#or look at ao3 there are SO many fics man

[twola]

i think another a/b/o fic would heal me. or jealous arthur... 🫦

¿PORQUE NO LOS DOS? 🎉

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Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

This, this is something that has gotten his hackles up.

Arthur seethes to himself in this stupid, stupid suit, chafing his neck.

Dutch; in all of his wise planning, brought you along. “An unclaimed omega is sure to smooth some of the negotiations - Bronte is an alpha, just a man.”

Hosea wasn’t exactly pleased. Arthur wants to tear something apart.

You flit around in that pretty little dress of yours, off the shoulder and baring your neck for the whole world to see that you’ve never been claimed, that no alpha can say that you are theirs. Indeed, Dutch is right - you’ve garnered attention from onlookers throughout the party - from scandalized women to men following you around like puppy dogs - alphas and betas alike.

He angrily stalks around the periphery of the event, of little use to go carousing. Arthur keeps you in sight for most of the night, until Dutch sends him off to investigate something about Cornwall in the Mayor’s office. He does so, grumbling to himself, and comes back down to the garden to put eyes on you again and threaten death upon any man who got too close.

“Arthur-”

Your hushed voice cuts through the din of conversation like a knife. Not loud, but he hears you say his name clear as day. It sends a shiver down his spine. He spins around to find you leaning against the column of a pergola, seemingly unable to stand upright. He swears as he rushes toward you. 

“What is it - did you have too much to drink, did someone-”

He trails off as his eyes open wide. The flush on your cheeks is more than the champagne would cause. You reach toward him, and instantly, he realizes that you’re about to tumble to the ground. He catches you before you make a scene, his strong hands under your elbows as you gasp.

Arthur swears. “Shit, you’re goin’ into heat, ain’t you?”

You look up at him, terrified, sweat breaking out on your temples, “It- it’s not supposed to come for another week -”

Your plea is cut off as your knees buckle, and Arthur quickly shoots an arm around your waist, holding you up. He quickly walks the two of you to the garden, sitting you down on a bench and settling on one knee before you. As you hold your stomach against a cramp, Arthur tucks strands of your hair behind your ears gently.

“She alright?” 

“H-Hosea-“ you whimper as you look up, finding the older man leaving above Arthur’s shoulders.

“Heat,” Arthur mutters. He looks up at Hosea seriously.

Hosea has a pained look on his face when he takes you in. “I’ll handle Dutch and the rest of the night. You get her somewhere safe.”

Arthur nods, standing up and wrapping his arm around your ribcage even tighter, and you moan softly as your head lolls into his chest as he pulls you to stand. Your flushed cheeks and sweat-soaked decolletage make it obvious that you’re going into heat. And without a claim; without an alpha’s scent on you, it was just a matter of time before every man at this damn party would be gunning for you.

Arthur starts to walk the two of you toward the front gate.

“Arthur.”

Arthur turns his head to make eye contact with Hosea one last time under the garden lights before he takes you toward the front gate.

“She’s trusting you, boy. See that you don’t betray that trust.”

Arthur grinds his teeth but nods his head solemnly. Far too many men would take the opportunity of a lifetime, a heat-drunk omega, defenseless, ripe for the taking. As much as he wanted to, as much as the beast within him roared to, he would not force you to do anything you did not want. Omegas were put upon enough in this world.

You lean on him heavily, arms wound together, as he walks you to the opulent front gate. Armed guards stand at the ready, noticing them walking toward the street.

“Act drunk,” Arthur whispers in your ear, and you nod and turn into him, swaying as if you had too much to imbibe. 

“Evening gents, the Missus had one too many glasses of champagne. Headin’ back to our room down back on tha’ other side of City Hall.”

The guards mumble amongst themselves before one moves out of the way, allowing Arthur to drag you through the gate. Once across the street, he pulls you along much faster than a husband helping his drunk wife would naturally move. Making a beeline into the park, you whine again as Arthur nearly drags you forward across the cobblestoned Flavian Street.

The two of you make it to the fountain before he stops, looking around at people out in the night. Police officers mull under the streetlight, eyeing you both for a moment. Arthur pulls you from under his arm and helps you stand before him, trying to look inconspicuous, like lovers at night.

Your hands land on his biceps as you suck a breath in and slowly look up at him. He curses inwardly at the sight, even more of his goddamn blood pooling in his groin.

“Arthur-” you whisper, your face flushed and cheeks red, obvious even in the night. Your eyes are rimmed with silver, unfocused, dilated. You suck in another breath as you sway, and his hands clamp around your waist to keep you upright. You lean your forehead against his sternum and shiver. The sheen of wetness trails down your neck, and Arthur nearly goes cross-eyed as you try to bury yourself into his chest, knees shaking, nearly collapsing.

“Sweet- sweetheart. You gotta stay upright or the law is gonna think I’m kidnapping you.”

You moan quietly. “I feel…”

“I know, I know. I’ll get you somewhere safe.”

By some power unknown, you’re able to continue to walk the entire distance, tucked into Arthur’s side. He’s shrugged out of his dinner jacket and placed it around your shoulders. He nods to the policemen as he walks you past them - he’s sure at least one of them caught a whiff of your pheromones. He cursed under his breath as he remembered he had no weapons on him. Nothing to defend you but his fists… in most cases would be enough.

Your small hand clutches at the lapel of his shirt, and as much as he’d want to just take you in his arms and carry you, there are too many prying eyes around.

After what seems like forever, the two of you make it to your destination. He brusquely demands a room once the two of you nearly stumble into the Bastille, several card games still going on at the late hour.

Arthur knows as he pulls you toward the stairs that the beady eyes of men at the table are on you, the scent of your pheromones unable to be hidden anymore. He grits his teeth as the two of you slowly ascend the stairs, wanting nothing more than to throw you over his shoulder and march into the room.

But this isn’t about what he wants. No, he’s trying to ignore his achingly hard cock. Trying to ignore his blood pulsing through his veins. Trying to ignore the preemptive swelling of his knot.

Painstakingly slowly, the two of you finally reach the room, where he quickly kicks the door closed and you all but collapse onto the bed, sucking a breath in as you clutch at your abdomen.

“I’ll stay outside. You’ll be safe in here alone.”

“No-” you cry out, pressing yourself up on your elbows in the bed, “Don’t leave me, please, Arthur.”

Arthur grinds his teeth, goddamnit, this was hard enough already, “Sweetheart, I need to leave this room while I still can.”

“Don’t leave me, I want you to stay.”

Your plea hits him like a freight train, the tension having licked up his spine. His cock pulses with interest, “You don’t know what you’re askin’ for…”

Your whole body shakes and you moan, your head falling back onto the mattress. “Oh please, please, I know what I’m asking, oh please-”

“Sweetheart-”

“Arthur please, please come here and knot me.” You whine, sitting and starting to gather your voluminous skirts, pulling them up, your stockinged calves up to your knees on display before he has the wherewithal to move.

He steps closer and places his heavy hands on yours to stop you from baring yourself further. “Stop, that’s your heat talkin’.”

You push at his hands and heave yourself up to a sitting position. “No, no, I’ve… wanted to ask you for months. Before Blackwater. I… I just been scared you don’t want me.”

“Don’t… want you? Christ, woman. Of course I want you. Jesus, I’d ride you somewhere safe every month and hold you through them heats.”

Arthur sits down on the bed, dangerously close to you, rubbing your wrists gently with his thumbs. The red-blooded alpha in him roars to push you down, rip your underthings, and knot you until you scream his name. But he does not. If anything he has gotten good at in his thirty-six years is dampening down his desires.

You grab his fingers and draw them toward your lace-trimmed bosom, “Please…”

Arthur is unable to bite back the groan that claws its way out from his chest.

His hands, normally such rough tools of destruction, skitter up your ribs to the back of your dress, deftly undoing the clasp below your neck as the dress slumps forward off of you. You shiver as your breasts are more exposed, held in only by your corset - the next target of his quick-moving fingers, pulling at laces and ties. You’re dizzy, and unable to do anything other than breathe heavily as your corset is pulled from your ribcage, your chest exposed as Arthur gently leans you back in the bed. Gently, too gently for an outlaw, for an alpha, he pulls your dress from your frame, your lace-trimmed underthings following, until you shiver, bare underneath his gaze.

You whimper and he hushes you quietly, as if he was calming his mare. Those deft fingers undo the starched shirt, shedding his clean white shirt and crisp pants with urgency. By the time he has stripped himself naked and kicked away his too-nice shoes, you reach toward him, beckoning him into your embrace.

Arthur climbs into the bed, his large form hulking over yours, muscles straining against his skin, his cock bobbing heavily, ready for you.

You open your legs, quaking with unrestrained need, and he settles himself between them as naturally as if you and he had been doing this for years. His cockhead notches at your cunt and he surges forward to mash his lips against yours as he presses through the wet rim of your cunt. You moan, piteously and loudly, as those hard inches slowly slide into you, strong and unyielding, until he is fully seated within you, your cunt stuffed full of his flesh. He pulls away from your lips and leans his forehead against yours, swallowing deeply himself, as if he has to recenter his mind.

Your hands find your way to his pomaded hair, releasing it from its hold as you run your fingers through it. He opens his eyes, those damned blue eyes of his, and they focus on yours for a moment before he slides his head down, his lips probing your neck before he kisses the rim of your ear.

“Still want me to knot ya?”

You turn your head to look at him fully, and you smile, your legs lifting and your ankles crossing over his back.

But he makes no move to cross that threshold.

“Arthur?” Your hand moves to cup his cheek.

He swallows, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before focusing on you again, “Darlin’, I… I want to claim ya.”

Silence falls between you. You blink up at him and he frowns, inwardly cursing for having gone too far. He goes to pull himself out of you before you regain your wits.

“Yes, yes Arthur, please, make me yours. I’ll be yours the rest of my days and I’ll always please you and you can have me whenever you want-” You babble on before he shushes you with another kiss.

“Hush now. You’re gonna be mine, and I’m gonna take care of you, little omega. Through all them heats, you’ll never have to hurt again.” He smiles back at you, his uncertainty from before gone. 

You mewl in response. Arthur grunts as he lifts himself to his elbows and rocks his hips forward sharply, making you sigh.

“Gonna mark you-” he groans as he starts to slam his hips into yours at an increasing pace, “Ain’t no other alpha ever gonna have you, ever gonna look at you again.”

You whine at the thrust, baring your neck, permitting him to fully make you his. He snarls, all alpha, as his hips slam into yours, eyes bleeding red before you have to close yours in overstimulation.

“No one will ever-”

Thrust.

“Touch you-”

Thrust.

“Again-”

He gives one final, brutal thrust, his hips slamming into yours.

The base of his cock swells, and you whimper against the stretch, a bolt of pain-pleasure through your pelvic ring as he expands, locking himself into you. Arthur grunts loudly as he lowers himself down on top of you, his cock twitching violently within you as hot spurts of spend paint your insides. As he finishes, his lips find your neck and his teeth encircle your weeping gland, and they sink into your flesh, causing you to cry out in both pain and relief. The feeling is so overwhelming that you shudder around him, gushing slick around him as you come.

In a knot of entangled limbs, damp with sweat, the two of you pant wearily as you return to your senses. Arthur gets up on his elbows, one of his hands reaching up to brush strands of hair out of your face. You open your eyes to see him smiling down at you, his lips stained with your blood before his tongue darts out to clean himself.

Your hands find his hair once again, affectionately smoothing it down. Arthur nuzzles against your forehead and you smile up at him with adoring eyes.

He glances back down to your neck, where a perfect circle of teeth marks your skin. Before he can linger, you make a small, needy noise and he leans up to kiss you again, adjusting his hips slightly as he covers your body with his. His knot holds strong, sheathing his flesh within yours.

As he kisses you and you clutch at him, his mind drifts to you in that dress, with your neck on display. How now, every man would see his mating mark on you.

How now, the world would know, you were his.

[venus-haze]

Your Name in Lights - Chapter 1 (Soldier Boy x Reader)

Summary: Nothing could have prepared you for your big break, co-starring in one of Soldier Boy's movies and the undeniable chemistry the two of you have on- and off-set. [AO3 Link | Masterlist]

Note: Woman reader, but no other descriptors are used. I left the time period intentionally ambiguous, but it has some '50s/'60s classic Hollywood vibes. The actress you're replacing and the director are made up for this fic.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: Period-typical misogyny. Implied age gap. Power imbalance. Soldier Boy is his own warning.

Sweat gathered at your brow under the bright studio lights, and you hoped it wouldn't show in the costume test photos being taken. You turned to the side at the photographer's direction, wondering what the hell you were even testing for in the first place. Your manager had called you at nearly five in the morning, telling you to come to the studio right away, because if you didn't, some other starlet would get the part. Practically everyone in the room looked stressed, from the costume designer with her furrowed brow to her assistant, hovering near the clothing rack.

"I'm sorry," you began, taking the dress that was handed to you once your navy blue sweater-skirt combo was adequately documented. Sleek, black, with a slit up the side. Obviously for a nightclub scene. You hadn't done many of those. "What movie is this for, again?"

"The latest Soldier Boy picture," your manager Frank said, following you behind the privacy screen toward the back of the room to help you into the dress. You'd long since foregone any sense of modesty around him, the only person looking out for you in Tinseltown.

"In what role?" You wiggled into the dress and peeked around the screen. "This is gonna have to be taken in around the bust."

"Are you kidding? You're the leading lady," he said, zipping up the dress for you.

Your eyes widened. "What happened to Olivia Yearly? I heard months ago that she was cast in Soldier Boy's latest picture."

"Stormed off set and quit. She's a real diva."

"But she's Olivia Yearly, and I'm—"

"You're gonna be a hundred Olivia Yearlys if you play your cards right with this one."

"I haven't even auditioned or done a screen test. How did they find me?"

"Audiences liked you in your last few pictures. It was the people over at Vought who wanted to take a chance on you," Frank said, letting you steady yourself on his shoulder as you slipped on the heels that accompanied the dress. Of course Vought had the muscle to get just about any studio to lend out their stars to them, who could pass up being in a movie with a superhero? "Besides, this way Soldier Boy won't have to share top billing, and obviously you won't be getting an Olivia Yearly salary, so it's a win-win for them."

"Frank—"

"Don't worry, kid, you're not getting stiffed."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

"They only filmed two scenes, small ones, from what I've heard, so it's not a big reshoot. You'll get the script this afternoon, the writers are changing a few things, a little less femme fatale, you know? I told them that's not your image."

You sighed. That wasn't your worry either, but Frank already had his mind made up. You'd only recently gotten fourth or fifth billing in your movies. Soldier Boy had been America's favorite leading man and a guaranteed box office draw for as long as he'd been on screen. It'd be a big break for you, the kind you always dreamed of. "Okay, let's give it a shot."

"Attagirl."

The script you received wasn't the most imaginative or groundbreaking, but it was good, a solid film noir that softened its femme fatale lead, the sultry Laura becoming the ingenue Laurie to accommodate introducing you to a wider audience next to Soldier Boy of all people. A sweet girl who'd become his partner and confidant as the plot progressed, eventually his lover by the end of the film. After all, Soldier Boy always got the girl.

From the moment he stepped into your powder pink dressing room, any notions you may have had about your co-star's clean-cut persona went out the window. The smell of marijuana took you aback. You recognized it, knew to stay the hell away from it unless you wanted a scandal that ended your career before it even began.

Still, you tried to be gracious and courteous, thanked him for taking a chance on you, let yourself giggle at the compliment he threw your way about how the makeup artist wasn't going to have a thing to do as long as you were in the picture. Except he steered the conversation clear off course. You supposed he expected you to be more naive than you let on, but you'd been around the industry to know better, tried to stay as professional as possible even though he kept pushing it.

"You know, if you ever wanna run lines, just you and me, I got a suite up at the Chateau Marmont," he said. "All the privacy you could want, get to know each other better."

"That won't be necessary," you said as politely as you could. "Thank you for the offer, though."

"Are you a virgin?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, it's either that, or you're frigid as hell. I can relieve whatever your issue is, sweetheart. You just say the word."

Your face heated up, and you turned away from him. "I'd like you to go now, please."

"Suit yourself," he said. "See you on set."

As soon as you heard the door shut, you reached for the glass of ice water on your vanity with a shaky hand and brought it to your forehead, staring at your bewildered expression in the brightly lit mirror in front of you.

No wonder Olivia Yearly quit, though you didn't dare imagine what he could've possibly said to her. But you had to try, if not for your own career, then for Frank's sake. He believed in you, even when you were just starting out in an industry that you'd seen cannibalize so many others. He must have pulled some impossible strings just to get you this role. You weren't going to let an unpleasant co-star ruin the opportunity of a lifetime.

Except he almost did, as you faltered ad fumbled your way through your scenes with him that first day. Frustration radiated off of the crew, and every time award-winning director Julian Garrett yelled 'cut', he sounded tired, as if he wondered if the movie were ever going to be made. They were all doing you a favor, especially the people at Vought, giving you a chance, and you had yet to prove you earned it. You knew if you didn't get it together, you wouldn't have another chance to.

Standing next to Soldier Boy by the facade of a made-up bar, you pushed your hair out of your face as a giant fan just out of frame kicked on to fabricate a windy night. The chill, the uncertainty, the tension, all set up perfectly for the scene.

"Haven't you ever had that feeling? Where you know something's not right, but you can't explain why?"

He nodded. "Sure I have, it's what's gotten me this far."

"Then you have to trust me, Soldier Boy," you implored. "Something about Everhart's plan doesn't seem right—seem on the level—"

"Cut!" Julian yelled.

Soldier Boy turned to the representative from Vought, hovering on set, probably a lawyer to cover any liabilities after the Olivia Yearly situation. "This is what you get for hiring some fresh piece of ass who doesn't know what she's doing."

Your hands balled into fists at your side. He said what everyone was surely thinking after having to start the scene over for the dozenth time, but it still hurt to hear. "I'll have you know my ass and I know exactly what we're doing!" you snapped. "Let's start from the top, Mr. Garrett. I'll get it this time."

The director sighed. "Alright, one more time."

When you turned back to face Soldier Boy, you caught a glimpse of his smile before it fell from his face in preparation for the scene.

The tension between you and everyone else on set fizzled out as you spoke, finally finding the sweet spot where you could match Soldier Boy's energy, your determination to succeed and prove him wrong far exceeding how intimidating you found your co-star until then.

"I really hope it won't take so long to get a performance like that out of you tomorrow," Julian said, looking relaxed for the first time all day.

"It won't. I promise."

"Better not," Soldier Boy muttered.

You kept your word, ran through your lines every night until you could hardly keep your eyes open, showed up on set early, even when Soldier Boy was an hour or two late, started getting on people's good sides, or maybe they were finally recognizing your potential now that you were only having to do two or three takes of each scene.

Despite your rocky start and the trepidation you felt about him, there was no denying Soldier Boy's charisma, how easy it was for you to play off of it. Then, between takes, he was more amicable, though you doubted his intentions were as mundane as wanting to get along with his coworker. But you found yourself flirting back when he did, telling yourself it was to keep up the chemistry between your characters rolling, even when the cameras weren't. Frank even told you over dinner one evening that industry chatter had already begun talking you up as the find of the year, whispers of your chemistry with Soldier Boy already drowning out the drama with his previous co-star.

During the second week of filming, the lawyer from Vought had pulled you aside to let you know someone from one of the big Hollywood gossip columns was going to be on set that week. You figured someone from Hedda Hopper's outfit, as she sung Soldier Boy's praises in her articles, though you read both her and Louella Parsons' columns religiously, especially after you were cast in the current picture, and public interest in you piqued. He didn't tell you about it to keep you informed, but rather to warn you to keep your mouth shut if you wanted your career to stay on the upward trajectory it was going.

You tried not to look at the unfamiliar woman too much, cigarette dangling from her lips, notepad and pen in hand, writing a sentence or two every so often. Her face was unreadable, but you tried not to let it get to you, not when the next scene was so important.

Outside of the same bar facade where you finally found your place in the film, you stood as Laurie in the black and white houndstooth coat you'd come to love, preparing to distract the two-faced Everhart so Soldier Boy could gather intel, the first big step in foiling his enemy's plan. Laurie was being thrown to the wolves.

"Soldier Boy," you simpered, "I don't know if I can do this without you."

"Laurie—"

Your eyes glistened with tears, voice breaking ever so softly as you placed a manicured hand on his chest. "No, I don't want to do this without you."

He took you in his arms and kissed you, deeply enough that you had to steady yourself on his biceps, that certainly wasn't in the script, but no one seemed to mind. "Be brave for me, honey," he husked against your lips.

"I'll try."

Again, his lips on yours, and you nearly lost yourself in his embrace until a loud "Cut!" tore through the scene.

Reluctantly, you pulled away from Soldier Boy. Your heart was racing. You could hardly gather the courage to look at him. It almost felt…real.

"Goddamn, I think that was it," Julian said.

"Should we do another take?" the assistant director asked.

"I don't know if we'll get anything better than that. Yeah, let's go through it one more time."

Out of the corner of your eye, the columnist scribbled frantically in her notepad.

The rest of the day, it seemed like you and Soldier Boy were on fire, requiring fewer takes as scenes grew tenser, more intimate—close-ups on yearning faces, the subtle brushing of hands, worried glances across the room. More than once, you felt your heart actually skip a beat when you made eye contact with him.

The movie magic dissolved by night, and a well-deserved day-off of filming awaited you in the morning—as did headlines that screamed of the latest Hollywood romance, spurred on by a photo the columnist had taken the day before, Soldier Boy and Starlet Sizzle on Set!

Starlet. You frowned. They couldn't have even bothered to use your name?

Small potatoes, Frank assured you over the phone when you called him about the papers, soon enough, your name would be in lights.

Vought was certainly pleased with the way you stole the focus from Soldier Boy's beef with his former co-star, all eyes on the two of you with just murmurs of undeniable chemistry.

"So, how does dinner sound? Anywhere you want," Frank said.

"Anywhere?"

"Sure, you're the talk of the town. Long as Soldier Boy's with you."

"Tell him it's his choice," you said. You'd make the most of the good press as you could, play his game within reason if it meant finally getting somewhere in your career.

"Alright, well, he'll probably pick you up around eight."

"Here?" You glanced around your modest apartment. Decently furnished for when you had a few friends over for drinks, though the striped wallpaper was peeling, and you were more than used to the smell of mothballs that permeated the air. "No, Frank, that won't do. Have him pick me up at your office downtown."

"You got it," your manager said before hanging up the phone.

By the time Soldier Boy picked you up, you'd already helped yourself to some of the bourbon you knew Frank kept in his office to settle your nerves. The drive wasn't too bad, he wasn't as handsy as you were anticipating, a bit disappointing, if you were being honest with yourself.

Somehow, word of your and Soldier Boy's date was leaked ahead of time, a crowd of fans and reporters waiting outside of the nightclub for your arrival. Its simple, sleek white facade would've been classy if not for the giant neon palm tree sign next to the actual palm trees.

You offered your best smile for the cameras, played up your relationship with Soldier Boy, giving him a kiss on the cheek and practically clinging to his side.

"It's been such a dream working with him," you told one reporter. "I couldn't ask for a better leading man."

As for whether or not the rumors of romance were true, "A lady doesn't kiss and tell," Soldier Boy said, his arm around your waist as he finally ushered you inside. The gaudy, tropical-inspired decor throughout the club was almost tacky, but you supposed it had a certain charm to it.

Sitting down in the booth reserved for the two of you, you felt like you just finished running a marathon as you settled into the plush red upholstery.

Soldier Boy looked at you, amused, "Just wait 'til the movie actually comes out, sweetheart."

A waiter arrived, asking if you'd like to start with drinks or hear the specials first.

"What're you drinking?" Soldier Boy asked.

"Bourbon, neat," you said.

"Make that two." He turned to you, his green eyes giving you a once-over, as if regarding you differently than he had before. "I wouldn't peg you as a bourbon girl."

"It's what was in my manager's office earlier," you said, quickly adding, "I don't make it a habit."

He nodded. "Good girl."

You didn't know whether or not to be grateful when the waiter arrived with your drinks, giving you an excuse to look away from him for a moment, flustered by the simple praise.

Soldier Boy waved him off after the glasses were set down, claiming you needed more time to look at the menu.

"Look, I know we didn't start on the best foot," he began, almost reluctantly, "but you're not half bad. And you kiss like you mean it. I can't tell you the number of times I've had to kiss a broad for a scene and might as well have been kissing cardboard."

"So I'm not frigid?"

He chuckled. "Hell no."

The two of you so engrossed in conversation, you'd forgotten to even look at the menu when the waiter returned, and Soldier Boy ended up ordering for you—as soon as the two of you were alone again, he muttered something about the drinks being the only thing worth going to the place for. The dry baked potato and rubbery steak presented to you on an otherwise gorgeous plate proved him right, and you tried your best to pick at your food without too much of a puss on your face.

Drinks kept flowing, and you switched from bourbon to your usual order, though Soldier Boy was outpacing you by a mile.

"How are you not plastered?" you asked.

"Takes about three times as much alcohol to get me drunk than a normal person."

"What's it like, being a superhero? I mean, I've met plenty of other actors, but no one like you," you said.

"It's a lot of responsibility," he began, his canned answer disappointing you a bit, "from the day I was born I had these powers, I don't know why it was me over anyone else, but I have to use them to help people, to do good."

"But what does it feel like? Some kind of adrenaline rush coursing through your veins? Is it something that just happens?"

"You asking if being a supe gets me hard?"

Your face heated up, "No, not like that, I mean—"

"I don't get whisky dick, I can promise you that, sweetheart."

"Have you ever heard of subtlety?"

He shook his head. "That's the limit of my powers. I can do everything but fly and be subtle."

Despite yourself, you laughed. Maybe it was the drinks, or finally having a chance to talk to Soldier Boy outside of a professional setting let you scratch just beneath the surface of the world's first superhero. Since his debut, when the country was in desperate need of a superhero like him, there had been other supes, each with unique powers, but none inspired the awe that he did.

Over the course of the conversation, he moved in closer to you, your space becoming his until you finished your drink, and he managed to talk you into just one more, his hand squeezing your thigh.

"The table service takes too long, I don't mind going up to the bar," you said.

He shrugged, and you took that as permission to go ahead as you slid out of the booth. Not quite steady on your feet, you made it to the bar in one piece, feeling light as you told the bartender your orders.

The bar's polished surface allowed you to see your reflection—and Olivia Yearly's, right next to you. Striking black hair with hardly a strand out of place, green eyes practically made for technicolor, and her signature pouty red lips, you tried not to swoon at the sight of her. She didn't pay any attention to you, of course she wouldn't, she had no real reason to, until you forced yourself to speak up and say something to one of your idols.

"Miss Yearly? I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm such a big fan," you said.

"Thank you. It's always nice to—" She raised a neatly plucked eyebrow. "Hold on, you're that new girl, the one in the Soldier Boy picture, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"He hasn't scared you off yet? You can't be that desperate for a job."

"Soldier Boy's been a wonderful co-star," you said.

She scoffed, her upper lip curling in a sneer. "How much is Vought paying you to say that? He's the most shameless, unprofessional man I've ever had the displeasure of sharing a sound stage with, and I've been on a lot."

"I know, I've seen almost all of your movies," you confessed quietly.

"Then take my advice, stay the hell away from him, and that company, too."

"What did he even do—"

"Olivia," Soldier Boy said coldly, appearing at your side unexpectedly. "Surprised the place made an exception to its 'no hag' policy for you."

You nearly gasped. Olivia Yearly was a star. A goddess. An institution. Definitely not a—

"Hag? Who the hell do you think you're talking to you fucking—"

"Just shove it, Liv."

"You're digging your damn grave if you stick around the sorry likes of him," she shot at you before storming off.

He scowled, moving so he blocked her retreating figure from your line of sight. "Whatever that bitch told you about me—she's gonna be old news as soon as they see you on that screen. That’s why she's trying to scare you."

"Do you really think so?" you asked, trying to ignore the doubt that crept up on you.

"She sure as hell couldn't kiss like you can."

As if to prove it, he leaned in, his plush lips pressed against yours, the same sparks you felt on set flying between you. His hands on your hips, soft and strong as he pulled you closer, something like that couldn't be faked, not so naturally as the two of you seemed to do. Almost couldn't help but lose yourself in his embrace—until a camera flashed in your peripheral vision, tearing you from the intimacy of the kiss and reminding you that you were only there with him for publicity. You wondered if it could ever be anything more.

Taglist: @waynes-multiverse @youdontknowe @sl33pylilbunny @ladykitana90 @urmomissuperhotsworld @riah1606

[fandomofhappiness]

Aizawa Shouta & Shinsou Hitoshi Father-Son Dynamic Big Recomendation Fic List for starters and not

Hi everyone! After quite a long time, I finally post my Recommendation Fic List (the crowning glory of my stay in the MHA fandom) of Aizawa and Shinsou Father-Son Dynamic.

I always start reading fanfiction before I even finished read the original, what does that says about me?

I became familiar with a fairly common theory that Shinsou Hitoshi is an orphan with a rather dread past, which, of course, activated a huge curiosity in me. I tried to analyze the trend, and I will say that it's quite clear: People were infected with the idea, where abused Hitoshi was somehow saved by Aizawa. And so was I. I've read for almost hundread of any combinations of this trend and NOW I finally ready to present my Fic List.

Attention. I will attach UNFINISHED fanfics, but which actively (or not so) updated, because they are masterpieces.

WARNING! I do not attach stories which contain:

ships (except Erasermic and 2-3 ShinKami but they are not MAIN)

alpha/beta/omega thing

too fluffy and too family-oriented fics (there will be ones, but I don't want to make them a centre of my list

I cut Rec List on different genre sections (read: dynamics) and add fanfics from the most angst ones to fluffy ones so you can easily pick what you like most ;)

So, let's start!

fandomofhappiness's personal top

You Want It Darker by Ms_Chunks Genres: Shinsou Has Family, Gore and Murder, Detective, Mentor and Parental Aizawa Status: FINISHED (533,808 words) foh's comment: Highly interesting! Shinsou here is not represented as perfect kid or downtrodden teenager, he is the way I liked him in anime and manga: he bites, hisses, snaps, makes sarcastic jokes and does not allow anyone hurt him. Aizawa and Shinsou very slowly gain trust from each other, but that makes their relationship seem sincere, and not caricatured. Read for the detective, the non-orthodox view of the Hitoshi family and Erasermic. READ THE TAGS and be aware!

Fundamental Theorem of Heroics by NightowlRobin Genres: Foster Kid Shinsou, Vigilante Shinsou, Heavy Angst, Parental Aizawa Status: UNFINISHED but updates weekly (more 700k words) foh's comment: Truly FUNDAMENTAL work of all Shinsou Hitoshi stories on ao3. I'd so like to confess my true respect and love to the NightowlRobin for their most mind-blowing plot and detailising. (You will probably meet Aizawa only after 10 chapters. And it will take even longer until Hitoshi and him properly meet.) This is an epochal work that will make you believe in Hitoshi's true character and make you cry of his story because it's really brutal. I think this is the favourite work of everyone who liked Shinsou with all their hearts.

To Turn A Man Into A Stone by tanli Genres: Foster Kid Shinsou, Angst, Mentor Aizawa Status: FINISHED (15,128 words) foh's: comment: Even months after I read this work, I look back on it and think: the author did an 11/10 job. Just so you understand: this is the best example of how I see the relationship between Aizawa and Shinsou. It is the apotheosis of sincerity and affection. It is a test of will, deep introspection and acceptance. It performed so well that it seemed to me that the author wrote a chapter for the manga. Damn, the author did a lot better than the mangaka. If the previous two works were not so high-quality and grandiose, I would've put this one at the very top of my list.

If Lies Had A Flavor by scooter3scooter Genres: Foster Kid Shinsou, Erasermic Adopt Shinsou, Heavy Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eating Disorders Status: FINISHED (10,003 words) foh's comment: Perhaps one of the many angst works written by scooter3scooter, which I have reread more than once or even twice. This work is special to me, because I have never seen such an interesting look at the consequences of Shinsou's stay in an orphanage. Complex and emotional work. It is truly an honour to get acquainted with such a vast problem of humanity as eating disorder through this fanfic.

crybaby by Brachydios Genres: Foster Kid Shinsou, Erasermic Help Shinsou, Heavy Angst & Eventual Comfort, Canon Divergence Status: FINISHED (51,219 words) foh's comment: I've read this work more times than I can remember. Brachydios came into my life with this incredible work and tore me apart from the inside. I believe in every detail they describe, every character move is justified. I want to sympathize with Shinsou over and over again. One of the best Quirk-Shenanigans trope that has brought 1017 people to tears - be the next one. The performance is 100 of 10.

How It Goes by Ibelieveinahappilyeverafter Genres: Foster Kid Shinsou, Erasermic Adopt Shinsou, Heavy Angst & Eventual Comfort Status: FINISHED (20,021 words) foh's comment: This is one of the best written Foster Kid Shinsou stories ever. Hitoshi's adaptation, his thoughts and feelings, his panic, his fear of going back to the orphanage are described in a deep sincere way here. It's a heartbreaking story about the fear of punishment, taking consenquences and family. It was very personal for me and I hope you get a lot emotions after reading it.

Faith by slightlycrunchy Genres: Mentor and Parental Aizawa, Anxious Shinsou, Hurt/Comfort, School Situation Status: FINISHED (2,651 words) foh's comment: This work is also quite personal choice of mine. I wouldn't say it's grandiose, but it's very emotional for me. For the kid who worries about grades all their life, who is afraid to make a mistake, who is afraid to lose everything because of one mistake and who doesn't know how to accept their failures. I ask you to read this if my words resonate in your soul. This is the truth that we all need to hear.

Absolute Tops

Point Blank by Cobbiest foh's rec: an interesting, intriguing and beautifully written Shinsou's journey to become a part of Erasermic Family (and hero)

Deathworlders to the extreme! by AquaStarDark foh's rec: that's the funniest, most captivating and rocking people-are-space-orcs thing that I've read, really worths reading

I Would Understand by deafmic foh's rec: that is the first things first to read if you're new here, but tnh I wasn't ready for this work and dropped it once or twice before I finally made it and read it, it's really really good, but I wouldn't recommended as first-to-read.

Back to the Nest by Mags_Pie foh's rec: such a sweet thing about children and their parents. I was smiling so much.

Everything is different (since you've been around) by Plasmapause foh's rec: and THIS is how I see the best written relationship between Shinsou & Aizawa AND Shinsou & Yamada, they're building trust and becoming family very slowly BUT you really believe in these life situations that happen to Hitoshi, it is very sincere and touchy work.

It's not always easy. by ethgri foh's rec: and THIS is the HEAVIEST work I've read and really recommend it. The emotions are real and naked, I practically felt the same pain. Please be ready for heart journey, this is a brutal masterpiece.

Herding Cats by Robbirdthe8th (FictionalFeather) foh's rec: the COOLEST detective wotk, have nothing to say - just read it.

Margay by Oceanbreeze7 foh's rec: one of best ever written Shinsou.

QueNouilleCroustillante (the author of AUs that you won't forget: you may know theirs Bright Stars, but I beg you to read all of their works)

deafmic (you guys do know deafmic, that's deafmic's section for Aizawa and Shinsou, it's all too fucking good)

Mentorship Dynamics

More than a cry by Assassin Bug

Stubborn choices by Madaver

Not In The Job Description by ididntneedanewfandom (prettyvk)

Voices by SquirrelWriter

mind break by baggytshirtsandtiredeyes

The Lilac Garden by Mars_is_Gone

the night was a gelid, bitter, and biting thing by sonrissa

Countdown by Mags_Pie

polished doubt, fake sentiment by s_beth

Consequences by 22FluffyTheSpider123

Legacy by the_crownless_queen

Aizawa's Warmth by LoveableMink

Hitoshi Shinsou's Not-So-Smart Training Method by maarvehl

Keep Him Safe by Mags_Pie

stealing is bad? by borlios

Learning Curve by Cyborg_Franky

Play Along by eillo

from one foot to the other by ohwickedsoul

Family Dynamics

So this section I prefer to divide in two subsections:

fanfics where Shinsou is heavely traumatised and learns how to handle it with Eraser(-mic) help (Section A)

fanfics where Shinsou traumatises world around him and still learns how to handle it (Section B)

P.S.: section B comes first, because I love how authors perform Shinsou. They captured his audacity, intelligence and rebelliousness, he's learning from his traumas but does it shitty, and that is really interesting.

Family Dynamics Section B:

When the Darkness Fades by BlueCats

Growing Up (is harder than it looks) by BlueCats

Concerning (Some-)Things by Tododorkey (ApolloBlackwood)

The Beginning of Always by meow_z_z_z

First Day of School by Jyxnie

Split Lip; Silver Tongue by CreamcheeseBagel

Unforgettable by deafmic

A Lesson in Vengeance by Smurfee

somewhere in my heart of hearts (i knew it all along) by bototyelenol

Call to Eraserhead by sukeruton

surviving on elevated cortisol and spilt coffee by Crykea

How to Win the Sports Festival: A Step by Step Guide by mhwright

Hitoshi Shinsou's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Days by Princeliest

Tight-Lipped Belief by Robbirdthe8th (FictionalFeather)

House of the Rising Sun by caprisunontherocks

Family Dynamics Section A:

Just A Phone Call Away by odymcbea

Twist My Words by CreamcheeseBagel

Take Care (of me) by scooter3scooter

it’s in the way he- by scooter3scooter

masterpiece of nature by Brachydios

spare the rod by Brachydios

Not Today (Tomorrow it May Change) by deafmic

You're an Alien? by Badum_tsh

Pardon My Presence by ShiDreamin

Everything Will Be A-Okay by nikouji

Lucky Cat by deafmic

The Misadventures of the Yamazawa Family by ComplicatedSquishy101

Home Alone by fecklessphilanderer

a voice your body jumps to callin' out your name by sparrowsAce, wander_wren

Last (First) Adventure by deafmic

You've Got A Heart As Loud As Lions by Robbirdthe8th (FictionalFeather) (warning! this work contains sexual abuse. I felt it was a difficult decision to include this here, as it is an incredibly complex topic and also incredibly important. This work is written with such respect and love, with such sensitivity, I cannot even begin to express it in words. Please, if this topic is disturbing and triggering to you, please be careful to read it.)

This concludes my top list. I finished reading about two months ago and plan to return soon and see what new and good is being written along this Father-Son trope. If you have any other cool works that are not presented here and you want to share them, send them into comments. I would be very glad! Thank you for attention!

[obitez]

Home Run

For @bucktommywinterfest

Round 8: Sports AU

Rating: G | Word Count: 2.880

Warnings: None

Additional Tags: AU - Baseball, No firefighting, Fluff

Full fic on AO3!

~~~~~~

Tommy pulled his old pickup truck into a spot in the employee section of the Ripken stadium parking lot. Through the windshield, right by the door, he could spot Chimney standing there, waiting for him. 

“Tommy!” the man called out to him as he got out of the truck. Chimney had a huge smile on his face. “It’s been forever man!” 

“Howie,” Tommy smiled as he greeted the other man. They had known each other for a long while, back into Tommy’s college days.  

“How long has it been since we worked on the same team?” Chimney asked. 

Tommy hummed. “Last time I checked, probably college.” 

Chimney laughed. “Well, how about I show you around.” 

“Sure thing.” 

It wasn’t a large stadium, barely larger than the college stadium he had coached at the year before (other than the parking lot, the parking lot was a lot larger). Chimney showed him a couple offices, and the locker rooms, then took him down to the field. 

“And here’s batting practice,” Chimney said, motioning with his arm at the players on the field. 

They stood from the sidelines, watching the batting practice that was taking place. Buckley was batting. He had a good swing, great form, good follow through, and great power - if only he wasn’t missing so many pitches.

“Who’s that?” Tommy asked as Chimney came to stand next to him. 

“The guy batting?” Chimney added. Tommy nodded. “That’s Evan Buckley, signed right out of high school last year.  He’s not too bad. If you ask me, he’s one of Bobby’s favorites.” 

“Bobby’s favorites?” Tommy asked. 

“I know you’ve worked with him before,” Chimney said as he nudged him in the side. “You know as well as I do that Bobby picks favorites. You were one of his as well.” 

Yeah, Tommy remembered. He had first met Bobby when he was playing at North Carolina State and Bobby was the General Manager there. Bobby had taken a large liking to him back then, and it was something that Tommy hadn’t missed. Now, over ten years later, Bobby was the General Manager of the Ironbirds, one of the Orioles farm teams. When he had heard that Tommy had been let go as one of the coaches of UCLA’s baseball team at the end of the college season, he had been quick to reach out and offer Tommy a job. 

Tommy had no other offers at the time, so he took Bobby up on it. 

“So what position does he play?” Tommy asked, looking back at the man still at the plate. 

“He rotates between outfield and first base.” 

“And what are his stats like?” 

“Not too bad,” Chimney said. “Second year on the team. As of last weekend, he hit his fourteenth home run. Batting average over 300, 50 hits, 26 RBIs.”

None of those were really bad for the start of July.

“What are the chances of him being brought up?” Tommy asked.

Chimney hummed as he thought over the conversation he had with Bobby a couple days ago. “Pretty high,” he said. “It probably won’t happen until next season with the ways things are playing out.” Tommy nodded. He understood how that all worked. 

“So then how about I introduce them to our new batting coach,” Chimney said as he knocked Tommy on the shoulder. 

“What?!” Tommy asked. “Before we even talk to Bobby?” 

“Oh come on, you should know you have the job already!” Chimney said. 

[quailbuster]

Loose Threads

-ONGOING, PART ONE-

CHECK OUT PART TWO HERE

Check it out on ao3! Kudos go a long way:))

Pairing: Javier Peña x Female Reader

Summary: A series of Flashbacks from your tumultuous relationship with Javier Peña.

Warnings: Explicit, Sexual content, Angst, mixed race reader, mentions of miscarriage, Grumpy Javier, Original characters, NON-LINEAR storytelling, swearing, slight reader x original character but that's a teeny sideplot, Leon is based on gabriel luna's version of tommy miller sorry he's so fine, poor mother relationship, ONGOING

Author's note: This is the first fic I've posted since 2021, first javi fic AND first x reader fic God! so many firsts! this is part ONE, includes two flashbacks :)

January 3, 1994

Houston, Texas

He was standing beside a flickering street lamp when you saw him, a moth floating not too far from his scruffy brunette hair, and the cigarette smoke from between his roughed-up fingers deterred it from landing on his shoulder. He took a long drag, eyes fluttering shut as he inhaled the taste of tobacco, tar, and some other bullshit you used to try and lecture him for. His other hand was stuffed into his jean pocket, and the exhalation of smoke was shooing away the moth that threatened to poke his eye this time. He looked like something straight out of a 1950s film.

He must have heard the light tapping of your shoes as you stalked over to his spot because his eyes shot open and his head turned towards you, hand now hovering over the gun in his other pocket. Once he realised who it was, his stance loosened, hand stuffed back into his jean pocket. He cleared his throat and took another inhale. You continued walking, stopping just a foot away to place a cigarette of your own into your mouth, holding your hand out to signal for a lighter.

You never used to smoke, a disgusting habit that your father exposed you to one too many times as a kid. One that he eventually passed away from. One that might have caused you to be attracted to men with the disgusting habit if you wanted to look at it from a Freudian perspective. You used to hate that the man next to you smoked.

“No soy tu novio.” He would say when you asked him to quit one night. You’d been sleeping together for nearly half a year by that point. He’d never tried to put a label on it, and you never dared to ask for fear of losing the best sex you’d ever had. You slept, cigarette smoke irritating your sinuses every night you stayed over.

As irony would have it, after he left you so abruptly that final night, the only thing that you could do was light a cigarette every once in a while. It distracted you enough to function, but it still hurt, all the same, seeing him like this again, hair falling across his forehead, moustache twitching slightly every time he took a drag, those beautiful brown eyes that you used to spend so long looking into in hopes of finding any silver of emotion towards you.

A cold metal Zippo lighter touched your hand. You quickly lit a flame while inhaling, passing the cube back to him. He usually used BIC lighters, so you wondered if someone had caused him to change.

“You cut your hair.” He pointed out, a seemingly drab remark which nevertheless made the dormant butterflies in your belly flutter awake. He never noticed before, why now? Why when it was the late hours of ass-o’clock did he notice something so miniscule? You trimmed your hair at home earlier in the morning, fingers twitching from the lack of nicotine in your system. Maybe that’s why he’d noticed. You’d done a horrible job on your ends.

“That bad?” You strained before a long exhale, turning your head towards him. You could’ve sworn you saw the hint of a smile before he took another long drag of his nearly-finished cigarette.

“Looks… nice.”

He paused.

“Could’ve done a better job on your ends.”

A soft chuckle was shared and he stepped on his cigarette, now burned to the filter. The pestering moth from before started to fly across his face. He moved away from it, closer to you. Your shoulders brushed against each other as you tried to avoid his soft stare.

“Lo siento.”

- September 13, 1987

Houston, Texas

“I think she likes you, Javi.”

Javier took a swig from his drink, hoping to avoid this conversation. Lorraine was still in the back of his mind.

“You tellin’ me you wouldn’t go for a woman like that? You need to get your brain checked, man. I’m goin’ over there.”

“Do whatever you want.”

You were in Houston for just a week, for your little sister’s shotgun wedding to a narcissistic older man. Probably 15 years her senior. She was utterly enamoured, and wouldn’t stop gushing about her perfect fiance with the loads of cash. Everyone knew why they got engaged. They had only met three months before. Tonight was her bachelorette party, and of course, she chose to spend it in a Todd's. Freshly 21, pregnant, yet still choosing to drink the biggest fucking glass of a mojito you’d ever seen in your life. She didn’t finish it, though. She switched over to an OJ after throwing up in the bathroom after a couple of gulps. Drinking away secret sorrows never ended well for her.

You weren't entirely engrossed in the ramblings of your sister's friend group. They were sweet girls, just not your crowd by a long shot. So, when you entered the bar, you started scanning the place to find some interesting people to stare at. Of course, your eyes landed on a man too attractive for his own good. His masculine aura enticed you. The second he reciprocated your stare though, your head snapped back, pretending to nod at something one of the girls said about her college coursework. If only you'd shaved today.

Suddenly, you felt a tap on your shoulder, the women in front of you stopping the conversation to gesture at the source. You turned your head to see an attractive man your age, maybe a year or two older. He smiled and asked you to dance. You turned your head towards the dance floor. There were probably about 5 people showing off their measly dance moves to their partners. You nodded and let him lead you towards the floor, listening as your girlfriends giggled and whispered amongst themselves.

The mysterious man had suave. His long hair was perfectly pushed back and he smelled of sweet cologne.

“Leon, darlin’.” He replied when you asked for his name. The two of you shared a slow dance to the music, his hand a soft grip on your waist. He seemed respectful, attractive, and God, you couldn't stop smelling him. You wondered if you were ovulating. Visually, he was exactly your type on paper. Leon looked like a man your dad would shake the hand of and say “Muy Bien, muy bien.” with a smile on his face. He swept you off your feet. You just couldn’t help but feel like there was a hole being burned into the back of your skull. A nagging feeling, telling you to look behind you.

So you did, and as Leon spun you around, you saw it.

That man. The man he was with. The one you were eyeing earlier, hoping he would pull you into the back alley and fuck the life out of you.

He was staring at the both of you, drink in hand. You couldn’t quite decipher the look on his face, though you didn’t even have much time to before Leon took you back in his arms and the music changed to something more upbeat. You talked for a bit, while he took you back to the bar and you tried to swallow the massive lump that was now growing in your throat.

The man was turned back around, swirling what was left of his beer. He spoke up once you reached the bar, and you somehow knew exactly what his voice would sound like. With slight amusement to his tone, not looking up from his glass, he said “Gettin’ lucky tonight, Leon?” and Leon chuckled awkwardly, looking at you with an apologetic expression. The man finally looked up, and Leon patted your back, introducing you to him. His eyebrow twitched up ever so slightly, and when you took out your hand to shake his, you felt a jolt of electricity between your legs just from staring at his frame. He cleared his throat and reached for your hand, staring deeply into your eyes. You shook it as he quickly darted his eyes over your body, barely noticeable. But of course, you noticed.

“Nice to meet you.”

Leon told you his name was Javier, and Javier shot him a glare when he told you they were brothers. Almost as if he was forced to be here too.

“What would you like, Darlin’?” Leon asked, already accustomed to the pet name he’d given you on the dance floor.

“Surprise me.” You smiled and waited silently as you listened to Leon talk animatedly about Houston. He and his brother were complete opposites. Javier only added his 50 cents when Leon would get something wrong about their hometown, Kingsville.

“It’s been a while…” He chuckled, “So what about you, where you from?” He finally asked you.

You saw Javier look up at you, still with that unreadable expression on his face, but obviously waiting to hear your answer. You wondered if he’d been hurt in the past for him to be so cold, or if that was just his regular state. It was getting to be a bit of a turn-on.

“Well, I’m mixed with Texan. Wanna guess?”

While Leon threw around a bunch of completely wrong answers, your eyes trailed over Javier, scanning every inch of his body. He was dressed in jeans, and a black shirt with the buttons open just enough that you could see his chest hair poking through. Something about him made your lower half burn in a crude anticipation. He was painfully attractive in this lighting.

When your eyes trailed back up, you suddenly realised he was staring at you the entire time. His eyebrow raised and you turned red, heart quickening to unimaginable speeds from embarrassment as he took another sip of his beer, focusing his attention towards Leon, who you tuned out a while ago. You felt guilty for eyeing his brother like this, but you’d just met the guy. It didn’t really matter.

“C’mon, there’s no way you ain’t from Hawaii! I give up. Javi, wanna take a shot at this?”

You turned your head back towards him, he pondered for a moment.

“¿Hablas español?”

Fuck.

Your eyebrows shot up, locking eyes with him. Leon rolled his eyes, “Hey, I already tried that one.” You ignored him as you replied with, “Sí, hablo español.”

“Colombia.”

You smiled, “Sorry Leon, he got it right.”

“Fuck, what the fuck? How’d you guess that shit so fast, man?” He asked in disbelief, you sensed that he might’ve noticed your little… ‘distraction’ earlier. But if he did, he didn’t point it out. You silently thanked the universe for avoiding the awkwardness.

Javier shrugged, made a noise, and finished off his beer.

“I didn’t think it would be that hard.” You laughed before a hurried clack of heels started increasing in volume.

One of the girls at your table greeted the two men next to you, “Hey, Hi!”

She turned her attention back to you, “Emergency. Tanya’s goin’ through it right now.” You snapped your head back to see your sister, Tanya, sobbing by a parking meter outside. You panicked and shot an apologetic look and a wave to the two men before being dragged outside. Javier stole your drink.

“Tanya, what the fuck happened?” You knelt next to her small frame, lightly shaking her shoulders. She only sobbed as she showed you her bloodied dress and fingers and all you could do was hold her until she calmed down enough to leave.

To much confusion from both families, her fiance called off the wedding the day after, and everyone flew home.

-

[apomaro-mellow]

Lambing ch 1/? Read on AO3

the stedissy secret adoption omegaverse fic that i put in the steddie fic adopt community

There was silence in the Hagan house tonight. However it wasn’t the peaceful silence of a household asleep. No, the silence came after the frantic chaos of just an hour before. Steve Hagan had awakened, suddenly in distress. Something felt wrong. It didn’t take long to figure out why. Now, the mess was cleaned, the bed sheets changed, and he was in a fresh nightgown and his husband was back to sleep.

The days when Tommy would comfort him over this were gone now. This was the third time after all. Once everything was done and they were settled back into bed, he simply said, “We’ll try again later” and then bid him good night. Steve knew he must smell something awful. Bitter and astringent, he didn’t know how Tommy could sleep so easily. As much as he tried, Steve knew he couldn’t escape his own scent. But he could stay here in this bed.

Quietly, he got out, slipped on his bed jacket and left the bedroom. He felt like a phantom, haunting the halls of the house in the dark until he got to the nursery. Or rather, what would have been the nursery. Steve brought a hand to his mouth, just barely covering a sob. He slid down along the doorframe, his shoulders shaking but his voice producing no sound. He knew he shouldn’t feel like this. He should let it roll off of his back like his husband.

And yet it broke his heart all the same. The first time, Tommy had kissed him sweetly, had blamed it on Steve trying to do too much as a new wife, had assured him that it wasn’t his fault. He’d understood when Steve didn’t leave the bed for a week, he’d even stayed home with him. The second time, Tommy had rubbed his back as he cried and didn’t force Steve to attend outings but still went out himself.

Tomorrow there was a party. And Steve knew that this time he would be expected to be present. It was an open secret that Jason Carver would be proposing to Chrissy Cunningham tomorrow. Jason and Tommy were close partners. Steve couldn’t even imagine having to congratulate Miss Cunningham on her soon to be engagement. Steve wasn’t that familiar with her, only Jason through Tommy. But she would be Jason’s wife soon and he needed to begin establishing a kind of relationship with her. 

He couldn’t sleep. He knew trying to do so would be an exercise in futility. But he also knew that Tommy would be disappointed if he woke up in bed without him. He wiped his face, breathed deep and long for a while, then stood. He gave the nursery a final look before shutting the door on it and returning to bed. If there was one thing he wished the future Mrs. Carver, he hoped she had better luck conceiving and carrying a child.

Chrissy giggled as she was kissed from the tip of her middle finger all the way up to her shoulder. Her sleeve acted as a barrier and yet she felt the heat of it anyway. It felt incredibly bold doing something like this in broad daylight, but there weren’t many windows on this side of the house and the view from both sides was obscured by tall hedges. She knew her beau wouldn’t risk it otherwise.

“Like sweet cream and sunshine.”

“Sweet-talker.”

“Ah, but ‘tis true my lady.”

“Eddie~”

“Madame~”

“Stop”, she giggled again. But he continued, kissing her cheek and then whispering sweet nothings into her ear. She didn’t want him to cease anyway. These secret stolen moments with him were one of the only things she had to look forward to right now. Especially with her impending engagement…

Chrissy had been born into a wealthy family and unfortunately, Eddie was not a wealthy man. He was rich in his soul, it was what had drawn Chrissy to him as he tended to the garden of her childhood home. What began as a tender yet shy flirtation as teenagers blossomed into a secret love as they reached adulthood. They were of different worlds and yet Eddie courted her with all the cordiality he had in his bones. Were they allowed to be open, he certainly would have proposed and made an honest woman of her.

But it was not to be. Chrissy knew that Jason would be proposing at the party today. She knew that once that was set in stone, she wouldn’t be able to be alone with Eddie like this. It made her burn for something more than kisses and light touches. But Eddie was a proper alpha and never pushed forward, even when they could smell each other’s desire.

Eddie could smell her getting dour now and moved to kneel in front of her, holding both of her hands.

“E-Eddie?”

“~It won't be a stylish marriage~ I can't afford a carriage~ But you'll look sweet upon the seat~ Of a bicycle built for two!” He kissed her knuckles. “I can’t give you a ring. And I can’t promise you anything but myself. But I’ll always be here. You call my name and I’ll be at your feet.”

Chrissy smiled down at him. She pulled one hand away and petted at the short curls upon his head. “Like a loyal little pup?”

Eddie barked and Chrissy laughed as she scratched behind his ear and he bounced his leg. Eddie always knew how to put a smile on her face. So when he had to get dressed for the party tonight, she was still walking on air. It felt odd, putting on such a pretty yellow dress when the radio spoke of war and the world falling apart. So she turned it off. No one she knew was off fighting, although she knew husbands and brothers of acquaintances that did.

Tonight she would be fighting her own battle, so she put her war paint on in the form of her favorite lipstick. 

All was going well tonight. Tommy had complimented him on how he looked in his dress. His breathing was even and the music kept him from thinking too much. Steve was doing an amazing job holding it together. Something he had learned long ago was that decorum would keep people in polite society from mentioning ugly things in public. He had lost the milky sweet scent that came with pregnancy already but no one said a word. They all must know though. The first time Steve had been so ashamed, he wore scent blockers for six months, long after the baby would have come, had it survived. 

He thought any and everyone would throw it in his face, his failure as a wife and supposed mother. Now though, he knew better. People possibly had remarks in private, but no one said anything to his face. He still went without drinking though. He didn’t trust himself around it right now. Tommy was by his side most of the night until Jason called him over when at the same time Steve felt a bit dizzy.

“You go. I’m going to sit down for a bit.” Steve felt like he was wobbling in his heels but no one commented, so he must look well enough. He looked for somewhere to sit and the couch was right there, but it was also in the center of everything. And the longer he looked, the more he felt short of breath. So another room wasn’t the answer either.

Steve eventually found his way to a patio in the back. And thank the stars, there was a patio set. He sat down, taking a deep breath. Summer was good to them right now and the night was pleasantly warm.

“Too boisterous for you?”, a voice said in the darkness, causing Steve to jump to his feet and look around. A man pushed off from the wall just next to him, he’d been covered in the shadows.

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Steve looked him up and down. He wore a simple white button down, his slacks held by suspenders and a flat cap finished the look. It was the lack of a jacket, the slight wrinkle to his clothes and the stain on his shirt that told Steve he was a member of the staff.

“No harm done”, Steve said, pushing some hair behind his ear. It was short, just barely coming off his nape. He’d worn it long his entire life. But after the second loss, he had chopped it in a fit of shame, guilt, and rage. 

“They’re a lively bunch, aren’t they?”, the man said, gesturing towards the interior of the house.

Steve looked just in time to see Jason lead Miss Cunningham across the room and into another, supposedly to pop the question.

“It’s a momentous occasion”, Steve said. He remembered his engagement to Tommy. How hopeful and happy he had felt.

“Mmn”, his conversation partner said before taking a drag from his cigarette that Steve just now noticed. Then he looked Steve up and down and for a moment Steve feared he could tell what he’d just been through.

“Why is a baker a silly fellow?”

“...I beg your pardon?”, Steve asked.

“Just what I said. Why is a baker a silly fellow?”

“I don’t know many ba-”

“Because he parts with what he kneads!”

It took Steve a moment to catch up but when he did, a smile broke out onto his face and he covered his mouth to hide the little giggle that threatened to bubble up.

“What has eyes but cannot see? A potato!” 

That one got a snort out of Steve and an eye roll that was only half sarcastic.

“Alright, alright, just one more. If Hitler and Goering went up a tree, what kind of fruit would they find?”

Steve raised a brow at that, his silence prompting the man to finish his joke. The man grinned wide before answering.

“A rotten pear.”

It was so unexpected, Steve hadn’t been able to stop the bout of laughter that spilled out. It was so strong that he had to hold his sides. His companion looked incredibly proud of himself but Steve had to admit that it was deserved. He was literally wiping tears from his eyes.

“Now it’s your turn.”

That got Steve to sober up. “Me? I don’t know any jokes, I’m afraid.”

“No? You must know at least one. Come on, indulge me. What’s a momentous occasion for you is terribly tedious for myself.”

Steve tried to think of any funny stories or wordplay he knew. He remembered making friends laugh before getting married. Nowadays, people laughed at Tommy’s jokes and Steve was expected to laugh along. That was when he remembered. 

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

It was a bawdy sort of joke. One that wasn’t really meant for a wife’s ears but Steve had heard it anyway when he entered the room to serve their guests drinks one evening. He never would have thought of repeating it. But something about this man made Steve want to impress him. He swallowed, rubbed his hands onto his skirt like he was preparing himself for more than just telling a joke. Then he cleared his throat.

“What hangs at a man's thigh and wants to poke the hole that it's often poked before?”

The other man’s eyes got wide for a moment before he smirked. “Oh pray tell, what?”

“A key”, Steve said, grinning the whole time. He felt filled with light the way the man roared with laughter. 

As he caught his breath, he almost sounded like he was choking. That was when the music stopped and Steve could see that everyone had gathered around Jason and his future bride. The glass door muffled most of it but they could both hear as Jason raised his voice to announce - “She said yes!” prompting the guests to clap and cheer. Almost immediately after, Jason was corralled by alphas and male betas while the omegas and female betas flocked to Miss Cunningham to get a look at the ring.

“I should go inside. Get back to the party”, Steve said. 

His companion was already walking away, melting back into the darkness. Steve felt odd for not getting his name. But he more than likely worked here as a gardener or cook or steward of some kind. It was only happenstance that their paths would cross now and there wasn’t any reason to expect them to again. Steve patted his cheeks before going back inside and joining the throng around the woman of the hour. 

“Congratulations, Miss Cunningham.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hagan. It really is a dream come true.”

Steve wondered if he was imagining the strain in her voice, the tightness of her smile. A query was on the tip of his tongue. Was she alright? Was she really happy? Was this what she truly wanted? But he held back and kept smiling and so did she. Because these were not questions that were asked in polite society.

Part 2 coming soon

If you want a preview of what's coming soon, this was all inspired by this yt short

[girlishwhimsies]

just saw an ai fanfiction post on instagram. just how. like man. i haven’t seen it in this fandom but it so crazy. this story is so full of characters who are so messy and complex and beautiful and was written with so much love and is performed with so much intention and fun. how do you know all this and choose to use something as soulless and evil as chatgpt. there’s no use for it

[piningpercussionist]

transfem scott getting lots of support from ramona and kim in the early 2000's when shit's very taboo but they all 3 have a fire forged bond and lord if they aren't going to make sure they're all as happy as they can be because they've come this far and I dunno it just makes me happy all three of them

YES YES YES

It makes me very happy as well,,

Like I've said before. General Trans Scott enthusiast here- I love the idea of their little support network *violent coughing* I (we?) mean polycule *violent coughing* so fucking much.

Ramona I think has a bit of a more gentle hand with reassuring Scott with gender issues, but sometimes she just can't help herself from some pointed banter or teasing- how could you with someone so dense? (Said w affection)

And then Kim I think is more blunt. But like, in a good way mostly, you know? The kinda blunt that makes you snap to attention and go "Oh. Yeah that was silly of me." And if Ramona's started some sort of banter? Kim is SO piling on. Maybe sometimes she's a bit TOO blunt with it- but it's only because she's so firm in her support. She wants Scott to Get It Together- and be happier for it. So if some ribbing now and again is in order, then goddamnit she will do so! Anything to crack that shell.

And ohhh can you imagine how they would react to some transphobic bullshit?? Unholy terror would be driven into the offender before they walk off with an absurd amount of coins between them. I can feel it in my bones. Scott doesn't even have to lift a finger (if the transphobe is even noticed/processed at all, bc I honestly can see Scott just. Not realizing someone's being transphobic.) Kim giving someone a lashing with her tongue as distraction and then Ramona coming in with the hammer- BAM! Free Money! Paying literally with your life for your transphobia. A Better And Just World.

And of course (transfem Scott more specifically, here,) the way Scott would start to flourish under their support... cagey and maybe a little (perhaps a lot-) resistant to start- but Kim's blunt affirmations and no nonsense attitude for bullshit (which is what Scott insisting on "being cis" would be, c'mon now,) and Ramona's also low bullshit tolerance but less Stabby (bc I won't lie, that's probably how Kim's comments would feel,) assurances? Ough... My Heart... Be Still-

I would Kill for them, Your Honor-

(Ran out of tags so putting this in the body of the post- I am SO tired someone pls sound off if this isn't as coherent as I am hoping this is. I WAS trying to nap and get the extra sleep I desperately needed but the writing bug... it Bit Me.... only a little but enough to stop that process-)

[mothercetrion]

favorite non canon ship? (the one with least canon support, if you have multiple)

11. favorite non canon ship?

for years, it was Johnny/Kenshi. they had their moments in MKX, of course, but nothing really to base a whole ship on. until MK1 stuff started happening, I think they had eight fics. "Closer" was the first fic written for them in two years. even now, 32 total fics aren't that many, so they're still in rare pair territory. they have a lot more moments in MK1 so I don't know if I can say that they're my favorite with the least canon support anymore, but they have a very special place in my heart <3

past them, I was on a big Erron Black/Kabal kick when MK11 was out. they don't interact in the story mode at all (if I remember correctly; if they do it's pretty brief), but considering their shared history in the Black Dragon and their changes in direction in their lives after for that timeline (Erron aligning with Kotal Kahn, Kabal aligning with the police and Stryker, all that), I always thought it was a really interesting ship to explore. but they barely have anything backing it up in the game they appear in together, so I suppose it's them now!!

[bandtrees]

every day tttaac gets closer. im normal. im so normal. im ssosoooo normal.

[heytheredeann]

Febuwhump 2024, Alt. 6 - Immortality

Tags: Creator Chooses Not To Use Archive Warnings, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Sci-Fi Elements, Immortal Napoleon Solo, Napoleon Solo Whump, Hurt Napoleon Solo, Non-Graphic Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Mercy Killing, Temporary Character Death, Gen or Pre-Slash, Vivisection

Notes: This one is a little dark so heed the tags! This is part of a series of stand-alone fics exploring the same general premise in different ways, because it has a lot of potential for whump. You don't need to read the others to follow this, though I'd say that the first fic in the series might have the most in-depth explanation of Napoleon's situation (and actually this one in particular is extremely vague on that). Also, as always in this series, the CNTUAW is just because I'm not sure if I should tag MCD, none of the other major warnings apply (there's torture/violence but it isn't graphic). Enjoy!

.

.

Wake up, he tells himself, firm and authoritative like he’s trying to train a dog. Wake up now, he presses, closing his eyes and trying to drift away from the feeling of leather grinding against his skin in his struggle to break free, from the menacing click of pieces of metal meeting one another, from the sound of Rudi’s voice sliding under his skin.

It doesn’t work, each feeling grounding him even more to the present, where his heart is hammering in his throat and he suddenly feels sick, all too aware that the electrocution was just a prelude.

He was never going to get out of this. He knew from the moment he woke up on the chair, yet, in his ever delusional optimism, he’d dared to hope for a miracle. He has always managed to get out alive up until now, hasn’t he?

In the beginning, after he discovered his predicament, he was relieved. He thought that maybe it was a gift, that maybe he’d better start sending a few prayers up there, because surely someone is looking out for him and trying to make sure that he doesn’t die at the beck and call of the CIA—months later, when he found himself bound and helpless, just a sack of meat to cut through looking for information, he realized that there are much worse fates than death.

(He got out with little more than scratches, yet for weeks his nights were plagued by hands holding him down, knives slicing through him, echoes of the human experimentation conducted during the war. The nightmares dissipated in time, but they never disappeared completely.)

It was over in a flash of all-encompassing pain, burning him alive. Faulty equipment, voltage higher than intended, and Rudi broke his new little toy. Napoleon wishes he’d had the presence of mind to play dead as consciousness rushed back to him.

[More on Ao3]

[ekingston]

SO HERE IS THE WHOLE STORY (SO FAR).

I am on my knees begging you to reblog this post and to stop reblogging the original ones I sent out yesterday. This is the complete account with all the most recent info; the other one is just sending people down senselessly panicked avenues that no longer lead anywhere.

IN SHORT

Cliff Weitzman, CEO of Speechify and (aspiring?) voice actor, used AI to scrape thousands of popular, finished works off AO3 to list them on his own for-profit website and in his attached app. He did this without getting any kind of permission from the authors of said work or informing AO3. Obviously.

When fandom at large was made aware of his theft and started pushing back, Weitzman issued a non-apology on the original social media posts—using 

his dyslexia; 

his intent to implement a tip-system for the plagiarized authors; and 

a sudden willingness to take down the work of every author who saw my original social media posts and emailed him individually with a ‘valid’ claim,

as reasons we should allow him to continue monetizing fanwork for his own financial gain.

When we less-than-kindly refused, he took down his ‘apologies’ as well as his website (allegedly—it’s possible that our complaints to his web host, the deluge of emails he received or the unanticipated traffic brought it down, since there wasn’t any sort of official statement made about it), and when it came back up several hours later, all of the work formerly listed in the fan fiction category was no longer there. 

THE TAKEAWAYS

1. Cliff Weitzman (aka Ofek Weitzman) is a scumbag with no qualms about taking fanwork without permission, feeding it to AI and monetizing it for his own financial gain; 

2. Fandom can really get things done when it wants to, and 

3. Our fanworks appear to be hidden, but they’re NOT DELETED from Weitzman’s servers, and independently published, original works are still listed without the authors' permission. We need to hold this man responsible for his theft, keep an eye on both his current and future endeavors, and take action immediately when he crosses the line again. 

THE TIMELINE, THE DETAILS, THE SCREENSHOTS (behind the cut)

Sunday night, December 22nd 2024, I noticed an influx in visitors to my fic You & Me & Holiday Wine. When I searched the title online, hoping to find out where they came from, a new listing popped up (third one down, no less):

This listing is still up today, by the way, though now when you follow the link to word-stream, it just brings you to the main site. (Also, to be clear, this was not the cause for the influx of traffic to my fic; word-stream did not link back to the original work anywhere.)

I followed the link to word-stream, where to my horror Y&M&HW was listed in its entirety—though, beyond the first half of the first chapter, behind a paywall—along with a link promising to take me—through an app downloadable on the Apple Store—to an AI-narrated audiobook version. When I searched word-stream itself for my ao3 handle I found both of my multi-chapter fics were listed this way:

Because the tags on my fics (which included genres* and characters, but never the original IPs**) weren’t working, I put ‘Kara Danvers’ into the search bar and discovered that many more supercorp fics (Supergirl TV fandom, Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor pairing) were listed.

I went looking online for any mention of word-stream and AI plagiarism (the covers—as well as the ridiculously inflated number of reviews and ratings—made it immediately obvious that AI fuckery was involved), but found almost nothing: only one single Reddit post had been made, and it received (at that time) only a handful of upvotes and no advice. 

I decided to make a tumblr post to bring the supercorp fandom up to speed about the theft. I draw as well as write for fandom and I’ve only ever had to deal with art theft—which has a clear set of steps to take depending on where said art was reposted—and I was at a loss regarding where to start in this situation.

After my post went up I remembered Project Copy Knight, which is worth commending for the work they’ve done to get fic stolen from AO3 taken down from monetized AI 'audiobook’ YouTube accounts. I reached out to @echoekhi, asking if they’d heard of this site and whether they could advise me on how to get our works taken down.

While waiting for a reply I looked into Copy Knight’s methods and decided to contact OTW’s legal department:

And then I went to bed.

By morning, tumblr friends @makicarn and @fazedlight as well as a very helpful tumblr anon had seen my post and done some very productive sleuthing:

@echoekhi had also gotten back to me, advising me, as expected, to contact the OTW. So I decided to sit tight until I got a response from them.

That response came only an hour or so later: 

Which was 100% understandable, but still disappointing—I doubted a handful of individual takedown requests would accomplish much, and I wasn’t eager to share my given name and personal information with Cliff Weitzman himself, which is unavoidable if you want to file a DMCA.

I decided to take it to Reddit, hoping it would gain traction in the wider fanfic community, considering so many fandoms were affected. My Reddit posts (with the updates at the bottom as they were emerging) can be found here and here.

A helpful Reddit user posted a guide on how users could go about filing a DMCA against word-stream here (to wobbly-at-best results)

A different helpful Reddit user signed up to access insight into word-streams pricing. Comment is here.

Smells unbelievably scammy, right? In addition to those audacious prices—though in all fairness any amount of money would be audacious considering every work listed is accessible elsewhere for free—my dyscalculia is screaming silently at the sight of that completely unnecessary amount of intentionally obscured numbers.

Speaking of which! As soon as the post on r/AO3—and, as a result, my original tumblr post—began taking off properly, sometime around 1 pm, jumpscare! A notification that a tumblr account named @cliffweitzman had commented on my post, and I got a bit mad about the gist of his message :

Fortunately he caught plenty of flack in the comments from other users (truly you should check out the comment section, it is extremely gratifying and people are making tremendously good points), in response to which, of course, he first tried to both reiterate and renegotiate his point in a second, longer comment (which I didn’t screenshot in time so I’m sorry for the crappy notification email formatting):

which he then proceeded to also post to Reddit (this is another Reddit user’s screenshot, I didn’t see it at all, the notifications were moving too fast for me to follow by then)

... where he got a roughly equal amount of righteously furious replies. (Check downthread, they're still there, all the way at the bottom.)

After which Cliff went ahead & deleted his messages altogether. 

It’s not entirely clear whether his account was suspended by Reddit soon after or whether he deleted it himself, but considering his tumblr account is still intact, I assume it’s the former. He made a handful of sock puppet accounts to play around with for a while, both on Reddit and Tumblr, only one of which I have a screenshot of, but since they all say roughly the same thing, you’re not missing much:

And then word-stream started throwing a DNS error.

That lasted for a good number of hours, which was unfortunately right around the time that a lot of authors first heard about the situation and started asking me individually how to find out whether their work was stolen too. I do not have that information and I am unclear on the perimeters Weitzman set for his AI scraper, so this is all conjecture: it LOOKS like the fics that were lifted had three things in common:

They were completed works;

They had over several thousand kudos on AO3; and

They were written by authors who had actively posted or updated work over the past year.

If anyone knows more about these perimeters or has info that counters my observation, please let me know!

I finally thought to check/alert evil Twitter during this time, and found out that the news was doing the rounds there already. I made a quick thread summarizing everything that had happened just in case. You can find it here.

I went to Bluesky too, where fandom was doing all the heavy lifting for me already, so I just reskeeted, as you do, and carried on.

Sometime in the very early evening, word-stream went back up—but the fan fiction category was nowhere to be seen. Tentative joy and celebration!***

That’s when several users—the ones who had signed up for accounts to gain intel and had accessed their own fics that way—reported that their work could still be accessed through their history. Relevant Reddit post here.

Sooo—

We’re obviously not done. The fanwork that was stolen by Weitzman may be inaccessible through his website right now, but they aren’t actually gone. And the fact that Weitzman wasn’t willing to get rid of them altogether means he still has plans for them. 

This was my final edit on my Reddit post before turning off notifications, and it's pretty much where my head will be at for at least the foreseeable future:

Please feel free to add info in the comments, make your own posts, take whatever action you want to take to protect your work. I only beg you—seriously, I’m on my knees here—to not give up like I saw a handful of people express the urge to do. Keep sharing your creative work and remain vigilant and stay active to make sure we can continue to do so freely. Visit your favorite fics, and the ones you’ve kept in your ‘marked for later’ lists but never made time to read, and leave kudos, leave comments, support your fandom creatives, celebrate podficcers and support AO3. We created this place and it’s our responsibility to keep it alive and thriving for as long as we possibly can.

Also FUCK generative AI. It has NO place in fandom spaces.

THE 'SMALL' PRINT (some of it in all caps):

*Weitzman knew what he was doing and can NOT claim ignorance. One, it’s pretty basic kindergarten stuff that you don’t steal some other kid’s art project and present it as your own only to act surprised when they protest and then tell the victim that they should have told you sooner that they didn’t want their project stolen. And two, he was very careful never to list the IPs these fanworks were based on, so it’s clear he was at least familiar enough with the legalities to not get himself in hot water with corporate lawyers. Fucking over fans, though, he figured he could get away with that. 

**A note about the AI that Weitzman used to steal our work: it’s even greasier than it looks at first glance. It’s not just the method he used to lift works off AO3 and then regurgitate onto his own website and app. Looking beyond the untold horrors of his AI-generated cover ‘art’, in many cases these covers attempt to depict something from the fics in question that can’t be gleaned from their summaries alone. In addition, my fics (and I assume the others, as well) were listed with generated genres; tags that did not appear anywhere in or on my fic on AO3 and were sometimes scarily accurate and sometimes way off the mark. I remember You & Me & Holiday Wine had ‘found family’ (100% correct, but not tagged by me as such) and I believe The Shape of Soup was listed as, among others, ‘enemies to friends to lovers’ and ‘love triangle’ (both wildly inaccurate). Even worse, not all the fic listed (as authors on Reddit pointed out) came with their original summaries at all. Often the entire summary was AI-generated. All of these things make it very clear that it was an all-encompassing scrape—not only were our fics stolen, they were also fed word-for-word into the AI Weitzman used and then analyzed to suit Weitzman’s needs. This means our work was literally fed to this AI to basically do with whatever its other users want, including (one assumes) text generation. 

***Fan fiction appears to have been made (largely) inaccessible on word-stream at this time, but I’m hearing from several authors that their original, independently published work, which is listed at places like Kindle Unlimited, DOES still appear in word-stream’s search engine. This obviously hurts writers, especially independent ones, who depend on these works for income and, as a rule, don’t have a huge budget or a legal team with oceans of time to fight these battles for them. If you consider yourself an author in the broader sense, beyond merely existing online as a fandom author, beyond concerns that your own work is immediately at risk, DO NOT STOP MAKING NOISE ABOUT THIS.

PLEASE check my later versions of this post via my main page to make sure you have the latest version of this post before you reblog. All the information I’ve been able to gather is in my reblogs below, and it's frustrating to see the old version getting passed around, sending people on wild goose chases.

Thank you all so much!

[slowmo-yo-yo]

IM THE KING OF NICHE PAIRINGS😋😋☝️

what’s the most niche/lame/embarrassing thing you’ve ever read fanfiction for. looking things up as a joke or for morbid curiosity doesn’t count i mean like intentionally just searching up and reading for personal enjoyment

[trekkie-lkm-archive]

Info: Does anyone else see the gorgeous possibilities for Pike/McCoy?? Some reprimanding, perhaps, based on the fact that Bones totally is Jim's little bitch, sneaking him on board right under Pike's nose like that. Guh, I am tingly just thinking about it. (thread)

Fill: 1/1 + Journal + AO3

Author: severinne

Archive Link + Journal + AO3

[joelsdagger]

that’s the way road dogs do it || one

joel miller x f!reader

a/n: this one is a little wild; part two is already shaping up to be even more wild. many smooches to my beloveds: @pedrospatch for all the reassurance and support and for beta’ing this bad boy for me, and to @dinandwhiskey for screaming with me about this idea many many moons ago <33

pairing: ex-boyfriend’s dad!joel x f!reader summary: on a night out with friends, you run into someone from your past. warnings: [no-outbreak au], big girthy age gap [reader is in her 20’s, joel is 50’s], alcohol consumption, allusions to cheating [not by joel or reader], no sarah or ellie but joel has a son, joel has tattoos and is a biker, pet names [darlin’, baby, kiddo], sexualization of the term kiddo [from the deepest darkest pits of my soul…idfc], a little bit of humiliation, panty sniffing, a teensy bit of fingering, a little manhandling, pervy!joel [he’s also a little fucked up and really unhinged but so am i so whateva], pussy pronouns, dirty talk [umm it gets weird lol], daddy kink, degradation, semi-public sex, rough unprotected p in v sex, mirror sex, hair pulling, dubcon [joel takes pictures of her that she doesn’t verbally consent to], smidgen of angst [ofc bc it’s me], creampie, body marking/writing [use of a pen], soft!joel, reader wears a skirt, has hair, wears makeup, and has two tattoos that are described within the story word count: 8.6k

masterlist || ao3 || follow @joelsdaggerupdates for fic updates!

Bad Habits is the bar where you spend every Friday night after work with your friends. It’s always too loud and too bright for your liking. But they serve good booze for a reasonable price and it’s on the way back from your office. Your Friday night usual; stopping at the bar with some friends from work before you bore yourself to sleep by looking over briefings and finalizing notes you need to send over to your boss in time for Monday’s nine am meeting.

You excuse yourself from the booth and head for the bar, plopping yourself on the velvet cushion of a creaky bar stool as you set your purse on the sticky bartop, ordering yourself another drink. Your phone chimes, and you sigh as you pull it out of your purse along with a pen and notepad, knowing it’s an email with a list of requests from your boss. He did tell you he’d send it to you before the end of the night. 

It’s when one of your hands is pressed to your temple, the other scribbling down your boss’ requests on paper when you hear it — a low, gravelly Southern drawl, a voice laced with honey — that you thought you’d never hear again. 

“This seat taken?”

Your pen freezes for a moment; you could pick that voice out of a suspect line-up. It never left you. But you willingly ignore him and decide you’re going to have a little fun of your own with him, so you continue finalizing your thoughts on paper as he situates himself beside you and orders a glass of whiskey while he’s at it. 

“What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ sittin’ in a place like this all by herself?” 

“I’m not alone. My friends are over there,” you throw your thumb, pen in hand, over your shoulder, jutting to your booth. “Just needed another drink,” you say, your eyes never leaving the notepad. 

“Why won’t you let me see your face, darlin?” he asks, head tilting to the side, assessing you. 

You snort. “Why. So you can decide whether or not my face is pretty enough to fuck — Mr. Miller?” Your voice drops an octave at the end of the sentence. 

You finally turn your head so you’re face to face with the man beside you, the father of your ex-boyfriend. 

Surprise flashes across his face; his mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. You watch as the Adam’s apple bops slowly in his throat. For once, the father of your shit-eating, cheating ex-boyfriend doesn’t have a comeback. He clears his throat as he attempts to recover. 

“Didn’t realize it was you, darlin’,” he says gruffly, a hand coming up to scratch his beard. 

You chuckle to yourself a little. “Of course you didn’t. The last time we saw each other was what? A year ago? Maybe more?” you quip. 

“You look different,” he says matter-of-factly, eyes glossing over your figure so quick you almost miss it. 

You raise an eyebrow at him; the corner of your mouth kicks up as you tilt the rim of your glass to your lips, hiding your smirk behind a sip.

“Good. I mean — you look good,” he tips his glass on its heel, eyeing it as he toys with it. 

You tilt your head in a shrug, “I needed a change.”

After Joel Miller’s son cheated on you and broke your heart, after you let the hurt linger for a few weeks and told your sob story to your friends who happily listened, you took their advice. 

You need something new, something fresh, babe. 

It really does help.

You’ll feel like a whole new person. 

Trust me, it’ll be good for you. 

You dyed your hair a few times, until you found a shade that felt more you. You got yourself a whole new wardrobe, something a little less fucking prudish and a little more slutty, and despite the cliché of it all, their suggestions did help to leave that shy, agreeable girl in the dust. The breakup was the last push you needed to leave it all behind. 

And now here you are, a little over a year later, sitting beside your ex’s father, whom you once hated to admit to yourself — no, you never really admitted it to yourself, but you found him attractive. Fuck. Who were you kidding? You didn’t just find Joel Miller, the father of your ex-boyfriend, attractive; you found yourself wanting to open your legs for him more than you did for his son, whom you had been dating for eight months. 

His eyes fall to your chest, trailing down the low cut of your top, and fixating on the peaks of your nipples beneath the tight fabric, and your heart stutters. “Quite the change,” a hint of a glint swimming in his hazel eyes. 

You can’t say the same for him.

You take him in now; he looks almost exactly the same, apart from a few more wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. Still, he’s somehow more handsome. 

His tousled salt-and-pepper hair still sits messily on his head, though his beard is lined with more silver than you remember. 

Fuck. 

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes trail down his body, thick shoulders and thick arms deliciously clad in his black leather jacket, and beneath that, his white t-shirt pulls taut across his broad chest.  

 And oh. 

Joel’s head turns, peering over his shoulder at the sound of glass breaking. Your eyes flick back up and catch a curl of black ink on the tanned skin beneath his collar. That’s new. 

When he turns back, he raises the glass to his lips with a scoff, clouding the inside of it, and the dim light from above the bar catches on the square face of a gold band on his marked pinkie finger. That’s also new. Your eyes don’t miss that his fourth finger still remains devoid of a wedding ring. 

“I have your son to thank for that." You drop your phone, pen, and notepad into your purse, giving him your full attention.

A muscle in Joel’s jaw ticks. Flicks his tongue across his bottom lip before he bites it. Is it a show of anger? Disappointment? You’re not quite sure.

But there is one thing that you are sure of: Joel Miller liked having you around. You knew it. You were aware that his eyes lingered whenever he saw you. You caught it from the very first time. When you showed up at his house, in jeans that clung to you like skin, how you bent at the waist to fish your keys out of his sofa cushion, and in your periphery, caught the subtle tilt of his head to get a better look at how the denim hugged your ass just right, feeling his eyes boring into you, your skin sizzling with heat.

If you’re being honest, you didn’t care. You didn’t feel guilty or shameful for how Joel looked at you. You basked in how he made you feel; you certainly weren’t getting that kind of attention from his son. He had his eyes (and his dick) on someone else. 

You liked how that very last night you spent at Joel Miller’s house — a fortnight before you broke up with his son — you padded down the hallway to the bathroom in an old skirt that you had outgrown (wearing it only because it was the last of clean bottoms before laundry day), and you overheard Joel Miller in his bedroom, fucking his fist and coming with a gruff groan of your name on his lips.  

You just weren’t sure if he knew that you knew.  

His body twists, props a leg up on the footrest of your bar stool. “What happened between you two? He never talked about it,” he inquires. 

You scoff. “He gets that from you, you know, not talking about things. Think he knows it too.” 

Confusion floods his features. 

Your eyes drop to the inside of your glass. “Your divorce. Jason complained all the time about how neither of you talked about it.”

“There was nothin’ to talk about. She left,” he quips. 

“She cheated on you,” you retort. 

“How did–” 

“He knew, and he watched when you didn’t fight it. Think that’s why he did the same to me.” 

“That kid. Always fucking trouble,” he huffs, then takes a short sip. 

 “Hey, you raised him,” you joke. 

“I didn’t raise him to be a piece of shit,” he bites, shakes his head instantly, eyes meeting yours, and there’s something behind them that you can’t quite place yet.

“I’m not saying it’s your fault, I just—" You sigh exasperatedly, “I think seeing how you didn’t fight for your marriage, for your wife, messed with him. And as much as I hate him for getting his dick wet in another girl, I think... well, now I know why he did it." Right shoulder tips in a slight shrug. 

Joel’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. 

“What?” you ask. 

 “Nothin'—I didn’t expect I’d ever hear you say that.”

 You look at him pointedly. 

 “Gettin’ his dick wet,” he repeats. “I’m not used to hearing you say things like that s’all,” he says with a breathless laugh, shaking his head a little. 

You sigh. “Told you, heartbreak is a hell of a thing.” 

“You didn’t deserve that darlin’, M’sorry,” he soothes. He leans towards you, a heavy hand dropping to your bare thigh, fingers wrapping tightly around it. It takes everything in you not to squeeze your thighs shut at his touch. 

You avert your eyes, scanning the crowd in the bar, your eyes eventually landing on your friends all crammed in the booth before looking back at Joel. “Everything happens for a reason, I guess.” 

His head dips, eyebrows go up in surprise, his expression a slight mixture of shock and guilt. “You really believe that?” 

You flash him a soft smile. You’re not sure that you do, but selfishly, it’s easier than the truth, and whatever it was, you’re not concerned about it anymore. “It’s fine, Mr. Miller, honestly," you clarify. 

His calloused thumb rubs small circles on your thigh; heat radiates there. “How many times, I gotta tell you, it’s Joel,” he insists.

Your eyes roll, “alright. Joel, it’s fine. I’m much happier now.”

“Oh yeah?" His hand releases your thigh; your body feels like it’ll wilt without the heat of his touch. His arms cross over as he leans forward on the bartop. The cuff of his left sleeve raises, revealing ink curling around his wrist. Did he complete his sleeve? You swallow thickly, your eyes lingering. 

"Got yourself a new boyfriend?’” He asks. 

You finally peel your eyes away, arching your brow. “What makes you say that?” 

His boot brushes against your bare ankle as he turns towards you; electricity sparks up your leg and up the base of your spine, awakening a long-dormant need. “Nothin’, just reckon that a pretty thing like yourself has a new stupid college fella.”

You chuckle. “I don’t date, it's not worth my time anymore.” You take a swig of your drink, swallow the tang down, and it mixes with the lick of heat, slowly spreading its way into your veins. You’re trying to tame the surge of energy zipping through your body, but it’s so damn hot beneath the lights lining the bar. And the chatter buzzing around the room, coupled with the weight of Joel’s gaze, isn’t fucking helping. It’s overwhelming, the nerves and arousal taking over, lacing with the alcohol in your system.

“That so?” His voice is a low rumble, dangerous. The corners of his lips twitch; your eyes dart down to them. 

You set your glass down on the dark wood with a clink, and your fingers begin tracing the rim of the glass. “And you?” Your body is warm and humming, something churning deep in your core.

His hazel eyes slowly rake down your body, a hint of hunger in them as they pause at the hem of your skirt, barely covering the place where you need him most; your skin is on fire under the heat of his gaze, and for a moment you have to resist the urge not to pounce on him right there in a bar full of people.

His voice cuts through your reverie as he answers. “Not in the cards for me, darlin’,” his eyes crease before he tips the glass to his lips.

“Guess we got one thing in common,” you sigh and mirror him. 

His eyes never leave yours as he takes a sip, and your chest blooms. Black takes up the hazel hues in his eyes, full of lust, and you think back to all the times you’ve had his attention; only now it’s worse because you can act on it. And maybe it’s the liquid courage in your blood. Maybe it’s some stroke of desire for revenge. Maybe it’s just that — desire. Maybe it’s because you know him. Know by all those times you racked up in your brain of longing stares and fleeting tugs of every nerve of your body.

So you think, with the very obvious throbbing in your core, with desire turning molten and pooling between your thighs that you can no longer ignore, that now is your chance; you’ve got nothing holding either of you back this time.

“You want to get out of here?” Your eyes fall down his body and bite your lip as you take in his broad form again. 

He chuckles darkly. “Can’t leave my crew, sweetheart,” he juts his chin towards an area behind you. Your body twists, and laughter threatens to bubble in your chest when you spot them. Three men, all silver-haired and scruffy beards that cover surly faces, all clad in tethered leather jackets, sit in a corner towards the back of the bar. 

You turn back to Joel with a hint of smirk on your lips. “Aren’t you getting a little old to still be biking around? Shouldn't fossils be encased or padded up or something? You know as they age they don't hold up very well,” you tease. 

He bares his teeth with a crooked grin; the corners of his eyes crease. “Careful, kiddo,” voice a low warning, but there’s a hint of playfulness behind it.

You knock back the rest of your drink swiftly, ignoring how it burns the back of your throat. “Well, that’s too bad,” you start. Driven by the alcohol coursing through your burning veins and the painful ache at the apex of your thighs, your left hand grabs his, rested beneath the bar, and guides it under your skirt and towards your dripping sex. He stiffens, inhaling sharply through his nose as he feels the way the wet fabric clings to the lips of your pussy. You bring your lips to the shell of his ear and drop your voice to make it more deep and velvety — more enticing. “She’s already wet.”

You drop his hand and hop off the barstool and onto wobbly legs, your right hand looping your crossbody over your shoulder, and before your leg even brushes past his, his hand snaps out and wraps around your wrist, dwarfing it in his grasp. 

Without another word, he tugs you behind him, past your table of friends, all too loud and too drunk celebrating the end of another work week to notice the two of you sauntering by. He drags you down the dimly lit hall, and you’re biting your bottom lip, containing the smile that threatens to spread across your face as he shoves you into the bathroom. 

Within seconds, he’s on you, pressing into you so your back slams into the tethered wooden door. Your hands find his hair, tangling your fingers in the strands streaked with gray.

And with his mouth flush with yours, the taste of whiskey and cheap cigars is warm on your tastebuds, and you cannot get enough of it. You've dreamt of what he'd taste like for so long, and it's everything you've ever wanted. His tongue is heavy and hot as he pushes it into your mouth, swirling it around and cutting across your gums, leaving no inch of your mouth uncharted. It’s all rushed and sloppy and hungry, and very quickly does it become clear to you that he’s wanted this — wanted you, just as much as you had from the very beginning. 

Somewhere in the heady haze, you manage to remove your left hand from his dark curls, drifting it south behind your back to slide the greasy lock shut behind you, sealing your fate. 

The sound of the lock clicking in place has Joel maneuvering you towards the sink, your heels scraping against the tile as the both of you drift backwards, tongues still intertwined. 

Your hands fumble with his belt, and at the same time, your mouth skates down his neck, tongue darting out and lapping at the inked skin there. You hum at the taste of warm, salty sweat. As you try to drag the leather out from his silver buckle, you move to drop to your knees. You don’t even get halfway before he’s reaching for your wrists, pulling you back up to stand. “‘S much as I’d like that kiddo, I've been waitin’ too long to get inside this cunt,” he says bluntly, and then he’s taking a step forward, trapping you against the cold ceramic. “If m’gonna come, s'gonna be inside o' her.” 

Your stomach flips at his words, and you can’t deny that the use of that word again makes you want to drop to your knees for him twofold. Instead, Joel drops to one of his, grunting as his denim-clad knee hits the cold tile, and it’s what he does next that manages to shatter all essence of confidence you had tonight.

Joel flicks up your skirt with one large hand while the other grips the back of one of your thighs, and one of your hands finds one of his shoulders, fingers already clinging onto him for dear life as you try to anchor yourself. You’re throbbing for him as his hand drifts north to cup your sex through your damp panties; he tears his gaze away to peer up at you. “How many dicks has this pussy taken since my son?” 

His words strike you hard, and your blood runs as cold as ice. Your breath kicks out of your lungs. That was the last thing you expected him to say. Despite the fact Joel’s eyes often lingered and his breath often wavered in your presence, he always managed to compose himself. You never imagined he'd act on those impulses.

“I–I don’t–” you blink a few times, your brain malfunctioning, trying to find the words. 

“How many,” he taunts, his fingers prod at your lace-covered slit, his thumb applying pressure to your clit through your underwear. 

“I– I don’t know. I can’t remember,” you whisper.

Joel sniggers. “I figured. She’s just a little pocket pussy for us, ain’t she?” A shiver runs up your spine, and he watches you, hazel eyes glimmering in the soft yellow glow of the bathroom, gauging your reaction for a tell, a tick, something, that’ll give him a reason to stop. When you don’t, his head dips down between your thighs, and his strong nose presses up against the damp stain on the front of your skimpy black thong, which was doing a rather poor job of covering your cunt. His eyes close slowly, and he inhales. Long and hard, so hard you can feel his nostrils contracting against you as he breathes in your scent. And it’s not your fault a measly whimper spills from your lips when he does so. 

“This all for me now?” He coaxes, his fingers strumming up and down your slit through the lace. Words fail you as you look down and find his eyes already on yours. You nod once for him. 

“Words, darlin’,” his voice dark, thick fingers shifting your panties aside, exposing you to the cold air and spreading your soft folds apart, toying with your wetness. 

Oh fuck, sneaks past your lips in a whisper, and one of your arms snaps out behind you, hand wrapping around the edge of the sink.  

He tilts his head up, and your eyes fixate on his middle finger that reads, clutch, as the tip pokes into your aching hole. "S’this what you wanted? You oughta ask for it, pretty girl.”

“I want you. Fuck– I want you to fuck me, Joel.” You choke out. 

“Attagirl,” he starts, knees cracking as he stands. “Bend over ‘n let me see her up close this time,” he says with a smirk. 

You obey, and turn to drop your purse beside the sink before placing your hands on the wet countertop. But your eyes don’t find your own reflection in the mirror. Instead, they fall on Joel’s movements behind you and gulp down the near-pathetic excitement and nerves sizzling over you. Joel’s too entranced by the sight before him to pick up how your breath hitches in your throat when his calloused hands push your skirt over the curve of your ass and up to your waist. His sly smirk kicks into a low chuckle as he catches sight of your tattoo on your left ass cheek that reads, daddy’s girl.

You go perfectly still, and a firm hand between your shoulders pushes you forward, your upper body now parallel to the dark countertop. Your heartbeat thrums loudly in your ears, but you can still hear the low whistle he sings from behind you. And then–

“Jesus,” he breathes as he pauses and marvels at you, his gaze shifting up and down your form, goosebumps erupting across your skin as the knuckle of his index finger traces down the small of your back, cold metal from the ring on his pinkie grazes the meat of your ass by happenstance. “Pretty little thing, ain’t ya?” 

And it’s almost like he can’t believe he’s here — with you, thirty years his junior, and his son’s ex-girlfriend, in a bar bathroom, about to ruin not only you but every other woman for himself for the rest of his life.

The liquid courage must’ve kicked into overdrive because you don’t know what compels you to do it, but before you can stop yourself, you call out his name–

“Joel.”

His dark eyes flit upwards to meet yours in the mirror. 

“You gonna stand there and stare all night, or you gonna fill her up?” But the tone of your voice doesn’t make it sound at all like a question, and you don’t mean it to be. 

That seems to pull him back. He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ Christ, I didn’t think you’d be this filthy.”

His reaction manages to bring back your confidence, and your lips curl in turn. 

Joel doesn’t waste anymore time. You feel the rough drag of denim against the back of your thighs and hear the metallic clang of his belt and the buzz of his zipper as he frees himself from the confines of his jeans. When he hooks a thick finger underneath your panties, tugging them to the side and over one cheek, you can’t help but clench, and Joel definitely doesn’t miss it. 

He tuts. “Needy little thing too,” he grips his length, thick and heavy in his hand, and lines up the blunt cockhead with your throbbing hole; it winks at him. “Tiny hole’s begging for me to fuck her, ain’t she? Look at her flirtin’ with me,” Joel gloats. 

And the sane part of you wants to cringe at that, but your cunt betrays you and clenches around terrible emptiness again. Joel doesn’t wait for you to respond; his eyes flicker back down to your hole, pushing the wide head of his cock inside, and that spark from earlier ignites. 

“Oh, Christ,” he exhales, his jaw falling loose and eyes going hooded as he enters your warm, wet cunt. You gasp as your own eyes fall shut at the stretch, your face twisting upwards at the sharp sting. You didn’t get to look at it before, but you can feel him. He’s big. Bigger than anything you’ve ever had, and for a second you’re not quite sure he’ll be able to fit. But Joel being Joel means he’s a stubborn bastard. He makes it fit. He pushes himself in, in, in, and you whine, and he groans as your pussy wraps perfectly around every inch of his thick length, sinking in like a dream.

He bottoms out inside your cunt, his tip kissing your cervix, and you’re gripping the edge of the sink so tight that if it weren’t for Joel fucking you, you’d be worried if your knuckles would break the skin. “Fuck, that’s good,” he breathes, ragged and hard. 

And it is. He feels so good. Stretching your cunt out and carving a place for himself after all this time. All the wanting and pining. Shared glances and stolen moments that you believed to be over the moment you broke up with that bastard of a son have finally led you here with him. 

“Daddy,” pours from your lips involuntarily. Your eyes snap wide open, and you freeze. Joel draws his hips back, cock pulling out from your gaping hole and catching onto it’s head, and before you can scramble your brain for a pathetic excuse of an apology, his lips curl into a snarl, and he slams his hips forward, cock ramming into you full throttle. The force of his thrust so hard, your body jolts forward, and your pelvis collides with the sink.

He doesn’t give you time to recover; Joel sets a fast, unforgiving pace, and with every strong, expert roll of his hips, the edges of your vision begin to blur. And it doesn’t matter how fast he bucks into you; the size of his cock never fails to fill you up to the hilt on every long, punishing stroke. He’s fucking loving it. And so are you. Letting him use you and yanking you back onto his cock by the thin material of your thong, hips snapping back into his like a rubber band. The air quickly fills with delicious wet sounds of your skin slapping against his, your moans and his, and the sharp clink, clink, clink, of metal rattling against you as the movement of your bodies colliding increases. 

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he says, voice rough with arousal. “Been dreamin’ of this pussy since the first time I laid eyes on ya,” he pants, eyes never leaving where the two of you are connected.

Desperate whimpers and breathy moans spill from your lips, his left hand bruising on your hip. “Caught a glimpse of that pretty young pussy under your skirt. Couldn’t get it out of my damn head. I thought about you n’ fucked my fist every night to that image of you in your slutty little skirt. Too fuckin’ short to cover anything.” Your cunt drools with slick with every word that spills from him; you can feel it on the tops of your inner thighs. The wet suction of your cunt around his cock getting louder and louder and louder. It’s borderline pornographic. 

His voice cuts through the lewd sounds. “Some nights I heard those sweet sounds you made–fucked my fist then too. Were you fakin’ it, baby? Huh. Were you fakin’ it with him? My son ever fuck you this good?” He rambles, grip smarting your flesh. 

Your stomach jolts. Scratch that. That’s the last thing you expected him to say. If your ex-boyfriend’s father fucking you wasn’t going to send you spiraling, then him bringing up his own son while he fucks you dumb certainly will. 

Your mind is abuzz; your brain has gone completely blank. There’s no way you could form a proper word in response, even if you tried. There isn’t a single thought inside your head. It’s too much. Too many things are happening at once. For one, he’s never been this talkative; you were lucky if you got two sentences out of him a year ago. And now he’s asking you if his son fucks as good as he does. 

You don’t answer. You can’t. And he’s not expecting you to. All you can do is whimper and moan while he fucks you with abandon, the way you should have been fucked all those times by his son.

“You don’t gotta answer. I know he didn’t. That boy didn’t know what was good for him if it hit him til he was blue in the face.” And you moan in agreement, still not able to think of a response while his tip jabs at your most sensitive spot. 

“S’okay, you were made to take my cock,” he grits, his ringed finger digging into your skin by the unrelenting grip on your waist. “Made to take mine, not his. Tell me, my cock bigger than his?” 

“Daddy–” you gasp, your cunt flutters around him, and Joel laughs a little at you, a low mocking sound that fuels the fire roiling low in your belly. 

“Course it is,” he murmurs. “You were made for me. So fuckin’ pretty n’ perfect n’  – fuck – so goddamn tight. Tighter than a fleshlight, baby.” He hisses in between sharp thrusts.

“N-” you choke on your words, fresh tears pricking your eyes by the force of him fucking you so hard. 

He clicks his tongue. “You don’t like that, baby? You tellin’ me if I say it again, she won’t fuckin’ squeeze the hell outta me?”

Your cunt answers for you, giving him exactly what he wants and fluttering around him in response.

“S’okay, you can like it. You oughta. This sloppy cunt’s gonna be my new cocksleeve. Gonna blow my load in ya, pump you so full o’me.” 

You squeeze painfully tight around him again and bite your bottom lip to muffle the obscene, broken moan that escapes you. You can’t help but picture what Joel looks like thrusting himself into the toy. Was he using it that night? When you heard him coming with a groan of your name, was he pretending to paint your cunt instead of the inside of faux flesh? Or did he pull out and imagine covering your face in his cum? Your back arches as you push yourself up by the heels of your palms on the ceramic, your head topples back onto your neck, eyes rolling back into your skull, the walls of your cunt tensing at the thought. 

His fingers unhook themselves from your panties and his hand finds the back of your skull, and with a firm grip, he angles your head, so you are face to face with your own depraved reflection. “Look how fuckin’ sexy you look takin’ me,” he growls.

And you do; your vision refocuses on the wrecked girl in the mirror: hair wild yet pulled back by Joel’s tight fist, lipstick stained around your swollen lips, mascara smudged by wet tears at the corners of your eyes, temples glistening with beads of sweat as you’re split wide open, perfectly filled to the brim by your ex-boyfriend’s father’s cock. 

Joel’s fist tightens on your makeshift ponytail, pulling you back into him, and with your back now pressed flush to his chest, he brings his lips to your ear, his breath hot against your skin, eyes watching each other in the mirror. “You’ve got a velvet cunt, kiddo, s’damn shame my son didn’t know what to do with it.” 

You squeak, your body jostling and rolling with pleasure on every shift forward, the edge of the countertop bruising your hip bones. You’re blissfully unaware of the spit drooling from your lips and dripping all over the sink faucet until Joel points it out.

“Look at you, wanted it so bad you’re fuckin’ droolin’ f’me, naughty girl,” he pants, hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. “Wanted me to use you like this, huh?”

“Mmm,” you mewl in response, everything beneath your navel tenses while his cock grazes the opening of your cervix on each harsh thrust.

He tuts. “Aww, poor baby, you were all talk before. But you can’t talk back now, huh? You all cock dumb, s’that it? Daddy, fuckin’ ya stupid?” 

"So – good – Daddy,” you force a choked moan. Your cunt clamps down around him, and it burns, flames running wild, scratching away at your nerves as the fat head of his cock brushes against your g-spot again. As if he can feel it too, the snap of his hips grows more desperate. Faster. Harder. Deeper. 

“Keep doin’ that, doin’ so good for me, kiddo. Just a little more, give it to me, come on daddy’s cock, c’mon,” he rasps. Your stomach twists and your chest tightens, his cock hitting you so deep each time his hips swing, and the weight of his balls slapping wetly against your clit has you hurtling full speed towards your release. 

“Daddy – oh f– fuck,” your voice all broken and hoarse. Your entire body goes painfully tight, thighs quivering, and something deep within you snaps. Your eyes screw shut as the energy thrums through your blood. Your mind is a dizzying blur, white light streaking behind your eyelids, and there’s a low ringing in your ears as your orgasm fully engulfs you. 

"Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, kiddo, there you go, let her soak me,” Joel praises as he fucks you through your high, cunt throbbing while your hips move lazily back and forth on him. 

As your orgasm settles, your body goes limp, and your head begins to dip, but Joel tightens his grip on you, shifting your body like a ragdoll until you’re on your tiptoes, the perfect angle for him as he fucks relentlessly into you. 

And with the blissed-out daze of the afterglow and the roaring music from the otherside of the bathroom door getting louder, you can just barely make out Joel’s low rambles of obscenities — almost like he’s mumbling to himself — and the quick, wet, smack, smack, smack of his hips against the plush of your ass as he pummels your cunt, desperate for release — as if his life depends on coming inside you. 

He grunts and through bleary eyes, you watch him through the mirror. He looks wrecked as he chases after his high. He must feel your eyes on him because then his eyes lock with yours in the mirror, and your cunt squeezes him unconsciously. That sends him overboard. His movements become sloppy, and you feel him twitch inside you. His jaw slackens, his eyes pinching shut while his head lulls back, and a breathless chant of, oh shit, fuck that’s it, fuck, escapes him as he comes undone.

His hands clamp, hips finally stuttering, a deep groan slipping past his lips, and then you feel the heat spreading inside you as thick spurts of his seed spill deep inside your cunt. His body falls forward over yours, his sweaty forehead falls into your shoulders, and you let him stay there as his cock continues to pulse, hips lazily rutting into you and pumping you full of his load. Your spent cunt spasms around his throbbing cock, and your wet and his, gathers at the base of his girth and trickles down his balls. 

His hips finally come to a stop, but he doesn’t pull out. Instead, his hand drops from your hair and begins rummaging through your purse. It only takes him a few seconds to find what he’s looking for. Your pen. You watch through watery lashes as he pops the cap with his thumb and brings the tip to the small of your back; your body flinches at the feeling of the cold tip. 

As the ball of the pen drags and tugs across at your skin, for a brief moment you try to surmise what he’s writing, but it takes him too long, and the intensity of your orgasm finally catches up with you. You drop your head on your hand and wait for him to finish whatever the hell he’s drawing on your skin. 

You feel his body shift behind you again, but it’s not until you hear the familiar sound of a low click that has you snapping your head up to the mirror. 

Joel Miller has his phone in his hands. 

And he’s not just doing anything with it. He’s not scrolling through it. He’s not opening up the contacts app. He’s not typing on it.

You catch a bright white flash in the mirror. He’s taking pictures of you. But not just of you. He’s taking pictures of your wasted cunt still plugged full of his cock. 

And for some reason — you don’t move. You don’t stop him. You don’t turn around and snatch the phone from his grasp and call him a dirty old dog. You stay perfectly still, and you let him do what he wants. Letting him take a series of pictures.

But it’s the last few that have his lips curling into a smirk, and he begins mumbling under his breath, gawking at the mess he made of you. 

With his phone poised in his right hand, his left drops to your left ass cheek, his fingers splay across your flesh, pulling your cheek back, and the shutter sound goes off. "Fuck, she’s so pretty like this.” 

Heat blooms in your chest. No one’s ever made you feel like this. But there’s no room for shame when he makes you feel this warm and beautiful... and so fucking sexy. 

And then it hits you. 

No one’s ever made you feel like this. There’s a sudden pang in your heart, tears stinging in your eyes. You’ve always known it. But you never admitted it because it never mattered. How could it? When you’ve never had someone who made you feel worth their time. How could you know what you were missing out on if you’ve never had it to begin with? 

Your head tips back between your shoulders, forcing the tears back into your skull, and to keep them at bay, you redirect your attention on Joel; watch him as he presses his hips flush to your ass so he’s filled you to the hilt. With your body still trembling, you wince and close your eyes in overstimulation. Your body sags forward on the cold surface, melting into submission.

You hear a series of shutters coupled with Joel’s mutters of, Jesus, look at her, the prettiest little pussy, look at this messy little hole swallowin’ up my cock, while you feel his hand moving along the small of your back, no doubt getting different angles of the place where the two of you become one. 

It feels like hours have passed by when Joel seems to have gotten his fill. One of his hands finds your hip again; you shiver and gasp in unison as he slowly slips himself out with a wet squelch. He pumped you so full of his release that you already feel it beginning to trickle out. You didn’t think there’d be that much of it for a man his age.

When his cockhead fully slides out from your hole, you have to fight the urge to whine at the loss of it — of him. But it’s what he does next that stops you from reveling in that; his hand quickly reaches down between your bodies, and two thick fingers catch the cum dripping out of you and push it back inside. You whimper tiredly. 

You stay bent over the sink, and suddenly, for a very brief moment, you feel the heavy weight of his cock slap wetly against your left ass cheek, and for the last time, the camera shutters. 

He quickly pockets his phone, and then he’s pulling your panties over the ache between your thighs, and his hands tentatively pull the skirt back down over your ass, smoothing out the rumpled fabric. You can hear the low rustling behind you — the buzz of his zipper and the clang of his belt buckle, tucking himself back into his pants.

And then Joel Miller surprises you again. He leans forward over you and places a chaste kiss to your clothed shoulder before his hands are on you, gently tugging your body upright and turning you around to face him as he murmurs a low, Let me look at ya. 

His eyes scan over your face, grinning immensely, like he can’t help being proud of himself for ruining you. And you smile bashfully in tandem as you bring a weak hand up to your face. Joel shoos your hand away and rubs his thumb under your eyes, gently wiping away your tears and smeared mascara, then doing the same to the smudged lipstick at the corners of your mouth. 

He’s always been rather soft with you, but it’s a stark contrast in comparison to his earlier behavior; it almost gives you whiplash thinking about it. How he fucked you so full you could feel him in your chest, the stream of profanities he cursed under his breath, moaning the dirtiest things  — comparing himself to his son while inside you, taking filthy pictures as evidence of what the two of you have done together, then cleaning you up like it’s second nature to him. All of it was filthy. He’s filthy. But there was always a softness to him, and there’s no doubt about it in this moment.

You take the opportunity to mirror him and caress away the lipstick that stained his lips from your kiss, you smile and he sighs at the contact. His thumb swiftly pads over your bottom lip, his gaze lands on your lips, a sort of hesitance, perhaps deciding if he wants to kiss you again. Then, his thumb catches on your plush bottom lip. Joel’s lips twitch, his eyes go dark as he drags the flesh of your bottom lip down, eyeing something he knows he almost missed. He scoffs slightly and shakes his head in near-disbelief. You smirk knowing exactly what he’s reacting to. 

His entire face blossoms with cherry red as he does another once over on the black ink inside your mouth. 

“Angel, my ass,” he mutters under his breath before wetting his lips. Already hungry for more. 

He tilts your chin upwards and leans forward to kiss you. It’s softer, slower this time, but of course, he still nips gently at your bottom lip, and at the same time, he slips his free hand down between the two of you once more. It moves beneath the hem of your skirt, fingers shoving your panties to the side, the pulp of his middle finger pushing through your puffy folds and into your dripping hole, until the black ink that reads, brake, is entirely sheathed inside your worn cunt, making sure his come stays where it belongs. You whimper against his lips, bucking into his hand.

“Keep that in there, f’me,” he mutters, his hot breath fanning over your lips. “Want you thinkin’ o’me when it drips outta ya tonight.” 

You whine faintly when Joel removes his hand. He brings it up to his face, and his tongue darts out to glide across the tip of his digit, licking his finger clean of your wet and his, all while keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. 

There’s a long beat of silence between you, and then he drops his hand, pulling away. Your heart falls, already missing the warmth emanating from his touch.

“We oughta get back before people start looking for us,” he murmurs as he steps back. You smile softly and nod. You’re not sure you’ll see him again. And you don’t have the heart to ask him, nor do you have the strength to handle it if he rejects your offer. You have nothing else to give. 

You love how he made you feel, but your chest twinges — one that twists deep. And no matter how much you try to quell that deep-seated fear, it never truly leaves you. A little voice in the back of your mind that repeats on a loop like a broken record, telling you: He’ll break your heart. They all do. But he can’t hurt you if you don’t let him. You resist the urge to turn and run. And instead, you turn to glance back in the mirror, sure to tame your disheveled appearance, giving Joel a chance to leave before you, slipping back into someone from your past.

He makes his way to the door, sliding the lock open; his hand curls around the handle but pauses before pulling it open. He turns to face you. “You okay?” he asks. 

It shocks you. It’s more than his son ever did. Certainly means more to you after he’d ask, Was it good, after coming in you before you even got started. Everything Joel did tonight is more than his son ever did; asking you questions all night and listening attentively while you answered them — whether it was with the hope of fucking you or not — doesn't matter. You fought tooth and nail for a sliver of his son’s attention, but with Joel, he just fucking gave it to you. 

You do your best to ignore that gnawing feeling of fear, clawing its way up your chest by the only way you know how; you press your lips to Joel’s, pushing your tongue into his awaiting mouth, and licking along the rim of his teeth. A strong hand curls around your jaw, fighting for dominance over the kiss, but you don’t let him for long, though. Reluctantly, you pry yourself off him, but not before Joel’s teeth softly graze your earlobe, nipping the flesh there.

You flash him a quick smile, looping the strap of your purse over your shoulder. “Perfect.” 

He smiles softly at that, eyes dancing across your face. “Yeah,” he whispers and moves to the side, letting you step out first and following you out. 

You head straight to the booth where your group of four awaits you, but not before peering over your shoulder and seeing Joel stalk towards his crew. You smile to yourself and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear as you approach your friends. As you shimmy in beside one of them, they ask where you were, and their brows pinch when you mumble, I was feeling a little dizzy. Which isn’t a total lie, but no one presses you for more, and you’re glad they don’t. 

It’s not until your friends start collecting their belongings and announce they want to check out the new bar a few blocks down the street when you feel the weight of tonight’s actions sinking into you. You’re about ready to call it a night; your eyes are heavy, your brain is still fuzzy, and your body still has not recovered from Joel railing you. 

You mull over sitting in the booth until the car you plan to order shows up to take you home. But the thought of waiting around in Joel’s presence makes your chest tighten. You don’t want to find out if he’ll be like the rest of them. Something to scratch an itch, and then wiping you from memory. That urge to flee loops back, and your legs force you to stand.

Collectively, you amble through the bar, still bubbling with energy, and as you make your way to the exit, you can feel the heat of a stare on you. You don’t need to turn to know who it is; his broad form ghosts along the edges of your periphery.

You walk against that pull you feel towards him, ache festering, skin burning, and bones grating with every heavy step, your eyes locked on the door like a missile to a target, not letting your eyes wander over to his booth, trying to keep what’s left of your dignity. Resisting. Resisting. Resisting. 

Lucas steps out first, holding the door open for another group of younger twenty-somethings as they saunter into the bar. While you hang back, you quickly mumble over your shoulder to Nell that you’re thinking of heading home. Worry cuts across her face, and she extends an offer, At least let me drive you home, hun. 

Your answer is cut off by the chime of your phone in your purse. You still and fumble for it and see a message from Mr. Miller. You had forgotten you never deleted his number. 

Holding your phone close to your chest, cautiously away from your friend’s curious eyes, you click on the notification.

He’d sent you two of the pictures he happily took at the top of the hour with a message that reads, Look damn sexy on my cock, kiddo. 

Your mouth falls open in a gasp, and pride swells in your chest as you glance at the first picture: Joel plugging your used cunt full of his length, his graying pubic hairs drenched and the base of his shaft gleaming with a white ring of creamy release. Your eyes flit upwards, and you finally get a chance to read the dark permanent lines he’d written on your skin.

Joel had crossed out the latter half of your tattoo on your ass cheek. It now reads, daddy’s fleshlight, in sloppy penmanship. With his grip porcelain white, the cross on his thumb makes an appearance as his digit digs into your hip at the corner of your tattoo. Your eyes drift further north, and above the globe of your ass, the small of your back reads, mine. 

Your thumb swipes across the screen to the second picture. With his cock poised in his hand, he had pressed the swollen mushroom head, only a hairsbreadth beneath the ink on the plush flesh of your ass — black ink shiny with a pearly film, he had smeared it in your mixed juices. Your cunt clenches at the images — at his absence, missing the warm, thick stretch of him. And suddenly, you feel his cum beginning to dribble out of you and pool into the gusset of your already ruined thong. 

When you don’t answer. The message bubble appears.

A beat, then two, and then—

There’s a place for you here.

You swallow down the twinge, the ache, press your thighs shut around emptiness, and feel another slight trickle escape your lower lips when your pussy releases more of his cum. You lock your phone and look back up at Nell in front of you. You feign nonchalance and wave her off, telling her you can’t go home just yet. Tell her that you received a few more requests from your boss and you, Don’t wanna take work home. 

She asks how you’ll get home, you lie, and swiftly mention that you just saw Mr. Miller across the bar and that he’ll drive you home. Another tiny white lie. Your place is a solid halfway point from the bar to his house. And when she asks if you’re sure you’ll be okay alone, her hand gently squeezing your arm, brows furrowed with worry, bless her heart, your gaze follows that pull like a magnet and lands on Joel. 

He’s already watching you. 

Your eyes lock with his, one hand resting to the side while the other tips the glass he’d been nursing towards you, winking as he takes a short sip of amber liquid. 

And there’s no pang in your chest. No urge to flee. Just the warmth of his gaze that in any second now will radiate through his touch, turning your bones to ash. 

You flash Nell a smile. Yeah…You’ll be fine.

[pipermca]

New AO3 Tag Wrangling Policy and the Transformers Fandom

Edit in the event people come back to the original post: Please do not email AO3 about this issue. See their response about this issue!

(This is a long one, folks, but I think it's important.)

A new tag-wrangling policy on AO3 has the potential to create some massive confusion and chaos in the Transformers fanfic community, with regards to fandom tags. There is a Reddit post about it here with a focus on anime fandoms, but I want to give some concrete examples for the Transformers fandom on why we DO NOT WANT this, and why I think it's a horrible idea.

The Problem

Basically, AO3 is looking to get rid of the "All Media Types" fandom tag across the board, either by dismantling them or just not maintaining them. The Transformers - All Media Types tag has been an all-purpose tag that you could select when your story doesn't fall into any one specific continuity. Additionally, all most (see below) TF continuities on AO3 are considered a subtag of the Transformers - All Media Types tag. For example, if you look at the link above for all works in the All Media Types tag, you will see fics that are also tagged ONLY with Transformers: Animated, because it falls under the All Media Types tag.

One exception: With the upcoming Transformers: One movie coming out imminently, there will likely be a big influx of stories tagged with Transformers: One. In fact, there are several already. However, it hasn't been linked to the larger Transformers - All Media Types tag yet. I wasn't worrying about it though, because I know these things can take time.

With information about this new tagging policy, however, I'm now wondering whether it'll EVER get linked to the All Media Types tag. If that happens, and when more continuities are developed in the coming years (since you know Hasbro loves creating new universes) this has the potential to cause massive confusion when looking for stories to read.

Searching for Stories with the New Tagging System

So let's say the All Media Types fandom tag isn't accurate anymore, because it no longer includes ALL of the continuities (such as TF:One). You will need to include ALL the Transformers continuities when browsing for TF fics.

How many tags is that? Well, here are all of the tags currently listed under the Transformers - All Media Types tag:

Note that this doesn't include Transformers: One since it hasn't been categorized yet.

You will potentially have to have 40 or more different fandom tags in your search, just in case the author tagged their story with something you weren't expecting.

This massively decreases the findability of a story.

Tagging with the New System

The email response from the Tag Wrangling group (see the linked Reddit post above) seems to be a bit flip in the response to the user's concern. "...encourages creators to tag with the media they intend."

While I appreciate what they are attempting to do, this policy change feels like a solution in search of a problem, especially in larger fandoms with multiple continuities, versions, and media types that are all cross-pollinated in both canon and fanon. While I'm focusing on Transformers fandom, imagine a creator in the DC comic universe writing a story that incorporates bits and pieces from a dozen different reboots.

For example, let's say that I am writing a fic about Ratchet. I am using the setting of the original G1 episodes, but I also am using the characterization of him as a bit of an old man grump. That characterization originated in the Animated continuity, but I want to incorporate bits of pieces of his other characterizations as well (old friend of Optimus from TFP, Ratchet ran a faction-free clinic like he did in the War for Cybertron series, he's got a Decepticon boyfriend like in IDW1 - or maybe even Cyberverse, etc.)

With this new tagging structure, I might potentially have to tag the story with ALL of those continuities. So instead of just slapping down the "All Media Types" tag (and maybe one other fandom tag that matches the characters as best I can), I'll have to analyze my story and try to figure out how best to tag for the characters I used.

And what if you're doing a completely AU version of the story? For example, a humanformers story, or merformers? Using the All Media Types tag along with a Alternate Universe - Human or Alternate Universe - Mermaid tag worked perfectly, since you weren't writing the story to fit into one specific continuity. But now, that might not be an option.

What To Do??

The first thing I would suggest is to contact AO3 (using the Feedback and Support page) and let them know (nicely) that you think this is a horrible idea. Give them some examples on how you use the All Media Types tag to find stories to read, or to help you tag a story. People outside of the Transformers fandom don't always appreciate how absolutely tangled the continuities can be with each other, and providing examples might help them see why this would be a really messy change.

Readers: Be aware that when you are looking in the All Media Types tag, it will no longer show newer continuities. And if AO3 starts dismantling that tag like they suggested they are doing, be aware that some stories won't show up in that tag like they used to. You can also create and then bookmark a custom search page that includes all 40+ continuities. REALLY annoying, but it's a workaround.

Writers: Until they start dismantling the All Media Types tag, ALWAYS ALWAYS tag your stories using Transformers - All Media Types... Especially for newer continuities. This will be especially important if you are writing a Transformers: One story. Right now, anyone who is only browsing the All Media Types tag will not see a story tagged only with Transformers: One. Make sure you're aware of how tags work and how they can affect the visibility and findability of your story.

Epilogue

Ugh. That's a lot of words for a long-weekend Saturday. And maybe I'm overreacting a tiny bit. But my work involves information architecture, and this change just absolutely baffles me. It's almost as though they want to make it harder to find stories. Considering that AO3 won a Hugo partially because of its fantastic tagging system, this change seems like AO3 is doing its best to shoot itself in the foot.

When you have a square hole, a round hole, and a rectangular hole… Yeah, you DO want each peg to go in the "right" hole. But if all of the pegs fit in the square hole, who cares? You got the job done.

I love you @ao3org, but please reconsider this change... Especially for IPs that are as old and are as varied as Transformers.