#snorfflez writes

[tk--421]

I have so many ideas but I am not a writer

[tk--421]

“Kissing?” Damian shrugged, feigning indifference. “I’m sure it’s okay.” According to Todd, it was excellent, bordering on religious enlightenment, although Todd could find god in a pack of beer and a pizza. Stephanie smiled. “It’s pretty awesome, as a matter of fact. Sometimes super duper.” Softly, she touched his face in the darkness and pulled him until his lips touched hers. At first it was strange, all mashing lips and tongue and teeth. But then- oh. Oh. Super duper indeed.

"Dick Grayson, will you do me the honor of being my husband?" Dick nodded, too choked up to reply. Bruce slid a ring on to his finger and got up off of his knee to rousing cheers and catcalls from the rest of the family. He pulled Dick in for a kiss, dipping him back amid renewed cheering. Babs was the first to rush up and congratulate them, gushing over the ring. Clark was next, clapping the two of them on the shoulders. Then the rest of them, Steph and Jason and Tim and Cassie, then Diana and Barry with Wally in tow. Finally Damian made his reluctant way to stand in front of the happy couple. He solemnly shook his fathers hand, then reached to Dick, hissing in his ear as he shook his hand. "There is no way in hell I’m calling you ‘Mom’, Grayson."

[tk--421]

by my sister, allykittens

“How much more time left in the dream?” “About an hour still, love.” Arthur spares Eames a look at the endearment, but as usual, Eames declines to notice. Arthur is standing in front of a mirror practicing his forgeries, but thus far without much luck. He’s supposed to be changing his appearance enough that he can keep from being recognized in a dream. At this point, if he could do more than change the color of his hair he’d be satisfied. “You need to relax into it more, you’re too controlled.” Although Eames is meant to be helping him, he’s spent the majority of the exercise sitting in a chair walking his token over his knuckles. His appearance changes with every flip of the coin, his favorite buxom blonde to a nondescript businessman, forgery after forgery and he pulls them on line a second skin.

“One of us has to be controlled, Mr. Eames, it’s what keeps us alive.” Eames palms the poker chip and flicks his glance up towards Arthur, “Not ready to forgive me for that Belgium job yet, are you?” Arthur meets his gaze in the mirror. “Not as such. No.” “It isn’t good to hold on to these things Arthur, they give you indigestion.” “I’ll thank you to stay out of my digestive system, Mr. Eames.” “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. Can’t we at least have a little fun together?” “I’ve learned to be wary of fun with you, Mr. Eames, as it often leads to my being shot at.” “Darling, that is the fun.” Eames rises from the chair and saunters over to the mirror where Arthur is trying to force his nose into a different shape through sheer willpower. Suddenly, Arthur is looking two of his reflections instead of just one. Eames’ version of his visage though, is not quite the same as the true one. Arthur realizes that while it is his face, it’s a much younger one. The cheeks are fuller and the brow more youthful.

“Where did you find my high school yearbook photo?” Arthur’s own face grins back at him, but the mischievous glint is all Eames. “Not that, dear Arthur, would be telling.” “If you’d care to start bringing up embarrassing pasts, Mr. Eames, I’d be more than happy to oblige.” Just that quickly, Eames’ face is his own again. “Alright pet, I’ll play nice shall I? Why don’t you show me some of those fancy new fighting techniques you’ve been peacocking about lately?” Arthur inclines his head, accepting the truce and slides easily into a fighting stance. Eames adopts a similar pose before quirking an eyebrow and raising a hand towards Arthur. Arthur doesn’t even wait for the Samuel L. Jackson impression to finish before he’s attacking Eames, a quick feint to the left followed by a sweeping kick to the right. Eames doesn’t fall for the feint and takes a step back to avoid the kick, but he’s not fast enough to block the punch that ends the combination. Eames looks up at Arthur from where he’s landed and says, “Generally teaching involves less hitting, I’m told.” Then he sweeps a leg out and catches Arthur behind the knees, knocking him flat so that he’s splayed out next to Eames. Eames rolls slightly so that he can meet Arthur’s eyes. “Much better, now we’re on equal footing again.” “We’re not on any footing, Eames.” Eames rolls his eyes in what Arthur has come to recognize as a fond way before ducking his head towards Arthur, their lips ghosting together. Arthur sucks in a breath. They haven’t done this since. Since the airport in Los Angeles, after the Fischer job. To be more specific, since Eames’  hotel room after the Fischer job. When Arthur could finally relax, having gotten Cobb safely back to his children, Ariadne through her first true dream experience, Saito pulled back from beyond the grave. It had been easy then, to let Eames herd him into the hotel room, to take off his shoes and belt and push him onto the bed, a glass of whiskey cradled in his hand. To let someone else be in charge.

“Arthur,” Eames chides him gently, “where did you go?” He lips gently at Arthur’s chin, his jaw. Arthur flushes slightly. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Just…” “Yes, love, I know. But let’s just be here for a bit, hmm? It’s rather nice here.” Eames illustrates his point by wrapping an arm around Arthur’s waist a sliding Arthur atop him. Arthur lets him because. Well because Eames is right, it is nice here, and nice is not something he allows himself very often. He can’t even bring himself to reprimand Eames for pet name this time. Eames’ mouth finds his again, a real kiss this time. It’s firm, but with just enough of a bite to remind Arthur that Eames knows when he begins to wander. Mouths and hands begin to roam, and it’s good, it’s comfortable. Arthur lets his hands drift down to Eames’ waist, fingers brushing against the button of his pants. He flicks the button open, and then begins to slide his hand inside. As his fingers slip further, further inside he encounters evidence of Eames…interest in the proceedings.

I can’t, Arthur thinks to himself. I shouldn’t. 

“Mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.”

I did.

“Oh, Arthur.” Arthur hides his smile against Eames’ chest. “Oh how could you? I’m wounded, I’m dying. That’s it, that was the final blow.” Eames’ face is mask of comic horror, one hand flung dramatically up to his forehead. “Do you think you might find it in yourself to survive, somehow? Maybe if I do this?” Arthur wont’ admit to learning that particular move in the dorm rooms of his prep school, but as Eames’ face goes slack, he does send a silent thank you to his roommate. “Mmm Arthur yes, your hands.” Arthur chuckles, and is just leaning forward to brace himself and get a better angle when he hears the  opening strains of Non, je nen regretted rien. He presses a swift kiss to Eames’ lips. “Time’s up.”

He draws in a breath and opens his eyes back in the warehouse, laying in the same lawn chair he’s dragged from job to job for years. His meets Eames’ gaze and raises a questioning eyebrow. Eames dips his head in response, gaining a quizzical look from Yusef, who is tinkering with a new formula. In sync, they raise from their chairs, pulling the cannulas out of their arms and packing away the PASIV. As they walk out of the warehouse, Eames’ fingers brush briefly over Arthur’s palm, and Arthur allows a grin to spread over his face as they turn up the street that will bring them back to Eames’ flat.

Perhaps he will dream a little bigger.

[tk--421]

I JUST HAVE A LOT OF VIKINGS FEELS

The baby’s cry cut through the room, startling the three of them to wakefulness. Lagertha groaned. “Ragnar.” He grunted, but did not stir from where he was plastered against Athelstan’s back. She smacked the hand that was curled possessively around her hip. He jerked up, then buried his head in the crook of Athelstan’s neck once more. “I got up last time.” “You lying bastard! I did. Now get up.” “I swear on Odin’s beard that I did!” Athelstan rolled his eyes and wiggled out from between the two of them. He had gotten up the last time, but they needed their sleep more than he did. Crossing over to the cradle near the bed, he picked up the fretful bundle and cradled it close to his chest and walked outside. He sat on the beach, settling his burden on his lap so he could see it in the pale light of predawn. “Hello, Athegnar,” he whispered, touching the dark, downy head. How long he stayed there cradling his son he did not know, but it did not matter. He may have sinned, but this was a blessing.

[tk--421]

"Sherlock," Joan said absently, "What do you think about us having a child?" Sherlock drew a deep breathe from her cigarette, blowing the smoke through the window. "You're a doctor, Watson - I shouldn't have to explain to you the physical necessities of pregnancy." She sucked in again. Joan smiled at her girlfriend. "Sherlock, there is such a thing as in vitro fertilization. Or adoption." Sherlock seemed disgruntled. "Well, I- yes, alright. But only if they're accredited members of MENSA."

“What do you think about this one, love?” Joan asked, holding up a sheet of donor information. Sherlock kept her eyes on the crime scene photos spread out over the table. “No.” Joan rolled her eyes. “You didn’t even look at it.” “Of course I did. I looked at all of them. And none of them are acceptable.” Joan let out and exasperated breath. “Well, this is the seventh donor agency we have looked at, and so far none of the thousand-odd prospects have met your high standards,” Joan replied sourly. “I have missed five peak fertility cycles, and I’m sure as hell not getting younger, Sherlock. Do you want a child or not?” Sherlock finally looked up from the gristly pictures and LOOKED at her wife. “Oh, Joan…” Sherlock got up and crossed the room to perch on the edge of the armchair Joan was sitting in, rigid with annoyance. Wrapping her arms around the smaller woman, Sherlock kissed her hair and simply held her for a moment. “I want to make you happy, Joan. You are the most important thing in my life and you know I’m not good at showing it. I want to give you whatever I can to let you know that, but this is the one thing that I can’t.” Joan slowly relaxed in her arms, leaning into the touch. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” Joan said, reaching a hand up to lace her fingers with Sherlock’s. “But I’m starting to wonder if you will deem anyone worthy enough.” Sherlock’s snort ruffled Joan’s hair. “I’m not sure either. It would have to be some one intelligent.” “And healthy, no genetic diseases to pass on.” Sherlock shifted so she was sitting on the chair too, swinging her legs over the side so she was half on top of Joan. Joan circled one arm around Sherlock’s waist and held her hand with the other. “I know it’s a stretch, but I would like the donor to look something like one of us.” Sherlock hummed an affirmative in reply. Then, her dark head snapped up, a familiar manic light in her eyes. “Joan, I need my phone.” Joan began wiggling out from under her wife to get her phone, which was sitting on the kitchen counter. “Did you solve the case?” She called, walking into the kitchen. Sherlock settled more comfortably in the armchair. “A case, not THE case.” Joan tossed the phone, which Sherlock caught neatly and immediately began to dial. She put it up to her ear as Joan made her way back over. “Hello, brother dear,” Sherlock began in sugared tones. Joan made a scandalized face. “Mycroft?” she mouthed. Sherlock gave her a smile like a cat that has gotten into the cream and shook her head. Joan shoved her at her until Sherlock made room for her to sit. “I need you for a bit. Can you get away?” Joan gave Sherlock her best “my patience is running out” face. Sherlock simply patted her arm absently to sooth her. “Yes, I am asking you what you think I am asking. And it will take at least 4 hours for that code to compile, which is conveniently just enough time to nip over here, have lunch with us, do the deed and get back.” A pause. “Alright. Fine. Please?” The last word was said in an uncharacteristically wistful fashion. “Yes. Thank you. And bring your husband. He should be with M, I know he’s not on a field assignment right now. No, don’t ask how I know.” Another, longer pause. “Lovely. See you then. And so help me if you put any more tracking software on my computer I will tell James about that time at the duck pond where you-” Sherlock took her phone from her ear and glanced at it before chucking it on the table. “Little twat hung up on me.” “Care to tell me what you are planning?” Joan asked peevishly. Sherlock just looked at her with her “we both know what is going on here” face. Joan retaliated with her “so help me if you try my patience any further you will be sleeping on the couch tonight” look. “Right. Well. I had a though.” “About?” Joan prompted her. “A donor.” “Yeeeees?” Sherlock knew from the number of e’s in Joan’s reply that her patience was wearing dangerously thin. “Ifoundusadonorwouldyoulikesometea,” she said, jumping up to fill the kettle. “Who, Sherlock? Who did you find?” “Well, I was going through the list of men I know that are intelligent and healthy and seeing as it is very short and you threw out the suggestion of Moriarty, the only other names on the list were my brothers-” “Brothers?” Joan interrupted. “As in, plural? As in you have more than one brother?” Sherlock waved a hand. “Yes, yes. Brothers. I have two. Mycroft (who I refuse to allow to impregnate you, can you imagine? Ugh.) and- well, he goes by ‘Q’ now, he’s a good bit younger than me and works in espionage for MI-6. He is nearly as intelligent as I am and well…” Sherlock broke off to meet her wife’s eyes and give a small, uncertain smile. “He looks like me.” Joan blinked, absorbing this new information. “And…you decided he is going to be the donor? You do realize that it is MY uterus, don’t you?” Joan was gearing up for a full blown ‘Sherlock you bloody idiot’ rant. She drew in a breath, intending to give Sherlock a piece of her mind when she caught the pleading look in her wife’s eyes. She let out the breath in a woosh. “Oh. You invited him over to lunch so I could meet him and accept or deny his offer.” Sherlock nodded, relieved. Joan walked over to Sherlock and held her. Sherlock pressed her face to the crook of her neck. “Sometimes,” Joan murmured, “I am an idiot.” Sherlock pressed a kiss under her ear, making her shiver in a deliciously familiar way. “Yes, but you’re MY idiot. Shall we take this to the bedroom? We have some time before Q and James-” Joan made a questioning noise that turned into a moan when Sherlock’s hand cupped her breast. “His husband, who also works at MI-6. Now, bedroom?”

[tk--421]

She stepped lithely out of the shadows, cold light glancing off her diamond-covered leotard. "I been thinkin', Red," she said quietly. "I been thinkin', since Mistah Jay left me all alone here, that you might want to come along for the ride?" She popped her gum loudly. "You know, just like old times?" Her smile was weak. Ivy gave her a one armed hug. "Alright, Harl. Let's go have some fun, huh?" Harley's eyes lit up. "I'll grab Bud and Lou, you get the car. We're gonna burn this town, Red!"

Dick flung out an arm and encountered empty space. Startled, he looked at Bruce’s side of the bed and blinked owlishly in the semi-darkness, finding it unoccupied. He flopped back down and indulged in some groaning before falling out of bed and pulling on the first pair of pants he encountered on his way out the door. Since Bruce’s return from the dead, he rarely slept. He would go to bed with Dick, but he would never stay. He would wait until Dick fell asleep and then creep down to the batcave to while away the long hours until morning. Dick padded through the manor, bare chested and footed, punching in the code on the hidden door in the back of the pantry and ran lightly down the steps. And there was Bruce, silhouetted against the numerous monitors, wearing sweatpants, a faded shirt and his habitual frown of concentration. Dick walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around the older man, pressing a kiss to the side of Bruce’s neck. Bruce brought a hand up to cover Dick’s, but kept his gaze on the monitors. “Come back to bed, Bruce,” Dick said quietly. Bruce let out a breath. “I can’t sleep, Dick. I can’t. I’ve tried. I’m exhausted but I can’t sleep.” Dick withdrew his hands to turn Bruce’s chair around so they were facing each other. Grinning cheekily, he straddled Bruce’s thighs and wrapped his arms around his neck. “Guess I’ll just have to tire you out some more, then.” Bruce smiled reluctantly, then pulled Dick in for a kiss. Several hours and many rounds later, Dick woke up with a naked Bruce pressed up against his side, sound asleep. He smiled, tugged the blankets up farther, and went back to sleep.

[tk--421]

Stiles stared at the mirror. "You... you bit me." Derek, still in bed with a pillow folded over his head, groaned. "Yeah, I know. You're not gonna turn or anything. Come back to bed, it's 4am." Carefully, Stiles turned, and realized that his shirt wouldn't cover the mark. "Dude, you... you fucking idiot!" Derek threw the pillow at him. "God, Stiles, what is it? It's too early for this shit." Stiles chucked it back. "It's too early my ass, mister nocturnal. How am I gonna explain this to my dad?"

Scott knew Isaac was a lovebug. A cuddle whore. In constant need of bodily contact. The whole pack knew. Hell, the entire school knew. He thought it was kinda a weird coincidence that Isaac was always right there. Sitting behind him in class (because Stiles always sat next to him). Bumping shoulders with him as they ran laps during lacrosse practice. Pressing his back to Scott's as they fought off the Alpha pack. Curling up against his side during pack meetings. Scott should have realized it a long time ago, that Isaac was always there. Not long after Allison and he broke up, Scott was driving Isaac back from a pack meeting. When Isaac leaned in to give Scott a habitual peck on the cheek, Scott took the opportunity to cup the back of his head and kiss him properly. Isaac's surprise turned to delight, then suspicion. "Why, Scott? Why now?" Scott smiled, reaching out a hand to smooth the furrows that appeared between his brows. "You've always been there, and it's about time I thanked you for it."

[tk--421]

Erica drove her fingers over Boyd’s skin, eliciting a groan. She wasn’t used to being in control; before the change, she’d never had any power over her life. But now she was different. She liked being the fierce one, the one that everyone was careful around. She liked making the other werewolves jump. She liked being able to tolerate more pain than her male counterparts. And she liked that she got to come home to Boyd, calm Boyd, with his broad shoulders and warm hands and love.

IM SORRY I KNOW IM NOT SUPPOSED TO DO NOVEL LENGTH FICS BUT SORRY IM NOT SORRY

Her first period after being bitten was nothing special. Bit of bloating, some cramps, mood oscillating between "I hate everyone" and "I hate myself". The usual. But how the boys treated her was definitely unexpected. As soon as they got a whiff of her, Boyd and Isaac became fiercely protective: carrying her books, walking with her between them so the crowd didn't jostle her, bringing her lunch to her (with an extra pudding cup). She put up with it with minor grumbling, until the end of the school day when she was feeling irritable and tired and they insisted on escorting her home. "Seriously, guys? It's five blocks. I think I'm capable." They exchanged a meaningful look and Isaac said "Of course you are," and then they were pulling her backpack off of her shoulders and linking their arms through hers and they were walking to her house. She tried to ditch them at the door, but they brushed past her and made themselves at home in the kitchen, telling her to go lie down while they made a snack. She threw up her arms in defeat and settled on the couch, taking the opportunity to text Derek. Call off the hounds. He replied almost instantly. What? She scowled. Isaac and Boyd. They're making me take a nap and carried my books all day. I'm on my PERIOD, not my deathbed! She heard the boys coming in to the living room and quickly shoved her phone into her pocket. Isaac bounded in, carrying a plate with sliced banana and apple with peanut butter, and Boyd followed at a more sedate place, carrying a steaming cup. They placed their offerings on the coffee table. "I remembered from health class that potassium is good for cramps, and raspberry tea is good for regulating your. Uh." Boyd trailed off, looking at Isaac for support. Isaac looked like a deer in the headlights. "Uh." "My menstrual cycle?" Erica supplied with venomous sweetness. Her phone vibrated. No can do was Derek's reply. She frowned. "Is this not what you wanted? We can make something else. Anything," Isaac blurted out, panicking slightly. Tears pricked Erica's eyes. This made Isaac panic even more and Boyd's eyes to widen in alarm. "Please don't cry! Crap. Boyd??" Erica flashed them a watery grin. "No, guys, thank you. It's perfect." She patted the couch in invitation and they flopped down on either side of her. She turned on the TV and they watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer in companionable silence until there was a knock at the door. Boyd gently pressed her shoulder to keep her from getting up and went to answer it. He walked back into the living room followed by a sheepish looking Derek carrying a box of cupcakes. "I didn't know which kind you liked so I sort of got one of each," Derek said. Erica burst into tears, and all three of them looked at each other in various states of alarm and confusion. At a loss, Derek picked up the box and held it out to her. "Cupcake?" he asked, desperately. She wiped her eyes and picked the red velvet one. Relieved, the boys settled back on the couch, Derek usurping Boyd's spot next to her. Boyd stole the pillow Derek was using and sat on the floor, pressed up against Erica's legs. Several hours later, Derek decided Erica needed a real nap and cajoled the boys into leaving. Shooing the boys out the door, he paused on the threshold as Erica approached his. "Will it always be like this?" she asked. Derek shrugged. "Probably. We protect our own. Just set your limits next time." Erica groaned. "How?" Derek gave her a wry smile. "Well, whenever Laura was on the rag and I tried to take care of her like Boyd and Isaac took care of you and she wasn't in the mood to deal with me, she would throw things at me until I left her alone." He pinned her with a red-tinged alpha stare. "But she always understood a male werewolf's need to protect. It's in our nature." "Oh," Erica said in a small voice. Derek raised an eyebrow at her, a silent warning to consider this new information. "Goodnight, Erica," he said, stepping out. "Goodnight," she echoed faintly. Well, shit. Guess having awesome wolf powers didn't come with no strings attached.