Arthur Has The Opposite Of A Competency Kink, I Fear

billy batson au/scenario where billy gets caught up in an incident as billy himself and his only way to not literally BLEED OUT and DIE is to transform back as captain marvel (And chooses to stay as him. how will he survive if he detransforms back anyways? he can't risk it yet,)

So. times go by, captain marvel hasn't detransformed in maybe a month or two and it's sorta? starting to affect billys own body for some reason. But not enough for the kid to die,, And then , in one of the missions that most of the main justice league members have to join in, a magical rune/spell/whatever is casted onto them to show the day all of them will individually die (with diana and superman probably having the most amount of time out of everyone, and with batman surprisingly having 31:19:03 years, hours and minutes to his name left(yeah, even batman himself was rather surprised at that)) for the thrill of it.

but, it isn't fate, they could still survive if they change any little thing. if they get help or not. it's not set in stone!!

and so to show that one of the timers could go off at any moment. Like. some of the timers just cut to zero even if there were a few more years to its name and they'll immediately kick the bucket. or like their heads explode. and their lives r on a gamble to hope that their own timers won't get chosen to be the next to be resetted. so all of their timers start ticking, as they fight their way through the battle they're fighting in

even after they win, the timers don't go away , so they're up in the watchtower, the annoying tick of each minute getting louder and louder in their ears, and having a meeting until they realize

captains timer is only ones that isn't ticking? so they look over to cm's timer and see,

00:00:04. Four minutes left. what? why is he literally almost on deaths door? metaphorically. I mean

but thats not all, it's not even going down. minute after minute, it's like it's stuck in stasis which is .. weird???? and like captain is sorta sweating bullets because like oooooh crumbs. Oh gods

also. accompanying art hshsssfjgdf

(he thought if he stayed still no one would notice his odd ass death timer)

Happy mishapocolypse anniversary!!

Daniel Fenton is the top expert in his field.

(Copy of my post from the DPxDC community.)

That field happens to be paleoxeno anthropology - the study of dead alien and/or interdimensional people and cultures.

The thing with becoming the top expert in a field of study, is that you often don't set out to become one. Danny just wanted to understand where his parents got the idea that ghosts aren't sapient. So, he read their research.

(Cut because this got long.)

And then, when that didn't answer things (because apparently they'd stopped citing their damn sources after college), he asked his parents what references they used. Which lead to reading those research papers, and looking into their sources.

And the deeper Danny went, the more he learned, the fewer offshoots the rabbit hole had. He started recognizing when authors were citing each other in a loop, when some researcher was plagiarizing a specific other researcher, and he eventually got good at cutting through the "as everyone knows" to the root "I've never read anything except X crackpot's work, but if I say that, you won't take me seriously."

Along the way, he learned that a lot of "ghost" research was cross-contaminated by other fields - aliens, gods, demons, elemental spirits, and basically everything else that wasn't "of this Earth" all got dumped into the same area of "pseudoscience."

Except, aliens were real. There were even alien super heroes - Martian Manhunter was very openly a non-human person from Mars.

So, why were all these papers swilling the same backwash?

Well, Danny found what he was looking for - the ultimate source of his parent's prejudices - a "research paper" commissioned and published to support a proposed law against "illegal aliens." Specifically, a law that would criminalize super heroes who couldn't prove they were born on Earth - Superman in particular.

It was all bullshit. Years of "professionals" were ultimately referencing a single biased "study" into the ability of anything not human to have conscious thought. It was all based on fucking xenophobia.

By this point in his research, Danny had entered college and majored in anthropology - since he was doing the research anyway, he'd may as well get credit for it, right? He'd written several papers on known alien cultures, talked to experts in the field of interdimensional communication (read: magic users), and generally become a known entity in the study of dead non-human and/or non-Earth-based people.

And if he maybe popped into the Ghost Zone to talk to a few "primary sources" for his papers, well, that was why he specialized in specifically dead cultures.

By the time he'd actually graduated, he'd written a (very well received) paper on the inherently xenophobic prejudices present in what he was calling the field of paleoxeno anthropology. He laid out his very well-sourced arguments, heavily referenced established research (and the sources for said research), and ended it with a list of the known crimes of Lex Luthor - the primary source of everything his parents had based their work on.

All in all, Danny was rather proud of the work he'd done. He'd upended the entire field of ecto-biology, started a few debates on the merits of interdimensional cultural exchanges (the idea of Christmas Truce was immediately adopted by the people of Gotham), and gotten a few prejudiced laws challenged.

His parents had copies of his papers on ghost culture proudly displayed throughout the house, and had been overwhelmingly supportive of the new ideas he had brought to their field. Jazz had a newspaper article about the legal changes he'd instigated framed in her office in Arkham - a surprising number of her patients weren't legally human, and were already receiving better care and accommodations now that they were being recognized as people.

But the thing that really made Danny realize he was not just an expert, but the expert, was Superman showing up at his door with a copy of his examination of Krypton's lost subcultures and fringe social practices.

"A few of my family members have entered their "rebellious teenager" phase. On the recommendation of my colleagues, I came here, hoping you could help them "rebel" in a way that helps them feel closer to our people."

Leverage S03E12 The King George Job.

Me coded

Eddie Diaz FaceTiming Buck from El Paso like:

Me, writing out medical procedures/protocols in my Batman fic based off my old job in a SNF/Rehab

I love, love, LOVE it when I can tell a fic author has integrated their specialized knowledge in a fic. I was reading a fic that at some point included the character going to visit an art therapist, and it's so clear that the author is an art therapist themself, and the details included are just immaculate and I love it. I've previously read about a character doing fencing for no other reason than the author clearly wanting to write a sport they understood. A character being given a hyperfixation on bugs just so the author can infodump themselves.

I eat it up every time, it brings such a smile to my face

i ♡ the 118 extended family

Fucking obsessed with this! This was so good!! OP thank you for tagging me, I am now forever indebted to you 🫶

messy top lip kiss (how i long for our trysts)

also posted on ao3

Wilson was used to finishing his rounds on the oncology floor and seeing House already invading the space in his office like he owned the place. Sometimes he’d find House leaning on the wall right next to his office door- tapping his cane obnoxiously against the word ‘Oncology’ just because he could. Occasionally, if House was bored, he’d see the older man pacing at the end of the hallway between his own office and Wilson’s, like he was waiting for Wilson to decide between the privacy of his office or the glass dome of House’s space. It was a cat and mouse game that Wilson was used to after all these years.

But something about this was different. 

House was leaning against the wall by the janitor's closet between their offices; staring intently at Wilson as he approached. Wilson expected House to fall into step with him on the way to his office with some ridiculous demand that Wilson would pretend to fight over before caving like he always did. He’d left a bag of chips on the desk and he could already picture House snagging them and eating them before he’d get the chance to. 

What he wasn’t expecting as he walked past was the sudden movement of House’s cane to dart out; the handle of the cane snagging against his wrist, and pulling. Hard. The sudden yank threw off his equilibrium and caused Wilson to stumble from his pathway towards his office. An undignified sound slipped from his lips as he was pulled into the supply closet with a little more force than was strictly necessary. 

“House, what the hell are you doing?” Wilson hissed, rubbing absently at the ache that was blossoming in his wrist. “Is this some elaborate hide and seek you’re playing with the rest of your team? Because I have important paperwork I need to-”

House surged forward, pushing Wilson back into the shelving behind them and pinning the younger man in place. His cane clattered to the floor and his hand found purchase on the back of Wilson’s neck as he pulled Wilson into a hungry kiss. “Shut up,” House muttered against Wilson’s mouth before nipping at his lower lip. 

Whatever snappy comeback Wilson wanted to bite out quickly dissolved on his tongue as his hand found its way to House’s hip, pulling him closer. 

God dammit. House knew this was his weakness. Knew that Wilson would go along with anything House was planning with just a few hurried fervent kisses that always managed to leave Wilson speechless and dizzy. 

But he couldn’t give up the fight that easily. What would their lives be if Wilson didn’t push back just because he could? Even if House always ended up winning in the end. Half the fun was the chase, after all. 

“House,” Wilson gasped between kisses. “What are you-”

“Shut up,” House repeated, breaking the kiss and fumbling to undo the top button on Wilson’s shirt. 

“House,” Wilson said more urgently, hands shaking as he tried to loosen the knot of his tie so that House’s lips could kiss a burning trail down his throat. “Why…”

House tore his mouth away from Wilson’s neck, leaning back slightly in the dim light so he could glare at Wilson. “Do you want to waste time asking questions like ‘What are you doing?’ or ‘Why now when you’ve never made a move on me at work before?’. Or would you rather make out in the janitor's closet like horny teenagers?”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Shut up and go back to shoving your tongue in my mouth.”

The smirk on House’s lips sent a fast heat racing up Wilson’s neck and across his cheeks. “That’s what I thought.” 

That look in House’s eyes could get Wilson on his knees blowing him in half a second flat. And he would- workplace etiquette be damned- except House was kissing him like there was no tomorrow and Wilson’s brain had completely short-circuited. 

It was easy to get lost in the kisses. The way House delved deeper deeper deeper into his mouth, as if he were analyzing and memorizing every millimeter of Wilson’s mouth and committing it to his memory. How he slowed down for just a few moments to allow Wilson to catch his breath before it was impossible to resist the magnetic pull between them and they were frantically kissing again. 

The air was filled with the sounds of breathless gasps and heavy kisses. Now that he knew House was on a mission, Wilson could actually keep up and plan his next move. He let House lead the kiss, letting House’s tongue lick across the roof of his mouth teasingly. When House made a move to pull back for air, Wilson chased after him, catching House’s mouth in a bruising kiss. 

Game on. 

House let out a groan of surprise, wobbling slightly at the change in pressure on his leg as Wilson pressed into his space. Wilson nudged House back and bracketed his arms on either side of House’s head, pinning him in place against the wall. Dropping a hand down, Wilson rucked up House’s shirt, seeking skin on skin contact. A low moan filled the air as House dropped his head back against the wall in pleasure.

With a smirk of his own, Wilson took the opportunity to seal their mouths together again.

It was agonizing torture to slowly ghost his lips against House’s, initiating the barest of kisses and then hovering just out of reach. Catching the shiver that raced down House’s spine, Wilson teasingly licked along House’s lower lip. House swore under his breath. Wilson grinned.

“Is this what you wanted?” Wilson said smugly as he ghosted a kiss against the corner of House’s mouth before backing away again. 

“Get on with it already. Your foreplay is horrendous,” House grunted. 

Huffing out a laugh, Wilson closed the gap and made sure to graze his lips over the pulse point in House’s neck; feeling the flutter against his lips as House’s heart rate kicked up. “You’re right. You’re not enjoying this at all.”

House opened his mouth, most likely to spit out some cutting retort, but Wilson cut him off by crashing their lips together and pushing his tongue into House’s mouth. Stroking his tongue over House’s as their lips fought for control always spurned a groan of approval from House, and today was no different. The shuddering moan that House let out was pressed into Wilson’s mouth and it sparked a burning desire deep in Wilson’s gut.

Licking his way along House’s tongue and then across the older man’s teeth, Wilson focused his attention on the way their lips melded together. The scrape of stubble against his jaw since House hadn’t shaved in almost a week. The way House was leaning up into the hand Wilson had shoved up his shirt, as if being kissed wasn’t enough and he needed more. 

And that just wouldn’t do. Not on Wilson’s watch. If House wanted to make out in the janitor’s closet then they’d make out. No need to cop a feel when he could get House to look wrecked and desperate with just his mouth on House’s. 

Pulling his palm away from House’s waist, he planted his hand back on the wall so he was bracketing the older man’s head again. House broke the kiss with a glare. “Bad foreplay is better than no foreplay at all.”

“Guess you’re outta luck then,” Wilson replied, and then he was kissing House again. Hurried desperate kisses that led to ragged shallow breaths. The slide of their mouths between pants, tongues dancing together before they broke apart, only to chase each other again moments later was intoxicating. Catching House’s lower lip between his, Wilson slowed the kisses down just so he could crack his eyes open and see the trembles that wracked through House’s body in anticipation. Then he licked his way back into House’s mouth and their lips were slotting together again.

Kissing House was always good, always something Wilson relished, but this was different. Adrenaline pumping, House’s hands in his hair, pulling their bodies flush together so he could rut against Wilson’s hip. 

This was ecstasy and Wilson never wanted it to end.

He couldn’t help the little breathy, needy gasps that burned up his throat and were pushed into House’s mouth. Dropping his hands from the wall, he scrambled to unbuckle House’s belt without tearing his mouth away from House’s.

Just as Wilson made a move to slip his hand into House’s pants, a loud beeping filled the air.

”You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” House hissed, fumbling to yank the pager out of his jeans to silence it.

“Don’t you need to-”

“No,” House said through gritted teeth, drawing Wilson back in by his undone tie and sealing their lips together again.

Wilson hesitated for a moment, but then House’s tongue was in his mouth and all thoughts of pagers and cases were gone. Falling back into frantic kisses, Wilson aligned House’s good leg between his thighs and the burning friction was back within seconds as they grinded against each other.

He’d barely managed to get his hands back down to House’s unzipped jeans before the pager was going off again. Biting back a choked off groan, Wilson dropped his head against House’s shoulder as House thumbed at the device. 

“There, that should…” House started to say, but his phone ringing shattered the moment.

“For the love of God,” Wilson muttered, pulling back and running a hand through his tousled hair.

House brought the phone to his ear. “Busy right now. Call back in 5.”

Wilson couldn’t hear what was being said on the other end of the phone, but he could hear the urgency in what he suspected was Foreman’s voice and knew that the game was over.

“Get her prepped for an LP. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Wilson drew in a shaky breath and released it slowly. “If you weren’t just as turned on as I am right now, I’d say this was your plan all along.”

Rolling his eyes, House muttered, “Oh yes, you got me, Wilson. I planned to jump your bones and then leave myself as blue balled as I left you.”

Wilson raised both of his eyebrows suspiciously. “That does sound like something you would do.”

House bent down to grab his cane, then zipped up his jeans as Wilson fixed his shirt and tie.

“Maybe next time you want to make out in the janitor’s closet, don’t do it in the middle of one of your cases.”

“Oh, so you’re expecting a next time, are you?”

Despite the absurdity of the entire situation, Wilson couldn’t help but grin. “Whatever your little plan here was, you didn’t succeed. Nor did you finish what you started. That’s going to eat at you for days.” Brushing his hair back into place with his fingers, Wilson took a step forwards to open the door. “But now I know what game you’re playing. And now it’s my move.”