#snippet from my fic

[guplia]

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

[shylittlemoss]

Snippet from my fic posted on AO3

I wanted to practice drawing Wally and difficult angles, what better way then to practice using my fic as a reference.

I drew my Sona, Moss, rather than an Y/N insert. Maybe I'll make it more inclusive :)

Link: Laughter is the best medicine

[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

[baambastic]

“Drake,” Damian announced, “I require your presence at an outing this afternoon.”

“‘Hello, Tim, how are you?’ ‘I’m good, Damian, and how about you? Did you need something?’ It’s usually considered polite not to walk in and immediately make demands of people, Damian,” Tim replied from where he was hunched over his keyboard. He didn’t look over at his unexpected visitor, but he bet the brat was rolling his eyes.

“Whatever. Will you do it or not?”

Tim hummed. “Depends on what this ‘outing’ is. And why you didn’t ask Bruce or Dick to take you.”

“Father and Grayson are both imbeciles,” Damian huffed.

“They’re too busy today, you mean?”

“I meant what I said. Are you an imbecile like they are?”

“Again, you haven’t told me what it is you want to do.”

“Fine,” Damian grumbled. “Colin has asked me to do something called an ‘escape room’ with him. It sounded mildly diverting, so I looked into it. There’s a recently opened establishment for such an activity, but we need four people to participate.”

“And you want me to be one of those four,” Tim concluded. He pushed himself away from the computer. “I’ve got time, so sure, I’ll come with. Two things, though.” He paused for dramatic effect.

Damian crossed his arms impatiently. “Yes?”

Tim grinned. “First, who’s this Colin?”

“An acquaintance. He assisted me in apprehending Victor Zsasz not long ago.”

“Is he around your age?”

“Approximately.”

Was he some sort of meta, then? How else would a (presumably untrained) kid be able to handle Zsasz? Tim decided to file that away for later inspection. At least it sounded like Damian was making friends. He definitely needed some. “Alright then, second thing. You said you needed four people. Even with me, you only have three. Who’s your fourth?”

Damian looked away. “I… hadn’t gotten that far yet.” Was that embarrassment Tim heard in his voice? Damian was usually too proud for that.

“Okay, not a problem. I can wrangle us another person.” If the person he was thinking of could make it, both Damian and them could get a lot out of this. Hurrah for two birds with one escape-room-shaped stone.

“Very well. Colin and I will be waiting outside for you. I presume this fourth person will meet us at the establishment?”

“Probably, yeah. Did you really leave Colin on my doorstep?”

“He did not want to enter, I would say because he thought he might be unwelcome. A stupid notion; you are far too trusting.”

“Thanks,” Tim said drily. He waved towards the door. “Alright, lemme make this call.”

Damian nodded and walked away. Before fully exiting the room, though, he turned back to Tim. “What are you working on, anyway?” he asked.

Tim hummed. “Nothing much. Just preparing.” He didn’t offer any further explanation. After a few moments of waiting expectantly, Damian huffed and left.

[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.

[butch-buckley]

“So, you told him you were gay.”

Jake nods.

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay, Javy,” comes Nat’s voice from in front of the dartboard. Bob hands her another dart, and she tosses it at the wall.

“I never said there was!” says Javy defensively. 

They’re drinking at the Hard Deck, something of a send-off before their collective two-week leave. A leave that, unfortunately, falls directly on Jake’s high school reunion. Apparently, being a hero means everything begins to fall into unfortunate place.

Javy takes another sip of his beer. “What’s the wrong part, then?” asks Fanboy, sitting next to him. 

“He assumed I had a boyfriend,” Jake sighs.

“And you had to awkwardly correct him, and he thinks it’s going to be weird that you’re the only one there without a partner,” says Javy.

Jake purses his lips.

“You did correct him, didn’t you?” the other man asks, slowly looking up from his beer.

Jake is silent. 

“Seresin. Tell me you corrected him.”

Jake covers his face with his hands, his confident demeanour all but destroyed by that fateful conversation. “I didn’t know what else to say! He was talking so fast, and he was so excited, and I’m—”

“—painfully single and embarrassed by it,” finishes Fanboy.

“I wouldn’t say painful. Or single,” adds Javy. “Embarrassed, yes.”

Jake glares at the both of them. “I’m not embarrassed. I’m… waiting.”

“Yeah, waiting with your legs wide open,” calls Nat. Bob sputters next to her.

“Don’t slut-shame me, Trace,” Jake says, pointing a finger at her.

“Stating a fact isn’t slut-shaming. You’re not exactly closed for business,” Nat points out. 

Bob shrugs. “He’s right, Nat. It’s not very feminist to talk about how the guys Jake chooses to bring home. Or how many of them there are.”

“Wise choice, mansplaining feminism to the female pilot holding a dart,” says Nat, pointing the projectile at Bob’s chest. He raises his arms in surrender, and she flicks it at the target.

“What’s this about mansplaining? I thought that was Hangman’s department,” comes a voice from the doorway.

And there’s Rooster, sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, a shining grin plastered on his face. He’s next to Jake in an instant, taking the empty seat beside him. “Or is Bob usurping your role?”

“Can it, Bradshaw,” Jake says. “I’m no misogynist.”

“That was just the repressed homosexuality talking,” adds Nat.

Jake shrugs. “She’s not wrong.”

[hedwig221b]

Six Sentence Sunday

tagged by @renmackree, thank you, love! 💕

Those weren’t scratches; Stiles was fucking lucky that Derek missed the main arteries. There was no way he was going to the hospital, because a) Dad would have a heart attack; and b) Derek would drown in guilt. Fuck, they would definitely scar, though. As if he didn’t have a set on his chest already. Whatever, none of it mattered. Not when Derek needed him.

[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

[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.

[reminiscentrainclouds]

[powerfultenderness]

okokokok I know I've been writing a lot of nasty no good Soap lately. So here's a cute little snippet of Soap trying to be sly and get a kiss out of Pretend Girlfriend!Reader (and the fake dating was her idea/request).

Honestly, this whole time Johnny has been nothing but a gentleman. You're sure sleeping with him-beside him!- will be fine, nothing to be uncomfortable about, you're both adults and things have been very clear. Convinced of that, you drop your phone on the nightstand to your side and reach over to turn off the lamp.

Johnny does the same, but hesitates before turning off the light.

"I think there's one thing we forgot, doll."

You pause mid shuffle and look at him, "hm? What?"

"Well, weddin's are romantic."

"Yea..?" you blink at him and sit back up.

"And when couples are feelin' romantic, they kiss."

Even as your face heats up, you let out a scoffed laugh as grins at you. His eyes are practically glowing as he wiggles his brows. "Ye don' wan the first time we kiss to be in front of yer family. We should definitely practice."

You laugh again, this time clearly nervous, but tap your chin in thought. "You do have a point..." You draw out as you think. You'd be lying if you said a spontaneous kiss from him wouldn't leave you flustered, not at all what the reaction from someone who has supposedly been dating for six months should be.

"Alright," you say and motion for him to fully face you.

His grin loses some of it's smugness as he leans in, one hand moving to gently cradle the side of your face as the distance between you shrinks. "Don' worry, I'll be-"

He doesn't get the chance to finish his sentence as you move faster than him. You quickly press your lips to the side of his face and with extra emphasis make a loud "MUAH!" sound.

Johnny stills, hand stuck in the air with a confused, stupefied, look on his face as you giggle at him.

"Is THAT how ya kiss yer man?!"

Now your giggles are a full blown laugh. "I have never once made out with a partner in front of my family! They'd instantly catch on if I started tomorrow!"

"Really?" He doesn't push for another kiss and even he is chuckling at the way you turned it on him. "Never even snuck out to be alone in some back room or somethin'?"

"Nope." You shuffle back under the blankets. "Now get some sleep, Johnny. I need you to charm some aunties into leaving me alone tomorrow."

He lets out one more chuckle before he turns off his bedside lamp, "alrigh'. Goodnigh, hen."

[clare-with-no-i]

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

[ariadne-mouse]

For the "I wish you would write a fic where…" I don't know if this counts because it's not a new fic, but:

"Was? Essek? I thought you were out of town?"

Caleb wakes up with obsidian flakes of a'a in his hair and and no memory of the last few years. His very-new boyfriend has adopted his cat, there's a court case for his attemped murder, and he might have been a ghost?

A followup to The Fire Kept Closest, from Caleb's POV, filling in the timejump to the epilogue.

Thank you for the ask! It took me a minute to get to this ask game, but here we are. I am not writing exactly to the prompt, but I hope you like this 830-word slice of post-fic Volcaleb nonetheless!

-

"I would like to go, I think."

Essek paused where he had just gathered a scoop of cat kibble. The awaiting dish lay on the floor, empty. "Are you sure?"

"Ja," Caleb answered. He folded the local newspaper he had been reading in half, the headline visible: Corporate Clash: Cerberus takes the stand. "I know it's best my situation stays out of the spotlight, at least for now, but I want him to see me. To see my face, and know that I know." His expression darkened. "I want him to sweat."

At Essek's feet, Frumpkin yowled his impatience, unaware of corporations, or bureaucracy, or indeed the significance of newspapers beyond the fact that they were sometimes fun to sit on.

"Calm down, calm down," Essek tutted, and gave the beast his meal. He smoothed a hand down Frumpkin's back, thinking. "I'll go with you, if you really want to go."

Caleb smiled grimly. "Danke. I would like that. But I have an idea, also - you can help."

-

Vence Nuthaleus cleaned up well in a suit, and he knew it. It was unfortunate that the volcano on Rumblecusp had popped its top as soon as it had, but he was still safely ensconced in respectability - and more importantly, plausible deniability. Research was only as good as records available, and his land use recommendation report had been scientifically sound with the data from the island's active seismometer network.

It didn't even alarm him that he was playing a kind of mutually assured destruction game with Cerberus. They wanted to publicly shed him as a "bad actor", especially convenient given his contractor status - but if they did, he'd reveal they had been the ones to disconnect the last seismometer. He had enough leverage in writing to make the accusation compelling, and they knew it. The thing they might most want to pin on him... well, they didn't have any evidence of that. All told, it was in Cerberus's best interest to protect him. And so he wore his most approachable suit, and a polite smile, and answered questions as earnestly as he could when he was on the stand. Mardoon Estate only wanted money, after all, and Cerberus certainly had plenty of that. Vence didn't need to be scapegoat for it all to work out eventually.

The courtroom around him was full for the spectacle. The door creaked open every so often as the gawkers and media came and went, like bees buzzing on a hive. He sometimes saw familiar faces from the island: Dr. Vilya, Beauregard, Thelyss. Today the last of these was sitting in one of the back rows by himself, glaring at Vence like he always did when he was there. Too bad; being a stuck-up trust fund baby wouldn't help Thelyss here.

It was some minutes before Vence's attention was drawn by a spot in the standing room in the back that had not moved at all for some time. Even as his mouth answered the current question on autopilot, his eyes were drawn to look at the vacuum of stillness.

A dead man was looking back at him.

Vence's words curdled in his throat, choking his breath.

He was there. Caleb Widogast was there, standing among the throng.

"Mr. Nuthaleus?" prompted the examiner.

"I... I..."

The ghost - it could only be a ghost - stared at him with those eerie blue eyes, unblinking. He was dressed like he had been, for a hike on the mountain. There was even a lightweight heatsuit half-zipped and tied around his waist.

He looked exactly like he had when he had died. When--

Vence couldn't pull his gaze away. "Could- could you repeat the question?"

The examiner repeated it, and again Vence did not hear.

Nearby, Thelyss was standing up. He favored Vence with a last look of contempt before making for the double doors. The crowd parted to let him pass, but Widogast did not move. And Thelyss... walked right past him, like he wasn't there.

A chill rolled down Vence's spine and his breathing came faster. He could hear a ringing noise, his vision was narrowing.

With effort, he turned a smile to the judge. "I'm sorry, I think I need a moment."

When he turned back, Caleb Widogast was gone.

-

Outside in the hallway, Essek leaned on the wall next to Caleb, who sat heavily on a bench. The heat suit was stuffed back into a bag.

"Feel any better?"

A muscle in Caleb's face twitched, and his hand balled in a fist. "A little. I don't know. Seeing him-" His breath left him in a gust. "It was harder than I expected."

Essek touched his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.  "Come, then. Let's go. We can learn what happened later. Frumpkin is waiting for you at home."

This last tactic was always a surefire way to bring a little smile back to Caleb's face, and it proved to be so now.

“Ja,” Caleb agreed, straightening up.  “Let’s go home.”

[velvetrambles]

I'm so sorry for this

[voxofthevoid]

Yo, tis time for Nanaita Chikan Wednesday #1—this might have another entry, depending on how long I take to finish it. I started it just yesterday, and the fic is currently a modest 2.5k. It's part of the oneshot marathon and intended to be, well, a oneshot.

As the (nick)name suggests, the fic involves nanaita and train groping. I'm going for a no-Shibuya setting in this one. Yuuji's in his third year at J. Tech. You'll see why.

Now, people who want to see Nanami groped in public, come closer 🫴

The train resumes moving with another jolt, but this time, Itadori is as steady as bedrock, keeping both of them rooted to the spot.

“You…can let go now,” Kento hears himself say.

There’s a sharp exhale. Itadori’s arm loosens, shifts—a slow, leisurely drag that somehow culminates in a broad palm splayed wide over Kento’s stomach.

He stares down at it, blinking as if that will force the sight to make more sense.

“Nanamin,” Itadori asks slowly, “did you shrink?”

Sheer incredulity seals Kento’s voice for a moment.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps the moment he recovers.

“I know, but…” The hand on Kento’s stomach flexes, pressing down more firmly. “Feels like you’ve shrunk.”

Kento tries to ignore his sudden, searing awareness of the skin under Itadori’s palm. “I’m the same size I’ve been since long before you met me. You’re the one who grew.”

“Huh,” Itadori says like it’s a revelation. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

It’s ridiculous. All of this is ridiculous.

But the most ridiculous part might be Itadori’s apparent unawareness of his own damn size. He wasn’t a small boy even at fifteen, but in the two years since, he’s grown taller and broader to a frankly concerning degree, given that he now stands a good head above even Gojou, with the breadth to match. He made Tōdō look small the last time Kento saw the two of them stand together.

The bulk is one thing. A natural enough change, at the end of the day. Kento is well aware of the difference between his lanky fifteen-year-old body and his current frame. Even Gojou filled out between sixteen and twenty, not growing much taller but putting on more and more muscle with every year. But there’s something unnatural about Itadori’s flesh—something that goes beyond skin and bone to writhe with the fifteen fingers Itadori has consumed and digested and made manifest.

Kento remembers, with a hollow swoop of his stomach, the time Gojou wondered out loud whether even the size is yet another gift Sukuna has inadvertently bestowed on Itadori.

His tone was more discomfiting than the theory could ever hope to be.

He expects Itadori to let him go now that he’s received the ridiculous answer to his ridiculous query, but when the hand on his stomach twitches into motion, it’s only to slip a few centimeters down, curving over his hip.

The bone there twinges despite being protected from Itadori’s palm by a thick pair of pants and matching jacket.

“Itadori-kun—”

“I like it,” Itadori announces.

“Excuse me?”

“This.” Itadori squeezes Kento’s hips like he’s demonstrating what this is. “I like that you’re small.”

“I am not small,” Kento retorts, even as a part of him wonders why that’s what he’s focusing on.

“True,” Itadori concedes. His voice is light and cheerful, practically chirpy. “But you’re smaller than me now. I like it! How’d I miss it all this time?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Kento says stiffly. “It’s quite obvious.”

“It really is, huh? I mean, you’re smaller than Satoru too.”

Kento gives up on categorizing his emotions, closing his eyes in vain hopes that the darkness will restore sense to the world.

It does not.

“Now that you’re done reacquainting yourself with reality,” he tells Itadori, “unhand me, please.”

“Do I have to?” Itadori asks, a whining note in his voice.

Kento almost chokes on thin air. “What kind of a question is that?”

Itadori’s response is a bodily thing. He crowds closer, his free arm bracing it against the glass door above Kento’s head, and there’s not much room between their bodies for Itadori to violate, but it feels like he does anyway, shrinking space in some perverse imitation of his teacher’s technique to crush their  bodies together, and it doesn’t shove Kento even an inch closer to the glass doors, but it still feels like they’ve also grown closer, trapping him in a pocket of heat-filled space.

And his hand does uncurl from Kento’s hip, only to slide back up to his stomach—and then up and up and up, the buttons of his jacket somehow being undone by the motion. Itadori’s palm presses like a brand to the shirt underneath, his tanned skin standing out against its subdued blue.

Itadori’s chin comes to rest on Kento’s shoulder. In the glass, his eyes are heavy from lids to pupils.

“Nanamin,” he says, his voice low and unfortunately husky, “I like this.”

The last of Kento’s willful ignorance dies a whimpering death.

“Itadori-kun, no.”

“C’mon,” Itadori wheedles, a tone not befitting his size or his age or the character buried significantly further north of where Itadori’s brain currently seems to be. “No one’s going to care.”

“That’s not the point!” Kento snaps. “And of course they’ll care—we’re in public.”

Itadori laughs. It’s genuine. Bright, bubbly, warm.

A chill seeps through Kento’s bones.

“The public won’t do anything,” Itadori says, the laughter still threaded through his voice. “Even if they see, they’ll just pretend they didn’t. Well, some of them will watch. But they’re the worst pretenders.”

Kento is not, despite how the last few minutes have unraveled, a fool. He knows that these words mean. He knows the tone of a man speaking from intimate experience.

Haltingly, he asks, “Itadori-kun, has anyone…touched you like this?”

“Sure, that’s—oh. Ohh. Oh, no, Nanamin, not like that.” Itadori sounds charmed, even as the words and tone make an earnest attempt to reassure Kento, who does not feel particularly reassured. “No one’s done anything to me that I don’t want. And Satoru likes being the one touched anyway, you know that.”

Kento most certainly does not—

It hits, then, the full implications of what Itadori just said.

Kento freezes all over, an easy victim for the hand that grasps his jaw and the mouth that follows.

Itadori kisses him, sweet and searing.

Kento opens his mouth to voice a denial, a curse, and Itadori’s tongue plunges in, flooding his mouth with the peculiar taste of wet, warm flesh.

Heat suffuses his face, dripping down to his throat, his chest, his gut. Itadori’s hand presses more firmly against him as if in response, and the muscles underneath convulse in answer, a violent shudder that Kento can’t suppress but is smothered anyway by the body that crowds up even closer, it’s obscene bulk swallowing him up, and Itadori groans into his mouth, tilting Kento’s face up even more to slot their jaws better together and kisses him deeper, wetter, and Kento doesn’t kiss back, doesn’t do anything other than stand there stunned as his entire body stirs awake, but that doesn’t spare him the blistering knowledge of Itadori’s heat, his taste.

That bold, clever tongue flicks teasingly at his own as if to coax it out to play, and Kento’s guts make a spirited attempt at escaping through his navel.

Itadori isn’t deterred by the lack of response, his tongue taking to mapping out the insides of Kento’s mouth with leisurely strokes. There’s a noise there, trembling in the air and their flesh—a deep, humming noise, like a purr grown dark.

Itadori’s hand starts to wander, rubbing a firm, filthy circle over the clenched flat of Kento’s stomach and then sliding upward, scorching his skin through the single layer of fabric left over it. It comes to a greedy stop over one side of his chest, splaying over it, and at first, it’s just more heat, bypassing cloth to brand skin.

Then Itadori squeezes, his fingers closing tight around Kento’s pectoral like it’s a woman’s flesh.

Kento breaks the kiss in a surge of sense, snapping his head to the other side.

Itadori makes a lost little noise against his ear. “Nanamin?”

“Don’t you dare,” Kento rasps, his mouth still hot and ripe with a taste that will haunt him until the day he dies. “Have you lost your mind?”

“What’s wrong?” Itadori asks as if he genuinely doesn’t understand the million bloody things wrong with this situation. “You want to, right?”

Despite his better judgement, Kento can’t stop himself from asking, “What in the world gave you that idea?”

As expected, he regrets the answer: Itadori’s other arm leaving the glass to cup Kento’s groin.

Kento grabs his wrist a fraction of a second too late, and that oversized paw presses against the bulge between his legs—a bulge that’s fatter and hotter than it has any right to be.

Itadori squeezes the half-hard cock, and Kento’s toes curl violently inside his shoes.

“Stop—”

“See?” Itadori asks breathlessly. “You want it.”

Kento spares a moment he can’t afford to ponder who shaped Itadori’s idea of consent and how he can kill Gojou for it.

He’s squeezed even tighter for his trouble, tearing out a gasp that only makes Itadori touch him more boldly, the squeezing turning into merry massaging motions. The flesh there yields to nature, filling with heat and blood.

Kento tightens his grip, pulling Itadori’s wrist away, and he’s more surprised than anything when it works, but that’s short-lived. Itadori’s hand twists out of his grip, and Kento shields his groin on instinct, careful not to actually touch the tented crotch of his pants, but Itadori’s hand only slots gently over his own, covering it from wrist to fingertips.

It presses down, forcing Kento’s own palm flush with his groin.

His cock pulses with filth.

He makes the mistake of looking at Itadori’s reflection—a dark-eyed thing that wears its hunger proudly.

“Itadori-kun,” Kento breathes, “don’t.”

[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.