I’m one of those people who has always wondered how speedsters do it. It seemed a fitting topic to contemplate in depth in the sanctity of Earth 81.

“Grayson,” Damian said as he unclasped the cape at his throat and arranged it carefully on the shelf near another meticulously folded Robin costume. “Why don’t we have a store?”

“You only smoke when father’s home,” Damian said from the catwalk above him.

“You know,” Red Robin said, wiping his greasy gloves on a napkin and swallowing the last of his pizza. “Whenever we do this, I sort of feel like the Ninja Turtles.”

“Oh, awesome,” Jason exclaimed, body halfway in the refrigerator; he bumped the door with his hip, keeping it open. Emerging victorious a moment later with one unopened and a second mostly full six pack of imported bottled beer, he smiled sweetly at Alfred, setting them on the table. Cocking his head, he put a hand dramatically on his chest. “You got the good stuff. I’m touched.”

Title: Trade Secrets
Setting: Earth 81
Pairing: Dick + Damian; Tim/Kon; ?/?
Rated: R — language, sexual concepts

This week, my home state of New York legalized gay marriage. As long as it…

houseboysofwaynemanor:

wayne-manor:

It’s not that they share any of the cute and cuddly aspects, though he does tend to hog the couch.

It’s a little bit of the attitude, but that’s forgivable.

It might be how he pesters me for food, though he doesn’t lack the opposable thumbs that validate this maneuver.

It’s more that, when I’m…

There goes an old saying meant for all the ears of those who would bother to listen.

It’s the thought that counts.

When an uncle gives you a basketball jersey despite you having a passion for baseball instead.

It’s the thought that counts.

When a mother feeds you vegetables even though you detest the greens.

It’s the thought that counts.

When a butler holds you close to his heart and whispers that ‘everything will be alright’.

It’s the thought that counts.

However, sometimes, certain thoughts should not be counted.

Sometimes, certain thoughts should be dashed off our shoulders and in to tiny, metal trashcans hidden under the hollow of our wooden, mahogany desks in the east study.

Sometimes, certain thoughts of vivid touches and tender gazes should be knocked out of us in a dark alley by a desperate man with even more desperate needs.

But a laugh—bright and sharp, crisp and tart, sweet and tangy like a fresh grape served at dinner on a Tuesday night when one’s knee bumps another—curls around such thoughts and holds tight.

Tangles a web where your wistful sighs and bitten lips dance with each other in your head. Better than sugarplum fairies whisking your mind away. Sturdier than the Kevlar cloaking you from a city of eyes that blink and cry and bleed.

That laugh follows you. As it should. It’s the leader of a parade of tempting intricacies marching right behind you. Close enough to touch you.

Touch your back.

Drag down your spine.

Even lower to your—

“Hey, B,” Jason chirps from beside you, steaming mug in hand and bare thigh much too close to the hand draped on your right armrest, “thought I’d make you some coffee so you don’t nap through your boring speech-making.”

He laughs near your ear as he nudges your hand off with his thigh—smooth, slender, there—and perches like the Robin that he is.

The cold lip of the mug touches your mouth, your own lips.

Almost like a kiss.

Closest you’ll ever get from him—

No.

He’s tipping it for you, making you part your chapped lips and revel in the taste of the…cheap…watered-down…bland…murky—

“It’s instant, but I made it myself.” Jason murmurs, suddenly too shy to be your boy…yours..but not really.

You slide thick fingers around the mug, grazing bony digits wrapped around the handle and there’s a spark there.

A tingle warmer than the heat of the coff—…liquid (because by Alfred’s apron this was not coffee) swirling in your grasp.

Fleeting, tickling sunshine scurrying across the bit of skin right before your knuckles.

You pull it away from his grasp. Pull away from his skin and look at him.

Eager, gorgeous blue eyes filled with a brightness that’s as deadly as the small, hesitant smile flickering on his face.

The coffee…the…drink, is terrible.

But as you look at this boy—yours—it doesn’t matter.

It’s the thought that counts.

“Thank you, Jason.” A smile just for him, “It’s wonderful.”

Jason’s, anyway.

Not yours.

You lick your lips and take another full gulp, eyes never leaving the young boy’s mouth.

He blushes and inches closer, side pressing into yours.

Never yours.

 Scout.  My perfect boy.  Just when I think it’s been too long without a cup of your wonderful coffee and the pleasure of your presence, you knock on my door with a hot mug and a ready smile.

This is lovely.  Such a beautiful image.  So true.  Bruce would be so masochistic and caring with his boys.  Especially Jason, so perfect in his flaws.

 Thank you very much for this.  I hope you’ve been well; you seem to be convalescing at a good pace.  We should make time to have tea together sometime in the near future, when we’re both free from our other duties.

For now, work beckons me again.  Take care of yourself, Scout.  It’s very good to see you again.

In and out of uniform. ;)

raeseddon:

I don’t usually take up challenges, but Alan put one forth the other day that that intrigued me—those of my followers that have actually gone back through my blog know my feelings on Barbara Gordon’s miracle mobility—it’s bunk, lazy writing.

But at the same time there was an irony in having the…

 This is awesome. Crossover be damned—the idea of Babs striking a deal with the Prince of Lies or one of his minions is intriguing in its own right.

I’m really excited to see where you go with this.  Good luck with the writing.  I’ll be over here cheering you on. :)