#this is my first time leaving such a long comm on a fic ...and on blr...sorry about that

[kevinformers-ibw]

A Ship Called "Home"

Hi :)

This wasn't really the first fic I expected to go public but it would make sense the long run. Would like to thank @delicioustarong and @nonsscrapheap for fueling the brainrot, couldn't have made it this far without them.

Now despite this being relatively short It's going to contain some small elements from The Echo Garden, hence explaining Soundwave's presence. But for now enjoy the brewing chaos :)

Prologue I: Dimension 3945

The Lost Light hovered in deep space.

“Great,” Rodimus said, lounging sideways in the captain’s chair like it owed him shanix. “Everything's fine right? No spontaneous combustion this time right?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Brainstorm muttered from behind his terminal. “Depending on how this dimension interprets gravitational curvature, we could still explode. Just... in a really interesting way.”

Rodimus groaned. “You always know how to ruin a perfectly good jump with science.”

"Science is the only reason you survive jumps, Co-captain," Perceptor replied sharply without looking up.

“Correction,” Minimus interjected from the side, arms crossed. “We survive because everyone else compensates for his recklessness.”

Rodimus shrugged. “Well yeah. Delegation. It’s what great leaders do.”

Drift leaned on the console beside him. “Is this the part where you give another speech about bold leadership and fate?”

“Nope.” Rodimus stood and stretched with a dramatic flair. “This is the part where we hurl ourselves into the multiverse yet again and pray that whatever’s on the other side isn’t fire, teeth, or that dimension with the gelatin clones.”

“Do not remind me,” Megatron murmured quietly from the back of the room. “They were disturbingly polite.”

“Didn’t one of them try to court you?” asked Rodimus

“I said do NOT remind me.”

There was a short silence.

Brainstorm peeked around from behind a console. “Just for the record, I still say we shouldn’t have left dimension 3944 until I finished testing the emotion-hacking energon.”

“Pretty sure that stuff made Rewind cry uncontrollably for three joors,” Drift raised at optical ridge at the scientist.

“He was watching a data documentary.” Brainstorm protested.

“It was a traffic cam.”

"Anyways!" Rodimus flexed his joints. "Enough about that, dimension 3945 is locked in and ready to explore!"

“This jump should be stable. No anomalies detected.” Perceptor said.

“For once,” Rodimus muttered. “Last time, I swear my stabilisers existed three kliks before the rest of me.”

“Maybe next time they can leave your intake behind,” Megatron said dryly.

Rodimus ignored him and instead clapped his servos together. “Alright team, attitudes positive, and no one mention the dimension where we turned into rubber duckies.”

“That was ONE time,” Brainstorm shouted.

A deep rumble shook the ship, then everything stilled.

Perceptor hummed. “Jump successful. Welcome to Dimension 3945. No signs of immediate hostility… yet.”

Minimus leaned forward. “Any signs of civilization?”

“Advanced,” Perceptor confirmed. “We’re picking up faint tech signals. Matching Autobot and Decepticon encryption patterns… but they’re unusually synchronized.”

“That’s not normal,” Drift said.

Megatron stepped forward slowly, arms crossed. “Nor is it reassuring.”

“C’mon, when has anything about us been normal?” Rodimus gave a lopsided smile and reached for the comms button.

“Wait—Rodimus—”

click

“Attention citizens of this dimension—this is Rodimus, captain of the starship Lost Light, speaking to you not as a conqueror, not as a threat, but as a traveler… and a friend. If our arrival startled you, know this: the Lost Light comes in peace. We're just passing through—though we do tend to leave things a little better than we found them. Usually. So, on behalf of the entire crew of the Lost Light… we respectfully ask for safe passage, open minds, and maybe a map. We’re still figuring out where exactly 'here' is. Rodimus out.”

The transmission clicked off, and Rodimus spun around with his usual swagger. “Boom. Nailed it. That’s how you do diplomacy.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Minimus said, datapad already in hand. “Because I distinctly recall asking you to run any first contact messages by me before transmission.”

Rodimus grinned. “Yeah, I ran it by you. Mentally. Super fast. You must’ve missed it.”

Minimus narrowed his optics. “You forgot again.”

“Forgot again is such a loaded phrase.”

Drift leaned against a wall, arms crossed. “Don’t worry, Mins—"

"Do NOT call me that."

"—I’m sure next time, the locals won’t arm their planetary defense grid because Rodimus opened with ‘We come in peace.’”

“Hey!” Rodimus shouted. “I'm charismatic, I'm irresistable, everyone loves me and my speeches.”

“Yes. Because seeing a giant star ship, and equally giant individuals really calms people down, and your speeches.” Megatron said, deadpan.

"Listen Megs, I have something that you lack, it's called. Charisma, in fact I had so much charisma that I killed an entire infestation of personality ticks."

“By ‘I’ you mean ‘we,’” Megatron replied. “Because we both killed them.”

Rodimus rolled his optics.

“Incoming signal,” Blaster announced, already pulling it up. “Encrypted, but not hostile. Audio only.”

Rodimus leaned forward. “Put it through.”

A smooth voice crackled to life.

"Lost Light—this is Blaster, Autobot's Head Communications ffficer. Your message has been received, Rodimus." The tone was formal and diplomatic. "Your intent has been acknowledged and appreciated. I am not alone in receiving your signal. The Decepticon Soundwave is also monitoring this frequency and has authorized continued contact. We are coordinating a response and will provide you with navigation data shortly. Stand by."

Rodimus stiffened, and for a moment, he thought he’d misheard. He turned slowly toward Blaster, who was frozen at his station.

"Blaster?" he asked carefully. "Did he just say—?"

"Yeah," Blaster breathed, still staring at his screen in disbelief. "That was me. Or… him. I mean—it’s not my voice at all, but I'm alive, and a Soundwave as well?"

All optics turned to their Soundwave. He remained utterly silent.

Megatron narrows his optics. “If a Soundwave is cooperating with Autobots… something must have happened.”

Rodimus turned to the side. "Percy? Brainstorm? So what happened to duplicates not being allowed in the same dimension? I thought that wasn't possible"

"Because it shouldn't be," Perceptor said, expression tight with disbelief as he typed furiously into his datapad “In all 3945 dimensions we’ve traveled, we’ve only ever arrived in one where our crew either never existed… or had already been deceased. All of it remained consistent—until now, so something changed. The question is: what?”

"As the ship's genius," Brainstorm piped up. "even I'm confused about this. Don't get me wrong, I'm guilty as much as the next mech but I haven't even worked on fixing this problem ever since dimension 2020 and we all know how that went." Perceptor nodded in agreement.

Rodimus stood silent for a klik, optics narrowing. "So let me get this straight—we're probably in a dimension where not only do we exist, but we're alive? Another me? Another you? Another Megatron too? Are we sure this isn't another Cyberutopia?"

Drift opened his intake.

Rodimus pointed. “Don’t answer that.”

Blaster straightened suddenly. “They’re responding again—same frequency. Patchin’ it through.”

"Lost Light—this is Communications Officer Blaster. Your signal is verified and logged. We're transmitting landing coordinates now. Expect company. No hostilities. Just... a lot of questions. Coordinates incoming.”

Rodimus raised a servo triumphantly. "SHIP-WIDE MEETING!"

Minimus sputtered. "Now hold on a klik Rodimus you can't just—"

"So great of you mechs to attend this last breem meeting." Rodimus ignored the long, spark-weary glare Minimus shot him from the corner. "I know most of you are grumpy from being interrupted from your drinking and all that slag but I promise you all that this is important."

"Just get to the point!"

"Shut up Whirl! Anyways—we are about to make history!” Rodimus said. “For the first time in all our dimension-hopping escapades, we’ve landed in a universe where we’re not just footnotes or casualties. We’re alive, mostly. Here. Now. With names. And oil preferences, probably.”

There was silence. Then there were many voices at once.

"Wait," said Swerve. "So, if there's another me, and he's alive… Am I legally allowed to high-five him? Or is that one of those time-law things?"

Rodimus pointed at the mini-bot. “Excellent question, Swerve. I have absolutely no idea!”

“That’s not even remotely reassuring.” Swerve muttered.

"Do not touch yourself," Perceptor muttered absently. Then, realizing how that sounded, quickly added, "I mean your counterpart. Don’t—physically interact. We don’t know the consequences. Yet."

"That’s also not reassuring," Swerve mumbled, visibly sweating.

Skids raised a servo. “What if we’ve already messed something up just by being here? Like... what if our presence destabilizes this universe?”

“Then we leave it slightly worse than we found it,” Rodimus said cheerfully. “Which, honestly, is still better than usual!”

Minimus pinched the bridge of his nasal ridge. “I cannot believe you’re treating this like a motivational pep rally.”

“I believe in preparation,” Rodimus replied. “And right now, we prepare by not panicking. Unless the other me has a better paint job. Then we panic.”

A few quiet chuckles broke the tension.

“Look, I don’t know what we’re walking into,” Rodimus admitted. “But they sent coordinates. No weapons charged. No warnings. They know who we are and they didn’t shoot us out of the sky. That’s already a win. And let’s face it, when’s the last time any of us saw a version of ourselves that wasn’t dead, missing, or well disappointing?”

“That’s a little grim,” Chromedome murmured.

“It’s also not wrong.” Rewind said.

Rodimus clapped his servos together. “When we go down, we have our weapons holstered, we play it cool, we don’t freak anyone out.”

“Define ‘holstered,’” Whirl called from the back.

“Do not high-five yourselves. Do not kiss yourselves. And absolutely do not get into existential debates with your alternate selves unless you’re absolutely sure you can win. Dismissed!”

The crew began to murmur and shuffle out, excitement mounting under the nerves.

In the hallway, Rewind turned to Chromedome. “If we see another you, what do you want to do?”

Chromedome looked thoughtful. “Honestly? Make sure he never touches mnemosurgery.”

Nearby, Whirl whispered to Tailgate, “I am going to try and kiss myself. Just saying.”

“Please don’t.”

Just beyond the corner, Nautica and Nightbeat were in a discussion.

“If their Blaster and Soundwave are working together,” Nightbeat said, “maybe their war ended differently. Maybe it never even started the way ours did.”

Nautica’s optics glowed. “Or maybe they reached peace earlier. Unified communications. Can you imagine the implications for science alone?”

“You're thinking science?” Nightbeat's visor flickered. “I’m thinking we’re walking into a paradox soup.”

Rodimus turned to his commanding officers. "I think that meeting was a success."

Minimus gave a weary sigh while Megatron raised an optical ridge. “By your standards, that probably qualifies as a masterclass.”

Drift patted Rodimus' pauldron. "I think you did great."

A cable yanked Rodimus clean off his pedes, causing Drift to laugh. "See, even Soundwave agrees."

Rodimus twists his frame to face the visored mech, giving him a cheeky grin. "Aww babe, don't be jealous. I'll never replace you."

Soundwave stared silently.

The cable dropped him.

“Ow...”

Updates schedule? Undecided, just know that tumblr gets them sooner than AO3.

Questions? Happy to answer them.

Prologue I? Out of IV

Time? It's 3 AM I'm going to bed.

[NEXT]

[rcmclachlan]

wind finding

buck/tommy

8x14/8x15 spec fic

I wrote this right before my first morning meeting, so if it's rushed and makes no sense, I'm well aware. Enjoy!

+

The very second Tommy went with helicopters, people came crawling out of the woodwork to offer their two cents on everything from industry politics (all dangled carrots and empty promises) to what constitutes a good operator (whoever's actually signing your paycheck at the time) to which jobs would bring in the most money (ditching helicopters entirely in favor of planes) to the best ways to manage stress (avoiding utility altogether).

But the one piece of advice Tommy has never forgotten came from one of his first operators in Afghanistan, who had a face like a mountain crag and every word that came out of his mouth had to first find its way around the wad of dip permanently attached to his bottom gums.

"Being able to find the wind is the only skill you need to nail down, or else you're gonna frag out faster'n you can say 'high as bat pussy'. The odds of being able to see the leaves on a fuckin' tree are less'n nothin' out here, never mind spottin' a fuckin' windsock, Kinard. The second you get in the air, you just listen to your bird; she'll tell you point blank where the wind is, so long as you've got your ears on."

Then Warrant Officer Harold hocked a loogie the size of a crow at the ground and stormed away, shouting, "PRIVATE KEATON, IF YOU DON'T STOP FONDLIN' THAT REFUEL PROBE I'M GONNA SHOVE IT IN YOUR DICK HOLE!"

Twenty years later, Tommy's in the cockpit of his favorite AW139 with the mouth of a glock pressed right above his brain stem, and the second he achieves optimal altitude, he finds the wind.

"You make it look so effortless, like it's just something your body does. Like breathing," Evan had said during their one and only legal flight together, like he wasn't furious that Tommy had woken him up at 3:30 in the morning on his day off to go for a joyride. Even as the sun peeked over the horizon to see if the coast was clear, it couldn't hope to match the sheer brightness of Evan's smile.

If being able to find the wind wasn't practically part of his autonomic nervous system at this point in his career, Tommy'd have no business being in the air at all.

"Remember," the guy with the gun, Remo, murmurs into the headset he'd forced Tommy to give him. "Top of the Aon. We're making the switch there."

"Nakatomi Tower would be better for this sort of thing," Tommy mutters.

Instead of being whipped with the gun, the speaker in his ear crackles with Remo's laughter. "I was more partial to the second film."

Tommy grips the cyclic a little tighter. "That's the worst thing you've admitted to so far."

It's not. Bombing multiple police stations was bad enough, but one of them was right next to a school. The last thing that came through the comms before Remo's buddies hacked it was the 118 being called to 309 Lucas Ave in Westlake North for fire containment and emergency medical assistance.

He glances at the dashboard. Tucked right above the radar is a little photo he'd printed out at his local CVS on a whim while he was getting a 'Happy 80th birthday, grandma!" card for Sal. It's barely anything: a portrait forced to inhabit a 4x4 square, so the quality is extra shitty. But the man in it is smiling brighter than a sunrise over the ocean, and Tommy's heart gives a pitiful thud just looking at it.

Melton would've shit a brick if he'd known about it. Despite what Hollywood would have the general populace believe, having pictures of loved ones on a pilot's dashboard can be a hell of a distraction. It goes against LAFD regs.

But having spent the last month reacquainting himself with Evan's smile and the wild hope that they could have a future together, it felt right to tack the photo up. He was professional enough that he wouldn't let it get in the way of the job.

He thinks of Evan watching him from the bed this morning, tangled up in sheets that smelled like the both of them. He thinks of the blurred, sleep-damp smile on Evan's face as Tommy hid the evidence of what they got up to the previous night.

"You're covering up a masterpiece," Evan had said, voice a little blurred with sleep. "That's some of my best work."

"Let me guess: if I connect all the hickeys, it's gonna turn into a dolphin or something?"

Evan had thrown back his head on the pillow and cackled, and Tommy had thought, We could build a life on this.

Except Evan is pulling tiny bodies out of the ruins of Gratts Elementary, Tommy's got a gun to his head, and Remo's little cell of opportunistic assholes are using the bombings across the city to distract from the 51% blockchain hack they pulled off two hours ago. Tommy doesn't understand crypto for the life of him, but what he got from Harbor's newest probie was something something a blockchain’s distributed ledger was changed and double spending was enabled. At the time, it seemed like a lot of bullshit that boiled down to "they now control the invisible internet money conveyor belt," but at least 200 people are dead, and according to Remo, there are still 70 bombs wired and ready to explode on his say-so.

Unless Tommy flies him and his weird, silent friend to the Aon, where someone's going to be waiting to whisk them away to all points nowhere. Tommy knows exactly how this is going to shake out: the second he lands the bird, Remo's going to bury a bullet in Tommy's brain before disappearing into the wind, leaving the world in shambles. But it won't be enough. Remo will get bored before long—the smart, psychotic ones always do—and then pop back up at some point to do even worse if he has the opportunity.

Ten years from now, they'll make a documentary series about all this. Evan will watch it, because he's contractually obligated to seek out things that will hurt him for some reason, and it'll probably be like cutting open a just-healed wound. He'll spiral until Maddie or one of the others forces him to stop. The series will be called something stupid, like Finding Remo.

That is, of course, if Remo has the opportunity.

Swallowing, throat clicking, Tommy glances at the photo on the dashboard. Evan beams at him from where he's posing like the dorkiest Greek god in the pantheon on top of a boulder somewhere on the Temescal Canyon Trail. That had been a good day. It seemed like the start of a lifetime of them.

He looks away and out the windshield where, up ahead, the Aon stands tall against the sky. But standing taller, and closer, is Library Tower.

Exhaling, Tommy keeps his eyes straight. "Listen, you can put the gun away. It's not the threat you think it is."

"No?" Remo presses the glock harder against the back of Tommy's head, and Tommy stifles a wince. "You think I won't shoot you?"

"Oh, I know you're gonna shoot me," Tommy says, almost cheerfully. He refuses to look any closer at that. "I just don't think you're gonna do it while we're hanging 900 feet above the city."

The pause that follows is probably only a second or two, but it feels like a decade. Finally, the press of metal disappears, and Tommy hears the safety clicking back on.

"You seem pretty calm about all this," Remo says, curiosity making his already light voice positively airy.

Tommy shrugs. "Last year I stole one of these to fly some friends into a category 5 hurricane, then landed it on a capsized cruise ship. This? Doesn't even break a 6.5 on my Crazy Shit-o-meter."

Remo laughs, and Tommy hears the tell tale rustling of the gun being holstered. Thankfully the rotors completely drown out the sound of his heart pounding, which would otherwise be audible from space.

"Let me just say that of all the pilots I could've kidnapped, you're by far the most entertaining."

"Thank you," Tommy says seriously.

Below them, the Walt Disney Concert Hall is lit up for the night's show. They'll be passing the BoA Financial Center, and from there it's only a couple of minutes until their destination.

"Hey, uh, since this does end with me getting shot," Tommy ventures, trying to keep a lid on the massive amounts of adrenaline that are being dumped into his bloodstream. He must be visibly vibrating. "Could I... could I make a call?"

Remo snorts. "Let me guess: 9-1-1?"

Okay, that's kind of funny. Tommy cracks a grin. "Not quite. I have someone... I have someone, and there's something important I need to say."

One of the drawbacks of a helicopter's cockpit is there's no rearview mirror, which would really come in handy right now. He has no idea what Remo's face is doing. He has no idea if he's looking at his silent companion and having some kind of wordless conversation, if Remo is the kind of guy who would grant the last wish of someone he's using.

Finally, after what feels like years, Remo says, "You get ten seconds. You'd better make them count."

He's done more with less. "That's fair. But I'm either going to need you to call it for me or let me hook into an open line."

The air inside the helicopter seems to squeeze inward. "An open line?"

"My... my boyfriend's LAFD." He bites down on the inside of his cheek as they pass the BoA Center on the left, and hopes against all hope that Remo isn't too much of a homophobe to deny the request.

But surprise, surprise. Remo only laughs and says, "How romantic. Urs, get him on an open line to his firefighter boyfriend. It's the least we can do after everything he's done to help us."

Tommy can't see what Urs is doing, but his headset crackles with the familiar static of a live comms line.

"Ten seconds," Remo reminds him. Below them, the roof of Library Tower seems both miles away and impossibly close.

It's all he needs.

"This is LAFD pilot Tom Kinard. Evan Buckley, if you're listening, look in the drawer to the right of the microwave. There's something in there for you." He quietly undoes his harness and kills the engine. "It's yours. It's always been yours."

Just as the AW139 is about to clear the roof of the tower, Tommy shoulders open the door and kicks off into the sky.

The wind is blowing southeast.

+

"N-No, no, no, hey, it's okay, don't fight it, you're okay—hey, I need some help in here! He's waking up! Tommy, they're going to take it out, just wait."

There's a tree trunk growing out of his throat, but trying to move it is impossible, and the effort takes everything out of him. So he gives up, gagging and drifting in and out, then decides to just climb the entire length of the tree to get a look at the view. From there, it's just a matter of finding the wind and floating away with it.

The next time he surfaces, there's something hard over his face, warm and humid, and when the clouds clear from his vision he's able to see two things: Evan's wide-eyed expression of relief, and a giant orange poster board in Lucy's familiar, blocky handwriting that says 2 DAYS SINCE KINARD LAST TAUNTED GOD.

There's a 1 in front of the 2, but it's crossed out.

"Hey!" Evan breathes, and the mattress at Tommy's hip dips a little under his weight. "H-Hey, there you are. Morning! Well, not, uh, morning exactly—it's like 8 o'clock at night—but you're awake!"

"I am." It's muffled by the oxygen mask.

"How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?" Evan leans in, blocking Tommy's view of anything else. He hasn't shaved in a bit, and the hair at his temples looks a little greasy. He's the most gorgeous thing Tommy's ever laid eyes on.

"No pain," Tommy rasps. "M'body's full'f cotton."

Evan smiles a little. "Yeah, they've got you on the good stuff. I can't tell you how many bones you've broken, because it seems like they're still finding them. The doctor did say he'd never seen a pneumothorax quite like yours before, though. He keeps bringing other doctors in to look at your scans. I think a couple of them cancelled their surgeries so they could watch yours yesterday. You're like a celebrity. You've got, like, four tubes in you sucking the excess air out."

For a second, Tommy has no idea what he's talking about. Pneumothorax? How'd he manage that? Lucy's gonna give him shit for the next year.

Then, like a breeze kicking up from the west, it all comes sweeping in. Something starts beeping a little erratically. "Did—did he... he didn't... did... R-Remo...?"

The words are slow and thick, like they have to climb over the broken branches the tree had left behind, but understanding lights up Evan's face almost immediately. He thinks Evan must be holding his hand, because there's pressure on his fingers that feels like it's coming from another room.

"He didn't," Evan says softly, but there's a sparkle of brutal satisfaction in his eyes that Tommy can't look away from. "The helicopter went down like a sack of bricks after you ditched it. It took out the coffee shop in the library. Before you ask: they close at 2:30, so no one had been in there for hours. No one was hurt. Except, well, what's his name."

Tommy closes his eyes and breathes in the canned, almost metallic stuff they're feeding him through the mask. It's so pure, it makes him a little dizzy.

"Good." His sinuses prickle hotly. "Good. That's..."

"Hey, hey, shhh," Evan coos, and Tommy opens his eyes just in time to see Evan press his mouth lushly to the curve of the oxygen mask. Despite whatever they're giving him, Tommy's lips ache with the need to feel that kiss.

"Evan," he whispers.

When he pulls back, Evan's got a wide, almost gleeful grin tugging the corners of his mouth to his ears. He looks like he's about to blow up a Gotham City school bus to try and draw out Batman. Instead, he lifts his left hand.

The lights in the room are low, so the ring on Evan's finger doesn't really glint as brightly as it should, but the light in Evan's eyes is almost blinding.

"Drawer to the right of the microwave, huh?" He laughs a little, like it's bubbling out of him, like he can't stop it. "How long had that been in there?"

It takes a moment for Tommy to pick through the cobwebs in his brain. "Mm... got it... after we did that flight over... hm... Channel Islands."

Evan stares at him, then his bubbly laughter morphs into maniacal cackling.

Tommy glances down at his hands to see if they gave him a button for the pain meds he's on. He's going to dilaudid himself into oblivion.

"That was four months into..." Evan uses their joined hands to wipe away the tears beading on his lashes. "When I asked you to move in, you ran away so fast you left a trail of dust behind you. But you bought an engagement ring four months into dating me?"

"In my defense," Tommy says, suddenly very jealous of Remo for dying a fiery death in the LA Library coffee shop. "I knew... you were it for me. You, on the other hand, had no idea... hm... what you wanted. Asking me... to move in wasn't—it wasn't about me."

Pursing his lips, Evan ducks his head and doesn't deny it, but when he tilts his chin up, the only thing on his face is bare, earnest truth. "I knew I wanted you, Tommy, any way I could have you. I didn't know what that looked like, and not knowing made me... I don't know if you've noticed, but I tend to cling when I panic."

Tommy thinks back over the last month—how every time he showed up on Eddie's doorstep, Evan practically threw himself at Tommy, clutching at him like he was afraid Tommy might go back down the walkway and leave; how getting up to take a piss or grab a Gatorade meant leaving the bed, and the look on Evan's face every time was like watching a car crash—and squeezes Evan's hand. He thinks he does, at least.

"Do you... know what it looks like now?" It takes almost all his strength to get the words out. A wave of exhaustion rolls over him, and he pinwheels a little with it. Kicking his way back to the surface takes concentration.

Evan lifts his hand again. The ring fits his finger perfectly. "It looks like you, about to fall asleep."

Another wave bowls him over, and he fights to keep his eyes open. Lucy's stupid poster blurs like someone's upturned a can of Sprite over it.

"I'll be here when you wake up, and so will half the LAPD and a bunch of people from the FBI. You're the hero of the day," Evan murmurs, and Tommy grumbles a little. "But, hey, Tommy. Before you—how did you know? How'd you know I was it for you?"

Even as he's being pulled down into the dark, he looks up, and he sees the surface roiling, dancing with the light of an old sunrise that couldn't hold a candle to the phenomenon of Evan Buckley's smile.

"Found th' wind," Tommy mumbles, drifting down, down, down. "'s easy. Like breathing."

[starwovenkiss]

part two here

Because how funny would it be if Jason Todd had a nemesis who had a crush on him?

Jason, who is just trying to do his job and keep Gotham from burning for one night so he doesn’t have to hear his umpteenth lecture from Bruce about the responsibilities he holds from carrying the bat symbol, pulls up to you.

You had become a thorn in his side as of late, and he tries not to let his amusement show when he sees you waiting on a rooftop.

“What are you doing here, _____?” He knows what you’re doing. It’s the same game you’ve played for the past three nights, and when you turn and smile, glossy lips turned upwards, he can’t help it when his own lips mirror the reaction. It’s involuntary, and he knows B is getting on his case about how much time he’s wasting while not bringing you in—but how can he, when he has so much fun chasing you like this?

“You know why I’m here.” He does. According to Babs, you’ve robbed two banks along 81st Street, and although the amount is significantly less than what you were pulling before, it’s enough to warrant concern. To get his attention, like you wanted.

“You’ve got to stop doing this.” His voice sounds lilted even through his voice filter, and he watches your brow raise, pausing for a moment before stepping closer to him.

“Stop doing what?” you purr, moving in closer, looking like a feline ready to strike. It’s easy to forget about your mentor, how you two were raised on opposite sides of the coin—one trained in stealth and justice, the other in seduction and vice. And while Selina’s influence still moves through your every movement, he’s watched you grow from that first night you appeared on the rooftop of Gotham’s Metropolitan Art Museum. How you developed your own style of fighting, your own form of distraction that differs from your mentor in every way.

“Where’s the money, cat?” he sighs, looking down at you. Despite facing a former crime lord and one of the most terrifying vigilantes in Gotham, your body language is relaxed, as if this is another casual conversation to you. In fact, you merely sigh, as if he’s the one being ridiculous for asking such a question.

“What money?” you smile softly before running to jump off the side of the roof. Jason readies himself, loving nothing more than to chase you into the night before he registers his comm system crackling to life.

“Babs,” he asks, still keeping an eye on your shrinking figure as you jump from rooftop to rooftop deeper into Gotham.

“I don’t get it.” She laughs. Jason tenses, knowing that whatever is going to come next can’t be good.

“She steals almost $75K from the vault, triggers every alarm known to man, just to leave it hidden two blocks away.” Jason knows why you did it—he’s not oblivious to the way you act around him. However, admitting that means he’s signing up for no certain amount of teasing from Babs and a potentially very long talk from Bruce (as if the hypocrite should have anything to say to him).

“Maybe she’s bored.” He shrugs, keeping his tone as even as he can.

“A protégée of Selina? Doubt it.” Babs snorts. “I could think of another reason why she keeps drawing you out there.”

Jason pauses before responding. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Babs does a terrible job of hiding her laughter. “Sure you don’t, Hood. Looks like there’s another robbery downtown, and it seems legit this time. I’d head over there if I were you.”

a/n: i have written 10k words of a gaz fic that has no end in sight, and needed something to get me out of my head. so here’s a little drabble for my other favorite boy <3

[buckybabybaby]

not like this (not on your birthday)

Plot: rushed confessions over a dodgy comms link with Bucky.

(friends to lovers, mutual pining, confessions, angst, bff Joaquín cos if he’s not your love interest I’m still including him <3, happy ending)

A/N: my birthday was over a month ago - this has taken a lot longer than I imagined! I originally started writing this about 4 years ago so I’m happy it’s finally finished. Joaquín wasn’t in this at first, I had Tony in his place, as Joaquín wasn’t the falcon, so may be being slow worked out for once because I think he fits so much better <3

I have a load of other birthday themed fics here <3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (gender neutral)

Warnings: angst, near death experience, feeling/being trapped, talk of dying, being in hospital

Word count: 3.8K

Masterlist

AO3

***

As the dust settles from the ceilings you've just fallen through, the emergency lighting proudly displays the level you've found yourself on.

Nineteen. Minus nineteen to be precise, hundreds of meters from the surface, from safety, from hope. You scoff at your naivety, thinking this was going to be a simple recon mission, just grab the files and destroy the building once you're out. That's all you needed to do, not end up in a pile of rubble, radio sitting besides you looking almost as broken and useless as your ankle feels.

You'd studied the plan for today so many times that even now, with a possible concussion from the fall, you know the exact timings by heart, confirmed as you hear the first explosion in the distance. Just an outbuilding for now but the rest will follow shortly.

There's not much time. With shaky hands you reach for your smashed radio, even though it feels pointless, pressing every button on the device in the vain hope it'll do something. Nothing, of course, until a crackle in your ear reminds you of the secondary communication link, less reliable but all you have.

Bucky's voice has never sounded so good, steady and calm and bringing tears to your eyes. You're going to miss him

"H-hey," You croak, mouth dry.

"Where are you? Are you safe?" His tone is sharp, even through the tinny speaker, leaving no room to lie.

"Not really"

There's silence for a second too long and you think you've lost the link, until; "Where exactly-"

"Nineteen floors down, with an ankle twisted so badly just looking at it is making me feel sick. The passage we thought would lead us out of the building into the forest had been filled in, and when I tried another route the floor gave in so now I'm just, kinda, stuck. I'm sorry Bucky."

You speak in a rush, catching your breath after as the silence from the comms drags on again, this time accompanied by the far off sounds of dynamite destroying concrete bunkers.

Finally he replies. "Okay, I'm on my way."

You sigh, far too composed considering. "Don't be silly, Bucky, you can't. I know you're at least a mile away. Even if you weren't, I'm too far down to get to before…"

You don't finish the sentence, not needing to.

In one ear the intercom provides muffled indistinguishable shouting, in the other you're aware of the building creaking as parts of it collapse.

You don't want that to be the last thing you hear.

"Bucky? Can you talk to me? For as long as the connection stays. I don't want to be alone."

"You won't be, we'll get to you."

He sounds desperate and you feel the first tear fall. "Okay." You let him believe you believe that. "But can you anyway? Please?"

You can envision the tension in his posture, the way his jaw is probably clenched, metal hand likely crushing something as he works through the impossible situation. It sounds like he's just sat down heavily, his chair protesting as he breathes out.

"Just something nice, happy. Please?" You press when he doesn't reply. "Like, my birthday? It's soon, did you know?"

He laughs, once, sad. "Of course. I've been looking up cake recipes. You remember that slice I got you from the bakery a few weeks ago? I wanted a full cake but they don't do that, apparently. Ridiculous. So I'm going to try to make it myself. "

"I can't imagine you baking."

"No? Well, you'd be right."

"Did you put your arm in the dishwasher again?"

"Now that's just rude."

You grin, feeling lighter. He always makes you feel better, no matter the circumstances, his friendship one of your greatest treasures. It took a while to break through his walls and win him around, but you did, and now you can't remember what it was like not having him so close.

"And presents?" You ask, remembering last years haul. "What has the great Bucky Barnes bought me this year?"

"That's the best part." His tone changes, pride obvious. "I really had to think, you're not easy to buy for but I'm sure you'll like what I've got you."

"Intriguing. What is it?"

"Not telling. It'll ruin the surprise."

"Please?"

"Nope."

"Bucky, please. I don't want to die not knowing."

You can hear the way he chokes on his words as he answers. "You won't die."

"Okay, but can you tell me anyway? So I have something to nice to picture while I'm here."

If he was with you, you'd use the face you make that gets him to agree to anything. It seems your words have done the same trick today. Listening as he rattles off a whole inventory of smaller presents you smile, resting your head against the wall behind you.

With your eyes closed it could be any other evening chatting away with Bucky. Those were your favourite moments with him, sat somewhere cosy in the compound, letting him rant about a mission, or the latest scheme of Sam and Joaquín's that has wound him up, sometimes memories from before the war and his and Steve's early years.

"And you know that coat you wanted but said you couldn't justify?" Bucky finally ends his list. "I got the blue one. That's the main present, most of the smaller ones are either in the pockets or tucked into the sleeves and the hood as I wrapped it up. So you'll get one at a time as you open it."

"Like pass the parcel?" You chuckle at the thought. "That would have been nice."

"It will be nice," He corrects.

Your eyes sting. You're almost convinced.

Another explosion shakes the floor beneath you, causing loose rubble to trickle down from above, covering you in a fine dust and making you cough. It brings you back to the present, reminds you that you're on borrowed time.

"Bucky, can you promise me something?" You're the one who sounds desperate now, not waiting for him to respond. "Promise me you'll start sleeping in your bed more often?"

"Of all the things-"

"I know you don't unless I make you," You interrupt, thinking back to the times you've stayed over and found him on the floor at night. "I also know you sleep so much better when you do."

Bucky makes a non-committal noise but you don't let it deter you.

"You deserve nice things Bucky. Deserve to be comfortable, to enjoy the little luxuries."

"I do. With you."

Your chest hurts with want. "Okay. And when I'm not there? Please be kind to yourself."

That was something you've said to him countless times, after missions that went wrong, or when he'd woken up from a nightmare and you'd calmed his mind. You knew all about his insecurities, the endless guilt you've tried to chip away at, hoping one day your positive words will outweigh his dark thoughts.

Even as the shock from your fall fades and the pain from your injuries cuts through the adrenaline, you need to tell him one more time.

"You are not responsible for your previous actions. And even if you were, everything you've done since has more than made up for it. But there was nothing to make up."

He doesn't say anything in reply, letting you continue your monologue as the thoughts keep coming.

"And will you allow the others in a little more, when I'm not there? They care for you. It was hard work to get you to open up to me, don't let it take as long with them."

Shifting your weight off your bad leg, you swallow, needing to say this next bit even if your heart protests.

"And do you remember when we talked about you trying to go on a date again?" You definitely do, and how you wished you were the one he wanted to ask. "You should. You deserve to find love, Bucky."

That finally gets a response, laughing disbelievingly as he says, "No one can love me."

"Yes they can."

"You're just saying that. How could they?"

You take a deep breath, against the light-headedness and also to steal yourself for the coming confession. "How could they? Very easily, Bucky, because I love you. Not in the way Sam and Joaquín do. In the way that someone loves someone with their whole being, loves someone so completely it leaves no room for any doubt. I just wish you could see yourself the way I do."

The rumbling sound of dynamite fills the air as your tears make tracks through the dirt on your face. The sharp pain running through your body keeps you alert as you wait for his response, hoping you haven't said too much, haven't made him uncomfortable with this forced declaration of love.

"Bucky, did you hear? I said-"

"I heard."

Closing your mouth again, you let the static sit over the comms, let him absorb your words.

"This is not how I imagined you saying that to me. Not like this. Not through a call." He breathes out eventually.

You smile sadly. "Me neither."

"I never imagined you'd be the one to say something first."

Frowning, you try to understand. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you must know how I feel about you? I've been waiting for the right time to see if you felt the same too. Was planning something for your birthday if I found the courage."

Your head is spinning, from the conversation and the blood loss you've just noticed you must have.

"I mean, I know I said earlier no one can love me, but I get the feeling someone could when I'm with you."

You wish you could hug him, you get the feeling he needs one right now and you certainly do. This wasn't part of the plan, leaving Bucky with even more trauma was never the intention and you can only hope he doesn't blame himself for what’s going to happen to you.

"Bucky, can you promise me something else?" You rush out in a panic. "Promise me you won't hide away after this. I know it's not easy to lose someone but let the others help you through it, okay?"

"Oh, sweetheart. That won't be necessary."

You miss the pet name and how his voice has softened, too worried by the implication of that sentence. "What do you mean by that? It's okay to ask for help, please don’t-"

"No, doll. I'll be okay 'cos I won't be losing you."

A light from above blinds you momentarily and you squint against it, wondering if you're hallucinating the Falcon suit as it lands in front of you.

"You two are breaking my heart," Comes the unmistakable voice of Joaquín from inside. "Do you know how long I've waited for one of you to snap, to finally say something?"

A delirious laugh bubbles out of you. Whether or not this is real, you allow yourself to be comforted by the sight, to pretend that rescue is possible. Letting him scoop you up, it soon becomes clear it is reality as your laughter turns to a gasp of pain, the movement sending pain shooting through your ankle and a previously unnoticed injury to your thigh.

"Stay awake for me, okay?" He says, seeing your eyes flutter.

You give him a less than convincing nod. Adjusting his hold on you, he starts the ascent back to safety and you go limp.

Joaquín shouts your name but, knowing that even if you still die at least if will be in the arms of your best friend and not buried under a tonne of concrete and metal, you let the darkness drag you under.

***

There's a steady hum filling the room as you finally stir awake. The world feels heavy and fuzzy and far too bright, you're in pain all over, worse in concentrated areas, one of your ankles, your thigh, the back of your hand. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath.

Opening them again, on the side of your bed you spot a head of messy brunette hair, but not that of the person you expected. Deep brown not blue eyes meet yours as Joaquín shifts and blinks across at you, his face lighting up as he sees you're awake.

Sitting up, he wipes the sleep induced drool away from his mouth with a quiet laugh. "Don't tell Bucky I dribbled."

You laugh too. It hurts. Wincing, you attempt to adjust your position, Joaquín stepping in to help you move the pillows until you're a little more comfortable.

Staring down at your body, you try to assess the damage.

"Is it broken?" You ask, nodding towards your cast.

"Yep. Sorry pumpkin."

"Pumpkin," You repeat back with a giggle, long used to Joaquín's cute terms of endearment.

You let him fuss around you as you take in your surroundings. You would recognise the medical wing in the compound immediately, especially after spending so much time there after Joaquín's last accident only a few weeks ago.

You try to piece it together. "How did you get to me so quickly? Weren't you back at the base on bed rest?"

"When have I ever done as I'm told?" He smirks. "No, I snuck out and man and I'm glad I did. Your tracker dropped off the system and I moved straight away, it was lucky you weren't too far from your last location."

"I thought they locked away your suit when you're out with an injury?"

"They do. Sam nearly had my head, going against every order to get to you. But only for a second until he saw there wasn't another option."

Your eyes are wet as you realise the same thing. "You saved me."

He shrugs. "Just like you do every other mission."

"No Joaquín, this is different." You argue shakily. "I could have-"

"But you didn't, okay?" He own voice trembles as he clasps your hands. "You're safe. A broken ankle but not much more. Everyone else is safe too," He adds, answering your question before you can ask. "You know I'll always be there if you need. That's what we practice for, what a team is meant to do."

He wipes away your tears, keeping hold of your hand as you let his presence comfort you. It's quiet for a moment, save the machines monitoring your stats, but with Joaquín silence never last long.

"And on a positive note, I think Bucky finally likes me now."

You roll your eyes. "Bucky liked you already."

"Maybe. But now I've saved the love of his life I'm basically his best friend."

His cheeky grin has you hiding your face in your hands, memories flashing back. "Did I embarrass myself?"

"Don't you remember?"

You do, but you're not sure what is real and what you've imagined. Not the whole thing, obviously from Joaquín's teasing, but are you misremembering the reciprocation?

"Has he been here?" You ask, desperate to speak to him in person and not over a crackly comms. Maybe it's the painkillers but you feel brave in a way you're not used to when it comes to Bucky, something only a near death escape could contribute to.

"You just missed him. I've just manage to persuaded him to go eat something finally, he's been moping around in here for days."

"Days?" You gasp. "How long have I been out?"

Joaquín's expression softens. "A while, pumpkin. Tomorrows your birthday, so nearly three days now."

"That's quite a long time," You say weakly.

"And Bucky didn't leave your side the whole time, until an hour or two ago. You've got a good one there."

"I haven't got him," You mumble, trying to suppress your smile.

"Not yet," Joaquín sing-songs, fluffing up your pillows as you think over the meaning of Bucky staying by your side, more sure than ever you need to see him.

The universe answers your wish. A rustling at the door to your room catches both of your attentions, a bunch of balloons and flowers entering the room followed by a super solider who has, in your opinion, never looked so good.

"Joaquín, how it's going in-."

Bucky stares across at you when he sees you're awake, and as you take him in it's like the rest of the world fades away. His shocked expression melts into that smile you love, your own face mirroring his, cheeks warm.

Joaquín snorts. "Well, I'm going to take that as my cue."

Pressing a quick kiss to the crown of your head, he starts to leave, passing Bucky on his way out. Joaquín hesitates, then also kisses him on his forehead, having to stand on him tiptoes to reach and laughing crazily as Bucky tries to swipe at him as he dashes out the room.

Seconds later he pops his head back around the frame. "Remember, I heard everything, so don't pretend it didn't happen. For my sake as well as yours."

Letting the door close softly behind him, you're left with Bucky, your previous confidence fading slightly as he watches you quietly.

You shift your focus to something else to stop it getting awkward. "What's with the balloons?"

"Oh." Bucky seems to have forgotten about his handful of decorations, finally placing them down on the long window sill and drawing one in particular out from the colourful bunch. "Your birthday, of course. I've still got a few minutes left until the big day."

Tying the sting around your bed frame, he let's you pull it down to see the pattern on the face of the balloon, a red star on silver.

You laugh at his proud grin. "How long did you spend looking for this?"

"Not too long. Had to get back to you."

That sobers you up. Swallowing, you gesture for Bucky to sit in the chair Joaquín was previously occupying, breathing becoming a little irregular as you try to find the right words.

Bucky starts for you. "Ignore what Joaquín said, if you want to forget what we said then we can."

You shake your head, noting the way he looks as though the very thought is breaking his heart. "I don't want to forget anything."

He smiles at that, a little nervous still. "So, when you said-"

"Yes."

"That you love-"

"Yes."

"You weren't just saying that 'cos you thought you were going to die and wanted me to believe that I'm worthy of something as pure as you?"

You scrunch your nose up at his phrasing. "We both know I'm not exactly pure." You say, reaching for his hand. "And I would never say something so important if it wasn't true."

"So you really love-"

"Yes."

It's like every ounce of tension leaves his body at your reassurance. You share a soft, promise filled smile before he's rising up and collecting the flowers from the pile of gifts he brought.

"That’s good, otherwise the bouquet I've got you would be really awkward."

"Friends give each other flowers," You argue as you take them, admiring the artful way they've been arranged.

"Not ones where they've specifically asked the florist to add flowers that portray how I feel about you." Sitting on the edge of your bed he points to each bloom in turn. "This one is for true love, this means that I'll always be loyal, this is devotion, this one I think is for-hey, don't cry."

How can you not, when this is what you're met with? Bucky can be so charming, you've seen it when he interacts with others at press conferences and during photo shoots, but this is the first time you've felt it directly.

He dries your eyes as something shifts between you two. "The flowers are great but I think this is the point where you kiss me."

"Oh yeah?" He smirks, placing them safely on your bedside cabinet. "Sure you're recovered enough for that?"

"Try me," You challenge, letting him guide your head back against the pillow before his lips find yours.

He's so gentle with you, barely brushing your mouths together before he leans back to check on you. Letting out a whine, you grip his collar to bring him into your space again, into a sweet kiss full of the pent up longing you've both been suffering.

But when you try to deepen the kiss, eager to feel him as close as possible, the room fills with an ear splitting noise that has you pulling away with a confused cough. "What's that?"

"Your heart monitor."

"What! Like Tony's?"

"No, silly." Bucky laughs gently at your panic. "A heart monitor. Checking it's not beating too fast cos your boyfriend is getting too enthusiastic."

You completely melt at the term boyfriend, urging him to lay down with you, letting Bucky shuffle carefully so you're laying comfortably, half on him.

As you listen to the beeping slowing back to just above its regular rate, you remember another detail from your life changing conversation.

"Will you still sleep in your bed? I don't remember you actually promising me."

Bucky hums thoughtfully. "That has more to do with you being there than the mattress or anything."

You all ready suspected that, but the confirmation has you sighing, wanting the best for this man. "Guess I'll just have to stay over more often."

You're mostly joking but Bucky certainly isn't. "Won't hear any complaints from me."

"I better not." You say, curling up more into his side.

Bucky takes a moment to check his phone, making a startled noise before showing you the screen displaying two minutes past midnight.

"Happy Birthday, doll. Just you wait, I have a few surprises for you."

"Ooh yes, my coat!"

Bucky scoffs. "Well, that's not a really a surprise now I told you, is it? Nope, I had to go get a whole new set of presents so you wouldn't know exactly what you're getting."

"So I'm not getting my coat?" You say with a pout.

Laughing at your expression, he reassures you. "Of course you are. And a whole lot of other things that you'll find out about later."

Resting your head on his chest, you soak up his warmth, his heartbeat solidly comforting. Bucky subtly adjusts you against him as he sees the pull of sleep try to take you.

"And as soon as I can, I'm taking you on a proper date." He promises. "We can have a do over, a second birthday to make up for having to spend it in hospital. It wasn't meant to be like this so get ready, that one will be really special."

You take in your surroundings, the flowers, balloons and gift baskets, and most importantly, Bucky, so attentive and so beautiful beside you.

You press a short, none heart racing kiss to his cheek. "This ones been pretty special all ready."

***

(Bucky doesn’t forget about your cake either, presenting it to you after your breakfast the next day. Its not the prettiest buts it perfect cos he made it for you <3 )

***

AO3

[ghostarii]

GLASS TABLE GIRL ! ～ BLADE . ❛ i just wanna be one of your girls tonight.

˖ ⁺ ⫾  SHOW NOTES fem!reader ❱ guitarist!blade ❱ groping ❱ reader is a groupie ❱ PWP!!! ❱ (reader is intoxicated so technically) dubcon ❱ spanking ❱ degradation ❱ clit n nipple slapping ❱ ig ooc!blade but who cares ❱ choking/asphyxiation ❱ size kink ❱ dacryphilia ❱ outdoor/public sex ❱ exhibitionism ❱ spit ❱ face-fucking ❱ dirty talk ❱ reader has 0 self respect ❱ name calling ❱ overstimulation ❱ creampie & unprotected sex (stay safe) ❱ clit pinching ❱ hair pulling ❱ multiple orgasms ❱ cumplay(?) ❱ no aftercare ❱ minors & dc antis do not interact.

˖ ⁺ ⫾  CREDITS i have not written a fic in so effing long nd i was high writing this so excuse my rustiness :c but i have risen from my grave so let’s rejoice nonetheless ! !blade is on my mind 24/7 n i just want to be used n abused by him omfg turn me OWT! i listened to one of the girls by the weeknd literally the entire time i wrote this sooo feel free to listen while reading ^_^ i was js writing as i went so ts is very pwp sorryyy . . i’m gonna try to be more active on here i js need time to write so in the meantime pls show that my works would be appreciated here =( likes & reblogs are so GREATLY APPRECIATED ! ! ! if u don’t like, pls scroll cs comm guidelines r so mean to creators T_T

˖ ⁺ ⫾  RUN TIME 7.5k+ words . (of pure filth)

IF SOMEBODY ASKED you who your favorite artist was, you would say Ren—known by his moniker: BLADE. There was nothing you didn't like about this man; everything about him fundamentally and ultimately was the object of a girlish obsession. You knew all of his songs front to back, followed his social media on every single platform, and never missed a single piece of media uploaded about him. Your life was built around his style: dark and mysterious and enigmatic. He was your number one, unmatched and unchanged.

He was a hard man to come by. He frequently held small shows, with no more than twenty-thousand people on the high end. It was impossible to go, and every time you tried, your chance miserably passed you up. But this time, June twenty-third, twenty-twenty-three, you were right there, in the middle of the pit, only mere feet away from Blade. It was your first time seeing him in person by the grace of your best friend who surprisingly snagged tickets, and you’d never been more grateful in your life.

Blade was ethereal. The concert videos you’d seen over the years did not compare to the image in front of your face. It was dark, the main lights being spotlights shone on his pearly, perspiring, black, skin-tight silk-clothed skin, and dim red LED lights on the set behind him. His fingers ran effortlessly across his guitar, an inexplicably attractive riff and tone singing from the instrument. You felt like you were in Heaven, your eyes never leaving the show before your eyes. It was hot and uncomfortable in the pit but it was worth it. So worth it because he looked at you: taking you in with an unfaltering stare. His lip slipped between his teeth, and he shook his head, throwing stray locks to the back, and God, you felt as though you needed to be bolted to the ground with the way you wanted to jump on the stage. He walks up to the microphone, the most gut-wrenchingly hot vocals sliding off of his tongue. His eyes were closed, smudged eyeliner emphasizing his fluttering, long lashes, and his lips were spit-slicked, parting and pursing with each sultry lyric leaving. They were plump and rosy as if they were asking to be kissed—it was a sight to behold.

You sang your heart out, dragging your hand from waving in the air down a curvy path on your body, going from your shoulder to your chest to below where Blade’s sight would reach. You turned to your friend and recited the lyrics with a big smile and following giggle, all to turn your attention back to the stage and lock eyes with him. Your thighs clamped together just at the narrowed and burning gaze he delivered. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted a man more than you do right now.

Your friend found a way closer to the stage and you wedged your way between the crowd, finding yourself so close that the speakers were banging on your eardrums. You could feel the music in your bones, and all you could think of to describe it was hot and heavy. Maybe it was all of the pregaming you and your friend did before the concert, or the condensed heat and gyrating bodies, but you were so hot. You wipe your sweaty skin as you sway to the beginning of the next song, taking out your phone to begin recording.

Blade leans into the mic, muttering lowly, “I want you all to sing.” He pulls the microphone out of the stand, letting his guitar hang off of his shoulder from the strap. And that’s when he makes his way to where you stand, muttering small “yeah”’s and “good job”’s into the mic as the crowd collectively sings. He kneels right before you, “Sing.” he says into the mic.

You go wide-eyed—cute, he thinks—but you start singing. You grab an open portion of the microphone, leaning in as close as possible and reciting the lyrics of the song just as you were told. All eyes and cameras were on you, and that included Blade, who held an intense gaze on you the entire verse. When you finish the crowd erupts in cheers and screams, and he pulls away, finishing the song. You turned to your friend and screamed about your main character moment, dancing and singing even happier into her recording phone. This was the best night of your life.

For the rest of the concert, you had the time of your life. Blade ends the show with a final guitar solo, the entire audience silent as he wrecks the strings and pours his heart into his vocals. He briefly spoke to his fans, thanking everyone for coming out and heading backstage as everyone began to clear out. And all he could think about was that girl who his eyes couldn't help but wander toward, and to whom his thoughts dedicated his innuendos. He remembers the sign you held at the beginning of the show: “BLADE ♡WNS M(Y)E (HEART) ♡”. Your eyes honed filth that your natural disposition didn’t and he longed for it. He held bated breath as he informed his security about you, requesting you be located and brought to him and they replied with “We’ll try our best, sir.”

It was an after-concert tradition for Blade to hit up a local club, especially in situations like this where it was his last stop. He hoped he’d find you there, but he knew you would, especially if you were as big of a fan as you looked.

“Yukong, just thirty minutes! Please!!” you pleaded, trying to pull your friend into your opinion. She shook her head no, “I can’t! I have to go home! I’m so tired and you know…” you stop your friend there, not wanting to hear about her boyfriend.

“Fine. I’m still going though, text me when you get home.” you didn’t want Yukong to go home. But arguing was pointless, and only time was being put to the test, not her stubbornness. You knew from your years as a Blade fan that he always went to the club after a concert to meet fans, and some rumors even suggested ulterior motives, so you wanted to go. Yukong frowned at your flat expression but still hugged you, waving at you as she got in her car to go home. You’d be flying solo, but you had faith in yourself.

So you make your way over to the nearest club via taxi, praying that this is the one that Blade would visit. You weren’t all too familiar with the place, its name, Starskiff Haven, only being one you’ve heard in passing. Regardless, your thoughts were assured by the abundance of fighting and pushing bodies to get in the door—and when your phone lit up, a Twitter notification from a Blade Updates page noting his location, Starskiff Haven, you smiled widely, making your way to the line.

It was way too long and you weren’t interested in waiting all night—you had to meet Blade. A time like this is when Yukong comes into hand with her very stern persuasion, something that’s near impossible to deny. But she left, and you’d have to figure out a way in. And a thought immediately came to mind.

You walked to the front of the line, breathing in deeply and psyching yourself up for how incredibly you were about to embarrass yourself. When you exhale, you book it, beelining straight into the club, right past security. You immediately shift your demeanor, blending into the crowd seamlessly as security guards rush in, looking around for you. Hiding behind the most cluelessly drunk girl, you make your way to the bar, immediately ordering a sidecar. It packed a punch and the combination of how many shots you had earlier, it’d be just enough to get you through whatever you were about to do.

You turn around in the swivel stool, taking in the atmosphere and coasting the area for any sighting of Blade. The club was darker than the concert but heavily illuminated with hazy, colorful LEDS and much, much louder, filled to the brim with chatter and deafening bass-boosted music. Your drink was brought to you moments later, and with a big sip, you raked your eyes over the club once again. You could see bodies grinding on the main floor, the DJ bopping his head as his hands moved diligently across his DJ controller, couples making out and slipping into cornered areas, and friend groups recording and taking pictures. It was a lively environment, sure, and from the strength that beat on your tongue, established by incredibly skilled bartenders—but you weren’t looking for a new clubbing spot, you were looking for Blade.

And Blade was looking for you. Swimming through the unforgivingly hot crowd for you. He wasn’t itching to have you, he was itching to take you. Every time he closed his eyes he was brought back to his time on stage and how you danced in the audience. How your lips pushed out his lyrics and how your hands couldn’t stop waving in the air and running on your skin. How you swiped off sweat from your forehead and fanned yourself with your sign. And how you couldn’t keep your star-filled eyes off of him. Every light reflection off of your eyes showed desperation and neediness. You were begging to be picked without ever uttering a word, and he was not one to ignore indulgence. You needed him and he wanted you—so where are you?

Perched on that blue-velvet cushioned swivel stool. Sipping whatever remaining contents of your sidecar. And when he saw you, you saw him. You locked eyes and each plastered ill-intended smirks across your faces. And while you had his attention, you brought the glass to your lips, smacking them open and running your tongue along the sugar rim, collecting the sweetness on your tongue. You sucked on your tongue, rolling your eyes and he swears the “Ahh” leaving your lips is audible from his distance. He stayed still even as you slapped down your money on the counter, hopping down and disappearing into the crowd.

You make your way to him quickly, holding onto your rapidly rising chest and laughing at yourself. You were on a roll of unbelievable behavior, but it seemed to be a clean stroke because you were yet to meet a roadblock. And in a very blurry couple of minutes, the goal you’d been working toward was in the palm of your hand—literally.

You danced your way to Blade when you were finally close to him, sliding up against his body sweetly. He was tall and so sturdy against you, but he was smooth like butter as he synced to your movements and danced behind you. His hands were on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as he pushed up against you. Your exchange was wordless but it spoke volumes. It felt like a dream, entirely too good to be true but you indulged anyway, grinding against him. A gasp escapes your mouth as his left hand unabashedly grapes your tit, squeezing roughly and experimentally. His other hand trails dangerously on the band of your shorts and you let your head fall back on his shoulder, “I'm your biggest fan…”

He laughs at your declaration, leaning to press his lips feather-lightly at the shell of your ear, “Are you now?” you nod immediately, pressing into him. “‘Blade owns me’.” he mocks your sign, and laughs when he feels you slightly tense under his touch.

“I picked you,” and again, he leans down to your ear, “Are you happy, slut?” The word is so mean but it sounds so good from him. You nearly moan, nodding eagerly, as if complying with his word came with a medal. You were a slut, so willing to give it up as soon as he laid eyes on you. And you weren’t afraid to go low to get his attention, doing just about anything to be his for the night.

Fangirls like you are nothing new to Blade and as a man who looks like he does, it comes with the territory. He can read you like a damn book, cover to cover with ease because despite how enigmatic and indifferent to the norm you may try to appear, you wear your whole being on your sleeve. You do everything in your power to be somebody you're not. Your life revolves around who you think you should be and not who you are. A lot of girls are born with “it”: an innate ability to be the one wanted and desired, but you? Your “it” is manufactured, the blueprint drawn out by girls who are it. You're stuck in a limbo created by your age: too old to not be settling down, but too young to not live your life, and you try to make a box for yourself, being the exception to a path laid out for you. You're lost in the life you lead, and with the way you're dancing so shamelessly and needily on him, Blade knows you. You’re the type of girl who sees getting used as a flex, and despite signing an NDA or promising to never say anything, you’ll tell this person and that person that you got to sleep with the Blade; that the Blade picked you. Women like you are a cancer in the industry. Pests that are incessant and damn near impossible to get rid of. He knows you won't be any different than those before you, but there’s a desire to take you that he cannot ignore.

It’s his natural instinct as a man—or he’s just a shitty person. Perhaps a combination of both, because all he can think about is putting you to use. You’re making it so easy, moaning into the air under the thick remixed song the DJ is spinning, grinding against him, and holding his hand on your tit—you want him, and you’re giving yourself to him on a silver platter. You have a clear lack of respect for yourself, but luckily for you, that’s Blade’s type in women.

The atmosphere seems to be getting heavier, and it feels like time is getting slow and choppy. Now your arms are around Blade’s neck and his large hands are holding onto your ass, and you’re so close, you can feel your chests brushing with each breath you take. The world around you is nothing but background. It doesn’t exist to you, it doesn't matter to you. Not when you have Blade, the literal man of your dreams, right in your palm, and all he's looking at is you.

You feel so special. So wanted and so desired. You feel all eyes on you like you're the main attraction and everybody can’t help but watch and weep, wishing to be you. Your ego is skyrocketed and every embarrassing thing you’ve done tonight doesn't matter to you anymore because it paid off. Your eyes locked and the space between you closed. Your heart synced with the booming beat of the current song playing. You lean in, pressing your hands at the back of his neck and pulling him in. And you kiss him. You kiss Blade.

Blade kisses you back. He tightens the grip on your ass and you moan into his mouth, letting him infiltrate your mouth. He sucks on your tongue, smiling against you when he feels you push up on your tippy toes and hears you whimper into his mouth. He kisses you back. He pulls your bottom lip between his teeth, pecking your lips once more before moving to your cheek, then to your jaw, then to your neck. His hands are groping at you, roughly grabbing your ass, then your waist, then your breasts. “Are you wet?”

He says it so only you can hear it. You nod. “How wet?” He moves back up to your jaw, placing another kiss. You flutter your lashes, meeting his gaze, “So wet. All for you.”

At your response, he groans, pulling off of you. He chuckles when you pout at him. You’re just what he needs for this night. He grabs your chin, holding your face and leaning down, your lips brushing against his own. “I'm going to go smoke.” and he tells you this for a reason.

You watch with the biggest smile on your face as he sifts through the crowd, heading out of a side door. It was now or never.

Quickly, you rush to the bathroom to freshen up. You fix your hair, digging into your pocket and fishing out your lipgloss, reapplying, and you fan yourself, cooling down to not look a flustered mess. And just as quick as you ran in, you ran out toward the side door, immediately looking both ways for Blade. You smell smoke distantly and turn right, and a few paces down he stood, leaning against the brick wall of the neighboring restaurant. He's next to stacks of old wood and crates and you smile, thinking about whatever was about to go down between you.

You step in front of him and he smiles, taking you in once again. He blows his smoke in your face, tapping the ash off the cigarette before smashing the butt into the wall behind him. “Hi,” you say. He says nothing back, just slides his hand to the back of your neck and pulls you in. The kiss you share this time is messy and he now asserts control, nipping your bottom lip when he feels you go weak and pulls back.

He rakes his eyes up and down your body as you stand for him. This is the first time all night he’s seen you properly, in moderately okay lighting. Your jean mini-skirt is tight to you, accentuating the curve and fullness of your ass, and teases what’s beneath with your plump thighs poking out and how it rides up slightly. Your skin-tight baby tank is seemingly one with your figure, bringing out the best in you and making him smile with the “I ♡ BLADE” print across your chest. Your thigh-high boots did nothing when you were near him—he was looming and caging. He was intimidating and arousing, and with the lustful gaze you shared, the climax of your day was steadily approaching.

“Take it off.” He looks down at your chest and you get the memo; immediately grabbing the hem of your tank top and pulling it over your head. “Slow. Take your time…” And you listen, letting your body swivel as you remove the shirt. You unhook the clasp of your bra, and before your boobs could spill out of the confines, he grabs you and wedged you between him and the wall he previously leaned on.

The front of your body is slapped on the cold brick, but you’re swallowed in warmth as he presses against you, grinding his hard-on against your ass. One hand grabs your wrists, and the other turns you around. You look at him innocently, shivering at the breeze that blows down the alley. You can smell him: woody, smokey, and expensive. Yet here he was, pressing you up against a brick wall in a random alley. “You’re such an easy slut, y’know.”

“Bet you been thinking about this; daydreaming about your favorite artist pinning you and trashing you like the fucking whore you are.” he presses against your front, nipping at your jaw. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

You whimper, “Fuck me. Take me. Make me yours.”

“Tell me.” He growls - your answer not sufficing. “Want you to break me,”

“Always fantasized…wanting you to shove your dick down my throat and use it mindlessly and mercilessly.” He begins to kiss down your throat again, licking the tender skin. He smirks when you stop talking, your breath hitching and your head craning backward to open the expanse of your neck. He starts biting on your newfound sweet spot when you begin again, “Spit in my mouth and force me to swallow it with your cum,”

He gets to your chest, immediately taking a nipple between his teeth. He listens to you wince and whine as he does, pushing your chest into his face. “And make me beg you to fuck me. Teasing me…fuck—pinching me, pulling my hair until I'm teary-eyed and begging…”

“...And then you fuck me like you hate me; choking me, slapping me, degrading me all while I thank you stupidly.”

“You’re just fucking disgusting,” he mumbles around your nipple. He lets your hands go, palming your free tit immediately. His eyes are narrow as you whine when he twinges the bud roughly. “Put so much thought into this…you’re a weirdo slut.”

You shake your head, breathing out heavily to refute his claim, “Nuh-uh—your biggest fan.” you correct.

He laughs at you. You’re much more fun than he thought, and a lot less shameless, too. You're throwing all of your big cards out; this is your go-big or go-home moment, and while you have him here, you’ll bare yourself wholly because if not now, then not ever. Blade has to commend your patience though. You're letting him toy around, graze around your unknown territory and feel you out. You’re needy but obedient. Tired of waiting but understanding. Absolutely fucking shameful and proud, but eager to be good—so maybe he was wrong about you. You do have an “it”: an innate ability to be the perfect fucktoy.

When he lets you go, he immediately instructs you to get on your knees. And you listen immediately. The cold gravel digs into your bare knees and it's incredibly uncomfortable, yet you don’t utter a word. Your nipples are hard and pebbled and are probably so sensitive, yet you say nothing. You only sit before him, fingers dancing on the exposed thigh as you look up at him, waiting to be put to use.

So he slaps you. As you told him to—he slaps you, and his hand is heavy coming against your skin. It sounds off for what felt like possibly hundreds of miles, and your face doesn’t sting, but it hurts. The skin is heating up from the impact and your head turns to the side, hair falling against your face, yet you don’t utter a word. He grabs the back of your head, forcing you to look at him and dangerously smiling when your teary eyes look up at him wide and thankfully. “Pull my cock out,” he instructs, letting you go and standing up straight.

You get to work on his belt, undoing it swiftly, and then you unbutton his pants. You tease yourself: slowly pulling the zipper down, and when pulling his pants down to his ankles, you palm him softly, gently patting his throbbing cock and staring at the growing wet spot in his underwear. You kiss the wet spot, and then you kiss it again, and again until you suck lightly on it while making eye contact with him. You moan at the very faint taste, fluttering your eyes shut, and finally sliding your hand under the band of his underwear, holding his dick.

Blade hisses at your touch, bucking slightly into your hold at the initial contact. Usually, he’d curse you out at this point for going so slow, but he’s letting it slide this time; allowing you to take control and show him how worth it and nasty you really are.

He’s big. He’s thick—your hand can just barely wrap around the entire shaft, and as you lift him to unsheath him from his boxers, you feel how heavy he is. And hard. So fucking hard.

You gawk at his cock like a kid in a candy store, staring at his leaking slit intensely—almost as if you're waiting. “Go ahead; show me how big of a fan you are.”

You kiss his tip, the bead of precum smearing on your lips. Smacking your lips apart suggestively, you wrap your right hand around the base, applying tightness and pressure as you find the right grip, and when you do, you finally lick a clean stripe across the head. Your tongue sweeps up the new milky droplet spilling out, and you contently hum at the taste, making him groan in response. You lick from the angry tip all the way to his trimmed base, then back up again until you’ve teased every side of him and located his sensitive vein.

If anybody would have told you that all you dreamed about would be coming to fruition—all by mere luck and chance—you wouldn’t believe it. And you still don't; even as you spit a thick bead of your saliva on his cock and then massage it in with your tongue, swirling all around the sensitive head. But it’s real because he moans out for you as you finally take him in, the throb getting heavier as he sits on your tongue and your lips hug him tight.

You begin your ministrations: toying with his balls lightly as you bob up and down, going as far as you could. You tried your best to take him all in. You stretched your mouth wide around him until it felt like your mouth was going to rip at the corners and until it felt like all you could do was sputter and leak drool around him. Tears brimmed in your eyes and each time you blinked them back, keeping a pretty smile on your face every time you came up for air. Your lipgloss was mixed in with spit, and clear tear streaks had already begun to run their course with your base makeup, but you didn't stop. You were moaning incessantly, suffocating his dick in your intense vibrations that had him moaning and grunting.

When you come up from your nth deepthroat attempt, it's not for air, but to breathlessly huff out “Fuck my face…please,” And since you asked so nicely…

“Blink twice if it gets to be too much.” You open your mouth as wide as you could, sticking your tongue out. He pulls your hair back for you, yanking your head back and spitting on your tongue. His eyes tell you not to move, so you don’t, keeping eye contact with him as he wraps his other hand around your own, guiding your smaller hands up and down his shaft. He shudders, “F-fuck…’m so fuckin’ hard…”

And then he slides onto your tongue, not wasting any time before bottoming out in your mouth. Your eyes widen in surprise, and your unprepared gags speak volumes to your shock. But that doesn't deter you from wrapping your lips around him. And from there, he pulls out, pulling your head back and then pushing you back down as he thrusts his hips forward. He curses under his breath before picking up his pace, thrusting so hard that his grip tightens on your hair to hold you properly in place, fucking roughly into your face. You can only choke and sputter, having already taken your hands from around his dick and digging crescent nail shapes into his thighs. The sounds eliciting from the two of you are so nasty and filthy. His balls slap at your chin, your voice rings out from around his girth, and his moans echo around the world. You can’t take it but you’re doing a great job of trying. He slaps your face again, pulling out and hitting his tip on your tongue. “Keep your fucking eyes on me,”

“If you can do that, I'll cum all down your throat and all over your pretty fucking face, okay?” You nod eagerly, and as an incredibly degrading action of praise and acceptance, he slaps his spit-slicked dick against your cheek a few times. “Good girl.” Butterflies swarm in your stomach at his praise.

When Blade slides in, he smacks against your face. He goes to the very hilt, pushing his way to the depths of your throat roughly. Your nose is pressed up against his pelvis, and your cheeks are catching stray tears. But this is consistent as he begins thrusting, using you per your request. He grunts out each time his tip hits the back of your throat, thrusting so roughly and meanly into you. Again, you feel like all you can do is choke and gag, spilling slobber and precum mix back down his length. It’s fucking filthy and the loud squelching and impact noises hit your ears nastily, yet you can’t help but squirm and attempt to grind for friction to subdue the need throbbing in your clit.

Above you, the man is falling apart. His hips stutter every now and then and his voice is fucking endless. His long hair sticks to his sweaty forehead and sides of his neck, and it looks damn near intentionally placed from how beautiful he looks. The outdoor lights are like distant illuminators; glowing behind him softly—almost angelically. His eyebrows are knitted together and he struggles to keep his eyes every time he reaches the back of your throat and you start gagging. It’s beyond pleasurable. Blade isn't sure if it’s because of all the tension the two of you have built up, or if it's because he hasn't had any action in the last 3 weeks because of his neverending schedule, or if it’s because your mouth is fucking amazing, but he can't keep himself together. His chest starts heaving faster as he comes close to his high, his knees beginning to buckle, and his stomach caving.

You flick your tongue on the underside of his cock as much as you can and glue your eyes to his, seeing his release breaking him down inch by inch. “Fuck! I'm gonna fucking cum!” He announces, throwing his head back.

He stills in your mouth and you take the opportunity to suck harshly on his tip, swirling your tongue around it like it’s the sweetest lolly you’ve ever tasted. He pulls out of your mouth, and you vigorously stroke his cock, so focused and determined to milk him dry. He leans forward, slapping his palm against the wall behind you for stability as he cums. He moans so prettily as he paints your face, the warm ropes making you hum contently. You give him no break, sucking his tip one last time to make sure you get the most out of what he’s given you.

Blade catches his breath, standing up straight soon after and condescendingly cooing at the mess made on your face. He picks up a glob as he sweeps his thumb over your cheek, sliding the digit in your mouth. He presses on your tongue, finding pleasure in how you swallow your sounds under a layer of gagging, but how you never tear your eyes off of him. He does this until you’ve cleaned off your face—but he's not done with you.

You're finally allowed off of your aching knees. You're sure the gravel will leave an indent from how long you were down there. He pinches your pebbled nipples, smirking as you yelp. “What was it that was next? Making you beg..making you earn my cock in you?” you nod rapidly, backing into the wall for stability as he toys with your very sensitive tits. “Show me how you beg then.”

You put your hands on his shoulders to help you stand up, feeling so weak all of a sudden. Your voice cracks as you try to speak, meek little whimpers flowing out as he works your body expertly—like he knows what gets you going. “Please…fuck–Please fuck me, I need you so bad…!”

A shrill yelp is chased out of your throat when his palm cracks against one of your boobs, “Is that all you got? Try again.”

So you do. “Need you to fuck me, Blade. I wanna be used by you, broken–please, I'll do anything!”

“Not good enough. Again.”

“Please fuck me like the slut I am! I need to be full of you, need to have you fuck me ragged and dumb so all I think of is you!” you pitch up your voice, breathing it all out in one breath.

Pitiful. Another smack. “Again.”

“I'm so needy for you, please! It hurts–I need you so much, it hurts! Please…”

And he's heard enough. His right hand slides up to your neck, forcing you against the wall. His grip is tight, fingers pressing into the sides and you have to fight for your eyes to not roll to the back of your head. “You must not want me as bad as you acted like you did…”

“I do! I do!” You interject, but your voice is weak and small—nothing in comparison to his deep and lust-saturated tone. “Then act like you do. Beg.”

He runs his other hand up your thigh, cupping your cunt. Your panties are soaked, and he can feel the heat radiating off of you. He pushes the fabric to the side, running two fingers through your folds and you swear you almost fell out then and there. You'd gone teased and untouched all night—you were beyond ready.

“Pussy is fucking soaked…” he mumbles, letting his index and middle finger twirl through your folds, getting closer and closer to your clit. “You want me here? To fuck your sloppy pussy until you're cumming your brains out?”

Your eyes start to roll and he can feel the pulse intensify in your cunt. That's exactly what you wanted. “Say it. Say ‘I want my sloppy pussy fucked until I'm cumming my brains out, Blade’. Say it,”

You part your lips, and he slightly loosens the grip on your throat, “Wan–want…I want my sloppy pussy…” You get shy with your words, and he delivers a slap to your clit. The stimulation has you buckling over. You feel like his hands on you are going to be the death of you. “Say it.”

With the courage finally built up, “I want my sloppy pussy fucked until I'm cumming my brains out, Blade! Please, I need it s’bad…feel like I'm gonna fucking die!” leaves your lips easily like spreading butter on toast. His lips that you never got enough of tasting quirk up into his signature smirk. He lets you go, pushing you against the wooden crates and flipping up your jean skirt.

“There you go; atta-fucking-girl.” he practically rips your panties off of you, slapping your pussy just for the hell of it. He cringes at the sound it makes and laughs cruelly at your whimpering. He presses up against you, his semi-hard dick pressed against your ass, and he wraps his arm around you and shows you the coat of your arousal that paints his fingers. “Spit.”

With your spit and abundance of slick collected on his fingers, Blade strokes his cock, going until he’s near painfully hard. The sounds he elicits make your pussy clench around nothing, needing to be satiated so desperately. “Are you ready? There’s no going back.”

This is somehow the sweetest moment for you. Your heart swells and you can only sheepishly nod, wiggling your hips eagerly. “Never been more sure about anything in my life. Ruin me.”

Ask once more, and you shall receive once more. His cock is swiped through your folds and collects a considerable amount of your arousal. He lines up at your entrance, watching you brace yourself with a smile ingrained into his face. He pushes in with a sharp inhale, biting his tongue at the feel of your tightness. Your pussy sucks him right in and—fuck. Warm and soft and tight, he could cum right now.

Your face crinkles up and you grip tightly onto the wooden crates in front of you. You’ve dreamt of this for so long—touched yourself at night to the thought and it's finally happening. He's inside of you, stretching you out, sinking in and in and in, inch by inch until he buries himself deep in your guts, until his tight and heavy balls are touching your folds. You're so sensitive you feel like you're ready to cream already, and you need it, need him, and need more. You grind your hips back on him, exhaling thickly as you rest your head against your forearm. “So fucking ready for me…”

His hand cracks down on your ass. It hurts so well and you wince, arching your back further. He sighs, kneading your skin softly. Then he pulls out, inching out until only the tip sits idly in you. You turn around to look at him, and doing that ignites his fire.

Your face is pathetic and fucked out already. Eyebrows knitted together and your eyes heavy, hardly staying open. Your lips are parted yet folded into a small frown, and perspiration rests at your hairline. You egg him on to slam into you, and he watches your frown drop into a wide ‘o’ shape, your eyes fluttering. So he does it again. And your lip now slips between your teeth. And again. And you drop your head back onto your arms.

And so Blade keeps up this pace, gradually going faster as the pit in his stomach urges him to do so. Your sounds are now uncontrollable—they fly out of you like a skipping record, incoherent babbles, and sinful moans. Each collision of your bodies elicits a visceral, wet slap that echoes off the walls of the alleyway. People around the world could probably hear what you're doing, and you're not sure if that bothers you…if the thought of a curious passerby walking down this alley naïvely would be an issue. If anything, it makes you get louder, your throat not getting to rest.

He hits you again, groaning when your pussy clenches around him. “You’re so fucking loud– you want somebody to find us?” Yes, that is what you want to say. But you moan out louder, shaking your head no. He hits you again. “Don’t lie to me,”

“You’re a fucking painslut,” he spits at you. He wraps his arm to reach your clit, immediately finding the bud and pinching it. Your knees go weak and he stabilizes you against him by pushing you further into the crates in front of you. You sniffle and whimper, presumably spilling tears down your filthy fucking face but doing nothing but asking for more. You've gotten so wet, dripping everywhere messily and Blade only cringes his face up with each wet collision. You're so nasty, so filthy, letting a stranger who you parasocial bonded yourself to defile you in public. He's feeding into your crazed delusions, but he’d honestly rather be doing nothing else. When he pinches your clit again your body shakes. Your knees buckle again and from the waist up you're basically limp. He feels you tighten around him and he sucks his teeth, parting your ass to peer at the milky ring forming around the base of his cock. “Did you just fucking cum?” Yes, you did. And you felt like Heaven doing it.

“You came ‘cause I pinched your clit…” he does it again and you jolt up, whining for him to stop. “So if I slap it…” he slaps it, eyeing you for your reaction. “Or rub on it like I love you…” his fingers run circles on your bud, feeling you get impossibly tighter around him. “So fucking easy.”

He resumes his thrusts like he never stopped—slamming into you unapologetically and now additionally, rubbing on your cute, abused clit. He's not going to last long at this rate. Your pussy gushes around him like a running river and the noises have gotten even nastier. Squelching and the occasional puffs of air escaping…you’re a mess.

“Love this fucking cunt,” he praises while pinching your clit. His free hand that rested on the small of your back is now holding onto your neck, forcing you to stand upright against him. Blade is lean but muscular. His arms flex and you feel his abs every time your bodies get close enough. His strong thighs touch yours and it's like you feel his entire body weight every time he pushes into you. “So good, ‘s so fucking good, Blade!”

The man laughs at your outburst. He angles his hips differently, trying so hard to find your sweet spot to get you creaming again. “Yeah?” he asks, tightening his grip on your throat. “Mhm-!” you concur.

“Where?” He’s sure he's found it, and he drives his hips up, groaning happily once he feels your gummy walls contract around him. “Here?”

Your head nods rapidly. “Yes, yes, yes–fuck! Right there, oh my fucking God!”

Neither of you are going to last. Blade’s balls are so tight and the way your pussy hugs him is even tighter. You suck him in like you never want him to leave, but your over-stimulated squeals and shaking thighs suggest otherwise. He’s found your sweet spot and is recklessly abusing it, going all or nothing. The way he toyed with your clit like a kitten pawing at a toy was too much—it started to hurt, to throb endlessly as your stomach knotted and your hole drooled. His grip on your neck was the icing on the cake. You felt like you could no longer breathe — like his thrusts were knocking the wind out of you and him choking you was keeping it out. Every little thing he did pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

He was even more merciless than before. Blade fucked into you harder, rougher, and faster than before, and you chalked that up to his orgasm catching up to him. You listen to his songs on repeat all the time but never have you heard him sing more beautifully than now as he digs your pussy out. You were really blessed with this night, and now it is coming to a very eventful end.

“‘M gonna fucking cum–!” You announce, and Blade nods his head in agreement. He slaps your cunt one last time, his fingers covered in your juices now tweaking at one of your nipples. “Me…me too, fuck.”

He leans into your ear, “Make me cum in this fucking pussy,” a throaty moan breaks his sentence, and you moan back, feeling it coming. “So close, so close…!”

It's this contraction that has Blade falling apart. He thrusts into you one last time, his eyes shooting wide open as he cums deep in you. He moans gutturally and shakily, feeling you clench tighter as you orgasm as well. His hips stutter in you and your hips ride back onto him as you both come down from your highs. The alley is now deafeningly silent and you flush in embarrassment from how loud you must have been. He lets your neck and tit go, using one hand to now spread your ass and pull out his cock. Your pussy is puffy and shiny, and when he’s out, he watches with a burning gaze as your mixture of cum starts to slightly spill out.

He groans, slapping your ass one last time. You two finally separate, and you turn around to look at him. You're sure he doesn't look as fucked up as you do, but even so disheveled and fucked out and sweaty as he is, you can’t help but feel your heart flutter. He pulls up his boxers and pants, fixing his shirt before he looks over at your mostly naked frame. He comes over to you, pulling down your skirt, and his doing this makes you feel less like a one-night stand, and more like one of his girls.

Being so close to you, he breathes you in. You smell like sex, but beneath that is a layer of whatever fruity perfume you sprayed on you, and it's delectable; so he kisses you. It's something he doesn't usually do, and he wouldn't have done it for you, but you entrance him. Perhaps it's because you're what he likes— he's met his match.

But you kiss each other passionately like you were trying to reignite the flame you just spent God knows how long fucking out. Your tongues are well acquainted with one another, swirling and bumping and riding past one another knowingly. He pulls away from you, looking in your eyes as he lets spit fall onto your tongue once again. You smile happily as you swallow it—God, you could do this forever. “Come back with me,”

You didn't expect him to say that. You blink your eyes a few times in disbelief. This night can't be any more unreal. He notices your confusion and smiles, “Is that a no–”

“–No! I'll come with you!” you don't know where he’s taking you, or what it means to go with him. You do know that you’ll have a lot to tell Yukong, NDA or not, and that you’ll never forget this day.

Smiling again, this time devilishly, Blade pulls away from you, pinching your cheek. “Good girl.”

[formulafanfics13]

hiii i love your writing so much. i wanted to request a fic where reader is oscar piastri’s little sister and she’s a race engineer for charles at ferrari but doesn’t tell her brother. oscar doesn’t realize and keeps inviting her to races but she says she can’t because of work. then when all the drivers go out (to play paddle or something idk) charles makes a comment that oscar comments on and charles reveals that oscar’s little sister is actually his race engineer, since charles had no idea that reader was hiding it. oscar confronts her and gets upset until they work it out and it’s just like a fluffy brother-sister ending?

i’m sorry this was so confusing it’s been stuck in my head for a while now 😭🙏. tysm!!

My sister's your what? - OP81 (CL16)

masterlist

Summary: You’re Oscar Piastri’s younger sister — and Ferrari’s new race engineer. But you didn’t tell him. You didn’t want to ride his name, so you proved yourself first. Everything is fine until Charles casually outs you during a padel match, sending Oscar spiraling. He storms the Ferrari briefing room to confront you, only to realise you didn’t lie — you just wanted to earn your place. What follows is chaotic sibling drama, pit wall banter, and Oscar going from betrayed to proud in under ten seconds. He even leaves you a soft note after.

Warnings: Sibling chaos, workplace secrecy, emotional whiplash, dramatic Oscar, team rivalry, mentions of tire degradation, implied stress vomiting, teasing Charles, supportive older brother vibes, wholesome redemption, comedy.

It wasn’t supposed to be a secret forever. Just… long enough for you to prove yourself. Oscar had always been supportive, of your engineering degree, your obsession with race strategy, your internship at Alpine, but the idea of working in the paddock with him, let alone for another team, especially one as iconic and cutthroat as Ferrari, had always felt like a line you weren’t ready to cross.

You didn’t want to be Oscar Piastri’s little sister who lucked into a job.

You wanted to be the engineer who could win races.

So when Ferrari hired you, when you passed the tests, when you got the email, when your initials showed up on the pit wall next to Charles Leclerc’s, you didn’t tell him.

Not at first. And then… it just got harder to bring up.

You’d smile when he invited you to the races. Say “I’ve got work,” which wasn’t a lie. Say “I’ll be watching,” which was technically true, you’d just be twenty metres away in red with a headset on, screaming sector data into Leclerc’s ear.

Charles knew, of course. Andrea knew. The engineers knew. Fred had laughed when you told him you hadn’t told your brother and simply said, “As long as your comms are clean, I don’t care who you’re related to.”

Charles had even met Oscar once or twice, always with a grin, always friendly. But never close enough to put the dots together. Until the Thursday before the Imola Grand Prix. And one very cursed game of Padel.

It starts off normal enough.

Four drivers. Two courts. Half-assed rules. George, Carlos, Lando, and Charles on one side of the net. Oscar, Yuki, Pierre, and Alex on the other. Everyone sweaty. Everyone too competitive. Everyone slightly buzzed on post-media adrenaline.

Until Charles tosses his water bottle aside and sighs. “Man, I don’t think I’ve ever worked with someone who bullies me as much as my race engineer.”

Oscar perks up immediately. “Yeah?”

Charles nods. “She’s brutal. Every time I fuck up a quali lap she just goes ‘nice one, Charles’ like I crashed a scooter again.”

Lando cackles. “We need to meet her.”

Charles grins. “You have, she’s Piastri’s sister. The little one.”

Oscar freezes. Silence. “…My what.”

Charles blinks. “Your sister. You didn’t know?”

“My little sister works for Ferrari?!”

Everyone turns. Pierre lets out an ooohhh under his breath. Yuki actually ducks like he’s expecting a fight. “She’s my race engineer,” Charles continues, still looking confused. “I just assumed you knew. She has your eyes.”

Oscar looks betrayed. “Are you telling me my baby sister has been in the Ferrari garage this whole time and didn’t say a word?”

George wheezes. “This is better than Drive to Survive.”

You’re sitting in the Ferrari briefing room, eating a protein bar and reviewing tire strategy for FP1 when the door slams open. You don’t even look up. “You’re not allowed in here, Oscar.”

“I knew you were lying about work!”

You blink. Slowly look up. There he is. Oscar Fucking Piastri. McLaren hoodie. Wild eyes. A half-unraveled lanyard around his neck. Fully storming into enemy territory like he’s about to pull you out of the garage by the ear.

“Bonjour, Oscar,” Charles says casually from the corner, sipping an energy drink.

“Don’t you bonjour me!” Oscar snaps. “You’re an accomplice!”

You sigh. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Oh, I think we’re doing this right now,” he says, pulling out the chair beside you and sitting backwards on it like a man ready to lecture a criminal. You groan.

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You told me you had work!”

“I did have work.”

“YOU DIDN’T SAY IT WAS AT FERRARI!”

“You never asked where!”

Oscar throws his hands up. “You work for my rival! You stand on the pit wall and tell Charles what to do! You called my tyre deg mid-race! I heard you!”

You try not to smile. “I’m sorry, okay?” you say, finally softening. “I didn’t want to ride your name. I didn’t want people thinking I got here because of you. I wanted to prove myself first.”

Oscar deflates. The anger melts into something softer. His brow furrows. “...You did prove yourself.”

You blink. “What?”

“You think Charles doesn’t listen to you because you’re good?” he says. “You’re brilliant, and we all know it. I’ve been trying to get you into the paddock for years. You didn’t need to hide.”

You stare at him. Something in your chest stings. “…You’re not mad?”

He shrugs. “I mean, I’m definitely telling Mum. And if you ever fuck up a strategy call I will personally start a family group chat just to roast you. But no. I’m not mad.”

You throw a protein bar at his head. He ducks.

That night, you find a little note tucked into your engineering clipboard.

“Sorry for being dramatic. I’m still proud of you. Don’t tell Charles I called you brilliant, he doesn’t need the leverage. Love you. — Oscar”

[pneumaticshift]

so first of all i REALLY love your batlantern fics. i love both bruce and hal's voices so much and think that their interactions are INCREDIBLY funny

second of all i have a request for you! hal gets injured protecting dickbin. (maybe dick snuck into an invasion when he was told to stay behind. maybe he and bruce got separated.) however it happens hal saves his life but gets very injured in the process. dickbin feels guilty about this and hasn't left his bedside since. meanwhile hal going to such lengths for his ward has awoken Feelings ™ in bruce

Heyyy, sorry this took so long. I've been unhealthly playing DC Dark Legion and it's ruining my creativity. I am aware of the problem and have done nothing to fix it. This was surprisingly hard to write. I had so much I wanted to add, but I didn't want to make too long for a Tumblr oneshot. Thank you for the prompt 💚💚 Hope you like it! ———

Dick disobeyed, so now Bruce ran. 

The Watchtower had never felt all that big to him. He designed it specifically to be easily traversable. Function over grandeur, strategy over spectacle. There had been a few choice comments from the others in the Spartan decor, but every hallway had its purpose and every chamber was an answer to a problem that needed to be solved. 

The path from the transport hub to the infirmary was especially built to be the shortest path on the station. It was direct and unbroken, just a simple corridor without indulgence or opportunity for confusion. Bruce had walked it enough times to know exactly how many steps it took to get there. Eighty-three at full stride, seventy-four if he was running. Right now, he was running.

By now, in the aftermath of days on the field, he should have been back at the manor. He should have been in the cave, reviewing all the footage and data extrapolated from the mission so he could cross-reference data, log the variables, and review the structural damage to the cities they’d saved. Every detail, no matter how insignificant, meant that more lives could be saved next time. Because there had been — casualties, that is. Names he didn’t know. Faces he hadn’t seen. Deaths that didn’t belong to him.

And after all that, he should have been dealing with Dick the day he always did. Quiet conversations that never really said what he meant, despite how hard he tried. He would’ve justified himself in a way that left no room for argument, like a guardian was supposed to do when they were protecting their ward. It wasn’t your fight, I needed you in Gotham, it was too dangerous. 

Leaving him behind had been the right thing to do. The mission had outstripped caution in the first ten minutes. An Omega-level threat, with casualties stacking up before the League had even breached the city. Dick may have been forced to grow up far too soon, but he was still just a child. Reckless, brilliant, irreplaceable. Bruce wasn’t about to risk the best thing in his life. 

But now there was blood on the Zeta-pad.

Just a smear. Half-wiped, like someone had tried to clean it up with the toe of their shoe before giving up. It trailed into the corridor, then into nothing. Usually, Bruce wasn’t one to make assumptions. He was far too clever a man to let postulation guide him in any matter, but logic always had its limits, and fear didn’t care about them. Not when his ward — when his son was on the line. 

He hadn’t known that Dick was on the field. He had, perhaps naïvely, thought that Dick would have actually adhered to Bruce’s warnings this time. It was so, so dangerous, and no amount of late nights fighting street-level crime in Gotham could change the fact that he wasn’t ready. 

Word had come over the comms. J’onn and Kal were relaying relevant data from air support while Bruce had been leading the debrief with Diana for the ground team. He had been half-listening, consolidating data absently as background noise. 

It was J’onn who said it. “We intercepted an unidentified minor trying to help. Young, caped. His mind is unusually strong…” he said. “Injuries unknown. I was compelled to transfer him to the infirmary. He was quite distressed—”

That was lal Bruce needed to hear. He cut himself off mid-sentence and immediately turned to literally run to the nearest Zeta-Tube. Diana had called out to him in confusion, but he barely heard her. Though, her confusion probably made sense. He’d been with the League for two years now, and the only thing anyone actually knew about him was his dedication to the cause. To see him leave the aftermath to sort out itself probably would raise questions he’d definitely avoid later. 

Dick was almost thirteen now. He’d been by Bruce’s side for almost four years, had been Robin for three, and even though he was the cleverest, most wonderful tween Bruce had ever known, he was still an entirely unknown entity to the League. Bruce had no intention of changing that. 

Which brought him to the here and now, coming up to the infirmary with his heart in his throat and his pulse rocketing a little too quickly for his tastes. 

The doors hissed open and he didn’t wait. He pushed through before they’d finished parting completely, shoulder-checking the frame on his way in. He barely registered it, fully expecting to see his little boy all laid up. And, incidentally, fully preparing to never forgive himself for letting it happen.

But it didn’t happen. 

Dick was there, certainly, but he wasn’t the invalid Bruce had been half-ready for. Instead, he was slumped forward in a plastiform chair with his elbows resting on his knees and his little head bowed like the weight of the world was keeping him down. He was still in his suit, even though Bruce had locked it up when he left him behind in Gotham. It was torn at the shoulder and streaked with soot.

“Robin,” Bruce called. His voice was lower and far more curt than he intended. He was never good at expressing himself, so the relief fell somewhere behind the tight press of his lips and the furrow of his brow. 

It was hard to catch Dick off guard, but he startled at the noise. His shoulders jumped and he snapped his head up fast enough to make the chair creak. He turned abruptly towards Bruce, half-standing at attention without pulling himself out of his chair, and he looked at him with eyes wide beneath his askew mask. 

His mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out at first. He looked…wrong. Upset, like those first few months in the manor, or the time around the anniversary of the Flying Graysons’ final performance. His cheeks were flushed and blotchy and his nose was half-running like he’d been crying. 

“B,” he said in a broken voice. 

Instead of rushing towards his child with his arms outstretched like he was supposed to, Bruce stood frozen at the door to automatically take in the scene. Relief had flooded him enough to reboot him back to his factory settings, and he was suddenly thinking about how hasty he’d been to get here. 

But even though he should head on back and finish the debrief like he was supposed to, he stayed exactly where he was in a weird purgatory of emotion. 

Dick was curled in on himself like he didn’t know how to proceed. Ash was still smudged across his jaw and there was a thin line of blood beneath his ear. His mouth was trembling slightly, like he was still trying to be brave. He was good at that. Being brave. Better than Bruce had ever been.

That was when Bruce noticed Hal. He probably should’ve noticed him far sooner, given his condition. 

The Lantern lay unconscious on the medical berth. His chest was bandaged up and his face pale under the sicky cast of the overhead lights, but his ring was pulsing faintly. Whatever the medical staff had done to keep him stabilised had nothing on the energy channeling into the weave of healing fields wrapped around him. 

Bruce let himself be concerned for half a second. The monitors were stable and Hal was alive. Not in the best condition Bruce had ever seen him in, but not the worst either. Right now, he had more pressing matters to attend to. 

Dick was as close to the bedside as the chair allowed, which was strange. He’d never been formally introduced to the League. In fact, the only person who actually knew about his existence was Kal, and that was just because the man had pushed his nose into Gotham’s business and Dick was a fan. (A few threats and promises later, and Kal had assured Bruce that he wouldn’t tell anyone — he had, however, tried to convince Bruce to at least tell Diana. Bruce was considering it.)

For as much as he was slowly beginning to trust the League, Hal was the person Bruce had the least rapport with. It was a matter of simple incompatibility and Bruce wasn’t exactly inclined to do anything to remedy it. Some people just didn’t get along, and he couldn’t foresee himself ever doing so with Hal Jordan. 

It didn’t mean he wanted to see the Lantern hurt, but it was undeniably weird that Dick, after all the rants he’d heard when Bruce was particularly pissed off with Hal’s general existence, would set up camp by his bedside. His knees were bumping the frame and one hand hung loosely over the edge, like it had started to reach for Hal at some point and just stopped midway.

Yes, it was weird, but Bruce was always good at connecting the dots. He could see it now in the way Dick wouldn’t look at Hal directly. He just kept glancing over at him, furtive and quiet and just a hint of shame. He could see it in the way his lips pressed together to keep them from trembling and the way his feet hadn’t moved but his leg was bouncing nervously. 

Whatever had happened that made Dick like this, it probably meant that Bruce had to thank Hal. 

Now that he knew Dick was safe, Bruce’s instinctive reaction was to order a report. It would be easier to depersonalise the situation if he framed it like another mission, and Bruce was usually very, very good at separating his complicated personal feelings from the here and now. But, every now and again, very rarely so, Bruce actually knew when not to put The Mission first. 

He let out a slow, grounding breath, and came up beside Dick. “Talk to me,” he said as softly as he could. Which wasn’t very soft at all, but Dick had been with him long enough now to be able to tell the difference. 

“I didn’t—” Dick swallowed hard and curled his fingers into the edge of Hal’s bed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Are you hurt?”

Dick shook his head. “No. I mean— I’m scuffed, I guess. Elbow. Nothing bad.” His voice was tight. His gaze flicked sideways toward Bruce, then back to Hal, then down at his own boots like he was ashamed of all three. “I shouldn’t have come,” he added, even softer now. “You told me not to, and he— Green Lantern, he—”

“We’ll talk about that,” Bruce said. “Later.” Not a dismissal, not forgiveness. Just…later. He looked back at Hal. “Tell me what happened, chum.”

He never wanted Dick to be nervous around him, but something visibly unfurled around the boy when the term of endearment slipped out. Dick sniffed and went to wipe his eyes. He was still wearing his domino and the mask displaced even more when he tried to rub away the moisture beginning to brim. Bruce couldn’t see the tears, not behind the mask. He knew they were there, though. 

“I thought I could help,” Dick muttered. “I tracked the signal. I saw you were on the ground team, and when the alerts came in, the ones from the orbital relay—” He broke off, shaking his head like the words were too heavy to push out. “I knew it was big. But I thought if I just— if I was careful, then I’d—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. His hand stayed near Hal’s arm, fingers hovering just above the blanket like he didn’t know if he was allowed to hold on.

“I didn’t know he was gonna—” Another pause. Another broken thread of sound. “I didn’t think it’d go that wrong.”

This was a learning experience for him, Bruce thought. He hated that it was one of the first things that came to mind, especially when his kid was looking so vulnerable and when one of his coworkers was unconscious. 

“He saved you,” he said rather than asked. 

Dick nodded and Bruce looked at him a little longer before turning to look at Hal. Really looked at him, for perhaps the first time since they met. He made himself stop calculating vitals and injury ratio, and he stopped parsing the rhythm of the machines for signs of decline of recovery. He hadn’t even realised he had been doing all of that until he forced himself to stop.

Even though he never thought much of Hal, he also knew — had always known — that he would’ve done anything to save a kid. And clearly he had. No ring could fake that level of duty. No construct could fabricate what Bruce saw now in the aftermath: a Lantern lying half-broken, unconscious and quiet for once, because he had chosen to step in when Bruce couldn’t. And the fact that it was his kid, his Dickie…

Oh, that was a problem. Bruce felt something brand new twist hard in his chest. Something with sharp edges and raw heat, something that crawled under his ribs and tried to claw its way out through bone. Gratitude didn’t come easy to him. Guilt did. Both were now crashing into him in silent tandem, buried deep where no one could see. 

There was something a little more too, just the sparks of something even harder to name. Not affection, not exactly, but something annoyingly near it. It felt complicated and raw, tangled up in this image of Hal, broken and still, and Dick sitting beside him like he was the most important person here. 

Bruce acknowledged it, then ignored it. He set it down in the place in his mind where he buried everything else that threatened to make him feel too much, too fast. Later, when Hal woke up, he would thank him properly. Dick would want to, too. Probably as Dick, and not as Robin. That was something to think about later, though. 

“What did the medical staff say?” he asked.

Dick sniffed once and rubbed the heel of his palm against his nose like he used to when he first came to the manor. “They said he stabilised fast,” he replied. “The ring did most of the work before we even got here. They— uh…I had to give them your access code so they’d let me stay. They tried to kick me out ‘cause I don’t have clearance. Um. Sorry…”

Another thing to worry about later, but not Bruce’s immediate concern. He gave Dick his access codes for a reason. Something like this was always going to happen. “They think he’ll wake up soon?”

“Yeah…’cause the ring, and all.” Dick shifted in the chair, arms pulled in tight to his chest, like he was trying to make himself smaller. “Can I stay, B? Just for a little while?”

It was against protocol, Bruce thought, but…well…

“Move over,” Bruce said. Dick blinked for a moment, then scrambled out of the chair like he was responding to an order on the field. He hovered for a second, uncertain, until Bruce sat down in his place. The kid didn’t need another invitation. 

He climbed into Bruce's lap like he had a hundred times before — back when he was smaller, younger, and it was less embarrassing for a kid to seek comfort. Back when his limbs didn’t dangle awkwardly over the sides, when he could curl up tight and disappear into the fold of the cape like it was a hidey-hole.

Lately, he'd been pulling away from those kinds of childish interactions as best he could. He was coming up on his teen years. Trying to be taller than he was. Braver. Older. He didn’t lean on Bruce the way he used to. Not in public, at least. Not even at home unless he was half-asleep or had forgotten he wasn’t supposed to need it anymore.

Now, he pulled the cape around himself, tucked his head beneath Bruce’s chin, and sighed out one long, shaky breath. 

Bruce didn’t know how long they sat there, but it was long enough for the ring to finish its preliminaries. He had sent a message to Alfred at some point, brief but clear: We’re safe. I’ll explain soon. He knew the old man would read between the lines, hear everything that wasn’t written.

He had also dropped a locked ping on the League comms, redirecting anyone trying to enter the infirmary. No visitors. Not right now. Which was probably a dick move.

Oliver and Barry would’ve come by. Maybe even some of the other Lanterns, if they managed to get wind of what happened. Hal had friends. People who gave a damn. People better than Bruce who would want to see him and make sure he was still breathing.

But Bruce didn’t want anyone else in this room, not while Dick was still sleeping and not while Bruce was still figuring out what he was supposed to do when Hal woke up. 

And he did eventually wake up. The combination of the ring’s healing propities, coupled with the medical staff’s expertise meant that injuries of this nature didn’t keep a man down for long. Bruce was also half-certain that the ring was starting to affect Hal’s actual nervous system, so he always healed a little quicker than most. 

The infirmary lights had dimmed into their night cycle at some point, so Bruce didn’t catch the exact moment Hal woke up. One second, the room was still. The next, he caught movement — barely a twitch from the bed, then a sharp intake of breath.

“Goddamn,” Hal muttered from the bed. “Either I died and you're here to collect, or this is some kind of fever dream.”

“Lantern,” Bruce greeted. “Stay down.”

“Screw that, I’m fine.” 

Hal immediately tried to sit up, because he was one of the most stubborn bastards Bruce had ever met. The attempt lasted all of two seconds before he winced hard and flopped back down like the bed had sucker punched him .Bruce didn’t move to stop him.

Partly because he knew Hal was too stubborn to listen anyway, but mostly because Dick was still bundled under the cape, tucked close to Bruce’s chest, dead asleep. The kid didn’t even stir at the commotion. He just mumbled something unintelligible and curled in tighter, frowning slightly in his sleep.

Hal caught the movement and froze.

“Batman…what are you doing under your cape right now?”

Bruce gave him the flattest look. Without a word, he lifted the edge of the cape.

“Oh my god,” Hal breathed. Dick was out cold, his cheek pressed against Bruce’s chest, one hand still clinging loosely to the edge of the cape like he thought someone might try to take it from him. “Nobody’s ever gonna believe me.”

Huffing out something that may have resembled a laugh if Hal looked too deep into it, Bruce let the cape drop and readjusted his grip around his son. 

“Robin,” Bruce said simply. 

“...I’m gonna assume that’s his name and not just you being all cryptic and weird.” Hal flopped his head back on the pillow and glared at Bruce. “That your kid?”

“Hm.”

“The hell was he doing in the field, Batman?” 

Bruce didn’t respond to that. He didn’t owe Hal anything. Or, maybe he did. After what happened, after what Hal had done without even knowing who he was protecting, maybe Bruce did owe him a few answers. Maybe more than a few. But Bruce was still Bruce, and words, real ones, always failed him when they didn’t involve strategy, contingencies, or command.

Hal let out a soft breath that turned into a wince. “My bad. Should’ve known you were too much of a douche to actually willingly give out information,” he said. It was an out Bruce was going to take. “He alright?”

“He will be.”

And Hal, flat on his back with half his ribs taped together and a ring flickering dimly at his side, managed a crooked smile. “Good,” he said. “’Cause I don’t think I’ve got another one of those in me.”

“He—” Bruce paused and Hal glanced at him again. “He wanted to wait for you to wake up.”

Hal blinked. Then he looked down, toward the edge of the cape still drawn over Bruce’s front, where the faint rise and fall of breath gave away the shape of a small form nestled beneath. He couldn’t see Dick from his angle, just the dark ripple of fabric and the way Bruce’s arm curled almost imperceptibly around something fragile.

So instead, Hal watched Bruce. And that, Bruce realized, was strange. People didn’t watch him like that. Not when he was still. Not when he wasn’t speaking. They watched for his movements, for orders, for the turn of his head that meant something was about to happen, But Hal looked at him now like he was trying to figure him out.

Bruce didn’t shift under it. Didn’t avert his gaze or curl the cape tighter around him like he wanted to. He simply let the moment stretch between them, unspoken and unguarded, which was even stranger. It was almost disarming.

Then, Hal snorted. “Of course he did. I’m the Green Lantern,” he said. “Kid’s got taste.”

The expected thing to do now would be to engage in conversation. He was supposed to thank Hal, promise to treat him better in the future, and acknowledge that his opinion on him had recently gone up more than Bruce was strictly comfortable with. 

It would’ve been easy to stay. Just another hour. Just until Hal drifted off again. But Dick needed real rest in a real bed. He wouldn’t get that in the Watchtower, no matter how long he clung to Bruce’s side.

So Bruce figured he’d overstayed his welcome. Slowly, he gathered the boy closer and stood, the cape keeping Dick cocooned in shadow and warmth. Dick barely stirred, just buried his face instinctively against Bruce’s chest with a small sound of protest before settling again.

He could feel Hal watching him. “Bring him by again sometime,” he said, voice softer now. “Maybe when I’m not half-dead.”

Bruce paused at the door, glanced back. No real promises and no answer. Just a quiet nod. And then he was gone, with a whole new problem brewing in his chest. 

[cosmicgendershifter]

More Completed Gentlebeard Fanfic I Recommend

This continues from my previous fic rec post, but since it was getting super long, I am starting a new one, haha. 🌈🏴‍☠️

Without 🔞 Content

"I'm Used to Death" (T, ~119,400 words) by @dimplyowl (same writer as "The Curse of Blackbeard's Sword" and "Invisible String") and @thatmothra (same writer as "Salt, Sweet") is a beautiful and heartwrenching Hunger Games AU that does a more brilliant job at combining that dystopian novel with OFMD than I had thought possible! There's some notable Mary/Evelyn too as a bonus. Don't forget the sequel, too: "But Not Your Death" (T, ~108,700 words).

"#OldManCrush" by @petrichorca and @veeagainsttheday (T, ~13,000 words) is a short but vibrant modern AU full of delicious mutual pining where Stede writes an op-ed about his later-in-life crush that goes viral and sends his best friend Ed, the co-owner at their new shared newspaper, into a spiral.

"there's always an escape" (T, ~4,400 words) by @ghostalservice (the same writer as "mighty real" and more) and @mahnaah is a delightfully silly modern AU meet-cute where Stede solves a hidden bonus puzzle in the pirate-themed escape room that Ed created.

"blue canary in the outlet" by @ladohstry (T, ~3,400 words) is a very soft, sweet modern AU oneshot where Ed and Stede share a bed--and then a first kiss--after a night on the club with their friends.

With 🔞 Content

"My Soul Remains With You" by @bonnetpetit (same writer as "Fox Fires", E, ~130,400 words) is a gorgeous, smutty modern fantasy AU with big season two vibes, in which Ed is the lonely cursed forest creature haunting Bonnet Industries' latest development project, and Stede decides to leave his old life to stay with him.

"Rinse and Repeat" by @theyellowestmustard (same writer as "Swedish Cult Bullshit" and "Magpie", E, ~106,300 words) is a lovely, sensual modern AU in which touch-starved Ed seeks out Stede the hairdresser to do a fancy funeral braid for him and then gets a little bit addicted. "Somnophobia (and Other Eleven-Letter Words" is another great one by this writer (E, ~10,500 words), a heartfelt season two missing scenes fic featuring Ed not wanting to risk falling asleep, Stede comforting him, and hand-holding during sex. 💜

"The Broken Lines" by @clairegregoryau (cowriter of "'Til We See the Sunlight," M, 82,200 words) is a poignant, fantastical WWI AU where comm officer Stede struggles to regain his memories and find his lost love after the trauma of the war, even as he communicates across time with canon Ed.

"But the Dream is Strong" by @babykittenteach (E, ~31,400 words) is a fascinating omegaverse AU, with big genderqueer and kink energy, where Ed realizes he wants Stede to ~ravish~ him so Ed can turn from an alpha to an omega.

"soft like silk chiffon" by @impossiblebird (same writer as "Andante, Andante, E, ~12,400 words) is a post-canon fic that thoughtfully explores Ed's enjoyment of being submissive to Stede's soft domming, with some lovely bondage and lingerie included.

"Men on Fire" by @petrichorca and @mahnaah again (M, ~9,900 words) is a fun and sweet short modern AU where Ed is a pornstar whom Stede interviews for his video series about the queer community, with instant chemistry happening between the two of them.

"twenty years and twelve hours" (same writer as "blue like cut sapphires" and more, E, ~9,500 words) is a delightful modern AU in which Ed and Stede are each other's very awkward (but still good) first time at college, and then they get to reconnect twenty years later! Another throwback fave from this writer is "Unparalleled" (E, ~20,300 words), a post-season one reunion fic full of intense emotion and sexy angst, with the soft dom Stede/sub Ed intimate dynamic that I love most for them.

[pascalispunkczechia]

Rules I Break For Him 5

Masterlist for this fic here

When we get to the base, it's already loud as hell. People talking, shit clattering, the usual morning chaos.

I head straight to my office - meeting starts in 10 am, so coffee's gonna have to wait till after. Javier, meanwhile, makes his way to his desk.

I catch a glimpse of him picking up the phone. His face shifts. He looks... pissed. He ends the call and stands up so fast it's like his chair didn't even exist. He storms info my office. "Boss, we've got a situation," he blurts out.

Oh. So, I'm boss now. Not baby. Guess those roles are location-dependent. I make a mental note and bite back a smirk.

"We got a tip on a driver tied to one of our narco. Looks like he's heading to meet one of their guys. We need to check it out."

"How reliable is your source, agent Peña?" I ask, with just the right amount of edge - dragging out the last two words on purpose. Yeah! We're doing this game now. Apparently the whole 'let's drop the formalities' moment dind't happen. And honestly? I'm kinda living for it. Even if this is absolutely not the time for it.

"I trust him," he says simply.

"Good. You'll have to make do with three cars full of men."

"Fine. I'm taking Carillo," he says, already turning to leave.

All business. All discipline. Meanwhile, me? Still thinking about how he railed me into next week last night.

Get it together!, I tell myself. Maybe I should start taking notes from him. Because the last two days? Not exactly my most mature, professional self. I sigh and head off to the meeting.

And there we fucking go. We pull up the house. The place where one of Cali's top cartel fucker is supposedly about to pay a visit to one of his guys. Tip came from someone I know.

Vanessa.

Last time I saw her was maybe six months ago, right before they shipped my ass back to Texas. Needed to blow off steam. So I fucked her like... well, technically speaking, fucking is her job.

Haven't been with anyone else since. Vanessa tried, of course. Once I got back, she was calling the office five times a day, minimum. Didn't have the time. Or the fucking energy. Can't really blame her, though. Sure, she fucks for money and sees other guys, but I was tje only one she saw regularly for the last year. Maybe that's why she latched on.

But I was still pissed about missing the takedown Escobar. Didn't have room in my head for her. Didn't even have room for sex.

And then... she happened. And fuck if I know what the hell this is. She pulls me in like a goddamn magnet.

Look, I've always liked women. Liked fucking. No surprise there. But she's different. There's something in her that maes it impossible to just sleep with her and move the fuck on. I want to know her! Not just inside her, but deep under her skin. I want to crawl into whatever part of her she keeps locked up and stay there.

I want... fuck! I want something I haven't had in a long time. Someone to come home to. Someone to fall into at the end of the day... with the good, the bad, the ugly. Someone whose body isn't just a distraction, but a place to rest.

Okay, back to the Earth. Vanessa's tip came through a payphone. First time she's been actually useful in a long time - and no, she wasn't trying to get laid. Apparently, she's been seeing our narco's driver. So yeah, she knew exactly where the fucker would be today.

Now we're here. Waiting. Carillo's watching the street from the car like a hawk. But nothing's happening.

Maybe the tip was bullshit after all. Maybe I fucked up by trusting it. Or maybe I'm just so desperate to take a bite out of the Cali cartel, I'll chase anything that moves. Because I didn't get Escobar. And that shit still burns.

Then... Kid shows up. Thirteen, maybe. Gun in his hand. Fires one shot. Misses, of course. Little fucker can't aim. Takes of running.

Me and Carillo jump out. Leave the car right where it is. Tell the others to stay put, stay sharp, stay on comms.

We go after the kid. Suddenly shots ring out from the rooftops. We dive for cover under awnings, doorways - anything solid.

Jesus Christ! They're kids. Fucking kids.

We split up and try to get to the roofs, fast. Manage to grab two of them. One's maybe seventeen. The other, fifteen.

"You DEA fucks think you're smart, huh?" one of them spits. "You don't win in this neighborhood. Nobody does."

Carillo snaps. Screams at them to get on their knees, hands behind their heads. "What the fuck is this supposed to be?!" he yells.

"We got paid to keep watch. To report anything weird. So if you're waiting for someone, you're wasting your fucking time," they mutter - not as cocky now, but still full of attitude.

I don't wanna keep them. They're just kids. They don't see it like we do. Sad truth is, we can't stop this. They're from a poor neighborhood - someone waves money, and they'll do whatever it takes.

But stil.. Vanessa's tip was right. We just got here too early. These little fuckers already called it in - three matching DEA and police vehicles parked on the block? Yeah, nobody from Cali ain't showing today. Fuck!

"We let them go. Fuck it," I shout over to Carillo.

"Nope," he replies. "We need to send a message."

What the fuck? What does that mean?

Before I can even blink, Carillo pulls his gun and shoots the older kid straight through the head.

Holy shit...!

The body drops. Just like that. I can't move. Can't think. Just frozen.

He picks up the bullet casing, walks over to the younder one - the kid's crying now, shaking like hell. Carillo presses the bullet into his hand. "Give this to your boss," he says. "Tell him Carillo sends his regards. You don't fuck with us. Not for much longer."

And the kid? He runs. Doesn't look back. My ears are ringing. I don't get it. I don't fucking get how Carillo just shot a kid.

Fuck. We're all on edge, we're all strung the fuck out, but... this?! No. Fuck no.

I don't say a word the whole way back to the base. And Carillo doesn't try to talke either. Good.

It's dark out by the time we pull in. I walk inside, drop into my chair like my spine's not even holding me up anymore. Place is dead. Her office is dark too.

I should go home. But not home. Fuck that. The bar. That damn car's still parked out front anyway... whatever. Don't give a shit.

I walk. Smoke half a pack on the way. My hands are shaking. My stomach's sick. By the time I actually get to the bar, the last thing I want is a drink.

I need her.

I get in the car and drive straight to her place.

I'm standing at her door. Knocking... or trying to. My hands are fucking useless right now.

The lights are on. She's awake. She opens the door and the second I see her face, I know I came to the right place.

She looks at me, reads me instantly. "Javier... what happened?" she asks, voice soft, pulling me inside. "I didn't hear anything from Carillo but your face... something went wrong. What was it?"

We sit on the couch. I tell her, fast and flat. No details. No emotions.

She stares at me. Horified. And then she pulls me into her arms. I breathe her in. Coconut. She smells so fucking clean. Too clean for the filht I drag around with me.

I hold on to her. It helps. But noe enough. I pull back.

She looks me straight in the eyes. And then she pulls her shirt over her head. Nothing underneath. Her nipples are already hard.

Fuck.

She knows. She just fucking knows. And it makes something inside me break all over again.

My cock starts to throb immediately. I push her back gently, shrug off my tac vest and shirt, and watch her eyes track every inch of my body.

She reaches out, touches my stomach - slow, careful. I move my hands to her jeans, undo the button, pull them down, one leg at a time.

She stands. Wearing nothing but her panties. Takes my hand, leads me to the bed. Pushes me to sit. And I let her. Tonight, I can't think. I don't want to think.

She straddles me, starts kissing me, soft and slow. Her skin feels like fucking heaven. Soft, warm, real.

Her fingers slide into my hair and I lose it. I pick her up roughly and throw her down ono the bed. Her eyes go wide. Yeah. I know that look. I know this girl.

I grab her by the hips, drag her to the edge of the bed, and rip her lace panties down her legs. Black. Of course. Sexy as hell.

She props herself up on her elbows and watches me. She knows what's coming.

"I want you on your knees, baby," I growl. "I'm taking your from behind."

She does what I say. Back arched. Ass up. And jesus... that view.

I slide one finger inside her. She's soaked. Perfect. All for me. I add a second finger, move them in circles, twisting deep. She whines under me. Moaning. Squirming. I speed up. Lean down. Bite her ass - just hard enough.

She screams. Her pussy tightens around my fingers like a fucking vice.

"Who'd you come for, baby?"

"For you. For what you went through today."

And that's it. That's the fucking trigger.

I undo my pants, just enough to free my cock - and I slam into her in one sharp thrust.

Hard. Fast. No hesitation. Just raw need.

One hand in her hair. The other gripping her ass as I pound into her like my sanity depends on it. And maybe it does.

She's whining, all breathy and desperate, and fuck, even I can't keep from moaning. She's so fucking tight. I can feel every inch of her wrapped around me. Perfect.

I grind my hips slowly, bury myself all the way in, then freeze.

Need to slow the fuck down… I’m not ready to come yet. I need to stay inside her longer.

“Javi,” she begs, her voice wrecked. “Please.”

“What do you want, baby?” I mutter, low.

“Fuck me. Don’t stop.”

And just like that, I’m moving again. No holding back. Can’t. It’s so fucking good I could scream.

Every thrust pulls something out of me… the rage, the guilt, the sick churn in my gut from earlier.

I’ve got control again. And I’m not letting go.

I speed up, fucking her hard.

She’s crying out, loud and raw.

I grab her, pull her upper body back against my chest, keep her there. My lips find her neck, biting, kissing.

Her head drops to my shoulder, and she whimpers into my skin, nails digging into my hands as her whole body tightens around me.

She’s coming again. Two orgasms in ten fucking minutes. She’s a goddamn goddess.

That thought alone pushes me over the edge. I come hard. Burying everything into her - frustration, grief, need, fucking everything.

I stay deep until the last drop’s gone.

Then I pull out and smack her ass, just light enough to make her smile.

She collapses onto her back, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, eyes shining like I’ve never seen before.

I lie down next to her. Pull her into me, curl her up against my chest.

And just like that, I’m out cold.

I open my eyes, and the first thing I see is the digital clock on the nightstand. 4:30 a.m.

Yesterday starts coming back in pieces. Morning meeting. Finally got handed the keys to my service car. Quick lunch at a shitty little bistro down the street.

Then the wait... waiting to hear how Peña and Carillo’s operation went down.

Carillo showed up around six. No success. Didn’t know where Peña was. All he said was, “We sent a message to Cali.”

That was it. No details, no follow-up.

Didn’t sit right with me. None of it did.

And when Javier still hadn’t come back two hours later, I gave up and went home.

Maybe he’s already there, I thought. Maybe I’m just overthinking.

But he wasn’t. And the pit in my stomach only got worse. Where the fuck was he?

I forced myself into the shower, hoping the water would help. It didn’t.

Got dressed again. Jeans. T-shirt. Didn’t even bother with pajamas.

If I didn’t hear anything within the hour, I was ready to go looking for him.

And then I heard it. Knocking on my door.

I bolted. Fuck. Javier.

The second I saw his face, I knew something was wrong. Really fucking wrong. He still had his tac vest on. The same one he wore on the operation.

You know the rest…

I passed out in his arms. Total blackout.

Between the panic, the waiting, and the fact that he basically fucked the breath out of my lungs - yeah, no mystery there.

I could tell he needed it. That was his therapy. And hey, I’m not exactly turning down sex-as-coping-mechanism if it feels that good.

Thinking about the way he wrecked me last night makes my stomach clench again. Yeah. That’s the kind of problem I can live with.

I glance to the side... the bed’s empty.

He’s at the window. Shirtless. Smoking.

Of course. Jesus, Javi, don’t spiral. Not now.

I sit up, spine against the headboard, and the mattress creaks loud enough to get his attention.

He turns.

I scan his face, trying to figure out what version of him I’m getting this morning. “How long’ve you been up?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

“An hour, maybe,” he mutters. Flicks the cigarette out the window like it insulted him personally, then walks over and sits on the edge of the bed.

His hand finds my hip, casual, but heavy. His gun and badge are still on the nightstand. I grab the badge, mostly to avoid looking at him.

“Why aren’t you asleep, baby?” he asks.

“Probably the usual city bullshit outside,” I say, still avoiding eye contact like a fucking coward.

Look. We’re excellent at sex. Like disturbingly good. But when it comes to anything involving actual talking? Yeah, we suck at that.

“I think we should… talk more,” I mutter, then immediately regret how I said it. “Like, yeah, the sex is mind-blowing, five stars, would recommend... but maybe you should actually, I don’t know… say some of the shit you’re carrying around instead of stuffing it under the mattress and hoping I don’t notice?”

I finally look at him. Straight in the eyes. “I just think… maybe we should try to get to know each other. Beyond the whole ‘you’re hot and angry and broken and I wanna ride you into next week’ part.”

It comes out sharp. Honest. And yeah, I can’t believe I actually said it either.

He just looks at me for a second. Takes the badge from my hand and sets it back down on the nightstand. “I do want to talk,” he says. “You’re probably the only person in this fucked-up city I’d even want to talk to. I just… don’t know what else to say about what happened yesterday. This case is getting under my skin more than Escobar ever did. Maybe because I still haven’t gotten over the fact that they pulled me back to the States and I never got to finish that shit. And every fuck-up since then? Just adds more fuel to the fire.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I say softly, looking him straight in the eyes. “I really am. I wish I could help…”

And yeah. Maybe it’s selfish, but I hate how much it hurts me to see him like this.

“No. You can’t. I mean… you are helping me. Just by being there last night. That was my way of coping. You’re the only thing right now that actually helps,” he says, his hand moving slowly over my stomach. “And I wanna know you, baby. Fuck, I wanna know every inch of you, inside and out. But right now? Everything’s just fucked. So I fall back on the one thing I’ve always been good at: the physical part. Fucking. That’s the one thing I know I can do right. The one thing I’m sure I won’t fuck up.”

His hand slides up, palm over my breast, giving it a gentle squeeze. “If this is how I get to keep you in my life... if this is how I make sure you don’t just disappear on me... then this is what I do.”

My brain’s short-circuiting. Was that a fucking… confession?

Did this gorgeous, emotionally wrecked man (with everything going to hell around him) just say he needs me? My chest tightens.

I grab his hand, the one resting along my side, and squeeze it. “I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him.

He gives me a sad little smile, kisses me, and lies down next to me.

We end up curled around each other, tangled up like fucking silverware.

He buries his face in my hair and starts breathing deep and slow.

I don’t want this moment to end. Eventually his breathing evens out. He’s asleep. Arms still wrapped around me.

And me? I feel safe. God, I feel so fucking safe with him.

Which is insane, right? We’ve known each other maybe three days! I’m technically his boss. I’m supposed to be drowning in case files, not in his arms.

What the hell are we even doing? Maybe we’ve both lost our minds.

Maybe I don’t care. Because right now, this... this is exactly where I want to be.

Call it whatever the fuck you want. But the fact that we both ended up back in Cali at the same time? That’s not just coincidence. My logical brain left the chat.

After Diego, my ex, I promised no man would ever take me down like that again. I was supposed to work my ass off, come home dead-tired and emotionally numb, and be fine with that.

But now? Now I feel good in a way that scares the shit out of me. I don’t wanna get burned again.

Diego was nothing like Javier. Not really.

And if I’m honest? Whatever I had with Diego wasn’t even close to this.

He cheated. The second a trashy street whore smiled at him. Made me feel like nothing. Like I was disposable. I’m never letting anyone do that to me again.

I burrow deeper into Javi’s body. Half-asleep, he brushes a fingertip over my belly. Soft. Gentle.

Do I trust him? I’m trying. No. I do. I trust him.

And that is what scares me.

Because what if this connection isn’t strong enough to survive the shitstorm that is our reality?

A tear slips down my cheek. I squeeze my eyes shut and press myself tighter into his warmth... so close I can feel the soft brush of hair between his thighs.

I try to fall back asleep.

Okay, I know - you’re probably thinking: “What the hell was Carillo doing there? Isn’t he already dead, killed by Escobar?”

Of course he can’t be in Cali. But listen, we’re in a completely different dimension here, alright? I needed Carillo for a plot twist. A twist that just popped into my head, and trust me, it’s a big one.

So yes, I need Carillo. I also need the prostitute Vanessa, which is why she’s mentioned. Everything that just happened is actually really important for what’s coming.

And trust me, what’s coming won’t be just about sex but it’s gonna keep you hooked. Or at least I hope it will.

NEXT CHAPTER HERE FOR MORE FICS -> MASTERLIST

[clumsydragon28]

3 Years of clumsydragon28 ✨

On June 17th, 2022 I posted my first work ever on ao3. After an almost 9 year hiatus from writing, I once again picked up a pen and began again.

Since taking that leap, I have reflected on my time writing again every year on this date:

Year 1: Journey of Words on ao3.

Year 2: 2 Years of clumsydragon28✨on tumblr

Below you will find an in depth look back at my third year. It had some very low lows and some really high highs, some of which I have not talked about until now. All of them have led me to today ♥️

Over the past year I added seven new works to my ao3 and each one I feel highlights a different part of who I am:

Spice Unites was the piece I wrote for Chocho Week 2024. This was the first time I really dove head first into sharing my love and knowledge of food through fanfiction. It was so fun to explore different cuisines, cultures, and flavours through the eyes of Chocho and Shinki. I love connecting with others through the language of food, so it was wonderful to write about some of my favourite characters doing that, as well.

With A Puppy for your Thoughts I explored my love of writing and gifting to others. I take great inspiration from the authors I read, and so I wanted my birthday fic for the lovely @unioncolours to be an homage to her. Incorporating characters I know she loves as well as the titles of her fics throughout the piece was a joy to write. There are many ideas I am really proud of that I incorporated into this piece, and I look forward to expanding on them in future works.

Then we come to one of the most exciting events of the past year: Shikajin Weekend 2024! I couldn't help it and really pushed myself to go all out to celebrate our bois. I wrote one complete piece for each day and through them explored four different sides of my writing: Silhouettes shows my love of poetry that has no set meter or form; Love Birds shows my love for playing with the way in which words fall on the page visually; our hands belong on our swords shows my love for prose and creating a story through more "traditional" writing means; and Her Boys shows my love for poetry that follows a set rhyme and rhythm.

And then we reach my final work from the past year "Tes yeux sont exactement comme avant." This was a translation of my first fic I ever wrote gifted to me by the lovely @phoenixleaf. Thank you again so very much my friend ♥️

In addition to what you see on ao3, there are some other works that I have written this past year, too. I wrote a scene for my dance au called Blinding that was a contribution to Shikajin Weekend, as well. I also have one fanfiction poem that I hope to publish in the future when its time comes.

I have also been blessed with many gifts over the course of this past year. Both @image13lyub and SpicedGold wrote me lovely gorgeous fics, and I have received so much fan art inspired by my writing from @twnj @backgroundcharacterno5 and @mybutterflykindred. I truly cannot thank you all enough. I am so grateful for you all ♥️

As I mentioned there were some highs and lows, and with that comes alot of firsts.

This past year has been filled with a lot of happy and exciting milestones for me:

I reached 20 user subscribers

I exceeded 18,000 total hits

I received over 200 comments and bookmarks respectively

I had one of my Shikajin fics reach 50 kudos for the first time

I had a second of my Nara family centered fics exceed 100 kudos

I published over 100,000 words

I became a first time beta reader for the lovely @image13lyub

I left my first four part comment (my longest to date) on the "Vienna" chapter of @notquitejiraiya's fic Grandmaster. I think everyone and their mother knows how special that chapter is to me ♥️

That last achievment I think is the most special to me this year. For a very long time I was afraid to leave comments on people's works. And even when I did finally get up the courage to do so, I held myself back at first. Perhaps due to left over feelings from years of bullying when growing up, I was afraid that my reactions would be looked at as annoying. I eventually let go and allowed myself to test ao3's character limit on the daily, but there was a time this past year where I almost held myself back again.

I began to think that there were people out there who see it as an act. That my feelings aren't real but fake. That I am being nice simply to garner attention for myself. To be perceived in such a way really hit me hard (and to be honest it still hurts me now). Because of that, I deeply considered giving up writing again, both in comments and in my own works.

But in the end, I knew that no matter how much it hurts, that it wouldn't be fair to me. I knew I couldn't let those voices win. I made a promise to myself when I picked up that pen 3 years ago that I would never stop writing again. And so, I never will.

Of all the milestones I listed before, I have to say that my comment on Becks' fic is the one I'm most proud of. Because it shows I didn't give up. It proves that I am stronger than the voices that told me no. It’s proof I persevered.

To quote one of my favourite movies: "We do not read and write poetry because it is cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race." Writing is more than just telling a story. It is something I need to do. Writing is what makes me a person. Writing is what makes me alive. Writing is what makes me me.

This was the first year I did not post any new original works onto ao3. I also did not write a birthday fic for myself as I normally do. In addition, there is one fic I posted that has not received a single kudos nor comment. I must admit that I felt a bit sad by these at first; that I had let myself down in some way. But I know that I haven't:

I do not write for fame or popularity; I write what I need when I need it.

My first year of writing I had summed up as "excitement", my second as "thoughtful", and I had left off last June saying that I expected this following year to be more quiet. In a way, you could say that is true: I did not post as much as I have in the past, and nothing new has been added to my ao3 since January. But to me, quiet doesn't feel right.

Quiet would have been if I had quit. Quiet would have been if I let those voices in my head win. Quiet would have been if I didn't now have almost 60k words of outline waiting for me to work my magic on them.

If you read my reflection from last year, or if you have just heard me speak, you know that my dance au is very special to me. It is a story I have been crafting and molding for what feels like forever. It may seem a bit extreme to say, but this story feels like a bit of destiny to me. Everything up until now has been building to this moment.

I had always dreamed that I would be dancing forever, but my body just could not keep up. Giving up dance was one of the hardest choices I ever had to make, and I assumed that void would be empty forever. This story has filled that space. When I work on this fic, I feel the same way I did every time I got up on stage. That love I felt when I was dancing is synonymous with the love I feel when I am writing.

So I guess it's true: when it comes to dance, my dream was never dead; I just had to change it slightly.

To think I almost let the opinions of some take that away from me?

No. Not now. Not ever.

When I get home from work tonight, I will open up a brand new notebook, put my pen to the paper, open up the bag of gummies I’ve been saving for this moment, and begin officially writing Pirouettes & Perseverance. It’s both exciting and a bit terrifying, but I cannot wait to finally bring this story to life.

It is not lost on me that my writing anniversary happens during pride month, and I think “pride” is the perfect way to sum up my year three: I am proud of all the choices I have made; I am proud of all the works I have contributed to this fandom; I am proud of all the love I have put out into the world; and I am proud of the person I am every single day.

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

Marvel

Dumb, Dumber and Dumbass by tempestaurora

As Coach Wilson peered out the window in the living room, May said, very quietly, “You didn’t realise your brother worked at Peter’s school?”

“We all make mistakes!” Sam hissed.

Then Coach Wilson was leaning back and a figure in a hoodie and jeans stepped through the window and into the living room, and Peter’s heart sank into his stomach like a rock. Sam’s brother was, true to story, scarred from head to toe. He could see the puckered skin on his hands, the burns across his bald head. But that wasn’t the shocking part—the shocking part was that he’d already seen it before: he’d seen it when a certain vigilante’s suit had been destroyed three nights before, and Peter had walked with him back to his backpack to loan him some clothes.

“This is Wade,” Sam introduced.

Sam Wilson had two brothers: one was Peter’s gym teacher, and the other was fucking Deadpool.

OR: A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Family Dinner, during which Peter and May meet Sam's family. Meanwhile, Tony sends constant text updates about his search for whoever graffiti-ed Avengers Tower.

Death Before Inaction by hppjmxrgosg

"Fuck off, Nicky.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Hasn’t anyone ever told you spider-napping is illegal?” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “You can’t hold me here, I know my spider-rights.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “God, you guys are so old. What are you? Like 27?” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Scale of 1 to 10, how upset would you be if I told you I banged your mom?” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Or, I got my grubby little hands on the spider-man time line and fucked around a little bit. Not much (everything) changes.

DC / Star Wars (Crossover)

Obi-Wan in Gotham by hoebiwan (+ podfic)

Obi-Wan falls through a hole in the universe and ends up in the Batcave.

Clone Wars

the war has just begun by unintentionalgenius

The first problem was that the Supreme Commander didn’t give them enough warning about what they were stumbling into, when they were ordered out into it. Someone above General Kenobi’s head sent the men planetside in standard-issue gear, without thermal clothing or heat packs or sleeping kit or enough food for more than a single day. They had no extra ammo, no tents, no heavy artillery. They had barely any warning.

The second problem was that Supreme Command underestimated the strength of the enemy; it was supposed to be an easy enough job, holding the planet long enough to route the Seppies and then right back to the ship, leaving a contingent of troopers stationed there to retain what they’d won.

The third problem - the real problem - came when they let themselves become surrounded and the Separatists cut their supply line. Cody’s partially at fault for that one; a better Commander would’ve seen it coming. A better Commander would’ve had more backup plans, been prepared for more contingencies.

Being cut off from re-supply would’ve been a problem before the snow started.

Then the snow started.

I've never made it with moderation by Trixree (+ podfic)

He’d known how some of the men are with younglings—known from Waxer and Boil how sharply those attachments can form with little ones. Hell, the men were raised to be protective, so much so that Obi-Wan has often wondered if their protective drive was not written into their very atoms, some intrinsic part of their DNA.

It wasn’t something Obi-Wan had ever questioned. He’d thought he had understood the scope of it. In reality, he hadn’t understood a thing.

Not until Kamino.

Or: Not all that dive from cliffs make a running head start. Sometimes, the Fall is only a natural progression.

Standards of Professionality by Trixree

"Are we going to pretend I didn’t just find you fucking your General, vod?” Rex hisses over private-comm.

Cody doesn’t even turn his head to look at him. Rex can hear the smile in Cody’s voice when he replies, “No, because I am not fucking my General, Rex’ika. I am fucking Obi-Wan. We are professionals.”

5 times Cody and Obi-Wan struggled to maintain plausible deniability regarding their affections for one another + 1 time they decidedly Did Not.

The Hunger Games

Lover & Loner by amateurwordbender

Haymitch once told him that he’s a survivor. It hadn’t been a compliment; he’d slurred out the words in pity after finding Finnick shaking apart from a panic attack.

Jo’s a survivor, too.

(Finnick and Johanna, from the moment they meet to the bitter end)

Original Works

for the want of a jewel by FormlessVoidbeast

With his country fallen to the unstoppable tide of the Dread Warlord, a terrified king sends a peace offering of his own flesh and blood in the hopes of buying leniency.

When Prince Damian of Miska is accepted as the symbol of his country's surrender and immediately wedded to the Warlord, he expects his fate to be both painful and humiliating, and his death inevitable. To his confusion, the Warlord and his terrible Warlock seem to have no interest in abusing that which they have claimed as their own. As Damian finds his feet and gains friends in a new land, he begins to question everything he once thought was true.

But some jewels were never meant to be sold, and the consequences of Damian's sacrifice are more far-reaching than anyone expected.

[moonyasnow]

Hello!

I saw that your requests are open, and was wondering if you could maybe write the „dancing in the dark with him“ thing for Rook?

It’s your favourite fic of mine so far!!

This is my first time requesting + English isn’t my first language, so I hope I did this right, I’m sorry if not ^^“ pls take as much time as you need!

Dancing in the Dark: 2

PROMPT : Dancing in the dark with him

(This is the 2nd entry of 'Dancing in the Dark'! The first one, featuring Idia, can be found here)

CHARACTER(S) : Rook

TYPE : Short fic (~1.2k words)

CONTENT: PLEASE forgive my French I used Google Translate ; ;, Reader is implied to not like crowds, very brief mention of some of my OCs in the background, takes place during Glorious Masquerade but has no spoilers

The stone-columned hall swelled with music, its polished marble floors reflecting the candelabras to cast a dreamlike candlelight over the room.

'Comme une histoire.'

Oui. Like a scene from a storybook. And out of second nature, he watched.

Watched his dear Chevalier de la Reine and Monsieur Pommétte dance, the former attempting to teach the latter. Watched Roi de Neige in all his glory, kindness radiating from him. Indeed, it had been a delight to observe him so closely on this trip.

Yet still… His eyes were drawn to a small corner of the dance floor, one where few would look, to see you twirling in the small circles of a makeshift waltz, your feline companion in your arms to indicate him your dance partner.

It was true that he had been enjoying this chance to watch Roi de Neige up close. Yet, as had begun to be commonplace as of late, he found his attention drifting from his target, and towards you. He'd found himself drifting even from his Roi du Poison. Like a planet caught in your orbit. Or a comet, perhaps? Bound to burn in your orbit, ashes scattering to the winds of your skies, never again to leave?

As he pondered over the nature of your magnetism, he saw the tell-tale signs of fatigue grace your features. That meant you'd be going to seek out solitude. Crowds had a tendency to tire you out, he was well-aware. He had once compared you to the Mimosa Pudica; the 'Touch-Me-Not'.

For a split second, your eyes locked with his, across the ballroom.

Ah, had you known he was watching you?

His heart beat wild with excitement as he began to weave his way, seen yet unnoticed, across the throngs of people on the floor. What a wonderful feeling! One he knew well, surrounding himself with beauty that touched his soul. Yet your particular charms had their own flavor of allure.

And like a bee to nectar, he found himself craving to know more of it.

He caught you in the dark of the courtyard, away from the lights of the venue, the moment you stepped outside for some fresh air. He stepped lightly, on the tips of his toes, simply as second nature to him. But he knew you were easily spooked. -snap- So for your sake, he stepped on a twig to foretell his arrival...

"It isn't very wise to separate from the herd, mon oiseau."

You turned around to face him.

"Oh, Rook." You pretended to act surprised, like you hadn't been expecting this.

He could see it in your eyes. The anticipation. He felt it, too, charging the air. Perhaps you thought that he had you right where he wanted? He let out a chuckle at his thought. Did you believe this to be the end of your little chat perché? There was still so much of you for him to discover.

The more you kept your secrets close to your chest, the more he desired to know of them. And each time you let the hunter a step closer to the core of your heart, he was sliced deeper with the sweet sting of love.

It was a long, slow game. And he loved every second.

"People saw me leave; I'll be fine, I think. It's not like you'd hurt me."

"Non. Indeed, I would not. But I urge you to caution all the same; I would not want some other predator to snatch you up for themselves."

He smiled that enigmatic smile of his that made mere slivers of his eyes visible, the one that always sent your heart racing. He definitely knew what he was doing. It was just unfair sometimes.

"So you admit you're a predator?"

Thinking it over with a hum, he strode toward you.

"It is true that a hunter is not unlike a predator. It is such a delight to observe you in a new environment. Yet," Taking your hand gently in his own, he swept his cape back and bent his knee to deliver a kiss to the back of your hand. "far lovelier still," his eyes captured your own "to see you flourishing in your natural environment, where I may be graced with sides of you not visible to others."

"'Natural environment'…you mean alone in a dark corner?"

"Non, mon petite." he rose from the ground in a fluid motion, shaking his head. "Away from the prying gaze of others. Being observed, you always behave differently than when alone."

"So then here, where there is none but you and I, voulez-vous danser?"

He would have loved to teach you French, if only you had asked. Yet the way your eyebrows scrunched together in confusion each time he spoke it and did not translate himself was too lovely, he feared, for him to offer to teach you himself. The color of your cheeks tinged darker when you saw his outstretched hand and realized what he'd meant, and he heard your breath hitch, the sound sweet music to his ears. Without a word, you took his hand.

Looking at you now, face the very image of one absolutely besotted— much such as himself, he imagined— it was almost hard to imagine you were scared of him when first you met; uncomfortable by his watching... Oui, your expression of unease was beautiful as well. Yet he could not claim to miss it. Not when he was allowed to see the sight before him in that very moment.

When, then, had that aversion turned into this? To flushed cheeks in his presence, subtly trying to stand closer? Though of course, nothing was ever too subtle for him not to catch it.

He knew when. For he had engraved the precise moment into the very flesh of his heart. Did you know when? Ah, non, this wouldn't be something he'd tell you. He would much rather watch you realize it for yourself.

Held delicately in each other's arms, swaying gracefully to the three-step rhythm of the waltz, you seemed almost to be floating over the grass and stone of the courtyard, spinning in circles around the well.

'Just like...'

He found himself laughing.

"See, the way we're spinning around the well? Almost as though it was our point of gravity. It made me think of us akin to twin moons, orbiting the same planet."

"Where do you get it all..."

He'd thought of you as someone else to be figured out, even as he fell deeper for you.

Yet with his eyes opened by the image newly sprung into his mind...

'Maybe I'll let you keep your secrets.'

He knows when. Engraved the precise moment into the very flesh of his heart. Do you know when? Ah, non, this won't be something he'll tell you. He'd rather watch you realize it for yourself.

Might you be able to keep this up for the rest of your lives, he wondered?

He held your waist closer, touching his forehead almost reverently to your own, eyes closed in bliss. "Mon cœur..." he sighed

In other circumstances, he might think he was dying to find out. But for once, no.

He'd rather hold back; let the mystery warm his heart.

He had believed himself to be the one cornering you.

'Mais, mon ange... There in your hands, I see my own heart'

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I hope my use of French wasn't too atrocious! ; I vI) And to the anon who requested this, I hope you liked it! ^^

I guess this is a series now??? I was originally planning to include more than just Idia in my initial post, so I'm not unprepared at least!

Oh— but definitely don't expect me to make one of these for EVERY character. Having the exact same prompt 22+ times would get SO reppetetive But more requests are very much welcome!

[ctommyisnt]

@tpucs secoND FIC REQUEST IVE COMPLETED I got super excited when I saw this because um. Hermitcraft tommy fics??? Those were my lifeline for a solid month I think I read every fic in the tag.

This is not technically finished it’s like. The beginning of what might turn into a long fic if I get the time but I also had this in my drafts for two weeks and didn’t want to leave it sitting. It’s mostly exposition bc I love exposition a lot please enjoy (if anyone wants me to add trigger warnings I can but I don’t think anything applies here????) also if anyone has any ideas on what scenes. Of continue this that would be great bc I have no idea what the next part should be

Anyway

The newest player to join hermitcraft came as a shock. In a lot of different ways, for a lot of different reasons.

To start, it was well off from the beginning of the series. In fact they were well into season 10, and even the new hermits had settled in comfortably.

Secondly, and more concerningly, nobody knew the kid.

Tommyinnit joined the game.

Xisuma shot up sharply the moment he got the ping. That is incredibly odd and he needed to check on that immediately. He equipped his elytra quickly, grateful it was in his inventory, and took off to spawn.

It didn’t take long, though he wasn’t the first there. Gem was running over from the direction of the shopping district, and Keralis was talking to… a teenager?

“-how did you get here?” Keralis was saying, standing a wary distance from what looked to be a very disgruntled kid who flinched harshly as Xisuma landed near the two.

“Who are you?” Gen shouted, pulling out her sword. The teen breathed in sharply, arms moving up to tug at the sleeves of his rather burnt winter coat. His hair was so dirty that Xisuma could hardly tell it was blonde, and the rest of his outfit wasn’t that much better.

“Hey, hey,” he rasped, standing up taller, which didn’t seem to hide his trembling as much as he liked, “I don’t mean any harm I just- I don’t really fucking know how I got here either.” He said quickly. Gem lowered her sword slightly but Xisuma was still wary.

“How did you get through the code, that should’ve been impossible, this is a whitelist only server.”

The boy raised his hands, and his eyes flickered to Gem with a pinched grimace, “if you just want to- point me in the right direction I’ll go- I’ll get back to, uh,” he seemed to falter, “I’ll get going.”

Xisuma bit his lip, “it’s not going to be that simple, this server is locked up pretty tight. Especially since you broke in.”

“How do we know you didn’t break in on purpose,” Gen pushed.

“Gem, look at him,” Keralis drawled, “he’s a kid there must be an explanation.

“I’m not a kid!” The teen barked out sharply. He cowed sheepishly to Gem when she raised her weapon again in warning, “I don’t know how I got here, I swear.”

Xisuma sighed, and motioned to Gem to back down. She bristled at the thought but in all honestly, the kid looked… pretty harmless. He’d still have to be careful though, which means…

“I’m going to get Grian over here,” he started pulling out his comm as he continued, “and you need to come with me where we can keep an eye on you.”

/msg Grian: just a kid. Not them. Need your helping getting this mess cleaned up

“I’m not going to be fucking watched,” the kid spit out, “I’m not fucking going with you.”

Keralis stepped closer, though he had to put his hands up when the kid flinched again to show no harm, “it’s okay dude, Xisuma and Grian just need to make sure your code isn’t all tangled, and all that doohickey admin stuff so you don’t get hurt.”

Xisuma nodded, “if I just ban you now whatever glitch happened to get you here might hurt you permanently. It’s for your benefit as much as ours.”

“Wait, you’re the admin,” he asked, “I don’t want you digging through my code that’s a- that’s a violation of my personal boundaries.”

Xisuma opened and closed his mouth, not sure how to respond to that. Which, thank god, Grian took that moment to fly in and land just next to him, red yellow and blue feathers poofing off of his wings with the landing and drifting down.

“I’m Grian, nice to meet you,” Grian said, reaching out his hand but keeping his face alarmingly neutral. The boy didn’t take it, which didn’t deter him, “why is your code like that?”

He balked, wrapping his arms around his torso, “you went through my code?”

Grian nodded, “I’m not the first, your code has been modified a lot. Did you not know this?”

“Modified? Like how?” Xisuma asked, concern levels raising considerable. And probably also his blood pressure.

“Like tangling it up with enough restrictions and mods that it’s no wonder you glitched like that.” He continued. “this could be dangerous, especially if you keep server hopping. Someone needs to fix this, because if you don’t you might not survive the next jump. If we can’t, do you know any admins or server moderators that can?” He pushed.

The teen’s breath quickened, and keralis looked rather worried. This probably wasn’t best done in front of everyone, especially since the more nosy or concerned hermits were bound to show up as well. Grian was not one to avoid speaking his mind, though.

“Are you- are you an admin too?”

Grian tilted his head, confused, “not for this server. Though I have before. I’m help Xisuma out with this one.

He took a few breaths, making sharp looks at everyone surrounding him. Keralis looked ready to say something else before the teen collapsed in on himself in defeat. “Fucking- fine. But you’re going to tell me fucking everything you’re doing. And the admin isn’t touching anything.” He demanded.

Grian huffed, “but he-“ but Xisuma elbowed him.

“Of course we will. It’s your code, we just want to help you get to… wherever you meant to go safely. What’s your name?”

“Tommy.” He grumbled. He shoved his hands in his pockets and raised his eyebrow as if to say ‘well, let’s go.’

—

“So this,” Grian waved his arms so the lines of code could appear close to the wall where Tommy could see from the sofa, “-is your code. It is, essentially, you.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes,grimacing at the unintelligible language.

They were in one of Xisuma’s labs at his base, one of the ones near the top with big windows and wooden desks and soft furniture. It wasn’t as crazy as his more experimental laboratories, which were mostly in his basement and probably would freak Tommy out more than they should.

“Some people are naturally able to read and access the code, and they usually end up becoming admins or server moderators. Some people, like me, either learn it, which is very hard to do, or are ‘given’ the ability to read it.”

“Given?” Tommy asked, “is that something anyone can do?”

He shook his head, “no, it’s a rather dangerous and traumatic process. Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, but now I can tell you that your code is really bad.”

Tommy shouted incredulously, “my code is not shit, fuck you!”

Grian huffed, this kid, honestly. “I’m not saying this for fun. I’m telling you this because that is incredibly concerning. Here-“ he waved at the code again to scroll farther down, “this is how your code allows you to transport between dimensions. With the nether it’s mostly fine. I can tell it was erased and re-added here, though.” He pointed at another line of code that Tommy also could not read.

Xisuma had been banished to another room to start going through the server code. Tommy seemed to freak out at the very idea of the admin even getting too close to him. He couldn’t help but dread exactly why Tommy was freaked out about admins. He should probably be nicer to him, but Grian was still running on the sharp burst of terrifying adrenaline he received when he saw someone join the server.

There were a couple hermits that relied on the safety and security of the server, including him.

“If you scroll a bit further it looks like your access to the end has been completely restricted, if you jumped into an end portal it would probably instantly kill you.”

Grian sat down on a stool opposite Tommy, trying to figure out what on earth happened to this kid and what kind of server he was in last. Even as Grian had sat down the kid had tensed, almost leaning away from him as if it was physically painful to be near another human being.

“Tommy, that’s just one thing.” He sighed, “Your ability to fly with elytra’s, if you somehow managed to get one, has been tampered with, access to any of the worlds code, tracking devices on you and monitoring on your comm. Someone attempted to erase all of your hybrid traits, which thank god is almost impossible to do. Most concerning is your respawns, which have been locked at three lives completely. If you managed to permadie your code would be locked in the server and you’d be unable to come back. Even if you did decide to go through the process of leaving the server, I doubt you’d be been able to get out naturally. It’s a miracle you didn’t die getting here.”

Tommy’s hands were trembling, ans he clearly wasn’t taking this well. Which, to be fair, Grian didn’t expect him to in the first place. He put a hand on the boys leg, making him flinch, but making him just a bit more present.

“Your code has been mutilated, Tommy, but you’re still alive. We can fix your code, and if you want, transfer you safely to another server.” He told him.

Tommy opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His hands had been clenching at the sofa cushion hard enough to give him marks. Grian stood up and waved away the code screens so he could grab a cup of water they had prepared earlier. He gave it to Tommy, who managed to curb the shakiness to take a sip.

“You don’t have to make this decision now, but you are kinda locked in this server until something is fixed. The only other option would be to open the server publicly and open a hole wide enough for your code to do, but there are several people here that would be in danger, and who knows who would jump in after you.”

Tommy took a deep breath and reached into his shirt to grab what looked to be a compass that was attached to a chain around his neck. He squeezed it once and looked up at Grian.

“So even if I don’t want you to mess with my code, I’m stuck here forever?”

“Yep.”

“And if I stay like this i might die again.”

“Again?”

Tommy ignored his question and squeezed the compass again before shoving it back into his shirt. “Okay. I’ll let you fix my code but only fucking that. I don’t want to be sprouting wings like you just because you feel like it, bitch.”

God this kid was so annoying. Also- “um, you do know you’re a hybrid, right?”

“What?”

—

SO SORRY THIS DIDNT GET FINISHED??? I meant to do an part where Tommy was getting used to unlimited loves but I couldn’t figure out how to start it which meant I overthought it and now I have a whole headcannjned worldbuild in my head about the lore of servers and junk. This is mostly exposition. I love exposition. It’s my favorite thing to write. My bad yall. Enjoy 🫡

[vodika-vibes]

Hello! I've been reading a lot of your content lately and love your writing so much! I was wondering if I could request a little fic about Dogma x a very outgoing, naturally confident social butterfly kind of reader who works on base and a lot of clones seem really into them, but they only ever flirt with him or try to ask him out. And their admirers can't figure out why Dogma of all people but the reader has no kriffs to give and just keeps giving him all their romantic attention until he gets it. Thanks in advance!

Two Souls Intertwined

Summary: You’ve made your choice, you just have to convince Dogma that you mean it.

Pairing: Clone Trooper Dogma x GN!Reader

Word Count: 886

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly

A/N: Hihi! Thank you for your request! I'm always happy to write for Dogma, so I hope you like this!

“Let me see if I understand you correctly,” You don’t look up from the game you’re playing on your comm as your coworker, and sometimes friend, drops into the seat across from you. “You’re surrounded by attractive men. At all times. And you want Dogma?”

You glance up at the way she says Dogma’s name, “What’s wrong with Dogma?” You ask, offended on his behalf.

“Well...he’s just...he’s not much fun, is he?”

“He doesn’t have to be fun, I like him anyway.”

“Just…” She shakes her head, “I know that so many of the men have a thing for you. And you’re, like, scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

You scowl at her, “I’ve made my choice, and, just for your comments, I’m going to go flirt with him even harder.”

She chokes on her caf, “I...what?”

You throw a cocky grin at her, and push to your feet, downing your caf in one long gulp, before you head out of the break room.

At this time of day, Dogma is probably outside. He likes to take what free time he’s allowed to read something. For a moment, just a moment, you feel bad about interrupting his free time, though you push the guilt aside with ease.

It’s not like he’s ever said, “Leave me alone,” after all.

You head through the halls, and open the door that leads to the courtyard in the middle of the base.

Why this base has a courtyard is beyond you, but you’re glad it does. It offers a nice change of pace from the sterile white and gray halls of the base.

And there he is, sitting under a tree with a datapad in his hands.

A bright smile crosses your face and you dutifully ignore the way that your heart skips when you see him.

You’re well and truly in love with him.

Dogma doesn’t say anything as you walk over to him, and he says nothing as you settle onto the ground next to him. Though he does glance at you when you shift so that your back is pressed against his arm and your head is tilted back to rest on his shoulder.

“Back again?” He sounds more amused than anything.

“Always.” You counter cheerfully.

“You are determined, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head back so you’re able to grin at him.

Dogma’s smile is tiny, but it is there, “Alright. Lay it on me.”

“What?”

“Today’s pick up line.”

You press a hand to your chest, a look of mock offense crossing your face, “I would never-”

“Ah, so I’ve been imagining all of those other pick-up lines, then?” Dogma asks with an arched brow, and you laugh and shift so you’re sitting next to him properly, “You know, my brothers are convinced that you’re using those just to get a reaction out of me.”

You roll your eyes, “They’re just jealous that I only have eyes for you.”

“Or they don’t believe it.” Dogma points out, “I’m sure that there are people who are more similar to you in personality than me.”

“Eh, maybe. But I’m not interested in them, I’m interested in you.” You reply.

Dogma sighs and rubs his hand over his face, “You...someday I’m going to actually believe you when you say stuff like that, and then what are you going to do?”

“Plan our date. Well, schedule our date. I already have our first date planned. We’ll get dinner and go for a walk, and then I’ll kiss you on the way home.” You nod once, “It’ll be perfect.”

He blinks at you, surprised.

You flash a crooked smile, “What? Is it really so hard to believe that I only have eyes for you?”

“Yeah, a little bit.”

“Hm, well then.” You muse thoughtfully, “How about this then? I’m in love with you.”

Dogma jolts in surprise, and you smile at him.

“I’m in love with you, and if you’re really not interested then let me know and I’ll leave you alone. But. Until that happens, I’m going to keep pursuing you.”

“...you’re in love with me?” He asks slowly.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason? I like you. You make me feel safe when I’m around you. You don’t judge me for being me.” Your grin widens, “I love you.”

Dogma releases a strangled noise and lifts his datapad to hide his face, “You’re impossible.” he complains, though he drops the datapad and flashes a small smile, “I’d like that date, actually.”

“...really?”

“Really.”

You laugh and fling your arms around him, knocking you both over, “Thank you! It’ll be the best date! You’ll see!”

Dogma just laughs and folds his arms around you, “I’m looking forward to it.” He replies, a warm smile on his face, “But I need you to get off of me.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” You scramble off of him and settle on the grass next to him as he sits back up. “What are you reading, anyway?”

“Want me to read to you?”

“Will you?”

“Yeah,” He flips back to the start of the book, “Get comfortable.”

You shift and drop your head to his shoulder, and as soon as you’re settled, he started reading.

And this, really, is all you ever wanted. Who cares if no one else understands. You certainly don’t.

[setokaibapetty]

5 + 1 Fic Friday Roundup: ABO sans Smut (ft. Batfam)

As the title indicates, have some ABO fics that don't feature smut but do feature characers from the Batfam.

Homeward Bound, Safe and Sound (AO3) - "The baby was swimming in blood and Jason’s instincts are screaming. Servants come to clear the dead nursemaid away, but they are harmless compared to the alpha currently cradling his pup. Jason doesn’t—can’t remember much. He doesn’t know who the mother, Talia’s mate, is. Jason doesn’t know much of anything besides what he’s been told since he burst through the oily slick surface of the Lazarus pit."

Love is Warmth (AO3) - "There are some... unexpected side effects when Jason meets Dick's daughter for the first time."

My Heart to Joy at the Same Tone (AO3) - "It's blatantly obvious that Batman can't be trusted with Tim's Robin. It's time to bring Jason into the Drake Pack."

Sentinel Over Golden Bough (AO3) - "Jason Todd yanks on his red helmet and switches over to the Bat comms. The comm line is a scramble of everyone talking around and over each other, hunting for Robin."

The Best Taste in Omegas (AO3) - "There's a pup in Jason's nest. He's here, covered in blood and guts after a long night spent, uh, clearing up some misunderstandings with the drug smugglers over at the docks, and there's a fucking strange pup conked out in his nest. Fuck his body for presenting omega, fuck omega hormones for being catnip for kids, and fuck him for being too soft to kick the brat out." Set to Private

Bonus: A Gift of Knowledge (AO3) - "Dick’s voice is hoarse with suppressed fury. “So, you’re just exposing us to this, this outrageous substance, and torturing us by leaving us here, bound and drugged?”

[paradlselost]

RADIO WAVES

john seed x female deputy

My first fanfic on here so apologies for anything wrong. I’ve only stalked other fics, never posted myself. Also not my favorite writing 🙏

Inspired by Adelaide’s voice line: “John Seed hunched over his map getting a hard-on by the sound of his own voice …” she’s literally me, I need him carnally. It’s been years and I think about him 24/7 (I’m supposed to be working on midterms help.)

John Seed x Fem!Deputy. CW: SMUT - dirty talk, radio sex, masturbation (m).

Night descended onto the Valley, crickets sang their sharp tune outside the concrete walls of the bunker. Peggies had long since stopped pacing the halls, preparations for the sabbath now over, a good night's rest being the last thing on their checklist.

But for one John Seed, sleep was the last thing on his mind.

Static echoed over his radio, body leaning against the table adorned with gashes and crevasses from the many times he ran a blade over the once fine wood. His fingers traced over his tattoo gun anxiously, one hand reaching to grab the handset.

“Can someone fucking answer me? Huh? You better not get a single scratch on one of my planes!” He shouted over the comms, fingers trembling with the sheer amount of anger that flowed through his veins. These were the chosen, the best pilots out of the entire congregation?

What a joke.

He slammed the hand radio back on the table at the answer of static. He had sent out three planes, none responded. There was no way she could’ve taken them all down, was there?

He didn’t turn at the sound of the door opening behind him, nor at one of his Peggie’s asking if he was okay. No, instead he stayed hunched over the table, seething. He gripped the handle of his tattoo gun now, his knuckles turning white. This was the last thing he needed, a lowly cultist practically cooing over a Herald like he was a child.

Grasping the gun, he turned and threw it at the wall beside whatever Peggie decided to have a shred of decency to check on him, shouting expletives as they hurriedly left and shut the door. The tool now lay on the ground, broken into two pieces.

A sigh fell from his lips as he stood up straight, standing there for a moment and observing what he had broken. Wrath. Joseph would be upset if he saw his little brother like this. Slicking back any strands that fell from his perfect hair, he grabbed the pieces of his precious tattoo gun.

“Holy shit, is this thing still working?”

He tensed at the sound of a familiar someone speaking over his radio. The audacity of her, did she not know she had a direct line to the youngest Seed? He wasn’t in the mood for her voice to be crooning over his comms.

“Sharky get over here, lay down a beat I’m gonna start spitting.”

He heard her laugh, almost as if she was carefree, opposite to how she had cried when he straddled her, carving her sin into her flesh for her to adorne, to show everyone what a sinner she was. Her own personalized scarlet letter. She was such a beautiful crier, if he could have bottled up her tears and kept them forever he would’ve.

He traced his fingers over the gun once more, this time not in a bid to calm himself down, but out of reminiscence. How he had held it tight as the two of them sat on the floor of that church, how he had grabbed her chin when she awoke, how she thrashed and cried and almost ruined her perfect carving. Now he had gone and broken it.

Somewhere between Henbane River’s resident pyromaniac making noises that could barely be considered beatboxing and the Deputy poorly rhyming ‘Bliss’ and ‘diss,’ he interjected.

“Ah- now that’s not very nice, is it, Deputy?”

He was met with not the deafening sound of static, but silence this time. For a moment, he thought she had run at the sound of his voice, he would’ve relished in that thought had she not been the only thing keeping him sane. Ironic.

“I save my kindness for people who deserve it, Seed.” The playfulness didn’t leave her voice as she shooed Sharky away, her companion rolling his eyes and probably leaving to go to the pizza diner. Privacy when talking to John Seed was a must, she wouldn’t have to be embarrassed over teasing him.

“I don’t deserve it? I’m a fairly good person.” He scoffed, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he moved from tracing his tattoo gun to tracing the map pinned to the table in front of him.

“Kidnapping, torture, murder, that’s all being a good person to you?”

“You call it that because you’re blind to the good intentions of Eden’s Gate. Do you take joy in misinterpreting our mission to save sinners?”

“I-unno. Is there a sin for that too? Gonna carve that into my skin and stare at my tits while you’re at it?”

He could hear the smirk in her voice, how she teased and played with him. He would carve every sin onto her skin if he had the chance, if Joseph would let him. Pride for her unwillingness to see the truth, Envy and Greed for her taking of the compounds that belong to the cult, Sloth for sending her resistance companions to do her bidding, Gluttony for the alcohol she consumed to wash away what she had seen. And Lust, for the feelings she incited in him.

“I never stared at your breasts.”

“Do you like being a fucking liar?”

Her tone was rougher, the only time he had heard her speak to him like that was when Hudson was tied to a chair in front of her, his bunker dark and dingy as it was her decision to choose between who got marked first. When she spoke to him like he was nothing but a bug underneath her boot, when he had to take Hudson out of the room and fix the problem growing in his pants.

“Fuck.”

He didn’t mean to slip, to let her know the absolute power she had over him. Ever since he saw her in the church, when she handcuffed his brother and attempted to arrest him, he knew it was over for him.

Every thought he had belonged to her, every waking moment and every dream was hers. He was pathetic, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Fuck? Use your words, John.” She was using his name now, not just resorting to his surname. She was playing into every fantasy that ran through his head, how had he gone years without her? “I’ll ask you again. Do you like being a fucking liar?”

“Mm- no- i'm not a liar-… cmon, where are you?” He whined out softly, tugging on his ‘EG’ belt buckle. His pants had grown uncomfortably tight without his permission.

“Why would I tell you? So you can send your Peggie’s after me again? I don’t think so.”

He bit his bottom lip, cursing himself mentally. He stood up straight, running his hand through his hair exasperatedly, dark blue eyes trailing down to the LUST marking he had over his lower stomach. He was reduced to nothing more than a filthy sinner now.

“It’s a day before the Sabbath, Deputy. Please don’t talk to me like this.”

“Like what? Ohh… are you getting hard at the sound of my voice?”

She was awfully perceptive, though he wouldn’t be surprised if she could hear the metallic clinking of his belt buckle as he shedded it from its loops with one hand. He needed some kind of release.

“Fucking -… cmon, don’t do this to me.” His voice was soft and pleading over the radio, something she had never heard from him. He seemed so needy, the way his breath picked up, the small pants that escaped his pretty lips. She could only imagine how he looked now.

“A day before the sabbath just means you can atone tomorrow, doesn’t it? Cmon, I know you wanna be a good boy f’me.”

God, he tensed at her words. Fingers greedily grabbing at his pants, playing with them till they pooled at his ankles, tattooed fingers massaging the fabric of his blue boxers, a small patch darker than the rest as his precum stained the polyester.

She had power over him, and she knew it too.

“Hnmm - keep ta-talking please…”

“God, you really are pathetic aren’t you? First Herald of Eden’s Gate whimpering for the resistance leader over his peggies radio.”

His head buried against the crook of his arm that rested on the beaten up table. Pretty blue eyes fluttered shut as his fingers delicately wrapped around his angry red tip. Dick gently throbbing in his hand at her words.

John Seed, deemed the most sadistic out of the entire fucking cult, reduced to a whiny, submissive mess from the Deputys harsh tone. If anyone found out about this, he’d never be able to live it down.

Soft spouts of precum dripped over his fingers as he pumped his aching cock, a small layer spread over his flesh. What a pathetic display, what a man to let lust consume him once more. He felt like he was that Lawyer again, hopped up on cocaine and whiskey just to give him a nice buzz. But now, he had the Deputy, and she was better then any substance he had had before.

“Don’t f-fucking stop.” How many times had he said that years ago? How many women had made him feel like this? His years before reuniting with Joseph were a blur, but he remembered the longing feeling he felt. Different was he now, but still pining for something out of his reach. “When I-I get you I’m going to-“

His words were cut off by a pathetic whine as his hand slicked back from his tip, starting on the base and pumping his throbbing member. How pretty she would look with her lips wrapped around him, her eyes all teary as she took him down her throat.

“Gonna what? Finish your sentence, baby.”

Gonna coat your mouth, make you cry for me like you had in that church. He wanted to say, wanted to flip it around on her, make her cover his fingers with her arousal. But he didn’t, he couldn’t. John Seed was a taker, and right now he was too caught up in his pleasure.

His cock was throbbing uncomfortably in his hand, veins flowing with blood, he felt close and he had barely started, but the sound of her voice could make him cum in his hand in an instant. He bit his bottom lip, attempting to swallow the weak whines and moans that threatened to spill from him for her, though most escaped anyways.

Soft, pathetic ‘please’s we’re all he could respond with, they fell from his lips like a prayer - one only she could hear. He was good, good for her, he deserved to cum in his hand, didn’t he?

“Hmm after all you put me through, I think a good apology would be a nice way to end this, don’t you?”

He could practically hear the delight in her voice as she noticed how close he was, she reveled in the fact she had brought him to his knees through her tone alone. He was putty in her hands, molded and contorted into a submissive shape.

“Fuck fuck fuck I’m sorry-“

He whined out, back arching from the wooden desk as his hand pumped faster around his aching cock. A soft ‘tsk’ came over the radio waves, causing another whine to fall from his lips. “Cmon - i-i said sorry-“

“You pray with that mouth? Again. Lose the swearing.”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry!”

“There you go, that’s a good boy.”

He moaned at her words, legs trembling slightly. One, two, three more pumps and he absolutely came undone. Ropes of cum messing his hands and the concrete floor below him, a panting and whining mess of a man as he stroked himself till he was empty.

When he lifted his head and the cool air of the bunker hit his flushed cheeks, the clarity set in. He had just fucked himself with his hand over the Deputy of all people; all on his radio. Hurriedly, he pulled up his boxers and jeans, wiping up the mess on the floor and on his hands with a towel.

The familiar sound of static from the radio setting in once more. She must’ve destroyed what was left of the plane. What a fucking mess.

A congregation was held the next morning in Joseph’s church, bells ringing above sung for the holy day, John made his way past Jacob and Faith to his seat behind the podium. Faith was giggling about something or another, probably high off bliss, and Jacob was scowling at him slightly.

“I know you were always the youngest, but I didn’t think you’d be so weak, Brother. Even Faith has more resolve then you.”