#fics .

[nagifics]

Ya sea que escribas para un fandom masivo o uno pequeño, hay cosas que necesitas sacarte del pecho. Escribir salvó mi alma, salva mi creatividad, y tal vez estás haciendo lo mismo por ese único lector silencioso a quien diste un buen momento. No dejes de escribir...

“why would you write fics for small, unpopular fandoms? you’re not gonna reach that many hits in fandoms not many people know about” ?? because I’m not writing fics for hits or kudos, I’m writing them for me because these characters are my blorbos and I have so many ideas, so much thoughts about them that my brain might explode if I don’t write them out.

[ladythornofrivia]

Mr. Targaryen Will See You Now || (PT. 2)

Modern!Aemond x Reader (four parts)

warnings: (for the future chapters): sex, oral sex, loss of virginity, squirting, stalking, obsession, manipulation, reader being clueless, but not totally innocent, blackmail, p in v sex, blood kink, knife kink, gun kink, handcuff kink, bdsm, masturbation, fingering, cum play, tease, mommy issues.

a/n: now you’ve all been waiting for! Part 2! this time, the reader will be as his soon-to-be secretary. i went to the studio for a photoshoot. i won’t say why, but i’ll be announcing it around next year. stay tune for part 3.

You were thinking about him.

His offer.

It was the night where the decision made you toss and turn into your bed. A one chance in a lifetime, something that will change your life and status for good. Getting a steady job meant a steady source of income and societal actions in the higher system that Aemond Targaryen is in. Meaning challengers. Rules and expectations are higher, something that you’re not easy to strive to change pace or comfort zone. It wasn’t your ideal.

The source of all things common and strivers, you weren’t exactly the type to flip the switch on exact moment. A steady job in a steady life is enough. But what Aemond’s offered you says it all.

Risky.

Practical.

Stability.

Peace for bank account.

A high life devoid of privacy and self-recollection. A highly paced environment will not stop their time for you. You’re a slow turtle.

Your friend teased about how Aemond went stuck in your head. It wasn’t fair, at all. It wasn’t like Aemond ambushed you to say yes, but told you to contemplate of his proposal. How his gleaming violet hues pierced into your soul, begging and demanding all at once. The duality was simple enough for you to understand what kind of man he is.

A perfectionist.

Fumbling your mechanical pencil over and over as you studied the notes on your papers, stack after stack, followed by several energy drinks and stained coffee cups all over a once tidy desk. Horrifying as it sounds, you wished for a proper solution for a distraction to settle down permanently. Your friend hasn’t teased you for days, thank god for that, but you needed a second opinion.

But you didn’t want to call your parents because you chose to sever ties with them, not that anyone needs to know the detail, so you tried improvising a solution other than your friend or anyone else you know. You searched on Google, typing:

“How to make a right decision when some hot guy offered you a high-salary job?”, “How to relax after getting offered a job by a hot CEO?” “How to relax and forget for today after days of thinking about the CEO’s offer?”, “How to sleep properly after trying to distract yourself for days after the amount of torturous hours of endless teasing from a friend and a flashback?”

So far no answer came, just the ones where people often complain on the blog on how bosses are viciously toxic, others posted recordings of the bosses that eventually got fired, both boss and ex-worker. Some co-workers fucked the CEO all the way to the top, and others disposed others by any means necessary in a way of safety net.

Your head was reeling with ache and burn, as if someone crushed your skull and penetrated to a point where the pulse tightened, ready to implode. Spine landed back of your office chair, your head thrown back, mouth parted open and tired eyes closed, needing cold air. The break you took was finding your usual posture slouching and limping, as if you were floating in water. Your arms and back were shivering, and it felt good.

You hated wearing a damn big sweater. You thrashed, screamed for a short second, arms stretched and flung, hair tossed and turned, scrunchie loosened up. Then you were still, back to a limp form on a chair, not sitting like a proper lady with legs spread.

Staring at the white ceiling, you grumbled, “I can’t take this anymore.”

Maybe I should relax for now…too much caffeinated drinks doesn’t serve me enough purpose to stay focus on my final exams. Maybe a hottest shower would do the trick and forget my exams for now. And for tomorrow. Get a massage, and be naked for the night.

Thus, you stood up and left.

The phone rang.

Inwardly groaning, you read the number on your screen.

Unknown.

Eh, I’ll call in for the night.

Clicked your phone to silence, and hopped in naked into the shower. Or a bath that will make you fall asleep naked until the morning.

~~~

The phone rang three days later.

You fell asleep, not being as productive, laziness can be good once in a while.

But who the hell would try to call you first thing in the morning without a fresh cup of matcha latte as a today’s starter?

Yawning and stretching your limbs, cracking your spine, you did the best of your ability to be awake in the system. Relaxing and—

Shit.

I have 30 missed calls!!!!!

Who the hell keeps calling me?

It freaked you out, so you blocked the unknown caller.

A small sense of relief escaped from your parched lips. Drank a bottle of cold water to unwind the coils on your belly and went for a warm shower.

Days after break, you returned to your studies—after a long process of washing and scrubbing the mugs, thrown trashes of empty cans by the kitchen, and wiped surfaces on your desk. As a slow perfectionist, like art, it takes perfection. Not a crease or stain to see in plain sight. For the whole morning, with amount of lavender spray in the bedroom and replacement of new bedsheets from your sweat stain, and carpet vacuumed, everything must feel light and right. According to the website, changing bedsheets for every week. Not two weeks or three. Bacteria infested god knows what, you hated the idea of being sick. Even when sick, you still clean, but your friend insisted she’ll do the chores done in an instant, but you knew that your friend is efficient in her job, but she’s no expert with chores.

Lavender scent carried off on a cold air, you slumped back on the desk, starting over with a writing assignment from one class, chugging on a matcha latte, your phone vibrated.

An unknown number.

Again.

This time, you answered.

What could possibly go wrong?

Miss (Y/N).

“Hello,” you said, pausing. “Who’s this?”

“Have you thought about my offer?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand—you must have the wrong number.”

“You are wasting the benefit of my time and success, Miss (Y/N).”

Your spit choked back. “Sir—Mr. Targaryen. Yes, hello! How may I assist you?”

“Have you come to an important decision?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m still studying for my exams. I haven’t been able to sleep properly for days. I…” you paused again, treading the words wisely. “This is something I can’t miss. I have to graduate.”

You heard him sigh.

“There are no excuses, Miss (Y/N). It’s now or never.”

This time, you sighed, foot tapping in an uneven beat, boisterous and clumsy.

“I’ll give you another day to reconsider. But if you don’t answer my call, I’ll pass this offer to someone who will be more sufficient and quick in my service than you’ll ever be. I don’t think you’ll have what it takes to be in my company.”

Your heart leapt.

You bent forward, suspense caving in. “Ah, no, that’s not what I meant, sir—”

“I don’t think so. Not with your late response. I like my staff members to be as punctual, strictly on time. I could only excuse this once to those who are abnormally late. Anyone who shows up with punctuality meant they’ve got what it takes to be more potential regarding to future promotions.”

“I—First of all, how did you get this number?”

“We’ll meet again tonight around 9. Don’t silence your phone.”

And hang up without a second thought.

“What a fucking jackass,” you stated, and with anger rising, you took out on the scrubbing and dusting off furniture.

~~~

Hours later, you anticipated for the phone call, since you’ve done all the studying and cleaning without a hassle on being cranky—not a person disrupted you since your friend went out the whole day to god knows what she’s doing. Results concluded that a proper, lazy rest for three days has been helpful to late cranky hours.

Plopping on a couch with blank television staring back at your tired posture, you weren’t in the mood to watch romance or comedy, especially those characters who are acting like jerks at the first part. Maybe as a kid, you hated bad boys, when as a teen, you loved—you’re a die hard fan of bad boys, thanks to young adult romance novels. But as a grown woman, you’re unsure, but it’s clear-cut that you hated men who carried themselves in their attitude like a dumb child that’s required to be babied.

One man-child after another. It makes you think you wanted a flamethrower to burn, and eating boxes of truffles and a Starbucks drink, watching a whole building collapse to ashes.

The back of your head thumped onto the couch pillows, counting one to ten, more like counting sheep, but you knew it was a bad idea, so you ate heavy chunks of strawberry ice cream on a white ceramic bowl, thinking whether you should do a pros and cons list.

Shit, I made a total embarrassment of myself to a hot young CEO. Even when he did tell me to reconsider his proposal, there’s no way in hell he’ll promote me. Not with the plans I have, not with my delays. He’ll shoved it down on my throat by making me watch another lady settling a high score at the office, and him smirking at my direction. I had a feeling he wants me to be part of his company, it’s weird how he’s the first person—the first CEO—to beg for my existence and be part of a rescue team on his prestigious company. Almost like he’s been ready his whole life. No other CEO would do this; every CEO would think of middle class people as nobodies or a pile of trash. How did he get my number? I wish I know.

Wait, did I just say “hot”?

The phone rang, in a familiar tune.

Nearly tossing the bowl behind you, you settled on the coffee table and picked up the call.

“Miss (Y/N)?”

“Sir.”

“Have you come to make a decision?”

Good money, good pay, and peace for the bank account.

“I have.”

“Well?”

“What time should I be there for work?”

“8 AM. You’ll begin working here around 9.”

“Done.”

“I knew you’ll give in. Eventually.”

“Huh, persistent much?”

“Persistence is a good quality in a man.”

“Right.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night’s rest.”

“Good night.”

You hang up and screamed into the nearest pillow you find.

~~~

Months later….

It’s been forever since you were welcome into the company by the CEO himself. Long story short, you got accepted, without a process of long interview and long wait for phone calls for a confirmation. Easy does it. New office, drinking cups of coffee by the fancy coffee machine and water dispenser and a fridge with ingredients and proper food—not a TV dinner. Most are healthy quality.

But it came with a cost.

You were now under training and supervision of your new boss, who won’t stop staring at you. Clearly he was still fuming of the last interactions he attempted through your phone, labeled as Unknown.

You understood why it was an unknown number. Privacy is a top priority for someone who is known in a local news article online and on social media. Most pictures on social media were focused on the other side of his family, the only time Aemond’s shown in the pictures was blurry.

The usual routine has routine, but one remained the same. You always tied your hair to an updo with a scrunchie.

Stacking and organizing the files and binders by name and number in order, after dusting off of his shelf and toss the useless files on a shredder machine. Whirring on the machine has gotten louder, but didn’t ease your anxiety from his ever watchful eyes. His nose somewhat flaring, and his hands kept opening and closing, attempting to stay tranquil by touching the fabric on his pants, sometimes the items on his large desk.

Aemond kept staring at you for as long as he could and you found yourself at a most vulnerable position. Everything was a mess, but thankfully all of his files are on his computer, including your laptop and Bluetooth headset and ergonomic pens, solely provided by the company, as you play fetch with the CEO, playing his do’s and don’t’s.

Day by day, each time you clocked into work mode, Aemond’s presence drew near. As if he was critiquing you through gaze.

“Why is Aemond staring at you? Have you done something to piss him off?” your co-worker asked.

“I had no clue. Is he always like this?”

“His face usually scowls to everyone, but he’s staring at you without blinking. Kinda freaks me out. Gives me the hibbie-jibbies.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you said in silence, knowing he has sharp ears he might fire you on the spot.

“Like he could hear us.”

“Shh! Would you keep it down!?”

“Anyway, I have to go. Oh, and, Mr. Targaryen wants to see you.”

The thing was, he always wanted to see you.

The past conversation went away as you tried to focus on the present.

Turning back again, and gathered the files Aemond needed for the next appointment. He didn’t need to go at the meeting. If he simply wanted to go, he would, but everything is convenient with advanced technology, online meetings have been a thing for today’s world. If he does want to show up at a mundane event, he would’ve done in a flash, and all eyes would be on him.

“Here are the papers that you requested, sir,” you uttered, low lashes fluttered towards him, hoping to release you from his sky-high office.

“This should be easy to handle with the indulgences of the client I’m working with. Awful man needs to be settled immediately.”

He flicked his wrist.

The screen on his computer brightened with an annoying tune. And deep, distorted voice on the other side of the screen.

You could only offer a short nod, not knowing what he meant. So you bowed and exited.

Finally free.

Without the dark hours, you were the only one left, aside from a janitor and couple security guards roaming the building to dismiss anyone who’s still resided at the office. The office hours are usually closed at 7:30 PM. But for this month, the boss’s notified the staff that they’re off around 5 PM. Aemond’s had been testing the work hours, based on New Zealand with a total of 6 hours of work instead of a regular 9-5. But not for the CEO.

There’s no rest for the wicked.

Finally, at the coffee lounge and a cafeteria, the last member of the cooking staff gave you two packs of cherry cheese danish and an empty cup for a caramelized coffee by the coffee machine standing nearby. You haven’t ate since the moment you stepped in at work. You were in the rush. Stomach twisted in pain now loosened from a good chunk of appetite stuffed into the mouth.

Sat by the ceramic bench, you hummed in delight, feeling like a warm hug, with a touch of caramelized coffee with cream powder. You haven’t had a good break since you were stuck in the room with him. A good coffee weighs the heaviness on your shoulders.

Suffocating.

With that, you emptied the food in your stomach and threw the cup and brown packets in the trash bin, and leaving the tray on top, striding forward to head back and grab your belongings and call it for tonight.

With a quiet office, all surrounded by sturdy walls and soundproof glass, you managed to relax, determined to go home.

The door shut in.

You turned and spotted Aemond locking the door.

“Sir,” you uttered, in question.

Without warning, he pinned you down on desk with a knife close to your face, the pointed end nearly touching your eye.

You screamed, but silenced you with a kiss.

Your first kiss.

“Don’t say a word,” he snarled.

And with the knife he held against your face, his hot breath tickled your face.

“You wouldn’t want to say a word to anyone, would you?”

Frightened, you shook your head. Laying still as if you’re trying to please him in a way to leave you alone.

He hadn’t inched away; knife on his hand slithered its tip across your skin, leaving your staggered, breath held captive, watching his blank and unsteady focus drinking it all in. The knife pinched your skin; Aemond slashed the black stockings in one swoop. Then, his knife went his way inside the ripped skirt he torn off, your pink thongs displayed before him.

You wanted to kick him, but he made sure to keep you still.

Rip!

The panties torn apart cleanly, your wet cunt displayed. It was a nightmare. Blush fell onto your cheeks as you watched him knelt down, still pinning you down, he licked your parted folds, lapped his warm tongue in three deep strokes.

By then, your cunt squirted shortly.

And he found it amusing.

“Be a good secretary,” he said, and plunged the hilt of the knife inside you.

Your moans escaped but Aemond kissed your lips, you could taste yourself in his lips, still in shock and denial that your lips could barely move.

Terror flooded within you; his hand bloodied as he inserted the knife’s hilt inside, urging your desperate, clinging cunt, growing warmer, tighter, coiled to a tight flex, oozing and flowing. You never had proper sex.

The knife has taken your virginity.

“Stop~” you uttered breath ragged breaths, nearly bucking your hips, cunt yearning.

Aemond denied, attempted to go faster, and the dark hilt of the knife pinched your walls right. The flush of hot squirt splashed on his uniform, even yours. Humiliating as it was, at least you’re somewhat thankful that it wasn’t his cock.

How long has he wanted this?

“Sir, please stop—”

“I will stop when I wanted to stop, Miss (Y/N). You’re going to love this. Whether you like it or not.” He unzipped his pants with one hand while his other pinned your hands above your head and stroke himself in front of your exhausted state. You couldn’t object anymore. His climax is about to reach, and his hot cum exploded, splashing everywhere on your skin. Even your face. His ragged breath overtook the silence, and left you defenseless. Letting your wrists go.

Everything was hot inside your private office.

“Fuck,” he moaned, eyes closed.

It felt right for him.

Seeing you all bruised and bloodied up. The hilt of the knife he held on his bloody hand—from the gripping the sharp end—it was a mix of your cum and blood, from tightening its grip.

Then he zipped his pants up, and left you cold on the table, saying, “Make sure no one sees you, Miss (Y/N). And if you mention this to anyone, I’ll kill you.”

His hand yanked the scrunchie out of your hair, some hair stands plucked, leaving your lips a soft yelp.

Then the door slammed shut.

Hollow. And emptiness.

Only your cries filled the stained and wrecked office, wondering how it went wrong, wondering how you can still breathe. The scars on your thigh wasn’t deep, but needs medicine and a clean shower, and a long rest. From there, you contemplate without hesitation. Your heart ached from shock and distress, a feeling where you wanted to throw up all the good food you ate earlier, but it was no use.

Perhaps you made a mistake on taking his offer.

~~~

As for Aemond, it was the first part of his plan. The red bruises on your wrist and absolution on your skin, laced in dark and wet crimson, from a torn underwear and stockings, the rush stirred in his veins and heart. And thus, more games he plans to pursue, seeing if you could withstand and beyond.

Somewhere in his head, the voice came in again. He wanted it to go away. The blood on his hand went cold, stinging from gripping the blade so tightly when he forced the hilt inside her warmth.

In the midst of stopping, he snapped his neck. In anger, he didn’t want to hear that voice again.

It’s about damn time he found a new toy to play with.

With a scrunchie he confiscated from you, yanked it away, as he went to the nearest elevator, reaching to his office, rushing to his chair to undo his pants once more and wrapped your scrunchy in several movements, until he became undone with his pleasure. He didn’t care of his staff coming in. But nobody entered. The staff went home and no one could hear Aemond’s throaty pleasure emanating.

The fainted smell of flowers on the scrunchy and his cum and blood from his injured right hand intertwined, as he sniffed it.

Divine and innocence.

Just the way he liked it.

reblogs/comments are greatly appreciated 🌹

Taglist: @kittendoll05 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @paninisstuff @angeljcca @marvelescvpe @heavenly1927 @snh96 @httpsmenace @screaming-potato @dixie-elocin @momowhoo @saturnssrings @dani5216 @galactict3a @fun-loving-peach @jmliebert @ilikechocolatemilkh @20thcentwriter @sepherinaspoppies @venmondiese @snowprincesa1 @lionneee @witchy-v1xen @1800-fight-me @fan-goddess @persephonerinyes @anukulee @maxshortformaxine @lcolumbia1988 @ilikemintpeassss-blog @hippiedippiekitty @bellaisasleep @barnes70stark @vipervixxen @f1girlieee @darylandbethfanforever9 @chaotic-fangirl-blog @chobab0wu @smokiwereee @pandemonium105 @summerposie @peculiarlyayse @wenris @blackswxnn @crymeariversworld @aemondswifeisme @katie-xoxo66 @heartagram-vv @wisemiraclesweets @zenka69

[felixbit]

holiday cheer

pairing: jeongin x gn!reader w. 1.1k genre: pure fluff summary: jeongin loves christmas, so he takes you on a snowy date into date and you put up some decorations together. a/n: sorry for my absence! have some fluff for the man who is currently entering my bias line

Jeongin always seemed happier around the holidays. He always had time off around the big dates, usually going home to spend it with his family. Since you'd gotten together, though, he'd been planning on staying in the city with you.

As it turned out, he was a lot more passionate about it than you first anticipated. Plans and reservations were being made a month in advance. Every time you brought it up, he would get this big, beaming smile on his face. He'd ramble about all of the things he wanted to do with you.

The passion in his voice was too cute. You could make an off-handed comment about the holidays and you'd already see his dimple lines. Yang Jeongin was very much a festive man.

The first plan you made together was getting a new tree. He wasn't a fan of getting a real tree, but would spend extra getting a high-quality tree with pretty lights. You had to physically pry him away from the ornaments.

The weather got colder by the day and you found yourself at home with Jeongin most of the time. You didn't mind at all, but it was clear that winter was coming in quick.

One day in particular you were met with heavy snowfall. You'd been out with Jeongin at the café when the weather picked up from a light dusting to heavy flakes. You were thankful that your boyfriend had insisted on bundling up, as the weather wasn't freezing enough to merit going home early.

"Although," Jeongin had said as you walked down the street, drinks in hand, "I wouldn't have let us go home anyways. I've got plans for this afternoon."

You looked at him curiously, intrigued. "Oh yeah? What are these plans you speak of?"

"A little late lunch reservation that might just so happen to be next to... a certain store. Maybe."

You sighed, looking at him incredulously. "You'll never give up until I let you absolutely splurge on Christmas decorations, is that it?"

"Maybe.."

"Let's just get it over with."

As the two of you walked towards the neighborhood the restaurant was in, he seemed to be extra cheery. He practically hopped with every step and you could see his big smile underneath the scarf.

The lunch was pleasant, but Jeongin was practically bursting from the seems ready to go. You made him stay for the full deal, getting a little extra food before you left so he remembered to eat later while spending hours decorating.

The second you had gotten into the store, he vanished from sight. You caught up with him to find him looking wide-eyed through the ornaments, a basket in hand already with a layer on the bottom of them.

He was parsing through a box of miscellaneous small decorative ornaments when you looked and found one of your own. A small fox, eyes closed with a little smile. Turning to him, you grinned. "It's you!"

Looking over as you showed off the ornament, his cheeks flushed slightly. "I think it just might be me," He said sheepishly, smiling as he placed the ornament in the basket, "I like it."

Once he had almost filled half of his basket with ornaments alone, you had to gently steer him away. He seemed hesitant, but with a little convincing he was drawn to the lights and other things to hang up on the walls. It was like a kid in a candy store.

It took a while, but he had finally filled the basket and was forced to call it quits. You were walking back to the register and couldn't believe just how many items he had picked out to put up around the place you shared.

"You've really outdone yourself," You confessed as he scanned through the ornaments at the self checkout line, "I didn't think you could fill the whole thing."

Jeongin looked up at you and smirked, shaking his head. "I could do it another few times, easily."

"Yeah, but you'd only ever put up one basket's worth of things."

"Shush."

You had made it back to your place and had to shimmy out of the layers of clothing from the cold. By the time you were finished and back in the living room, Jeongin was bright-eyed and on a stepladder hanging up lights.

"You work quick," You commented with a small laugh.

Jeongin looked down at you and shrugged, "The lights won't put themselves up. You want to start putting ornaments on the tree?"

You looked around and found the moderate-sized box of ornaments. Looking back at him, you nodded. "Yeah, but don't expect them to look perfect and spaced out, okay? You're the expert here."

"It's okay, if I have to move around a few I don't mind," Jeongin laughed as he strung the lights over a door frame, "Just try not to put everything on one side, okay?"

"I'm considering it."

"Hey! Please don't."

Ornaments weren't a hard job. You had gotten done putting up the ones you thought looked best. Maybe beauty was in the eye of the beholder, but your work looked good enough for your own standards.

You had disappeared into the kitchen to make some hot chocolate when you felt a pair of arms wrap around your waist. Jeongin's chin snuggled its way onto your shoulder.

"What's gotten you into such a lovey mood?" You asked as you poured the milk into his cup.

Jeongin hummed for a moment, taking in the scent of the chocolate. "I love this time of year, so... perfect. I get to be with you, too."

"Are you saying that to me because you're sappy or because you want your hot chocolate?"

"Would it be bad to say both?" Jeongin said with a laugh as he parted from you, taking the mug of hot cocoa into his hands. "But it really is a nice time of year."

"I like it," You took a sip, nodding at your own work appreciatively, "It feels cozy being able to spend so much time out of the cold. Especially if you have someone to keep you warm."

Jeongin smiled, taking a drink of his own. "It's my favorite."

"I know, from the amount of decorations everywhere. But I like that, too. It looks pretty and I get to see you smile a lot. What more can I ask for?"

Jeongin set his mug down on the counter and approached you, unable to wipe the smile from his lips. "I thought you might not really like my decorations."

"No," You pulled him into a hug, "I was just teasing you to get you excited to put them up. I really do like them."

"Really?"

"Really."

Jeongin beamed, grabbing his mug again and walking towards the exit of the kitchen, "Can we go watch some Christmas movies, then?"

With a contented sigh, you nodded. "Sounds great. Let's do it."

[gurokiitty]

YAAAY Y’RE IN JJK ERA NOW AM I RIGHT?!?!?! !! 🎀

(can i request any staff with geto plz? (literally my #1 man ever 🙏🏿🙏🏿))

a/n : yesss i ammm and i LOVE geto too <3<3 i'm finished my exams and i actually couldn't stop thinking abt getting high w/ him!!! hope you enjoy, rosé :3

ROTTEN APPLE

{ stoner! suguru geto x f! reader }

word count : 3135

warnings/tags : mild DUBCON, college au, friends to lovers, drug use (marijuana), inexperienced reader, mild coercion, intoxicated/sloppy sex, cunnilingus, creampie.

Suguru has always been different—calm on the surface, languid like water that flows wherever it pleases. You, on the other hand, are all edges and discipline, tethered to your schedule and ambitions like a kite tied to an unyielding post.

But tonight, he’s managed to untether you.

“C'mon,” he says, his voice smooth and coaxing like honey. “You should just try it once." His dark hair spills over his shoulders, framing his face as he watches you with a lazy smile.

“Absolutely not—I am not doing drugs,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, though the finality in your tone is already softening under the weight of his gaze. His voice is always disarming, his words too gentle to feel like pressure.

“Not drugs,” he adds with a playful shrug, “just… assisted relaxation.” The sleek glass bong gleams in his hand, an offering of escape. You’ve spent days hunched over textbooks, suffocating under the weight of equations and essays, and for once, you don’t have the energy to resist him.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

You nod, tentative but willing. His grin widens, and your resolve dissolves like sugar in warm tea.

He sets up the bong with ease, his long fingers moving deftly to pack the bowl. The weed smells sharp and earthy, its aroma curling into the air like incense. When he flicks the lighter, the small flame flares bright, illuminating his face for a heartbeat. He looks almost holy, a dark angel leaning close to guide you through some forbidden ritual.

“Okay,” he says, wrapping an arm around you, his broad chest warm against your side. “See this?” He taps the glass gently. “You’re gonna put your lips here, and when I light the bowl, just inhale slow and steady. When the chamber's full, let go of the carb and clear it. Easy.”

You follow his instructions clumsily, your fingers brushing his as you hold the cool glass. The flame crackles softly, and smoke swirls inside the chamber like a storm cloud, dense and white. You draw in slowly, and the hit punches sharp into your chest, leaving a bitter taste on your tongue. When you exhale, the smoke spills out in a trembling haze, fogging your glasses.

Suguru laughs, warm and unrestrained. “Cute,” he murmurs, reaching out to adjust the frames slipping down the bridge of your nose. “You’re a natural.”

“Hardly,” you mutter, blinking away tears from the roughness of the hit. He takes a turn, his movements fluid and sure, before passing the bong back to you. You take another hit and the world begins to soften at the edges. The air feels heavier, thicker, and your body starts to sink into the cushions, the tension in your shoulders unwinding like a thread pulled loose. The taste of smoke lingers on your tongue, sharp and strange but not unpleasant, and every inhale feels like stepping deeper into a dream.

Time stretches, slows. You aren’t sure how long you’ve been there, passing the bong back and forth, his laughter weaving into the fog around you. The warmth spreading through your limbs grows unbearable, like your blood has turned to molten honey. When you lean into him, your head resting against his chest, he doesn’t protest. His hand slides into your hair, stroking gently, and his voice drifts down to you like a lullaby.

“You okay?” he asks, soft but teasing. You nod sluggishly, your eyelids heavy and half-lidded. Everything feels distant, muted, except for him. The steady beat of his heart thrums against your ear, grounding you even as your mind spins.

“I feel... warm,” you mumble, the words slurring together.

His chest shakes with quiet laughter, his fingers trailing through your hair like silk. "Yeah?” he murmurs, brushing a strand away from your face. “You look warm.”

He tilts your face up with gentle fingers, his thumb brushing your cheek. The corners of his mouth quirk up, his expression softening as he watches you, so unguarded for once.

Your vision blurs, but you can still see the way his brown eyes glint, like polished stones catching firelight. They hold you there, spellbound and still, as if the world has slowed to a crawl around you.

“Your cheeks are all flushed,” he notes with a laugh, his thumb slipping to rest lightly on your lower lip. “You’re gorgeous like this.”

Your lips part instinctively, but no words come—only the thrum of your pulse in your ears and the heat curling low in your belly as his gaze lingers on your mouth.

Before you can think, his lips are on yours, soft and insistent, urging you to respond. Your thoughts scatter like ash in the wind, leaving only sensations—the warmth of his mouth, the faint sweetness of his breath, and the way his hands cradle your face as if you’re something fragile.

You melt into him, your body pliant under his touch as his tongue brushes against yours. Suguru's hands drift lower, slipping under your knitted sweater to trace the curve of your waist, his palms searing against your skin. You shiver, a soft whimper escaping your lips, and he swallows the sound with a smirk.

"You're sensitive," he says, his voice vibrating against your mouth as his fingers skim higher, ghosting over the underside of your ribs.

He pulls your sweater over your head, his movements slow as he drinks you in. The cool air hits your skin, but his lips are quick to find you again—kissing a path down your body from your collarbone, to the curve of your stomach. His hands follow the trail of his mouth, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Just relax, princess. I'll take care of you." He hums, his fingers tugging at the waistband of your pants.

You try to object, but the words tangle in your throat, coming out as a soft, incoherent hum. Suguru smiles, pressing his lips to your stomach.

Your body betrays you, hips tilting instinctively as he slides your pants down, the fabric pooling at your ankles.

You can't help but glance, taking a furtive peek at your own underwear. "Oh my," he murmurs, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of the lacy, lavender-coloured panties. "Did you wear these for me?"

You try to shake your head, to deny the question, but he chuckles softly, his hand brushing over the delicate fabric. “Liar,” he grins, the warmth of his palm seeping through the lace, making your stomach flutter.

Your breath hitches when he hooks a finger under the waistband of your panties and tugs them down agonizingly slowly. Lace glides over plump skin, dragging against your thighs as it’s peeled away, leaving you bare and trembling under his gaze. He leans closer, so close you can feel his breath ghosting against your cunt, and you instinctively try to squeeze your legs shut, but his hands are quick to still you.

“Fuck, you're already dripping,” he says softly, sending a flush to your cheeks. One of his hands slides between your thighs, his fingers dipping into your slick folds. His touch is unhurried as he gathers the fluid and lifts his hand to his mouth.

His tongue flicks, gliding over his fingers to taste you, and his lashes flutter as he lets out a soft, pleased hum. “Sweet,” he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours with a predatory gleam. Embarrassment floods you and you try to look away, veiling your face behind trembling hands.

“Don't hide from me,” he murmurs, his tone almost chastising, though there’s a smile tucked in the corner of his mouth. "I want to see your pretty face as I eat you out."

"W-Wait, Sugu—" Your voice cracks as your hand reaches for his shoulder in feeble protest. He chuckles, his fingers sliding gently to entwine with yours. “I’ve got you. Just let me make you feel good.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he settles between your thighs, his hands firm on your hips to keep you from squirming away. Your mind feels foggy, your thoughts disjointed and swirling, but his presence anchors you, drawing all your focus to the way his head dips lower and his lips part so prettily.

When his tongue finally meets you, the sensation is molten. He starts slow—broad, languid strokes that glide through your wetness, his tongue curling at the end to lap up every bit of you. The warmth of his mouth engulfs you, wet and sloppy, and the obscene sounds of his ministrations make your face burn even hotter.

You’re vaguely aware of his hands, one gripping your thigh to hold you steady while the other shifts to spread you wider. You writhe beneath him, his name slipping from your lips in breathy whispers, but it feels distant, surreal—like a wet dream you’re floating through, too vivid to be real.

Your mind spins, thoughts shattering like fragile glass, each one broken by the next swipe of his tongue. His tongue flattens against your clit, pressing hard for a moment before he changes pace, teasing the sensitive bundle with quick, feather-light flicks that make your back arch off the couch.

“That's it,” he urges between strokes, his lips brushing your skin as he speaks. The words send a rush of heat straight to your core, and your thighs tremble beneath his unrelenting grip.

His pace shifts again, slower, sloppier, his tongue delving deeper as your fingers curl into the cushions. He presses his mouth against you harder, drinking in your reactions as you writhe, each mewl spilling from your lips sharper than the last. When he pulls back to catch his breath, his lids are heavy, his grin lazy and satisfied, like the euphoric haze after taking a deep hit. His lips glisten, his chin damp with your arousal, and the faint sheen catches the light, making you whimper.

“Keep your eyes on me, girl,” he commands, pulling you from the fog of your mind. His thumb slides up to rub gentle circles against your clit as he waits for you to meet his gaze. When you do, the hunger in his eyes threatens to swallow you whole.

“You taste like heaven,” he says, his tone softer now, almost worshipful as he lowers his mouth to you again. This time, his movements are more insistent—his tongue plunges into you, curling and twisting, coaxing every last tremor from your body while his thumb keeps up its relentless rhythm on your clit. You feel yourself falling apart, splintering at the seams, your body a quivering, pliant mess under his touch.

"Go ahead n' cum on my face, pretty girl," Suguru hums, grinding the pad of his thumb against your sensitive clit. You groan, your head falling back against the couch as your hips jerk involuntarily, chasing the release he’s dragging out of you. Your mind feels hazy, untethered, and your thoughts dissolve with each stroke of his tongue.

When it finally hits, it’s like a tidal wave, ripping through you with a force that leaves you gasping and shuddering. Your vision blurs, white-hot pleasure consuming every sense as your fingers twist into the fabric of the couch. He doesn’t stop, his tongue lapping at you greedily, prolonging the high until you’re babbling.

As you come down, your breath ragged and your limbs boneless, Suguru pulls back, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he crawls back up your body. He presses his mouth to yours in a sloppy, hungry kiss, the taste of your arousal still fresh on his tongue. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as his tongue sweeps against yours, sharing the essence of your pleasure.

He finally pulls away, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath. "I've dreamed of this," he confesses, his voice low. His hand cradles your cheek as he studies your face, his thumb brushing tenderly over your swollen lips. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to taste you, to make you fall apart like that.”

Butterflies swarm in your stomach as he leans back on his heels, his hands sliding down to the waistband of his sweatpants. He shimmies them down, the fabric slipping over his hips to reveal the sharp cut of his V-line, trailing down to a dark patch of hair that disappears into the base of his length. His happy trail leads your eyes lower, framing the way his cock juts forward, thick and heavy, the tip already flushed and glistening. The sight makes your breath hitch, a nervous flutter mingling with the heady anticipation coiling in your chest.

“You ready?” he asks, his honeyed gaze locking with yours. You nod hesitantly, your head feeling heavy, your body languid and loose as if you could drift to sleep any second. The corner of his mouth twitches, an imperceptible softness flickering through his expression as he hooks your legs over his shoulders.

He presses a gentle kiss to the side of your knee before his grip on your thighs tightens. Slowly, he shifts forward, the head of his cock brushing against your slick entrance. The stretch begins almost immediately, the thick crown pressing into you with unrelenting pressure.

"I’ll go slow," he murmurs, his voice molten and soothing, like liquid gold pouring over your senses. His forehead brushes against your shin as he inches forward, his breath warm and uneven against your skin.

“F-Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans, his words coming out shaky, barely audible over the soft hitch in his breathing. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping you like you’re something he can’t bear to let go of.

Your head tilts back, the high from before lingering, nullifying every painful sensation as his cock slips deeper. The room feels hazy, the air thick with heat, your skin tingling with hypersensitivity as your walls stretch and adjust to his size. “S-Suguru,” you gasp, your nails digging into the couch cushions.

“I know, I know, princess,” he soothes, his thumbs brushing slow, calming circles into the soft flesh of your thighs. “You’re taking me so well. God, you’re perfect like this.” His voice is velvet, reverent, and laced with something deeper—something that makes your heart flutter.

His movements grow steadier as he thrusts deeper, his pace still unhurried—but there’s a growing urgency in the way his hips press against yours, the way his hands tighten around you. You cling to him, your body trembling, the pleasure building slowly like waves lapping against the shore.

“I can feel you clenching around me,” he breathes, his tone laced with awe. His lips find your calf, trailing kisses down the length of your leg, each one searing and delicate. “Feels so good, baby. You feel so good.”

Your hands reach out, grasping for something—anything—to anchor you. “Suguru, please—” you start, your voice breaking into a sob. “I’ve got you,” he promises, his hands slipping to cradle your hips, pulling you closer as he shifts deeper, his movements becoming the slightest bit rougher.

He grinds his hips, dragging his length out until just the tip lingers, only to stuff it back in. His hands find your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, keeping you steady as his pelvis snaps forward with enough force to bury himself completely. The wet, obscene sound fills the room, and he groans deeply, his head dropping for a moment as his hair cascades over his face.

You mewl, thighs quivering against his shoulders as the sensation builds, raw and dizzying. His cock slides along your gummy walls, sinking deeper to nudge the spot inside that has your back arching off the couch. A sharp cry escapes your lips, your fingers clawing at the cushions as a familiar sensation blooms in your core. “S-Shit, right there,” you gasp, barely coherent, the word tumbling out in a broken plea.

Suguru’s dark eyes flicker up to yours, his grin widening as if he’s just uncovered the most precious secret. “Right here?” he teases, grinding his hips slowly, deliberately, the head of his cock dragging over that spot again and again. “You like that, don’t you?” His tone is soft, coaxing, but there’s a cocky edge to it that makes your cheeks burn.

“P-Please,” you stammer, the pressure building so rapidly it has your toes curling. He adjusts your legs over his shoulders, his grip tightening as his pace becomes measured, unrelenting, hitting that same devastating angle with every thrust.

The pressure builds so rapidly it has you babbling, eyes squeezed shut as your toes curl. He adjusts your legs over his shoulders, his grip tightening as his pace becomes measured, unrelenting, hitting that same devastating angle with every thrust. You can barely form a reply—your words caught somewhere between a cry and a moan.

“C'mon, baby,” he purrs, his voice melting into your skin. “I can feel you getting close. Let go for me—wanna feel you clamp around me as you cum.” His words are filthy, his tone dripping with praise, and the combination sends you hurtling toward the edge.

Your body trembles as the coil inside you snaps, a wave of ecstasy crashing over you so intensely it robs you of air. Your walls flutter and squeeze around him like a vice as you cry out his name, your hands reaching blindly to grasp at his arms. “Good girl, just like that,” he groans, his hips stuttering as he rides out your climax while his own begins to crest.

Suguru's head tilts forward, his lips brushing against the curve of your thigh, his breath heavy and ragged as he groans, “You’re squeezing me so tight, fuck—I don’t think I can—”

The rhythm falters and his head falls against your shoulder, his hips grinding into you one final time before he stills. You feel it then, the warmth spreading deep inside, and your dazed mind registers his groan, guttural and drawn-out, as he buries himself fully in you.

His breaths are uneven with the final pulses of his release, his movements involuntary as he rides out the last remnants of his high. When he finally leans back, his dark gaze drops to where your bodies are still connected. His cum seeps out in pearlescent trails, glistening as it trickles down your folds and pools on your ass. The sight makes him curse under his breath, his hands gripping your thighs as he lazily thrusts forward to push the mess back inside.

His gaze flicks back to your face, his expression softening as a crooked grin tugs at his lips. He watches your chest heave, your skin flushed, your half-lidded eyes clouded with exhaustion and the lingering high.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your swollen lips. “You’re fucking wrecked. Maybe I should get you high more often.”

[fgfirenation]

Ngl. I needed to see that.

[coline7373]

How to comment 101

A fandom is the subculture inherent to a group of fans. It touches anything related to the field of predilection of such a group of people and is organized or created by these same people. And, like everything that comes from people, it is alive and requires exchanges to continue to exists.

People who receive no comments have often and at length express how lonely it can feel to be shouting alone in the void and how discouraging such silence can be.

I have found after asking around that readers aren’t unwilling to comment, but mainly don’t have the energy or know what to say.

Some readers have also expressed a fear of annoying the author, as they are clumsy with words, or feeling intimidated in front of an author who has such a talent with words that the reader's own words feel too embarrassing. Or not feeling that their own five word sentence is worth the bother.

Every word matters.

Every comment is worth its writing to the author.

I refer you to this post if you doubt the importance and impact of comments on fanfics.

To help those willing to comment, I have done a very modest survey of roughly 20 persons, writers and readers alike, and here is what I have come up with.

For writers:

Write in your notes, at the end of the fic, clearly what type of comment you do not want. 

Clearly stating your limits and preferences helps readers who are uncertain or not very verbose to write in a relaxed way.

If they do not have the anxiety of offending, vexing or annoying the author, they will be more comfortable and therefore more inclined to write.

If you have repeated commenters, try to reply to their comments, even with just a few words. Some people who do not receive replies to any of their comments take the lack of response to mean the author is not reading comments at all, feel discouraged and stop commenting in turn.

If you do read the comments, but don’t want to reply for whatever reason, do say so at the end of the fic, in the notes, so that readers know what to expect and not be disappointed.

For readers:

Do:

About the story: 

You can write about a particular line that you liked, the themes, parallels with canon or within the story, the characterisation, a character’s exploration, a/several character’s motivation, a/several character’s mindset/thinking/emotional reaction, a/several characters’ interaction, the plot, the action happening, the worldbuilding, emotions within the fic, subtext, pacing...

If you liked everything and are overwhelmed on how to narrow it down, you can just say exactly that. “I loved everything!”

You can also focus on pointing out just one moment, one line, one specific thing and why you liked them, specifically. What matters is not that you wrote a novel but that you communicated to the author what made you happy, what you enjoyed.

About you: 

What emotions the fic made you feel, what you think is going on in a wip or what you (think you have) figure(d) out, what you are doing in real life while reading the story, afterward, because of it, and/or how the fic impacted your life (yay! motivation to make art!), how the fic is meaningful on a personal level because x, y, z, what it made you think of, like another fic, a book, a song, a movie, what subject/fact it prompted you to discover more of…

How: 

You can write an essay, a prose, or some serious, meaningful, impactful words but you can also joke with the author as long as you stay mindful or polite. A lot of authors have said they love when people make jokes or break the fourth wall. 

Unsure about your sense of humor? Here is an example: do not write "I hate you! How could you do this to me!” Write "How could you do this? The betrayal! die offscreen.”

Making a parody of what is going on with the characters with a few lines can be funny! Keep it positive. Not everyone has the same degree of sarcasm. But levity and good humor are always welcomed.

Small fics vs longer fics:

Emojis, keysmashing and incoherent yelling are very often correct comments for small fics or drabbles. (Unless otherwise specified.)

They are also loved in longer fics, (unless otherwise specified,) but people who have been writing a story for literal years appreciate you taking at least five minutes to say a bit more than that.

Try to go through all the “about the fic” and “about you” points above, methodically, and choose just two or three of them. Then write just one sentence per point.

If you really don't know what to say, look at other people's comments. Sometimes, you will recognise something you liked too or that you thought was really good. It can help and be the starting point of your own comment.

Long WIPs:

For long fics that you follow while they are being written, people have said they have at first a lot of enthusiasm for commenting, but find it harder and harder to know what to say as the number of chapters accumulate, and so does the number of comments they feel obligated to give in turn.

Please, keep commenting! Love keeps the writers motivated and helps creativity. It’s like shouting in the void and getting a high five back.

Even one line about something specific (a dialogue bit, a reaction, a plot maneuver) can make an author happy.

Writers are not really looking for length or details. They are looking for care. If you read something you liked, just point out what you enjoyed. That's engagement enough. 

Comments aren't really about the act of a compliment. They are about the shared joy of a fandom or a ship or a character. 

Example: “'X character diving headfirst into the sea like that is so like him!”

It’s good. It’s fun. It’s nice.

Some people have said to “save” a chapter, give a kudo and say “looking forward to reading this when I have time!” and wait until they do have time and energy to comment more at length, sometimes two or three chapters at the same time.

It let the writers know their fic is still being read. You just have to be mindful to not let months go by, otherwise, it goes back to leaving the author the impression they invested hours, weeks, months, into something no one interacts with. You can alternate strategies, lengthy comments, short comments, and commenting on several chapters saved.

If all else fails, go back to the tried and true. Choose one of the points above, choose just two or three of them and then write just one sentence per point.

If you are not a native speaker:

Google can help with the bare minimum. It's not great, but it lays the foundations. Write what you think in google translate and the translation will help guide your answer. You can always ask for help from someone else or warn the author that the fic’s language is not your native language, if you are unsure if your words come off in a tone not intended.

At the start of your comment, say “I am not a native speaker”.

Do not apologize. It’s not necessary. Just provide context. Use your words. Be clear.

Remember: 

The writer isn't what they write. They do not necessarily headcanon what they write, nor do they necessarily approve of it in real life. Be mindful to not approve or disprove of x, y, z going on in the fic as if they do. You do not know that.

It’s not about the length or the wording or the quality of your comments. Of course authors love that. But what they love most of all is to hold hands, jump up and down with you and squee and gush about the fandom, ship or character.

It’s about the sharing of the joy.

Don’t:

Do not ask for another chapter and for the author to finish a fic.

Do not threaten the author to put their fics in an AI if they do not finish the fic.

Do not say "I didn't like it" or "I liked but not that" or "It would have been better if x, y, z." If you want to talk about what you didn’t like, whether it’s part or all of the story, discuss it with willing friends. The author is not responsible for you reading something you didn’t enjoy (how it made you feel) and persevering.

Do not “offer” to correct typos, grammar, vocabulary, facts, canon facts, characterisation, ect. unless you know the author and know they are fine with it or they say so explicitly in the notes. 

Do not make demands. Do not.

Like that tumblr op said, “this is not the bespoke zone.” This is off-the rack. If the free suit is not to your liking, look for another free suit rather than demand to speak to the manager for "adjustments."

Tags are not owed to you. Ao3 is not a safe zone. Not everyone agrees on what degree of content merits each tag. Or what qualifies for a tag. So, if you found a fic that was more angsty than you expected and it broke your heart, comment on a part that was good and didn't make you sad, without saying you want a happy ending to the angst fic that was written for angst purpose. Off-the rack, remember?

Exemple:

"I found x,y,z to be upsetting. Would you consider tagging it?"

Vs "Your work is totally x,y,z triggery. You ought to tag it."

Vs "Hey, you do know some people find x,y,z, triggery, right?!? Because they do! So tag it!"

One of those answers is correct. The others aren't. No demands in the comments.

Your emotional well being while reading fic is your responsibility. If your expectations have been disappointed, do not say so. Talk about a point that was positive for you. If your expectations have been exceeded, do share!

Also, if you're mad, I have found that it helps to write your comment, leave it to decant, and wait a week or so to see what it looks like when you're in a different emotional mindset.

Some elements of fics can be very upsetting unexpectedly. It is not the responsibility of the writer to answer that. Nor comments are the place for it.

Once some time has passed, if you still want to talk about it, try to communicate in a way that is neither demanding nor negative. If you can't, talk about it with someone who is not the author.

My own personal opinion:

It can be so easy to focus on the fic and your own inner imaginary garden/cinema, that we sometimes forget to switch from "inner life" to "outer life" and exchange actively with people on both sides of the fence.

But it can also add so much more to the experience <3

Clear communication is always good. Even if you disagree. At least you know where you stand.

Say thank you. Fanfics are a gift. You have been given one. Say thank you. 

[lara-frasers]

Oath of God

Here's a wee one shot I posted a few days ago. It's random, short and features a JamieClaire conversation in bed 🥰

You can read it here ✨

[streamafterlaughter]

Soundtrack to Disaster

Chapter VIV: Want This Like a Cigarette

masterlist | playlist | pinboard | prev | diaries coming soon

songs for this chapter: colorblind by movements (acoustic), guilty pleasure by chappell roan, grudges by paramore

chapter tags: yearning, angst, missed opportunities, miscommunication, all the fun stuff! drinking, smoking (weed, cigarettes), adult language and scenarios | fic tags: angst, hurt/(eventual) comfort, (eventual) smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, Eddie Munson x Fem!OC!Reader, Modern AU | This fic is rated 18+ MDNI each chapter will have its own content/trigger warnings

summary: you continue to piece together the mystery of your brother's sentence, learning little by little exactly what happened.

a/n: act I of god knows how many is coming to a close! things are about to get.... well. I don't wanna spoil anything. disregard!

taglist: @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @kellsck @faggotinie @xplrnowornever @taccobelle @micheledawn1975 @mewchiili @dreamerjj @losingmygrasponreality @munsonburn3r

DISCLAIMER: I do not consent to having my work fed to AI engines, or reposted in any way, shape, or form on other websites. Unless otherwise stated, this is the only account that features and contains this work, and any replication was done without my consent. Please let me know if you see my work elsewhere. Please reblog and comment to support the author!

--

You arrive at Steve and Robin’s a few hours before you’re supposed to leave for the concert. You feel the giddiness in your chest, the looming excitement of finally seeing one of your favorite artists live. That feeling quickly fades when you see the van parked outside of your friends’ place.

Inside the apartment, Steve pours four shots, one for each of you, and Eddie who’s lounging on the couch with a beer in his hand. You try not to stare, but it’s difficult to look away from the display; Eddie dressed in leather pants and a cropped t-shirt, his battle vest draped over the arm of the couch. His hair is tied into a low ponytail, revealing a dangly earring swinging against his neck. You clear your throat, feeling suddenly claustrophobic. 

“Bee! Come in! Have a shot, I call it the Pink Pony.” Steve gestures dramatically to the kitchen island.

You laugh, reaching to strip your jacket from your shoulders. “What exactly is a Pink Pony shot?” You humor him, knowing you’ll probably regret it.

“It’s vodka, pink lemonade, and glitter.” Robin deadpans, plucking one of the glasses from the lineup. “Steve found this drinkable glitter shit online. To me it just looks like Edward Cullen pissed in here.” She closes one eye, inspecting the drink, but ultimately decides it’s worth the risk and downs it in one gulp. Her face scrunches as if she’s in pain, and she shakes her head wildly. “Delish.” She gives an extremely unconvincing thumbs up, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Whatever. Here,” He hands another glass to you, “I don’t think it’s that bad.”

You gesture the glass to your friends before throwing it down your throat, trying desperately not to wince as it burns in your stomach. “This is…”

“Gasoline.” Eddie adds from the couch. “Jet fuel, even.”

You nod. “He’s right. Steve, where the fuck did you buy this shit?”

“I dunno! I got an ad on TikTok.”

There's a collective groan from the three of you, followed by various exclamations of Steve’s naive purchase. “It might actually be vampire piss!” You joke, earning a giggle from Eddie that makes your stomach flutter. 

“You guys suck.” Steve pouts, crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

“Steve, baby, you’re good at so many things. Making drinks just isn’t one of them.” Robin gives her roommate a loving pat on the shoulder, and he surrenders. 

“It is not that bad.” He takes his own shot, and fails miserably to hide his disgust. “Fine, I digress. Bee, you wanna make the next round?”

You sigh, approaching your friends in the kitchen, and feeling Eddie rise from the couch behind you. “You know I’m not working tonight, right?”

Robin juts her lip out. “Please, Bee? We can’t suffer through another round of Pink Pony farts.”

Steve gasps, but you throw your head back with laughter. “Alright, fine. If it means saving the lives of my friends, I guess I’ll do it for free. Just this once, though.” You snatch the glitter from Steve’s hand. “None of this shit, though.” And you dump it down the sink while Robin holds Steve back from lunging at you.

Once the damage is done, you turn to where Steve keeps his alcohol, on the rack by the fireplace. You peek through his half empty bottles, returning with a few you can use. “This, friends and Eddie, is the Bazooka Joe.” You place the Irish cream, banana liqueur, and blue curacao on the counter. “It’s supposed to taste like bubblegum.” You eyeball the measurements, filling each shot glass with the liquids, creating a milky teal color. Your friends each take one, throwing them down quickly. Their reactions are mixtures of shock and pleasant surprise.  

Eddie is the next to speak. “I don’t have any drink recipes to offer, but if anyone would like to join me on the balcony for a joint,” He pulls one from behind his ear, “speak now or forever hold your peace.” His eyes meet yours then, and you can’t dismiss it as an accident. He’s asking you to come out.

“I’m good,” Robin says, narrowing her eyes at Eddie. “Don’t like to smoke before going out in public.” 

Steve starts, “Ooh, I’ll—,” but stops short when Robin shoves her elbow into his side. “I’m good,” he coughs, “You guys go ‘head.”

You frown. He knows your rule, but he makes that stupid pouty face at you anyway. “C’mon, Bee. Don’t make me smoke alone.”

Rolling your eyes, you secede. “Fine. I’ll make a one time exception to the rule. On one condition.”

“What's that?”

“No talking.”

—

He lasts all of five minutes. “This is stupid.” You shake your head, refusing to indulge. “That’s fine. I’ll talk. You can keep not-talking.” He hands you the joint, and you take it, inhaling sweet smoke as Eddie continues, disregarding your agreement. “I wanna apologize. For a lot of things, actually. Last night, that wasn’t cool. I shouldn’t have sunk to his level, I don’t know what came over me.” You sense him staring at you, but fight the urge to look at him. Instead you keep your eyes forward, staring into the darkness of your neighborhood. He sighs, and continues, “And I’m so, so sorry about everything with your brother. It wasn’t easy for me either, y'know. Chris and I were best friends. But I couldn’t not listen to him. He did it to save my stupid ass.”

You finally look at him, passing him the joint as you try to read his face. “What do you mean by saving your ass?” The riddles are tired, and you can’t stand the thought of never getting the whole story. 

He inhales before responding, “The cops already had it out for me. Since the second I turned eighteen, they waited for me to screw up. Pretty sure they had a bet on when I’d get arrested.” His tone is light, but you can see the sadness on his face as he recalls it. “I begged Chris not to tell you. He told me he wouldn’t, but only because he wanted me to. He made me promise to take care of you, and I broke that promise. You already hated me so much when you found out I snitched, you couldn’t even look at me. We stopped talking. I didn’t think telling you would change anything.” 

The information sinks into your skin, and you have to focus on a tree in the distance to stop the world around you from spinning. You cycle through the stages of grief on a loop, getting emotional whiplash each time you try to make sense of what Eddie’s just said to you. Finally, you land on anger and stay there. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He shakes his head, bewildered. “What?”

“Eddie, if you had just told me all of this six years ago–”

“I couldn’t, Bee. I wanted more than anything to tell you, but I couldn’t get out of my own way.”

The buzzing in your head is loud, disorienting. “So you ran away instead?”

Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closed in concentration. “Bee, listen–” 

“Eddie, please. Stop talking.” This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. You slide the screen door open, returning to the warmth of inside, trying not to let your friends read the shock and pain written plainly on your face. “Okay, I think I’m ready.”

–

Lining up for concerts used to be one of your favorite hobbies. If a show had general admission, you’d park yourself outside the venue for hours, holding your spot in the hopes that the artist would sweat on you. As you’ve gotten older, you’ve realized it is definitely not worth the hassle of waiting outside all day, sitting on the concrete until your butt falls asleep. When you and your friends arrive at the venue, the doors are already open, and a bouncer is leading you to the VIP lounge, where you give them your names. It earns you a few glares from people in the general admission line.

“Swanky!” Robin exclaims when she enters the green room, which is actually pretty lackluster. The dressing room holds a long fold out table filled full of snacks and drinks, parallel to an old couch with garish print that you’re sure probably hasn't been cleaned in decades. 

“Sure, if that’s how you wanna put it.” The giggling comes from behind you, where Macy is leaning against the doorframe. “Hi, guys! Really glad you could make it.” She approaches you first, pulling you into an unexpected embrace. “Hi, doll! So nice to see you.” Something about her disposition puts you off, her smile looks plastic. 

Macy makes her rounds, greeting each of your friends with a hug before turning to her boyfriend. “Hi, honey.” She stands on her tiptoes to daintily plant a kiss on his cheek, and the grin he wears is wide. You squint at the couple, trying to read them. “Make yourselves at home, we go on in half an hour. See you out there!” She gives a wave in the general direction of the room, and exits back to what you assume is her dressing room.

“This is so cool. Eddie, hold on to this one, yeah?” Steve plucks a cookie from the plate, and Robin gives him an expression of disbelief. “What?” He asks, mouth full. She just shakes her head. 

–

The lights dim a few minutes after eight p.m., and the incoming crowd cheers with excitement. You and your friends are lined up across the barricade, off to one side to avoid the screaming teenagers only here for Chappell. You’re between Eddie and Robin, Steve on Robin’s other side yelling something in her ear you can’t make out. 

A backing track fades in as the band takes the stage, and Macy approaches the mic stand. “Welcome to the show, everyone! We are Statuesque Dolls, from Hawkins, Indiana!” Zoe clicks her drumsticks together, and they start in on what you can only describe as a pop rock power ballad. Macy’s voice is stunning, you have to admit, reaching octaves you could only ever dream of reaching. The audience gets into it, swaying and dancing along to the rhythm, heads nodding to the beat. Some kids in the front are even singing, never missing a word Macy sings, and she points them out with a beaming grin on her face. Though you try, you can’t bring yourself to enjoy the set. The music is right up your alley of taste, and the band’s stage presence is nothing short of incredible, but the feeling of Eddie’s shoulder rubbing against yours as he belts out the words makes your chest tight, and every time Macy smiles at him you feel a throbbing in your temples.

Finally, they end their set, waving to the crowd before stepping off stage. Eddie announces he’s getting a drink, and nudges you. “Come with me?”

You glance at Robin, and swear you see her nod, as if giving you permission. “Okay.” You follow Eddie out of the crowd, over to the bar where a mass of people have gathered to attempt getting a drink.

“That was good, huh?” You ask feebly, trying to make small talk.

Eddie shrugs. “Yeah, they’re really good.” His tone is flat, and you raise an eyebrow at him.

“What’s up with you?”

He shakes his head, causing his already frizzy curls to fly around his face. “We uh, broke up. Me and Macy, I mean.”

You can’t help but drop your jaw, quickly shutting it when, even in the dim room, you see him blush with embarrassment. “Oh, shit. Eddie. I’m sorry. Wait, but she kissed you like, an hour ago?”

“Yeah, it was pretty amicable. I’m not, like, hurting over it. The band is going on tour after this, and I have, like, no interest in a long distance relationship.”

For some reason, it pisses you off. “But you still love her?”

“Whoa, Bee. Who said anything about love? I told you, it was pretty casual to begin with. What’s got you freakin’ out?” You think you sense teasing in his voice.

“I’m not freaking out, I guess I’m confused. You don’t think she’s worth the effort?” 

He chuckles lightly as you approach the bar, ordering a cider for yourself and a beer for Eddie. “Of course she is. I’m not, though. She deserves better than that. Does it bother you?” 

You roll your eyes, handing the bartender far too much cash for just two drinks. “You just said it wasn’t that serious, why would you care what I had to say about it?”

“Do you have something to say about it?” If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he sounded hopeful.

You pretend to ponder his question, then deadpan, “No. Believe it or not, I don’t give a shit about what you do with your dating life. You might break Steve’s heart if you tell him, though.”

Eddie visibly deflates as you hand him his drink. “Fuck, you’re right. You tell him.”

“No! I’m not doing your dirty work for you, Munson. Time to grow a pair.” With that, you breeze past him, back into the crowd. 

–

“Thank you, Indy, I have been Chappell Roan!” The redhead onstage is a dream, absolutely stunning in a sparkly, pink, and complicated outfit. The fan blows her curly locks around, and you’d been so mesmerized that you’re only now registering the show is almost over. 

She ends with pink Pony Club, causing Robin and Steve to jump around, screaming their voices hoarse, and you join them. By the end, you’re sweating bullets, makeup practically sliding down your face.

When she leaves the stage, you feel the relief of the crowd leaving, their weight that had been pressed to your back for hours finally fading. “That was insane. She’s incredible. Ethereal, really.” Steve is raving as you follow your friends out of the venue and into the cold of the night. “Eddie, man, you gotta go on tour.”

Eddie shrugs shyly. “Yeah, I’m workin’ on it, man.”

“No, man! With Macy, be the tour wife! You’ll get to see her all the time, and Macy! Her band is awesome, I can’t believe–”

“Steve, Macy and I broke up.”

He stops in his tracks. “What? Why? What did you do?”

“Why do you always think I did something?”

“Because you always do something. Remember in high school when you wanted to ask-”

“Okay! Enough. For your information, I didn’t do anything. I just don’t want anything serious right now.”

It barely satisfies Steve, but he backs off with a huffed “Okay, whatever!” You look from the boys to Robin, who’s already staring at you, seemingly studying your reaction.

“What?” You ask her, and she shakes her head. 

“Anyone want food? I’m buying.” Steve offers, earning collective nods and mumbles of affirmation. Eventually, you end up at a late night diner, and Eddie holds the door open for the rest of you. 

–

You arrive home past midnight, eyes and limbs heavy with sleep. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right Bee?” Robin asks. You nod, only just now remembering you promised to help Steve set up his and Robin’s new entertainment center. “Okay, cool. I’ll get us coffee!” Your friends and Eddie all say goodbye, and the car pulls away as you enter your house, foregoing the shower you’re definitely going to need in favor of sleeping longer. 

When you’re finally cozied up in bed, your phone buzzes.

Eddie (block later): Thx for listening. Gn bee.

You decide against a real reply, instead tapping the Thumbs Up reaction, and locking your phone before rolling over. Sleep doesn’t come, though, despite how physically tired you are. Your brain is wired, thoughts racing by too quickly to focus on. Every thought you’ve shoved aside, rushing at you at once. Most of them are questions you can’t answer on your own; Why did Eddie tell you about his breakup? Why is he suddenly being so fucking nice to you? Has he always been this goddamn pretty?

You groan, shoving your face into your pillow to stifle the noise. Unfortunately, that telepathy you share with your brother hasn’t gone away, even after six years apart.

“Hey,” Your bedroom door cracks open to reveal Chris’s forehead, illuminated by the hall light behind him. “Can’t sleep?”

You shake your head before remembering you’re in the dark. “No. You?”

“Nah.” He opens the door fully, stepping into the dark of your room. “How was your night?”

“Really… good?”

“You sound unsure.” He throws himself down on the end of your bed, bouncing you up and down with the mattress. “What happened?”

You pause, unsure of how much Chris needs to know. Ultimately, you know you can’t hide anything from him, even though he’d spent the last six years pretty much conspiring with Eddie against you. “Nothing, really. We went to the show, it was fantastic. I had a really good time.”

“And…?”

“And nothing!”

“Then why are you groaning into your pillow like a child throwing a tantrum?” He snickers, and you whack his arm. “C’mon, something’s bugging you.”

“Yeah, but it’s gonna sound stupid.”

“You’re my little sister, everything you say sounds stupid.”

“Wow, Chris. Thanks, that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.” You sit up, tucking your comforter into your waist. “Seriously, you’re gonna think I’m insane.”

“Well, I already do, so you got nothing to lose.”

“It’s something Eddie told me.” He doesn’t speak, waiting for you to continue. “He said you told him to rat you out. That’s not true, is it?”

Your brother sighs, bringing his legs up onto your bed to mirror you. “Would it change anything if I said yes?” You huff, waiting for him to continue. “Bee,” Chris flops onto his stomach. “You ‘hate’ Eddie for something I told him to do. You iced him out because of me. I know you probably don’t want to admit it to yourself, but I am the reason you and Eddie don’t get along. I’m sorry, I didn’t think he’d up and leave you, I never would have expected that from him. He lo–” He stops himself short, then continues instead, “He cares about you so much, kid. I feel awful for ruining that.”

It hurts your brain, hearing Chris confirm that gnawing feeling you’ve had for days, since Eddie blurted out the same truth in a fit of anger. Now it washes over you like a tidal wave, suffocating you under its weight. “It’s not too late to fix things with him, Bee. I know he’s been a little weird lately, but I can understand why. Just, give him a chance to redeem himself. For me?”

“Chris, why the fuck would I do anything for you after you told me all that? You basically just admitted to ruining one of the closest friendships I have ever had, and six fucking years too late. I can’t just pretend that didn’t happen! Eddie fucking left because of it! I thought he’d betrayed you!”

“In all fairness, I told him to tell you, begged him even. I figured he had, until I got out. I had no idea he’d kept that part from you. I told you that.” He argues. 

It’s too much at once, you can feel your skin burning. “Get out, Chris. Please.”

He doesn’t argue, rising from your bed and walking to the door before turning. “I can take the heat, I’ve been getting it from you my whole life, but the kid did nothing wrong. It was stupid of him to run instead of telling you, but he didn’t screw me like you’d thought for so long. Don’t hold that grudge, Bee, it’s not worth it.” Before you can respond, Chris closes the door behind him, leaving you to be swallowed by the dark of your room.

[kellelkallel]

There is genuinely some collective insane genius within the people who write ivantill fics on ao3. A very specific kind of ivantill fic, mind you. You'll know them when you see them.

Alien Stage already permanently altered my brain chemistry enough these fics are turning me into something otherworldly and ungodly because the author genuinely puts ecstasy, meth, ketamine and all the other drugs I can't be bothered to list into the Google doc they're written on and it gets beamed directly into my brain, thereby ruining it forever.

[crunchycerealisgood]

The Saddle: A Melvika Fic

Serene.

That's the only word that could come to mind as grey eyes peered through the dancing smoke that was cast from the cigar in her mouth. It blinded her before opening, like a curtain, to reveal Noxias most hidden treasure. She shun like a gem, the lighting of Piltover's sun caressing the golden adornments as lovingly as it did her skin; kissing her from the tips of her feet to the tops of her head.

From there that love spilled out twisted into locs before exiting out into thick curls. Golden cuffs hugged different parts of the style and glowed like a crown on her. She worked diligently, hazel green eyes swimming across the documents in her hands. A small chuff exited the confident mouth before a smirk grew on black lips when those eyes shot up to meet her own. They blinked then returned to settling back on the paper.

“What can I do for you Sevika?”

Sevika pushed off the doorframe she was leaning on and walked further into the office to stand beside Mel. Her knees bent until her bottom leaned onto the desk knowing the expensive wood would hold her up. Her fingers opened into a v to slide around her cigar and removed it from her mouth to blow out another puff.

“I cant visit the high and mighty Mel Medarda now?” Sevika bemoaned her eyebrow raising in a playfullness.

“Not when you are just here to be a disturbance.” Mel bit back.

Mel sat back in her chair her lithe legs crossing causing her thighs to grow in width. Sevikas eyes couldn’t help but wander down them before trailing up to her breast, they were smaller than her own but damn did they fit perfectly in her hands. She especially loved how they jolted when the woman before her took sharp gasp of breath while her hands scrambled to grip onto Sevikas short locks. To pull her closer. Her eyes went back up to meet hazel eyes that gazed at her expectantly. She lifted her cigar back up to her lips to inhale and her smirk reached her eyes.

“You topsiders get annoyed so easily, don’t you.” She leaned down before blowing smoke into Mels face.

Mels eyes narrowed suspiciously before her head tilted back somewhat, amusement in her own actions. Then with a quickness she snatched sevikas cigar and observed it as if she were making a decision. She placed it to her mouth and inhaled gently before blowing out once she removed it. She placed a delicate hand on her chest and let out a stream of coughs making Sevika throw her head back in laughter.

“Fuck-” Sevika snickered before continuing in laughter. “I should’ve taken you for what you are”

Mel glared while she put the cigar out in a failing triumph. She huffed rolling her eyes as she turned in her chair to better face the woman.

“Oh please, you couldn’t lead a horse to water” Mel shot back with a smirk while Sevika placed her arm on the back of Mels chair making it lean back but Sevikas face kept close to Mel.

“You dont look like a horse to me though?” Sevika grumbled both of her eyebrows raised, a teasing expression in her eyes.

Mel leaned closer her eyes gazing down at Sevikas lips before raising to meet her eyes. “But you do look very much like a stallion.”

Her finger raised and pushed the crudely cut stands back from the womans face before her nails clawed and dug into her scalp. Sevikas eyes grew lazy as they gazed at eachother.

“Big…strong…and so very stocky. Something I do enjoy to saddle up and ride.” Mel purred as her hand trailed down from the womans scalp, to her ear, then her jaw. Those curious fingers trailed down her neck before resting on her left shoulder.

Sevika felt as if she had been grabbed by an invisible leash as those foxy eyes fluttered up at her lashes curling beautifully over them. She felt drawn in. She leaned in closer, her eyes looking down at that deep pink lip, waiting to grasp it in between her teeth. However, before she could, a finger rose between them and her head was gently pushed back.

“What greed.” Her eyes just shat out pure amusement as she locked onto Sevika.

Sevikas lips curled back into a snarl, the blackened skin from her time spent smoking stretching as her teeth bared just slightly. “You little-“

“Fox?Minx?”

“Bitch” Sevika drawled out making the looped strand of Mels eyebrow tilt.

“My, what a vulgar word. Yet, I thought you only liked name calling during our…extracurricular activities, hm” Mel lifted her pen to her lips just resting the end on them while her chin sat beautifully on the tips of her nails.

Sevika bit back a groan at the suggestive movement. This damned woman knew just what buttons to push. She rolled her left shoulder, her cape covering up the fact there was no arm there, but it was a needed break from the soreness her straps caused and the chaffing she often struggled with when it came to placing her various different arms. Though, the different butters and creams the white and gold adorned woman provided her gave her so much relief during those times.

Why did any of that matter though? What mattered was how she reached her hand out to grasp Mels jaw making her pucker her lips for Sevika to claim. Mels pen was held down below their kissing lips and gasping breaths before clattering onto the desk. Mel reached her hands up to thread her fingers into ebony locks to pull the larger woman closer. Mouths open and closed in a heated battle as two breaths became one, desperate for air. Tongues lightly teased the other in a curious dance as they remapped their way.

Sevika pulled away panting as fierce eyes became doughy yet heated while they gazed down at the dark skinned beauty. A whimper erupted from Mel as she tried to follow behind Sevikas trail.

“I don’t want to be a disturbance.” Sevika mumbled playfully filling the space between them.

“Damn this work!” Mel almost roared out as she grabbed at Sevika and pulled her back into a kiss.

A small squeak exited her as she was suddenly lifted above the woman, ensuring that mel had to bend down to meet her lips. Sevika kept her eyes on Mel while darting away on occasion so she could safely walk them to their shared bedroom. Servants and alike kept their gaze away from Sevikas glare until they made it into the large creme filled room. She carelessly dropped Mel onto the bed with a smirk as she watched the woman rise up onto her elbows, her eyes glazed over.

“Go get your saddle Medarda.” That was all the woman had to say as she watched the usually Posh, prim and proper woman scramble across the bed. Maybe this is what that messiah guy felt. This power. Cause fuck was she going to enjoy ruining her golden fox tonight.

Next Part

Authors notes:

This is my first fanfiction ever so I am open to constructive criticism! Thanks for reading if you see this!

[anths-girl]

THIS!!!! There are quite a few fanfic authors who just...stopped updating, and I ALWAYS wonder if they're okay, BUT...

Does ANYONE know what happened to broomclosetkink on AO3? I absolutely LOVE LOVE LOVE all their Hellcheer fics, but I just... can't find a sign of them, anywhere. I know some people on here might know of what happened, but I've been too afraid to ask, because I don't want to impose? I feel like I might be overstepping boundaries, or something? But I just really am VERY concerned, and I've re-read their fics so many times, and every time I just wonder all over again, if they're okay.

So, if anyone knows, but maybe don't want to post about it publicly, DM me?

Posting link to said AO3. If that's not okay, let me know, so I can take it down?

Just to add, again...to ALL fanfic authors...you all mean the WORLD to us!!! WE LOVE YOU, AND ALWAYS JUST WANT THE BEST IN THE WORLD FOR YOU! Because the stories you write mean the world to us!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Does anybody else get legitimately worried when a fanfic author who was updating regularly just suddenly disappears with no warning? Like, is it a serious case of writers block or are they in a coma? Did they just up and quit? Was it me? Were my reviews not good enough?! Did they die 😳?! Were they kidnapped? Do I need to file a missing persons report? Excuse me officer, there’s been 13 weekly updates and now nothing for months! Find them! What’s their name?! Name!? I don’t know their name but they write 3k+ chapters and I need them safe and back in my life!

[harpersdragons]

Next fic

Sometimes You Gotta Burn the Bridge in Order to Rebuild it

This fic is getting to be so much longer than intended. It was supposed to be a quick one shot, and we're at 4k words and I'm not even halfway done.

Summary: After Robin gets shot on patrol, Bruce fires him. Misunderstandings ensue, Dick spirals, and the whole situation gets out of hand.

Excerpt:

If you ask him, Dick wouldn’t know when it started. 

When did it go wrong? 

At some point when he was fighting to be recognized as an equal?

The first real, noticeable point is when he got shot. 

It wasn’t even that bad! Just a graze, really. But it’s the catalyst of this whole sequence of events.  

Bruce is just overdramatic. 

Sure, it didn’t just ‘graze’ him by the literal definition. But he didn’t die! He didn’t even pass out. 

With Alfred taking a rare night off, Bruce stitches him up. They don’t speak the whole time. When Bruce is done, he methodically tapes a bandage over the wound, then cleans up and takes his gloves off. Dick carefully leans against the wall behind him.

“You’re done.”

“With stitches? I kinda figured that out myself, B.” Dick quips.

“WIth Robin. You’re getting reckless, and if you’re not going to listen, I can’t have you with me.” Bruce doesn’t even look him in the eyes. He’s too busy taking his cowl off and stripping down to his undersuit.

“Bu–What?” Dick’s heart drops to his stomach, and an awful constricting feeling settles over his chest. 

“You’re done. Indefinitely. That was too close tonight.”

“You can’t fire me! Robin is /my/ name! It’s /my/ parents legacy!” It’s a last ditch effort, everyone knows you can’t change Bruce’s mind once it’s made. But he /can’t/ lose Robin. He’s almost 18, if Bruce doesn’t want him as Robin, and he has no legal tie to Dick, will Dick still be welcome? 

“I can and I will. Go change and go to bed. You have work in the morning.” Bruce turns away, heading over to the batcomputer. Dick watches him go, waiting for him to turn back around. 

He doesn’t.

Dick eases himself off the cot—minimizing the movement of his injured shoulder—keeping his head down until he’s past Bruce.

He holds it together as he changes out of his gear on autopilot and leaves it in a bin to be cleaned. He makes it to his room before he breaks down, before he allows himself to crumble to his knees, and bury his face in his hands. 

How could he lose the one thing he left of his parents?

Why did he tie his parents to something so easily taken?

[chodzacaparodia]

It's frustrating that you can come up with the plot of an entire fic in just a few seconds, but writing it all down can take anywhere from never to forever.

[the-coffee-fandom]

Had to make a meme to describe me currently

[cupids-fiction]

god bless anyone who comments on ao3