#IF I DO FIX IT it will be on ao3

[finleycannotdraw]

we need all types of art in fandoms

[kittykatninja321]

You can talk about what you wished had happened, or what you think should’ve happened, but when it comes to what actually happened, Jason is not the prodigal son, Bruce did not slaughter a fatted calf for his return!

[percki]

on my knees

tags: 18+, mature content, MDNI, Gale x reader, f!Tav, 2nd person pronouns, act 3, semi-public sex, porn w/o plot, lap dance, explicit consent, bondage, restraints, dom/sub, switch Gale, oral sex (m! and f! receiving), lap sex, hand jobs, overstimulation, orgasm denial, praise kink

ao3 link

“Urgh.” Rolan stands up, wiping a smear of Lorroakan’s blood off the sleeve of his robes. “Your aasimar friend is… violent.”

“I’m so sorry for the mess, Rolan. We can clean everything up –” You glance around the upper level of the tower, at the holy fire, congealed mud, pasty mixture of water and ash, and a fair amount of blood. At the wizard’s broken body, his face swollen with bruises, his mouth agape, sprawled at the foot of his throne of books. “– Um, but it might take a while.”

Rolan waves one long-nailed hand in your direction, his discolored face grateful – if not a bit exasperated. “Don’t worry about it, my friend. You have already done so much for me – consider my debt forgiven, and all will be well.” You smile at that, watching the tiefling wizard grunt with exertion as he hauls Lorroakan’s body towards the portal. “And, erm – help yourself to any treasures you come across, of course. I’ll be… downstairs…” He pushes the corpse through the shimmering portal, and sends you one last earnest, sharp-toothed smile over his shoulder. “...Burying a body.”

With that, Rolan pushes up the sleeves of his robes (sorcerer’s robes, trimmed in silver, unbefitting for a wizard, but they suit him well nonetheless) and steps through the portal, no doubt bracing himself to break the news to his new employees. ‘Hey, so remember those adventurers that just came in? They killed Lorroakan, violently, and I’m your boss now. Surprise!’ You’re sure the staff at Sorcerous Sundries have endured worse surprises; working for Lorroakan sounds akin to an eternity of torture in the Hells.

Aylin sheathes her sword and crosses over to you, removing her helmet. Her ash-blonde hair spills over her shoulders, and her gold-streaked face glistens with blood and sweat. “I shall be at your camp, if you have need of me,” she declares, and inclines her head in gratitude. “You fought well – as you have before. I remain thankful for your assistance.” Less wordy than usual – Lorroakan’s death must be weighing on her. You don’t blame her.

“Thank you, Dame Aylin,” you say, and bow in respect. She smiles at that, silver eyes gleaming.

“Ooh, wait!” Karlach runs up to you, her arms full of wine bottles – no doubt pilfered from Lorroakan’s hidden stash. The woman has a nose for alcohol – she could find a bottle of Baldur’s Grape blindfolded, disoriented, in the middle of a rainstorm. Shadowheart is close behind, a new cloak slung over her shoulders and a fair amount of gold filling her pockets. “We’ll probably go back to camp, too – Fringe and I have to try all this wine.”

“To make sure it isn’t poisoned,” Shadowheart adds, green eyes twinkling with humor. “You can handle yourselves without us, can’t you?”

You grin. “Save a bottle of Mermaid Whiskey for me.”

“Blech. You can have it all.” Karlach sticks out her split tongue, her smile wide. “See ya!” She bolts through the portal head-first: dangerous, with the amount of alcohol in her arms and the fiery infernal engine in her chest. You hear a distant crash, and wince.

Shadowheart follows close behind, calling, “Save the Tyche Pink!”

You hear the rush of wings and look over – Aylin is gone, too, a flash of silver in the clear blue sky. You watch her fly, the wind buffeting her white wings – deva-like, altogether unnatural, inhuman, beautiful in an untouchable, deadly, frightening way – as she soars. The sunlight seems to collect around her, like a remnant of her celestial mother’s power lingers, still, even after the heat and rage of battle is done.

“And then there were two.”

Gale’s voice snaps you out of your reverie. You look up, meeting his eyes. Dark brown, deep, gentle, shining with a light all too familiar. He’s standing by the throne of books, his right hand resting on a copy of Folktales of Faerún: The Angelic Aasimar. 

You kneel over the ashes of the water myrmidon, sifting through the remains for treasure. Nothing. “I suppose Rolan will take a while…” You look around the tower once more, keen eyes picking out chests, display cases, bookshelves – anything that could hide a nice new set of robes for Gale, or a dagger for Astarion, or perhaps some armor for Wyll… “Will you cast Feather Fall? I want to look on the lower levels…” You trail off, reading something in Gale’s eyes. His fingers flex on the spine of the book, his shoulders thrown back, his lilac robes fitting his form well. Is he… posing? You smile and straighten, dusting ash off your sleeves, and move to his side, twining your left arm with his right, leaning comfortably against his side. “The Annals are in the vaults,” you say, knowing his primary objective here, halfheartedly attempting to lift his spirits. Thoughts of the Crown are dangerous – you have seen how easily the lure of power can corrupt, a thousand times (with Kagha in the Emerald Grove, with Minthara at the goblin camp, with Ketheric and Gortash and now Lorroakan). But despite your reservations, you know his ambition fuels him, that it drives his fire, that thoughts of greatness and respect do raise his spirits. “We could go down ourselves…”

Gale turns into you, resting his forehead on your shoulder, his beard scratching at your neck. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, and sighs deeply, inhaling your scent – blood and smoke and sweat, and the faintest hints of his cologne lingering on your skin. “I… Not yet,” he says vaguely, and kisses your neck again, deeper this time. Your breath hitches as he trails long, searing kisses up your neck, along the line of your jaw, leading up to your lips.

“Gale…” You whisper, voice low. “I –” He nips at your bottom lip, smiling against your chin, and you can feel your face heat up. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he says devilishly, oak eyes sparkling, looking up at you through thick, dark lashes. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and you can feel the vibration of his voice against your skin, sending a chill down your spine. “I can’t believe…” He blinks, as if waking from a dream, and cradles your jaw with his hand, straightening to his full height.

You kiss him, this time, tasting blood on his lips, and you stop, examining his face carefully. A bruise is forming at the bridge of his nose, blood tracing a path down the apex of his lips to his chin. You frown, brow creasing in worry. “You’re hurt.”

“Hm?” Gale touches his face gingerly, delicate, careful fingers prodding the quickly-purpling skin. “Oh. Yes. That. It’s quite alright –”

“It’s not alright,” you reply. “Let me heal you.” You take his shoulders in your hands and guide him into a seated position on Lorroakan’s throne, his back reclined against a collection of Ramazith’s annotated tomes. You kneel before him, positioning yourself between his legs, and summon a simple healing incantation, your hand hovering over his nose, the blue glow of the spell reflected in his eyes. “Te curo,” you murmur, and watch as his skin knits itself together, blood drying, swelling fading, the bruise vanishing beneath your fingers. “Better?”

“Better,” he admits, and looks at you with intent in his eyes, his gaze dark and focused on your features. “My love,” he starts, then hesitates. His face turns a delicious shade of pink.

“Yes?” You lean forward, hanging onto his words. He adjusts his legs, his thighs bracketing your shoulders, and you feel the slightest thrill at your compromising position, you in your armor and him in his robes, you kneeling before him like a supplicant at an altar.

“Rolan may not return for some time,” Gale says. “We could…” He stops again, biting his lip.

You guess his meaning immediately – your thoughts are remarkably in-tune. You can’t deny that you hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t wished for… Well. For Gale. Your peaceful nights since arriving in the Lower City have been few and far between, interrupted as they are: by vampires, by nightmares, by Orin’s ministrations. It’s been some time since you and Gale had time to yourselves.

And now, it seems, you have all the time in the world.

“Do you want to?” You question, and his eyes darken, his pupils expanding infinitesimally. You lean forward, cupping his cock with your hand, and smile to feel him already half-hard beneath your touch.

“I – yes,” he breathes, and raises his hand to cast Mage Hand, the incantation on his lips, when you catch him by the wrist, holding him still.

“No magic,” you say breathlessly, and straighten back up to your full height, smiling down at him. “As mortals do, remember?”

Gale watches you intently as you undo the first few buckles of your armor, leather slipping between your fingers. He sits up, reaching out his hands to help –

And you push him back.

“Don’t move,” you warn him, and plant one hand securely on his chest, holding him in place, as you draw a piece of silken fabric out of your pack. You hold it up for him to see, and upon realizing your intention, his eyes widen, pupils expanding impossibly wide. “Do you want this?” You ask, and he confirms with a nod of his head. You narrow your eyes and lean in, your face centimeters away from his, your breath ghosting on his lips. “Say it, please, love.”

He swallows thickly, eyes locked on yours, and says, his voice a rumble in his chest, “I want you to tie me up.”

You smile, and reward him with a bruising, biting kiss. “Good boy,” you murmur, and relish the way his face reddens, his jaw going slightly slack at the praise. “Lean forward for me?” He acquiesces, already holding his hands behind his back, and you climb up into his lap to twine the silk around his wrists, your touch featherlight and gentle. You test the knot, and smile. Not too tight – but he certainly won’t get any ideas about spellcasting. “Does that feel okay?”

“Yes,” he says into your shoulder, his voice muffled by the layers of your armor. You stand back up and step completely out of your clothes, metal buckles and buttons clinking as your many layers fall to the floor, and then you stand before Gale in your undergarments, your skin rising with goosebumps from the cool air, his eyes roving a path up and down your figure.

You feel a little warm from the intensity of his gaze, but you steel your nerves and continue. You reach out with your senses, using the knowledge of the Weave that Gale taught you of so long ago, and you can feel a soft tinkling at the edge of your perception, the distant sound of music, and you pull it towards you. In one of the pleasure dens far below, a slow, sensual number starts up, and you filter the sound through the available space, filling the tower with music.

Gale’s lips part as he realizes your plan. “Love,” he starts, “I haven’t –”

You feel a twinge of self-doubt, standing there near-nude before a man who is completely clothed. You have no experience with this whatsoever – apart from what you have read and seen – and you’re not sure that Gale loves you enough to forgive you if you make a total ass of yourself. “This is okay, right?” You rush to ask, holding your hands out for his before realizing that he’s still tied. You tuck them behind your back, straightening your posture. “Um – I know this is probably unusual, but, you know, in the Quarta Sune –”

Gale grins, his dimples making a rare appearance, and the sight of it pulls at your heartstrings. “You are perfect,” he promises, lifting his dark eyes up to your face. “This is perfect. Please, keep going.”

The slight rasp of his voice goes straight to your core, and you step forward before you’re entirely conscious of your movements, looping your arms around his neck and kissing him deeply. He leans into you with a groan, and you can feel his shoulders move, his hands resisting the bindings, and you pull back. “No touching,” you say softly, “right? This is about you.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh, his expression adorably resentful, and you laugh and kiss the bridge of his nose.

“Later,” you promise, and with that, you stand up, and turn away from him, facing the windows, the setting sun illuminating your skin. The music restarts, strings amping up, and you sway your hips to the tune, letting instinct take over. One, two, three, you breathe, feeling the rhythm run through you, and as the music crescendos, you drop down onto Gale’s lap, your ass just brushing over his thighs, hoping your undulating body looks sensual rather than spasmodic, and your efforts are rewarded with a delicious, blinding groan from behind you. You turn back around to face him – one, two, three – and lean in close, your scent intoxicating, his body warming your skin, and bracket his legs with your knees, one hand carding through his hair and the other slowly unbuttoning his robes, your knuckles barely brushing the velvet-soft hair on his chest. You slide your hands down the planes of his torso, and then, just as he’s leaning forward, again, anticipating your lips on his –

You step back again, turning, lifting your hands over your head and letting your hair down, smiling to yourself as you peek over your shoulder at his exasperated face. One, two, three. You let your ass ghost over his lap again, closer this time, holding there for a few moments longer than he considers tolerable, and just as his patience goes and his hips buck, you return to your starting position, looking down at him chidingly.

“Please,” he whispers, and you raise your brows, your hands going to the clasp of your bra. He watches, rapt, as you slide the fabric off your breasts and let it fall to the ground atop your discarded armor, your nipples peaking in the cool air. You repeat the motion with your panties, and you’re sure Gale catches sight of the soaked fabric as you toss it aside: his face turns a flattering shade of crimson, his arms straining against his silken ropes.

“How can I deny you?” You say, and with smooth, uninterrupted movements, you slide onto his lap, rocking your hips back and forth, tantalizingly slow, atop him. His robes slip open completely, and you can feel his cock straining against the fabric of his undergarments, barely brushing against the skin of your thighs. Your hands roam along the skin of his chest, thumbs swirling careful circles in the dips of his collarbone and shoulders, your palms warm against his skin. “You’re doing so well,” you praise him, and lean forward to kiss along the line of his clavicle, then slowly up his neck, sucking hard enough to bruise, tasting his sandalwood cologne, his soapy shaving cream, the sweat and salt lingering there, your tongue pulsing against his jaw. “So good for me,” you continue, running your hands through his hair, “you’re perfect, Gale.”

And then, surprising him, you slide off his lap and drop to your knees, slotting your body perfectly in between his legs, and in one swift motion, you free his aching cock from his undergarments and lean forward once more, fitting your lips around the head.

“O-oh,” he moans, straining to keep still as you take him deeper, your hands tracing patterns on the skin of his thighs, reaching up to his hips, your nails scratching lightly, and then, as you adjust yourself and push him back so as to get more leverage, you wrap one hand around his shaft and devote the other one to palm gently at his balls, still a touch too gentle. “Mmm – more,” he sighs, and you obey, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock and then fitting it back in your mouth, deep enough to brush the back of your throat, pre-cum salty on your tongue. You hollow your cheeks, looking up at him through lowered lashes, and his mouth falls open, releasing the most pleasurable moans and groans, sighs and mewls slipping between his lips, chanted noises that may be words – you catch the sound of your name, and please, and yes, in the chorus of sounds that escape his chest, rising and falling in octave with every swipe of your tongue and bob of your head. “P-please,” he says again, “please, let me –”

You guess his meaning, and reach behind him; the movement sending his cock to the very back of your throat, and his back arches in pleasure; and pull the strings of his bindings, untying his hands. The moment he’s free, he takes your head in his hands, cradling your jaw, and lets his fingers twine in the strands of your hair as you suck with renewed eagerness, sliding back nearly completely only to take him in fully again, the feel of his cock in your mouth dizzying, intoxicating, sending white-hot shivers through your body –

You glance down, and through the haze of pleasure, through the shadows of sunset, through the sweat and slick on your body, you see a flash of blue cupping your cunt, and you can suddenly feel the gentle, not-quite-there brush of the Mage Hand’s fingers against your clit. You war between pleasure and indignation for a moment – and indignation wins. You pull back, Gale’s weeping cock inches away from your mouth but still suspended in midair, and he huffs, putting his hands over his eyes, his pleasure cut short just on the path to climax. “Why did you –”

“No magic,” you repeat, and you can feel the Mage Hand dissolve. Gale peeks out from through his fingers, caught, and not the least bit ashamed. “Do I need to tie you up again? Completely, this time?”

“I –” His cock twitches, beads of precum leaking from the tip, stunning the both of you into silence.

You let a devilish grin slide across your face. “Oh. You want me to tie you up, love? Top to tip, completely trussed up for me?” You pull away from him and reach in your pack for more ribbon. “Red or purple, my sweet?”

Gale manages an arrogant smile, his face still flushed red. “Purple, of course.”

“Good choice,” you grin, and stand, running the ribbons through your hands reverently. “This will only take a minute,” you promise. “Why don’t you take those bothersome clothes off before I get started?”

He does, and you let your eyes run over his figure appreciatively for a minute before going to work. Hands on the ‘arms’ of the throne, the ribbon secured around a stack of encyclopedias. His legs against the respective ‘legs’ of the throne, straining slightly against his bonds. You stand before him, and he angles his hips up slightly, his eyes pleading.

“So cooperative,” you murmur, running your hands gently up his thighs. “So patient. So good.” You lift your hand to your mouth and spit on your fingers, holding eye contact, and he breathes shakily as you wrap your hand around his cock, leaning forward, mouthing kisses along his neck and collarbone. You start slowly, tantalizingly, pumping your hand along his length with a careful, measured speed that makes Gale’s breath hitch in his throat.

“Please – more,” he moans, his lips chasing yours. “Faster.”

You acquiesce, moving quicker, twisting your wrist the way you know that he likes. His breaths come faster, too, a mindless stream of yes and please and more coupled with your name falling from his mouth. You kiss him with bruising intensity, feeling his cock twitch in your fingers, his body straining against his bonds.

He comes with a muffled yell, his eyes rolling completely back in his head, and you kiss him fiercely as his come paints your stomach and thighs where you sit atop him. “Please – gods – please, untie me, let me –”

You smile against his lips and loosen the ribbons, yelping when his arms encircle you with surprising strength, lifting you up by your thighs and laying you out on the tile floor of the tower, the ground cold on your skin, your head canted back as Gale trails kisses down your thighs. “Ah – Gale,” you sigh as his fingers whisper up the inside of your legs, your skin rising with goosebumps. “I can’t –” You try to lift your head, to see where he is and what he’s doing, but your neck won’t cooperate. “What –”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Gale murmurs into your thigh, his hand lifting your leg to his lips, his beard tickling your skin pleasantly. “There’s only so long I can go without magic, my love. I thought –” Here, his tongue slides up to your cunt, tracing around your lips gently, and you moan, your boneless body arching in pleasure. “I thought you might enjoy feeling how I felt. Constrained. At my mercy.” His tongue winds a circle around your clit, and your breaths come faster, your thighs shaking madly. “Do you?”

“Do I – ah – what?”

“Enjoy it,” Gale says into your cunt, and the vibration makes you shudder.

“I – yes, I – please, I want to touch you, I want to –”

“Mmm,” Gale hums, his tongue working careful, restrained circles around your clit, dipping down to taste your slick. “Not yet.”

It’s been less than two minutes, and you’re already shaking, riding high, your eyes unfocused, as Gale takes you apart with his tongue. The painted constellations of the ceiling dance in and out of focus, and your moans echo around the circular tower, a mix of yes and please and Gale falling from your mouth, a reminder of the way you coaxed Gale’s orgasm from him with delicate fingers not five minutes before. “Gale, I – oh, gods, I can’t – please, I want to see you, I –”

The spell breaks, and you lift your head to see Gale’s face completely buried in your cunt, his sweaty hair spread out on your thighs, his eyes closed in ecstasy, and the image is enough to send you over the edge, a scream in your throat, your legs shaking wildly as you come, Gale’s tongue still working at you gently, until the sensation is too much and you kick him softly, signaling get off me, because your vocal cords aren’t working at the moment.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says, and crawls up to kiss you, and you taste yourself on his tongue, salty-sweet and heady. “But we should probably go before Rolan comes back. I suspect we won’t have an opportunity to take advantage of his hospitality again.”

“Gale…” You wind your arms around his neck and kiss him deeply, your eyes fluttering shut. “You might have to Dimension Door us out of here. I don’t think my legs will move.”

“I’ll carry you,” he smiles, and helping you stand, he laces his robes back up and aids you in buckling your armor. “Now come. There’s a bath at the Elfsong that’s calling my name.”

You sigh softly, leaning your head into his shoulder, and watch dreamily as he conjures the portal. “Wait – what about the Annals?”

“Oh.” Gale looks down at the lower levels of the tower. “I suppose we’ll have to come back tomorrow.” He looks almost downcast, but then the expression fades, and he’s just Gale again, smiling at you. “Let’s go.”

[applebuttercringe]

How I hop onto Ao3 after every act of Arcane. Save me fix it fics!

[phoenixcatch7]

Loz fandom stop being angsty and give the daydreaming kids on big fun adventures with a cool glowing sword some actual whimsy and joy challenge

[sophsicle]

I AM A GROWN ADULT

[carlyraejepsans]

Halfway to the sofa, they stopped, making a small sound like a grumble of annoyance. For a second, the red glow in their eye grew faint. "Sleep," they rasped out in a low, halting whisper, "I saved you an ache in the neck." It took him a second to register that the kid wasn't talking to him. Mostly 'cause Frisk didn't speak. To him. Or ever.

Sans wakes up late into the night and sees something he shouldn't have.

[boy-of-death]

Arcane season 2 finale spoilers

Omg it was beautiful I loved it.

I don’t believe that jinx is dead based on the top of her bomb that Caitlyn is holding and the blue print of the hex gates where you can see escape routes. Also in the first episode she see an airship and say that one day she’s gonna ride in one of those and then at the end we see one !!!!

I’m not sure I understood everything about the ending and Viktor giving the rune to Jayce but it was incredible. And don’t even talk to me about them dying together!

Deep in me I wanted them to kiss but them holding onto one another and touching forehead while smiling was also great. Their bond was definitely more than friendship and they clearly loved each other but I think their love at this moment was so big that them kissing couldn’t even express how deeply the loved each other.

They loved each other so much they decide to die together.

And for fuck’s sake « partner »!? There’s nothing straight about this and I will die on this hill.

Fanfiction writers you better write those season 2 fix-it quickly, my sanity depends on it.

Jayce defenders were right in the end and this show is not beating the « gays always have a tragic ending » allegations anytime soon.

Not the biggest fan of ekko and powder together but them dancing was cute and the stromae’s song hit hard and I did cry.

To summarize: I loved it, the songs slapped, the tears are not going to dry anytime soon and I want jayvik to live happily ever after.

[burntblueberrywaffles]

The "yeah this ship is pretty bad and toxic in canon, but idk, it’s nice to take about what could’ve been in a fix-it universe :/" to "clawing at the walls, reading the most deranged fanfic ao3 has to offer" pipeline

[deadtiredghost]

my 07 series as abstract memes:

[mycherrycola]

to be honest I want to write Dante and Virgil fanfiction. Nothing good can come from this I fear

[letgraysonsheart]

if anyone wants some WIP from after bruce fired dick, and dicks first talk with tim and then jason, then have at it <3 theres a lot of dialogue but when isnt it when im the one writing? also no grammar has been checked cause again, its wip and i hate grammar

Tim and Dick, afterwards

Dick’s supposed to be getting ready for bed. Quali is tomorrow, and he never does well if he hasn’t gotten enough hours. Still, he’s awake. Waiting for Tim to come over. His younger brother had texted him, asked if it was okay and Dick didn’t have it in his heart to say no. 

He knows what Tim wants to talk about, wants to air out. 

There’s a swift knock on the door, making Dick jump up and he doesn’t even bother to check if it actually is Tim before he opens.

“Hey,” his brother says slowly, a determined look on his face, staring straight into Dick’s eyes. Tim isn’t one to back down from the hard conversations.

“Hey,” he mimics, stepping aside to let Tim into his room.

They both settle down, him in the one chair in his room and Tim on the bed.

“I’m sorry I avoided you today. That I didn’t tell you straight away, when I knew,” Tim says, not one to beat around the bush, at least not with Dick. Honesty has always been important between them. “I just.. Bruce wanted to talk to you first himself, he said. Don’t know why I listened.” 

Dick sighs, combing a hand through his greasy hair. 

“It’s okay,” Dick replies. “I don’t blame you for listening to what Bruce told you.”

Tim nods, seemingly content, and lays down on the bed, feet dangling off of it. 

“I can’t believe he did it, though,” Tim tells the roof. 

“I can,” Dick admits, “I don’t understand how I still manage to be surprised. I should’ve seen this coming.” He feels a little bad for unloading a little onto Tim, but his little brother came to his room to talk about it so really he kind of asked for it. 

Also Dick’s had a really fucking bad day. 

“How could you?” Tim argues, sitting up again, looking with fiery eyes at Dick. It’s nice, knowing that Tim is on his side, even if a small part of him is screaming at him to intervene before Tim’s relationship with Bruce takes a hard hit too. “He didn’t inform you. Led you on. Didn’t even tell you he was speaking with Jason.” Tim almost spits out Jason’s name.

Bruce is really gonna have an interesting time next year with Tim and Jason. There’s a small angry voice inside of him yelling that it serves Bruce right. 

“I should know the game by now,” Dick argues. “I’ve been at it long enough.”

Suddenly Tim jumps out, bursting with a new anger that Dick can’t understand.

“Why do you keep defending him?” he yells, and Dick starts worrying about their neighbors. “You keep arguing that what he did is right! He was wrong,” Tim steps closer. “He did it all wrong, and you’ve just forgiven him!”

That makes Dick stand too. He steps close to Tim, keeps his voice low.

“I have not forgiven him,” he hisses, before calming his voice to more of a whisper. “But this is what Bruce does.” 

Tim deflates, his shoulder sag, and he looks so young it tears at Dick’s heart. “But he’s not supposed to. He’s supposed to handle it better. He’s supposed to be our dad.” 

Dick shakes his head, draws Tim close, suddenly understanding more of Tim’s anger.

“He’s still your dad, Timmy,” he whispers into Tim’s hair. Then he pulls out of the hug, grabs Tim by the shoulders, looks him straight in the eye.

“He won’t treat you this way. I’ll make sure of it,” he promises, even if he’s unsure how he’ll ever hold it.

“But he did it to you,” Tim argues, furrowing his brows. “And you never deserved it.”

“I appreciate it Tim, but me and Bruce..,” Dick sighs, unable to find the words to describe it. “It’s just different.” 

Tim bites his lip, doens’t look happy with Dick’s explanation but thankfully he doesn’t argue either. Dick doesn’t know how he would explain it. Everything is so raw again now, so fresh, he hasn’t had time to work through it yet. 

“Maybe I should quit the team,” Tim says then, looking somewhere above Dick’s shoulder.

Dick shakes him a little, still having a grip on his shoulder.

“No Tim,” Dick states, “look at me,” he urges. Tim listens. His eyes are shining. 

“This is between me and Bruce,” Dick tells him. “Your dream shouldn’t suffer because of this mess Bruce has made of it. You deserve this seat so, so much. You are so good. You get the car, you’re kicking my ass. You’ll be kicking Jason’s old ass next year.”  

This time it’s Tim that initiates the hug. 

“It won’t be the same without you,” Tim whispers into his chest. 

Ah.

“I’ll still be your brother,” Dick promises, “that will never change.”

Tim nods, wiggles out of the hug and sits back down on the bed. They look at each other, he feels Tim’s eyes study him, looking for something Dick doesn’t know what is.

Tim has always been good at reading people, almost too good for his own good. Dick falls back down in his chair.

“You’re not taking the Lane seat, are you?” Tim asks, voice small.

Dick looks away, out the window. Unable to give Tim the straight answer he wants.

“I haven’t decided anything yet,” he answers, and knows that Tim won’t really believe it.

Tim is silent. 

“What about you and Jason?” Tim changes the subject. “I know you’ve been getting closer again.”

Dick shrugs, “that depends on Jason. I haven’t heard from him yet. I won’t go out looking, but if he wants to talk.. We’ll talk.”

He hears Tim sighs, and when he looks over his little brother is shaking his head.

“I don’t understand how you’re taking this so well,” Tim states.

Dick sighs. If only Tim knew. It’s just because he hasn’t placed all his feelings yet, everything is still just simmering uncontrollably under his skin. 

He also doesn't feel like laying it all out on Tim. He loves his little brother, but this is something bigger than he wants to put their brotherhood through. 

“We should go to bed,” Dick says, ending the conversation. “We still have lots of races left and we should be well-rested before quali tomorrow.” 

Saying that just makes him feel utterly tired.

Thankfully, Tim accepts that Dick doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. He gives Dick a quick hug, and it’s kind of awkward since Dick is sitting down, but still nice, and then he leaves with a soft “Goodnight,” that Dick reciprocates. 

Once the door closes behind Tim, Dick starts on his nightly routine. Brushing his teeth, washing his face, moisturizing, and slipping out of his clothes before getting under the covers.

With his head on the too fluffy hotel pillow, Dick figures he hasn’t felt this tired in years. Yet he suspects sleep won’t come easy at all.

Jason and Dick, afterwards

Dick didn’t intend on running into Jason. Actually, even though he admits that to exactly no one, he has been doing his damndest to not run into the Knights’ newest driver for the next season. 

But, as he paces through the hallway, and Jason at the same time emerges from Bruce’s office door, Dick knows he’s stepped in it. He tries to continue on, but he hears Jason softly call his name, and feels Jason’s hand around his elbow.

He turns just in time to catch Bruce’s eyes, inquisitive and worried, sitting in his office, before the door closes.

Before, he’d start the conversation, make a quick quip, maybe ask Jason if he’s scoping out his new office. Now, he’s silent. 

He reached out to Jason, when the boy had his comeback in F1, and Dick did all he could to mend their relationship. He even gave Jason advice on how to get out of the Cards, how to make a smooth transition to another team, when Jason first started talking about wanting to get out from under Japier and away from Ivy. 

It all came back to bite Dick in the ass.

So now, Jason can do the reaching. It’s only fair.

“Hey,” Jason says, wringing his hands, looking anywhere but at Dick.

It’s awkward. Dick basks in it, letting his brother look for the right words. 

“We were just.. You know,” Jason says. There’s another unnatural silence. Jason waits for Dick to fill the void, Dick assumes, to accept the olive branch just like that.

Well, he isn’t getting it.

“We were just talking about how to handle the media, and stuff,” Jason then says, probably when he realizes Dick isn’t willing to say anything yet. “Figuring out the easiest wa.”

“Ah,” Dick says, trying to keep his face natural. 

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” Jason states, face deadpan, and that’s more the boy Dick used to know. The temper flaring up. 

“I don’t know what you expected,” Dick answers, and wonders if Bruce is listening in on the other side of the door. If the man supposed to be their father is ready to leap in if things seem to go really south. 

Jason sighs, squeezes the bridge of his nose and breathes deeply. 

“Me neither,” his brother says then, and Dick is surprised by the calmness he is showing. “I guess.. I thought..”

“You thought what?” Dick questions, furrowing his brows at his brother. That Dick would take it with a smile? Accept being fired with grace and ride happily into the sunset? Stay around as an overbearing older brother? He doesn’t say anything out loud.

Let Jason find the right words for a change.

“I guess I just wanted to believe so badly Bruce would handle this in the right way,” Jason confesses, “that I tricked my brain into thinking you’d be fine with it.”

The right way? 

“You think there was a right way to deal with this?” Dick can’t help himself. “I’d be interested to hear what that would be. How you’d ever think I would be just fine with getting booted out of the team.”

Jason looks at him, tilts his head a little. “Like I said, I just wanted so badly to believe it. I guess I knew deep down that it wouldn’t be okay, but refused to see it.”

Dick huffs, shaking his head. He can’t believe he’s having this conversation with Jason. That he’s standing in the hallways of his team's offices, feeling like an outsider, while Jason stands there and can’t even hide how comfortable he is. 

“I’m not surprised Bruce did it this way,” Dick says, leaning his back against the wall, staring at the opposite. He can’t look at Jason right now, with what he’s about to say. “Or, I guess I was. But I shouldn’t have been. I should know better now, know that he doesn’t know how to deal with things like this as both a father and a boss.” He takes a deep breath, and knows his next words will hurt Jason.

He says them anyway.

“I just expected more of you. That’s the worst of it,” he dares himself to look at Jason, the fallen look in his little brother's face. “I thought we were past the whole fighting and unhealthy rivalry. That you would tell me, at least, as soon as you knew it was a possibility. That you would at least grant me that, even as you came for my seat.” 

Jason opens his mouth to reply, but now Dick’s poured gasoline on his own fire and he’s not done burning yet.

“I fucking helped you get out of your contract, getting both good legal and PR-people on your team. I listened to your complaints. Advised you about who you could trust in the paddock,” Dick heaves for breath in between sentences now. He tries to keep from yelling, but he’s unsure if he succeeds. “Even if you’ve been skyrocketing past me on track all season, I never once held it against you that you wanted to leave. I’ve done so much to help you, because you’re my brother and I wanted us to try and mend what was broken.”

He realizes that people are probably listening, besides Bruce. Maybe this will be all over the media tonight. They’re in the middle of a hallway, and it’s still work-time. 

Still, it’s oddly quiet. Maybe someone’s keeping the others away. 

“Dick,” Jason says, in a stupid soft caring voice, stepping closer and reaching out. Dick wrenches his arm away, steps back.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he hisses.

The door opens, the one to Bruce’s office, and Bruce steps out. Dick knew he’d be listening, waiting until he saw fit to step in.

“Boys,” Bruce says, “this isn’t the place to hash this out.”

Dick has to turn his back to them, and take three good old deep breaths, to calm down in seething anger. He feels it in every pore. It’s been a long time since he’s been this agitated. 

When he feels like he won’t hit the wall with his bare fist, he turns back and looks at Jason and Bruce. They’re standing side by side. They’ve always been the two most alike. Both their build and their colors.

The ugly angry monster inside himself curses himself for all the work he’s done to mend not only his own and Jason’s relationship, but also Bruce and Jasons. Do the two of them even know how many strings Dick has been pulling? How much damage control he’s had to do?

“I don’t want to fight anymore about this,” Dick states, having managed to put his anger away into a very little box that is about to blow up again from the slightest pressure. 

What is left is just.. Exhaustion. Shaky smoke from the smoldering fire. 

The two others are smart to keep their mouths shut. Maybe they do know him a little after all. 

“I also don’t know how we’ll move on from this,” Dick continues. “I’ll do as you decide, with the news. I’ll be professional. I’ll do my damn best out there on track, until the season is over.”

“But?” Jason asks, finally daring to speak again.

“But I need you two to give me time. And space. To figure out my feelings and thoughts and how I’ll handle this. You can’t come running to me, about other things than work, while I do that.”

“Dick, don’t you think that's a bit…,” Bruce starts, but Jason, bless his soul, recognizes that Dick can and will blow up again any second, and silences their father with a quick squeeze of his arm.  

“Okay,” Jason says.

“You guys decided to do this,” Dick reminds them, and even he wants to cringe at how dead his voice sounds. 

He looks at both of them, making sure to take his time and meet both their eyes.

“But you could’ve at least granted me the curiosity of being honest,” he states. 

He turns to leave, get the fuck out of there until work forces him back. Then he thinks about his conversation with Tim that night in the hotel and stops.

He turns fully to Bruce, letting all fake politeness fall from his face, and venom fills his voice. “If you ever pull any shit like this with Tim.. or any of the others..”

He lets the threat hang in the hair. 

Then he turns, and doesn’t grant anyone else as much as a look as he leaves the office.

honestly love my f1 au so much but dont know what to write for it next

[ghostieblr]

<- Part 2 | Untitled

When he decides enough is enough, he also realizes he has no clue how to fix this. Research has always been Stiles' forte, and Derek is, admittedly, not the best with the internet.

But he does have a penchant for reading.

Determined, he makes his way towards the vault below the high school, with a quick detour to Wendy's to get something to eat. There, he goes through the drive-through, and valiantly ignores the fact that Stiles' blue jeep is sitting in the parking lot, and that he can hear him flirting with the waitress. Instead, he quickly vanishes under the cover of the night, and finds himself near the high school in minutes.

Demons aren't common. They don't appear out of nowhere, they're summoned — in this case by a bunch of kids, supposedly — that much he knows. But the summoning ritual itself, what it is and how it's done, and why, is a mystery to him. Someone in this town has been dabbling in things they shouldn't have, and now he — Stiles — is paying the price.

The books in the vault are old and dusty, as well as disorganized. It takes him a while to pick up three books on demons, and he decides he'll start with these and come back tomorrow for more.

Once back at the loft, he tries his best to not look anywhere that would remind him of Stiles as he eats in record seconds and starts on his research. Except, there's Stiles' red hoodie on the back of one of the dining chairs; his copy of Percy Jackson on Derek's bedside table; his favorite flavor of chips on top of the kitchen counters.

He reads. He reads and reads, and barely anything talks about the aftereffects of a deal with a demon. All three books warn of the consequences, but don't elaborate. It's half information to him, but it's still half more than he had before reading them, so he sighs and lays his head against the couch, trying to think what he should do next.

What Will Stiles Do Next?

The morning has dawned, sunlight splashing across his face as he sits sprawled on his couch, and he is no closer to a solution than he was last night. Perhaps he could start with investigating the summoners — He did get the scent of the kids there in that clearing, but finding them with just that isn't going to be easy. But it's a start, and hell if he isn't going to do everything in his power to fix Stiles.

Except does Stiles actually need fixing? Sure, he's turned vicious towards Derek, but he sounded like himself when Derek heard him flirting with that waitress. Carefree and genuine, with his dorky jokes and cascading laughter.

He'll investigate for the sake of his own heart, but if it turns out this is better for Stiles', then he'll leave it be. Rest this case. He's used to the cruelty of the universe, so what's one more time? What's another loved one lost to the hands of fate?

Sighing, he makes his way towards his bed — where Stiles was only hours ago — and manages to fall asleep after some of turning and tossing.

It's only been a meager few hours when there's a loud pounding against the door, and he slips out of bed, in his sleeped-in henley and jeans, to a harried looking Lydia Martin.

She smells of panic, and she looks so too, but in a sort of way that's still impeccable. If a stranger looked at her, they'd think she's alright; it's because he knows her that he knows that something is wrong.

"What's wrong?" He asks her as she brisks past into his home, and she doesn't move to say anything until her purse has been put on the coffee table. Except, her eyes catch on the books he'd brought from the vault, and her mouth snaps shut in shock for a moment.

"You read those?" She asks instead of answering him.

"Yes."

"They're in Archaic Latin," she says, like she didn't think he'll ever have a cause to know them. The surprise of it tilts into anger as she continues, "You know what's wrong! How long have you known? What did Stiles do this time, Derek?"

He feels his insides go cold. "This is about Stiles."

"Yes! And you know what's going on with him. We need to fix it."

She says it matter-of-fact. Of course Derek would help when it comes to Stiles, wouldn't he?

"Why didn't you go to Scott?" He can smell multiple people on her, like she'd been out in a mall or something, and yet the most prominent smell remains. Of course it's Stiles' scent; Now that he's woken up enough for his senses to work properly, he can conclude that she met him recently. It's what, around twelve at the moment? He glances at the clock to confirm — it's been three hours since he went to sleep. "He'll be better equipped to handle this."

Lydia's eye twitches at the statement, like it's fucking stupid. "You have to be kidding me right now," she hisses. "Scott might be an Alpha, but he is no way Stiles'. Never has been. He has no clue how to take care of his pack, and definitely none about solving problems like the one we currently have, without Stiles whispering solutions in his ear. Which would be difficult at the moment, considering Stiles is the problem we currently have."

"If he can't help, why do you think I can?" He can't help anyone.

Lydia takes a few menacing steps forward, her heels clicking like bullets. She's tiny, but her presence is huge, and it takes him a conscious effort to not move backwards. "You," her voice is crisp, clear, crystal fucking steel, "are the only one who can."

He looks at her, the determination and the concern. She's Stiles' friend, and she has a right to protect him. It takes him by surprise that she's come to him to protect Stiles, because who is he but the reason of Stiles' ruin? But she's also smart, and he'll follow her; the two of them have a common cause, after all, even if his stems from feelings he can't quite shake, and hers has grown from a mutual foundation of respect and genius that remains unmatched to anything Derek has ever seen before.

He asks, "What's the plan?" And, "What happened?"

Lydia's laugh is without any humor. "He was flirting," she says it with bewilderment, like it is unfathomable. "He was flirting with the cashier, the guy at the gas station, the damn librarian! And me."

The outburst breaks him as much as it perplexes him. "Lydia, he's a healthy 21 year old man."

Lydia doesn't seem to appreciate his honesty, and this time when she marches forward, he does take a step back. "Boys!" Her snarl is almost like a wolf's, a sound of frustration coming deep from her bones. "You are all so — Derek Hale, something is very, very wrong," she stops for a breath, and here, he intervenes.

"He is free from his shackles," he tells her. He's been thinking, in the little time he's been awake, and since he'd put the books down and not quite managed to sleep yet, that what had been missing in his interaction with Stiles since the deal was warmth. Affection.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, doesn't it? With the heat there, he'd always disregarded it as part of his illusions; demoted the looks of longing and care towards a box labeled "unworthy" in his brain. And now that warmth has been sucked out with the teeth of a literal demon, and all he's felt since then has been the cold reality. That perhaps Stiles had felt the same for him as he does for Stiles, but it's all gone now, taken.

He misses Stiles from before, but had he really deserved the devotion? Of having been worthy to be included in the most precious things that the demon took from Stiles?

Lydia's voice snaps him out of his thoughts. "Derek, what happened?" When he doesn't answer, head down, she repeats forcefully, "What the hell happened on that perimeter run?"

He looks up, and all he sees is a concerned friend. Perhaps the demon took more than just the warmth for Derek — maybe it burned away the roots of care itself.

"I'll tell you, after you tell me what happened exactly."

Lydia swears, says, "Talking with you is like going in fucking circles," and then, "He's vicious."

"I'm not for everybody," it's his turn to chuckle without humor, and then his to be startled into silence when he gets the reply:

"No, but you are for Stiles." She takes a moment to read his expression, hardly hidden behind a mask at the moment. "Christ, men are dumb. Derek Hale, Stiles has been in love with you for ages, and whatever happened to him yesterday has taken away a primal part of him. Whatever happened, it has changed him, to the point that the person who wouldn't even look towards another person, no matter how much his type, or how hot, has started to flirt with everything that moves and keeps commenting that he'll sleep with me even if it's stupid. That he's so over this town and its hold on him. And that there's nothing tying him to this town, nothing."

"He has his dad here."

"And he has us, his pack. You know, he told me last week he's planning on joining the BHPD while he earns another Bachelor's online after his current one?"

Derek's lips part in surprise. "He's planning to stay. Or he was."

"Exactly my point. So, how many times more do I have to ask —"

"He made a deal with a demon."

Lydia's breaths come out sharper at his admission. She moves back, gives them both space. Paces the floor of his loft, click-click-click.

He gives in, admits further, "During the perimeter run, we came across an abandoned clearing. From the smell of it some high school kids had been staying there, but something had happened there. There were all these things for a ritual, and when Stiles tried to investigate, a demon appeared. We tried asking it where are the kids, but it won't give a clear cut answer to us, and then it asked Stiles to give his most precious thing to him as a trade. I tried to protect him but I never do anything right, do I?"

"This is not the time for your self-loathing, schedule that later."

Always so cynically to-the-point. Derek scoffs, continues, "He did it, he agreed, and then came here. He couldn't stay upright and fell face-first on my bed, didn't wake up for a couple of hours, and when he did he was... vicious. Cruel. Cold."

Lydia picks up the book on the top, the last one he was reading. She motions for him to continue, and he takes a deep breath.

She's already told him Stiles loves him. Maybe that is true in the ways he wants it to be, or it isn't, but in Lydia's mind his delusions are true. And anyways, what is vulnerability in the name of saving Stiles?

"At first I figured it was just me. That whatever he had sacrificed only skewed his feelings for me, but now... I don't think so."

"So what are you thinking now?" She points to the book, now open to the middle, her face somewhere between plain and panicked. Closer to the Lydia he's used to. "This says the demons are like the Fae, they twist their words to benefit themselves. According to me, the most precious thing he has in this world are his feelings for you."

Derek makes a noise of disagreement. "Not me. His dad is the most — " Lydia looks at him sharply.

"Not the time for you to hate yourself," she repeats, "You are. Another possibility could be his affection."

He gets it. He's been thinking this, rather than her ludicrous idea of — of. "The demon took away his unending care for the people in his life."

Her eyes flick between the pages open in front of her and him. "Or both." She says at length. "We need to find those meddlesome kids."

"You sound like every villain in Scooby Doo," he says, and it strikes him as odd, that in the middle of all this, he's not thinking why did I say it? Instead he's stuck on Stiles would appreciate the joke.

"And you fucking wonder why you would be the person he cares for most," Lydia mutters under her breath, piling up all three books in her hand. "Come on, we need to get to work. I want to finish this today. What did the demon tell you?"

She's by the door before he takes a step towards the direction of it.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Didn't it make a fucking deal with Stiles?"

"It also promised none other of his kind would come to our town," he says, and smiles sardonically as they both descend the stairs. "Which means that thing is still here and will probably only tell things to Stiles."

"He's the one it made a deal with," she agrees, and pulls out her keys from her purse. Derek takes a seat on the passenger seat without any protests, but he dreads what Lydia says next. "So we need him."

He'd deduced that much.

"He's under its influence," she says, but it sounds more like a reminder than a statement. As if she's trying to reassure the both of them.

"Where would he be now?" Normally, Derek would be aware of it, because Stiles texts him these things. It's a question he hasn't had to ask in a long time in regards to Stiles.

"Hopefully, still at the mall where I left him without a ride." He gives her a look as she turns on the engine and pulls out of the parking lot of his building. "What? I couldn't stand him."

"And you both had some shopping plans."

"It was not a fun experience," she states. "Not how it usually is."

"Alright." He takes a pause, and decides if he really wants to say what he's going to next or not. He goes along with it, because really, what's the harm? And at least he'll get to tell it to Stiles later — hopefully. So he says, "Let's solve this mystery," and imagines Stiles' raucous laughter instead of Lydia's side-glare at it.

[the-barefoot-hatter]

hurt people hurt people so give me everything you've got

“Hiya Fordsy!” Bill smiled.

“Bill, what on earth are you-“

“Well, I didn’t want to spoil your surprise, but come in, come in, take a seat!” the triangle bubbled, pulling Ford to the chair. Bill gestured to the array of tools on the table proudly. “You know how things between us have been weird since-”

“-you lied to me, trapped me between worlds, tried to kill my family and destroy my dimension?” Ford interrupted.

Bill’s bright yellow glow flickered and dimmed before the showman rebounded. “…Nail on the head, Sixer! Haha, speaking of…” he said, picking up a hammer- comically oversized in Bill’s tiny fingers- from the table and pressed it gently into Ford’s hand.

“What.” Blood rushed in his ears. Bill was talking, of course he was still talking he never shut up, but he couldn’t hear it properly…

“-and, OK, it’s summer, but you can lock me in the freezer! I already checked I can fit the big chest AND the kitchen one if I scrunch up, dealer’s choice, buddy! And the tattoos ARE tricky but I found a chisel and a mini iron and a dremel in Shooting Star’s craft bag, so we can give it a shot, and I got the car battery and jumper cables ready too, so-”

“…Huh?” Ford said, tearing his eyes away from the hammer and focusing on the triangle again.

“So we’ll be even!” Bill said, clearly repeating himself, playing with a nail. “I figured we’d start with a classic and work our way down the list! Or, or we could jump around, or double up, it’s up to you really-“

Bill was nervous, Ford realized dimly, staring at him. He set the hammer down, pinching between his eyes tiredly. “Bill…”

“OH, I get it now, of course, so dumb of me!” Bill laughed, a little too loud, tapping the side of his own head with the hammer. “You want ME to do it!”

Ford blinked.

Bill smiled.

“What-“ Things were moving syrupy slow. “Bill, that’s not what I-”

WHAM

A shaken, pained gasp.

“I… ok, yeah, maybe didn’t think this through,” the triangle wheezed, fingers twitching. Bill hadn’t picked a nail the same proportion to his hand as Ford’s had been. No, he’d picked the same size. Possibly the same nail-

And he’d nailed it too hard, right into the wood of the table.

“Ha, a- a little help, Sixer?” Bill said, smile twitching on his strained face. “S-should’ve put a book down or something…”

The silver blood welling up finally snapped Ford to action. “Bill, of all the stupid, idiotic, moronic- what were you THINKING-“

“T-that’s one way to get you hold hands again?”

“Try again!” Ford snapped.

Bill was quiet for a long moment.

“I… I thought you’d like this. I really… isn’t this what you want?” the triangle asked pleadingly.

Revenge.

Pain.

Tit for tat.

Bill’s blood on his hands had been what he’d dreamed about for thirty years, and now it was happening, here, in his home, offered up freely. “… No,” Ford said, softly. “It’s… it’s really not.”

[ao3-tag-statistics]

Fix-it Fic Showdown

I got most of these by googling "TV shows with bad endings" lol, and also the biggest fandoms from searching the tag "Fix-it" on AO3.

[medi-bee]

we deserved to see more of them together