#snippet from my fic

[guplia]

I hate how this unrelated paragraph is the longest of all in an upcoming fic (will probably post today)

[catkettle]

little mistake

[burning-stars98]

"...We know from experience that Eggman neither respects nor answers to the gods. But he'd better pray to one of them that we're wrong ..." - Once A King, Always A King

[munsonkitten]

Eddie doesn’t know how this became a thing between them. He’s wrapped up around Steve’s back, arms and legs snaking around Steve’s body. He has one thigh between Steve’s, hooked over his hip and snug against his crotch. He can feel the soft bulge of Steve’s cock beneath his leg, and tries not to think too hard about it. 

One of Steve’s arms is tucked under Eddie in a way that makes it possible for him to scratch at Eddie’s hair through his hood. His fingers move rhythmically, sliding over the fabric covering Eddie's head. 

It’s cozy like this, tangled in a way where Eddie can't tell where he ends and Steve begins. It's not something friends do, especially not two guys, but neither one of them mention that.

Sometimes they just lay and talk, and sometimes, like today, they have a book in front of them, positioned in the hand Eddie has snaked beneath Steve’s neck. 

Eddie’s reading, soft and quiet into Steve’s ear, when it happens. Steve turns his head back and presses a kiss to Eddie’s chin. A quick little peck beneath his mouth. 

The words die in Eddie’s throat, choked off by a squeaky noise of surprise. He drops the book onto the bed, letting it fall shut because saving the page he’s on is the last thing on his mind right now. Steve just kissed him. A little kiss, not even on his lips, but still a kiss. From Steve. 

They’re both frozen there, so still Eddie doesn’t think either of them are even breathing, and then Steve’s disentangling himself, pulling away. The exact opposite of what Eddie wants to happen. 

He finds the front of Steve’s shirt clutched in his fist, holding him where he is. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Steve says, still attempting to pull away. “We’re friends — I don’t know what got into me, man. I didn’t mean to do that.”

One hand curls around his wrist, the other going to his fingers to try peeling them away from Steve’s shirt. Eddie closes his fist tighter, shaking his head. 

“Yes, you should have,” Eddie whispers, voice caught in his throat. “Done that, I mean.”

Eddie’s been kissed before. At bars and parties, by guys and girls alike, liquor on their lips or laughter on their tongues. The girls at parties in town were always dared — kiss the freak, see if he puts out (Eddie never did) — and the guys in bars were always drunk and too impersonal. It never went further than that, never felt quite right, especially not with the girls, but he’s been kissed before. 

None of that could have prepared him for the way Steve Harrington kisses him now.

[wispscribbles]

I want to eat your art and writing thank you so much

Haha well I'm always happy to keep you all fed. Here, have some old sketches <33

[clare-with-no-i]

rick doesn't get him like I get him I fear

[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.

[prince-liest]

Vox's priorities are SO intact.

[eddiethehunted]

hi it’s me with yet another snippet from a fic idk if i’ll ever finish 😈

——————

Eddie doesn’t bother knocking anymore. Steve hears the front door open and the distinct sound of Eddie kicking his boots off, probably flicking specks of mud all over the place, before calling out his name.

A smile tugs at his lips as he calls back, “I’m in the kitchen!”

Eddie walks in and jerks to a stop, taking in the sight. Steve had thrown on an apron just to make sure he didn’t get any sauce on his pants or Eddie’s shirt while he was cooking. It’s just an old thing that’s been in the kitchen as far back as he can remember, faded and stained and fraying around the edges. He’s pretty sure it belonged to his grandma before she passed away.

Still, it seems to really do something for Eddie. He clutches at his chest like Steve just shot him point blank, and says, in a wounded voice, “Oh, you devil. You little temptress. You… you…” He trails off, thinking hard as his eyes linger on Steve’s ass. “You coquette. Jezebel. Seductress.”

Steve laughs. “Hi, Eddie.”

“Hello, Stevie,” Eddie replies in an absolutely salacious voice, one that makes delightful little shivers run down Steve’s spine. “God damn, you look hot as fuck. You tryin’ to end this date night early?”

Steve turns away, rolling his eyes, but he’s grinning so big it hurts. “Go pick a movie or something.”

A pair of arms slips around his waist instead, and then there’s the tickle of frizzy hair against his cheek as Eddie hooks his chin over Steve’s shoulder to peek at the lasagna.

“Looks yummy,” he says, punctuating his statement with a lick on the side of Steve’s neck.

It’s not sexy, though, is the thing. It’s actually kind of gross. A little too slobbery and long and annoying. Steve knows Eddie did it on purpose when he groans and shoves him away, wiping at the spit, only to get a cackle and a swift slap to the ass in response.

[hiding-under-the-willow]

...

Alex Heath // ✨ // Melissa Broder // Haruki Murakami // ✨ // Tory Adkisson // ✨ // Richard Siken // Tennessee Williams // ✨ // Heather Havrilesky // ✨ // D.H. Lawrence // ✨ // Ruth Madievsky // ✨ // @.papayajuan2019 // Kerry Maniscalco // ✨ // James Baldwin // ✨ // Anaïs Nin

[lizardkingeliot]

Once you break the seal on letting Louis call Lestat baby in a fic it’s over you can’t stop he’s calling Lestat baby forever

[velvetrambles]

I'm so sorry for this

[gossippool]

i was gonna make a personal poolverine headcanons list because other people were doing it too but i realised my fics already have most of them so. here are some of my headcanons in fic snippet form. some contradict with others and some i don't even think are necessarily true but it's fun to experiment

people have said this before but logan fights wade because he sees himself in him (or because he realises that he actually doesn't and he hates that)

wade knows about and feels the (emotional and psychological) effects of all his other variant selves (and everything else if he tries)

logan's heightened senses gives him synesthesia

logan doesn't actually like violence/fighting/blood during sex or like ever. it's just an unhealthy addiction that started from him killing all those people that he snuffed with alcohol but revived with wade, and a way to take his anger out on (someone like) himself

with regard to wade's chronic pain slight p pressure on his skin hurts more and in a worse way than sharp pains like getting stabbed

[munsonkitten]

Eddie locks his ankles behind Steve’s back, thighs squeezing his sides, and holds him there.

“Stay inside,” Eddie whispers.

“Okay,” Steve breathes, shaking but easy. So soft and so sweet.

He’s still shaking, just resting against Eddie as they try to breathe together.

“You okay, Harrington?” Eddie whispers. He runs his hands up and down Steve’s sides, over the scars that match Eddie’s.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” Steve whispers, muffled into Eddie’s collar bone.

Eddie’s hands still, he freezes. Still blanketed under Steve’s trembling body, Eddie takes a deep, shaking breath.

“Pussy was that good, huh?” he jokes. Because there’s no way Steve meant that. There’s no way he even said it, nah, Eddie’s just hearing things.

Hearing things he wants to hear.

“No,” Steve says. He lifts his head. “I mean, yeah. Your pussy’s great, man, but no, that’s not — I just had to tell you, okay? It’s fine if you don’t feel the same, but you know, I have to be honest because we just… did all that, and it would be wrong for me to not tell you.”

“After we—” Eddie starts, but then all the words catch right up to his brain and he pulls Steve in for another kiss, so heated and full of all the words Eddie wants to say back.

Steve’s still inside him, still covering him with his body. It’s so hot in the room, and Eddie feels gross, but none of that matters because Eddie may feel gross, but he’s loved. Loved in a way he never has been, and that’s—

“Fuck, Steve,” Eddie laughs. He thinks he might start to cry, thinks he might be already. “I mean, hell, I think I’ve been in love with you since, like, middle school, so there’s that.”

“You didn’t even know me,” Steve points out.

“Didn’t need to. Knew you were pretty,” Eddie whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth. “What about you? When did this revelation hit you?”

“At Reefer Rick’s,” Steve answers immediately.

“Oh yeah? Which time?”

“The first time, man. When you had that bottle pressed to my throat. Fuck, all I could think was that you were wild. Wild, but scared, man. Like an animal that shouldn’t be caged, I don’t know.”

“What the fuck, Steve? You’re telling me we could’ve been doing this the whole time?” Eddie jokes.

Steve shrugs. “Didn’t wanna scare you off. You, uh, you’re doing better now, than you were then, and even just, a few weeks ago, you know? And if I would’ve—”

“I would’ve ran,” Eddie realizes.

Steve shrugs. “I would’ve waited longer, you know. Just, you were lying there in nothing but a pair of fucking cut off shorts, squirming, man. You were squirming and whining, and fuck, you would’ve seen how hard I was if I didn’t say something first to beat you to the punch.”

Eddie laughs. “Can’t believe I got you that worked up.”

“You’re a fucking dream, Eddie Munson,” Steve says. “And I don’t wanna wake up from this one.”

And it’s fucking cheesy, it’s so fucking cheesy, but Eddie finds himself smiling, his grin overtaking his whole face. He can’t stop it, can’t contain it, doesn’t fucking want to.

“You sure know how to sweep a guy off his feet,” Eddie teases.

“Did that actually work?” Steve asks, his grin matching Eddie’s.

“Consider me swept, Harrington,” Eddie says with a wink. “My feet are thoroughly off the ground.”

Steve kisses him again, and he moves them, slipping out of Eddie’s messy cunt, but not letting him go, not going far. He grabs the joint and the lighter off Eddie’s nightstand and lights it up again, taking a hit before passing it over to Eddie. They lay on their sides facing each other, Steve’s arm slung over Eddie’s waist.

“Hoping to get me horny again?” Eddie asks as he brings the joint to his lips.

Steve laughs, ducking his head to hide himself in Eddie’s neck. “I’m hoping I’d get a second round without it, but hey, if it works, it works.”

“Don’t worry, baby, you can have as many rounds as you want,” Eddie promises.

Something has definitely changed between them, but strangely, as Eddie lays in his bed beside Steve, smoking the rest of the joint they were working through earlier, it feels like nothing’s changed at all. They’ve been in love with each other this whole time, been living in each other’s pockets for the entire summer. Steve’s seen Eddie naked before, he’s helped him bathe, helped him change his bandages, helped him brush his hair, and makes sure he’s eating.

All these acts of kindness have never been because they’re just friends, and Eddie knows that now, and he thinks he knew that before, too. He kisses the top of Steve’s head, noses against his sweat damp hair, and holds him closer.

Soon they’ll have to get up and clean up, to wash away the evidence of what they just did, and they’ll get in the shower together, not for the first time, but for the first time when they both know what it means, and Eddie will hold Steve close, and he’ll ask Steve to call him angel and sweet boy, and—

They’ll clean up later.

Now, though, he whispers a quiet, “Yeah, I love you,” and holds him tight, and hears the same three words whispered back.

excerpt from strange as angels on ao3

[the-bar-sinister]

“You’ve had me here for weeks now. Please tell me you’re going to untie me. I won’t try to escape.”

“Sorry, babe , trust isn’t won that easily.”

“How can I get you to trust me, then?”

“You could kill someone. How about that? I’ll bring someone here, and you kill them, and then I’ll trust that you’re not going to run away and cry to the cops about this.”

[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.