i can't order either? the fuck.

[canisalbus]

About that one ask where Machete murders everyone. I'm in my fire phase at the moment and thought blue would look good in contrast to Machete's usual red :)

.

[muffinmoonn]

[chrisrin]

what are the pin designs, out of curiosity?

just one pin design (for now), this guy!! it's available in two different metallic flavors though, for your choosing.

[m0on-boys]

I don't ship any of the x-men they just all fuck

[vicsy]

maxiel; mutual post-Hungary jack-off session. 1.5k.

we cope how we can and this is my humble offering.

Max is panting into his neck wetly, his arm sandwiched between their chests. Daniel’s got a mouthful of Max sweat-slick hair sticking to his lips, his tongue, half of his weight pressing Daniel into the stiff couch cushions. He stares at the low ceiling, the light fixture there, running his fingers up and down Max’s spine, his naked skin almost sparking a match beneath Daniel’s fingertips. He feels boneless but on edge; anger but an afterthought but present nonetheless.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck,” Max echoes.

Daniel shuts his eyes, a nervous giggle bubbling in his chest, making Max's head bounce a little. What a fucking mess.

He knocked on the door of Max’s motorhome half expecting to be told to fuck off. Max looked wild and Daniel recognized the glint in his eyes too well to let those expectations fly. He got gripped by the collar of his race suit and unceremoniously yanked inside, well against the odds continuously stacking not in his favor. Max locked the door before he paced to the small kitchen and then turned back, watching Daniel like he had been another ghost of their shared past.

“Daniel,” he raked his eyes up and down his form, pausing at his lips. Max’s race suit was partially off and his shoulders were squared, either for the fight or for surrender. The latter he chose rarely but desperate time, matching measures.

“No time,” Daniel said hurriedly, pouncing, but Max had been waiting for him, almost with open arms.

He didn’t give too much thought to navigating whatever he and Max have rekindled after years of drought. They’ve been glued together for the past two weeks, practically living in each other’s pockets, so falling back into the embrace of old habits felt like an inevitability that Daniel welcomed. No harm, no foul.

There was no finesse to their lips crashing, teeth clanking, Max’s hands fumbling with the zipper of Daniel’s race suit. He had beelined straight to Max’s motorhome without changing, riled up to the point where his vision had tunnelled and had shown him the way. Daniel slipped his palms under the hem of Max’s fireproofs, up his waist, tugging the tight material off and away. He missed the reek of champagne soaked fabric clinging to Max and it only made Daniel push forward harder, tongue slipping past Max’s familiar lips, one hand gripping the back of his neck.

No chances — they never made it to the adjacent bedroom because Max’s race went almost as shitty as Daniel’s and Max always gives as good as he gets.

Stumbling over the coffee table and a suitcase, Daniel parked himself on the uncomfortable couch and Max finally dealt with his race suit, all but ripping the top half of it down, burying his face into the crook of his armpit. Throwing one leg over Daniel’s thigh, Max inhaled audibly and moaned.

Daniel was woozy with desperation. His hand made it to its destination, fingers bumping against the outline of Max’s half-hard dick. His hips jerked, rubbing against Daniel’s clothed thigh, too much of an impediment but he couldn’t stand the idea of going through a costume change, not when Max kissed up his neck and cupped him through the thick material of the race suit.

Shimmying up, Daniel tried to make it easier for Max but it’s was too much work, too messy, so he opted to take the initiative and tug Max’s fully hard dick out, moving the elastic of his fireproofs behind his balls. It could not have been ideal, downright uncomfortable, but Daniel knew Max — his mouth dropped open, a whine tumbling off his lips at the slight discomfort, breath tickling Daniel’s chin. His dick twitched in Daniel’s palm. He grinned, arching an eyebrow at Max and got squeezed hard in return under his fiery gaze.

Max managed to get an easier access to his dick, half sitting in Daniel’s lap, one arm thrown around his neck for balance, fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of Daniel’s neck. He gave an experimental tug and Max reciprocated without missing a beat. Pleasure shot up Daniel’s spine and his hunger came alive with vengeance. He bit into Max’s lower lip, palming his waist with a free hand. It felt like a boxing match, Max pumping him fast and sloppy; Daniel holding on to the razor’s edge of unbridled desire, taking as much as he can. The void opening in his chest called for more. And more.

He had shit to do and it was an atrocity on its own, not having the freedom to take Max all the way, sink into his body like it could be another homecoming after years of aimless roaming.

Instead, Daniel drew back and looked down at Max’s cock drooling precome over the rose tattoo on his hand. He felt a bit sick with it, with the open road of possibilities ahead, so he twisted his wrist and Max rocked forward, sunk his teeth into his jaw harder, groaning. Daniel did it again and Max’s hold on his spasmed, his hips jutting back and forth, seeking release.

Daniel couldn’t breathe in the lack of space between their bodies, between the way Max matched his speed when Daniel jacked him faster and faster, the slide almost too dry to really feel good but nothing about the day they both had had screamed for something soft or tender.

With a hitch in his breath, Max came first. It was somewhat fitting for him to cross the finish line before Daniel but he was just behind, on Max’s tail, shooting once, twice, three times. His come painted Max’s bare chest, flushed with a lovely pink blush, and a couple of pearly-white droplets landed on his puffy nipples. Daniel got a sudden urge to lick it off but he couldn’t be arsed to move, let alone let go of Max. He peppered kisses over Max’s cheek, the side of his jaw, wherever he could reach. Daniel feeling stickiness cling to his skin where Max’s release soaked through his fireproofs and it was probably the highlight of the day.

It felt gratifying, in a way — he and Max were practically in the same boat. Fucked over by the team, bristling with anger they had no opportunity to let out to the fullest. Only exception was Max’s boat had some points in it. Daniel has been left adrift with nothing.

He let himself slide flat onto the couch and Max followed, tethered. The dead weight on Daniel felt grounding almost as much as it was crushing his ribcage as he tried to catch his breath. He would not have changed it, though. In the sea of fluctuations, Daniel knew all but one place to anchor himself to.

The circumstance of today catches up to Daniel as he's fighting off a wave of bone-deep exhaustion. He's lost the track of time. Max places a small kiss to his throat, his hand squeezing over Daniel's shoulder.

“I still gotta go to debrief. Fuck,” Daniel groans, tired and wrung out. The remaining sparks of pleasure fizzle out, leaving him running on empty.

Max hums and then makes an effort to unstick himself from Daniel, not without staring at him from above, all heady, his lips kiss-slick and so wonderfully tantalising. It's a sight Daniel missed. He wipes the come off his palm against the couch, rather inconspicuously, and steadily gets up to his feet. This feels awfully normal, like he never even left.

“You can come after the debrief if you want,” Max says, more like throws at him, picking up the discarded piece of fireproofs off the floor.

Daniel adjust himself to look somewhat presentable and partially succeeds at the job. He gives himself a once-over in the full-length mirror by the door and stops abruptly, as if cut off. Thinks again, turning the implication around in his head, then catches Max moving in his peripheral, almost like a shark circling him.

“Aren’t you flying out tonight?”

Max looks at him, long, then shrugs, sitting back in the couch to get his racing boots off. He makes a face, nose scrunched.

“I of course can leave tonight, Daniel,” he says, measured. Daniel tracks his movements, remembering; and memorizing anew. “Jet is ready to go anyway. No point to stay longer, honestly. Fucking shame of a race.”

Daniel’s been fighting an uphill battle — on track, in the car, in the briefing room — and losing out on those fine margins. His hands are tied most of the time. He’s being nice, a real team player, someone who chooses the high road even if he gets trampled along the way. Daniel should just leave for the debrief, get an earful of meaningless words and then catch a flight he has booked. Meet Max in a week for his home race like nothing happened. Onwards and upwards. Or whatever.

But maybe being nice has run its course. Maybe Daniel is ought to be selfish again.

“Hey, so,” he gets Max’s undivided attention back onto himself, grinning, and leans on the door, not yet leaving but grasping the handle in a slippery grip just in case. “That jet of yours. Got an extra seat for little ol’ me?”

Max smiles, derisive as ever, and this time around Daniel cashes in on a win.

[stevesbipanic]

Steve injures his ankle in ninth grade and is forced to sit on the bleachers at P.E for 6 weeks. Here he meets Eddie "Sick Note for Life" Munson and the two of them become little gossipers about everyone in their grades.

[nikoisme]

Adjusted his design a bit!

[carlyraejepsans]

*just remembered that people are actually touched and moved by my art and look forward to seeing it and it's not just something that affects me and me alone which i throw into the internet's jaws sometimes resulting in Number Go Up* Huh.

[waitineedaname]

I've come to some conclusions about where space westerns fall when it comes to "more space" and "more western"

[aftg-rot]

thinking about the "perfect court" again. honestly; just how fucking unstoppable it would be, if they had riko, kevin, jean, nathaniel and andrew?! it would be GENUINELY terrifying.