#yet another snippet

[elejah-wonderland]

elejah_au

*

Divination

_fanfic

_snippet

_au

a/n: Elena and Elijah are detectives, working in a special homocide unit that deals with paranormal occurences. It is New Orleans, of course and nothing is ordinary.

_yet another snippet. Blame it on the gif...lol

*

Darkness followed them. Sucking them bit by bit on a daily basis. There was not escaping it. The deeper the dug into the murder of Estelle Claire.

"You know what this is?" Elijah said to Elena as he brushed the dust of the amulet that was sitting in the middle of the circle.

"Yes. Vegvisir - way finder. The Viking compas. But why is it here?" Elena wondered.

"My aunt - a dark witch, used it to get into the Underworld. I have a bad feeling about this." Elijah turned to Elena as he stood up.

"You think this has something to do with your family again?"

"Not necessarily. But feels close to home. You see - centuries ago she taught my then girfriend Antoinette the craft." Elijah said.

"Another witch you dated wants to mess things up." Elena remarked recalling the incident they had with Celeste Dubois when she joined Elijah as his new homicide partner two years back.

"OMG!" Elijah suddenly exclaimed. "She possessed Ariane's daughter."

"Sybil? That means that she knows about Selma, Hope's baby" Elena looked at the Original with painful worry.

"Yes." Elijah inhaled inwardly, before he hurried out of the cemetery.

[mewgatori]

[unproduciblesmackdown]

Lackadaisy Enrichment

[envysparkler]

“Got Scarecrow,” Nightwing chirped through the comm, accompanied by a stream of mad rambling about worst nightmares and reliving terror that thankfully cut off when Crane was passed off to the police.

“Everyone, report,” Bruce ordered, finishing with the zipties around the hands of the last of Scarecrow’s thugs.  The battle had been hectic, and Bruce had lost sight of all his children during the melee.

“Nightwing, heading away from the police, no injuries.”

“Robin, southwest corner, no injuries.”

“Robin, you have a sprained wrist,” Nightwing chided.

“No injuries,” Robin snapped.

Bruce suppressed his sigh and dropped down to the alley where his eldest and youngest were bickering.  “Red Robin, report,” Bruce reminded across the comms, before kneeling to check Robin’s wrist.

It was sprained, and Bruce called the Batmobile to their location instead of letting them grapple back to it, ignoring Damian’s pointed huff.

“Red?” Nightwing said warily, and Bruce felt an icy curl of dread in his stomach.  “Red Robin, check in.”

No response.

“Who last had eyes on him?” Bruce asked, heading back into the warehouse and ignoring the police picking over the scene.

“I lost him at the start, I was trying to stay close to Robin,” Nightwing said, following him.

“I saw Red near Crane,” Robin huffed, “The next time I looked, Crane was alone.”

“Red?” Bruce called again, scanning the warehouse for any hint of red-and-black in the shadows, his unease growing stronger.  Crane had been raving about the prototype of his new toxin, had Red Robin—

A ping sounded, and Bruce pressed the button to connect to whoever was trying to reach him—had Red Robin’s comm been accidentally disconnected during the fight?

“Will someone,” Jason’s growl cut through the comms, “Tell me how the hell—” he sounded furious, and an alarm started blaring in back of Bruce’s head—“The Replacement knows where I live?!”

“Hood?” Nightwing froze, twisting to look at Bruce—he didn’t need to see past the mask to know that Dick’s eyes were wide and worried.

“What is Red’s status?” Bruce asked, wincing when it came out more like a demand—Jason’s temper was fickle at the best of times, but if he was already in a bad mood, then Bruce was one misstep away from waking up to see half of Gotham levelled.

“He broke into my safehouse while I was sleeping,” Jason snarled, “What do you think his goddamn status is?”

Not good.  Very not good.  They had all breathed a sigh of relief when Jason decided to stay off patrol due to his broken ribs, and doubly so when they received word that Crane had broken out of Arkham.

“Hood,” Bruce tried as they exited the building—Jason had safehouses scattered all over Gotham, and Bruce was sure he didn’t know about half of them.  “Where are—”

“Robin?”  That was Tim’s voice, echoing oddly through the line.

“The demon brat’s bedroom is on the other side of the city,” Jason snapped, and Bruce registered the too-fast breathing and desperately wished he was standing between his sons.

“Hood, Red might’ve been hit with fear toxin,” Bruce managed to get out, but it didn’t do anything to calm Jason down.

“So, what, he came here to finally finish off the big, bad Hood?” Jason sneered, and it was difficult enough to talk Jason down when he was standing in front of Bruce, Bruce had no idea how he was going to do it over the comms.

Jason, stop he discarded.  Wait, Jason listen except Jason wouldn’t definitely not listen.  Jason, please but Jason would take offense at that.  Don’t murder your brother was unlikely to be received well.

“Hood, just tell us where you are,” Nightwing tried, “We’ll get him out of your hair, I promise.”

Jason inhaled sharply and Bruce inwardly winced, waiting for the diatribe—

“Robin,” Tim sounded distant and choked, “Help.  Please.”

Damian jolted forward, visibly surprised.

Jason’s connection closed with an audible click.

Bruce stared at Nightwing and saw his own trepidation reflected in his son’s face.

~#~

It took them twenty minutes.  Twenty minutes of Oracle hacking the security cameras to figure out where Tim had fled, twenty minutes to confirm that one of the prototype vials of fear toxin was missing, twenty minutes to listen to Crane’s cackling about trapping people in one of their worst memories.

Between Tim and Jason, there was enough past trauma to cause several murders.  Everything about Jason’s past was a landmine, and while Tim was usually good at navigating it—better than Bruce, at any rate—he would be oblivious while trapped inside his own head.

Finally, Oracle managed to catch Tim slipping into a side street in Crime Alley, and not appearing out the other side.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Nightwing murmured as they followed the coordinates, “You know how protective Jason is over his safehouses—”

“When Hood stops being an insane murderer, he can have his privacy back,” Robin snapped.

“Come on, baby bat, Jason won’t actually hurt Tim,” Nightwing said quietly, “He just needs some time to calm down and get out of his bad mood.”

“Drake is currently drugged and vulnerable, it would be the height of foolishness to place your faith in his continued survival in the hands of Todd,” Robin sneered, taking the fire escape down, and Nightwing shot a startled glance at Bruce before following after him.

Jason’s apartment was the third one Bruce checked, and he felt the tension in the air as the window slid open with a near-soundless squeak.

“Get out,” Jason said, voice low and rough, before Bruce had even cleared the threshold of his room.

“Jason,” Bruce started, slow and quiet, but Jason cut him off.

“Get out,” Jason snarled, but his voice cracked halfway through and Bruce stepped inside the bedroom, alarmed.

“Jason?” he called out, finding the curled up figure in the shadowed corner.

“You found him,” Nightwing said breathlessly, and Damian shoved past him with a terse, impatient sound.

“Get. Out,” Jason snapped, his breath…hitching.  He sounded like he was crying.

Bruce immediately turned to find the lights.

Jason was sitting, back pressed to the corner, with Tim in his lap, head pillowed against his brother’s chest.  The mask was gone, as was the cape, and Tim blinked open half-closed eyes at the sudden emergence of the light.

Jason was hunched protectively around him, a glare already forming on his face, but there were splotches of color on his cheeks and his eyes were suspiciously shiny.

“Robin,” Tim breathed out as soon as he saw Damian, reaching out a hand.  Damian stared at him, clearly taken aback, but shuffled forward until he was close enough to touch.  Jason watched them both with narrowed eyes.

Tim made a half-lunge forward, snagged Damian’s cape and dragging the younger boy into an embrace as he curled back into Jason.  Damian squawked, but Tim was holding him too tightly—Damian would have to break something to get out of his grasp.

They could all see the exact moment that Damian realized this and subsided with a scowl.

[write-it-motherfuckers]

Person A: "Are we even allowed to be in here?"

Person B: "I don't know, I stopped caring about their bullshit rules after they repaid my loyalty and devotion by framing me for their own misdeeds."

Person A: "...What if someone recognises you?"

Person B: "Recognise me? Ha! I was nothing but a faceless tool to them, I might as well have been part of the wallpaper! Honestly, I could probably walk right up to them and introduce myself with my former name and those fools still wouldn't realise it was me."

[snarky-wallflower]

me: I could write some fic around the new characters and relationships we've got so far! After all, Sam's clearly got some history with the Magnus Institute, and Alice is amazing and I love her--

also me: screw you, the angles cut them when they try to think.

[green-eyedfirework]

It was a slow day, and Dick was finally getting around to reorganizing his herbs after Tim and Cass had gone through them.  He loved his little siblings, he really did, but Tim’s organizational system could only be comprehended by him, and Cass had a bad habit of not cleaning up after herself.  His last client had hobbled home to finish resting her once-broken ankle, the house call to the new mother and baby was over in early morning, and he had all the time to rearrange his cupboard.

The door creaked, and a shift of fresh air tugged at his hair, accompanied by heavy, bold footsteps.

Well.  Dick stared at the array of herbs spread around him and sighed.  Maybe he should invite Jason over, his little brother wouldn’t be able to help himself from organizing Dick’s stuff.  “I’m coming,” Dick called out, levering himself off the floor and clearing a path to the front with a snap of his fingers.

Three sets of footsteps and no greeting, so Dick wasn’t expecting anyone from the village.  He lived a little further into the woods—closer to the plants he needed and the wild call of nature he used to replenish his magic—but most of his clients came from the village.  They were familiar and friendly.

He sensed the spark of wild magic a second before he saw the scowls on their faces.  Werewolves.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly.  “What can I do for you today?”

The one in the lead, silver hair bound tightly in a braid, bared her teeth at him.  It would’ve been a lot more intimidating if she wasn’t a teenager.  “You can come with us, mage,” she sneered, “We require your services.”

There was a chill down his spine, easily brushed off.  Everyone and their pet wanted a collared mage—the trouble was putting the collar on them in the first place.  Someone like Dick, who’d honed their magic for years?  It would be easier to put a leash on a werewolf.

Healing and killing were two sides of the same coin, after all.

“Are you injured?  Is someone in your pack injured?” Dick asked, still pleasant as he sent out a testing probe.  Three werewolves here, three more skulking at his back window, two outside the front door.  No more in the immediate vicinity, but their pack had be close by for a show of force this large.

The posturing werewolf snapped her teeth.  “We have enough wolves to take you down,” she threatened, “Either you come with us quietly, or we’ll drag you behind us.”

Dick let his smile drop.  “Well,” he said in the tone of voice he used whenever he found Tim and Damian fighting, “That’s rude.”

On his little brothers, it could barely quiet a vehement argument.  On the wolves, it sent them skittering a step back, hackles raised.

“You’re coming with us,” the wolf said, but her voice wavered, her gaze locked on his hands as he rested them on the table.

The door behind them swung open.  In the distance, they could hear growls and curses.  “You should probably not threaten a mage in their own home,” Dick chided lightly, and flicked his fingers.

The wolf’s eyes widened to pale blue saucers, but she couldn’t get out more than a half-strangled, “Wait—” before they were spun out and the door slammed shut behind them.

Dick exhaled slowly, and let the sparks of magic recede back under his skin.  Then he stepped back, over the piles of unsorted jars, and picked up his satchel.

~#~

The curse is a nasty, sunken, barbed thing.  Half of it is hidden, which means that Dick spends more of his magic than is wise before he realizes the scope of the thing, realizes he can’t just yank the thing out.

Under his hands, the wolf is screaming.  He does his best to tune it out.

The surge of magic battling magic is enough to keep any interference away, so Dick settles into the slower, longer, more meticulous path of prying the curse out, tendril by tendril.  It fights his attempts to destroy it as he goes, so he has to expend even more magic on containing it until he can get the whole thing out.

It’s tedious, draining work.  It’s gone firmly dark by the time he finishes sliding the last piece out, and the twist it takes to compress the curse into a tiny speck and shred it to whispers nearly makes him stagger.  His magic reserves have gone distressingly low.

Dick abruptly remembers where he is.  The camp around him is full of wolf growling, loud and agitated.  His patient is passed out, skin gray and clammy and looking ten times worse than when Dick started.  The cuts—the cuts are bleeding freely, red and thick.

He needs to leave.  He has just enough magic to put on a show of force if needed, and he needs every last sliver to bluff his way out.  He cannot be caught here.  Not by a pack that’s already expressed interest in putting a collar around his neck.

The boy is bleeding.  He will die, werewolf healing or not.  Dick can sense the corruption the curse wrecked, magic gone but its effects lingering.  If he heals this, it’ll take every scrap of magic he has left.

It’s a choice that’s not a choice.  Dick’s a healer.  He can’t go against his nature.

Dick breathes in and breathes out, and lets his magic pour out.

Heart and lungs and kidney and liver, a thousand tears in muscle where the wolf tried to fight the curse, blood loss and weakened bone and a hundred small damages.  The cuts, large and bloody, slowly knitted together under his trembling fingers.  Too slowly.

His vision is going black.  Dick fights it, fights it with every breath.  As long as he can remain upright when it’s done, as long as he can walk out—he’s proved his fighting capabilities, as long as he gives them no reason to doubt him—

Dick’s head swims.  When he forces himself back to consciousness, he’s half-collapsed against the bed.  He uses the movement to examine the wounds, as though that was his intention all along, his heart pounding loud and sluggish.  They’re almost closed.

Something pops in his ears and the growling disappears to a low buzzing.

He does one last check for any lingering damage as pink, waxy skin unfurls across the wounds.  There are some minor injuries left, but the werewolf can heal those on his own as soon as he’s gotten some food.

It’s time for him to go.

Dick curls shaking hands on the edge of the bed and allows himself one breath before he lets go.  Everything is curiously muffled, muffled and ringing, and when he drags his head up, he can see the alpha on the other side of the bed.

Mouth moving.  He’s saying something.  Dick can’t hear him.

He takes a step back, away from the bed, away from the alpha—he needs to get out, needs to watch for a path, needs to avoid being cornered because all he has is dregs and it’s not enough to scare off a bear.

His head aches, like someone took a hammer to it.

Dick needs to leave.  Now.  Only he’s not sure he can turn without everything spinning.  The ground feels like it’s roiling under his feet.

He blinks, and the alpha is suddenly much closer.  Dick stumbles back another step in surprise.  His stomach turns over, but there’s nothing in it.  He worked too long and without food.

Dick has to get out.  He has to—everything inside him is screaming danger—he can’t stay, they want to keep him, he needs to leave—

Something wet touches his lips.  Dick raises a hand, feeling like he’s moving underwater, and wipes it across his mouth.

It comes away red.

It’s the last thing he remembers seeing.

~#~

No one can get to Grant, no one can even touch him with all the magic swirling around the mage, and Slade is forced to stand there, a few steps away, and watch his firstborn scream under the onslaught.

Nothing works to stop it.  Not words, not weapons, not every magic-dampening sigil they’ve ever collected.  Slade can do nothing but wait.

Grant stops screaming.  His wounds run red and red and red.  Slade’s claws are fully extended—he will tear the mage from limb to limb if it’s the last thing he does.  He just needs an opening.

Slade doesn’t know how long before the magic falters.  It’s just a second, but the second is enough to register how much worse Grant looks, like the mage is draining his life away.  By the gods and the moon, they should’ve left it alone.  At least Slade would’ve been able to hold his son while he died.  At least he wouldn’t be in so much pain.

The magic swirls back before anyone can attack, and the pack paces restlessly along the perimeter.  Everyone’s expressions are twisted in grief and fury.

The mage will not leave here alive.  That much Slade swears.

The magic is…quieting almost.  Like it’s slowly winding down.  Still impenetrable—Rose tries and fails to get past it, but the shimmer is receding.  Slade stares at Grant, half-dreading that his son is already dead.

But Grant’s chest still rises and falls.  The amount of blood loss is…shrinking.  The wounds seem to be closing over.  In fact, when Slade darts a glance at his son’s face, Grant appears to be getting better.

His skin is no longer ashen, his breaths are fuller, and as the magic recedes, Slade steps forward, stuck in an incredulous daze.  Grant looks better.  Grant looks like he’s healing.

Slade pays no attention to the mage’s movements, his gaze fixed on the miracle in front of him.

The magic dies down to nothing but flickers, and Slade can finally touch his son again.  Grant is warm and alive and healthy under his fingers, and Slade lets out a shuddering gasp.

“Thank you,” he says hoarsely, lifting his gaze to the mage.  He doesn’t know what the man did, but Grant is alive, Grant is healed, Grant is safe.  “I don’t know how I can ever repay you—”

The mage looks terrible.  His skin is waxy and gray, his eyes sunken, his frame curled in on himself.  He’s trembling, and his breaths keep breaking.  As Slade watches, the mage takes a step back and nearly trips on flat ground.

“Hello?” Slade calls out slowly, tension creeping back in.  “Hello, can you hear me?”

The mage looks at him blankly.

Slade rounds the bed, casting one last glance at Grant—alive, healthy, alive—before inching closer to the mage, who looks as worse as Grant had at the start.  Slade doesn’t know a whole lot about mages and magic, but he doesn’t think this is a good thing.

“Can you hear me?” Slade repeats, before he notices the red creeping down from the mage’s ears.  The mage’s expression has gone unfocused.  There’s red creeping out of his nose too, blood smearing across his lips, and the mage raises a hand to wipe it off.

He blinks down at the blood on his hand.  And then he crumples.

Slade is close enough to lunge and catch him before he cracks his head open on the ground, and the mage is alarmingly light.  “What’s the matter with him?” Slade growls as the pack presses in, all concerned murmurs.

Villain manages to fight his way to the front.  “Magic overuse,” he diagnoses after taking in the mage’s—too weak—pulse and examining his face.  “He’s drained himself nearly dry.”

Slade looks back at Grant, sleeping peacefully on the cot, and down at the mage, who appears to be two and a half steps from death’s door.

“Will he recover?” he can hear himself ask.  Slade was willing to do near anything for his son’s health, but to use a life to restore life?  That kind of sacrifice, from someone not pack—

“He should.  Time, and rest, and enough food.  Come, he’s too cold, he needs to be kept warm.”

[idliketobeatree]

"he should be at the club" he should be sitting on the front porch with me, long limbs streched out on the last step, a cup of lukewarm black coffee by his hand, feet bare and buried in the overgrown grass. he should be wearing freshly washed linens still smelling of wind. and i should come up to him quietly, unhurriedly, resting a hand on top of that head, maybe even thread my fingers through his sun-bleached hair if he'll let me. it's midday in may and all is buzzing and content.

[n0bluev]

I always render the face first (its not even fair...)

[fatuismooches]

EVEN MORE CUTE DOTTORE MOMENTS TO MAKE YOU SMILE 🙏 (because I am too tired to post anything of quality)

[yasmeensh]

Paleolithic Media Catalogue

Hello everyone :) Short story first: When I began brainstorming for my prehistoric story, I started wondering what other prehistoric fiction there is out there. I was not familiar with it and have not seen much. That's when I started my grand literature review and began a search for what fiction exist out there. I wanted to know what kinds of stories are being made with this time period. What are the common themes or recurring ideas (I found lots of humans and dinosaurs works. And time travel). Since I've had a growing collection on my computer, I decided I should keep on enlarging it and put it online. It's nowhere near complete. I'll slowly keep accumulating the collection as I find more. I only have fiction books and comics right now. I still need to work on the film section.

You can access the blog here!

***

As for where I am in my reading, the one's I've finished reading are Earth's Children series (book 1-4. Dropped it afterwards lol. I made a post on with fanart) Dance of the Tiger and it's sequel Singletusk (They were good! I'll upload my review on the blog), and Sisters of the Wolf (It was ok!). I got my hands on The Inheritors and excited to start reading it. I REALLY want to read the Shiva trilogy, but I found no PDF online... and it's out of print :( There is certainly old copies on ebay. And I want to read Chronicles of Ancient Darkness. There seem to be lots of good books out there.

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

cough hack wheeze who wants a teeny tiny fantasy au snippet with uhhhh laughingstock Tension. it's like... half a scene! unedited & out of context As Is Tradition

~

“Nothin’ much. I think I’ll poke around nearby towns, shake down some travelers - see what falls into my paws.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Barn,” Howdy says. He sweeps aggressively, spreading dirt more than gathering it into the usual neat piles. “Who knows if those ne'er-do-wells are still roaming around the woods - if you and Ed couldn’t take them, what makes you think you could alone? Or- or! What if you stumble across those cultists? I hate to think of you stuck in an ambush with no help coming, knowing fully well that-”

A large paw slips the broom out of his grip and sets it to the side, and Howdy stammers to a stop as Barnaby crowds him against the bar with a soft, “Howdy.”

Howdy swallows hard, bracketed on each side by strong blue arms. The look Barnaby fixes him with dries up his well of words and bristles his fuzz. Howdy’s heart hammers against his ribs. He can feel Barnaby’s body heat, and it’s lighting his blood on fire. 

“I’m not gonna be reckless, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Barnaby says. He barely needs to speak louder than a whisper for Howdy to hear him loud and clear. He smells like sweet smoke. “The other day was a one time deal, cross my heart. But, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll take someone with me. I’m sure Jules is itchin’ to get outta town.”

“What would really make me feel better is if you stay,” Howdy blurts, just barely reining in the with me. He tenses, knowing that he’s toeing a dangerous line. One wrong word, and he’ll make the unspoken spoken - but the stress drains out of him as Barn’s eyes go soft. Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. Of course there’s no reason to worry, not about this, not with him. There never has been.

“You know I can’t do that,” Barnaby murmurs. “Not yet.”

Howdy doesn’t need to say that he knows. Not for the first time and with any luck, not for the last, it clicks in his mind that they’re on the same page - he doesn’t need to be a telepath to understand the thoughts behind Barnaby’s dark eyes. 

Barnaby says it anyway. “I gotta get him back. I can’t… there’s no room for anythin’ else right now.”

Howdy sighs through his nose and slumps against the counter digging into the small of his back. He nods and adjusts the lapels of Barnaby’s vest. His fingers ghost over soft blue, and Barnaby doesn’t flinch at the contact. If anything, he leans the barest millimeter into it. His gaze burns into Howdy’s, even if they aren’t meeting at the moment, but it isn’t a bad feeling. Quite the opposite, actually.

“Well,” Howdy says in a low voice, “if you find a good lead, send for the rest of us. I’ll be there as fast as my four legs can scamper.”

Barnaby smirks. “Even if you need to take a boat?”

“Even so, Barn.”

The smirk slides into something that isn’t a frown, but isn’t a smile. It’s too soft for a grimace, but too intense for simple recognition. Barnaby seems to sway forward, and Howdy is sorely tempted to meet him halfway.  

But Barnaby’s claw taps the counter, and he pulls away before anyone’s mind can be made up. Howdy’s hands slip from his lapels, brushing against fur as they fall and knuckles skimming over the smooth, fresh scar cutting across Barnaby’s belly. 

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Barnaby says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He squeezes Howdy’s shoulder and then his back is turned, and he’s leaving. All Howdy can do is watch. 

And call out after him, “Your table will be open and waiting for you.”

Barnaby pauses in the doorway and looks over his shoulder at Howdy, and his grin is so full of affection that Howdy may just burst. 

“With a free pint?” he asks.

“Hey now, don’t push your luck pal.”

Barnaby bursts out laughing, and Howdy can hear it even after the door thuds closed.

[averlym]

the one who pulls the strings (click for better resolution!)

from adamandi by @melliotwrites,, consider this my pitch to get you all to watch it

[wikiangela]

fuck it friday

it's already friday here, just after midnight, so starting today off with a new wip 😁

I'll be back with alive shannon next time, but today smth new bc I started a new smut 👀 like, this was such a random idea, and I was half asleep when I wrote this and I have no idea if I'll even finish it but here's a lil bit of it haha (I don't feel as confident about this one as I did the previous two smuts, so I'm shamelessly asking for validation bc this fic will require a lot of it lmao why do i do this to myself)

so here's a new wip that I think for now I'll call buddie phone sex smut? lol

___

Eddie’s staring at the words, for a minute pretending they’re directed at him, and at the picture, seeing his best friend like he never has before, and before he knows it, his hand is moving under the covers, over the growing bulge in his underwear, palming himself. Shit, he’s not about to jerk off to Buck. Especially since the messages clearly weren’t meant for him. That feels wrong, no matter how horny he might be. The next text from Buck doesn’t help, making Eddie's vision go red with jealousy. All it says is a panicked ‘OH MY GOD IM SO SORRY IT WASNT 4 U!!!! IGNORE IT SORRY!!!’

And, look, Eddie could say that it’s all good, delete the message, and pretend it never happened. Except, the more he looks, the more turned on he gets, and his hand starts stroking his dick through the fabric, and- and his mind is clouded by arousal and jealousy, and such strong feeling of possessive want, he’s not thinking when he throws the covers away, takes a picture of his bulge, cock hard and leaking, a wet spot visible on his underwear, and sends it to Buck in response, with a text that says ‘no worries, I liked it. fuck, I want that gorgeous cock all to myself’.

‘HOLY SHIT’ is what he gets back, and not even two seconds later, Buck’s calling him.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @andrewblur @diazass @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @jesuisici33 @diazblunt @911onabc @eddiediaztho @housewifebuck @thewolvesof1998 @fortheloveofbuddie @lover-of-mine @gayhoediaz @callaplums @rogerzsteven @watchyourbuck @cowboy-buddie @monsterrae1 @hippolotamus @loserdiaz @ladydorian05 @giddyupbuck @forthewolves @honestlydarkprincess @wildlife4life @spotsandsocks @disasterbuckdiaz @theotherbuckley @eowon @daffi-990

[envysparkler]

So far, Jason’s return to Gotham was going horribly.

Sure, it had started on a high—the drug trade had been easier to take over than he’d expected, even if he had to hold back the nausea every time he saw a collection of syringes or packets of pills.  Black Mask had done exactly what Jason predicted he would do, and the Joker had escaped from Arkham exactly as planned.

And then Batman had looked him in the eyes—as Jason begged, as he pleaded his father to kill the greatest monster of Jason’s nightmares—and walked away.

Even the explosion he’d wired hadn’t managed to do its job—not on him, not on the clown, not on the Bat.

Jason had managed to recoup some of his losses by going after the Replacement—the kid that Bruce actually cared about, the black-haired blue-eyed heir he wanted—and proving that he was still the superior fighter, but it was a hollow victory.  There was no real satisfaction in trashing the Tower—it had never been his the way it had been Dick’s—and his enjoyment had soured by the time he met Drake’s wide, scared, hurt eyes and choked him out.

He’d managed to demonstrate that their security was laughable and their baby heroes pathetic, but he’d left a fifteen-year-old unconscious and beaten on the floor in the process.  It had left a bad taste in his mouth, one even the soothing, green-laced rage couldn’t wipe, and he could still hear the kid’s lost, confused, desperate voice.

“Jason—stop—why are you doing this?  Bruce loves you!  Just come home!”

In the moment, it had only stoked his fury.  Now it matched the roiling disgust in his stomach.  The disgust at Batman.  At the oh-so-sanctimonious heroes.  At this filthy, stinking garbage pile of a city.

At himself.

He—he needed a break.  From the violence.  From the killing.  From the rage.  He needed to get out of this fucking city before he lost his mind, and there was only a couple of things he wanted to take with him.

Unfortunately, some of them were in the Manor.

A photo of him and his mother.  The old, faded red hoodie Jason had refused to let Alfred throw out.  His books.

Before, Jason might’ve asked Bruce’s permission—before he broke into the Tower and beat up the kid—but now Jason was forced to wait until he got news that Bruce Wayne was in London for a business trip—coinciding neatly with the intel that the Justice League had a big, week-long space mission—before he dared to sneak into his old home.

He didn’t try his security codes.  They would’ve definitely fixed that after he pointed out that glaring mistake in Titans Tower.  But Jason had spent more than three years at the Manor, and he’d long since mastered getting into or out of the house without setting off any alarms.

The first bedroom after the stairs was the one with the window that didn’t latch all the way, and the security system couldn’t register whether it was open or closed.  It was a little difficult to reach, involving free-climbing up two floors, but Jason had been Robin and now had League training under his belt and it was easy to haul himself up on the ledge and jimmy the window open.

The bedroom remained barren, bed stripped, desk and closets empty, the room cold with the chill of desertion, and Jason shivered as he toed his shoes off on habit and headed for the door.  Alfred usually went with Bruce on his ‘business trips’, so the Manor should be empty, leaving enough time for Jason to get whatever he wanted.

He had the petty thought that he could leave behind some random destruction—if he was leaving Gotham anyway, he might as well leave a message that even their precious Manor wasn’t as safe as they purported.

But Alfred was the one he’d really hurt, and Jason didn’t want to do that.

Jason tiptoed across the hall on automatic, his steps silent and muffled as he crossed to his old bedroom door.  He paused for a moment to scan it, making sure no one had added any traps, and hoped that his stuff was still inside this room.  He didn’t want to have to hunt through the massive house, and if they gave his room to the Replacement, he was going to fucking set something on fire.

Slow, shuffling steps sounded from the stairs, accompanied by the tinkle of glass and china, and Jason paused.  That didn’t sound like Alfred.  The Manor was supposed to be empty.  Who—

Messy black hair came into view, blue eyes firmly fixed on the wobbling tray held in one shaky hand, the other attempting to hold up a crutch as the Replacement limped up the stairs.

Fucking fantastic.  Jason wondered if he had enough time to slip inside the room before the kid looked up—his attention was pretty firmly fixed on the tray with a bowl of stew and a slice of cake—but he was frozen by the dark, fading bruises across the kid’s face.

Around his throat, finger marks obvious.  The awkward way he was holding the crutch—Jason remembered dislocating that shoulder.  The cast wrapped around the left ankle—Jason could still hear the sickening snap of bone, the scream, the sound of his chuckles over suppressed sobs—

The kid looked up, three steps past the edge of the stairs.  And Jason watched the blood drain from his face.

The tray hit the floor with a resounding clatter, china splintering and skidding in all directions.

The Replacement stumbled back—and abruptly remembered that there was nothing behind him but empty space, jerking sideways before Jason could even start the instinctive ‘look out’.  He flinched, and Jason realized that he’d just stumbled onto the china shards.

Another panicked step—but the shards were clearly digging into the kid’s bare feet and when his good leg spasmed, his bad leg buckled completely, sending the kid crumpling to the ground.

Jason stepped forward automatically, one hand raising—and froze when the kid jerked back, pressing against the railing and all but scrambling into the corner.

Blue eyes were wide and shining, face drawn pale, breaths too fast and too shallow as his chest fluttered, knees drawn up and hands slightly extended, as though to ward him off.  Jason swallowed, and stepped back.

Okay.  He got the message loud and clear.  He was clearly the monster here.  Jason kept his mouth shut, and stalked back to his old bedroom.

~#~

His bedroom was just the way he left it, which was both exactly what Jason wanted, and also extremely creepy.  No one had even tidied up the homework sheets on his table.  It would make sense if the room had been locked and dusty, but it looked as though Jason had just stepped out yesterday.

It was enough to make anyone a little bit dizzy.

Jason retrieved the items he was looking for—the picture with his mom, his old hoodie, a couple of worn copies of books that had ‘property of Jason Todd’ marked in loopy handwriting.  He wanted to take more stuff, but that meant sitting down and figuring out which stuff was his, and which stuff Bruce had bought him, and the Replacement would’ve already set off the alarm so Jason didn’t have much time.

He hadn’t considered the kid in any of his plans—he’d figured that the kid had gone with Alfred and Bruce, or with Nightwing, or somewhere—and barely managed to tamp down on the seething annoyance.  The Replacement was always getting in the way.

Well, at least Jason was going far, far from here.  He’d never have to set eyes on that scrawny little shit again.

Jason collected his stuff and headed for the door—he’d planned to stay another night in Gotham, but he wasn’t up to dealing with the return of a furious Batman and Nightwing.  He’d have to pack the rest of his stuff quickly, and get out, and—

The lunch tray was still on the floor, stew in a growing puddle, cake a soggy lump, shards of the broken plate and bowl scattered all over the hallway.  Jason hadn’t exactly expected the kid to have cleaned the mess, but he had expected the kid to be gone.  Hiding.  Or confronting him with that stick, if the kid was particularly determined and had no common sense.

He hadn’t expected the shivering, curled-up form in the corner, knees up, head tucked down, arms wrapped firmly around shins.  Or the quiet, shuddering breaths, or the choked gasps.

Jason stared at the Repla—at Robin, pressed firmly into the corner like he was trying to make himself a smaller target, and felt the pit of his stomach drop.

He hadn’t moved.  Jason had spent—had spent at least five minutes in the room, and the kid hadn’t moved.

Jason took a step towards the room he’d entered through.  He needed to leave.  Clearly the kid thought—and Jason couldn’t exactly fault him—but Jason needed to go.  Once he left, the kid would come out of it.  Eventually.  Jason couldn’t exactly call anyone, the only numbers he remembered were the ones to the Manor, and they would’ve locked him out of everything in the Cave.

Red.  There was red pooling under the kid’s feet.  The pieces of broken china littered the floor like a minefield, and that was way too much bleeding to be a minor wound.  That was the kind of bleeding that needed immediate attention and probably stitches.

Jason swallowed.

[junemermaid]

last line meme

I was tagged by the ever delightful @ripeteeth

rules: share the last line you wrote, tag some people and have fun

(I'm cheating a little, but also, I like these lines and I missed sentences Sunday yesterday.)

"I'm here." Most of him is, anyway. The part that matters. The part that, Di Feisheng is increasingly sure, wants to belong to these two. Little by little, it grows, as he passes more of himself into their hands—as he wonders, in the back of his mind, when they'll drop the pieces or hurl them away, or worse, bend under their weight. He strokes a thumb over Fang Duobing's throat, feels the pulse leaping at the base of his neck. The way they're sitting, he has to look up at Fang Duobing. It feels good, though, the same way as Li Lianhua's grip of his hand as he came. Like an anchor's knot, drawn steady against the tide. "What do you want of me, Xiaobao?" That name, too, still new in his mouth. He keeps at it for the gleam of delight it always lights in Fang Duobing's eye. This time, there is that answering glimmer, but Fang Duobing cradles his face, bites his lip, and seems to stall.

no-pressure tagging @electricshoebox @theotherjax @momosandlemonsoda @lynne-monstr @sleepsonclouds and whoever else would like to do this!