#my snippets

[aliferous-ly]

"What goes up but never comes down?"

"Your age. Come on, ask us something difficult," Etho goaded.

"Yeah, ask us something difficult," Scar said. "We're all great at riddles."

Grian rolled his eyes. "Sure, whatever. Um... What can travel around the world without leaving its corner?"

"A stamp," Pearl chimed in. "You know, I always thought being a postmaster would be really fun."

"Ew, government work," Jevin muttered.

"I knew that one too," Scar said.

"Ooh, I have one!" Impulse said. "I'm always hungry and I'll die if I'm not fed. Whatever I touch will soon turn red. What am I?"

"Tango?" Etho said. Several snickers emanated from the gathered hermits.

"Close," Impulse said.

"Oh, I got it! Fire!" Pearl said. She beamed in victory when Impulse nodded.

Before anyone could add their thoughts, a deep, heavy voice echoed through the room: "The dungeon is ready for its next victim."

"Hypno made it out!" Grian said. "Who's up next again?"

"Uhh, Scar, I think," Etho said. He poked at the queueing system that always seemed to break at the least opportune moments.

"Ooh! Well, everyone better come up with more riddles, 'cause I'm gonna be in there a loooong time," Scar said. He waved flippantly as jeers followed him out the waiting room.

"Does anyone want to trade a shard for uh... Literally anything else?" Jevin said.

"Yeah, I'll trade one shard for two shards," Impulse said, grinning.

"Well that's not even funny," Jevin mumbled. He sat on a slab and crossed his arms.

Pearl scratched the side of her neck. "So, uh... Anyone got anymore riddles?"

[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.”

[definitelynotshouting]

local gay proposes without proposing real not clickbait. pwease. blinks at you so sweetly. you know i love proposal-ish isms.

AKFNEKDNKSDN THE PEOPLE HAVE SPOKEN!!!! Okay THIS ONE is such a doozy and one of my fave things ive written that just hasnt really seen the light of day yet, which is really funny bc i'd already sank at least a three full days worth of research into it by the time i got anything actually written

The general premise is, well, exactly what it says on the tin: Scar proposes to Grian in 3rd life without ever ACTUALLY saying the words, bc Grian is a flighty little guy and theyve been dancing around each other since Grian accidentally took his first life. The whole thing is a very fun and interesting relationship exploration of scarian, what brings them together, and features Grian trying to use the safety net of "well if he wants this and im on Green then i have to do it" to deny his own feelings.... right up until he literally cant.

I dont wanna give too much away, but the things ive had to research for this include: ancient tattoo ink-making practices, how viable cactus spines are to make a needle, how to carve rabbit bone into a needle, the exact application process of stick and poke tattoos (a guide which even included visual steps), and how long it takes sugarcane juice to ferment into vinegar. Bc its scarian, so they CANNOT be normal about their not wedding vows.

Anyway heres a snippet!!! This wip is about 2 yrs old atp, so please bear with the rougher quality!!!

Grian stares at him. At any other point, he’d be unimpressed, but something about Scar’s words beg him to take this seriously. It makes Grian’s wings itch to flare, to protect him from the vulnerability of this moment and how all-encompassing Scar's eyes are on his. But his wings are clipped; there’s nowhere to fly. Where would he even go? He chose to be here— this is his home, between sandstone and sky, in the liminal spaces between Scar’s fingers. He lifts his hand and places it in Scar’s, light as a feather. Scar’s hand is warm in his, fingers rough and calloused. The heat of it sparks beneath Grian’s skin, a static shock he nearly flinches from on instinct. And then Scar’s hand is shifting beneath his, gathering his fingers into his own, thumb sweeping over the back of his hand. Scar’s eyes never leave his as he lifts Grian’s hand to his lips and folds the softest, most reverent of kisses into his knuckles. Despite the freezing air, despite the way the sun is hours from rising, Grian burns. “Partners ‘til the end,” Scar whispers into his skin, and goosebumps race up Grian’s entire arm. It takes all his self control not to rip his hand back— it’s too much, too soon, and while they’ve been dancing around this since Grian took Scar’s first life, they’ve never stepped this close before. It makes him jittery, sends a bolt of adrenaline through his system. Grian takes a deep, shuddering breath, and forces himself to stay perfectly still. “Partners,” he agrees, and if it comes out a bit breathless, Scar doesn’t call him on it.

[gretahayes]

I think Tim should have a bat necklace

[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.

[anacdoce]

Snippet Sunday on a Monday

Thank you for the tag @deadly-diminuendo and @saucy-scribbler ❤️ loved your snippets!

Today, I'll share something I'm not very comfortable writing, but I'm working on it, and I think I'm satisfied with how it ended.

Hope you like it 🫣

From my future long fic (chapter 15, probably)

No pressure tags: @bloodinwine @roguishcat @larvasmoon @yennefer-of-vengerbergs @obsessedwhyyes @astarioffsimpmain

[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.

Part 2

[atevanfool]

Okay, y'all got me. I've caught onto the mpreg shifter bug. So, for your enjoyment, here is a tiny, itty bitty, snippet of Buck and the Triplets.

---

Buck blinks. Then blinks again. The doctor stands in front of him, flipping through his stack of what Buck can only assume are his results. He came in today because he's been feeling off for weeks, lately; throwing up in the morning, feeling sluggish, moodier than usual… Buck doesn't get sick, and he sure as heck doesn't get sick for weeks on end. So he asked Bobby for the morning off so he could get checked out. Which is why he's staring at this handsome, slightly older middle eastern doctor with gorgeous, curly black hair and greying temples, like a fool. “Say that again?” He finds his words, but his mouth is dry, and his ears ring like he's got latent tinnitus.   The doctor looks up, smile warm. “I do believe congratulations are in order, Mr. Buckley. You're expecting.” Expecting? Just what was he to be expecting? The overly bright lights swim in his vision as black spots form and he has to do everything in his power to not vomit on the nice doctor's practical baby blue tennis shoes.

[nathaira-stern]

A Fair Trade

[Gender neutral reader X fairy queen, approx 550 words.]

[well I've been meaning to write some fae short fiction/snippets, romance and maybe edging into smut, but this first one is just heavily implied. Hope y'all enjoy!]

The sun was setting when you decided to go for a walk - no big deal, though, you knew these woods well. Or at least you thought you did, until you came to a fork in a trail you didn't recognize. The new path was barely more than a deer trail, though, so you didn't think much of it - until you heard her.

A clear soprano voice, singing something softly, and you couldn't quite make out the words, nor did the tune sound familiar, but something about it made you stop to listen.

You took a step down the side trail without really thinking about it, just wanting to get closer to the one singing, to hear the tune properly. As you got closer, you began to realize that you couldn't make out words because you didn't know the language, weren't even sure what language it was, and then, abruptly, you were at the creek, much closer than you thought it was to the main trail. And you saw her, sitting on a rock, facing away from you, with her feet in the water.

Maybe it was just the last rays of sunlight as twilight descended, but she seemed to glow, somehow, and as a twig snapped beneath your feet with a crack, she let the song fade and turned to look at you.

She didn't seem startled, nor was she nervous, though the simple dress she wore was so filmy you could see through it even in this low light. Not that you were trying to stare, but you couldn't help it - she was so beautiful, and almost naked, and just smiling, like she was inviting you to look all you wished.

She called to you by name and indicated the space on the rock next to her. "Come sit with me a while."

Entranced, you did as you were bid, and not until you'd sat beside her did you think to ask how she knew your name.

She didn't answer, just laughed merrily, and kicked her feet in the water, scattering drops that looked like diamonds, making it more obvious now that she was glowing, somehow.

Then she turned back to gaze at you again, with eyes that were blue and green and grey all at once, softly luminous, and you met her gaze for a moment before you glanced down, afraid of staring. But you could feel her eyes on you still, and you raised yours back up, lingering for a moment on her glistening lips.

As your eyes met hers again, those lips quirked into a grin. "And do you think to kiss these lips?" she asked.

Your pulse quickened, afraid you'd offend her, unsure what to say, but when you didn't speak, she continued,

"For if you dare to kiss my lips, and spend a night with me, you then must serve me seven years in Fairy by the sea.

"One night my body in your power, to use me as you will - what'ere your fantasy, desire, or wish I will fulfill.

"Then seven years you will be mine, to serve within my court, and at the end, you safely home, I swear I will transport."

Well, the rhyming verse and glowing would have explained who she was even without the mention of fairyland. But one night, of this glorious creature fulfilling your every fantasy? You could feel your body already responding to the thought. Seven years seemed like a fair trade, you thought to yourself, as you leaned in to kiss her - snaking one hand up the back of her neck and into her hair, as your other wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer.

[curioushabitforarivergod]

average golden trio conversation~

(my current wip that i need to finish like today)

__

“It might not be bad,” Hermione says weakly. “He might be a really lovely person—”

“—beneath the fascist exterior?” Ron finishes cynically. 

“I’d hardly call him a fascist — some of his policies are almost socialist—”

“Policies! He’s a bloody dictator!”

“—I’m only saying—”

“I know what you’re saying, I just—”

Harry tunes them out. It’s a stupid argument and they’re only doing it to fill in the space of things they don’t know how to say. 

[sodomhipped]

- Snippet from "ashes and dust: at work"

[aliferous-ly]

The magic of hermitcraft was way different than that of empires. For one, they didn't call it magic, and many scoffed at the very concept. Magic, on hermitcraft. That was for those modded worlds, not here on vanilla.

Joel, who'd used empires magic to grow to giant size and become a god, could tell that there was magic here. It was just... different.

Some of it was similar, if not the same: they could change their shape to match their aesthetic, like Lizzie becoming a cat or ocean queen, like Impulse becoming a dwarf or cybernetic future... guy. They could make life out of nothing, like that Grumbot guy he'd heard about, and of course his beloved Hermes.

But here the world didn't twist to their whims. Shubble's witchcraft would never work on hermitcraft, nor would that one demon guy from season one have much of an effect at all. So many hermits didn't put much substance in fwoopy, unclear magic-y sparkles, so the world didn't support it. They twisted the world to match their visions. Tango built a functioning factory using the laws of the world. It was huge and complex and would never have been built on empires. That wasn't even getting into whatever Doc or Zed were up to. Frankly, Joel liked sticking to his skyscrapers instead of testing the bounds of their world.

Still. It bugged him, because on empires he could have just built a car structure and boom, mustang for Joel Smallishbeans. But here he'd have to make like, an actual motor.

Joel leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and grumbled. Stupid hermits and their stupid redstone. Why couldn't life be easy.

[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.”

[definitelynotshouting]

For the WIP game, would love to know what’s up with the angst for Calo <3

HELLO KAYA MY BELOVED FRIEND!!!!! i will GLADLY tell u abt the angst i cooked up for Calo >:]

Okay in reality this is a bit more hurt/comfort than just straight up angst, i just think its way funnier to call it that. Anyway, Calo gave me a little preview of this beautiful artwork before it got posted, and it gave me instant brainrot bc secret life perpetually does insane cocomelon shit to my head whenever i think abt it. I think i have 2 fics centered around it already and by gods with this one im gunning for a third.

The basic idea is just playing off of the dialogue already in the art, BUT!!! One of my favorite things in the world is when characters in disguise reveal things about themselves that they never would if they werent wearing some sort of mask. When Calo told me that Scar knew who Grian was but was pretending not to, i saw the world's best opportunity to do a little character prodding❤️🥰

85% of this fic is in script format, since i didnt want to lose the dialogue as it came to me-- but i do plan to write things out properly and post it, once i get the brain blast for it (so if youve been wondering why i havent reblogged it yet..... YEAH THATS WHY SKDNWKDJSK)

I dont wanna give too much away, but heres one of my favorite exchanges ive written in the dialogue:

[Silence as they pick their way over to TRADER SCAR’S] GRIAN: [abruptly] Do you like it here? SCAR: Sor— repeat that? GRIAN: Do you like it here. [Looking steadily at TRADER SCAR’S] You seem… happy. SCAR: … Well, there’s a word for it. [Slowly, testing the waters] I like building. I like the canvas, I suppose. [Carefully] What about you? GRIAN: [startled] Me? SCAR: Yes, you! I mean, surely you’ve got better things to do than hang about here, right? [A playful nudge] Any canvases of your own? GRIAN: … No. Nothing like that. SCAR: [blink blonk] You aren’t a winner? GRIAN: A what? SCAR: Why, a winner, of course! That’s what this place is for, isn’t it? For— [faltering] for winners? GRIAN: You call this a win? SCAR: It’s certainly not a loss.

Theres lots of little implications that arent explicitly on-script rn that i want to write in properly later, but the atmosphere around this conversation makes me WILD whenever i think abt it💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥 pov the guy you love openly admits he does not see what happened in 3rd life as a win despite literally being here with the other winners. Pov the guy you love holds a grief so tight heay as well be pressurizing it into a diamond around his heart. IDK IT JUST DOES CRAZY SHIT TO ME WHEN GRIAN ROUNDABOUT ADMITS TO HIS GUILT AND HOW 3RD LIFE BROKE HIM!!!! GET FOREVER CHANGED BOY!!!! I AM GOING TO PEEL YOU LIKE A FREEKING LEMON!!!!!!!💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

[short-circuit-the-great]

[green-eyedfirework]

Dick’s hands didn’t tremble as he slipped off the rings on his fingers.  Dick’s hands had stopped trembling days ago, when Ra’s had strolled through their keep’s gates like the place belonged to him, and Dick hadn’t been able to stop him from seizing control.

From taking guardianship of Damian.  From stealing Tim’s letters.  From sending a small army to hunt for Jason and his outlaws.

From marrying Dick off to a warlord from the plains—a personal favor, Ra’s had called it, and Dick knew that anyone who won favors from the likes of Ra’s al Ghul was not someone he wanted to marry or mate.

His first impression of Slade Wilson did nothing to change that.

The man was a head and a half taller than Dick, broad and muscled—a warrior born and bred, and Dick had never been raised as some fainting, delicate omega in a tower, but he’d almost shivered and stepped back when Slade had dismounted from his great stallion in the middle of the courtyard.

He was older than Dick, much older—he had three kids from his first marriage, the eldest Damian’s age, and Dick didn’t dare ask what happened to his mate—and had only one eye, and moved like he was the most dangerous thing in any given space and the world knew it too.  Dick had gone still whenever Slade passed close to him, like a rabbit freezing in the hopes that the predator would ignore it.

Like now.

“Leave it,” came the gruff voice, when Dick moved to slide off the arm bracers.  “It suits you.”

Dick left the arm bracers on.  Dick did not meet his new husband’s eyes as he worked on the catches of the other jewelry.  The last was the heavy, symbolic choker tight around his neck.

He remembered Bruce showing it to him once, when he’d been years younger, and promising that Dick would get to wear it for his wedding.  That he would get to take it off to bare his neck for the person he’d chosen to be his mate.

Dick carefully placed his grandmother’s collar on the table, and did not cry.

His hands moved up, to the flowers and woven braids stylized like a crown in his short hair, but his husband tsked again.  “You’ll ruin it,” he said, a callused thumb brushing along Dick’s hairline.  “It looks like it took a lot of work.”

It did.  Dick remembered the hollow blankness inside of him as he was prepared for the wedding by Ra’s al Ghul’s maids, as he was led out by Ra’s al Ghul’s nobles, as he was escorted up the aisle by the evil scheming snake and not his father.

Because Bruce was dead, and his whole world had fallen apart because of it.

Dick left the hair, not making a single comment about how the pins were already starting to give him a headache, and stood, bracing himself against the dresser for a moment to make sure that his knees would hold him.  There was no use stalling or delaying—Dick’s heart was already in his throat, and all waiting would do was make the panic climb higher.

Slade was so close behind him that Dick could feel his presence as a tangible prickle down his spine, but he ignored it, and began working at the knots in the silks.  It would be a shame to ruin the finery for a wedding he’d been threatened into.

The memory of Ra’s al Ghul’s satisfied smirk as Dick said the vows to seal his fate was seared into his mind.

Some of the knots were in awkward places, and the third time a knot slipped out of his numb fingers, Slade spoke up again.  “Would you like me to help?” he asked.  Like it was a choice.

Well, Dick supposed it was.  The same way the demands Ra’s gave had been choices.  Submit gracefully.  Or suffer, along with everyone he loved.

Dick turned to give Slade easier access to the laces down his sides.

His husband was efficient, pulling each knot free quickly, his fingers leaving scorching trails of fire wherever they brushed against Dick’s skin, even through the layers of silks.  Dick didn’t bother holding the outer layer up, and let it slip down, knot by knot, freed laces by freed laces, until Slade was done and it slid down to pool around his feet.

Dick stepped out of it.  The second layer was easier to pull off, until Dick was left in what could charitably be called a shift, because omegas didn’t wear full shifts under their wedding wear, because after the wedding came the mating and Dick was standing in a piece of cloth that covered next to nothing but that the maids swore would be enticing.

Dick didn’t want to turn around.  He didn’t want to see if his husband was enticed.

But if he didn’t turn around, Slade would grab his elbow and yank, and the longer Dick obeyed, the longer Slade would be…gentle, almost, his grip light and firm instead of hard and squeezing, voice level instead of harsh, treating him like a wife and not a hostage.  Since Dick had to spend the rest of his life with him, he should enjoy the gentleness where he got it.

If Slade was a friend of Ra’s al Ghul, then Dick knew that the man was cruel.  But he hadn’t seen it, not once since he gave his hand and said the words, and if the alpha was that good at hiding it, it was possible that a subservient omega was what the warlord wanted.

Either that, or he wanted to enjoy Dick for a bit before trying to make him break.

It didn’t matter.  There was no way out of this.  Even if Dick managed to overpower Slade and get out of the room, he had no friends left in Gotham.  If Dick managed to flee, Ra’s would take it out on everyone who was left behind.  He’d execute Jason after he caught the outlaws, and he’d chain Tim after his little brother got back from his fool’s quest, and he’d force Damian through the harsh training that the boy had endured for too much of his childhood, and Dick could not let that happen.

Whatever Slade wanted, he would suffer.  For his brothers.  For the only family he had left.

Dick turned around, his gaze fixed at his husband’s collarbone.  Slade had taken his shirt off, and scars crisscrossed corded muscle, speaking to a life lived on a constant battlefield.  “Beautiful,” his husband said in a low murmur, and a hand on his cheek forced his head up.

Lips sealed on his, and Dick let them plunder his mouth, let them take as an arm wrapped around his back, his shift riding up till it was concealing nothing at all, eyes closed and prickling hot and he would not cry.

Dick had to gasp when Slade pulled back, breathless and panting, and Slade’s gaze darkened further, satisfaction clear in his icy blue eye.  He nudged Dick back towards the bed, nodding, “Go on.”

Dick stepped back, bare feet against the rugs, until he felt the edge of the bed hit his thighs.  At Slade’s expectant look, he boosted himself up, crawling backwards until he was in the center of the bed, watching Slade’s expression sharpen into desire.

At least this wasn’t his room.  Or Bruce’s.  Dick couldn’t bear to have his last memory of his father’s room be the bed he was raped on.

Slade stalked forward like a wolf, and Dick’s first reaction was to flee.  Suppressing that instinct left little room for anything else, and Dick stayed stuck, half up on his elbows, as Slade reached the edge of the bed.

“No room for me?” Slade asked, almost amused, and Dick realized that his thighs were firmly pressed together.

He let his knees fall open, sinking back against the bed, trying not to think about the fact that he was completely bared, and clutched desperately at the haze to surround himself with.

Light, open-mouthed kisses against his ankles, rising up his calves, and Dick fell deeper, deeper, deeper.  If Slade was proportionate all the way—it would hurt.  It would hurt a lot, and badly, and teasing nips to the inside of his thighs wouldn’t change that.  Even if Slade wasn’t proportionate, it would hurt, Dick wasn’t in heat and he knew that several alphas didn’t believe in lube or prep, that omegas’ bodies were built to take them so it would be fine.

He had to cocoon himself in not-feeling, or he’d scream, or cry, or—or beg, and he couldn’t do that.

He was scared.

He wanted his dad.

The kisses had stopped.  Dick forced himself to detach further from his body, but halted when he heard his name, sounding like it was coming from far away.  “Dick?”

“Yes?” Dick responded, a breathy even to his own ears.

“…Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dick said.  Or maybe slurred.  Everything felt a little floaty.

“You don’t sound fine,” the voice informed him.  “Can you sit up?”

It took Dick a moment to figure out how his arms worked, but he pushed up.  Slade was kneeling between his spread legs, expression no longer warm and desire-heavy, but closed and analytical.

“Are you okay?” Slade asked again.

“I’m fine,” Dick repeated, and this time his voice sounded hollow instead of floaty.  There was a curl of dread deep inside of him—apparently Slade wanted him present—and Dick mentally bid adieu to the haze as he forced himself back to reality.

He realized he was shaking, minute tremors wracking his body, and Slade’s eyebrows were pinching even further.  “You’re trembling,” Slade pointed out.

Dick wasn’t sure if he could stop.  “Just—just a little nervous,” he answered, trying not to stutter.  The bashful, blushing bride was still a thing, right?  Slade wasn’t—wasn’t expecting him to be experienced and—and participating, was he?  “And it’s a little—cold,” Dick added, to cover all his bases.

Hopefully Slade would decide to warm him up and they could get this over with.

Slade reached to the side of the bed, tugging one of the blankets free and—and wrapping it around Dick’s shoulders, practically swaddling him in the material.  Dick blinked.

“You said you were cold,” Slade said levelly, shifting back and studying Dick with that scrutinizing expression again.  Dick allowed himself to clutch the blanket, and wondered what the hell this was supposed to be.

“You don’t want this,” Slade said after a stretching silence, and Dick froze.

How the fuck was he supposed to respond to that?  Agree?  Disagree?  Convince Slade that he was wrong?  He felt like he was standing in a trap but he didn’t know where it would spring from.

“You’re not nervous,” Slade said, voice tight.  “You’re terrified.”