Title: 21 Blackjack
Summary: Title pretty much says it all. Twenty-one multiple drabbles and pairings and crossovers for the sake of exposing new avenues and providing an interest of the day for a present to RMMB.
Warning: BatHawk slash, odd pairings, het, crossings over with multiple series, erotica, etc. These are mostly pairings that I think RMMB would like.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, their franchise and make no money off of this at all.
Dedication: Written for Rose Midnight Moonlight Black because I want to love on her, I think she's gorgeous, lalalalalala….No, seriously; this was just written because she wrote something for me and I miss her and, hey, more BatHawk slash and such in the house. Can't beat that. Plus, I've lost my damn mind, sooo, yeah.


1. Terry McGinnis/Rex Stewart
2. Virgil Hawkins/Mary McGinnis
3. Kai-Ro/Matt McGinnis/Stalker
4. Delia Denis/Bonk (TOaFT 'verse) OR Deidre Denis/Scab (RotJ 'verse).


-:-BatHawk-:-
Sighs and leers and crocodile tears,
That's what young men are made of.
-Nursery Rhymes.


Silence of Lambs Crossover-:-

It's not the same in texture as the liver of a fifty-two year old man in excellent health and doesn't have the quality of the hearts he'd eaten—still warm—from the chest cavities of young women who had once, unwittingly, stumbled into his tunnel vision, but Terry would have to make do. Rare cooked roast beef and spare ribs were the best things he'd eaten in four years since he'd been trapped in that sub-basement penitentiary and he was not about to be rude and complain about it.

Cutting out another piece of the roast and plopping it into his mouth—the blood still retained a little bitter from being cooked by Neanderthals—the young man looked up, blue eyes curious, as the elevator dinged to a stop just beside where the two guards assigned to his detail outside of his cage sat drinking what smelled like the worst coffee ever and ate powdered doughnuts.

But, as the doors opened, Terry was relieved of having to think of small-talk to make with the guards by the appearance of Special Agent Stewart stepping out of the lift and cautiously into the room; the taller man's green eyes scanning the place and, almost immediately, Terry grinned. His teeth shown white despite his meal and there was a knowing that he would get some real fun out of the next few minutes Rex would be in the room before the student of the FBI was found out and shuffled away by Powers like a school child that had wandered into a forbidden classroom.

ER (TV Series) Crossover-:-

Gray matter. Blood in the stomach. Black of the eyes too wide to be natural.

The brainstem was shot.

Sighing over the body of the teenage boy with dyed blue hair that looked like he couldn't have even been in his second year of high school that had come into the emergency room via an ambulance no more than thirty minutes ago, the head nurse on duty, Terry McGinnis, looked to the resident that had been working on the boy—pounding his hands over the kid's heart in an effort to get it started again—and shook his head; somber.

Rex, that flush he'd been sporting from an hour ago (when Terry and he had been in the bunk room that most of the staff used to catch forty winks before the usual chaos of the day doing stuff that wasn't restfulat all) long gone to be replaced with sweat and the look of a sallow patient rather than doctor, met the nurse's eyes and then swiftly looked to the clock; he yanked off his right—bright pink—medical glove and called out, "Time of death 11:23."

The other doctors and nurses that had congregated around the teenager that had been smashed bodily into a tree and then into a lake by oncoming traffic, disembarked and started to meander back into the other trauma rooms to see if they could help there. They all had less of a tempo—like every time they lost a kid so early in the morning.

Rex and Terry remained in the room; Rex to sew up the gutted out victim of an accidental car vs. pedestrian loser so that when whatever person came to get the body wouldn't have to see so much blood and gore—his eyes trained on Terry, however, seeing as he could sew up any corpse in the dark just from touch—and Terry to carefully sift through the dead young man's torn away shirt and pants for some form of identification.

Rex took note, quietly, how Terry still wore his deep maroon surgical gloves and used the very tips of his fingers to leaf through all of the pockets along the young victim's pant legs. After three tries, Terry found what he was looking for in a battered black wallet and began looking through it.

Terry found the driver's license and head it above his head to properly catch the light, reading aloud, "Donny Grosso, age seventeen, organ donor…"

"Any contacts for relatives?"

The brunette with a fleck of blood just below his left eye from a blood stream that gushed upward when they'd brought in the kid flipped through the wallet a little more and frowned, pulling out a worn-out slip of yellow paper.

"He's emancipated. Says here that he's been working and supporting himself for…two years."

Rex mirrored his (secret) lover's expression and set down his suturing needle and thread, looking down at the poor kid's face before he spoke, "Which means the family he did have doesn't need to sign off on us retrieving his organs. They probably had wished for something like this to happen.

Gargoyles (TV Series) Crossover-:-

Looking down from castle that had risen above the clouds after a thousand years thanks to the workings of very crafty men—almost like magicians with metal and captured and manipulated lightning—the feathered, black winged gargoyle with blazing sandy skin and horns breeching through his forehead (similar to an oxen) sighed wistfully as he caught sight again of those strange things called helicopters flying along the edge of the building below's forty-fifth floor.

Out of nowhere—a sort of solid configuration flying through the blackness of the night—a pebble clattered to the stone floor behind him where his tail settled (the very tip of his tail twitching at the contact) and the gargoyle tilted his head over the side of his shoulder. His glowing acetone green eyes settled on the figure of the benefactor that had brought him and his clan back from eternal sleep.

"Mr. McGinnis," the leader of the gargoyles greeted, head bowed low and voice gruff and out of use, coming out subdued and compliant, "I thought humans slept during the time when the moon is so high in the sky…or has more than just the entirety of the world changed to affect space?"

Black hair swaying in the wind as he removed himself from being pressed against the side of the castle walls, Terry stepped over to the very large figure he seemed far too familiar with, grinning just lightly enough that his teeth weren't showing in a way that made him seem almost malevolent as he looked down at the city and the lights hit his face just so, "Ah, no, Warhawk. I'm just a nocturnal sort of man."

The Lion King Crossover-:-

Sometimes, it was good to be king. Even more when the mate you choose can be from anywhere and nobody says anything about them.

Plus, on an even brighter side of the way to look at things, nobody would brother Rex when they saw him and Terry enter the small abandoned cave at the edge of where all royal and important meetings were held. Just because they couldn't have cubs, did not mean they could not have privacy.

Rex's claws traced circle patterns into the dusty black pelt of his panther lover—a rare treat to be with, indeed, as most of the panthers and jaguars stayed in the wild forests rather than coming to the savannahs—and approved much of the long suffering, but not actually suffered moan that Terry made, arms stretching outwards in the air so Rex could see the pink of the soft skin of his paw pads.

"Oh, a little more…a little—OH!"

Silence reigned, but not long. Rex had shoved his nose into Terry's side to make him roll over onto his stomach and, the moment the panther's belly was pliant to the ground, Rex was upon Terry immediately. They had done plenty of things like this before under the green canopy of the jungle when they were just cubs—well, more when Terry was a cub and Rex was a teenager just growing into his mane who didn't know any better—but that had just been mild fondling of paws along bellies, teeth nipping ears and that one time Terry had wondered about the appendage that Rex didn't know was lengthening until Terry's tongue made contact with it and Rex had stiffened and run off.

This, however, was the real thing and both of them groaned—didn't roar, no, that would be an exaggeration—deeply in the back of their throats as Rex reached his intended connection.

Terry's tail entwined like a snake around Rex's bronze, shaggy hind leg to keep himself in place as Rex rocked against him, but didn't bite down on the back of the panther's neck.

The Odd Couple Crossover-:-

Blue sheets on the twin beds. Yellow lamp shades. Everything smelled like the middle priced cleaning products they sold at every market corner store in America.

Suddenly, dressing down from his work pants and shirt and down to his under-shirt and black boxers, standing in his living room and looking about his studio apartment on the seventh floor of the large brick building that sat across from a Laundry-Mat that had never really bothered him (until recently), Rex got a clean, clear picture of exactly why Dana had left Terry.

Picking up his discarded clothing from the table where he's set them—trying to avoid getting the sullied lot too close to the five folded piles of freshly washed shirts, shorts, pants, ties and (hah) underwear—Rex made for the bathroom where the dirty clothes basket (Terry had bought) was now sitting innocently beneath the sink. Then he would wash up and find that special case of cigars he'd bought seven years ago while on a job to televise the baseball game between the Cuban Red Eagles and the Gotham City Knights in the Cuban capital; lighting just one up would hopefully be enough to shut out the smell of lime, orange and disinfectant if he plunked down in his lazy chair.

He'd have an hour to enjoy the smoke before Terry came home to make dinner and bitch at the baseball broadcaster for ruining his lungs and blah, blah, blah.

In the Line of Fire Crossover-:-

"So, if I'm just window dressing," Rex questioned, still licking his tiny spoonful of chocolate Romani ice cream, "For the aged twenty to thirty, well done, immigrant vote—what does that make you?"

Terry smiled, taking a large swallow of his Vatican Vanilla, three-scoop ice cream cone before answering; a little drop from the white treat dribbled down his bottom lip to the end of his chin and stayed there a moment, "Twenty to thirty aged, single, white piano players. We're very rare, but very sturdy."

Rex couldn't help but mentally agree with that as Terry's tongue stretched out of his mouth and got every last trace of the white dribble, leaving not a little behind to sully and stick to his skin.

Sex and the City (TV Series) Crossover-:-

"There is nowhere to smoke in Los Angeles; I want to go home to New York right-the-fuck now."

Still holding Terry pressed to his chest like they were two sweaty sea lions trying to get it on when one of the partners wasn't co-operating because the other really wanted that fish that was flopping around on the rocks nearby, Rex hoped that his weight would do something to deter the blue eyed writer from trying to get out of having sex with him so he could slip on a robe and stand outside on the hotel balcony to smoke without alerting the damn fire alarm.

Rex probably should have known that giving Terry an orgasm without a cigarette was a bad idea, but who thinks about those sorts of repercussions when they have a hot writer from New York to try and win over before he had to leave in five hours on a plane back home? Not Rex.

Though, he probably should have thought to prepare for Terry itching for a cigarette with Rex still inside him. It was actually one of the most uncomfortable things ever.


-:-Virgil Hawkins/Mary McGinnis-:-
Lilies are white
Rosemary's green,
When I am king,
You shall be queen.
-Nursery Rhymes.


Rocky Crossover-:-

The ice underfoot that Virgil had glided over every single winter since he could walk felt reassuring under the circumstances. At thirty-two, it was probably the one constant he had other than boxing, Richie and, of course, that gloomy apartment up on the upper-east side of Dakota that he'd moved into the minute he finished college.

Out along the border of the artificial pond inside the stadium used for hockey that he spent weekends voluntarily cleaning up so Richie could meet up with his wife Frieda earlier than usual for "romance", and hanging onto the trunk of the fake palm tree that had been put there as a joke the first week the arena had opened, was Mary trying to tie up the laces on her own skates she had swiped from behind the front desk.

"Y'know," Virgil chuckled as he glided over to the sleek redhead that was at least twice as smart as he thought he was, if not more-so, "It's a lot easier if you have someone helping you."

"I've got it," Mary snarled not at him but at the excruciatingly long laces as she finally finished the one on her right foot, only to be bombarded with Virgil's gloved hands already almost finished with frayed laces on the left; his grin making her almost as infuriated as it made her turn cherry red above her jawbone and below her perfect eyes, "…or not."

As Good as it Gets Crossover-:-

He moved from his seat at the corner table near the window most closely situated to the back for the first time ever that Mary had been working at the small restaurant—seven years!—and it was because of a tiny, yappy blonde Welsh Corgi tethered outside the restaurant.

Mary isn't sure whether she should press her luck in bringing him silverware.

Balto Crossover-:-

"Oh my, oh my, oh my," a keen that should not come from such a fabulous red husky echoed underneath the floorboards of the old meat smoking room with the door opened via three missing nails in the hinges.

Blue-black paws shuffled into the silt dirt of the little hideout Virgil had found and procured after his success in coming home from Gotham City back to Dakota to this lovely purebred he had been after for so long that this activity they were engaged in was better than a dream come true or any prize. His maw lightly nipped at Mary's scruff as heat engulfed both of their lower regions of the body.

"Come on, babe," he growled lowly, not in anger. His chest fur—black as ebony—rubbed along fire red shoulder blades. She gave a low whine that became a light sigh. The fireplace always going above them billowed into blue for just a moment.

Warm silence.

Uptown Girls Crossover-:-

"You seriously paid a thousand dollars for these sheets?"

"Plus sales tax," Mary shrugged, Virgil's large shirt that she wore that looked relative to a black hole with little stars in the patterns of Orion, Ursa Major and Sagittarius curving up as she raised her hand precariously balancing a stuffed capon via a pair of chopsticks and deposited the treat into her lover's mouth.

Law and Order: SVU (TV Series) Crossover-:-

The eyeliner she had been wearing is long gone. What's left is smeared in perfect rivers down both cheeks that Virgil has tried wiping away with the handkerchief he carries in his pocket because he'll get yelled at by his sister if he doesn't keep it with him. It doesn't help, and Mary just keeps crying.


-:-Kai-ro/Matt McGinnis OR Stalker-:-
"…You despise me, don't you?"
-Casablanca.


Peter Pan (Book Version) Crossover-:-

The markings the boys had received from the chief of the Indian village are fresh and raw and red. Their blood will take time to become solid and real, but they are proud of them in their ways.

Kai-ro is a little more silent about it than Matt could ever be with the brunette flying around the various clay and wood and leaf configured huts decorating the areas of the forest of Neverland that the natives had won and carved out on their own, cawing loudly and pestering some of the least sensitive warriors. That does not mean, however, that Kai is ungrateful.

As such, while Matt does a spin atop a skin drum, feet going up and down to make the beat of some kind of dance only the McGinnis boy himself could ever know, Kai wanders into the chief's own hut and sits beside Stalker.

Nothing is said, no. They just stare out at the going's on and Kai's shoulder rests against the adult's; content.

The Graduate Crossover-:-

It was different than anything Matt could have ever imagined. It hurt, a little, but that was to be expected.

Kai was still asleep from experiencing his first…whatever that was with Stalker. His tan, smooth skin was touching Matt's heel just so as the teenager stayed alight atop the dark man's lap, feeling everything for the first time that he hadn't really known he could feel just from pressing himself against another and another person pressing into him, well, there. He didn't even really think that anything was supposed to go into his lower opening, ever.

How great was it to be wrong?

Bones (TV Series) Crossover-:-

"I'm taking you out tonight."

"…Why?"

Matt took a moment to adjust the belt he had chosen yesterday to wear to work—yes, he realized he would probably get no sleep or get to go home is Kai-ro called him in, but so what, he needed to work into the thing—that was all red and had what looked like the face of the opera character 'Harlequin', before finding an answer that may not have given Kai an easy way to shoot down the detective's request.

"I want to see how much tequila you can handle since the last time we went out to celebrate."

Kai tilted his head and, already, Matt anticipated a massive headache, "But, we are not celebrating. We didn't get to the intended victim in time and the killer got away."

"…Yes," Matt ground out, raising a hand and his pointed finger, "But we did swipe another piece to the puzzle that is Derek Powers, so we are close to succeeding. So we are getting blitzed."

Before Kai could even open his mouth to protest, the detective had grabbed his smaller hand and started dragging the stoic scientist down one set of many flights of stairs that led out of the forensic building Kai worked in from sun-up until he either fell unconscious or until he clocked out; whatever came first.

Jeepers Creepers Crossover-:-

The grip on Matt's throat was tight, but he figured, vaguely, that the grip Kai had sustained was worse, seeing as his best friend was unconscious and the demonic bastard that had run them off the road had tossed him away.

Presently, Matt couldn't really bring himself to care as the being brought his face right up—skin to skin or scale or whatever the fuck the thing was covered in that was so damn slimy—against Matt's cheek and began…sniffing at him. Followed, much to Matt's horror, by this Stalker or whatever, sliding his purple tongue out and ghosting it over Matt's cheek, ear, jaw line, eye and then the inside of Matt's throat.

He tasted like uncooked meat and that one shot of liquid wheat grass Kai had once forced Matt to drink in high school that had made the brunette vomit all over his last girlfriend.

Good Omens Crossover-:-

"You would think, wouldn't you," Kai-ro didn't quite continue to complain, seeing as angels did not complain, merely rambled on in different pitch to suit themselves, "hat is some young mortal could remake the world to his very own liking, that he could fix a bookshop filled with over five hundred first edition books. Wouldn't you, my dear?"

Sitting over in a corner of the rubble that had become Kai-ro's bookshop since it had been burned to the ground by Stalker's fellow demons (and, of course, when Stalker meant fellow, he meant of vaguely the same mailing address that was hell for all those angels that had Fallen; i.e. Hell), Stalker dusted off some soot from his black suit and ghosted a finger over some bricks so they could reassert themselves into a line that would become one wall of the bookshop again, once Kai-ro got a hold of himself and paid attention.

"One would think that, I suppose," Stalker spoke softly, some leaves of the trees over in the park just across the street spindling in the air almost towards him catching his eye; all of the green leaves immediately changed course and floated over to the angel instead.


-:-DeeDee (Delia)/Bonk OR DeeDee (Deidre)/Scab-:-
I abhor the brutality of all brutes, white or black, brown or red. I despise red knaves and pink fools.
-Vladimir Nabokov.


Sleepy Hollow (Burton Version) Crossover-:-

The head on his shoulders felt like the rest of him had felt exactly when he had first been called out from hell and then tore himself out of the shallow grave he'd been interned within the moment he had been executed by British soldiers in the woods. It took a moment for his actual vision to clear—not the "vision" he'd been working with to fulfill his duties of cutting off heads to get back his, which mainly consisted of little snaps of the area around him in a blinding radiance of pale fire that must have been a resonance from his soul—after his dark coal eyes grew back and moved out the rocks and debris that had been embedded in the sockets for a decade or so. But when it did he was pleased to recognize the basic area of the Western Woods that he'd been killed in.

The only difference was that, twelve or so years ago, the last person—sans his executioners—he had seen was no longer wearing a moth chewed butterscotch colored dress and was now looking up at him with blue-green eyes only because she was laid out on the ground, rather than because she was six and had to look up because he was—pretty much—a giant.

The bald, now grinning, horseman smiled down at the little lady and decided, very quickly, that this was good. She didn't look too afraid of him, just like when she was a little girl and had broken the stick that had cost him his life (pitiful as that was), and now that she was mature and had two large bumps corseted wonderfully upon her chest, he didn't have to feel bad as he leaned down and picked her up none too gently.

Lolita (Either Book or Movie) Crossover-:-

Oddly enough, really, and much to the great shame wallowing in his soul like a bog—one of many—that he could not escape; the large man could not for the life of him feel bad about this relationship he was having with this little nymphet. He couldn't; she was too beautiful and so undemanding and oh god, did not even protest when she brought him into his own sexual desires to see if she could.

The blue-grey dove light slithered into their swank hotel room that they had spent the better part of the pitch night in doing things gently and quietly, but wonderfully all the same. She had been similar to a racing pigeon he had owned back in France for a time when he was teaching, only making a sort of cooing sound when he touched her chest with his monstrously large hands, or pet her yellow hair just so; whereas his bellow was often staunched the entire time by her little fingers of her dainty right hand just pressing against his lips while he was allowed to do whatever he wanted.

Keeping all feelings of waking her up so they could go to breakfast at bay—never mind that in the next hour they would be serving the complimentary blueberry muffins and fresh waffles with extremely rich goat or bovine milk—the thirty year old French Literature linguist (with a penchant for painting red-clad clowns with a single coned cap for a lark) continued to rest his head on his feather pillow and watch his blonde, fourteen year old nymphet sleep, his pointer and middle fingers tracing the little speckle traces of tan lines along her neck and collar bones, as well as the single suction mark he'd left on her breast.

Planet of the Apes (Burton Version) Crossover-:-

This was really humiliating. Delia meant it, really. Humiliation, actually, wasn't the greatest prospect of her evening, other than the absolute rage the human was feeling just in that hour alone.

Really, as leader of her band of wild humans that lived on the fringes of Gotham and had evaded the apes of the city for seven years, it was more than she could take that Delia had been caught, costumed and given as gift by that slimy, egg sucking silverback Price to an albino lieutenant of the royal guard. There wasn't even some family he had for her to serve during the day; it was just him, Bonk.

Not much she could do about it, though. All she wore was a leather collar with silver tags inscribed with his name in case she ran off; something she wouldn't have much chance of doing as he only came home after the sun set and locked the one door in or out of his tree bound home.

Sitting before the fire, sitting in a meditative pose she had learned to channel all of her less scrupulous anger into something useful, Delia suppressed the urge to get up and tackle or kill as the front door opened with the clanging of many keys and in walked the albino ape that she had been given to.

Bonk looked a bit more sore than usual, and she grinned at the limp of his left leg, but, seeing as she wouldn't eat if she didn't please him, assumed the submissive—revolting—position of standing tall as a tree, with her arms wrapped around her stomach as if to comfort herself and her eyes and head directed to the ground.

"At ease, human," Bonk ordered, limping over to the fire to sit exactly where she had just been, his injured leg folding under him as he sat down, absorbing the heat not just from the flames, but from her body hear that had soaked into the carpet.

"Is there something I can do for you tonight," Delia questioned, absently grinding her teeth as she stalked up behind him to stop at his side, "Master Bonk?"

What stupid names the apes had.

Without much preamble and just with the barest amount of force in a pull with his hairy paw around her thin wrist, Bonk pulled her down and she found herself in his lap; her unclothed bottom landed against his reproductive appendage, which, to say the least, was a little…to solid for her liking.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding," Delia groaned, unhappy, but on the wrong end of red in the face as his arms entwined around her middle and her chest, his face revealing amusement at her impertinence.

The Fox and the Hound Crossover-:-

The sleek, oddly pleasant looking barn owl of the forest glen slowly descended from the sky, wings outstretched and poised to come in for a landing. And land she did, though with a little clumsiness, onto the branch of an oak tree that held no grass growing under it on account of the ground being worn out over the years by a shaggy looking mutt presently chained to a peg, sleeping inside a wine barrel that served as its dog house.

Curious and eager to start their daily bickering—after all, she had news today—Deidre the barn owl (the sassy, obnoxious barn owl) carefully skittered to the edge of her branch and, swaying back and forth, shook the wooden bough so that the leaves growing from their feathery twigs along the branch disengaged from their places and fluttered downward. Some of the leaves landed on the dog's neck, some on his paws, and finally along his snout, which is what woke him up with a bristle and a bark, no doubt the residue of some dream where he was on the scent of foxes flying for their lives.

"Where is it! I'll get it this time, I will—"

"Oh, knock that off, Scab," Deidre cooed, picking at one of her feathers along her wing, "You've never caught a fox in your life and as long as I can help it, you never will."

"Why, you little pigeon," Scab growled, hair along his neck rising as he stretched out of his barrel to stand just underneath her branch; just far enough away from the bird that, if he chose, he could jump up and snatch at her with powerful, chipped jaws, "What do you want? Master Bonk will be out soon, and everyone knows that he's been looking to make you into a taxidermist's next challenge."

The owl flapped her wings twice and more leaves fluttered into the hunting dog's face, much to his chagrin and her supreme amusement, "Widow Delia would never allow that. I catch all of those nasty field mice that try and gobble up the grain in her barn, after all. Your Bonk wouldn't want her shrieking in his ear, now would he?"

Scab snorted and sat down; the fleas along his right ear needed to be gotten rid of.