#my snippets

[envysparkler]

“And if you could trade this one for the dead one, son for son, would you do it?”

For an instant, the image flashed into his head, seductive and alluring—Jason back, Jason home, Jason alive—before it vanished, leaving behind a young boy broken in pieces and Jason’s horrified expression.

“No,” Bruce said hoarsely, and it tore at him, but he could never trade one life for another.

“No?” Hood repeated, voice harsh.

“Because then I’d have no sons,” Bruce said quietly.

“Gave up on the dead brat already, huh.”

Bruce wished he could punch Hood and wipe the stupid sneer off his face.

“If I exchanged an innocent life to bring Jason back,” Bruce said, struggling to keep his voice level, “Then he would never speak to me again.”

[gretahayes]

I think Tim should have a bat necklace

[green-eyedfirework]

Dick stared at the baby in the cradle, frozen to the spot, unable to breathe.  He was so…small.  Tiny.  His little hand was formed into a fist and he was making soft little breaths and some part of Dick was drowning in happiness.  It felt like the world had narrowed down to the little curl of the baby’s mouth and his heart rose and fell with the infant’s breaths.

Nothing else mattered.  Not the aches and pains throughout his body, not the dread and anxiety twisting his gut, not the ticking clock hanging above his head.  His baby was here and that was enough.

“Damian,” Dick sounded out.  Not a name he’d picked—it was ill luck to pick a name before the babe was born, and Dick had no time to think of one before it’d been pronounced.  “Dami,” Dick shortened, and that felt better.  “Baby bat,” he whispered, the forbidden name hanging heavy in the air.

Damian was a part of the Bat pack, no matter what Ra’s al Ghul thought.  Dick was a part of the Bat pack.  And it was long past time that they went back home.

Dick adjusted the supply pack so it wasn’t cutting into his shoulders and reached into the cradle.  “Shh,” he hummed as he carefully scooped Damian up.  “Shh, it’s okay, Dami, Mama’s here.”  The babe woke up with a fussing sound and Dick hastily brought him closer.  “It’s okay,” he crooned, an eye on the door as his heart beat faster.  “Shh, it’s okay.”

Damian’s eyes fluttered open, one hand flailing at the movement, but then subsided, yawning wide and curling closer against Dick’s neck, breathing in his scent and relaxing.  The babe made a slight smacking sound and fell silent again, falling straight asleep.

Dick let out a shaky breath and fought the urge to cry.  He’d been terrified that Damian wouldn’t recognize him—it had been just a handful of days, Dick knew that, but between Ra’s al Ghul’s gloating and the others’ refusal to tell him how much time had passed, Dick had half-feared that the pup would have no idea who he was.  It was part of the reason that had spurred Dick into getting them out now.

“We’re going to be okay,” Dick whispered, drawing the cloak around them both.

The keep was silent, the corridors yawning and empty, and every near-silent footfall rose his apprehension.  It was the witching hour, late enough that everyone was asleep, and Dick stuck to the shadows as he avoided the patrols.  If he got caught now—well, Dick didn’t put it past Ra’s to throw him in a cell now that he’d served his purpose.

Dick kept glancing over his shoulder, worried that this whole thing was a trap, but no one spotted him.  No one shouted or raised the alarm.  No one stopped him from crossing the courtyard and slipping out of an unlocked wooden gate, Ra’s al Ghul’s precious heir slumbering in his arms.

“We’re going home, Dami,” Dick breathed out when the keep’s walls finally disappeared from sight.  The pack he hadn’t seen in nearly a year, his family, his siblings, Bruce, home.  Tears pricked at his eyes as he took a wavering breath.  “We’re finally going home.”

~#~

Dick was exhausted. He gave birth just days ago, and while fleeing the League pack had been aided by adrenaline, the effects had long worn off. The brief jolt of fear when he'd been captured by the Defiance pack hadn't lasted long after the alpha agreed to let Dick travel with them.

But the alpha had made it clear they wouldn't take any freeloaders. They were aiming to get through the mountains before the winter storms hit, and Dick swore that he wouldn't be a hindrance. Maybe slightly exaggerated how long it'd been since Damian's birth.

But he would do anything to get away from Ra's. Through the mountain meant back to the valley, back to the Bat pack, it had been nearly a year and Dick desperately wished to go home.

His feet ached. The first few days hadn't been that bad, with frequent stops and an easy path, but there were growing clouds on the horizon and it was clear that time was running out. If they didn't make it through the pass before the storm hit, they'd be stuck here till spring.

And Dick had tried to keep up with the increased pace, he really had, but Damian was a heavy weight tight against his chest, and the pack grew heavier by the hour, and Dick's trembling muscles grew weaker and weaker. He'd expected to fall behind, to slip past the other members of the pack, struggling up the path as the others disappeared from view, but he'd kept his position in a small knot at the back of the pack, with a few of the pack's warriors bringing up the rear.

Some of the others had offered to carry Damian for him, with sincere, open expressions, but Dick wasn't ready to let go of his son. Not now. Not when he still remembered the way Ra's ripped him away just moments after his birth.

But now they were stopped for the night, and Dick could take a moment to breathe. Breathe, and ignore the throbbing pain in his feet and the fire in his muscles and the shakiness and the increasing dread of what tomorrow would bring.

Damian made a sharp cry and Dick exhaled.

His baby was moderately well behaved when Dick was holding him, but gods forbid Dick settle him down, even to clean him up. Damian protested shrilly every time. It was a trial to get him to sleep at night and was definitely the reason that Dick arranged his furs away from the others. This pack was already giving him shelter and food and safety, he couldn't repay them with a wailing babe.

Dick finished cleaning Damian and untied enough of his cloak and tunic to bare a breast. Damian immediately began suckling, and Dick's own stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't picked up his dinner ration.

Dick squinted past the fire, towards the mouth of the cave, where laughter and conversation flowed. The very thought of standing back up and limping over there made him dizzy. He needed rest more than food. And better he not take too much, especially after slowing them down today.

Dick gently brushed the wisps of dark hair on Damian's head. His baby. His son. For Damian, everything was worth it.

He was so focused on the babe that he didn't register the footsteps until they stopped right behind him.

Dick half twisted in an immediate jolt of fear, keeping Damian out of view as he looked up. And up.

The alpha was looking down at him, expression a faint scowl, single eye burning.

"You didn't eat dinner," the alpha said. There was a bowl of something hot and smelling mouthwatering in his hand.

"Ah," Dick said, unsure how to continue. Was the alpha looking for acknowledgment? Apology? What—

Dick's train of thought stuttered to a halt when the alpha crouched, placing the bowl next to Dick.

"You need to eat," the alpha said, tone faintly disapproving, "To keep your strength up."

Dick flushed at this reminder of how he'd slowed them down and ducked his head. "Thank you," he said softly. Gruff and terse as it was, it was still kindness, of which Dick had seen none in the League pack.

Only an obsession with power and victory.  Ra's hadn't cared for Dick beyond the powerful heir that Dick could birth him.  He certainly wouldn't sit with Dick as Damian finally detached and Dick laid him down in the furs while he covered himself back up.

He certainly wouldn't have stayed as Damian realized his mother was no longer holding him and started crying, high and thin.

Dick attempted to shovel the food down his throat as fast as possible, heat creeping up his shoulders the longer the alpha stayed, watching him scream.

"Sorry," Dick said in a breath between spoons, "He doesn't like being put down."

The alpha made no visible sign of his annoyance.  "May I hold him?" he asked instead.

Dick almost choked on the stew. No, was the instinctive response, no, no one would ever take Damian away from him again, no, especially not another alpha—

But Dick was keenly aware that he was here on the alpha's sufferance, and Dick ducked his head in a nod.

He couldn't breathe as the alpha reached out and picked up the crying babe.

He was gentle.  Practiced, in a way that spoke of long time with babies.  A little rocking and Damian quieted, looking with wide eyes up at this new person.

The alpha chuckled. Dick stared.

"What's his name?"

This time, Dick didn't choke, fear worn down to alertness but not panic as the alpha lightly tickled the babe's belly, showing no ill intent.

"Damian."

"Strong name," the alpha hummed, tapping one of Damian's little fists.  The babe immediately caught the finger.  "For a strong babe," the alpha smiled.

That was too close to what Ra's had said.  Dick scraped up his last few spoons of stew to avoid a response.

"How old did you say he was?"

Dick swallowed.  The alpha was looking down at the babe, not at him, and Dick frantically tried to remember what he'd said.  He'd implied that it had been more than a month for sure.

"Five weeks," Dick said.

"How strange," the alpha looked up, blue eye pinning him in place, gaze level and hard. "Because the last time you told me six weeks."

Dick went cold. He couldn't breathe. Damian was still in the alpha's arms—an angry alpha's arms, a few feet away yet so far from Dick's reach.

"How old is he really?" the alpha demanded, voice even but steely.

Dick's gaze didn't move from his son. "Two weeks. I think."

"You think?"

"I don't—" Dick swallowed, paralyzed, "I don't know.  How many days.  No—no one told me."

Something flashed in the alpha's eye, angry and dark.

"Please," Dick tried, mouth dry. He couldn't look away from Damian. "Please, I swear I can keep up. I can. Don't make me leave. Please."  Ra's was undoubtedly out there, looking for him. Looking for his heir. And if he caught Dick—

Ra's had already gotten what he wanted from Dick. And Dick couldn't leave Damian all alone.

"I do not appreciate being lied to," the alpha said coldly, and Dick made a choked sound. He needed Damian back, please, his baby, Dick wanted him back—"Unexpected information causes delays. And our window for getting through the mountains is short."

"I'm sorry, alpha." Dick couldn't think. His head was ringing and his mouth was dry and his babe was in someone else's arms.

The alpha made a grumbling sound and reached out to hand Damian back. Dick snatched his baby with alacrity.

"Our pace tomorrow will be slower," the alpha said, straightening up, "Get some rest."

Dick stared at his departing back, thoroughly confused.

~#~

Their pace was indeed not as punishing, but Dick got very little rest with a demanding babe. The alpha must've said something to the others, because Dick's rations suddenly increased—he was being fed more than nearly anyone else—and one of the pack's healers approached him to give him a check up, but the alpha made no mention of the punishment for the lie.

They were a few days from the pass, shielded from a flurry of snow by the half tunnels they were walking through, and Dick had used the abundance of fires to take the time to air out his furs and wash his clothes. His little nest was in a corner as always, and he was facing away from the pack as he nursed Damian.

Footsteps, echoing through the stone. Dick glanced back, and froze when he caught sight of Slade.

The alpha's gaze was narrowed on Dick's back. For lack of anything else to wear, Dick was in the loose silks he'd worn in the League pack, too flimsy to do anything but entice. Dick's mouth went dry as the alpha stepped closer and knelt on the edge of the furs.

Dick abruptly turned away, heart rate skyrocketing.

No, was the overriding thought, but Dick was unattached and clearly fertile, and taking up pack resources to boot. It was only reasonable that he had to do something to pay for his place, and Dick knew that he was attractive. This shouldn't be a surprise.

Dick squeezed his eyes shut and suppressed the shaky breath. The alpha's anger at the lie made somewhat more sense—he wanted to know whether Dick was still torn up from the birth. But there were other things they could do, so the alpha didn't have to wait.

Fingers skimmed Dick's shoulder, sliding the sleeve of the silks off. The other sleeve was already off so Damian could feed, and the silks dropped to pool around his waist, leaving his top bare.

Dick choked down the sob. This wasn't Ra's. Slade had never hurt him. This pack was kind. This wouldn't be the League all over again. No one would hurt him here.

Fingers stroked down his back, catching and sliding on the scars that littered his skin, tracing patterns and making Dick shiver. Just scars, Dick reminded himself, shaking off the memory flash of pain, the agony, the way Dick hadn't been able to move for days afterwards—

"Who did this?" growled a very angry alpha.

Dick responded to the tone before the words, half curling around Damian with a shudder, pulling free of Slade's touch in the process. The alpha didn't follow, and when Dick twisted to meet his gaze, the alpha's rage was clearly visible.

Dick could feel the whip strikes against his skin, every last one.

"Those are recent," Slade nearly snarled, "Only months old. Who did this?"

How was Dick supposed to answer that?  Slade had made no probes when Dick had asked to cross the mountains with them, and Dick knew that the alpha had assumed that Dick's pack was dead. If he knew that Dick was running...

"I—it was another pack," Dick said slowly.

"Which pack."

Determined to not let him evade this time, then. Dick held Damian tighter. "The League," he said quietly.

~#~

They were at the pass, sheltered in a cave smaller than their usual. A storm had blown in—a weak one, but strong enough to halt their approach before midday. Dick had seen the alpha and his inner circle conferring, all of them visibly agitated, before they'd been given the order to stop.

It was a good decision not to attempt the pass in the middle of a snowstorm. The problem was if another storm followed before this one stopped, they were stuck. Trepidation and frustration ran through the entire pack.

Dick stayed in a corner, back against the wall, tracking the unrest. His arms were aching but he kept rocking Damian—he didn't want to risk frustration turning on a screaming infant.

The pack settled after a few hours, grumbles pacified, order restored to keep moods cheery. Most people dropped off to sleep in preparation for the hard day's trek in front of them.

Dick wasn't one of them.

His instincts had been bad enough after fleeing Ra's' pack, a new mother running on hyperawareness, but Slade's pack had provided a stabilizing effect. Dick had never forgotten that this wasn't his pack though, that he couldn't fully let down his guard, not with a baby to take care of, and the hypervigilance was keeping him awake.

He was exhausted, but something inside him wouldn't let him sleep.

The alpha and his warriors crept through the cramped cave in regular intervals, and Dick dully watched them go. The fires had dimmed down by the time the alpha stopped in front of Dick.

"You aren't sleeping," the alpha said.

"Can't," Dick whispered, because he was so exhausted but he just couldn't. He couldn't even keep looking up at Slade, his head drooped down, too heavy to lift.

"Come with me," the alpha turned on a heel and walked away.

It took a moment for Dick to register the command, and several more to lever up on aching feet. He stumbled after the alpha, drained and aching, and nearly walked into his back in a daze.

"Get in," Slade ordered, and Dick looked past him and at the pile of furs. Slade's pile of furs.

Dick's heart beat stuttered.

It took him a stretching moment to figure out how his limbs worked, but he jerkily crawled into the nest of furs. Damian and his little basket went to the side. He told Slade that he couldn't sleep, it made sense that the alpha wanted to burn off some restlessness, he—

A hand dragged roughly through his hair as he was covered by furs. "Sleep," the alpha said, "No one can touch you here."

No one could. He was in the alpha's nest, no one but the alpha could come after him, and Ra's wasn't the alpha, and Slade was walking away.

Something loosened in Dick's chest. Pack, safety, warmth.

Dick didn't remember closing his eyes.

~#~

Something woke him up a little later, or maybe it was a dream, hazy and dark. The scent of alpha became stronger, the warmth winding around him and pulling him towards the source of heat, and Dick fit comfortably in the hollows. He was out before he could try opening his eyes.

~#~

Dick woke up slowly. He was warm and safe and protected, utterly secure and content. The air smelled like alpha-mine-care and Dick was cradled in warmth.

Something had awoken him though, and Dick resurfaced to hear a thin, hesitant, hiccuping cry. Someone was making shushing sounds as Dick struggled all the way awake, Damian on his lips.

There was a figure crouched over the basket. Dick had a single moment to panic before he recognized the figure, and Emma pushed the basket closer to him with a soft smile.

"He's hungry," she said quietly, and Dick wriggled free of the furs to sit up. There was something wrapped around him, though, and it tightened around his waist as he tried to get up.

Damian made an actual cry, and Dick abandoned getting free to reach for the basket. Emma passed it over, her lips quirking, and Dick had his clothes shifted to allow Damian to latch on and start drinking before he stirred all the way awake.

"Alpha doesn't want to get up," Emma said teasingly, and Dick blinked at her.

These—these weren't his furs. He was sitting in the middle of camp, not a corner. And the pressure snaked around his waist was an arm clutching him tight.

Dick stared down at the sleeping alpha's face with numb surprise. Slade had curved around him, Dick tucked snugly in his grasp, and he didn't let go, even as he cracked open his eye.

"Alpha had a long night," Slade said gruffly, his arm tightening around Dick's waist.

"Of course," Emma agreed too easily, still grinning, and Slade made a low rumble as he pushed upright.

He stayed pressed against Dick, hand moving up to cup Damian's head as the pup sucked busily.

The rumble changed to something distinctly pleased as Slade plastered himself against Dick's back, tucking Dick into his arms and resting his chin on Dick's head for a moment.

"Good morning," he said quietly, and for a moment, Dick was in a different life.  A life where he could've woken like this every day, where he didn't have scars, where he wasn't running, where he wasn't terrified that his babe would be ripped from his arms.

"Good morning," Dick returned softly, relishing the moment for as long as it lasted.

~#~

"He's never going to learn to walk if you keep that up," Grant calls out, throwing a handful of grass at Slade.  Slade ignores him, hands firmly around Damian as the baby coos at a flower.

Dick snorts from his position in the grass.  He can look away from Damian now, can leave him with Slade without the clenching worry, but Slade's taken up the overprotective role in response.  "You learned to walk just fine," Wintergreen says dryly, walking over, "Alpha, our scouts have a report."

"Grant can take care of it," Slade says without looking up.  Damian is making grasping motions at the flower.

Grant groans but gets up.  "Can't believe I've been supplanted as the favorite child," he grumbles as he walks away.  Wintergreen goes with him, leaving only Slade, Dick, and Damian in the little meadow.

"Mama!" Damian waves at him.  Dick grins and waves back, laughing as Damian attempts to fight Slade's grip to get back to Dick.

Slade leads him back slowly, and his mouth is quirked in a small smile as Damian collapses on Dick's stomach.

"Mama, fo," Damian shows him the tiny fistful of petals and Dick kisses his little forehead.  Damian giggles, and Dick could never think he was Ra's' child like this.

Slade stiffens, straightening suddenly.

"Slade?" Dick calls out slowly, tightening his grip on Damian.

"Someone's here," Slade says evenly, staring at the trees and Dick hurriedly sits up, Damian curled in his lap.  He can't see anyone, but there's the faintest prickle on the back of his neck, like someone is watching them—

A dark blur drops out of the trees.

Dick scrambles up with Damian immediately, stepping back as Slade steps forward—and freezes when he recognizes the hard green eyes and the flash of white in dark hair.  "Jason?"

"You know him?" Slade asks tersely, which on anyone else would be a shout.  Jason's watching like he's ready for a fight.

Dick doesn't care about either of them.  That's his brother.  He's here.

"Jason!" Dick says again, happy and hopeful and desperately worried that this is just a dream, "Jaybird!"

Jason moves forward as Dick moves forward, but Slade steps in between.  Jason immediately growls, low and deep, and Dick snaps into alertness.

"Slade, no, he's my brother," Dick explains, a mollifying hand on the alpha's arm.  Damian is peering curiously from where he's perched on Dick's hip.

"Brother," Slade repeats, and it doesn't exactly sound happy, but he steps to the side and Dick runs at the first member of his pack he's seen in over a year.

Jason barely manages to catch them instead of letting them tumble over, and Dick goes from smiling to sobbing, clutching at his brother, tightening his grip on Damian, something in him unclenching at the familiar scent of pack, home, safe.

"Dickiebird," Jason says, voice hoarse and cracking, and Dick cries harder.

[definitelynotshouting]

Hi smalletho nation i needed a warmup before digging into more hunger au so i decided to write a little snippet specifically intended to make @bad12amcomic want to beat me with hammers<3 its not much but i hope yall will accept this humble offering that has literally zero context whatsoever /silly

"You suck, Etho, never come near me again," Joel snaps. Then, with the edge of a sneer: "Sorry, I didn't mean that— except I did, you loser— bet you didn't see that one coming, did you, you stupid— blimmin'— good at everything...." His voice trails off, curdling and sour as it drips to the ground.

Etho's response is slightly more measured. "I dunno, Joel... seems like you kinda want my attention over here." One white eyebrow ticks up into a perfect arch, the glint of a sly smile teasing the corners of his eyes. The bare edges of a laugh tickle each syllable as he leans in close, both in mock and in challenge. "Maybe I don't suck as much as you think."

"I wish you did," Joel blurts, then flushes all the way to the roots of his hair, entire face flaming. "I-I mean, uh— oh, wow, nevermind, that came out weird. Look at the time— goodbye Etho, I hope Gem kills you really... stupidly. So I can laugh at you. Because I'm cool, and way cooler than you. Obviously."

[autocrats-in-love]

Hi! I love your writing style. Can you maybe write a fic about a villain who falls in love with a civilian, and the civilian getting over their initial fear of the villain?

Warming Up To You

Be Warned: Kidnapping

“So, what exactly are you trying to get from this?”

“Would you shut up?”

The civilian’s mouth snapped closed. They were handcuffed to the wall of, all things considered, a pretty nice evil lair. The villain was a few feet in front of them, staring at multiple computer screens as they typed something furiously. A part of the civilian was very scared of the villain.

A bigger part of them was extremely curious.

“It’s just,” the civilian said precariously. “Whoever your hero is, I promise you they don’t know me.”

“Your brother,” the villain said absently.

“What?” the civilian said incredulously. “There’s no way. When would he even have the time? I barely see him anymore--he’s always working.” 

The villain didn’t respond. The civilian was too far away to see the text scrolling on their screens.

“So. . .how long has he been fighting you? Like, I always knew he kept secrets, but this? How could he keep this from me? I can keep secrets.” the civilian said.

The villain let out a frustrated huff and took their fingers off the keyboard. 

“If I answer your questions, will you be quiet?” the villain said. 

“Sure. I mean, I’m also pretty hungry.” the civilian said.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“I’ve been here for hours!” 

The villain approached the civilian, crouched down to where they were sitting, and glowered at them.

“I could always gag you and throw you in a dark room. That’ll shut you up.” they said dangerously. 

The civilian swallowed nervously. But then they took a deep breath and grinned.

“I’m good. So, does my brother have any powers?”

The villain frowned. This person was no fun. With a sigh of resignation, The villain sat down.

“Your brother can stop time--so can I. That’s why he fights me, so he can stop me messing up the timeline. It’s really frustrating.” 

The civilian raised an eyebrow. The villain huffed.

“Fine. We’ve been fighting for five years. I’m sure you can piece together how he finds the time with his powers. I’m sure he didn’t tell you to protect you. But it doesn’t matter, I found you anyway because I’m good at my job.”

“Hmm.” the civilian said, leaning against the wall. “Interesting."

“Now, leave me alone.” 

The villain got up and started walking away.

“Wait.”

The villain turned around. The civilian saw them up close above them and knew how afraid they should be. The villain looked strong, imposing, and ready to fight. But being afraid wouldn’t help the civilian. 

“Thanks. This is probably my favourite of all the hostage situations I’ve been in.”

The villain stared at the civilian, puzzled. 

“What?” the civilian asked.

“. . .none of my hostages have ever thanked me before.” the villain said. 

“Wait, other hostages? Who?”

The villain pointedly turned on their heel and kept walking. But the civilian was sure they saw a smile on their captor’s face. It was cute. The civilian felt themselves blush.

[aliferous-ly]

Sometimes Tango sees gold. He's deep in the Warden's den, so surely everything is soaked in blue and green.

Prussian blue. DePrussian blue. Like depression. Eh? Good one, right?

Tango sighs. The gold only flits in the corner of his vision and he's tired, he's endlessly tired but he can't leave until he's done. It's already been so long. He's stuck making shitty jokes to haunted faces that would sooner blastificate his face off than laugh.

But the gold. It's like stardust on his tongue. Memories of hellfire. Gorgeous gilded blackstone, the stuff from his days as a blazeling. No, more like dandelions, like sunbeams through forest branches.

Tango sticks his tongue out in concentration, hopping between crackling soulfires. Navigating his own maze requires skill! Skill that he doesn't always have, admittedly.

Releasing a quiet sigh of relief, Tango approaches an unfinished pillar. He twirls his pickaxe and gets to work. Shulker boxes surround him in short order.

So focused on his work, he misses the gold. He misses the yellow, the soft, the scorching, but it draws near all the same, getting closer and closer-

"Ah! Ow, ow, ow, ow," a voice yelps.

Tango screams, fumbling with his pickaxe and building blocks. Both fall to the ground as Tango whirls, nobody's supposed to be here, especially not-

"Jimmy?"

Jimmy sadly stomps his wing out. Black marks mar the feathers, ugly soot staining the gold. "Hi, Tango."

"What are you... How are you here? What are you doing here? You're - you're on Hermitcraft!" Tango gapes.

"Oh, um, crossover event?" Jimmy tries.

"I didn't think there was one of those right now," Tango says. He roots around in his many pockets, making a small happy noise when he finds his comm. He boots it up and peers at the list of people online.

Strangely, Jimmy's the only non-hermit. Tango scrolls through a few lines of Jimmy-Skizz banter, then sees Grian's message of a simple, "join vc".

"Grian got you on?" Tango says, still mystified.

"No, it was more of a group - Tango, quit distracting me! I trudged through all this - this hullabaloo to see you!" Jimmy punctuates this with hands placed determinedly on hips, expression set to a hopeful scowl.

Tango can't make heads or tails of it. It might have to do with the several shots of espresso coursing through his system. Or the lack of sleep. Or the concentration-fatigue, or the way his eyes have been going crossed when he peers at redstone wiring. Any number of reasons, really.

"...why?" Tango finally asks.

This stumps Jimmy. He blinks a few times and furrows his eyebrows. "Why? What d'you mean why? You're my rancher, that's why!"

Well, that's true. Tango nods. Then he paused, frowns, and shakes his head. "Wait, you can't be down here! Spoilers, Jimmy, spoilers!"

Jimmy snaps his fingers. "I'm not a hermit! And I'm certainly going to watch the videos when hermits release them. I won't spill!"

"I guess..."

"But anyway, let's get out of here. It's so stuffy and - fiery," Jimmy says. He flutters his burnt wing helpfully.

Tango wilts. His desire to see Jimmy and guilt at causing him harm wars with his ever-present need to keep working. "I'm busy, Jim. Gotta keep working. It's already been so long, the hermits are getting antsy..."

Jimmy invades his space and as the cavern trickles to silence, he wraps his arms and wings around him.

Tango's always been weak for him. He exhales. Any scrap of energy still clinging to his worn-out body vanishes, and he rocks further into Jimmy's hold.

To his credit, Jimmy just makes a small noise and adjusts so he can support his weight.

"Come on, then," Jimmy says softly. He runs his fingers through his hair. "Let's go take a rest, yeah?"

"Yeah, okay," Tango breathes. He closes his eyes and sinks into Jimmy's warmth. It's rather terrible of his fellow hermits, he thinks absentmindedly. Using his rancher for such nefarious means.

But now the glimpses of gold haunt him no longer. His precious yellow fills Tango's vision, covering him in head to toe with deep contentment.

His rancher. His rancher. Tango smiles, and everything glitters.

[rowanisawriter]

“Has he been giving you nectar too?” Thanatos asks.

Achilles chooses his words carefully. “Aye, he has. I am easier to find than you.”

Thanatos frowns down at the Styx. He has taken to standing there more of late, appearing in a haze of green tinted light, shifting between dimensions from somewhere to here, becoming more predictable. Achilles doesn’t say anything, only nods and salutes sometimes when Thanatos’s pale, golden eyes fall upon him. He isn’t one to interrupt a god in deep thought, and Thanatos often seems as though he is in deep thought, his brow furrowed, his hair keeping his face in shadow, obscuring him.

“I see.” Thanatos looks over Achilles’s shoulder, at his reflection in the mirror. He tosses his head and his hair moves from his face, revealing high cheekbones, allowing light from somewhere to illuminate his gray skin. “It’s just like Zag to think he can buy us off with gifts. I imagine he fancies himself a god now that he’s getting their help. He thinks he can be one of them.”

Achilles feels the need to defend his charge and swallows back his apprehension, feeling a familiar fire in his gut that he thought death and time had extinguished. “Or,” he says carefully, “he likes you.”

from west hall mirror

[foone]

The ICEpick was nearly finished. A few more minutes and I'd could lift the computer lockout, and get the hell out of here... The motion detector went off. Oh no, it's here.

I slam the lighting control and duck behind the desk in the sudden darkness. I hear claws scratching at the door, and I hold my breath to try and stay silent as the door slides open.

I feel more than hear the thuds of its feet as it enters the captain's quarters. It makes that raspy catching cough noise again, like it's laughing at me. And then it speaks, using the voice of one of the dead crew.

"I'm almost flattered at the attempt, but I could hear your heartbeat and taste your synapses firing when I was still two decks away. It's pointless to hide. So why don't you stand up from there and we can talk like civilized beings? Here, I'll help."

There's a click. The lights come back on. I hear the beep of the ICEpick turning off. It canceled the hack?

[noodleblade]

kobd but knock out is the one smitten and pining for breakdown I feel like I always see it the other way

ahah I may have something in the works...

[tabswrites]

Last Line/Writing Share Tag

Tagged by @ceph-the-ghost-writer here, @sleepy-night-child here, @cherrybombfangirlwrites here, and @pheita here

@winterandwords here and @rachaellawrites here! Thank you!

Tagging @thatndginger @revenantlore @space-writes @paintedbutton @chauceryfairytales

@touloserlautrec @bee-barnes-author and an open tag!

It's been a while, hasn't it? Life is pretty good for me now, just busy. I have been hard at work on TTW in the little time I get, so here's one of my fave new snippets:

Cilla turned and snorted into Adrin’s face. As he backed away with his cries of outrage, the bear glanced at her. “Under the Light, I will show you how to shape  with your mind. It is the gift that has been chosen for you.”

She looked down at the yellow felisquama as it curled up by her feet. It gazed up at Cilla, twisting its tail to and fro. “What will I be shaping?”

Cilla grunted softly and pointed her snout at a chunk of violet crystal that clung to the trunk of a small magenta pine. The geodes on her back glowed with a pinkish light and, with a slight grinding sound, the crystal tore itself from the bark and lifted into the air before gently landing on the forest floor. 

“Anything,” the bear said in answer. Her head tilted back towards Adrin. “Anyone.”

Her words sent a shiver down her back. That was a power far too terrible for her. Surely, too terrible for her father, as well. Before, the light had seemed so gentle, enveloping her in a warm feeling of being held, of being understood. 

“Why does it feel so wrong?” 

TTW tag list: @outpost51 @writernopal @avrablake @writingrosesonneptune @theroseempress (please ask to be +/-)

[snowangeldotmp3]

fragments

a collection of various snippets and blurbs

hello! i come bearing gifts. or, well, one gift with many different things in it. im publishing all of the snippets/blurbs/otherwise unfinished fics or ideas into one compiled fic on ao3 for easier access and, since tumblrs search function is bust, an easier way for me to keep up with them as well.

im still updating them as i work through all of them, but you can read the first two snippets here

[envysparkler]

“Cass is the favorite.”

Bruce paused in the hallway, head tilted in the direction of the kitchen.  He wasn’t aware that anyone was still up.

“Definitely.”

Bruce was aware that Tim had coordinated tonight’s patrol as Damian was sick with the flu and Bruce was laid up with a couple of injuries—they must’ve just gotten back.

“She can read everything on his face and he never has to say a word—the old man must’ve been thrilled when he found her.”

Bruce frowned.  His plan to return to his bedroom was put on hold as he lurked in the shadow of the den, listening carefully.

“And…Dick is the next favorite.”

“Of course, he’s the Golden Boy.  Follows orders like the perfect soldier.”  There was a dark twist of bitterness to the words.

“Tim’s next.”

“No, it’s definitely Babs.  She’s actually good at her job.”

“Nah, I have to go with Steph.  Babs calls B out on his bullshit.  You, baby bird, melt into the shadows and don’t make a peep.”

“Tim, then Babs.”  When he heard the scratching of pencil on paper, Bruce realized they were actually writing this down.

“Then the demon brat.”

“Depending on what kind of scene he’s caused in the past week.”  A laugh, low and not very amused.

“Then me and Jason.  The outsiders.  Last on the list.”

A scoff.  “No, Blondie, then you.  I’m not on this fucking list.”

“Jason—”

“We’re ranking his kids remember?  Not the vaguely estranged undead mob boss that comes to bail your asses out of trouble.”

“You’re his son, Jason.”  Bruce was gripping the door frame so hard his dislocated shoulder twinged.

“All evidence says otherwise.”

“Well, I’m not his kid either.  So I guess both me and Jason are off this list.”

“You’re his kid, Blondie.  You have a room in this house.”

“I don’t use it.”

“Neither does little Red, and he’s the one running the company.”

“You have a room here too, Jason.”

“No, I have a fucking shrine to the fifteen-year-old kid who was murdered in Ethiopia.”

It landed flat and whatever camaraderie had been underneath the bitterness and snark dissipated instantly.  It left a heavy tension in the air.

“I don’t want it anyway.  Look what happens to the poor bastards at the top of the list.”

“What do you mean?”

“Cass—dear, darling, favorite Cass.  She disappears whenever anyone is talking to B.  Probably too painful to watch.”

“I hadn’t noticed that.”  Quiet.  Guilty.

“And the Golden Boy.  Trying to hold the family together while everybody in it tears it apart.  Timbo here, who’s hoping that if he slinks further into the shadows everyone might actually forget he exists.”

“Hey, I don’t—”

“Babs is stuck working for a boss who constantly undermines her, the demon brat doesn’t know if he should be listening to Dick or Bruce, and you, Blondie, for the great honor of being last on the list, are the only one of us that actually managed to slap B.”

[gretahayes]

While I have you guys here do you want to see my beautiful alpod contemplations

[green-eyedfirework]

“No.”

“Bruce—”

“Absolutely not.  Do you have any idea what you’re proposing?”

“It’s not a proposal,” Dick said with a calm he didn’t feel.  He’d already numbed himself to the idea.  “I am not asking you, Bruce.  I’m telling you.”

“I am not letting my son walk straight into the hands of someone who wants him dead,” Bruce snapped, eyes flashing, as he shoved upright from the council table.

“And I,” Dick replied levelly, meeting Bruce’s gaze, “am not letting someone else suffer for a war I caused.”

Bruce shook his head, deflating slightly as his expression pinched.  “You didn’t cause it, Dick,” he said quietly.  “It was a set-up.  You know this.  King Slade knows this.”

Dick’s mouth firmed to a thin line.  It didn’t matter if Slade knew now that his son had been captured by extremists and tortured until he was a weapon aimed at Gotham.  It was still Dick’s sword that had ended his life.  “I killed him,” Dick said softly.  “I killed Prince Grant and Slade will never forget that.”  Never forgive that, never mind the grudging treaty created when Hive’s treachery had come to light.  “I will not let someone else take my place as a target of his rage.”

No one trusted the treaty.  Not in Gotham, not in Defiance.  The hostage exchange was the only thing grounding the flimsy sheet of paper—one noble from Defiance, one noble from Gotham, each with a permanent stay in the other kingdom’s court.

“Dick,” Bruce said slowly, “you’re the Crown Prince.”

“I’ve been removed from the succession,” Dick said, half-shrugging.  “Your advisors won’t let you reinstate me.”  Hot-headed, impetuous, reckless—whatever Bruce believed, Dick had started a war by killing a prince, and several nobles in Gotham had never wanted the son of aerialists to ascend to the throne.

“Dick—”

“You can’t stop me,” Dick crossed his arms.  This was his mess, and he was going to clean it up, whether Bruce liked it or not.

Bruce slumped back into his chair, and buried his head in his hands.  “Dick,” he said quietly, “please.”

“I’m sorry, Bruce,” Dick said, equally quiet.  “But I can’t watch someone else take my place.”

Bruce let out a slow, shuddering breath.  Finally, he spoke, “You won’t go as a prince.”

“What?”

“You won’t go as a prince.  Under your real name.  King Slade has never seen you—” That was true, once Bruce had realized why an army was at their border, Dick had been carefully guarded.  “He won’t know who you are.  We can make up a minor noble family for you.  A lordship on the other side of Gotham.”

“But—”

“Dick,” Bruce looked him in the eyes, his face grave and pale.  “He despises you.  And I will not send my son to his death, do you understand?”

Dick nodded mutely, the words ringing in his head.

He despises you.

And Slade had every right to.

~#~

It was safe to say that Slade wasn’t in a good mood.  Hadn’t been in a good mood since he’d received word that his firstborn was dead, and his initial fury had receded to an ever-simmering flame of rage, a perpetual bad temper that sent everyone fleeing.

If he’d had his way, he would’ve razed Gotham to the ground and stuck every member of its royal family on a pike before he stopped.  Unfortunately, King Bruce had managed to find evidence that the terrorist group Hive had been involved, muddying the facts to claim that Prince Richard had merely been acting in self-defense, and it had been enough to sour Slade’s kingdom on a costly war.

So now he was supposed to play nice with the kingdom his son had died in, signing a treaty that wasn’t worth the paper and ink, biding his time until he could have his revenge.  Gotham was sticking to its best behavior for the time being and Prince Richard had vanished after he’d been removed from the line of succession, leaving Slade uselessly seething.

He glared at Wintergreen as he approached the throne.  “Is that it?” he asked, gesturing to the near-empty throne room.  “No petitioners to hear today?”  Very few dared to show up, all of them showing a healthy fear of his temper.

“The Lord of Owlcourt has arrived,” Wintergreen said.  Right.  Their noble hostage.  Slade had sent Drakon to Gotham days ago with careful instructions to watch and listen but do nothing unprovoked.  He doubted that Gotham would give him an easy excuse to go to war, the kingdom wasn’t as cutthroat as its neighbors.

With the exception of its reckless prince.

“And I have to be here for that?”  He didn’t want to greet whatever sacrificial lamb Gotham had sent, he didn’t even want to acknowledge that they existed.  As minor a lord as they could find, most likely, or maybe even a merchant willing to play at being a lord for a generous payout to his family.  According to Wintergreen, Owlcourt had been a royal territory until very recently, which meant that Gotham had magicked this lordship out of thin air.

Wintergreen gave him a sharp look, but didn’t start the long lecture Slade was half-expecting.  Everyone was treating him like he was a piece of fucking glass, and Slade dearly wanted a fight.  Wanted to draw his sword and hack away until everyone that would hurt him, hurt his children, were dead.

In his imaginings, the bodies all had dark hair and golden crowns.

“The Lord of Owlcourt,” the guards announced as they opened the doors, and Slade got his first look at the noble.

Young, younger than Slade had been expecting, dark-haired and light-eyed, expression steady as he flicked his gaze around the room, not shivering or scared.  Slade flicked a glance at Wintergreen to make sure he wasn’t overthinking things.  His steward had his mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed.

Slade wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a taunt or a deliberate provocation, but if they wanted him to lose his composure, they’d have to try harder than sending a lookalike of their prince.

“Your Majesty,” the lordling dipped into a low bow.  Lower than a lord to a foreign king usually bowed.  The idea that they’d foisted a lordship on some random commoner was looking more and more likely.  “My name is Dick Grayson, and I’m—”

“The Lord of Owlcourt, yes, we did receive the message,” Slade said, cutting him off.  He made no attempt to hide his glower as Grayson straightened.  “Neither of us need to pretend this is anything but what it is.”  His noble hostage could rot in a tower for all Slade cared.  “You will obey our rules.  You will not leave the castle without permission.  You want anything, you will ask Wintergreen and he’ll see if it’s necessary.”  His steward inclined his head as Grayson darted a glance at him.  “If you’re on anything less than your best behavior,” Slade paused, scanning the young lordling’s face.  Wariness aplenty, but no outright fear.  “There will be consequences.”

“Understood, Your Majesty,” Grayson dropped into another bow.  Someone should teach him some etiquette before the whole court figured out he wasn’t a noble.  “Thank you for your hospit—”

Slade got up from the throne and walked out before he could finish.  The pleasantries had been met, and he had no intention of getting closer to a Gotham lord.  Especially not one who looked so similar to the man that killed his son.

This time, when Slade dreamed of destroying his enemies and venting his grief, the corpses looked like the young Lord of Owlcourt.

~#~

Dick had half been expecting them to throw him in the dungeons and was pleasantly surprised when he was led to a room.  Nowhere near as large as his quarters in Gotham, and the simplicity was clearly intended as a slight, but the room had a writing desk and a window, and didn’t seem overly cold.

“Your trunk will be brought up after it’s searched,” the steward said—Wintergreen, Dick remembered, cold eyes watching him with eerie intensity.  “Anything we deem too dangerous to let you have will be destroyed.”

Dick took a breath and nodded.  He hadn’t brought anything valuable with him, had correctly assumed that Defiance wouldn’t treat his possessions with any sort of courtesy.

“It should go without saying, but your best option is to keep your head down,” Wintergreen said sharply.  “Do not test the King’s temper.  War has been narrowly avoided, I suggest you try not to court it again.”

Don’t flinch, Dick chanted mentally in his head.  Wintergreen didn’t know who he was talking to.  Didn’t know how accurate his words really were.

“If there is something you require, you come to me.  You will not be assigned a chaperone or a guard, and you will be stopped if trying to enter a restricted area.  Meals will be served in the Great Hall, the library is open if you wish to read, and the training areas are usually empty in early morning.  You will not be allowed sharpened weapons.”

That was more freedom than Dick had expected.  There weren’t bars on the windows and the door appeared to lock from the inside.

“Do you have any questions?” Wintergreen asked, tone perfunctory.  Dick shook his head, throat still dry from his interaction with the King.

“Very well,” Wintergreen inclined his head.  “Lord Grayson.”  He swept from the room before Dick could breathe through the sting of the title.  No longer a prince.  Never a prince again.

He’d half been prepared for his disguise to fall apart the moment he’d reached the castle’s gates.  The steward’s eyes had narrowed dangerously when he’d seen him, and Dick had seen the way King Slade’s expression had flickered with surprise before cooling.  They might not have seen him before, but clearly they’d heard of his appearance.

He’d thought about dying his hair, but he couldn’t bank on getting the materials to keep it up in Defiance.  His only shield was a name lost to time and the prayer that they wouldn’t put it together.

Dick sank down into the chair and exhaled slowly.

It had worked.

~#~

Unfortunately, the Lord of Owlcourt was a model guest.  He’d made no demur over his sword and dagger being seized, no protest at being forced to file a formal request for every additional piece of furniture for his rooms, no complaint at being ordered to attend every meal in the Great Hall.

The last had been Wintergreen’s idea.  If it was up to Slade, he would’ve locked Grayson in a cell and thrown away the key, but Wintergreen had pointed out that Slade had sworn to treat the hostage with courtesy.

So Grayson had a decent set of rooms in the guest wing, had meals with everyone else, was allowed to roam the castle without fear of retaliation.  It helped that he was an unrecognizable face—Slade didn’t doubt that Grayson had fought in the war, his hands bore sword calluses, but no one in Slade’s court had any personal animosity with the young lordling.

It also helped that the Lord of Owlcourt was charming.

~#~ ~#~

Slade turned back when he reached the door, and had to fight his twitching lips.  Dick had spread out on the bed, curling up in the warmth Slade had left behind, and had pulled the blankets over his head to block out the sun.

Not a morning bird, then, but a cat.  Slade shook his head as he left his room, and refused to call the emotion fondness.  He wasn’t getting fond of the Lord of Owlcourt.

And what if you are? a tiny voice asked in his head.

…And what if he was.  Dick was from Gotham, true, but he would be staying permanently in Slade’s court.  No one had heard of Owlcourt in Defiance, so it wouldn’t ruffle any feathers amongst his court.  And—and Slade couldn’t spend the rest of his life wrapped up in misery.

Dick was amusing, and a challenge.  Smart and fierce and bold.  Good at politics too.  He was everything Slade looked for in a partner, and Slade had to admit that what was supposed to be a temporary relief had turned into a more permanent arrangement.

He recalled the way blue eyes sparkled as Slade pinned Dick to the bed, dark hair ruffled by the pillows—as much as Slade detested the underhandedness of the Waynes, Slade wouldn’t have gotten this if they hadn’t tried to provoke him.

For a moment, Slade tried to imagine what it would’ve been like if they’d actually sent over Prince Richard.  If Slade, or someone else, didn’t kill him, Richard would’ve probably spent the entire time locked up in his rooms, perhaps plotting how to murder the rest of them in their sleep.  There was certainly no way they would’ve ended up sleeping together.

The very thought was ridiculous.  As if Prince Richard would’ve ever—

“I volunteered.”

“My cousin.  She’s a tutor for the youngest prince.”

“I learned swordsmanship from the very best, Your Majesty.”

Slade came to a stop in the middle of the corridor.

No.

That was—impossible.

No one would ever—

Dick, on his knees, almost trembling, and the snarl of what did they teach in Gotham, that he thought Slade would ever do such a thing forestalled by his fury for the young lordling, what kind of royal family sent someone to sacrifice everything for their mistakes?

“The King is a good man,” Dick sighed, “And his family are good people.”

“It’s my duty,” Dick said quietly, “For my kingdom.”

My.

My.

But no king would ever send his heir as hostage if there was another choice.  No father would ever send his son to someone who wanted him dead.

Slade was being ridiculous.  Dick was just a noble’s bastard son with a passing resemblance to the Crown Prince of Gotham.

…Dick was a short form of Richard.

~#~

“It’s a pity,” Slade said softly, “That we don’t have Prince Richard to explain away this one too.”

The courtiers laughed.  Dick didn’t.

Slade was staring directly at him.

~#~ ~#~

Dick laced his fingers around the cup, and took another sip.  It was refreshing.  It was water.  It was something to do that wasn’t looking up at Slade, because he didn’t think he could handle looking up at Slade right now.

He’d been ready, when he approached the castle, for his paper-thin disguise to fall apart.  For Slade to kill him where he stood, and know that at least in death he kept his kingdom safe.  He—he had not been prepared to watch Slade’s face twist into hate after softening, after he knew what Slade looked like grinning sharp and victorious, or solemn, or sleepily content with the early morning sun splayed over his face.  It…hurt.

Dick took another small sip of water.  The cup was already three-quarters empty.  He wasn’t sure how much longer he could drag this out.

The door opened again, and Dick’s fingers tightened on the cup.  The boots in front of him jerked, and turned to face the newcomer, but Dick didn’t look up.  It wouldn’t make a difference.

“Wintergreen,” Slade said flatly, sounding both confused and displeased at once.

“Slade,” the steward answered in the same flat tone, “And here I was half-expecting he’d already be dead.”

Dick raised his head, bewildered.  The way Wintergreen had said that—

“You knew?”  Oh, Slade sounded furious now.  “Since when?”

Wintergreen didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by his king’s agitation, instead studying Dick as Slade growled.  “A week or so after his arrival.  Before you, I wager.”  Dick’s stomach twisted—how long had Slade known?  Dick hadn’t noticed any sudden difference in him, anything to suggest that he knew Dick was the person that had killed his son.

Before sleeping with him?

After?

“How?” Slade demanded.

“I already told you of my findings regarding Owlcourt,” Wintergreen said mildly, “But if he was some merchant’s son or a farmer, no amount of drilling in manners would’ve been able to replicate being raised a noble.  So that must mean he’s a noble.  But then why hide his real title, why give him some random royal territory?”  Wintergreen shrugged lightly, “If he looks so much like the prince, then perhaps he is the prince.”

“And you didn’t tell me,” Slade bit back.  Dick took another quiet sip of water.

“No, Slade, I didn’t tell you, because you would’ve killed him,” Wintergreen snapped back, “And started another war, hostage or not, by murdering Gotham’s Crown Prince.”

“I’m not,” rang out into sudden silence.  Dick winced, but—but he couldn’t stay silent forever.  “I’m not the Crown Prince,” he said quietly.

Slade and Wintergreen were both staring at him now.  Dick fought the urge to hide.

“We just went over this,” Slade began, but Dick cut him off.

“No, not—I was the Crown Prince.  I’m not anymore.”

Slade narrowed his eyes, but it was Wintergreen who spoke.  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The council,” Dick explained, “One of their conditions was that my adoption be revoked.”  Bruce had been furious, but his court had agreed that it was an elegant solution—if a prince had not slaughtered a prince, the consequence would never have been war—and by that time, Dick had already made up his mind to go so it had been a moot point.  “So I’m not.  A prince or a Wayne.  I—Owlcourt is a royal territory, yes, but I have a claim to it, through my great-grandfather.  My name was Grayson, before Bruce adopted me.  It—wasn’t a lie.”

Slade and Wintergreen were staring at him, silent.  Dick swallowed, and bowed his head.

“But it’s a deliberate omission,” Dick said quietly, “I understand why you’re angry.”  Still two sips of water left in the cup, but Dick put it down, before shifting forward to fold onto his knees.  “Killing me won’t start a war,” Dick almost whispered, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Another stretching silence, before boots came closer.  “Out of curiosity,” Slade said, his voice level, “How long did you think you’d get away with it?”

Dick—didn’t know.  There had always been an end date in sight.  All he could do was push it another day away.  “Hopefully long enough that tensions would’ve died down,” Dick said quietly, because he was still a hostage, and if Slade killed him without provocation, the treaty would be in turmoil.  Too soon after the war, and angry, grieving people might seize the opportunity to attack again.

Slade made an irritated sound.  “I’m not going to kill you,” he snapped, one boot nudging his knee, “Get up.”

Dick processed the order before he processed the statement, so he stuttered halfway up, nearly falling back down before he recovered and straightened fully.  Slade wasn’t looking at him, but his face was set in a glower.  Wintergreen looked…mildly amused.  Or satisfied.

[definitelynotshouting]

may i interest you in some scarian makeouts

Listen. We were all thinking it when Grian was screaming to Scar about starting resistances. Also technically this isnt even finished bc i wanted to put a proper opener on it before posting but,, i have unfortunately been too busy to sit down and write so i am throwing this into the void as is like meat pumpkins in the scarian enclosure. Mwah mwah please enjoy the food my fellow soldiers

"Scar, if you don't do something right now, I'm gonna start a resistance," Grian snaps. There's a tightness in his chest begging for release, to snap the building tension with the thunderous clap of TNT. The look he aims at Scar is nothing short of pleading, begging for some kind of intervention.

Scar, for his part, looks startled. "Um—" he stammers, eyes flicking over Grian helplessly.

Unfortunately, Grian doesn't have time for helplessness. "Scar, do something!"

"Do what?" Scar yelps in return; he's clearly out of his depth, fumbling for his bow and dropping it to the ground with a nervous clatter. "What do you— Grian, I don't even know what you want me to do here—"

"Just stop me before I do something I'm gonna regret!" Grian says desperately, and suddenly, a familiar glint flickers to life in Scar's eyes.

It's the bad idea glint. The I'm about to make this situation worse, glint. The I'm going to steal the enchanter, I'm going to run for mayor, I'm going to strip everyone's copper glint. Grian can't truly say he's surprised to see it.

But Scar only snaps his fingers. "Okay, okay, I've got it! You just— um. You— you know what, you just stay there, I'll come to you."

And before Grian can even process whatever that means, Scar is pacing forward, closing the distance between them with rapid, ground-eating strides. All thoughts of royal emeralds and resistances slide right out of Grian's head as Scar crowds into his personal space.

"Uh, Scar," Grian says, suddenly breathless for quite a few reasons, "um. Whatcha doing?"

"Distracting you!" Scar replies with far too much cheerful menace, then grabs Grian by the collar and reels him in for a kiss.

It's such an abrupt motion that Grian flinches before they can make contact, an electric shock running up his spine. But Scar chases that distance like a hunting hound, both hands coming up to frame Grian's face and hold him still— and then his lips are catching against Grian's, wind-chapped and gentle. Insistent. A warm, solid slide against his own, languidly coaxing them open. 

Another thrill of electricity runs through him, and after a moment's hesitation, Grian leans into it, eyes sliding shut as Scar's teeth catch briefly on his bottom lip. He's already fumbling for purchase— his hands flutter, trailing over Scar's arms before climbing to his shoulders, wreathing into his hair, and—

Grian tugs, just a bit too mean, and Scar's shocked hiss falls directly between Grian's teeth. If Scar wants to turn this into a distraction, he'll play along— but Grian's not going to make it easy for him.

"Oh, you are gonna get it for that, mister," Scar murmurs against his mouth, muffled and low, sweet as buckwheat honey. Grian shudders; every point of contact between them is kindling into a fire, spreading light and heat through his veins. He's swimming in it, crystalizing from the inside out, nothing but an empty, weightless cloud inside his mind. Scar's hands slide from his jaw to thread in his hair, and without warning, his head is gently tilted to the side.

Grian sucks in a sharp breath as Scar leans down and folds a delicate kiss into the triangle of skin between his jaw and ear. When he pulls back, the ghost of a breath fans cool air across it, wringing another shiver out of Grian's spine.

Scar leans down again; this time the kiss he presses to Grian's neck is not delicate. Instead, it's borders on a bite, nipping at sensitive skin until it begins to redden. Scar drags his tongue flat against what's no doubt a blossoming bruise, and Grian exhales in soft, trembling huffs that paint the air around them. Eyes closed, lips parted, a hazy glow curling beneath his sternum: Scar peppers his neck in kisses and bites, none quite as hard as the first, but intense nonetheless.

Finally, Scar dips to press one last, chaste kiss against his neck before pulling back and catching his lips once more. It's a faster slide this time, more demanding; Grian melts into it, curling his hands further into Scar's hair, cupping the back of his head to pull him closer. Scar's body is one warm line against him, an arm wrapping around his waist and pulling him close, even closer than they'd already been before. If this is drowning, Grian thinks, then he'll gladly welcome the floodwaters. If kissing Scar makes him this deliriously lightheaded, Grian will drown as many times as he's allowed.

Eventually, the pace slows. Scar swipes a thumb against his cheek, breaking the kiss only to dive back in for another, shorter one. And again. Again. Grian hums absently, a tuneless, crackling note that catches in his throat as the kisses between them taper off into gentle pecks, a closeness neither of them want to fracture.

It ends with both of their foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air, lips red and kiss-swollen. Grian licks his absently; they tingle, gently bruised, and the noise that trickles out of his throat without permission sounds wrecked.

"Good distraction?" Scar mutters absently. The hand around his waist has abandoned its post in favour of stroking Grian's hair. It's a soothing, lulling motion, and Grian fights the hypnotic rhythm of it.

"Distraction?" he manages to rasp after a moment.

A beat. Then Scar giggles, a bright, soap-bubble sound that floats in the sunshine around them. "Well, that sounds like a pretty good review of the Goodtimes Distraction Services to me," he says, and pulls away with visible reluctance. His eyes crinkle at the corners; he looks fond. "You need anymore resisting against resistances, you know where to find me."

Grian lets him go with a shiver and a dirty look for the cool air that rushes in between them. Despite the chill, though, he feels warmed through. "Yeah," he says, lifting one hand to touch the mark high on his neck. It throbs; he presses down just to feel it. "Yeah, I guess I do. Tha— is it weird to say thanks, Scar?"

"Only if you don't buy me dinner on the first date," Scar replies breezily, and Grian chokes on a laugh.

"I'll write that down," he says dryly, and joins Scar as he meanders back toward Scarland's Main Street, all thoughts of resisting far behind him.

[acacia-may]

8 for the writing asks pls?

Thank you for the ask and for playing this writing ask game.

8. An excerpt of my writing that hurt my own feelings to write.

I've definitely written a lot of things that hurt my own feelings to write, but I cried real, genuine tears when I wrote this scene and was so emotional over it that I actually had to stop and take a break to calm down by the time I got to Aubrey's "because you've always been that person for me" line. I've written a lot of angst and a lot of devastating moments, but I've only actually cried because of my own writing maybe twice(?) in my life (I'm usually not much of a crier), so it definitely sticks out to me and I consider the Aubrey-centric chapter of "When Sun Shines Again" some of the best writing I did last year. Here's a snippet:

With a heavy sigh, Hero turned away from her, staring out of the dark and gloomy window. “You know, I’ve…never really had a lot of fight in me…” he admitted quietly, a faint flush in his cheeks before he let out a light, somewhat self-deprecating chuckle. “It’s something I’ve always thought I should probably get a little more of. But you…” His expression softened, and he smiled at her as he met her eyes. “You’ve always been a fighter, and I’ve always admired that about you. You want to protect everyone—fight for your friends even when they can’t or won’t fight for themselves. But I’m your big brother…”—he took a shaky breath and patted the top of her head—“I’m supposed to be the one protecting you, so you don’t need to protect me, okay?” “But that’s the thing, Hero—you’re everybody’s big brother. Without Mari, you don’t have anybody to protect you anymore. And as long as you feel like you have to protect me and Kel and Sunny and Basil—as long as you feel like you have to take care of us, you’re never going to tell us what’s wrong, so you’re just going to suffer alone and none of us want that. We all worry about you too.” Aubrey paused, wiping her eyes. Hero froze. His hands trembled. He didn’t know what to say—didn’t even know how he felt. To see Aubrey so broken up and worried about him was like a wrench to his heart. First, Kel. Now, Aubrey. Could he do anything without hurting the people he cared for most in the world? “Aubrey, I…” he began to stumble as tears pooled in his eyes. “No, I—” she cut him off. “I didn’t say this to make you feel bad or feel guilty. I just…I know you, Hero. I know the way that things are—the way you always push aside how you feel to take care of everyone else, and I guess that’s part of the reason why I was so upset—because I knew how much you were suffering all alone and how you didn’t have anyone you felt like you could talk to. I know you’re never really going to be able to talk to us about what’s wrong—but I just…I think we all want you to have someone you can talk to. Someone you feel like you don’t have to protect. I know that’s never going to be me or Kel or even Basil or Sunny—you’re always going to be our big brother, but I want to believe there’s somebody out there—maybe even several people—maybe Brandi or your friends from school or I don’t know just anybody…somebody who you feel like you can tell these things to, somebody you can always go to who’ll try to understand and will comfort you and support you no matter what. I want you to find that person, Hero—because you’ve always been that person for me.”