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klance but they traded jackets and lance is absolutely clowning on keith’s stupid fucking cropped monstrosity but keith can’t retort because lance’s jacket is so comfortable and it smells like him and and and and—

you guys are good at this hang on

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For those of you who want to lock all of your works with all the silly AI scraping of AO3 (which AO3 is recommending you lock your works, as stated in this post)

Here is a quick and easy guide of how to edit ALL of your works at once.

From your Dashboard click on “edit works” on the far right. This will bring up all of your works that you can select.

Select all the works you want to edit, then hit “Edit” at the bottom right.

Scroll to nearly the bottom of the page where you find “Visibility” and select “only show to registered users” and then update at the bottom.

That’s it, all of your works have now been locked without having to go in and edit each fic individually.

I hope this helps!

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Hi,

It’s you friendly neighbor fanfic author here. In the light of this apparent new trend of people feeding unfinished fics to AI to get an “ending,” and some people even talking about “blanket permissions,” let me just say this:

I EXPLICITLY FORBID ANYONE TO FEED MY FICS TO AI. DUDE, THAT IS ABOUT THE LEAST RESPECTFUL THING YOU CAN DO. IF YOU DO IT, SHALL YOU BE EXCOMMUNICATED FROM YOUR FANDOM AND WALK ON LEGOS BAREFOOT TILL THE END OF DAYS.

That is my anti-permission.

Thank you for your attention.

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Keep reading

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What appeals to me about whump: an incomplete list

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[klance fic] Something About You (1/3)

Klance college AU 💙❤️

5.7k of Fluff & humor & friendship vibes

Rivals to friends to lovers obviously

Lance has never heard of the concept of relaxing… ever

He caught a glimpse of the mullet one time and he’s being so normal and brave about it

Summary:

“So there was this guy in my lab, he came in late—in the middle of a question I was doing an excellent job of answering I might add—and he barely even apologized, which: big mistake. And he was totally unprepared too, didn't do the homework, didn't give a single fuck. The whole class was mesmerized though, like he was a celebrity or something." “Very cool Lance, that’s interesting. Was this guy, perchance, attractive?” Hunk asked. Trust Lance to find a way to get hot and bothered about a random guy in class while freaking out about homework at the same time. It was impressive multi-tasking.

enjoy <3

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Rip Kevin Conroy

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Well this is just annoying accurate...

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Me reading fanfiction

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recent batmen

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the transition from people needing each other to wanting each other is literally one of my greatest weaknesses that shit makes me want to walk into the sea and sit on the ocean floor for a thousand years

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Just because you’re dead, doesn’t mean you can’t have a sense of humor, and The Batman was too good a joke for Federico del Fantasia to pass up. 

While alive, he’d been part of an Italian comedian troupe that had performed for King George the First himself, so he had something of a flair for the dramatic, and a healthy appreciation for comedic irony. 

He’d been a vampire for three hundred years, and had never encountered another human that would be half as amusing to turn into a vampire. 

Other vampires went for looks, or brains. A human whose companionship they enjoyed, and did not wish to lose. Humans that reminded them of family or friends, long dead. 

Federico was different. 

Federico had once tried to turn a goat just to see if it would work. It hadn’t, but it would have been pretty entertaining—a literal Chupacabra. 

Federico had gotten it in his head to try turning Bram Stoker back in the 1920s, only to find out that the man had gone and died already, as humans were wont to do.

This time, Federico was going to turn a grown man who dressed up like a Bat and only came out at night, because it would be fucking hilarious.

He just had to catch him first.

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with those little superbat snippets I’ve been writing, the post sex pollen one, not sure if I wanna keep writing them getting it on every time they meet up, or if I should attempt to come up with some actual plot 😅

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Part 3

Part 1 | Part 2

Clark wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and grins sunnily up at Batman from his knees. Batman’s chest is heaving, and Clark can hear how hard his heart is hammering. One of his gloved hands is clamped over his mouth, and the other rests on the top of Clark’s head, petting his hair back from his face. 

“Okay, this is getting out of hand.” Batman sounds gratifyingly undone. His knees are trembling—something only perceptible to Clark with his super senses. The hand at his mouth falls slack to his side—he’d gone wonderfully lax the previous times Clark had made him come, too. Clark makes quick work of tucking things away and refastening the batsuit. 

“C’mere,” he murmurs, taking that lax hand and exerting enough pressure to bring Batman down. Clark sits back so he’s kneeling, and guides Batman to straddle his lap. 

“This is undignified,” Batman grumbles, knees hitting the floor on either side of Clark’s hips, but he drapes his arms over Clark’s shoulders anyway, and noses in for a lazy kiss. It’s good, so good—Batman is a fantastic kisser.

It’s just when Batman puts a hand deliberately on Clark’s crotch that he hears it—the moment both of them have been waiting for—their suspicious shipment is docking in the harbor. He cocks his head—a force of habit, it doesn’t actually help him hear better. 

It’s scary how quickly Batman switches back into business mode the moment he senses Clark’s attention drift. 

“It’s here?” he says, already back on his feet. There is no trace of the pleasured, sated creature that had sprawled on Clark’s lap moments earlier.

Clark clears his throat and climbs to his feet, hoping sheer force of will be enough to make his erection wilt. 

“I heard our cue,” Clark confirms. 

“Come on,” says Batman, stalking towards the door.

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Part 2

Part 2 of this.

Do it. Get it over and done with.

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose hard, trying to stave off the headache he can feel building behind his temples. It’s a good night for the task he has set himself—it’s a Tuesday, and the city is uncharacteristically quiet—the criminal element seems to be taking a break. 

A strong cold front had rolled over the city as the sun had set, and now sheets of rain hammer down mercilessly, shrouding Gotham in a cleansing veil of pink noise. She looks like an impressionist oil painting, details blurred away by the water, the light from her streetlamps smudged.  

Bruce had chosen his spot strategically; a high vantage point, secluded for privacy, with plenty of possible exit points if he needs to extricate himself quickly.

He pulls the cowl back down into place and crosses his arms. 

“Superman,” he says at a normal conversational volume.  

It takes five seconds for the telltale displacement of air to herald his arrival, and then the man is alighting in front of him, touching down with that unearthly grace. His cape billows softly behind him.

Even on a night when the sky is clear of rain clouds, not much moonlight or starlight manages to penetrate the fog of pollution around Gotham (the pollution is something that Bruce Wayne is working on). It makes Gotham nights pitch dark. Despite the absence of light, Superman’s skin manages to gleam with vitality and health, as if he brings his own starlight within himself, and it makes him glow. The only imperfection is his hair; it’s wet from the rain and curling out of the slicked back style he favors. Annoyingly, it only serves to make him look more appealing. Even more annoyingly, the dishevelment makes Bruce remember having his fingers fisted tightly in that hair during The Incident. Superman had been on his knees, and utterly unbothered by how hard Bruce had pulled, how hard he’d bucked his hips— 

Batman forces the sensory memories of The Incident away. This is their first time seeing each other since it happened, and Bruce is very conscious that the tone he sets now will likely decide how they’ll handle it going forward. 

Bruce has given a lot of thought to how to proceed in the days since it happened. There are two main conclusions he’s come to: it absolutely cannot happen again, and his working relationship with Superman must be preserved.  

He’s come up with half a dozen contingencies depending on how Superman behaves. The best case scenario is that Superman is on the same page he is—compartmentalize, compartmentalize, compartmentalize, and then sink the compartment that contains The Incident to the bottom of Gotham Harbor where it will never see the light of day again.   

“Batman. You called?” greets Superman. 

That’s the worst case scenario disproven—Superman refusing to ever look at or speak with him again. Superman doesn’t appear to be angry or murderous either, so hopefully that’s ‘kill Batman’ struck off the list of possibilities too. He has the kryptonite on him just in case, although he hadn’t thought that eventuality was likely. 

“I did. Here,” says Bruce, holding out a tablet for Superman to look at. 

Superman scans the data dutifully.

“This is a medical examination with the identifying information redacted. Who is the patient?” 

“Me.” 

Superman blinks, and then his gaze drops to the tablet again. 

“Is there a reason you’re showing me this?” Superman bites his lip, and suddenly his body language transforms from confident—back ramrod straight, shoulders back—to uncertain and almost anxious—weight shifting, uneasy. “Is this about—about the thing that happened? Did I hurt you?”

“What? No.” Superman had done a lot of things to him, and none of them could be classified as hurtful. “Look at the blood work,” Bruce huffs.

Superman rereads that section dutifully. “It looks normal—?” he says, looking to Bruce for elaboration on what he’s meant to be noticing, while Bruce stores the tablet away.     

“We didn’t use protection.” Now that was a sentence Bruce never imagined saying to Superman in this context, ever. He clears his throat and re-crosses his arms, averting his eyes to stare over Superman’s shoulder. “As the other involved party, I thought the results might be… relevant for you.”

“Oh…” Superman’s body language straightens out, back to confident. “You know I’m an alien, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“I don’t really get or pass on human diseases, but… thanks, anyway.” Superman’s smile is too bright for this city, and too bright for the hour. “Is that all you called me here for today?”  

“Yes, you’re free to go.” 

For a second, Bruce thinks his best case scenario has been realized; Superman will fly back to Metropolis, and they’ll never speak of The Incident again. 

And then Superman takes a step closer to him. “Am I free to stay?” he asks, that bright smile sliding from wholesome to impertinent. 

Fuck.

There’s a lurch in Bruce’s gut, a feeling of inevitability, like he’s in a car on a hill with the handbrake off; that car is going to roll down and crash.

“No. Gotham is my turf, go back to your own.” The problem is, he doesn’t sound like he means it, and Bruce knows it’s because he’s been saying it and not meaning it for months now. It’s basically an in-joke between them at this point.

“Okay,” Superman acquiesces easily, except he doesn’t leave, he just steps closer, and like a goddamn fool, Bruce does nothing. The wall at his back means he can’t step back, but he doesn’t step sideways either, or give any kind of indication that Superman drawing closer is unwelcome. 

Because it’s not, whispers his traitorous subconscious. 

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” asks Superman in a low voice. He’s so close they’re breathing the same air, the crest on Superman’s uniform brushing Bruce’s gauntlets where his arms are crossed.  

“Not particularly,” answers Bruce honestly. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“You just did,” Bruce deadpans. 

Superman chuckles, and then he lifts an arm and leans it against the wall by Bruce’s head, bracketing him with his body. 

“You have a civilian identity, yes?”

“I’m not telling you who I am,” says Bruce flatly.

“That’s not my question.”

“Get to the point, Superman.” 

“Your civilian identity, is he seeing anyone?”  

Bruce freezes. This is an unexpected development. 

“Are you asking me if I’m single?” he sounds incredulous to his own ears.  

Superman’s thumb and index finger brush Bruce’s chin, gently tilting his face up so they’re staring into each other’s eyes. This close, their very slight height difference feels pronounced. Even in the dark, Superman’s eyes are very blue. 

“Yes, Batman. I’m asking if you’re single.” 

This is not a situation Bruce has ever found himself in—pursued. Okay, that’s not strictly true; he’s been pursued before, but always by women. Always with fleeting, flirtatious touches, coy words. 

He’s never been pinned in place by a man like this before. A larger man, a stronger man. And yet, he knows that if he actually wanted to get away, Superman would let him up without a fuss. He’d step back, he’d take his hands off Bruce, and he’d keep them to himself. 

All Bruce has to do is tell him to let go.

“Are you?” Superman prompts. A thumb that can crush rocks into powder slides so gently along the line of Bruce’s jaw that it makes him shiver.

“I am,” he answers.

“Good,” says Superman, and then he kisses him.

.

Later that night, much later, Bruce arrives home, and locks himself in his bathroom. He pulls off the cowl impatiently and drops it on the countertop, and then he confronts himself in the mirror. 

His mouth looks like he’s been using it.

Well… at least one of his objectives was realized; he’d say his working relationship with Superman has been successfully preserved. As for the other… 

“Fuck,” he whispers, and his debauched reflection mouths the word back at him. “So much for not doing it again.”