#deleted snippet

[saccharine-pink-lemonade]

deleted snippet from last night ch6 (sunlight au):

“What Stephanie said, I guess.” Jason’s apparently given up all pretenses of eating; he’s sitting back in his chair, the base of his skull meeting the edge of the back of his chair.

“No, Jay, really,” Dick says, and… he sounds almost pissed, honestly, on the edge of it, at least. And Stephanie sees it like it’s slow-motion -- Jason’s hackles raising. “That’s all I got, Dick.”

“You can’t- You heard her. She thought this would be a few weeks at most. I don’t get it, I waited--” Dick breathes out sharply, like he’s trying to force out any frustration, but Steph can still see it in his shoulders. And she realizes, right then, that this conversation won’t really end anywhere productive, not in the way she’d expected it to go. Dick says, like he’s trying to speed up the process, “Did you not want me to--”

“I didn’t say anything about you.” Jay snaps. He’s sitting up a bit, now. Stephanie doesn’t know what to do. “It’s not about anything you did. We can head to your place now, or whatever.

“No, no, hang on, I still don't understand why you just left.”

“You don’t need to understand!”

cut because it was way to abrupt and random and i ended up not liking the idea in the first place

[inkpotsprite]

A deleted scene from my work "Cats and Communion."

[save-the-villainous-cat]

“You have to go,” the villain said. They could feel the blood and the sweat mixing under their suit. It was so nasty, it nearly made them want to throw up.

Maybe it was that or the broken ankle but even so, was it that much of a difference?

“What are you talking about?” the hero hissed. They grabbed the villain and pulled them against their chest. Their arms held them up but the villain could tell the hero was exhausted. After all, the fight hadn’t left them unscathed.

“Leave,” the villain whispered. “You have to leave.”

“I am not leaving you behind,” the hero argued. “If we want to fight this, we have to work together. If we want to win, we—”

“Fine,” the villain said. The hero managed to pull both of them behind a car to shield them from any other attacks. The battle was still going on and others were still fighting.

The villain knew they didn’t have much time. They grabbed the hero’s arm.

They’d beg if they had to.

“When all of this is over, you have to leave.”

“What?” The hero frowned and the villain almost expected the hero with their stubbornness to laugh or curse them.

It broke the villain’s heart but someone like the hero wasn’t supposed to live in a place like this. With people like these. The hero was supposed to live in a more forgiving city. With gentler people.

“You never wanted to be a hero, did you?” the villain asked. “This isn’t what you want. This isn’t what you are destined to do.”

“Is this the right time to talk about stuff like this?” the hero asked. They eyed a wound on the villain’s arm that was a bit too big for their liking.

“I want you to leave the city,” the villain said. “I know you have been thinking about it. You need to leave. You need to be happy.”

“What about you?”

“It makes me sick to think I might be the reason why you stay,” the villain said. “This place is rotten and you need space to grow.”

The hero’s eyes were fixed on them.

“Will you come with me, then?”

The villain shook their head.

“I can’t,” they said. “And even if I could, I would hold you back. You need to leave all of this behind. And that includes me too.”

It wasn’t easy to say this but if the villain saved one person in their life full of crime, it would be this person.

[pasdetrois]

+

(deleted segment from the shadow of a doubt screenplay + gothic incest: gender, sexuality and transgression by jenny diplacidi)

[silverskye13]

“How much longer are we planning on going?” Welsknight asked. He took a moment to sheathe his sword and wring out his wrists. Tanguish grimaced, a little regretful he was making the knight work so hard. (He didn't have to like Wels to feel guilty about running him ragged.) “I was under the impression we didn't want to be down here all day.”

“How many diamonds were you needing?” Tango prompted, looking over Tanguish's shoulder at the contents of his shulker box.

“Uhm… I'm. I'm not sure,” Tanguish admitted. “I just know it's a lot.”

“What's it for?”

“Jewelry.”

“Ohhh…” Tango’s voice lilted high and mischievous. “You got a lady friend in hels you're not telling me about?”

Tanguish shrugged Tango off of him, “No.”

“Or a guy friend, I'm not judging,” Tango added hastily, hands up placatingly, his grin still dripping mischief. “Maybe even a knight friend?”

Welsknight made an uncomfortable noise. “Tango.”

“What? Maybe your other half’s got game, you don't know.”

“Tango!”

[actuallyrandompersondaily]

"Cariño," Eddie murmured, stroking his thumb against Buck's jawline. "I promise you, he's going to be happy. You're basically his favourite person right now."

"Yeah," Buck replied, leaning into Eddie's hand despite himself. "Right now, meaning it could change at any moment. He's getting older, I'm not just your cool best friend anymore. I don't know what I'll do if he decides he hates me."

"I mean, you'll hear it eventually," Eddie pointed out. "Not over this, but over something. At least you'll be prepared."

"I… What?"

"Buck," he replied, smile growing in the wake of Buck's confusion. "He's going to tell you he hates you at some point. It's basically a right of passage for parents of teenagers. It's already happened to me."

"But I— I'm not his dad. Not like you are," Buck replied.

Eddie pulled back to study Buck's expression before raising an eyebrow.

"Baby, you helped me give him the talk. In what world are you not his dad?"

[brokenheartwithheartbreak]

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

Excerpt:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[green-eyedfirework]

The car drove smoothly and silently, a dark shadow on the dimly lit streets of Bludhaven.  The interior was muffled—Dick couldn’t hear any of the city noises, or the car, or the driver and the guard sitting up front, neither giving him a second glance.  It left him along with his mind, which made it really hard to pretend like he didn’t know what was going on.

He’d been accosted on his way back from the corner store.  They’d taken his grocery bags too, the driver slipping the two recyclable cloth bags from his hands like a poised valet while the guard opened the door for him, dropping the bags in the trunk like that wasn’t where Dick’s body was going to end up.  Politeness masking threat.

They hadn’t even flashed a weapon at him.  They hadn’t needed to.  Slade Wilson’s name was enough of a loaded gun.

Dick had thought things were getting better.  He’d made a new life for himself, a quieter one, less concerned with the shifting flows of power in the city.  He’d thought that if he left them alone, they’d leave him alone.  He was a fool.

The dread sitting in Dick’s gut grew larger as they passed through the wrought-iron gates of the Kane family home.

The drive up was a familiar home, the sight of the front door a looming omen.  His first step inside felt like something was strangling his lungs, wrapped tight and squeezing like it wouldn’t let go.

He shouldn’t be here.  He shouldn’t be here.  He’d quit the police force, he’d squared his debts with the Kanes, there was absolutely no reason for him to be dragged back here.

Except for one.

Dick wasn’t led to the parlor he’d visited last time but down, into the basement.  They were stopped outside a guarded door.  “Mr. Wilson wishes to see Richard Grayson,” his escort said.

The pat-down was impersonal but thorough.  Dick’s wallet, phone, and keys were all taken from him.  Even a couple of empty candy wrappers were yanked from his pockets.  Dick’s stomach twisted into knots as his belongings were taken away, leaving him standing in front of the door with no weapons and no help.  He felt uncomfortably bare.

There was a knock before Dick was motioned inside.  The room was another parlor—bigger, with groups of armchairs by an electric fire, light dim and intimate.  A bar spanned the back wall and shadowed mirrors gave the impression that the room was larger and more maze-like than it actually was.  A smoking room, though Dick could smell no smoke.  Where men of a certain affiliation could drink and play cards while they discussed business.

The room was nearly empty.  Guards at each corner, silent and still, like statues in the darkened room, and Wintergreen, sitting by the fire, watching Dick with a solemn expression.  And, of course, Wilson himself, leaning against another armchair and watching Dick approach, his face so rigid it could’ve been carved from stone.

“Grayson,” Wilson said, voice cold and sharp, like a blade of ice scraping down Dick’s spine.  His eye glimmered in the low light, his gaze searing.  There was no scowl, no raised voice, no narrowed eyebrows, and yet all Dick could sense was burning fury.

Wilson was not a man inclined to rage.

“Mr. Wilson,” Dick said, as evenly as he could manage, resisting the urge to cross his arms.  He didn’t ask any questions.  He wasn’t sure Wilson’s control would stretch that far.

“I had to visit the hospital yesterday,” Wilson said, steady and even.  “Do you know why?”

Dick swallowed.  The sound felt obscenely loud in the silent room.  Dick wasn’t sure if anyone else was breathing—he certainly wasn’t.

“Rose,” Dick said quietly.  “Rose broke her arm during class yesterday.”

Working at a gym was a breath of fresh air and Dick loved teaching.  Even the addition of Rose Wilson to his class, signed up by her fiercely glowering older brother, hadn’t rung the warning bells.  Rose was a kid, after all, and Dick didn’t judge children for their parents.  The Kanes made no motion to interfere at the gym and Rose was treated like any other student, albeit one dropped off and picked up by an armed driver in a bulletproof car with a bodyguard lurking in the lobby all session.

“Mm.  At a class we send her to for her enrichment and entertainment.  A class we’re certainly not expected to being contacted by to relate a major injury.”  Dick winced as Wilson straightened fluidly off of the armchair, his presence a black hole of fury.  “What.  Happened.”

“It was an accident,” Dick said weakly, trying not to flinch back as Wilson strode towards him.  The man’s hands were empty but that didn’t help the shrieking klaxons in Dick’s head.  “A couple of girls got tangled up when they were practicing on the mats.  It’s no one’s fault.”

“No one’s fault,” Wilson repeated in a tone of polite skepticism, like he was giving Dick the opportunity to correct himself.

“It was an accident,” Dick said again, for a lack of anything else to say.  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Wilson, but there’s always an element of risk in practicing—”

“Give me your arm.”

“What?” Dick asked blankly.

Wilson didn’t repeat his question, merely held out his hand, waiting.  Dick swallowed, the knot in his stomach a living, growing thing, and offered his hand to the man.

The grip was firm but gentle, not bruising or twisting.  “Rose broke her right arm,” Wilson informed him, as though Dick didn’t know, as though he hadn’t been there, consoling the crying girl as he called for her bodyguard and an ambulance.  “Clean break.  At least a month in a cast.”

Wilson eased the cuff of Dick’s shirt up past his elbow and observed his arm, turning it from side to side.  Dick let him, heart pounding his ears, not daring to put up any resistance.

“Have you broken an arm before?” Wilson asked conversationally.

“Yes.”

“Remember what it felt like?”

“Yes.”  His throat was as dry as sandpaper.

Wilson traced lightly across the skin, finally gripping Dick’s elbow in one hand, his wrist in another.  “It takes somewhere around a hundred and fifty pounds of pressure to break a human bone,” Wilson informed him.  Dick didn’t move.  Dick didn’t breathe.  Dick didn’t dare.  “An injury here would hobble you for a month.  Are you right-handed?”  Dick mutely shook his head.  “I suppose it won’t cause too much hardship then.”

Wilson’s grip tightened—and let go.

Dick took in a shuddering breath.  He choked on it when Wilson stepped past him and behind him, fitting himself against Dick’s back.  He could see the man in the mirror opposite them, looming behind Dick, his expression shadowed and his stare dark.

“But here—” a finger jabbed at Dick, low on his spine—“here, a fracture would do considerably more harm.  Leave you lying on a bed for weeks.  If the bone doesn’t displace further and slice the spinal cord.  Then you’d never be able to walk again.”

Dick stared at himself in the mirror, ashen, wide-eyed, and utterly still.

“Up here,” the finger traced its way up his spine, stopping mid-back, “it’ll destroy a lot of voluntary organ signals.  Things like pissing and shitting.”

Wilson spoke with the kind of unconcern one would use to talk about the weather.

“And up here,” Wilson murmured, voice dropping to something low and gravelly as his finger traced up to the base of Dick’s neck, “you’d never be able to twitch a finger again.”  Dick’s fingers jerked.  “What a shame that would be, for such a star acrobat.”

The lump in his throat was too big to swallow.  Too big to speak.  Wilson wouldn’t, he couldn’t—but he could.  No one could stop him.  Dick was all alone in the lion’s den and no one was interested in saving him from being mauled.  He couldn’t even turn to look at Wintergreen, to beg him with a beseeching gaze, still transfixed by the sight of them in the mirror.

He looked small, standing in front of Slade.  Fragile.  Breakable.

Wilson met his gaze in the mirror.  “Who caused the incident?” he asked evenly.  His fingers curled around Dick’s neck, thumb pressing in at the top of his spine.

Dick distantly registered his mouth opening.  “It was an accident,” he said, hollow and faraway.

“Give me the name.”

Wilson was scowling now, visible anger to match the obvious fury.  Dick remembered the stories of what happened to the people that hurt Joey.  The darker rumors that they all pretended didn’t happen.  The lengths Wilson would, could, and had proven to go to when his family had been harmed.

When Dick blinked, a tear traced its way down his cheek.

“No.”

It came out strangled, but still it came out.  Dick wanted to close his eyes, to turn away from the impending violence, but he was frozen in place by nothing more than the threat of a single hand, watching the predator at his back.

He couldn’t twitch a single finger.

“Excuse me?”  A hint of fury.  An out.  Offering the opportunity for Dick to change his answer, to throw himself on whatever mercy the mobster possessed by selling out another.

“No.”  This time it came easier.

Wilson held his gaze, a long, unbroken moment that felt half like a dream.  Like Dick was already dead and this was what his mind had clung to to stave off the realization.  The world was reduced to Wilson’s single burning ice blue eye and the intent in them.

The fingers uncurled.  Dick didn’t fully register they were gone until Wilson stepped back, turning away from him and heading to an armchair.  “Make me an Old Fashioned,” he said curtly, joining Wintergreen near the fire.

Dick turned to look at him, still rooted to the spot.  “What?” he scraped out hoarsely.

“The drink,” Wilson clarified.

Dick stared at him a moment longer before he forced his legs to move.  The first one felt like walking through toffee, his limbs jerking like they were attached to puppet strings, but he managed to head towards the bar.  The thought of it was slightly ludicrous—Dick was going to be tortured, but goddamn if Wilson had to make his own drinks—and Dick clung to that as he stumbled to the bar with shaking legs.

It was an additional barrier between him and Wilson, as paltry as the protection was, and Dick gripped the wooden tabletop tight.  He tried to slip into a breathing exercise, taking the pause to reorient himself.  There had to be a way to change Wilson’s mind.  He couldn’t let Wilson do whatever he’d planned to that poor girl.  It had been an accident.

Dick found the sugar, the bitters, the glasses and the muddler, plotting furiously, and he was searching for the ice in the freezer when Wilson spoke again.

“Annalise Stryker.”

Dick hit his head on the underside of the bar trying to scramble back up.  “What?” he asked, chest squeezing tight again.

“Annalise Stryker is the girl that fell onto my daughter,” Wilson said, watching Dick.  “Or at least, that’s how Rose tells it.”

Of course Rose would tell her father what happened.  Of course he already knew.  The whole thing was—what?  An attempt to see how much Dick would volunteer?  Whether he would give him a different name?  Dick just—there was too much information swirling around his head, combining with panic, lending terror and adrenaline to his muscles.

“It was an accident,” Dick said.  He made no attempt to confirm or deny the name.  “It was an accident, Mr. Wilson, it was unfortunate, they mixed up a movement and tumbled into each other, that’s all it was.  There’s no one to blame.”

“There’s always someone to blame.”

“Mr. Wilson—”

“My drink,” Wilson said, already turning away from him.  Dick cursed under his breath and dropped a sugar cube into the glass, his hand trembling as he splashed bitters in after it.  The muddler wasn’t a proper weapon, but Dick felt slightly better with it in his hand.

“Please, Mr. Wilson, no one intended to hurt your daughter,” Dick tried again.  The sugar cube was breaking apart rather forcefully under his shaky grip.  “They’re just children—”

“I was sixteen when I murdered my father,” Wilson responded, not looking back at him.  The sugar cube was in as few fragments as Dick’s strained nerves could bear, and he hunted for ice.  “It was entirely premediated.”  There was a tray with ice blocks and it took him four tries to pry one free with shaking fingers.  “Children can be capable of cruelty, Grayson.”

“It was an accident,” Dick repeated, staring at Wilson, willing him to understand.

“Is my drink done?” Wilson asked, disinterested.

Dick’s fingers contracted around the glass.  He turned to stare at the wall of bottles, scanning over labels and distantly noting that most of them cost more than a single one of his paychecks.  He grabbed the first bottle of whiskey he found.

There’s always someone to blame.

More whiskey sloshed into the glass than he expected, but it didn’t matter, the drink didn’t fucking matter.  He dropped a cherry inside and stuck an orange slice on the rim before carrying it to Wilson.  Not, altogether, one of the better products of his mixology skills.

Dick waited until Wilson took the glass from him before he spoke.  “If you need someone to blame,” he said quietly, “blame me.”  Wilson’s gaze tilted back up towards him.  “I’m the teacher.  It’s my responsibility to watch the class.  It’s my responsibility to keep them safe.  If someone gets hurt, it’s my fault, not anyone else’s.”

He didn’t know if Wilson had already gone after Annalise.  If any of his kids were safe.  If this would be enough.  But he had to try.

Wilson took a slow, measured sip of the cocktail.  “Not bad,” he said.

Dick closed his eyes for a moment, balling his hands into fists before loosening them.  “It’s hard to mess up an Old Fashioned,” Dick said tightly.

“I wasn’t talking about the drink.”  Wilson was smirking now, amusement lurking in his eye as he leaned back in the armchair.  “I know full well that accidents happen, Grayson, and especially during athletic training.  But a good teacher minimizes risk.  A good teacher protects their students.”  He considered Dick, gaze wandering all over.  “Even at the cost of themself.”

Dick didn’t understand.  The mood in the room had shifted and it didn’t make any sense.  Wilson no longer looked like a stalking wolf but a satiated one, indulgently watching the others take their fill.  The aura of threat that had hung over Dick like a weighted cloak was abruptly gone.

“I’m not going to harm a single hair on Stryker’s head.  Or yours, for that matter.  It does Rose some good to see firsthand the price of not being careful enough.”  Wilson shrugged lightly.  “Children will never learn if you wrap them in a bubble.”

There was no air in the room.  Or at least there was none in his lungs.  Dick’s legs wavered and Wilson’s eye narrowed when Dick knocked into a side table stumbling back.

“This—this was a test,” Dick said numbly, trying to square together actions and words, trying to fit the terror-inducing fury with the milder amusement.  “You were—this whole thing was a test.”

“You might want to sit down,” Wilson said, voice still amused but expression narrowing further.

Dick hadn’t been in danger.  The threats weren’t real.  Wilson wasn’t going to cripple him, wasn’t going to rend him into little pieces for the affront.  Or at least, not since he passed the test.

His hand found the side of an armchair and Dick let himself collapse into it, heart beating violently and fingers still trembling.  They were getting worse, in fact, and Dick buried his face in his hands and took several shuddering, choking breaths, each higher and sharper than the last.

He didn’t know when he started crying, but hitched tears masked any sign of footsteps and Dick startled out of his skin when his hand was tugged free and wrapped around a glass.  The drink he’d made.  “You look like you need it,” Wilson said.

Dick knocked the drink back in one long swallow, sugar crystals crunching in his mouth as the ice kissed his lips.  It didn’t make him feel any better, it just added a slow burn to the twisting in his chest.  Dick’s next shaky inhale dissolved into fresh tears.

“You’re safe.”  Wilson took the glass from his hands and gently set it down on the side table.  “No one’s going to hurt you here.”

Dick almost choked on the ridiculousness of it, of being reassured by the man that had him brought to his dungeon and intimated slow, personalized torture.  “Says the wolf to the sheep,” he muttered.

Not quite under his breath, apparently.

“You’re hardly a sheep, Officer Grayson,” Wilson gave him a languid smile, thumb settling on Dick’s jaw and nudging it up.  “You have claws.”

“I’m not a cop anymore,” Dick pointed out.  Strangely, the hand on his face was grounding, settling him in place.

“I’m aware.”

“Then why?” Dick asked, waving a hand at the room.  “Why do all this?  Why the inquisition?”

Why me?

Wilson’s thumb drifted higher, until it was brushing his lips.  The look on Wilson’s face was a threat again, dark and predatory and full of desire, the kind that sent a thrill down Dick’s spine.

“Because you interest me, Richard Grayson.”

Dick swallowed.  Watched Wilson follow the movement.  “I don’t think it’s a good thing.”

A slow, wicked smile.  “Probably not.”  He pulled on Dick’s chin and Dick followed the movement, rising up to his feet, transfixed by Wilson’s gaze.  “I’m not a good man.”

Wilson kissed gentler than Dick expected, firm but not demanding, languorous and attentive, like he was trying to taste every drop of whiskey still clinging to Dick’s lips.  Dick’s legs felt weak again, his grip on Wilson’s shoulders feeble, feeling not unlike a leaf being tossed by the raging current.

[thermitetermite]

Writing prompt

Imagine a world where every word used in a language has to exist as a name for someone, no overlapping words. A bill passing putting it into law suddenly throws the world into chaos. Every word starts with a five year timer, if it's unused as a name it gets permeantly removed, being deleted in every instance it's used.

You have a rush of people hoping to get themselves and their kids a 'good' name. Grant, Lily, Hunter, etc. Just something that sounds normal. Of course the normal names run out fast. People start to get creative. They name themselves or their kids after more uncommon things that still sound nice or cool. Obscure animals and plants, emotions, things in nature, objects in space. A name like Photon or Constellation or Sonder is still nice, still interesting.

You have dumb yet passionate teens who don't want swear words to be deleted forever. Maybe in the future they'll regret the name Shit or Ass but for now they celebrate the fact that they can swear unapologetically, with pride even, whenever they introduce themselves.

You have companies bribing their workers to take their names or their product names. They offer cash rewards, life time supplies, anything so their brand name doesn't disappear. Kleenex. Febreeze. Hals. Some who take brand names are held in high regard at the company (more out of fear that they could change their names if they ever left).

You have researchers who know the name of their hyper obscure organism will be completely erased if they don't take it. Researchers who make posts about 'Beautiful names in Latin' hoping someone relates heavily to the name Bombyx, Elegans, or Coli.

You have young couples expecting and scouting the list of available names just scouting for something normal, something they can picture calling their child for the rest of their lives. Something that has a nice meaning or reference. And something that's easier to spell than Tryptophan or Yacht. Maybe even fighting and online discussion wars about taking words from another language to be names.

You have people going out into the word and finding their homophone match. Stake and Steak. Blue and Blew. Some plan their meetings just to get that quick selfie to tell stories about while others meet by pure chance during coffee order confusion.

And you have the keepers of these names watching with worry and horror as the timers tick down on these words, hoping that someone will bite the bullet and name themselves 'The' or 'A' just for the sake of the English language remaining comprehendible.

[inkpotsprite]

Last deleted scene from my work "Cats and Communication."

[wazzappp]

I have been saying 'bitches love cannons' multiple times an hour for the past 48 hours

[mediumgayitalian]

i am so tired i left it way too long so no full fic tonight. but i have a TREAT for yall 👀👀

[shootingstarpilot]

Last Line Challenge

Rules: Rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like). 

Got tagged by the indomitable @laurabwrites, and a flare-up has kept me up long past my normal bedtime, so... what better time?

He hears a huff of laughter before Helix rises to his feet. “Drink your hot chocolate, kid,” he says, not unkindly. “Needle’s recipe. Get some calories in you. We’ll talk after about how we can stop that from happening again.” “Okay,” Ben agrees. Exhaustion is creeping up like ivy. “You should check Needle’s arm, though.” His vision is blurry enough that he can’t make out Helix’s expression, but the sudden stillness tells enough. Next to him, he feels Needle sigh, and pokes him. “You carried me.” “And I’d do it again, you horrible little gremlin,” Needle grumbles, and Ben turns his head to the side and smiles into Needle’s shirt. “Just you wait until you’re better. I’ll teach you hand-to-hand and then flatten you into the mat.” “You could try.”

Tagging @themonopolyhat, @drauthor, @shadow-pixelle, @aquaticflames, @foreverchangingfandomsao3, and... an open tag to anyone who wants the motivation! Best of luck!

[dumb-alek]

I was literally about to leave a kudos on a fic when it got deleted :o and I got the most menacing message from AO3: "what did you want to leave kudos on?"

😰😰😰😰

[green-eyedfirework]

There--Dick was weakly shifting in the ground, movements uncoordinated and breaths hitching. Now it was time to find out what Dick was trying to hide so badly.

Jason kicked open the bedroom door and it hit the wall with a crash. Nothing stood out of place at first glance--the bed had a rumpled nest, the room was neater than Dick usually kept it, there was an odd looking dresser in the corner--

Jason realized it was a cradle the moment he heard the high, thin wail.

Jason's body moved despite his numbness, steps creeping closer to the crib. He could hear a choked sound from outside the room.

Jason, helmet off but gear on, gun in one hand, armored up, reached the edge of the crib and looked down.

At the infant shaking a tiny little fist and shrieking at the top of their lungs.

Something inside Jason had gone unmoored.

"No," came the strangled sound from the hallway, low and broken.

Jason, stuck in a daze, holstered his gun. The baby was still strenuously protesting, kicking their tiny little feet, tucked in a bright yellow duckling patterned onesie.

They were heavier than Jason expected, and he carefully supported their head while he cradled them in his arms.

The green was gone. The green had no say here, with a tiny infant--his nephew? His niece?--tucked into his arms.

He could hear the whisper of cloth against wood, like something was being dragged slowly.

"Shh," Jason hushed the baby, rocking them and nuzzling the top of their head, marveling at the soft fuzz. "Shh, sweetie, I'm sorry I woke you up."

The baby proved as obstinate as their papa though, and kept wailing. Nothing Jason did could quiet them, and he could feel his distress ticking higher the longer he heard those heartbroken wails.

Jason stomped out of the room. Dick had managed to crawl three steps, fighting against the submission for every inch. His desperation made a lot more sense now.

"They won't stop crying," Jason said, brusque.

Dick twisted until one blue eye was looking up, twisted in fear and distress. His voice was cracking, "She's probably hungry."

Oh. That made sense. Jason headed for the kitchen--Dick made a high, panicked sound--but couldn't find any formula. "How do you feed her?" he called out.

Dick's expression was tight and strained. "I feed her."

Jason looked down at him, at the blood covering the golden boy's face, the way those eyes were fixed on the child, the trembling, outstretched hand inches away from Jason's boot.

Jason's grip tightened on his niece. She continued her screeches.

Fine.

Dick's movements were still weak and uncoordinated and Jason could haul him up with one hand and drag him to the couch, ignoring the faint struggles. He waited until Dick had righted himself before extending the baby girl. He didn't even know her name.

Dick snatched her the moment she was in reach, curling protectively around her and shaking with barely audible sobs. The baby kept crying.

"Feed her," Jason hissed, abruptly angry again.

Dick cowered back at the growl, but decided to follow the order. He stayed pressed against the back of the couch, half hunched to hide the baby as much as he could while he pulled down one side of his shirt.

The little one was definitely hungry, she latched on immediately and began sucking away. Dick covered her as much as he could with still-trembling limbs, his flat-eyed gaze fixed on Jason.

Jason felt extremely awkward now.  He was aware he was looming, and he took a step back.  “…What’s her name?” he asked hesitantly.

Dick looked down at the infant, and back up.  “Marian,” he said quietly.

Marian.  Jason had a niece and her name was Marian.  He shifted a little closer to see her face, and Dick coiled over her again.  “I’m not going to hurt her,” Jason said slowly, because he could see how Dick had gotten the wrong impression.  But Jason wouldn’t—Jason couldn’t hurt the child.  She’d done nothing wrong.

Jason had a niece.

“If you do, he'll kill you," Dick said, voice soft.

"What?" Jason wanted to laugh. Batman hadn't killed the Joker, and Dick thought he'd make an exception for him?

Batman had made his rules clear. He wouldn't break them, even for his favorite child.

"He'll kill you," Dick repeated, absolutely certain. "No matter where you hide, he will hunt you down and tear you to pieces. And he'll make it slow."

Ooh, Golden Boy was more bloodthirsty than Jason had expected.

"Batman's not going to save you," Jason sneered. "He's always too late for his birds."

Dick blinked, forehead scrunching in confusion. "I wasn't talking about Batman."

"Oh?" Jason raised an eyebrow. "Then who're you talking about?"

"Slade," Dick said, like it was obvious. "He'll destroy you and everyone you love for hurting his daughter."

The words took a stretching moment to register. What was Deathstroke's daughter doing in Dick's apartment and why was Dick so protective of--

No.  No.  "You slept with Deathstroke?" Jason squawked.

Dick looked even more confused before his expression ticked back into distress. "Who are you?" he asked hoarsely. "What do you want?"

Jason had wanted a fight, and the Replacement was too well guarded, so he'd searched out his dear older brother who had given up the vigilante life to play rich socialite--and that made so much more sense now--and Jason had been so angry and--and he'd come here looking for a punching bag.

Jason looked at Dick's face, bruised and bloody and lined with exhaustion, and felt ill.

"Don't change the goddamn topic," Jason snapped. "Why the hell did you decide that getting into bed with the world's deadliest mercenary was a good fucking idea?"

“I really don’t see how it’s any of your business,” Dick said frigidly.  He was glaring at the helmet like he wanted it to burst into flames.

“He’s a goddamn killer,” Jason nearly shouted. “Is that who you decide to spread your legs for?”

Several emotions crossed Dick’s face, flitting too fast for Jason to track, but it settled on a blankness that unsettled him.  “Is this a savior complex thing?”

“What?”

“Are you trying to save me?” Dick asked, voice eerily toneless. “Is this supposed to be a rescue?”

Jason drew up short.  He looked at Dick—at the gaunt face below the bruises and blood, the way he’d been so exhausted he hadn’t registered Jason until the sucker punch.  He’d threatened that Deathstroke would come for the baby.  Not for him.

“Yes,” Jason said, startling himself with the speed of the response.  He stepped closer and crouched near his older brother and Dick tensed but didn’t flinch.  “Yes, this is a rescue.”

Fuck Bruce.  Fuck every single hero that had seen Dick with Deathstroke and hadn’t done a thing to stop it.  Jason didn’t know what sword Slade was holding over Dick’s head, and he didn’t care.  He’d get them free, Dick and Marian, and he’d blow the mercenary to pieces when he found him.

“It’s okay, Dickie,” Jason said, low and soothing. “You’re safe now.”

Dick withdrew into the couch, eyes lowering, his arms rigid around Marian.  He was trembling again.  Jason dared to put a gloved hand on Dick’s arm, and internally rejoiced when Dick didn’t shove him off.

“Dickie?” Jason ventured quietly. “Do you have a diaper bag for Marian?”

Dick nodded.  “It’s in the bedroom,” he said softly.  He wasn’t looking at Jason, his gaze fixed downwards.

“I’ll go and get it,” Jason promised. “Wait right here.”

“Okay, alpha,” was murmured so quietly Jason wasn’t quite sure he heard it.  Shaking off the unease at the compliant tone, Jason hurried into the bedroom to grab the bag.  He still needed a go bag for Dick, but he could get Dick new stuff.  New ID, new clothes, new everything.  Talia was not Dick’s biggest fan, but if Jason asked really nicely, she might help.  Hell, he’d bet the demon brat would be thrilled to be an uncle.

Dick was right where Jason left him—the submission, his mind hissed at him, which, oops, he’d forgotten about that—and Jason again dropped to a crouch in front of Dick.  “Is there anything else we need to get?” he asked.  Dick mutely shook his head.  “I’ll keep you safe, Dickiebird, I—”

His older brother raised his head, his eyes alight again.  “Don’t call me that,” he nearly growled, and Jason stared at him, wide-eyed, before Dick widened his eyes and ducked his head.  “I’m sorry, alpha,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Jason unstuck his jaw, “Hey, Dickibir—Dickie, it’s okay.”  He reached a hand to settle it on Dick’s elbow, and he could feel the tension as Dick held perfectly still.  “Dick—Dick, I’m not going to hurt you,” Jason ground out, but he was staring at splotchy bruises and dried blood that he’d caused, and the words rang flat in his own head.

Jason shifted up, until he was sitting on the couch beside Dick, and attempted to draw his brother into an embrace.  Dick always liked hugs.  But now, Dick was stiff and unyielding, and his heartbeat was too fast, his elbows jutting out as he curled around Marian.  Jason tried to arrange them more comfortably, and Dick moved with his nudges, leaning back against Jason’s shoulder and tipping his head to one side to bare his neck.

It was a show of trust.  But Dick’s heart was racing and his breathing sounded fast and wet, his body tense like he was bracing himself.

Jason looked down at the expanse of Dick’s neck, the bloody bite a ghastly image against the smooth, tan skin, and something clicked in his head.

He nearly shoved Dick off in his rush to get off of the couch.  “Dick, no,” Jason said, already working at the catches of his helmet, “I’m not going to—Dick, it’s me.”  He finally managed to pull the broken helmet off and tossed it aside.  “It’s Jason.”

Dick stared at Jason for a long moment, his face growing ashen as his expression grew more anguished, and he finally shook his head.  “No,” he murmured. “No, no, no, not now, I can’t—please not now—”

“Dick?” Jason tried. “Dickie?”

“Please,” Dick’s voice cracked, his eyes screwed shut as he rocked slightly in place. “Five—five things I can touch, I—the couch, my pants, Mari, Mari’s clothes, my ring.  He’s not real.  He’s not real.”

Jason felt like the world had been shoved sideways.  “Dick, I am real,” Jason said slowly, beginning to realize that coming here with no intel had been a very bad idea.  “Dick, I’m right here, it’s me, it’s Jay, please open your eyes.”

Dick shook his head, gasping, “No, he’s dead, he’s dead, you can’t be him, this isn’t real, I can’t—I can’t—”

“I came back,” Jason said over Dick’s increasingly strident tone. “Dick—Dickiebird, I came back, okay, I crawled out of my grave, it’s me, please look at me!”

Dick snapped open his eyes.  His gaze crawled over Jason’s face, hope warring with terror in a painful fracture.  “Jay?” his voice broke. “What—what happened?”

“Funny,” a low, deep, dark voice growled, causing a prickle down Jason’s spine, “that’s just what I was about to ask.”

[wwasted]

last line tag

tagged by @feyd-meowtha and @polifandom (so much love to u both, thank u for keeping me fed during these winter months)

here is some christmas fic that's not really christmas themed, but I hope to post by christmas lmao

When the man pulls his dick out of Gale’s mouth, there’s nothing left he can do but fall back ungracefully onto his haunches, taking deep breaths. His throat feels so fucked out he thinks he’ll feel it for days. Far after he leaves this airport and the man behind. He’s so out of it that he can’t even find it in himself to care that his softening dick is bunched up weirdly in the waistband of his underwear. He feels like he’s slowly falling back to Earth on a bed of plush clouds, not so sure whether that feeling is because the sleep deprivation is fully catching up to him now that he’s exerted himself so thoroughly or whether it’s because he just came so hard he thinks he blacked out for a minute when the stranger’s voice cuts through his post-orgasmic haze like a knife. “Do you think my coffee will still be there?” Disoriented, Gale can’t help but glance up from his sprawl, one eyebrow already raised in astonishment at the choice of opening. The first few times he tries to speak, his voice comes out so croaky and indistinguishable that he has to stop and continuously clear his throat. The man just waits patiently the whole time, his now flaccid dick just hanging there, like this is a completely normal conversation. “If it’s not, I’m sure you can buy another.” “Yeah, but I already paid 8 dollars for that one. My name’s Bucky, by the way. Bucky Egan.” The last part is enough to knock Gale totally out of his stupor. He’s well aware his face probably looks like he’s speed running through the five stages of grief, his mind repeatedly getting stuck on the thought that this is probably why you should learn the names of people you fuck before you get down on your knees for them in an airport bathroom. Because wouldn’t it be Gale’s luck that they walk out of his bathroom to cops waiting for them, and then he has to explain to a jury that he ruined his life so he could suck the cock of some guy named Bucky.

tagging @swifty-fox @wayrad @donotnomi @constanthaunt (not me using this as an excuse to get snippets from ongoing fics I'm obsessed with ksdsksdka no pressure tho!!)