#'so in that street racer ficlet' | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fahye · 7 years

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run all the lights

(this is a direct continuation of the street racers AU ficlet! it was meant to be another small ficlet and then it...grew...so I’ll stick it on AO3 as its own story tomorrow. but it was a tumblr ficlet FIRST and so it shall remain.)

***

Damen can barely see the world as anything but blurred, tunnel-vision shapes by the time his car screams across the finish line, half a length--if that--ahead of Laurent's. As he lowers his foot onto the brake, as he pulls around in a half-circle to park, as he climbs out of the car in front of a crowd falling quiet with anticipation… he can barely breathe. Part of him's back there on the track, watching the speedometer strain towards two hundred. Part of him's hearing Laurent's voice, making the offer.

He watches Laurent's car--which is his car, now--but he can't see through the windshield with the glare of lights. He wonders if Laurent will stay behind the wheel. Drive the car away in a burst of dust, disappear into the desert.

But that doesn't fit with what he's seen of Laurent de Vere so far. And sure enough, Laurent climbs out of the car as soon as the engine cuts, and strides across to stand in front of Damen. The black T-shirt clings to his chest, scooping low enough that the ends of his collarbones are visible. His skin shines with sweat. There's nothing to see in his expression.

Laurent swipes his hair back from his face. He says, watching Damen closely, "Afraid I won't honour my word? I will. I always do."

Damen says, "What, right now? In front of everyone?" He's taken aback, recoiling at the very idea; though a small, triumphant part of him whispers, just imagine, and he can. He can imagine the pale wrists in his grip, he can imagine forcing noises from that dangerous mouth, under the hungry eyes of this crowd.

Laurent colours slightly. "No," he spits. "But perhaps," with a snap of his eyes that puts all of Damen's instincts on high alert, "you'd like a taste of what you're owed."

Damen hasn't moved before Laurent is right in front of him, stepping in close, one of his hands at the back of Damen's neck to pull him down. His mouth opens beneath Damen's and Damen is only human, after all, and Laurent is like hot wire beneath his hands. He kisses Laurent back, hard and desperate, and thinks he wouldn't notice if someone crashed two trucks into one another nearby.

One of Laurent's hands worms its way between them, cupping and rubbing Damen shamelessly though the front of his jeans. Damen finally gathers himself enough to break the kiss and push Laurent back.

Several further wolf-whistles and lewd shouts emerge from the crowd. Laurent looks over his shoulder and these subside rapidly.

Damen's mind races, wondering how Laurent will play this out. Will Laurent expect to go back to Damen's place, said place being a motel room scattered with dossiers on Laurent and the rest of his crew?

"Follow me," Laurent says. He stops briefly to exchange words with Nicaise, whose glare at Damen is poisonous enough to be felt like noon glare on the face, and then climbs back into the car he's just lost for the second time.

Damen can't think of anything to do but obey.

Laurent doesn't drive any more slowly or carefully than usual, but Damen keeps his taillights easily in view, following him on a winding dirt road up through the hills, away from the flat area where the races were being held. At a distance from the artificial lights, the moon seems both larger and brighter. By the time Laurent pulls up, at what seems to be a scenic overlook of some kind, the stars are so dense as to turn the sky into tinsel.

Damen parks at an angle to Laurent and, as Laurent has, leaves his lights on before he climbs out of the car. During the drive here, the part of Damen's brain that is still an FBI agent has managed to wrestle control back from where his brainstem and his cock had contrived to grab hold of the wheel.

The sight of Laurent's ass in dark, hugging denim, as Laurent walks into the crossed spill of headlights and towards the railing at the edge of the overlook, tests that resolve.

"We don't have to do this," Damen says. Laurent stills, but doesn't turn around. "I won. All right. Give me something else instead. Give me a chance to drive for you. You know I'm looking for work, and you've seen what I can do."

Laurent turns. His face is a ghost, a mess of shadows. He is lovelier than the arm of the galaxy behind him.

"You don't want me?"

Damen says, hearing it come rough off his tongue, "You know I do."

A smile that looks like both shyness and triumph steals across Laurent's face, and is gone. Laurent tucks his fingers into the back pockets of his jeans and tilts his head.

"Look at it this way," Laurent says coolly. "It doesn't really matter what you do now. You're never going to build a case against me, Damianos."

Cold adrenalin pours down over Damen like a sponge squeezed in the nape of his neck. His heart pounds. He's alone in the dark in the middle of nowhere, with a criminal who has called him by his name.

Laurent says, "I know who you are. I know why you're here."

Damen manages, finally, "Then why would you--"

"You can't think of a reason?" Laurent's hand comes out of his back pocket, with Laurent's phone in it. Laurent thumbs rapidly and then holds it out towards Damen, who forces his feet to carry him forward. The photo on the screen is of himself and Laurent kissing. Both of them have their eyes closed; both of them look as though they would kill anyone who interrupted.

"I doubt Nicaise has a future in photography. But do you honestly think," Laurent goes on, merciless, "that anyone would believe you didn't follow me up here and fuck me breathless?"

Damen stares at the photo: the obvious position of Laurent's hand, his own arm around Laurent's slim waist. Then he looks at Laurent himself, the almost unreal beauty of him, with his lip bitten into redness and his blond hair like water under the moon.

Nobody would believe it. Damen can hardly believe it himself.

"No," says Laurent, providing his own answer. "I honour my word. There are two hundred people down there who will swear to it."

"Did you throw the races?" Damen demands. It's absurd that he should feel more angry about that idea than anything else, but there it is. "Did you let me win?"

Laurent's mouth quirks. "No," he says, and it sounds like it costs him to make the admission. "But I know how to take advantage of a situation. You should know that about me if you've done your homework, Special Agent Akielos."

The spill of panic has ebbed now, leaving Damen feeling tired and shaken. His mission is well and truly over; all that's left now is damage control. He turns on his heel, stalks back to the car, but can't make himself open the door. He braces his arms on the roof and lets his head sag between them.

"Fuck," he mutters.

"As I said," says Laurent, sounding very close. Damen jerks his head up again; Laurent, now leaning against the car, flicks him a smile. "No matter what happens now, everyone will think you've fucked me."

"I got the point," Damen growls.

"So," Laurent goes on, "there's no reason not to."

Damen stares at him, waiting for an explanation to present itself. None does.

"I don't believe you want that," Damen says.

A fine eyebrow shoots up. "Really? Do you know what you look like? And I think," Laurent says, his voice lightening oddly, "that you would give me a good ride."

Something dangerous and fatalistic is stealing through Damen's veins. Laurent is right. There's nothing more to be lost here. Even if someone is waiting in the shadows with a video camera, the additional evidence would hardly be any more damning.

Laurent reaches up and puts his hand at the side of Damen's neck, shifts closer and presses his body against Damen's. Tilts up his incredible face.

He says, soft, "Tell me you don't want me, Damianos."

The click of a lighter within Damen's chest turns, in an instant, to true flame. He moves, trapping Laurent between himself and the car, pressing him into glass and metal, kissing him and kissing him, mad with how good it feels.

This is absurd. This is a challenge: the sheer stupid fact that Laurent would fuck him knowing that Damen has come here to put him in prison. That Damen would fuck Laurent, knowing that Laurent will ruin him. The whole heady disaster of it feels like aiming your car at a canyon edge and throwing the throttle open, trusting in luck and combustion to get you to the other side. Knowing that at least the crash will be legendary, spectacular, if you fail.

Laurent, beneath him, is surprisingly willing to be led. He doesn't try to seize control of the kiss. He opens sweetly; he tastes like night air and neon. Damen has the growing urge to surprise Laurent, who has had the upper hand all along. He wants to do something to wipe away that cool, superior expression.

"Backseat," he says, onto Laurent's mouth. He fumbles blindly and gets the door open. Laurent falls more than climbs into the car, and Damen follows him, climbing between Laurent's spread legs and kissing him one more time before sitting back and getting to work on the fastening of Laurent's jeans. Laurent's stomach, flat and flawless white in the darkness, heaves with unsteady breaths as his hands first try to help Damen, then form fists by his sides.

It's an awkward fit, trying to curl his body in the space available. But Damen keeps one foot on the ground outside the car, tugs Laurent's jeans and underwear down just enough for Laurent's cock to spring free, and then lowers his head.

He wanted surprise, and he gets it. Laurent reacts instantly to Damen's mouth on him, all soft broken noises and shivery jerks of his hips, singing for Damen like the sweetest engine purr. He comes more quickly than Damen expected.

Thinking of the upholstery, Damen swallows.

Damen wipes his mouth on the back of his hand as he pulls gently away. He feels smug, in an obscure way, like he's wrestled back some of his dignity. But he glances up into Laurent's wide, shadowed eyes and remembers with a start that Laurent is only twenty, and that nowhere in the dossier was there any mention of past relationships, even casual ones.

"Have you done this before?" Damen asks.

Laurent's face tightens. He gathers himself visibly, pushes himself into a sitting position, and reaches out to bury the fingers of one hand in Damen's hair. He drags Damen across the seat and kisses him, slow and thorough. "Do you have--?"

"Did I, the FBI agent, bring condoms and lube to a street race?" Damen says. "Strangely enough, I did not. You're the one who made the bet."

"I did," Laurent says. He holds Damen's gaze.

Damen, suddenly annoyed by how little he can see, reaches between the front seats and around the steering wheel to turn off the headlights. He hits the interior light instead, a startling spill of yellow illumination that banishes the world around them to darkness. The world is in here. Laurent, now easing his pants back up over his hips, has parted lips and mussed hair and an expression that turns, like a flipped switch, determined.

"Right," Laurent says.

It's far better than it has any right to be: Laurent stretched out on top of him, Damen's knees bent up and his head nearly off the seat, Laurent's hand working him fast and dry. Damen grabs at the back of Laurent's neck as his orgasm roars towards a finish; he buries his face in the hollow of Laurent's neck and shoulder and gasps, his hips bucking as Laurent strokes him through it, his teeth grazing Laurent's fine skin. He can't think. He wants to peel Laurent out of his clothes and have him slowly, tenderly, watching for those deadly eyes to flutter shut. He wants to race Laurent down abandoned streets.

Laurent makes a breathy sound of satisfaction and then collapses as if he's the one who just came, his head shoved up under Damen's jaw, his cheek on Damen's chest. Damen's harsh breathing disturbs Laurent's hair. A strange, giddy tenderness is spreading beneath Damen's skin. Before he can think better of it he lifts his head, tilts Laurent's face up to his, and kisses him. It's the same sweet, artless kiss as before.

"Now what?" Damen says, helplessly. Laurent's plans have dragged them thus far. Part of him is absurdly hoping that Laurent has a plan for what he should do now.

Laurent yawns. "Can I have my car back?"

"No," says Damen, automatically.

"Are you still looking for work?"

"No," says Damen, then actually stops to think about his options. He can go back to the office and explain, somehow, that his mission to infiltrate the de Vere crew is over before it's properly begun; that Laurent is smarter and faster and better than they'd thought, and that Damen has managed to breach at least five different pieces of protocol. He'll be reprimanded, and then reassigned. The promising career that was left in the dust when Nicaise took that picture can probably still be salvaged, with some effort, and time.

Or...what? Disappear into the desert night with Laurent and spend his life racing, racing, driving just fast enough to escape a life that now seems dull in comparison?

"This is insane," he says, but he can hear the wonder in his own voice.

"You were right; I've seen what you can do," Laurent says. The cool confidence is back. "You like the thrill of it more than anything else. Tell me I'm wrong."

Tell me you don't want me. The cadence is the same. The truth of it is the same.

"You're not wrong," Damen says.

Laurent twists in his arms and looks down at him. He touches Damen's mouth, and then jerks his fingers away, as if he didn't realise he was doing it.

"I suppose I could consider you on probation," Laurent says. "Betray me and I'll put the bullet in you myself."

Not betray us. Betray me.

"I honour my word as well," Damen says.

"Good," says Laurent. "Speaking of which, our bet still stands. We'll have to do something about that, when we get back to the garage."

"What?" Damen furrows his brow.

"You've got two perfectly good cars, and you still haven't fucked me over the hood of either of them."

Damen stares at him.

"Just saying," Laurent says.

#captive prince #every fandom deserves a fast & the furious AU #this is joss's fault #for asking #ALL CASUAL LIKE #'so in that street racer ficlet'#'who wins?'#me half an hour later: WAIT I FEEL TRICKED #MAY AS WELL FINISH IT THOUGH #thanks @ rihanna for title #from the true anthem of sexy cars #shut up and drive

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thecousinsdangereux · 3 years

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the land of race car ya yas

A short little ficlet for @corvophobia who has drawn a bunch of art for the bees racer au of my dreams. This is ALL based on her drawings, so make sure you check out her stuff. Happy birthday, Amber! You are one of my two favorite British children. <3

(Please note that I know nothing about street racing. I've only watched the Fast and the Furious movies. Forgive me....)

“How’d you do that?”

Blake’s used to the question or some version of it, and maybe that’s why she takes in the words before she notices the tone, imagines a scowl (a lowered brow, hands curled into fists, the flash of teeth as the scowl turns into a snarl) with the same instinct that has her shoulders tensing. It’s only mid-turn that she realizes the question is laced with wonder rather than anger, but even this awareness doesn’t prepare her for the sight that meets her. It’s a woman, her smile wide and unrestrained by pesky things like self-consciousness or insecurity, and her eyes are nearly glowing in the low light, purple and bright and full of open admiration. Her black leather jacket, classic in cut, has the sleeves rolled up mid-forearm, revealing a prosthetic of black and yellow, and her grey jeans are tight, showing off a body that Blake has to work to avoid following the curves of. Her hair is long, blonde, curling around her shoulders and down her back, artful in its disorder, down to the single, stubborn cowlick at the top of her head.

In short, she’s beautiful, and Blake stares for longer than she should, feeling heat in her veins.

“Do what?”

She manages a response, but it’s absent minded. She’s just noticed the light dusting of pink on the woman’s cheeks, coloring the spaces in between her freckles, and it has her re-evaluating, pulling her thoughts to the effort she’s put into her own outfit that evening: a cropped and sleeveless hoodie with blocked colors of white and purple, tight leather shorts, and clunky boots that hit just under the knee. Blake looks good and this woman knows it, which makes them even on this particular front, and that's a settling sort of feeling.

“Win,” the woman says simply, her smile growing. “And don’t just say NOS.”

“NOS,” Blake drawls, just because she can, and she’s rewarded by the woman’s laugh, rewarded even more when she steps closer.

“No, but what’s your delivery method? Direct port, obviously, but you had to have used a custom kit, right? I’ve been telling you, Yang, I need to recalibrate yours. Can I look at your car? Would you mind if I just took a tiny peak just to see what you’ve done with your injection site? We really need to upgrade, Yang. A nozzle with less back pressure will give you a better squeeze. I’ve been telling you!”

She hadn’t noticed the other woman, but blinks at her now, a red blur waving her arms about, hoping from one foot to the other, firing out words faster than Blake — an aficionado of all things fast — can keep up with. The woman (Yang?) seems to find the act familiar and reacts with affection tinged with a false exasperation (put upon for Blake’s benefit or maybe as a means of gentle chiding), sighing and placing a hand on the smaller girl’s shoulder.

“And I’ve been telling you, you can’t just ask people to look at their shit!” She turns to Blake now, and this time her eye roll is definitely for Blake. “Sorry about that, I swear we’re not trying to steal any of your trade secrets. Ruby just… really likes cars.”

“It’s so pretty too,” Ruby coos, batting away Yang’s hand and taking a step towards the vehicle Blake had used to push past Yang at the last moment, a fact neither of these women seem to hold against her. “The purple stripes. But I bet the engine is prettier.”

It’s unprecedented, really. Blake’s been on the scene for a while — longer than she would admit to anyone here — first as a tagalong and now as a driver, but she’s never had an encounter quite like this. The unexpectedness of it all has her feeling off-balance, has her reacting without any of her customary cool anger as Ruby stares at her hood (as though if she focuses hard enough, she’ll be able to see through the metal to the parts underneath). Maybe that’s why Blake responds in a way that’s decidedly unwise, without any further thought at all.

“You can take a look. I don’t mind.”

“Really?” Ruby squeals, but doesn’t wait for Blake to confirm, darting around her and flipping open the hood in the span of three seconds.

“Really?” Yang asks, and the word sounds wildly different coming from her, sliding out from behind her crooked lips like thanks or maybe a challenge (or maybe both). “Not worried about my mechanic figuring you out before the next race?”

Blake should be, of course. But.

“Can’t say I am.”

“Maybe not the smartest move.” Yang crosses her arms; the chrome of her right glints under one of the flickering street lights. For the first time, she looks away from Blake’s gaze, eyes darting over to check on Ruby (who’s leaning so far into the front of Blake’s car that her feet nearly lift off the ground) and then to another group of drivers, a good distance behind them, but clearly watching in curiosity. It’s never wise to gather after a race, but everyone always does when it goes well, and for the first time, Blake’s glad for it. “She’s pretty vicious about giving me an edge. I wish I could say it was familial loyalty, but really, she just wants to make the fastest car in the city.” Yang pauses, tilting her head in thought. “Or country. Or world. Not sure when she’ll be satisfied, to be honest.”

“Sisters?” Blake asks. She can’t really see the resemblance, but then again, she hasn’t spent as much time looking at the younger of the pair, even though she should probably be less focused on the elder (the one not pouring over her engine. Sun and Ilia were going to kill her).

“Yeah.” Yang probably doesn’t realize how much her smile grows in the confirmation, saturated with pride and love. “Scary brilliant too. Give her five minutes with a car and she’ll take it apart, put it back together, and it’ll run better than it ever has. But all that means she always thinks it’s the car that puts a driver ahead.”

Blake arches a brow. “And you think she’s… wrong?”

“Well, yeah.” Yang’s closer than Blake remembers her being, maybe because her legs are long, her strides somehow longer, and it only takes a step before she’s close enough for Blake to feel the heat radiating off her body. “I know it’s only the driver that puts a driver ahead. That’s why I’m here talking to you instead of looking at your car.” Her lips twitch and she amends her statement quickly. “Part of the reason, at least.”

The other part of her reasoning is made pretty obvious when Yang’s eyes trace up Blake’s form once more. It should probably bother Blake, but it doesn’t, maybe because she’s done the same to Yang during this conversation (more than once). Still, there are things better avoided, and Blake knows this better than anyone. She does her best to get back on track.

“It wasn’t me,” she says (almost blurts), and then feels her neck warm when Yang looks at her quizzically. “Before, you asked how I won. But it wasn’t me, not really. You could have had it if you hadn’t fired your nitrous early. You were impatient.”

It’s too blunt, Blake knows this as soon as the words leave her lips. She’s backtracked too much, retreated into aloofness as she was wont to do, but Yang only laughs, and the sound cracks through Blake’s go-to defense, a corner of her lips curling before she can stop it.

“You’re right. I used to be way worse, back when I started out, but I’m a lot better now. Usually.”

“So what happened today?” It’s the question Yang wants her to ask, of this Blake is sure, but it hardly feels like a chore.

“Ah, bad luck, I guess. I took one look at the driver next to me and all that impatience came rushing back. All I wanted to do was finish the race and meet her properly.” She winks. Combined with the cheesy line, it shouldn’t work as well as it does (but it does). “I’m Yang.”

“Blake.”

They don’t shake hands, and Blake’s glad for it. There’s something buzzing between them, a tingling sensation at the tips of her fingers, the build up right before a lightning strike, and Blake’s not entirely sure what the contact — however brief and friendly — might do to her.

“Next time, maybe I’ll be a little more prepared.” Yang’s eyes roam across her face, settling once more on gold. “But probably not.”

“Immersion therapy,” Blake quips. “Give it time.”

Yang whistles sharply, and it takes Blake a moment to realize that she’s called her sister back over. (Blake had forgotten about her entirely, though the grease on her hands and face leads her to believe that Ruby had done a thorough dive under her hood, the sort Blake ought to be worried about.)

“Time is exactly what I plan on giving it. A lot of time, if you’ll let me.” Yang nudges her sister back in the direction they’d come from. Ruby waves, offers a wide grin of thanks, but Blake’s stuck on purple.

“Well. Let’s see how you do in the next race,” she murmurs.

“Looking forward to it.”

And Blake, who started racing to get away, who started racing to run, who started racing so she never had to stay in one place for long, finds that she is too.

—

“What the hell is your problem?”

Blake’s used to this question too, or some form of it, and this time, the tone is exactly what she expects. The small, white-haired woman in a vest and tie, however, is not.

“Listen, I’m sorry I hurt your boyfriend’s feelings by being a better driver than him, but you’re only embarrassing yourself now.” Blake takes another look at the woman’s attire; her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows and — despite the country club hairstyle and the heels — the hint of a tattoo on her pale skin, just under the fabric makes up Blake’s mind for her. “Or… Girlfriend?”

“Not quite,” says a familiar voice.

Today, Yang has decided to show off her abs (and she most certainly does have abs) with a cropped jacket of black and gold checks, and Blake can’t quite bring herself to look beyond that for too long, though she catches the black driving gloves, the oversized and gold sunglasses, the oversized cargo pants. In the seconds it takes for Blake to wind her brain back up, Yang grins, cocksure, and continues.

“Though you were right about the gay thing. I mean, look at her.”

“Look at you,” the other woman sniffs, actually physically turning up her nose. “Could you be any gayer?”

“Yeah, I could be wearing a vest and tie,” Yang fires back, but it’s clear the banter is familiar, it’s obvious these two know each other well enough for their back and forth to not contain any real barbs.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Blake drawls, before she’s able to stop herself, and Yang turns back to her with an arched brow. “Good to see you again, Yang.”

“Oh, is it? Could have fooled me!” The other woman’s ire has been refocused, and it’s seemingly stronger than before, the pitch of her words higher, more dire. “Given you nearly killed her just now.”

“Weiss,” Yang sighs, but Blake winces, feeling the sting of the words despite Yang’s quick glance of reassurance sent her way.

“I didn’t realize you’d pull off when I drifted. I thought you’d… lean in.”

It’s not an excuse. They’d been neck and neck towards the end of the race (again), and when she’d nudged the side of Yang’s car — far gentler than she would against anyone else — she’d assumed the woman would give as good as she got, like most every other racer she’d gone against. But Yang hadn’t taken any chances, and it’d cost her the race.

“We don’t do that here,” the woman — Weiss — says, lips pursed to the point of contortion, but Yang only laughs.

“We do that here all the time. I did way worse to Mercury last week.”

“Yes, but Mercury is a creep.” Weiss pauses, considering. “We only do that to creeps here.”

Blake’s hands lift, a show of peace. “Hey, no one handed me the Beacon Street Racing Etiquette Guide when I joined up the other week. Maybe you could loan me your copy.”

This doesn’t exactly smooth things over with the woman, especially not when Yang snickers, but Weiss can clearly see the writing on the wall, and tosses her hair over her shoulder with a huff.

“Whatever. I’m telling Ruby about this,” she warns Yang (or maybe Blake, or maybe both of them), before stalking away, her last words called over her shoulder. “She’s not going to be happy.”

There’s no concern on Yang’s face as she watches her go, if anything she looks amused. “Sorry about that. She’s… protective.”

“I can see that. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve been friends with someone for a while.” It’s a guess (and a probe), but Yang doesn’t correct any of her phrasing, so it must be close enough to the truth.

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean protective of me.” Yang’s grin shows a flash of white teeth. “Weiss bet on me tonight. You lost her money. And that’s the real sin.”

Blake’s surprised at how easily her laugh comes (more surprised how easily the fondness slips through the cracks in her chest). “Oh, I see. So I can kick your ass up and down the streets as long as I convince her to bet on me in the future? Good to know.”

“I’m not sure that’s the message I want you to be taking from this,” Yang drawls, but still smiles, flicking her glasses up to her forehead. “Besides, like she said, Ruby’s the one to look out for. She seemed all sweet and innocent yesterday, but gods help the person she turns her disapproving stare on. I’ve seen people break into tears on the spot.”

From what Blake had seen yesterday, Ruby isn’t the sort that loses her chipper bounce very easily, so despite Yang’s teasing tone, she files the information away as useful. If she were being a little more self-searching, she might question the action, given her tendency to not stick around in any one place for long. (Surely Beacon isn’t any different. Surely she couldn’t know now if it were.)

“Lucky she missed the race today, then.” Her lips curve, a sharp corner that would require a drift. “What, she couldn’t bear to see you lose again?”

“Oh, ha ha. No, she had class. And she knows there’s no skipping for racing; that’s the only hard and fast rule for our household.” It’s not what she expects, the straight answer backed with genuinity, but it strikes Blake as endearing, somehow, especially when Yang continues. “I started racing here so we could pay for those classes, so I think it’s only fair.”

“That’s — ” Kind. Authentic. Surprising. Blake’s not sure which word to use so she disgards them all. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type who was racing for the money. Not that… there’s anything wrong with that. Especially in your case.”

Yang laughs. “Hey, don’t mistake me. I started racing here for the money, but it’s not why I race in general.”

“So why do you?” Blake asks, even though she suspects she knows the answer. (It’s not wise to take your eyes off the road, but she’s done it in both of her races with Yang, eyes darting to the side to find the woman speeding alongside her: eyes wild, grin wide, the fervor of the moment all over her face. There’s freedom there, more than there is anywhere else, and Blake thinks she sees that in Yang as much as she does in herself.)

“Same as you, I think,” Yang murmurs, closer now, sliding in when Blake’s distracted once again.

“I’m not sure you know me well enough to say that.”

A bluff, of course, but it gets the intended result.

“Not yet.” From this close, Yang looks taller, and Blake has to tilt her chin to look into her eyes. “But I’m still looking to fix that.”

Blake wets her lips. It’s too much, and she’s not sure she can tack on ‘too soon’ to quantify the thought, make it less tame. If she had to guess, Yang will always be too much, like sunlight after coming out of a room. Blake’s not sure she’ll ever adjust to the rays, or if she wants to.

“Let’s see how you do in the next race,” she says again, and Yang laughs again, totally unabashed.

“Okay, I’m sensing a trend here. What, you’re not going to let me take you out unless I win a race again you?”

“If I say ‘yes’, what are you going to do?”

It’s not cockiness that overtakes Yang’s face then, not exactly. It’s confidence or want or determination or maybe just the flush that comes from the thrill of a challenge. Blake’s setting herself up for something here, she knows, failure or disappointment or something like it, but right then, she doesn’t care. There’s a freedom in this sort of race too, and that she’s come to love.

“Oh, that’s easy, Blake.” Yang leans in a little more, and Blake knows it’s audible, the way her breath is cut short. “I’m going to win.”

#bumbleby #writing #rwby #bees racer au #for #corvophobia #<33333 #just a little something for a birthday treat

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niemernuet · 2 years

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Hey :) what about 20 with Moic and 110 with Ginodi? :D

Thank you for the prompt. 🥰 I said I had no time until the weekend but I also have no self-control and just couldn't resist.

Two ficlets under the cut:

The Accident(nr. 20): tw blood, ambiguous death

The Game (nr. 110): no warnings, pure fluff

The Accident

A strangled noise escaped Loïc's throat, something between laughter and a sob, tinged with sudden, icy fear that grabbed his spine, and shook him like an apple tree. Of course Marco couldn't just fall like any other normal racer. No, his dnf had to be just like his racing, like his victories, breathtakingly spectacular, and unforgettably daring. Immediately, Justin was by his side, and laid his arm around his shoulders. "Come!" he said, and tried to move Loïc but he was glued to the ground, unable to move one muscle.

"Loïc!" Justin said, and it was the pure fear in his voice that finally brought Loïc back. Justin's face was grey, the look in his eyes unlike anything Loïc had ever seen.

"We can't stay here", Justin said, though it sounded weak, more like a question; as if he was unsure himself, and asking for someone to take his hand.

Loïc nodded, and followed him along the bottom of the grandstand to the exit. The sudden, heavy silence that had fallen over the arena around the finishing line after Marco had disappeared through the nets slowly vanished. Hushed voices turned up, and pointing fingers followed them on their path. The camera that had followed Marco's race had panned away fast but not fast enough. Everyone had seen the streaks of red in the snow, the tangled nets that had folded so quickly to let Marco pass.

The razor sharp edges of his skis had cut his flesh and the nets. The thought kept hammering in Loïc's head, the fear turning to nausea. Somewhere above on the mountain, Marco was bleeding out and Loïc could do nothing to help him. The seconds stretched eternally, with no message coming in. Suddenly, a flurry of movement began just outside the finishing area, only a few steps away from the street. Loïc recognised some of the faces and uniforms, the men and women of the medical team and of the promoter. He hurried over as fast as his rigid ski boots allowed, and grabbed one of the race managers by the arm.

"What is going on?"

"They can't land the chopper up there, too many trees", the man explained, and pushed him and Justin away. His Austrian accent garbled every word, and Loïc had trouble understanding him. "Step back, please! They're bringing him down here by sled."

As if on cue, the sound of a helicopter emerged from behind the closest mountain, and soon enough it landed on the ground. There were more people around now, and some of the security guards patrolling the arena ran over to keep them at bay. Loïc saw the flashlights, and the reporters pointing their cameras at the chopper, and cold anger replaced his fear. He could already see the headlines: Another victim of the legendary race track. Another one who had been too cocky in his approach. Marco Odermatt had tried to conquer the Streiff, and it had bucked him off like the stubborn beast it was. And now the weather.

Loïc felt the edges of his vision blur, and he had to force himself to breathe. He wanted to beat them up one after the other, make them disappear forever.

When the sled finally arrived, nobody could hold him back anymore. He thrashed his arms, not caring who he hit, and ran over as they lifted the stretcher into the helicopter. Marco was barely visible under the layers and layers of blankets and covers and ropes, only a shock of blonde hair peeked out.

Loïc grabbed the handle near the door but was dragged back. "I have to go with him!" he screamed. "I can't leave him alone!"

"Let go!" a voice shouted but Loïc fought back with as much force as he could muster.

"Leave him! We can't stay!" someone else finally said, and then one of the medics pulled him inside, threw him into a seat and buckled him in before turning his attention back to the stretcher in the middle. The chopper flew off before the door was entirely closed, and cold gushes of wind blew around them. Marco's face was ashen, his eyes closed. The lines where his helmet met his face were still imprinted in his skin though they were fading fast. He must have skidded on the snow with his left cheek. Loïc wanted to touch the scrape, touch Marco to show him he was not alone but his seat was too far away. The medics were shouting among themselves. Loïc could not understand one word through their accent and the noise but he did not have to. The scrambling movements, the sudden urgency when one of the medics threw back the cover of the stretcher, and his hands that came up soaked in blood told enough. The other medic jumped up, grabbed something from an overhead bin, and without sparing their surroundings any glance, they kept working on Marco's body. Loïc could not hold back any longer. He slipped out of the seat belt, and knelt down next to Marco's head. Uncontrollable Tears were running down his face and into his beard.

"Don't do it!" Loïc sobbed. "If you die, I’m gonna kill you."

His lips and hands caressed Marco, touching his cold skin and soft hair but Marco's eyes stayed closed, his body unmoving.

"Please don't leave me!"

The Game

Daniele was sceptical. "Are you sure it's…the right game?"

Tom examined the markers and distributed them on the coffee table. "The right game?"

Loïc returned from the room where they tried to stay awake after every training while the coaches reviewed the clips of their practice runs, carrying the flipchart with the gigantic writing pad.

"It's just that they've been particularly…clingy today."

Both Tom and Loïc immediately knew who Daniele was talking about, and both shrugged.

"That's why we don't let couples be a group", Tom explained. "It's me and Gino, you and Marco, Renzo and Hannes, Justin and Loïc, and Zoé and Kurt."

"I still think we should limit that rule to couples who can't behave themselves in public", Loïc grumbled.

"But we do", Tom replied, and dodged a marker that came flying at his face.

---

It was for the best that the lodge where they resided for the training camp was a short distance away from the next chalet, somewhere in the boonies of Tyrol, otherwise someone might have called the police.

"That can't be!" Renzo hollered, his face a unhealthy shade of red. "He literally only drew four lines. How can you know that it is the Kernen-S?"

With a flourishing move, Zoé drew another line next to her and Kurt's name on the tally sheet. Her smug smile did not help calm the others sitting on the couch and the floor around the flipchart.

"Kurti is a very talented artist", she answered, and gave her teammate a high-five. "How much is that?"

"That's our fourth point," Kurt answered helpfully.

"Giving us a lead of four and three points respectively over the rest of this sorry lot", Zoé added, and her smile turned even smugger.

"You're cheating!", Hannes stated. Both Zoé and Kurt sucked in air, and looked at him with a scandalised look.

"How dare you?", Kurt asked. "Us? Cheating?"

"Kurti held his hands really strange there", Tom threw in, "I bet they know sign language."

"You're crazy", Zoé said, and handed the marker over to Marco. "How about you try to be good instead of looking for excuses?"

"Wow, Pictionary makes you really mean", Marco threw in, and walked over to the flipchart.

"I meant his drawing skills", Zoé shot back, "not…other things."

"Wow!" Marco, Tom, Daniele, Gino, and Justin said at the same moment.

"I didn't think you meant other things," Tom added, "but thanks for clearing it up. Any other comments about my skiing?"

Zoé threw up her hands. "That's not what…Loïc, tell him that's not what I meant!"

"Sorry lot?" Loïc asked instead.

"It's Marco's and Daniele's turn", Kurt interrupted, turning the attention away from Zoé and her rapidly blushing cheeks.

"Thank you," Marco said, and put his hand on the card deck before turning to Daniele. "Please try to look closely this time."

"What, it's my fault now?" Daniele exclaimed. "How about you try to draw something that doesn't look like you've lost your thumbs? Please!"

"My drawing is fine!" Marco said. "Everybody but you could recognise the Matterhorn."

"It. Was. A. Fried. Egg!" Daniele hissed. "It's just that you didn't look what you were drawing because your eyes were looking at something else. And when we're at it!" He whirled around, and glared at Gino: "Everybody knows you only wear these to distract him!"

Gino grinned, and picked an invisible dust particle off his pants. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Neither do I", Marco added, once again taking in every fold and crease where the tight pants clung to Gino's legs and bottom.

"They're literally underpants!" Daniele said. "They're supposed to be covered by the race suit!"

"You want me to wear the race suit now?" Gino asked innocently. "But it's too warm for that. I'd sweat my ass off."

"And we don't want that", Marco added again.

Daniele gave up, and with a heavy sigh crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Just…draw!"

Loïc grabbed his phone, and pressed the timer. "Ready, set, go!"

Marco grabbed the card, read it, and turned to the flipchart.

"Podium!" Daniele yelled while Marco hastily drew on the paper. "Medal ceremony! Winner!"

Marco shook his head, the marker in his hand flying furiously over the flipchart.

"First place! Champagne!" Daniele continued. "Prize money! Celebration!"

Marco shook his head more insistently, and drew circles around the stick figures he had drawn.

"Second place! Second and third place! Loser!"

"Loser?" Marco exclaimed. "No! Look!"

Daniele threw up his hands. "Joy? Victory?"

"Five, four, three, two, one, stop!" Loïc interrupted.

Marco sighed exasperatedly, and threw the marker back on the coffee table. "How can you not see it?", he asked his teammate.

"See what?", Daniele shrieked. "It's a podium!"

"The podium in Sölden!" Marco yelled.

"Sölden was the word we were looking for", Loïc said.

"Sölden?" Daniele's voice reached new heights. "How the fuck am I supposed to…"

"Wait!" Gino threw in. "Is that a drawing of me?"

Marco's exasperation vanished in an instant, and he smiled at his boyfriend. "It is! See: This one's Braathen with his scarf, this one's me, and this one's…"

"Why am I so small?"

Marco's smile faltered.

Justin cackled. "Ooooh, now it's getting interesting."

"I didn't…" Marco began. "I was in a hurry. There's nothing to it, it's just a stick figure."

Gino frowned, and took his legs off the coffee table. "I don't know", he said, grabbed the blanket from behind Hannes' back, and draped it over his lap, hiding his legs entirely. "It does feel intentional."

"It's not, I swear!" Marco exclaimed, and threw himself next to Gino on the couch. "I didn't mean to." He put his chin on Gino's chest, and looked at him with pitiful eyes.

"Your turn", Loïc said to Daniele, and set the timer on his phone again.

"How am I supposed to draw when he's not even looking?" Daniele asked, and walked over to the flipchart. "Hey, Marco!"

As if on cue, Gino laid his arm around Marco, and pressed a kiss on his lips. "I don't know if I can forgive you", he sighed, keeping Marco's entire attention fixed on himself.

"I'm sure I'll find a way", Marco promised.

Gino moved his legs a little bit apart under the blanket. "Really?"

"Tom!" Daniele exclaimed. "Get your teammate under control!"

Tom shrugged. "Sorry, not my problem. Please start, we don't have all evening."

"Time's ticking!" Loïc said, and pressed the button on his phone.

#ginodi #moic #prompt #text #the-dying-fan #thank you thank you thank you ❤❤❤

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jaydicksummerexchange · 4 years

Text

JAYDICK EXCHANGE: SEPTEMBER 3

[ ❤ Works posted so far! ❤ ]

SECOND TO LAST DAY OF THE JAYDICK EXCHANGE!

Why the second to last instead of the last? That’s because we’ve reached 114 Exchange works for 2020! The more treats get added, the more we time we add to our juicy cabooses and keep the exchange train rolling. Until Saturday that is. Tomorrow is the final posting date, and we’ll reveal the wonderful participants on September 5 no matter what.

Here are today’s releases!

Claws by anonymous for solomonara [ART, Not Rated, No Archive Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/ Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: FanartHurt/Comfort, Injured Jason, Secret Identity, dick's teams don't know the red hood's identity, dick's harem of morally ambiguous older men, dick: he's not older, dick: wait i mean he's not my villain boyfriend, dick: damn it

Summary: Dick takes the Red Hood to a Titan safehouse after an injury. Explanations are expected.

Learning To Love The Fall by anonymous for 3isme [ART, Teen, No Warnings Apply, JayDick]

Additional Tags: Fanart, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Mechanic Jason Todd, Plane Pilot Dick Grayson

Summary: It's the early 1900s and the country of Gotham is recovering from a long war.

Trying to get a better life, Jason Todd has been moonlighting as an underground plane mechanic for illegal aeroplane racers, getting a cut of whatever the pilot wins. After one particular competition, he's accused of sabotage and, despite his protests, forced into deeper debt. At the end of his rope, he runs into Dick Grayson, ex-ace of the Gotham Air Force and supposed dead man. The war hero was supposed to have been shot down near the end of the war. Regardless, this pilot is the best chance Jason has to grab hold of that better life, and he's not going to let it go.

The Still and Quiet Surface by anonymous for TheWayneManner [FIC, General Audiences, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Gift Fic, Ficlet

Summary: Dick leaves the sea behind and never looks back.

Scents & Sensibility by anonymous for Nitrojen [FIC, Explicit, No Warnings, JayDick]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Regency, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fae, References to Jane Austen, although the writer has a pretty dark secret concerning our dear friend jane, Getting to Know Each Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Summary: Prompt - Something along the lines of the Princess and the Pea. It can be A/B/O, modern, fantasy, or even something that takes place in canon where there's some kind of curse. Have fun with it!

Give It A Shot (of espresso) by anonymous for morimaiter [FIC, Teen, No Warnings, Dick Grayson/ Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Hurt/Comfort, Barista Jason Todd, Flirting, Awkward Flirting, Sexual Tension, JayDick Summer Exchange, very minor injury, art included

Summary: Dick was one of their regulars. And yes, that was his real name. The first time he’d asked Jason to write it on his cup Jason had given him a death glare until the man had whipped out a driver’s license to prove it. ‘Richard John Grayson’, printed right there. It hadn’t been an innuendo after all, just an unfortunate choice of nickname. He came into Gotham Grinders (and hell if Jason hadn’t heard enough innuendos about that name to make up for any lack of innuendo in Dick’s own) every Tuesday and Friday, which happened to always be Jason’s shifts. Every time he asks for some new over-the-top order, and every time without fail he also asks for Jason’s digits. Jason replies every time with:

“I’m sorry sir, we can’t give out personal information to customers. Will that complete your order?”

(Fic + Art)

Lazy Days by anonymous for BehindTheRobinsMask [ART, Teen, No Warnings, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Married Life, Married Couple, Established Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Literal Sleeping Together, Lazy Mornings, Domestic Fluff, Fanart

Summary: It's the weekend! Jason and Dick sleep in after a long night on the streets.

Taken in the Butt by the Gay Vigilante Acro-Bird by anonymous for solomonara [ART, Teen, No Warnings, JayDick]

Additional Tags: Romance Novel, Cover Art, Jason Todd is an Author, Partial Nudity, Birds, Vintage Gay Pulp Novels, Chuck Tingle-Adjacent, Please Forgive me, FanartDigital Art, JayDick Summer Exchange

Summary: The Red Hood has a secret: he's a part-time romance novelist.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Between The Devil And The Deep Blue Sea by anonymous for stribird (timidGoddess) [FIC, Mature, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/ Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Heavy Angst, Self-Doubt, Lazarus Pit, Panic Attacks, Established Relationship, Bad Decisions, Romantic Fluff, Amnesia, Broken Promises, Road Trips, On the Run

Summary: Jason couldn’t do that. He could never forget what Dick meant to him. Which is why he had to bring his Bluebird back. Which is why he had to remind Dick of everything that he had lost.

Even if that meant forcing him into the Lazarus Pit. Even if it meant cursing him in the process.

tell your boyfriend, if he says he's got beef, that i'm a vegetarian (and i ain't fucking scared of him) by anonymous for prompt_fills [Mature, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/ Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Fluff and Humor, Crack Treated Seriously, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Protective Damian Wayne, POV Damian Wayne, Batman: Reborn, Jason Todd has a Heart, Damian Wayne Has a Heart, Dick Grayson is Damian Wayne’s Parent, Dick Grayson is Batman, Mutual Pining, enemies to idiots to lovers, Misunderstandings, Damian Wayne Plays Therapist, Jason Todd is Bad at Feelings, Dick Grayson is Bad at Feelings, My Continued Mocking of Tim Drake (it's loving i swear), Donna Troy is a goddess and no one deserves her, My love for Donna Troy is so strong that I projected it onto Damian and I am not sorry, Unbetaed we die like Jason Todd refuses to, Past Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Jealous Jason Todd, Pining Dick Grayson, BAMF Donna Troy AND MORE

Summary: It had taken a few weeks for Damian’s ill-fated hopes for the more platonic explanation of Grayson’s unseemly conduct regarding Todd to expire because Damian (unlike Drake) is not an idiot (and Brown had prattled on about every instance of very clearly not platonically fueled tension, slowly crushing Damian’s remaining hopes for Richard’s taste in romantic partners). Denial, heavenly as he has now known it to be, can only take one so far. And as a pragmatist and the grandson of the great Ra’s al Ghul and son of the great Bruce Wayne, he assesses the situation from a logical perspective, free of any emotions clouding his impeccable judgment, and comes up with a solution that benefits both himself and Grayson.

Jason Todd must die.

Or the story of how Damian Wayne became the number one shipper of JayDick and is not at all happy about it.

Si solo fueras tú by anonymous for fallogory [ART, Gen, Creator Chose No Warnings, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Fanart, Kid Dick Grayson, Adult Dick Grayson, Kid Jason Todd, Adult Jason Todd, King Bruce Wayne, Prince Damian Wayne, Prince Dick Grayson, Poor Jason Todd, Hurt Dick Grayson, Jealous Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug

Summary: Blue came first

Then Green arrives

Then Blue meet Red

And Green hate that

Or where Dick was Bruce's bastard child who was forced to lived like a prince until Damian's born and meet someone who make his world be upside down.

the smell of cold stone by anonymous for abcission [FIC, Mature, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/ Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bisexual Dick Grayson, Autumn, American Football, College Football, Blow Jobs, First Time Blow Jobs, Getting to Know Each Other, Getting Together, referenced Jason/Kyle, Past Dick Grayson/Koriand'r, Past Dick Grayson/Roy Harper, past dick grayson/wally west - Freeform, implied Roy/Kory, implied Roy/Wally, implied Donna/Kyle, future besties Jason and Roy, Roy's eternal crush on Donna, frat boy Dick, Fluff

Summary: Their eyes meet on the quad one day; he’ll probably never see the frat boy again, but he’ll be nice fodder for Jason’s dreams at least.

#2020 jaydick exchange #dcu fanfic #jaydick summertime blues.#jaydick #dickjay #dick grayson & jason todd

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