#post-canon snippets

[gothamite-rambler]

Spoiler (looking at the ticking bomb): Hood go on without me, get to safety.

Spoiler clutched her leg where she had been shot by the Joker. The bomb ticked down slowly as the two only had a short time to escape. Spoiler could barely stand and she didn't want to be the reason her friend didn't get to finally deal with the Joker his way.

Spoiler (weak smile): Get the Joker and give him hell. I'll... You'll see me again, right?

Red Hood clenched his fists tightly seeing the timer at only a minute, then fifty nine seconds, fifty eight, fifty seven.

Red Hood (picking up Spoiler): Come on, we're getting out together!

Red Hood raced out of the building with his friend. He didn't stumble or trip making it to the last exit. The bomb ticked down faster. Red Hood remembered staring at a bomb before everything went black.

That wasn't happening again!

Red Hood made it out of the building with Spoiler in his arms and he kept running just as the bomb made it to zero and exploded. They were safe. Red Hood placed Spoiler on the ground, breathing heavy.

Spoiler: Why didn't you... Go after him? You could've-

Red Hood hugged Spoiler remaining silent as the sound of flames crackling in the wind could be heard.

Spoiler (beaming): You do care about me!

Red Hood: Shut up.

Spoiler: I'm on the list with Cass and Dick? I feel so special.

Red Hood pulled back and removed his helmet. He smiled softly.

Red Hood: I hate him, but not enough to make someone I tolerate die. Count yourself lucky.

Spoiler tapped her chin for a second then clapped like Cass does.

Red Hood: You know you still have a bullet in your leg right?

Spoiler: Yeah and I'm in such much pain, but my new bestie saved me! So that eased some of the... Pulsing thigh pain.

Spoiler laughed, laying back on the ground. Red Hood smirked, patting the girl on her head to annoy her.

Red Hood: Whatever. You owe me.

[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.

[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.“

[yujeong]

Vegas rarely looks at himself in the mirror. While at the hospital he never took a glimpse of his reflection. He didn't think he'd be able to handle it, the rotten shell of the nothing he had become. There was no need, anyway. Pete was taking care of him, helping him dress and shave, even helped him brush his teeth once when the pain was so intense Vegas almost passed out. Now, their house doesn't have any mirrors. The bathroom has one hidden behind cupboards - no surprises for Vegas to stumble upon at night in his attempt at taking a piss, making a fool of himself as he crawls there, short of breath, his head pounding. Pete knows. Vegas doesn't know when he figured it out, but he sees it on Pete's gaze, on how he looks at him when he puts on clothes like an embarrassed teenager. Because he is embarrassed, of course he is. His skin pale, cold and ruined, nothing like what he saw after what happened at the auction: fire and smoke and a predator ready to pounce.

Snippet based on the prompt "Every time you look in the mirror, you see a different reflection."

[brokenheartwithheartbreak]

Seven Dollars Two Dimes and a Handful of Pocket Lint, Excerpt 3

Liam’s milkshake is roughly the size of Theo’s bicep, frothy at the top and a vaguely repulsive, brownish pink that reminds Theo of things he’d rather not associate with something that’s supposed to be edible. He eyes it warily, wonders if this is going to end with him holding Liam’s hair back while he pukes in the run down toilets out back, finds the thought doesn’t bother him as much as it probably should.

“Really gonna drink that?” He asks, some sort of morbid curiosity. Liam stirs his monstrosity with the pathetic plastic straw, which bends threateningly under his grip. “Yep.”

“You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

Liam levels him with a flat look, all furrowed brows and squinted eyes and mouth pressed so thin Theo can’t see his lips, holds it just long enough for him to have to tamp down the urge to squirm.

“I got the big one so we could share, dumbass.”

Theo’s heart does an odd double-beat in his chest, like it’s trying to crawl up his throat and choke him to death, something like surprise travelling across his face as he pulls his eyes away from Liam’s, trapped under that piercing gaze again, feeling like the beta is peeling back his edges and looking at things Theo doesn’t want him to see. He swallows, goes back to picking at the peeling tabletop.

“Oh.”

Liam kicks him under the table.

[allthatmay]

I forgot about Valentines Day, so please enjoy this horny Benn Beckman/Portgas D. Ace snippet. It's a labour of love ‹𝟹

“Come here," Benn says. “What, not gonna make me sit on your lap?” “Are you asking to sit on my lap?” Ace scowls, pushing himself to his feet. “I don’t ask,” he grumbles, nevertheless jumping up on the table. He slots his feet on either side of Benn’s hips, feeling only a little embarrassed when he realises how wide it spreads his legs, and right in front of Benn’s face, too. “I’m used to taking the lead in these things, you know?” “Do you like taking the lead?” “What’s with all the questions?” And yet, when Benn’s finger slides beneath his knee, Ace finds himself saying, “I don’t like not having any control.” “Hmm…” Seeing Benn’s hands on his skin only makes them all the more interesting to look at: the way they cup his knees fully, then curl round and slip beneath the hemline of his shorts, squeezing at the underside of his thighs. It’s a sharp, sweet pain, one that shoots up his nerves and lands right between his legs. His teeth clink together in his haste to stifle a gasp, but Benn smiles anyway, slow and knowing. “So, lad. Got anything to ask me?” “Yeah,” Ace snaps, “can you shut up?” This, he effects himself: he slides off the table into Benn’s lap until they’re close enough to taste the wine on one another’s breaths, then he gets his hand around the back of Benn’s neck and, using the leverage, kisses him just like he would any other guy, any other time. But it turns out that Benn kisses with all the precision that he shoots with; that his hair is softer than imagined; and that red wine tastes so much sweeter in his mouth than it ever did in Ace’s. Fuck, Ace can even say that he likes the taste of it when it’s served like this, complemented by the shape of Benn’s mouth, the movements of his tongue, the heat of his large hands as they settle on his hips…

[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

[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."

[blusandbirds]

i dont have the strength to write another cobra kai fic but sam anthony siblingism you will always be famous to me

[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.

[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."

[brokenheartwithheartbreak]

Okay I don’t even go here and I’ve never done this before but I’m 10k deep into a post-finale probably AU platonic Thiam fic based on Theo trying to figure out his shit and function as a human being and DOUBTING my writing very hard rn so. What’s the consensus from anyone whose been in this fandom for longer than two months (see: anyone but me)

Excerpt:

Melissa bustles away before he can unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, Liam watching her go with an oddly forlorn look, still draped over the desk, before those wide puppy-innocent eyes snap to Theo, still hopelessly open and unguarded even as he sighs, a heavy laborious thing, and shakes his head.

“She’s still mad at you.” He says by way of greeting. Theo frowns, has lost Melissa in the throng of people toing and froing in the hallways already, eyes cutting to Liam instead and attempting to dissect why he seems to think this matters.

“I killed her son.” He says flatly, when it becomes apparent Liam expects an answer, “He’s still pissed. Why wouldn’t she be?"

Liam’s gaze turns thoughtful, studying Theo as he stands there in his threadbare t-shirt and the same jeans he’d been wearing when Gabe’s blood was splattering on the tiles, four floors up, three weeks ago. They've been cleaned since - he managed to scrape together enough change for a trip to the laundromat last week - but being back here he can distinctly remember the specific scent of blood and fear and death, a little different for every dead body left in Monroe's wake, tinged with a slightly different mix of the same three things her teenage soldiers feel in their last moments.

Liam's still looking at him with those deceptively sharp eyes, blue like the sky, like a bottomless ocean. He has a skill for looking at people - at Theo - and giving off the impression that he's looking deeper, peeling back the guarded layers and taking a look at the exposed damage underneath, poking at that damage and seeing how much it takes to make him jump, not in a malicious way, though, in a 'testing boundaries' sort of way, in a 'how far can I push you before you snap back' kind of way that Theo respects more than he resents, because he's the same, in a way. He gets the feeling Liam is still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Theo to slip and the carefully crafted master plan to crack and splinter and shatter down around him all over again, gets the feeling this pushing and prodding is a reflexive, knee jerk reaction to how easily he'd slipped into their ranks and earned their trust last time around. While the rest of the pack seem to have decided the best policy is just to keep him at arm's length until they need to pull him in for a human shield, Liam seems to have gone for the opposite; tugging Theo closer so he can peer into the cracks and crevices Tara clawed into his armour and decide whether the things he does and the words he says are genuine or just another misdirection.

Theo really doesn't have the energy for misdirection anymore - what's the point? All these people have already seen the worst of him, have seen him rip them apart to take what he wanted, seen him rip apart his own pack to take their power, there is nothing he could say or do now to wipe that slate clean and make them forget, that much has been made quite obviously clear. And, somewhere along the line of those four months that felt like four years, four decades, too much time and not enough and how do you reconcile losing that much of your life when it felt like repeating the same five minutes over and over and over again, somewhere along the line the parts of him that were so well trained, so carefully schooled he could control his heartbeat and his chemosignals and his every minuscule emotion like his own body was his puppet, those parts died, ripped out of him a thousand times over alongside Tara's heart and left to rot on that cold hospital floor.

He thinks, privately, in some dark corner of his mind, that Liam might be the only one of them that's actually maybe worthy of being an Alpha. He's explosive and angry, yes, but when the anger drains out he's quiet and clever, stubborn and selfless and so quick to forgive. He's rushing headfirst into danger to give his friends a fighting chance, he's pounding fists against stone until his knuckles break to stop himself hurting a kid who honestly deserved it, he's a heart skipping traitorously over 'I'm not dying for you either.' He's the only one Theo might delude himself into believing has possibly come close to forgiving him, despite it all, despite Theo manipulating him into attacking his own Alpha, despite Theo taunting him and goading him at every opportunity because once, Before Skinwalker Prison Theo thought it was kind of funny to see how many buttons he could press before Scott's favourite blew a fuse.

All that, and he's still the top contact in Theo's pitifully empty phone, he's still the one who came looking that night after the hospital, after Gabe, limping on his own bullet wound, to find Theo sprawled in the back of his truck, rolling the crumpled slug he pulled from his sluggishly bleeding shoulder across the scratched plastic of the tray and trying to erase the feeling of death creeping through his veins as Gabe's heart gave out, pain free. He doesn't know where he stands with a lot of the pack these days, other than understanding the general air of discontent and distrust whenever he happens to be in the same room, but with Liam, at least, their relationship is relatively clear, cut and dried. They're not friends, probably never will be, but they went through something together, survived something together, and that simple act has tied some sort of invisible string between them that has Theo gravitating towards Liam like he's a sharp metal blade and Liam a magnet.

Maybe he's lonely, left behind by everything he's known, cracked open by Tara's hand in his chest, left exposed in the aftermath in such a way he doesn't know how to put the mask back on and pretend anymore. Maybe Liam doesn't look at him like a monster, just a puzzle, not ugly-messy-killer boy but beaten-tired-trying boy. It's not much but it's enough for him to think maybe one person in this fucked up town doesn't completely hate his guts, and that breadcrumb of hope is enough to stir the dead thing in his chest into some sort of continued existence every morning.

None of that stops him from feeling a little like a bug under a microscope, now, trapped in this moment that seems to last hours and seconds at the same time, caught in the arcing swing of the pendulum on a grandfather clock, caught under Liam's gaze that sees too much and not enough at the same time. He fights the urge to let his hands curl into fists, tries instead to remember what it felt like to break Liam’s nose - four weeks ago, five, it doesn’t matter - last time so he doesn’t give in to the urge to do it again, bloody and broken, right here in front of all these hospital staff, these Normal people who might not be so Normal after all. Half of them were here, were working when Monroe’s hunters took over the hospital, when they threw guns into the hands of children and told them to go to war against their classmates, told them that murdering a teenager for being Something Else would net them a win in some sort of moral war as well as the actual, bloody, violent one.

He wonders if any of them recognise him and Liam, two teenagers lingering in a hospital hallway, two Others making themselves easy targets.

“What?” He snaps, surprises himself a little with the sharp tone, but Liam hasn’t moved, hasn’t stopped pinning him with that piercing look, and that’s supposed to be Theo’s job, reading him like an open book, putting together all the little invisible tells and figuring out exactly which buttons to press to get the reaction he wants, the fallout he wants, writing the script and having Liam-Scott-Stiles, all, follow along without ever even realising it. He’s not so good at that anymore, lost that skill somewhere around the three hundredth time Tara ripped her heart out of his chest.

Liam has the grace to look bashful, peeling himself off the desk in a way that looks vaguely like tearing apart Velcro, wobbling to his feet in a way that speaks of long days and longer nights, exhaustion drifting off him like cologne. “Sorry, you just…seem different.”

The apology rolls of his tongue so easily, so simply, like Theo can’t count on just his fingers how many times someone has offered him any sort of apology, and it’s about nothing, about accidentally staring in a fatigued sort of way, but it’s about so much more than that in his head and Liam’s simple-easy camaraderie makes something in his chest ache even fiercer.

‘You seem different’ Liam says, and Theo thinks about his belt being two holes tighter, shirts hanging a little looser, hard ridges of bone hidden beneath. He thinks about long, uncomfortable nights, broken up into sections of haunted sleep and a constant, thick exhaustion he wears like a second skin. He thinks about the sandwich he wolfed down at the last pack meeting to discuss the Hunters, two days ago, that barely made a dent in the gnawing, empty feeling of his insides. It’s fine, he’s managing, he’s still alive; call it another test, perhaps. How long can The Subject sustain itself with no resources?

He wonders how much of that Liam can see, wonders if ‘different’ means ‘thin’ or ‘tired’ or ‘a facsimile of who you were before’.

Theo chooses to ignore the comment entirely, stuffs his hands a little deeper in his pockets, shakes around the boxes of himself in his mind to find some semblance of his usual cold, calculating snark. His lips curl into an expression that is all fangs without ever baring his teeth, one eyebrow lifted in challenge. “You call me here just to stare, Dunbar?”

[huyaoxiaozi]

@feilien | CONT.

       Getting out of bed that morning had been more difficult than ever before. Matt was here, peacefully asleep in his arms, warmth and safety enveloping them both, even if it was temporary. He'd wanted nothing more than to stay there for as long as Matt wanted; he wouldn't have cared if it had been all day long. Having the chance to laze in bed all day with someone he adored sounded heavenly.

       Unfortunately, Li Ming had a job for him to do nearby — so, Zane had carefully extracted himself from Matt so he wouldn't wake him and briefly went to get the sketching supplies to keep him busy whenever he woke. It was the best way he could think of to still take care of Matt even while he was away, in more ways than one. Then there was nothing left to do but to get the job done.

       When he returned hours later, the apartment was dark. At first, Zane thought Matt must still be asleep — but, when he flipped on the light switch, he saw Matt hunched over the sketchbook, drawing away. Their eyes met and Zane couldn't have stopped the warm, affectionate crooked smile that tugged at his lips if he'd tried. He set their take out bags on the counter first then approached Matt from behind where he sat on the couch. Zane leaned down to wrap his arms around Matt's shoulders with a sigh as he peered at what he'd been working on. With a swell of pride, he saw that several pages had already been used.

       Zane nudged the side of Matt's head with his own. ❝Was there a reason you've been drawing in the dark this whole time? You're already practically blind,❞ he teased lightly, his voice a low rumble close to Matt ear… and then, he was already pressing a kiss against the others jaw, a couple against his neck, breathing him in. Zane just couldn't help himself.

[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.