#post-canon snippets

[unproduciblesmackdown]

Lackadaisy Enrichment

[quadrantadvisor]

Multiverse, Reverse Robins au, 2,514 words

-

Jason (Red Hood)

The imposters are good, Jason will give them that.

They need to work on their looks, unfortunately, because each one of them is a little off. Their Nightwing is too bulky, and his costume isn't made with Dick's flexibility in mind. Besides that, he's got an undercut that doesn't match the shaggy way Dick has his hair now, and his blue is too dark. And the swords. Those are different.

Their little Robin looks more like Dick, actually, Dick as he was before Jason's time, with his happy grin and his bright yellow cape. He doesn't match Damian's style at all, and Jason wonders if their intel was out of date. He tucks away his anger (the way he's used to doing, now) at these bastards roping some little kid into whatever con they're trying to pull. They can help the kid after they subdue him, and he stops trying to flip-kick people in the face.

The Red Robin outfit isn't bad, but the guy playing him is way too tall to be Tim. He doesn't use a bo staff, either, clearly preferring the armory of sharp little implements he keeps tucked away in his utility belt, including a wicked looking combat knife.

Which brings Jason to the current pain in his ass, the idiot trying to pass himself off as the Red Hood.

Yeah, they'd split off into pairs to fight. First off, for practicality's sake. Less risk of friendly fire if the only guy you're trying to punch is the one who isn't you. And secondly, it's just what you do, isn't it? Somebody gives you a set up like this, you go along with the poetic justice. No bat is immune to drama.

Jason is regretting that a bit, now. Fake Hood had taken him for a ride, leading him, he now realizes, far away from the warehouse where Nightwing and Robin had initially called in the disturbance. This other guy isn't the powerhouse that Jason is, but that doesn’t matter if Jason can't ever get in a hit. His movements are precise, deadly, and familiar in a way that makes Jason suspect League training. Jason is keeping up, but barely, and that's with the advantage of his guns. The other guy hasn't touched his, still gleaming red in his holsters, and Jason has a sneaking suspicion that they aren't filled with rubber bullets.

They're at a bit of a stalemate, standing on opposite sides of a dark rooftop, and Jason's trying to catch his breath but he can't relax, not when his gaze is locked onto his opponent, waiting for the minute twitch of muscle that will indicate his next move. He's wondering if he could get a shot off, wondering where to aim, when his comm crackles to life.

“Stand down!” Tim snaps in his ear. “Hood, Wing, the alternates aren't currently a threat. Deescalate however you can, and get back to the warehouse. We can explain this whole mess there.”

“Really?” Nightwing asks. He goes on to say something else, something about his doppleganger being incredibly threatening, thank you very much, but Jason stops listening, because there's something going on across the roof.

A mechanically distorted voice says, “What? No, I'd be able to tell. This guy isn't-” The imposter(?) cuts off suddenly, presumably listening to a response.

And then he… giggles.

“That isn't funny, Red,” he says, in contrast to the little peals of laughter making him subtly shake. “You- you get how fucked up that would be, don't you?”

Jason can't figure out what to do. Tim's intel is almost always good, but he can't get himself to stand down, not when, for some reason, that laughter is setting his teeth on fucking edge.

(He knows the reason. He'd know that cadence anywhere, he hears it in his fucking nightmares, but it isnt possible. He's in Arkham, right now, because Batman won't kill him and Jason isn't allowed to kill him and that uncomfortable truce is what got him his family back. Jason would know if he'd broken out, they wouldn't have kept that from him. They wouldn't.)

“Oh shit,” Tim says, and it makes Jason wonder how he knows, “Hood, is your alternate having some kind of fit right now?”

The sound escalates, from breathy little giggles to screeching laughter, and even with the hood's distortion, it's unmistakable.

It's the Joker's laugh.

It's the Joker.

And isn't this exactly some shit that Joker would pull, making a mockery of Jason's family, a twisted parody that fucks with his head? Tim's lying, he's trying to get Jason out of this situation, and Jason gets why, he does, but obviously the rest of them can't (won't) protect him from this, so if he has to take fate into his own hands, he will.

The green is creeping up, but Jason doesn't let it haze over his vision because he has to be in his right mind while he does this, not for them, for himself. As he stalks across the roof, he empties the clip from one of his guns and pulls out the live rounds, loads them into place.

He thinks Tim is calling for him, maybe the others, too, but the chatter over the comm is getting further away the closer he gets to his target. He should be smart, should take the shot, but maybe he's got more pit in his head than he wants to admit, because Joker, still laughing, pulls a knife, and Jason steps into his range to disarm him.

The strike is fast, but compared to the careful movements of before, he's practically telegraphing his actions. Jason sidesteps, and if the blade knicks him when he twists Joker's arm, he doesn't feel it. He's got the clown in a hold, now, and forces him to his knees with the gun against his temple.

If the hood is anything like his own, the bullet won't do it, not even at point blank range. Jason would like to get it off him, would like to see the life leave his eyes, but he doesn't have to. Jason moves the barrel beneath his chin, right where the armor ends. The pit rages inside of him, says this is too easy, says to make him suffer. Jason pushes it down. This is the compromise he'll make, this is what he'll do to try to maintain both his humanity and his peace of mind. The bullet will ricochet off the hood from the inside, will tear through Joker's brain at least twice, and he'll never come back from that, and Jason will finally be free.

It'll be easy.

This is too easy.

“Nothing to fucking say?” Jason growls, jostling the clown in his grip, because there's always some joke, some shitty twist.

The Joker just laughs.

“Unhand him this instant!” someone snaps, and Jason's finger twitches but somehow the trigger stays still. And now what's he supposed to do, because of course fucking Nightwing- but wait, that isn't- but it is, he's right there- it's both of them, two Nightwings. Fucking fantastic. Twice the guilt trip.

“Come on, Jay,” the Nightwing who's actually Dick pleads, and hey, what the fuck, codenames? In front of the fucking Joker, Dick? “Let him go, we can explain everything.”

“I'm not doing this again!” rips itself from Jason's throat, and he'll think later about just how wrecked he sounds. “I'm not just standing here and letting him go, Wing, not when one bullet can put a stop to all this, not when I can end him.”

“Jason,” Dick says, slow with forced calm, “that's not the Joker.”

“Don't you fucking lie to me!” Jason seethes.

His hand is wrenched to the side, the barrel facing open air, and before he can make a move the unfortunately familiar feeling of a high voltage shock courses through him.

By the time he's stopped seizing, Dick is at his back, supporting him with his own body and with arms under his pits and around his chest in a weird reverse hug. Technically, Jason's hands are free, but they're empty, the gun skidded to somewhere else across the roof.

Dick is murmuring into his ear, “Sorry, Little Wing, I'm so sorry,” and, “You're okay, you're okay, you're okay,” mantras meant to soothe his brother as much as himself. Jason wants to be angry, wants to snap at him to let go and fucking cut it out, but he's feeling strangely disoriented. He only has enough brainspace to pay attention to one thing, and that's the scene playing out in front of him.

Dick had clearly hauled them back a few steps, but Jason is still uncomfortably close to the bastard version of Nightwing (who, Jason realizes in hindsight, had tazed him while he'd been distracted by his brother, not cool) and the laughing maniac he should've killed. Nightwing is holding onto Joker's shoulders, his hands bouncing as the gasping, shrieking laughter continues.

“I'm going to remove your helmet now,” Nightwing says. He has a slight accent that Jason knows he's heard before, and his tone is professional, almost clipped. And yet, somehow, Jason can tell that this is a gentled version of the man's voice, the sharpest edges sanded away. His hands move from Joker's shoulders to the back of his head, carefully inputting whatever sequence allows for safe removal of the hood. Jason hears a hydraulic hiss when some sort of catch releases, and as Nightwing starts pulling the red metal up and away Jason can't help holding his breath.

At first, he sees what he expected to see. It's the Joker's expression, after all, his laughing face pulled into a rictus grin.

But the grin isn't right, somehow. The man is pale, but his face is unpainted, and the smile stretches wide, too wide, wider than even the Joker ever managed, and after a moment Jason recognizes the red, raised scar tissue on either side of his mouth for what it is.

Then, Jason takes in the actual features of the person in front of him. Dark hair, pale blue eyes, the cheeks, the jaw, the nose.

It doesn't make any fucking sense.

The Red Hood, collapsed on his knees in front of him, scarred face bare with no hood or domino to protect him as he struggles under the weight of his own laughter, is Tim Drake.

He's crying.

Jason is suddenly glad that Dick's holding him, because he's certain that he'd be on the ground, otherwise. Then, he realizes that he can't breathe.

Jason knows, logically, that his hood has sensors and filters that keep him safer than he could ever be without it. It is only every once in a while, when something stupid happens, that he regrets that he, a man with claustrophobia, decided to stick his head into a metal bucket.

Dick can probably tell that he's hyperventilating, and doesn't fight him as Jason gets his hands on the back of his neck and pulls off his hood.

Jason gasps in polluted Gotham air, and Tim's eyes snap onto him. Nightwing says, “I'm administering the emergency dose of your medication,” and then stalls, like he's waiting for a response, but all Tim does is laugh and stare. Jason stares back. He can't look away.

Nightwing retrieves a small tubular device, almost like an epipen, and presses it against Tim's leg. That shouldn't work. Tim's wearing body armor, same as the rest of them, and there's no way a needle could pierce it, but Jason looks as Nightwing draws the device away and there's a small raised circle of hard plastic on Tim's thigh that the head of the device fits into perfectly, like it was designed for that purpose. An injection spot, built into Tim's clothing, specifically for whatever drugs fake Nightwing just pumped into him.

Immediately, there's a difference. He doesn't stop laughing, or smiling that horrible fucking smile, but the manic tension is gone. He doesn't look like he'll shatter at a touch anymore, too brittle to be handled. The curve of his spine gentles, muscles no longer pulling it to the point of snapping. Jason watches as slowly, oh so slowly, Tim gets quieter, leans more into Nightwing's hold on him, starts gasping more than laughing.

Dick is talking behind him, into his comm, it sounds like. If it's important, someone will get his attention.

Finally, Tim breaks eye contact. “T- tell him,” he says to Nightwing, struggling between gasps and giggles, “tell him what you, gave me. Jay doesn't, he doesn't like, needles.”

The strange Nightwing turns his head, and Jason gets the impression of a sharp, searching gaze behind his domino. He's nothing like Dick, not at all, but something niggles the back of Jason's mind, some sense of familiarity regardless. He tosses something, and Jason automatically reaches up to catch it.

It's the empty tube of medication, which does seem a lot like an epipen, up close. “It's a combination,” the man says. “The antidote for Joker venom, an antipsychotic, and a mild sedative.”

“What the fuck?” Jason hears from his own mouth as he looks down at the innocuous little tube.

“It's only used in emergencies,” Nightwing adds, and does not clarify any further.

Jason doesn't know what to say to that. He shakes himself out of Dick's hold and grabs an evidence bag out of his jacket. He watches Nightwing, to see if he'll object, but he doesn't. Jason slips the medicine tube inside the bag and tucks it away.

“There you are!” Dick says in a bright tone, one meant to cover his anxiety and relief.

Jason turns, and finds that their roof has gotten a little crowded. All four Robins have arrived, his brothers mingled in with their copies, copies who don't quite match in ways that are now sticking in his brain. Tim, Jason's Tim, is standing right there, pressing his mask against his face like he'd broken the seal on the adhesive, and it isn't sticking quite right. Other than that, he's normal. He's fine.

The Robin, the one in the classic colors who Jason had thought looked a bit like Dick (oh God, could that be-?) gives a little whistle. “Trust Red Hood to cause drama!” he says in a bright tone that is too too familiar (fuck, fuck he is). “Must be a universal constant.” He grins, cheeky, looking past Jason.

Jason isn't processing fast enough to be offended for his own sake, but he turns and checks on Tim, other Tim, the Tim who apparently also has a claim to the Red Hood name. Tim is propped up on Nightwing's shoulder, looking drowsy and relaxed. He's looking back at Robin, and his lips are pressed tightly closed, but he's smiling, and it reaches his eyes.

Alright, then. This is probably fine.

Jason snorts, to get the kid's attention, and rolls his eyes. “Comes with the job description,” he snarks.

The kid lights up. Jason feels distinctly weird, having that smile directed at him, but it's not… bad.

Yeah. This is fine.

-

I'm planning to add a reblog with more information on this au/fic idea, so if you're interested, watch this space.

[magenta-somethings]

trick or treat!

treat! (aka a snippet fic i ended up writing on the bus about tim asking yj for advice re: the huntress/nightwing/oracle situation)

“So, wait, Nightwing is dating Huntress?” asks Cassie.

“I don’t know what they’re doing!” Tim replies. “That’s half the problem.”

“And do we like Huntress?” asks Cissie.

“Yes—no—it’s complicated,” Tim replies. He’s doing a lot of replying and he doesn’t entirely like it—more out of an instinctual avoidance of being on the interrogatee side of an interrogation than anything else—but he had been the one to ask for advice. Which, in hindsight, may have been a mistake, but it’s one he’s now committed to. “I do like her. But she struggles with following Batman’s rules. I mean, we all do, but she struggles with the no killing aspect of it specifically.”

“But has she, like, actually killed anyone?” Kon asks. He’s floating in the air, cross-legged, with one of Cassie’s pillows hugged to his chest. It’s kind of cute—especially with his oversized Superman t-shirt, because, thankfully, he doesn’t actually sleep in his costume.

Not that Tim would ever say it’s cute out loud. 

“No, not since we started working together properly.”

Kon shrugs. “Then I don’t see the problem? Yeah, it’s majorly screwed that she’s killed but it also sounds like she’s changed." Tim might be imagining it, but he almost sounds wistful? "And being able to stand up to the bat seems like a point in her favour more than anything.” He pauses. “Plus, based on the picture you have of her, she’s a total babe.”

Tim just knew visual aids would be a mistake. This is on him for not being able to resist a corkboard. Cassie, acting on behalf of the team, throws a pillow at Kon. It does smack him in the face—he still needs to practice his catches—but before it can fall to the ground his TTK catches it and now he’s hugging two pillows and maybe that backfired slightly. 

Tim puts his corkboard face-down on principle. Huntress probably doesn’t even know he has the photo—her foot in the middle of kicking a bad guy’s face, her fist breaking the jaw of another. He doesn’t have much time for photography anymore, but sometimes he just itches to go out and capture Gotham and its heroes.  The photo of Nightwing, meanwhile, is him shoving his face full of pizza, a hand reaching out to try, in vain, to block the camera lens. 

Oracle, of course, is represented by her icon. He still hasn’t started thinking of her as Barbara.

“It’s not all about looks,” says Cassie. “Even if she is really hot.” She pauses. “Like, really hot.”

“Okay!” interrupts Tim. “That’s enough of that.” He did not need his friends calling his co-worker hot.

“Yeah, it really doesn’t matter,” agrees Cissie, and of course he can count on her to have his back. “Especially since Nightwing is way hotter than her.”

A part of Tim dies inside. Just shrivels up and expires, there and then.

“Okay, but Nightwing is hotter than, like, everyone,” points out Kon. That part of Tim is currently being cremated. “And cooler, and more badass. Or whatever.” 

“Most documentaries on 20th-21st century heroes talk about Nightwing’s attractiveness at least once,” says Bart offhandedly from the corner where he’s playing Polyp-mon. It’s one of his first contributions to the conversation. The part of Tim that died earlier is now having a funeral held in its honour. Suzie, at least, is still absorbed in the game. She’s spent the conversation peering over Bart’s shoulder, occasionally asking him to catch a specific polyp-mon. Though he doubts her additions would be worse than what is currently passing for advice.

“Guys, please,” Tim says, desperately trying to course-correct the conversation. God, it’s so much worse having them talk about how hot this co-worker is. “Stay focused on the problem.”

“Is that you like Oracle more?” asks Cissie.

Tim hesitates. Oracle is one of the most impressive people he knows, and getting to actually spend time with her—especially when it’s her teaching him about tech—is awesome, and she’s saved his life more times than he count or probably even knows about. But he’s only known her face-to-face for a short time, while he’s been fighting side-by-side with Huntress almost as long as he’s been acting properly as Robin. 

“That’s not what’s important,” he deflects. “What’s important is what’s best for Nightwing.”

“Right,” says Cissie. 

“What if they all just dated each other?” asks Bart

“You can do that?” asks Kon, at the same time as Tim says, “I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t fix it. In fact, I’m pretty sure that would make it worse.”

The silence stretches. 

“Well, good luck with that!” declares Cassie. “Now, who wants to watch Xena?”

Tim sighs, but let’s the hang-out move on. What’s happening with Nightwing, Huntress and Oracle is such a mess that there’s no way a bunch of teenagers are going to be able to untangle it, especially when most of them don’t have much experience in romance or life or both. Tim certainly doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to having non-messy relationships. He’s sure Dick will figure it out. Eventually.

Kon floats down next to him as Cassie and Cissie go looking for the VHS, with that grin on his face that Tim just knows means he’s come up with some terrible joke. “Look on the brightside! When the divorce happens, you’ll have not one, not two, but three Christmases. Not four, because I’m pretty sure Batman doesn’t celebrate, but three is still pretty good.” 

“Yay,” says Tim, voice as flat as he can make it.

[wikiangela]

fuck it friday

it's technically friday here already and I'm trying to keep myself busy until 2am for the episode (and trying to stay awake, I've been up for over 20 hours now and there's 1.5h left lmao this is gonna be fun - but I am not missing the madney wedding live) so I figured I'd start fif off haha

today a lil more from my bucktommy smut that's slowly coming together (very slowly, it's gonna be so long, we're at 3k and they're still dressed, and I kinda want to spread it out over a few dates 🙈)

prev snippet

___

“Can I-” he starts, panting against Tommy’s lips. “I really need to touch you.” he gulps, his grip tightening just a little bit, a stifled sound escaping Tommy. Buck wants to hear him, wants to hear all the sounds he can elicit from him.

“You are touching me.” Tommy teases, and Buck kisses a smirk off his face, nipping at his bottom lip as he pulls away, Tommy chuckling in response. Buck is so enamored by this man, he can barely stop smiling.

“You know what I mean.” he shakes his head a bit.

“I do.” Tommy licks his lips. “But I kinda wanna hear it.” he adds with a smug grin, but then places his hands on Buck’s cheeks and makes him look into his eyes, smile turning into something softer. “I need you to tell me what you want.”

“I want you naked.” is what Buck blurts out, and as if involuntarily, Tommy’s hips thrust into his hand, a low groan escaping him.

“Alright, baby.” Tommy whispers, smiling softly, breathing heavy, and Buck thinks he’s going to melt, his heart speeding up.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @thebravebitch @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @watchyourbuck @eowon @loserdiaz @evanbegins @ladydorian05 @wildlife4life @diazpatcher @lover-of-mine @monsterrae1 @weewootruck @loveyouanyway @spagheddiediaz @rainbow-nerdss @epicbuddieficrecs @pirrusstuff @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @nmcggg @rogerzsteven @hippolotamus @bidisasterevankinard @giddyupbuck @sunshinediaz @honestlydarkprincess @911-on-abc @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @buddieswhvre @fortheloveofbuddie @your-catfish-friend @daffi-990 @hoodie-buck @aroeddiediaz @thewolvesof1998 @theotherbuckley @tizniz @diazsdimples @dangerpronebuddie @spotsandsocks @exhuastedpigeon @underwaterninja13

[unevenpatterns]

Jet: “Wait, wait, Mai was the one you used to be engaged to?!” Zuko: “Yes, who else did you think it was?” Jet: “...How am I still alive?”  Zuko: “That’s not funny Jet!” Jet: “I even joked with her about you! She could have stabbed me so many times. Unbelievable.” ... Jet: “Is this why no one else tried to get in your pants? They were afraid of Mai? Holy shit, I made it through sheer ignorance.“

[nerdie-faerie]

I'm once again thinking about the missed opportunities to have Klaus and Kol bond more. Part of Klaus' whole motivation as a vampire is to get his werewolf part back and to finally be stronger than Mikael (sort of, I'm simplifying) both of which can be obtained by breaking his curse. But Kol? Kol is the only other original that can relate to having a fundamental part of themself ripped away from them. Klaus might not have known he was a werewolf until he killed, but he likely still had a connection he couldn't explain, as evident by him going to watch the wolves transform. And something he'd never been able to explain was now gone. He might only be able to realise the connection afterwards through its absence.

Kol though. Kol had grown up with magic, a connection to nature and the world around him in a way the rest of his siblings supposedly didn't have. And then he gets turned. And not only has his baby brother died, his father has just murdered him and the rest of his siblings after forcing them to drink human blood, which he'll later learn. Now, not only does he have to deal with the grief of Henrik's death and also his own but also the loss of his magic. A loss that's likely only worsened by Kol being a self-proclaimed child prodigy.

Kol is pretty much the only one who could understand what Klaus is going through with the binding of his wolf. We know Kol searched for ways to get his magic back/carry on practicing magic in the same way that Klaus was looking for ways to break his curse. While Klaus likely could still feel his wolf there despite being bound, Kol has no access to his magic anymore. I just think they should've been able to bond or connect over their shared loss of an intrinsic aspect of their selves at the hands of their parents

[r-ate-9]

And just like that, there he was.

It was like they were young again, Arthur the foolish prince meeting Merlin the foolish peasant.

They both grew so old, so quickly, together. Arthur: exhausted and stressed by the many betrayals and battles he's fought. Merlin: wearied and depressed by his fading hope.

When Merlin smiled so openly, genuinely, it was like no time had passed at all.

(If Arthur hadn't had many talks with Merlin in the time after legalizing magic, he'd be angry with himself for not noticing the death of Merlin's joy.)

(But Merlin had said, "Don't be sorry, Arthur. We've fought many battles, not all of them were by the other's sides. I won't hold mine against you if you don't hold yours against me.")

It would be a long time before either man could return to who they were -- Arthur would never be so trusting, Merlin would never be so peaceful.

But in this moment, with Merlin smiling, joyous, and so *so* open... Arthur clasped his forearm. "Give Hunith my greetings, and my apologies for keeping you apart for so long."

"Of course," Merlin's voice was warm. His eyes sparkled. Not an ounce of darkness shadowed his face. "I don't need much time. A week will suffice."

[callsign-pyro]

Snippet

Making breakfast was his thing and god forbid you so much as make your own tea in the morning. Earl Grey was both of your tea of choice, Simon took his with cream and you took yours with milk. Breakfast has always been a domestic affair ever since you moved out of Manchester. The countryside was much nicer and Simon was often able to work at home. When the weather allowed for it Simon would work outside with you whilst you tended to the garden. You grew many things in the garden, it was rewarding when you picked fruits and vegetables that you grew yourself and Simon said that they taste better because of the love put into growing them. 

[ariadne-mouse]

the usual

Shadowgast, Rated G, 573 words, prompt: late night takeout

-

"We should perhaps take a break."

"We are getting somewhere, though." Caleb stood and cracked his back. A topographic map of papers, open books, and component jars was laid out on the floor before them.

"We are," Essek agreed. "But if we keep going, it will be several more hours before we pause a second time, and I may begin chewing on parchment to sustain myself."

As if on cue, Caleb's stomach gave a loud gurgle. He ruefully put his hands on his middle. "Ach, you've woken the beast. Well. I suppose you are right. Do you have food here, or should we go out?"

Essek straightened his robes and neatened his hair with an effortless wave of Prestidigitation. "The night is warm. Let us walk. I know a place." He twisted a ring on his finger and his image shimmered, though to Caleb - who wore a second, matching ring - he still looked like himself.

("You know it is an Empire tradition to marry with an exchange of rings," Caleb had teased him, accepting the plain copper band. Only a Detect Magic would reveal it as enchanted. Essek had looked a little embarrassed, but shrugged it away. "I only wish for you to see me as I am. You don't have to take it." And Caleb, warmed, had put the ring directly on his finger and it had been there ever since.)

Caleb followed Essek through the streets of Nicodranas, which were not vacant even at this late hour, but peaceful and welcoming by the presence of others strolling by to enjoy the balmy air and the stars.

After twenty minutes of walking in companionable silence, they came to a storefront whose cheerful interior made it appear as a lantern in the dark. Steam and smoke fled the chimneys on the roof, and the clank of pots and pans and the murmur of people's voices from within broke the spell of nocturnal calm that wrapped around the rest of the city.

"The usual, please," Essek said to an attendant who opened a side window, releasing a billow of air fragrant with herbs and spices. "And... your special for today."

Twenty minutes more, and they were sat on a wooden bench nearby with cheap clay pots in hand, heavy with broth, vegetables, fresh seafood, and translucent rice noodles.

"Your usual," Caleb teased.

Essek raised his eyebrows and did not reply, as he was busy transferring a cascade of noodles into his mouth with chopsticks. They finally vanished with a less-than-dignified slurp. He patted his mouth with a handkerchief. "You have cilantro in your beard. And a bit of oil."

"Oh. Would you?" Caleb tilted his chin forward. Prestidigitation washed over him a moment later. The tingle of it continued down the back of his neck and to his collarbones. Caleb laughed. "I did not have soup all the way down to there, did I?"

Essek sniffed primly and busied himself with his next bite, humor tugging the corner of his mouth.

When they were done, the clay pots set aside to return to the bin at the back of the restaurant, they simply sat there for a long time, watching the passers-by on the street. The warm air wrapped around them, every so often carrying a hint of the sea. The stars glimmered above.

"This was a good idea," Caleb said, Essek's hand in his. He lifted it to brush his lips against the back of it.

Essek smiled. "I know."

[yujeong]

kpanniversary2024, prompt 4: Tension

"It's not your choice, Macau." The noise Macau makes with his mouth rings like a gunshot in Vegas' ears. His eyes widen as he stares at his brother's flustered face. His nostrils flare. Macau is wearing his anger like an armor made of rusty metal on his skin. He thinks it protects him, keeps him safe, when all it does is reveal all his weak spots to the enemy. Presumed enemy, in this case. Pete is not - could not - be an enemy of his in the first place. Not even when he was the main family's guard dog. He was a fool. In a way, he still is. Vegas is afraid to look at him. He does it, regardless. Saliva is trickling down Pete's forehead, down the path formed by the creases of his furrowed eyebrows, down the curve of his nose, almost but not quite missing his pursed lips. He is standing by the kitchen table completely still, statue-like. His eyes are closed. His body is tense. He looks like he's about to start crying, or screaming, or both. He does neither. He just opens his eyes, slowly, and stares at Macau with an unreadable expression; another kind of armor, equally rusty and ineffective. He doesn't wipe the spit off his face. "Who do you think you are to say that to me?" Macau yells, unperturbed by what he did. Vegas's breath hitches. He has to intervene, somehow. Say something to stop this madness from continuing, salvage any of the last, remaining pieces of his broken family. He has to- "You're not my brother, so stop acting like it!" "Macau!" He's too late. Pete's face crumbles. He lowers his head to hide it, but Vegas can still see it, can still see Pete's bottom lip quivering, his shoulders shaking. He wants to hit himself. It wouldn't solve anything, fuck, it'd make everything worse, but he can't help seeking the familiar sting a slap would provide. A punch, even more so. He gets pulled out of his thoughts by Pete whispering something he doesn't catch. It's an easy guess to make. For a moment, Vegas thinks the bullets that had pierced his torso all those months ago had hurt less. Macau says nothing and runs away to his room.

[flickering-nightfall]

just asking, what if an iterator possibly gets too hot or cold? What happens if they can’t get to safer temps with out outside forces? What if they can’t get to safer temps at all?

Do you mean superstructures or puppet-bound iterators? I'm sure superstructures have a lot of failsafes to deal with temperature fluctuations, mostly via processing water intake. They're living saunas! They probably have an incredible resistance to both hot and cold, as evidence shows.

I'll talk about puppets here, but if you meant superstructures, well... a lot of what I'll say here could apply to superstructures too.

(For puppet-bound iterators, I am referring to my AU CDSS)

For heat: Puppet-bound iterators, like their former superstructure bodies, run hot and need to stay hydrated. They rely on liquid coolant that runs throughout their bodies. Ruptures in the coolant system are one of their many common problems, but with medical aid, they're not too serious. Many cases are self-healing, or the rupture will seal itself off and reroute around the blockage - like with collateral circulation. Leaks into essential systems are more of a concern than the actual loss of coolant. As long as they stay cool and drink water while waiting to get fixed, they tend to be fine.

If they are stuck in a hot region and can't escape, they'll suffer from dehydration, heat stroke, fried components, damage to organic tissue, seizures... pretty much what you'd expect. As a superstructure, Moon probably suffered from all this leading up to her collapse.

For cold: They're fairly resistant for a few reasons. One is the antifreeze in coolant. Another is the heat that they naturally produce. I'm thinking they have silicone-based skin, which is very cold resistant. They have hemocyanin, which tends to function better in extreme cold than hemoglobin. (Hemocyanin can also work at hotter temperatures. I have like a whole essay about this that I still intend to post lol.) However, the puppets have been modified to have more flexible and sensitive skin - dexterity in exchange for some durability. They're more susceptible to the perception of cold than they would be if they were a still a superstructure. Many of them also dislike snowscapes on principle, because they've been freezing their decaying metal butts off for centuries by the time CDSS happens.

Iterators in both forms are very moist, so if it's cold past their limits, their mechanical components will freeze. And like with hypothermia in fully organic beings, prolonged time in extreme cold will lead to tissue death and organ failure. Superstructures with fractured exteriors (direct exposure of internal parts to the cold air) are especially susceptible to this.

Misc theory about superstructures: Moon's superstructure was able to stay intact into Saint's era because she collapsed straight down into the water, preserving most of her shape. The canyon water could have provided the pressure and circulation she needed in the absence of gravity cores, as well as protection against land pests and insulation against the cold. Remnant slag could have her generate excess heat as well, which would keep the water surrounding her unfrozen. In a way, dying like that could have helped her live longer?!

Thanks for the question anon, this was very fun :P

[deepfriedtrout]

Sometimes u and ur estranged sibling spend time in the same space for the first time in years in the back of the Foundation headquarters to indulge in ur respective vices without judgement because there’s literally a time apocalypse happening like who gives af

[moonsugar-and-spice]

Trick or Treat! 🕸️

(Please share a headcanon, a preview of a wip, or anything else you'd like and pass it on!)

Trick or Treat may be over, but the Halloween spirit lives on. So! I wish I could share more of what's ahead in Storms of Ice and Fire without spoilers. But since it's been such a long time in the making—both the story and behind the scenes—I hope you'll enjoy this glimpse of a long-awaited scene from a future chapter.

Those molten amber eyes burned against hers from where he stood, the heat of them seeping through to her core. He seemed to be waiting—for something, some hint from her. Katara held his gaze, beckoning, a silent invitation. And at last, Ozai closed the distance with quiet, intentional steps.

Whisper-light, his warm fingers swept the weight of her hair from her shoulder. She skimmed her hands up the strength of his arms, over the hard planes of his chest. Fingertips caressing the scar that marked her fight to pull him back from death's clutches, a choice that sparked a shift neither could have foreseen, binding them in ways they never imagined.

Something in his gaze took her breath away, its depth and intensity defying words. It pinned her for a long, heavy beat before he leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the curve of her bare shoulder.

Katara’s eyes fluttered closed as his hot breath blossomed over her skin. She shivered, tipping her head for him. The scrape of his beard teased her skin, his lips brushing the dip between her neck and collarbone, a soft delicate stroke that sent sparks through her nerves. Tracing his mouth up the side of her neck, Ozai placed another kiss over her fluttering pulse. A breath snagged in her throat. Another on the sensitive flesh below her earlobe sent goosebumps erupting over her skin, one more on the rise of her cheekbone.

Her fingers and toes curled, long-simmering desire thrumming like liquid fire through her veins. The tip of his nose grazed her cheek, his breath tracing a languid path toward her lips, only to stop short, hovering there. Hesitating. The fragile pocket of air between them was electric with tension, but he made no move to close it. And a flicker of understanding flared through her haze.

He was asking permission.

Ozai—the man who moved through the world as though expecting it to bend to his will, as if it owed him nothing less—was waiting for her signal to proceed.

A tingle fluttered dizzily in her belly. Because there was no doubting now—half-dressed and alone in the warm, dark quiet, safe at last from the clawing shadows and dangers that had hunted them—where this was leading if she said yes.

Her pulse lifted on a shuddering breath. He knew what her answer would be, but still he waited. Her hands ached, alive with the pull of passion. She wanted him as he wanted her, inescapable as the tide, undeniable as the sun.

[flowercrowngods]

a snippet please? of the non-tumblrable fic? 👉👈

smh you know i will never refuse anyone asking for snippets 🤍 she's nothing special though, she's a weird little one

Something Steve has always wondered is why migraines make his body shut down like that, leaving him in a state where all he can do is lie down and fall into a near-catatonic limbo until the pain has lifted enough to face the rest of the world again. Fighting interdimensional monsters and posing as a feast to demonic, modified monster bats was also agony. It also made him lose his footing and almost pass out from bloodloss and pain, his back scratched open completely where the bats dragged him across rough stone. 

Migraine pains don't really compare to those. It scares him. Because he knows that's all up in his brain. His fucked up, mangled, thrice-concussed fucking brain he never got cared for because the government goons never took them seriously. Never took him seriously. 

And now here he is, lying in a near-stranger's bed in a pitch-black room that's still somehow too bright, unmoving and hoping to pass out from it all. Hoping he won't hallucinate again this time. Hoping that he won't throw up, his body convulsing because it knows it shouldn't be feeling like this. 

Throwing up from pain. There's really nothing more fucked up than that. Or, there is. Throwing up from pain and begging an invisible man to make it stop, only to realise hours later that pain can also make you hallucinate. 

He doesn't want that. He doesn't want any of that ever again, and certainly not in a strange, dark cabin with a vampire forged from a human he never even liked. 

Tears spring to his eyes, but they're not the kind that'll fall and bring relief. They just stay in the corners of his eyes, his only way to express the waves and flares of pain washing over him, wishing he could just pass out now. 

Kas tucks him in. Steve didn’t know he could do that. It strikes him as extremely non-vampiric even in this state he’s in. Steve doesn’t react, doesn’t so much as blink his eyes open as the pain travels up to his hairline and settles there, flaring over his forehead to his eyes and down to his cheekbones and then up again, a never-ending motion that he never stands a chance to get used to. 

“Safe,” Kas says again, and it zings through Steve’s body with violent force that doesn’t match at all with the gentle tone he’s using. 

Scrunching his forehead to stave off more words, Steve hopes that Kas will take the hint and know to shut up. 

But he has no such luck. 

“Here.” 

“Shhh.” He shakes his head minutely, shushing the vampire with a barely there noise, keeping the damage to a minimal amount. “You can go,” he slurs, trying not to speak at all. “Please.” 

A beat of blessed, blissful silence, before there’s shuffling again. Kas does walk to the door, but then stops in the doorway. Steve doesn’t want to look. 

“No.” Kas sounds surprised about it. Mystified. Like he wants to leave, but can’t. 

What?

“Stay. Here.” 

Whatever you do, just please be quiet about it, Steve thinks desperately. Instead of saying any of that, he shushes him again, hoping that the thump he hears means that Kas is sitting on the floor now. Though he doesn’t understand why. 

Why do you care? 

“Safe,” Kas says again, whispering the word into the room, and it doesn’t zing through Steve this time. 

With Kas refusing to leave and his pathetic state of existence so blatantly on display, and with waves and waves as his nerves fire signals to his overworked and tired brain, more tears spring to Steve's eyes. And this time they fall. Silently, and without a sob, without even a sniffle of acknowledgment. But they fall. 

And Steve just wants to go home.

[burnthatbridge]

yet another snippet for you since i have an active wip (even if i'm currently neglecting it...)

from the illicit affairs chapter 5 draft:

Frank nods, flips his pen over in his fingers. “And how are things with Marisol?” Eddie thinks for a moment. Things are… they’re– “Fine,” he says, then immediately winces. “Sorry, I know you hate that word. They’re great.” Frank lets out a breath that’s almost a sigh, allows his pen to rest against the notepad in his lap. “I only dislike that word if it is used as a mask,” he states. “If things are going great, i.e. very well, excellent, super, then I would prefer you say that.” He tilts his head at Eddie, considering, in that way Eddie knows means he’s seeing more than Eddie’s aware he’s displaying. “But if things are going okay, all right, not bad, then I would say fine is a fitting description.” “Okay,” Eddie says, “Then, yeah. Things are fine.” The very corner of Frank’s lips curl on the left side of his mouth. It’s a tick that took Eddie weeks and weeks of therapy to pick up on. One that, now he’s identified it, understood it, always makes Eddie feel like Frank is having a proud teacher moment, one where he gives Eddie a gold star and himself a firm pat on the back. It’s kind of endearing but it also makes Eddie want to roll his eyes and slouch in his chair, a moody teen reacting to praise with hostility.  “Do you want to elaborate on that?” Frank asks. And he is asking. If Eddie doesn’t want to, he will let him move the subject on. Maybe if Eddie had said things were going bad — or more likely still said fine but meant it as a cover for not good, poorly, awful — Frank would dig, but now he’s not going to.  “I mean, there isn’t much new to tell,” Eddie says, honest. “Nothing’s really changed since our last appointment.” Or the one before that, or the one before that, he thinks. And maybe that’s precisely why things aren’t any better than fine.  Frank lifts his pen, scratches something onto his notes. Eddie wonders if it’s the exact same thought he’s just had, almost wants to cross the room and peer over Frank’s shoulder at whatever he’s writing.  Once he’s written a short line, Frank flips the pen in his grip again. “And how is Buck?”

read chapters 1-4 on ao3

[nostalgia-tblr]

Six Some Sentences Sunday Saturday

and also A MOODBOARD. I am not even sure what those are for but people on AO3 have them on multipart works so I assume they are essential to the craft.

I'm hiding it behind a cut because although I know how to Make Internet Arts I am not especially good at it - I know the keyboard shortcuts I just don't know how to use them well.

When Sylvie catches sight of her reflection in the long mirror behind the bar she can’t resist giving herself a victorious smile; she’s here to celebrate and she damn well deserves that celebration. Finally she has found a buyer for her latest piece of work, and if all goes well it’ll bring at least a few months of financial security before she has to start worrying about the bills again.  She knocks back the remainder of her margarita and orders another, and since the bartender keeps unsubtly staring at her chest she takes her time searching in her purse for the payment, just in case this prompts him to offer this one on the house.  He doesn’t (well, it was a bit of a long shot) but someone else does – a tall, pale, dark-haired man steps in to play Prince Charming instead, and on first impressions alone this unexpected understudy might be good for more than one free drink; she wishes she had ordered something more expensive.

(No prizes for guessing that her "latest piece of work" is in some way fraudulent, or for guessing who the buyer is.)