"Amell and Gustin have such great banter, hopefully they're the first of many to come."

Commissioner Gordon walked in, his mustache ungroomed but still tantalizing hot as shit. His glasses further accentuated his natural charisma. Like, if you wanted to bang a guy who is in that weird spot between looking like a nerd and a cop that hasn't slept in forever, he was your dude. Bullock waited for him. It…

Hawkeye sat down on the street, cleaning the shaft of one of his many arrows. He always worked the shaft from top to bottom. He loved to get the motion of polishing the shaft just right. The shaft was a big part of his life.

Go fuck yourself, buddy.

WhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoreWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhoresWhores

Sherlock sat on his chair, watching Watson do his daily workout: pushups, squats, and crunches. When the apartment got hot in the summer, as it was that day, Watson was known to do his exercises with his shirt off. His muscles showing his fine form, but also that the pains of Afghanistan still haven't left him.

"Huh?" @Av Club Slash Fiction Writer asked @disqus_jeTusCb3OY:disqus, whose giant blue balls swung in the breeze like two giant blue balls swinging in the breeze. "Surely you know that I-IV plus Physical Graffiti counts as five "truly great albums," or Rubber Soul through Abbey Road/Let It Be. Even a relatively new…

"at one point, and somebody sent both of us a five-page slash fic about us being vampires."

Jack Reacher had just finished writing his sarcastic post lambasting slash fiction. He leaned back in his chair; he was proud of his anti-slash fiction beliefs. He waited by the computer, constantly refreshing the page to see if anyone would reply. Pippyworks had replied to him. Jack Reacher felt something stir up in…

Oliver walks into the hideout with a disturbed face on him. When he's alone, he often thinks about Slade. He remembers seeing his tight biceps clench the throat of an island mercenary, his veins pulsating with pain, neglect. Oliver remembers him whispering his thoughts of revenge into his ear, his grizzly beard…

Megatron sat on his metal throne, contemplating his ensuing battle with Optimus Prime. He was nervous and exhausted, though he would never display this to Soundwave or Galvatron; he knew he could not trust them. This weight was heavy on his head. He often had thoughts of transforming into a cypertron jet and lying…