Thinking about Destruction duo (Wemmbu +Manepear) rn. Hm. I think I’m gonna ramble a bit
I think we can all agree that Wemmbu had cared for Mane and how he had considered Mane’s treehouse as the closest thing he’s ever had to a home. And Mane clearly still regrets whatever he had said/done to Wemmbu on that day with how he had initially refused to teach Flame the spear at the beginning. I dunno. I feel like a part of Mane really did care for Wemmbu. But he cared more for his search for Flame than him y’know.
I think the reason why Mane was so irritated at Wemmbu of not following his orders is because he’s trying to find his brother again(Flame) who had disappeared ever since the Zampire had crumbled. I think I’d be pissed too when I’m so close to finding my one family member that had gone missing ever since the invis mafia and then this one dude had decided to not listen to my orders and had ruined the reunion by interfering. Kind of hypocritical of Mane cause he had just mentioned about giving it your all and letting go of your care for others to reach your potential towards Wemmbu while he was training him. All the while not being able to let go of Flame.
While for Wemmbu Mane choosing Flame over himself just proved to him that his care for others would never be reciprocated. That he’s really just all on his own with protecting Egg and himself. He will never be someone else’s first priority. Which is also why his friendship with Jaden is so important, because Jaden always puts Wemmbu first and foremost and Wemmbu had never experienced this kind of care being reciprocated the same amount before this particular friendship. He clearly misses the home he and Egg once had with Mane. But all he could do is to long for it. All the while Mane is just too regretful to ever have to face Wemmbu again. I mean, he had quite literally isolated himself away from the rest of the server to hide after that one episode. It’s clear that he’s trying to hide from something. Or perhaps, someone in particular.
✦ . Note: Suprise!! Here’s something really quick while I work on things, but I realized I haven’t posted in a while and felt bad LOL. BUT BEFORE ANYONE SAYS ANYTHING: Yes, I will be doing other characters. Yes, I will be doing the girls. And, YES, I will be doing more of these headcannon posts, I promise!! Just give me time to work!!! And this post was a good excuse for me to bully Toby LOL, I hope you guys enjoy!!!!
────────────────────────────────────────────
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ JEFF THE KILLER
It’s some time past 3 a.m. in the Slendermansion living room.
Most of the other residents are out or asleep, and the only light is coming from the flickering TV playing some episode of Gilmore Girls Jeff put on for background noise.
He’s sprawled across the couch like he owns it (mainly because he’s convinced he does), one arm slung over the backrest, the other lazily holding his busted phone and playing some snake game. He’s got his hood up, legs kicked out onto the coffee table, and he’s blissfully trying to ignore how his insomnia is keeping him up.
You come padding down the stairs in one of his oversized Black Sabbath t-shirts and some sleep shorts, hair still messy from sleeping upstairs. The only reason you came down is because you woke up to his side of the bed being empty, deciding that he was probably down here. You spot him immediately, and he doesn’t even look away from the TV at first, but the corner of his carved smile twitches upwards when he hears your footsteps.
Jeff glances at you, then back to the TV.
“Hey. What’re you doing up?”
You don’t answer. Instead, you walk straight over, nudge his feet off the table with your knee, and drop sideways into his lap like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Your side presses into his chest, legs slung over his thighs, and lay your cheek onto his shoulder.
He tenses up real fast, staring down at you, then loosens when he feels your breath against his neck.
“Well, damn. Hello to you too.”
His arm that was on the back of the couch eventually curls around your waist, pulling you in tighter against him. His phone gets tossed onto the coffee table with a clatter so both hands are free, curling his other hand around your thighs and snugging your hips closer into his lap.
“Did you have a nightmare or somethin’? Need me to check under your bed, you big baby?”
You just grumble and burrow closer, fingers slipping under the hem of his hoodie to rest against the warm skin of his stomach. He sucks in a sharp breath at the cold of your hands.
“…Fuckin’ freezer fingers. Every time.”
His hands slide until they’re both wrapping around your torso, holding you close as he rests his cheek on your head. You adjust closer to him, angling your face so you can see the screen.
On the TV, Lorelai’s rattling off some rapid-fire monologue. Jeff snorts.
“Still can’t believe you got me watching this chick-flick shit. If Ben finds out I know who the hell Rory is, he’ll never shut up.”
You feel his lips brush the top of your head when he talks, barely there, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. But then he gets quiet again, before lifting his face off your head. “You stole my shirt again.”
“It smells like you,” you mumble into his neck.
He goes still for a second. You can practically hear the smirk die and restart as something softer.
“Yeah? You’re weird as hell.” His thumb starts tracing lazy circles against your spine through the fabric, laying his head back onto yours. “…Keep it. Looks better on you anyway.”
The credits are rolling on some episode you’ve both seen a dozen times when you feel his breathing finally even out to something slower. His head’s tipped back against the couch, hood fallen half off, mouth slack in a way that almost looks peaceful. One arm is still locked around your waist like a seatbelt, and the other’s gone limp across your thighs.
You’re dozing too, lulled by the warmth of him and the low hum of the TV, until the quiet gets too heavy. And then you’re deciding you don’t want to spend the rest of the night on the couch.
And if there’s anything that motivates Jeff, it’s a bit of persuasion.
You shift just enough to look up at his face, then roll your hips down slow, pressing into his lap with a lazy grind.
Jeff jolts awake with a sharp inhale through his nose, eyes snapping open, pupils blown wide in the dark.
“Jesus—fuck—” His voice is gravel-rough from sleep, hands instantly clamping down on your hips hard enough to bruise. “What the hell—”
He blinks a couple times, registering it’s you, then lets his head fall back again with a groaned laugh that sounds more wrecked than annoyed.
“Rude-ass wake-up call.”
His grip loosens, but only so his thumbs can slip under the hem of the stolen shirt, tracing the skin just above your shorts.
“You’re evil,” he mutters, but he’s already shifting under you, pulling you down harder against him like he can’t decide if he’s pissed or turned on. Probably both. “Pure fuckin’ evil.”
You do it again, slower, just to watch his jaw clench and that sleepy haze burn right off.
Jeff growls low, sitting up straighter so fast the room spins a little, and suddenly you’re being pushed up so your ass grinds right onto his lap, your back now facing him. Jeff’s hands find your hips on either side, tugging your hips back and forth faster than your tired body really wants to go, yanking you so your ass drags over the growing ridge in his sweatpants.
“Fuck, there it is,” he mutters against the shell of your ear. “Knew you weren’t just tryna cuddle.”
You feel him harden under you with every roll of your hips, and your own tired grind turns greedy despite yourself, chasing the pressure, the heat, until a soft, helpless sound slips out of you.
One hand snaps up, his palm sealing over your mouth, fingers pressing into your cheek. The other arm bands across your chest like a steel bar, hauling you flush against him so your back arches and your head falls against his shoulder.
“Shh,” he growls, lips brushing your temple. “You want the whole house waking up to hear you getting off on my dick? That what you want, huh?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just uses the grip on your hips to set his rhythm again, dragging you back and forth over his clothed cock like he’s already inside you. The couch creaks under the force of it, every thrust forward nudging right between your legs, the thin fabric of your shorts and his sweats doing jack shit to hide how hard he is now.
You whimper into his palm, the sound muffled but still far too loud over the quiet lull of the TV.
“Yeah, that’s it. Keep that pretty mouth shut while I use this ass.”
His hips roll up to meet you, grinding shamelessly, the hand over your mouth sliding just enough so his thumb can trace your bottom lip, dragging it to the side.
Jeff twists you just enough to crush his mouth to yours, swallowing the little moan you can’t hold back. The kiss is messy, teeth snagging, tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to taste every sound you make. His hand shoves higher under your (his) shirt, palm rough against your ribs as he searches for your chest.
You’re both panting into each other’s mouths, hips still rolling slow and filthy, when the front door rattles. The sound of keys and the lock sliding come right after that.
Every muscle in Jeff’s body locks up, and yours does too. His thumb is still halfway between your lips, the hand on your chest frozen, fingers digging in like he’s anchoring you in place. You can feel his cock throbbing against your ass, painfully hard, and you’re no better, breathless and aching and terrified to even breathe.
The door swings open, and Toby stumbles in, hoodie soaked, face streaked with mud, hatchet clattering against the loop he’s got it hooked in on his belt. He kicks the door shut behind him and trudges straight behind the couch, boots leaving wet prints on the floor.
You and Jeff don’t move, you don’t even blink.
Toby stops right behind the couch, close enough you can smell the rain and dirt on him. You feel Jeff’s heart hammering against your spine. You’re both waiting for the yell, the “what the fuck,” the inevitable groan of disgust.
But instead, Toby tilts his head at the TV, voice muffled through his mouthguard. “Ah, m-man… Gilmore Girls. I fucking luh-love this show.”
He doesn’t even glance down at the two of you tangled together, doesn’t notice Jeff’s hand still shoved up your shirt or the way your thighs are clamped around his. Just scratches at the back of his neck, yawns, and shuffles toward the stairs like he didn’t almost walk in on the single most compromising moment of both your lives.
The second his footsteps hit the creaking stairs, Jeff’s forehead drops to your shoulder with a shaky, incredulous laugh.
“…I’m gonna kill him,” he whispers. “I’m actually going to fucking murder him.”
His hand finally slips out from under your shirt, both arms falling to his sides, and he’s letting out one long, exasperated sigh.
But then you’re sitting up, pushing off of the couch and dragging your hips forward on your way to standing up. Jeff grunts, looking up at you before him. You turn and look down at him sprawled there.
“If you come to bed right now,” you say, voice low and sweet, “I’ll let you fuck me until the sun comes up.”
You don’t wait for an answer, just pivot and pad toward the stairs, hips swaying because you know he’s watching every step.
Jeff’s on his feet so fast the couch scoots back an inch. He’s behind you in two strides, hands already reaching, but you giggle and step up the stairs faster. He skips two steps at a time, catching up to you. You’re halfway up the stairs when his arm hooks around your waist, yanking you back against his chest mid-step.
“Run all you want, babe,” he growls, mouth brushing the shell of your ear as he hauls you the rest of the way up, your feet barely touching the floor. “You’re not gettin’ away now.”
You’re still laughing when he kicks the bedroom door shut behind you both.
Then the giggles turn into gasps, because Jeff doesn’t waste a single second.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ TICCI TOBY
The porch light is busted again, so the only glow comes from the moon and the occasional flicker of fireflies out past the tree line. Dinner’s long over, the kitchen finally quiet after Masky and Hoodie argued over the last slice of pizza.
Toby’s out on the porch like he usually is when the house gets too loud for his head, rocking chair creaking as he tilts back and forth, one boot propped on the railing, a half-warm beer dangling from his fingers.
He’s got his goggles pushed up into his messy brown hair, mouthguard hanging loose around his neck because nobody’s around to care, and he can chew into his lip and worsen his scarred gash all he wants. Every few seconds his shoulder jerks with a tic, but the beer helps slow them down tonight.
The screen door squeaks, and you step out in socked feet, hoodie zipped up to your chin, and pause when you spot him. “Oh. Didn’t know you were out here.”
Toby glances over lazily. “Door’s lo-loud as shit. Hard t-to miss.” He lifts the bottle in a half-salute. “You’re good, though. Pl-Plenty of porch.”
You wander closer anyway, leaning your hip against the railing beside his chair. The night’s cool, crickets loud. You watch him take another slow sip.
“Didn’t know you drank beer,” you say.
“Don’t usually, but J-J-Jeff snagged s-some. Tastes like piss b-but it quiets the static.” He shrugs, then pats the armrest of the chair with his free hand. “You look cold. Wood’s warmer th-than the railing.”
You huff a little laugh and step in, resting your hip on the arm of his rocking chair instead. The motion makes the chair sway gently, and Toby doesn’t flinch when your weight shifts it.
For a while you just talk about easy stuff. About how Hoodie stole his favorite belt again, about the deer you saw in the yard yesterday, about how he actually kinda liked the mission earlier today—something about putting up more pages for Slender near the lake. His voice is soft without the mouthguard muffling it, that little rasp from his tics that never quite goes away.
You’re not even really thinking when you move, you just push off the armrest and slide sideways into his lap like it’s the most natural thing when your feet begin to get tired. Your legs hang off the edge of one of the armrests, sitting sideways in his lap, back against the other armrest so you’re half-facing him. The rocking chair protests with a louder creak but keeps moving when Toby lets his lifted leg fall to the ground.
Toby goes completely still for a heartbeat, beer bottle frozen halfway to his mouth, eyes wide behind the messy fringe. A sharp tic snaps his head to the side, then back.
“Uh.” He blinks. “Hi?”
You just settle in, tucking your cold hands between your thigh and his hip. He’s furnace-hot like always.
“Chair looked comfy,” you mumble, resting your temple against his shoulder. “The wood’s warmer than the railing, y'know."
Toby’s brain seems to catch up. Slowly, he lowers the beer to rest on the porch floor without spilling it. Then both arms come up, one curling behind your back, the other settling across your thighs like he’s making sure you don’t slide off when the chair rocks.
“…You’re w-weird,” he says, but it’s soft, almost fond. His fingers start tracing idle circles on your hip through the fabric. “Coulda just a-asked if you wanted me to ho-hold you.”
“You’re not complaining,” you point out.
He snorts, a little puff of air against your hair. “Nah. Not complaining.”
The rocking chair keeps its lazy rhythm while you talk, voices low so the people inside don't hear. Toby finishes a story about the time he accidentally set a target’s barn on fire and tried to blame it on Kate, and you’re laughing into his collar when he leans sideways, groping blindly for the forgotten beer bottle. His fingers close around it, and he brings it up, takes a long swallow, then offers it to you.
“Want some? It’s w-warm now. K-Kinda gross.”
You sip. It’s warm and bitter and perfect. When you hand it back, your fingers brush his and stay there a second longer than necessary.
The flirting is soft at first, just teasing glances and the way his thumb keeps sweeping across your hip like he can’t stop. Then a cold breeze snakes through the trees, sharp enough to make your teeth almost chatter.
Toby makes a low, sympathetic noise. “C’mere.”
One arm slides fully around your waist, the other slips between your thighs, his warm palm pressing against the inside of your leg to steal the chill away. He tugs you closer, pulling your whole body closer.
“B-Better?” he murmurs.
You hum, nodding, and loop your arm around the back of his neck instead of letting it awkwardly press between your side and his. Your hand slides up the back of his neck, fingers threading into the messy brown hair at his nape. You scratch lightly, just the way he likes when he pretends he doesn’t.
“You’re go-gonna kill me doin’ t-that,” he whispers, but he leans into your touch like a cat.
Your nails scrape gently along his scalp again. “You’re the one with your hand between my legs, Rogers.”
“Just preserving b-body h-h-heat,” he says, smirking sideways. “T-Totally innocent.”
The hand on your waist slips under the hem of your hoodie, palm splaying flat against bare skin. His fingers are hot, calloused, and they trace slow, absent patterns like he’s memorizing you.
Another breeze and you shiver again, and this time you press closer on instinct, tucking your face into the warm crook of his neck. Toby’s arms lock tight, rocking you both a little faster, like the motion itself can chase the cold away.
“I gotcha’,” he mutters against your hair. “Not lettin’ the w-wind have y-you.”
You smile against his pulse and keep playing with his hair, feeling the way his whole body slowly melts under the touch. The beer bottle sits abandoned again, condensation pooling on the porch floor.
Neither of you is in any hurry to go back inside.
The kiss starts soft, almost shy. Toby’s lips are warm from the beer, a little hesitant until you tilt your head and let him in. Then the tipsiness kicks in, his cheeks are flushed pink with alcohol you can see even in the moonlight, and he makes this quiet, hungry sound that vibrates against your mouth. His tongue slides past your lips, tasting like cheap lager on his tastebuds.
You’re both lost in it when voices drift through the cracked screen door, Masky grumbling to Hoodie about something as they pass. Inside, the basement door creaks open, then shuts with a heavy thud. Then silence swallows the house again.
You pull back just enough to listen, the two of you tense, but they’re gone.
Toby’s breathing hard, eyes dark and glassy, his lips wet. You don’t say anything, just grab his wrist and guide his hand higher up your thigh, pressing his palm firmly between your legs, right where heat is already pooling.
His reaction is instant. His fingers flex, then push against you, cupping you through the thin fabric of your shorts. A sharp tic jerks his shoulder, but he doesn’t pull away; if anything he leans in closer, forehead against yours.
“Fuck… you s-sure?” he whispers, voice cracking on the last word.
You answer by rolling your hips into his hand and kissing him again, harder this time. Toby groans into your mouth, free arm locking around your waist to keep you pinned. The rocking chair creaks beneath you both as he presses his palm tighter, rubbing in small, firm circles that make your breath catch in your throat.
“Make it quick,” you breathe against his lips.
That’s all it takes. Toby’s hand slips under the waistband of your shorts without another word, fingers sliding over bare skin, finding you already soaked. His whole body shudders.
“J-Jesus, you’re—” He cuts himself off with another messy kiss, swallowing whatever filthy thing he was about to say as he starts rubbing his fingers against you.
The porch light might be busted, but the moon’s bright enough to see every flush on his face, every twitch of his mouth when your nails dig into the back of his neck and pull his hair.
But this rocking chair is old, half-rotted from years of rain, and it never stood a chance.
You’re grinding down hard, chasing the pressure of his fingers against you and the thick ridge of his bulge under your hips, when Toby whines against your mouth.
“Fuck i-it, I don’t care w-who hears, I-I need you right now.”
He shifts you up, hands moving frantically, yanking you higher so you’re properly straddling his thighs. One arm locks around your waist while the other fumbles with his belt buckle, the metal clinking too loud compared to the quiet night. You feel him tug at your shorts, trying to push his boxers down at the same time—
The back leg snaps with a sharp crack.
You tip backward with a startled gasp, the world flipping, but Toby’s reflexes are stupid-fast as always. His free hand shoots out, slamming against the porch railing hard enough to rattle the whole thing. Wood groans under his grip, but he catches both of you, muscles straining, stopping you inches from eating the floorboards.
For a second you’re just hanging there—you clinging to his shoulders, legs still wrapped around his waist, his dick half-out and pressed between you, both of you panting like you just ran a marathon. Toby’s eyes are huge, pupils blown, cheeks scarlet. A breathless laugh punches out of him.
“…Well, sh-shit.” His forehead drops to yours, voice ragged. “New p-plan,” he rasps, already hauling you upright, dick still out and dragging against your stomach as he stands. “Bed’s more cu-com-comfortable anyway.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just scoops you up, your legs locking around his hips, and kicks the broken chair aside as he carries you toward the door, lips already on your neck, both of you laughing and cursing under your breath the whole way inside.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ EYELESS JACK
The basement smells like antiseptic, old paper, and the copper tang that never quite leaves Jack’s clothes.
A single desk lamp throws a cone of yellow light over scattered medical notes, a half-disassembled kidney in a steel tray, and Jack hunched in his rolling chair, pen scratching across a battered notebook.
He’s writing notes over his last operation, scattered details about pulling a bullet from Tim’s shoulder, and how he needs to send Toby out for more morphine later.
“Idiot can’t even dodge a .38 anymore…” he grumbles.
He’s so focused he doesn’t hear the stairs creak until you’re already in the doorway.
You pad in wearing one of his oversized black hoodies, the sleeves dangling past your fingertips, messy hair, and an expression that says you’re clearly bored out of your skull.
Jack doesn’t look up. “I’m working.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” you answer, strolling straight to his desk anyway. You lean your hip against the edge, folding your arms. “You’ve been down here for six hours. Your spine is gonna fuse.”
He grunts, still writing. “I need more morphine by tomorrow night, and Toby’s the only one small enough to fit through the pharmacy window.”
You lean further back, planting your palms on the desk so you can peer at his handwriting. “Tell Toby if he brings back energy drinks I’ll do his laundry.”
Jack finally glances up. No eyes, but you can feel the flat stare anyway. “I’m busy.”
“You’re always busy.” You push off the desk, round the corner of it, and before he can roll his chair away you slide right into his lap, hooking one leg over his broad thighs, and climbing the rest of the way into the chair to straddle him.
The pen stops moving. Jack goes very, very still.
You settle in, perfectly casual, arms looping loosely around his neck. He’s warm, he always is, like his body runs a few degrees hotter than everyone else’s.
“Hi,” you say, smiling up at him.
His pointed ears twitch, and a low rumbling sounds in his chest. “…You’re in my way.”
“Am I?” You shift your hips just enough to take the notebook out from under his hand and set it aside. “Looks like you were done anyway.”
Jack exhales through his teeth. One claw comes up, fingers curling around your waist like he’s going to lift you off, except he doesn’t. He just holds you there, claws pricking your skin through the fabric.
“You’re bored,” he says. It’s not a question.
“Deathly. Entertain me, doctor.”
He stares for another beat, then huffs a laugh that’s more air than humor. The hand on your waist slides to the small of your back, tugging you closer so you’re chest-to-chest. His other arm curls under your left knee, scooting you closer and locking you in place.
“Five minutes,” he mutters, voice low and rough. “Then I’m working and you’re going back upstairs.”
You hum, satisfied, and tuck your face into his shoulder.
“Ten,” you bargain against his hoodie.
Jack’s claws flex against your spine. “…Seven.”
Jack picks his pen back up with one hand, the other still curled around your waist, keeping you pinned on his lap. He flips to a fresh page, starts jotting supply quantities in his neat, slanted handwriting while you nose along the collar of his hoodie and toy with the frayed drawstrings.
“Quit it,” he mutters, but there’s zero heat in it. His claws trace slow, absent circles between your shoulder blades every time he pauses to think.
“Nah,” you smile, pulling his hood over his head and tugging the strings until the hood cinches around his face. “See? Now you’re a turtle.”
He snorts, pushes the hood back down, and lets his hand slide a little lower, nails dragging lightly down your spine in retaliation. You arch into it like a cat.
“Stop distracting me. I still have to figure out how much propofol Toby needs to carry.”
You hum, unbothered, lips peppering the sharp line of his jaw. Soft little presses that make his ears twitch and flick.
“Jack.”
“I’m working.”
Another kiss, this one lingering, open-mouthed just under the hinge of his jaw where a little scar sits. His claw flexes against your back.
“You’re warm,” you murmur against his skin. “I wanna crawl in your skin.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“You like it.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, sets the pen down, and turns his head just enough that his next words ghost across your cheek.
“Cut it out.”
You smile, slow and wicked, and drag your lips along the shell of his ear. “Make me.”
For a second he’s perfectly still. Then the hand on your back slides up, fingers threading into your hair, tugging your head back firmly so you’re forced to meet the black voids where his eyes should be.
“I said,” he repeats, voice dropped low, dangerously low, “cut it out. Or you are not going to like what happens.”
The threat rumbles through his chest into yours. Your breath catches, and his claws tighten in your hair for half a heartbeat, just enough to remind you he means it. Then he lets go, picks the pen back up, and goes right back to writing like he didn’t just set your entire nervous system on fire.
“Seven minutes are up,” he says, scratching another number. “Behave or leave.”
You tilt your head, testing the weight of his warning.
For a second he thinks you’re actually leaving—your weight shifts, thighs sliding off his lap, and something tight flickers across his face, like he worries that he’d sounded harsher than he meant.
“Hey,” the apology is already forming. “I didn’t mean—”
The words die the instant he realizes you’re not standing up.
You’re sinking down.
Dropping to your knees under the desk, hands braced on his thighs, pushing them apart so you can kneel between them. The lamp light catches the sharp curve of your smile as you settle between his legs.
Jack’s breath stalls.
You don’t say anything. You just reach for his belt, metal rattling as you tug it open with one smooth pull. The zipper comes next, every tooth loud in the sudden silence.
His claws dig into the armrests, and the seat creaks under the pressure.
“…Fuck,” he mutters.
You look up at him and mouth two silent words:
Make me.
Jack’s head thumps back against the chair. One clawed hand drops to your hair, tugging your head forward.
“You’re a fucking brat,” he rasps.
Then his fingers tighten, hips shifting forward, and he lets you take exactly what you came for.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ MASKY
Tim stumbles in through the side door just after sunset, smelling like an entire pack of cigarettes.
His jacket is already balled up and abandoned on the floor by the door. He drops into the battered recliner like his spine gave out three miles ago, boots on the footrest, head tipped back, mask thrown onto the floor.
You hear the groan from the kitchen and pad out with the coffee you started the second you heard the gravel crunch outside, brewed in the “World’s #1 Mom” mug that he absolutely hates.
He cracks one exhausted eye when you step in front of him.
“Your medicine,” you smile, offering the mug.
Tim grunts something that might be thanks, takes it with one scraped-up hand, and downs half in one scalding gulp. You reach out without thinking, brushing the sweaty strands of dark hair off his forehead. There’s a fresh cut along his hairline, still oozing a little.
“Rough one?” you ask softly.
“As ever,” he mutters, voice gravel-rough. “Toby set the wrong building on fire, Brian wouldn’t stop humming, and I took a crowbar to the ribs. So… y’know.”
You start to pull your hand back. “I’ll let you decom—”
His free hand reaches out, catching your wrist before you can take a step. One firm tug and you’re off balance, stumbling sideways into his lap with a startled laugh. He settles you across his thighs like you weigh nothing, coffee sloshing in the ceramic.
“Stay,” he grumbles, arm looping behind your waist to lock you there. His head drops to the back of the chair again, but now your shoulder is his pillow. “Just… five minutes.”
You relax against him, careful of the ribs he’s probably bruised under his shirt. The coffee mug rests on your knee, and he keeps one hand wrapped around it, the other splayed over your hip.
“As long as you need,” you echo, amused, fingers threading gently through the hair at his nape.
He makes a rumbling sound, eyes already half-closed. “You smell good.”
The room is quiet except for the tick of the old wall clock and his breathing slowly evening out. After a minute he turns his face into your neck, lips brushing skin in a barely-there kiss that’s more comfort than anything.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he mumbles against your throat.
“Anytime.”
You feel his lips curve, then press a kiss just under your ear. It’s soft, exhausted, but the hand on your hip slides lower, fingers curling over the curve of your ass.
“Careful,” you warn, voice low. “You’re running on fumes.”
“Fumes are enough,” he says, nipping the same spot he just kissed. His stubble scrapes your skin and sends heat straight down your spine. “Been thinkin’ about you in my lap since mile five of that goddamn hike.”
Another kiss, hotter this time, open-mouthed and lazy. His hand squeezes again, pushing you closer.
“Tim…”
“What?” He pulls back just far enough that you can see the crooked, tired smirk. “You want me to stop?”
He emphasizes the question by dragging his palm up your thigh, slow enough to make you squirm. You answer by shifting your weight, grinding down just once. The low groan he lets out is pure satisfaction.
Tim stretches just far enough to set the mug on the coffee table beside the recliner, then both hands are back on you before the ceramic even stops wobbling.
One palm slides under your thigh, hooking beneath your knee and dragging your leg up and over his lap so you’re fully straddling him, knees sinking into the worn cushions on either side of his hips. The other arm bands across your lower back, hauling you forward until there’s no space left between you.
He drops his head back against the recliner, eyes half-lidded and dark, and rolls his hips once. The hard line of him presses right up against your ass through thin layers of fabric, and the groan that leaves him is low it might as well be a growl.
“Fuck… there it is,” he mutters, voice rough with exhaustion. His hand on your thigh squeezes, guiding you down harder as he grinds up again, lazy but insistent. “Been hard since you walked in with that damn coffee.”
You feel every inch of him dragging against you, the friction perfect and maddening. His stubble scrapes your throat when he leans in, mouthing along your pulse.
“Keep movin’ just like that, sweetheart,” he rasps, breathing hot against your skin. “I’m too fucking tired to flip you over right now, but I’ll still get you off right here.”
Another slow roll of his hips, harder this time, and his fingers dig into the meat of your thigh like he’s anchoring himself to the feeling.
“Quiet, though,” he adds, lips brushing your ear, a tired smirk in his voice. “Don’t need nobody walkin’ in, do we?”
He punctuates it with a sharp thrust upward that makes your breath hitch and your nails dig into his shoulders.
“Good,” he praises, voice fading into a little groan as exhaustion creeps back in, but the grind of his hips never falters. “Just like that… little more and I’ll take us both to bed. Promise.”
You roll your hips slow at first, just enough to feel him throb under you, and Tim’s hands drop to your hips like they belong there, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow.
“Fuck, yeah,” he growls against your mouth, dragging you down harder. “Take what you want, baby.”
You whimper, grinding down in tight circles that make his breath stutter. “Tim—”
“Say it,” he demands, biting your bottom lip. “Tell me what you want.”
“Want you to fuck me,” you gasp against his mouth. “Want you to fuck me so bad.”
He groans like he’s dying, hips snapping up, hands bruising your hips. “Jesus Christ. Keep talking like that and I’m gonna come in my jeans like a fucking idiot.”
You laugh breathlessly into the next kiss, rolling harder, faster, chasing the friction. “Then do it. Make a mess of yourself for me. I’ll still let you fuck me after, promise.”
Tim’s eyes roll back, a broken curse tearing out of him as he slams you down against him one last time and holds you there, grinding deep and dirty while he devours your mouth.
“Gonna—”
Tim’s hips are rolling up hard, breath ragged against your neck, one hand fisted in your hair, when the buzzing starts.
You both freeze.
He snarls something vicious under his breath, fishes the old flip-phone out of his back pocket, and flips it open with one thumb.
“What,” he snaps.
Toby’s voice explodes through the speaker so loud Tim has to yank the phone back from his ear.
“MASKY! MA-MASKY, MAN, WE GOT A PROBLEM, HOODIE’S S-STUCK IN A-A FUCKIN’ BEAR TRAP AN-AND THERE’S COPS AND I T-THINK I DROPPED MY HATCHET IN T-THE CREEK AND—”
Tim doesn’t even let him finish. He snaps the phone shut with a sharp clack, tosses it onto the coffee table, and slams the recliner footrest down with his boot.
“Later,” he growls, voice dangerously low.
Then he’s standing. One arm hooks under your thighs, the other under your ass, and he lifts you clean off the chair like you weigh nothing. You yelp, legs automatically wrapping around his waist, arms around his neck.
“Tim!”
“Shut up,” he mutters, already halfway across the room in three long strides. “They can bleed out for ten more minutes.”
He takes the stairs two at a time, kicks his bedroom door open so hard it bounces off the wall, and throws you onto the bed. You bounce once, then he’s on you before you settle, shirt ripped over his head and flung somewhere across the room.
Downstairs, the phone keeps buzzing itself off the table and onto the floor.
Neither of you gives a single damn.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ HOODIE
The mansion is quiet for once.
Sun slanting through the dusty windows, motes drifting like snow. Brian’s parked at the long oak dining table, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a half-finished block of wood in one hand and a carving knife in the other. Wood shavings litter the table like confetti.
You pad in behind him, wearing one of his flannels, and slip up behind him. Your arms slide over his shoulders, chin resting on the top of his head.
“Whatcha doing?”
He tilts his head back into you. “Tryin’ to make a blue jay. Uh… trying. It’s starting to look like a potato I think.”
You snort, round the chair, and pluck the bird from his fingers. “Lemme see the damage.”
In the same motion you drop sideways into his lap, legs sliding between his under the table. Brian doesn’t even flinch, just opens his thighs a little wider to make room and loops both arms around your waist, hands settling low on your stomach. His chin hooks over your shoulder, warm breath against your neck as he watches.
“Go ahead, expert,” he teases, voice soft. “Fix my disaster.”
You turn the carving in your fingers—it really does look more like a tuber—then pick up the knife. Brian’s arms tighten reflexively when the blade moves, but he relaxes again the second he realizes you know what you’re doing.
“See, you took off too much here,” you say, shaving a thin curl away from the breast. “Gotta leave room for feathers.”
He hums, thumbs stroking idle circles just under the hem of the flannel. “Show-off.”
You keep working, making precise cuts, and he keeps watching over your shoulder like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Every few seconds his lips brush the side of your neck, just enough to make you squirm.
“Gettin’ good,” he murmurs, voice dropping. “Almost looks like a real bird now.”
“Miracles do happen.”
He chuckles, arms tightening to pull you back flush against his chest. “Pretty sure the miracle’s the one in my lap who knows how to handle a blade better than I do, apparently.”
You tilt your head, offering your mouth. He takes it without hesitation, kissing you sweetly and tasting like the spearmint gum he’s always chewing.
When you break apart he rests his forehead against your temple, watching your hands start moving again.
“Don’t stop,” he says quietly. “I like the view.”
You roll your hips back, pressing your ass right into his lap. Brian grunts, fingers flexing against your stomach.
“The view, huh?” you tease, voice lilting.
He pinches the inside of your thigh, and you squeak, jerking in his lap.
“Brat,” he laughs, warm against your ear.
You swat blindly at his arm, but he dodges and pinches you again, higher this time against your hip. “Bet you regret crawlin’ in my lap now, don’t you?”
You hiss dramatically and start to push up, “Alright, assho—”
His hands are faster, though. One second you’re rising, the next he’s hooked both arms under your knees, yanking you back down hard. Your legs splay wide, hooked over his thighs, feet dangling off the floor. The chair creaks as he spreads you open like it’s nothing.
Before you can even gasp, his hand slides between your legs, palm cupping you through soft fabric, fingers pressing right where you’re already warm.
You jolt, the carving knife clattering onto the table.
“Changed my mind,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear while his fingers start a slow, merciless grind, “real quick.”
Your head falls back against his shoulder, a shaky breath escaping. His other arm locks across your chest, pinning you tight so you can’t squirm away.
“Thought you were leaving?” he taunts, voice velvet and so mean. “Go ahead. Try.”
He presses harder, rubbing in tight circles that make your thighs tremble against his. You grab his forearm, nails digging in, but he just chuckles and keeps that perfect, torturous rhythm.
“Brian—”
“Shh. Enjoying the view.”
Your hands slap the table edge, a white-knuckled grip as you rock shamelessly into his palm. Brian’s hips roll up slowly, dragging the hard line of him against your ass in a perfect counter-rhythm. Every grind of his fingers is matched by a thrust from behind, like he’s already fucking you through layers of clothes.
“Goddamn, listen to you,” he breathes against your cheek, lips brushing hot and teasing. “Gettin’ pissy with me like this isn’t exactly what you wanted. Dirty little liar.”
“Fuck you, Brian—” you gasp, and he laughs, the sound vibrating straight to your core.
“Yeah? That what you want?” He presses two fingers hard against your and circles once, so mean. “Keep talkin’ shit. Makes me so fucking hard I could split you open right here.”
You try to snap back, but he suddenly shifts. One hand plants on your lower back and he pushes, your chest meeting the table, wood shavings sticking to your shirt. The half-carved bird skitters to the edge and topples off.
Brian doesn’t even glance at it. He drags your hips to the very edge of the table, stands up behind your bent waist, and yanks you back onto his lap in one smooth pull. Your feet plant onto the ground, forearms braced on the wood as he grips your hips.
He starts bouncing you, forward and back thrusts that slam your core against the ridge in his jeans over and over.
“Feel that?” he growls, lips against your flushed cheek as he bends over your body, kissing the heat there. “Imagine that’s me sliding in raw, baby. Mmm… right here where anyone could walk in.”
You whimper, forehead pressed on the table, nails scraping wood.
“That’s it,” he praises. “Bet you’d love if poor Toby walked in to grab a snack right about now, huh? Grinding against my cock. You’re dripping for it already, aren’t you?”
Another hard bounce and you cry out, the curses you spit at him dissolving into a broken moan that only makes him grind harder, faster, chasing both your edges right there on the dining-room oak.
“Keep crying,” he pants, grinning against your jaw. “I’m gonna make you come just like this, then bend you over and give you the real thing until you forget every goddamn word except my name.”
You’re right on the edge, hips rolling back frantically, voice cracking as you beg, “Brian, please, I’m so close—”
Then the wood shavings you’re lying in betray you. A curl of shavings goes straight up your nose.
The first sneeze is small. The second is violent. The third turns into a full-blown, unstoppable fit, high-pitched and ridiculous, your whole body jerking with each one.
Brian freezes mid-thrust, wide-eyed for half a second, and then he loses it. A huge, helpless laugh tears out of him, shoulders shaking as he hauls you upright, brushing shavings off your hair and shirt.
“Oh my god,” he wheezes, trying to stay serious and failing. “I’m so sorry.”
You sneeze again, right into his arm, and that only makes him laugh harder, arms wrapping around you while you both catch your breath.
“Fuck you,” you manage between giggles and another tiny sneeze, swiping at your nose.
“Yeah, yeah, hold that thought.” He bends, scoops the fallen bird off the floor, and sets it back on the table. “Little dude’s seen things.”
You wipe your eyes, still laughing, then turn and head down the hallway toward his room, tossing a lazy, wicked grin over your shoulder.
He’s after you in a heartbeat, footsteps thundering. You squeal and bolt, but he catches you halfway down the hall, arms banding around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground.
“Awh, don’t run now,” he growls into your neck, already steering you toward his bedroom. “I have another good view that I’d like to see tonight.”
Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!
Ok guys, Im going to ramble for a quick second, but in my ask box many people have been asking for NSFW requests, refrain from doing that please, before you could've asked, my bio already says I don't want NSFW content since Im a minor, but it's ok to make mistakes, I could do SLIGHTLY suggestive but never outright NSFW since it makes me uncomfortable.
Thank you for understanding this, AND NOW BACK TO THE DRAWING !!1111. 😼
OK THERES THIS FIC IM OBSESSED ABOUT BECAUSE ITS SO CUTE??? 😭 genuinely like the idea of a Blind! reader with 1x1x1x1 that's legit PEAK !!!
Robbinville was the kind of place Gotham forgot to finish.
Too far from Blüdhaven to benefit from its attempts at urban renewal, too close to the Bowery and Crime Alley to escape the grime that clung to everything. But to Dick, it was perfect—close enough to patrol routes, far enough for plausible deniability. Plus, Robbinville finally had something other than the chemical invested waters of the harbor.
The circus sat on a half-paved lot between a scrapyard and an abandoned rail line, a splash of color against the soot-stained skyline. From a distance, it looked almost cheerful—painted tents, faded posters, a string of flickering bulbs spelling out Charlie's Circus. Up close, the gloss didn’t hold. The canvas was patched in places, the banners sun-bleached and fraying at the edges. Still, there was life here. Music crackled through tinny speakers, performers practiced in the open air, and somewhere, the smell of popcorn valiantly tried to mask diesel and rust.
“Mr. Grayson! A pleasure!”
Dick turned to see a short, round man waddling toward him, decked out in a plum-colored suit that looked expensive but somehow greasy at the same time. Every finger glittered with rings; his watch looked like it could pay off a mortgage—or a mob debt. His smile was wide, practiced, and nowhere near his eyes.
“Charlie Delmar,” the man said, thrusting out a hand. “Ringmaster, manager, entrepreneur. Welcome to my humble enterprise.” The man certainly had a knack for flair.
“Glad to be here,” Dick said, shaking his hand firmly and resisting the urge to wipe his palm afterward. “You’ve got quite the operation.”
“Ahh, we make do! Not quite the glory days of Haly’s, hmm?” Charlie said, laughing too loudly. “But we keep the crowds happy, the lights bright, and the money moving.”
Dick subtly wiped his hand on his pants.
“Those are the big three,” Dick agreed with the tilt of his head, eyes flicking around. The place wasn’t falling apart, but it carried that same patchwork energy he’d seen in small-town shows—held together by willpower, duct tape, and underpaid labor.
Charlie led him through the lot, gesturing grandly at everything as if he owned a small empire instead of a mid-tier carnival. “We’ve got trapeze, animal acts, fire shows, acrobatics—oh, and our little prodigy, of course. The one that caught your eye!”
“Arach-Kid?” Dick asked, his tone carefully casual.
“The one and only!” Charlie’s grin sharpened. “Crowds love him. Best draw we’ve had in years. You won’t believe the fuss he put up about his stage name having a hyphen.”
“Stage name pride,” Dick said mildly. “I get it.”
Charlie’s laugh boomed again, and he waved toward one of the smaller tents. “My acrobrats are rehearsing now. Go say hello! You two will get along great—gymnast to gymnast, legend to legacy.” Charlie smiled, but it came off more condescending than happy.
Dick pushed the tent flap aside.
The main tent was buzzing when Dick walked in—music spilling from a crackling speaker, ropes swinging overhead, performers mid-rehearsal. The four adult acrobats from the previous show moved across the rig with practiced efficiency, calling out to one another in clipped, professional bursts.
He’d barely taken two steps before they noticed him.
“Wait—hold up, is that—”
“Holy hell, it’s Dick Grayson!”
The reaction was instantaneous. The group practically descended on him, a flurry of handshakes, greetings, and thinly veiled awe. Dick smiled politely through the swarm, fielding questions about training techniques, his old routines, about the Haly’s days, then apologizing for bringing it up and beating the dead horse that is his dead parents.
He was used to the attention, but something about it felt a little… performative. The smiles were too wide, the enthusiasm a little too desperate.
“Monsiuer Grayson, it’s an honor,” one of them said, grasping his arm with both hands.
“Please,” Dick said lightly. “Just Dick.”
“Oh, we couldn’t!” another said, practically simpering. “You’re a legend.”
“Tagedy what happened to your parents, our condolences.”
They laughed, loud and hollow. Dick gave a practiced grin, but his instincts prickled. They were friendly enough—but it was the plastic kind of friendliness people didn’t mean.
“Tagedy what happened to your parents, our condolences.”
Dick almost actively rolled his eyes, but played along. Thanking them, moving on, keeping the conversation going.
“Kid! You’re late again!” A man Charlie had been talking to called out.
A teenager ducked inside, jogging across the floor and looking like he’d been halfway through an apology before he even got there. “Sorry! Sorry, Ms. Sandy asked me to—uh—”
No one was listening, still buzzing around Dick.
The acrobats never even paused to pay attention to the kid, who looked very familiar. On the tip of Dick’s tongue, he swears.
The teen slowed to an awkward stop near the rig, looking pretty unimpressed as he shed his outside layers to reveal his, decidedly, homemade unitard. It hung loose at the wrists, clearly homemade, bright in a way that reminded Dick of Superman. Red, blue with a little flair of black web pattern stitched in, the kind of detail only someone meticulous (or sentimental) would bother with.
He said something Dick couldn’t hear over the sound of the other acrobats and rolled his eyes, starting to quietly prep.
“Don’t worry about them,” Charlie’s voice rang from behind, syrupy-slick. “They’re just starstruck, Mr. Grayson. Happens all the time.”
“It won’t distract them from their work, right?” Charlie’s voice wasn’t mean, per se, but sharp and a pretty plain way of telling them to stop causing a ruckus and get back to work.
“Sorry Charlie, we’ll get on it.” One of the men called, thankfully leading the way back to practice. The kid stood up to follow after, but they brushed right past him.
“Excellent. Keep it that way.” Charlie’s grin was all teeth. “I want our guest to see why Charlie’s Circus is worth every penny of his time.”
The boy—maybe thirteen, fifteen tops—stood near the rig, chalking his hands. Now, it’s a bit of an intuitive leap, but Dick had dealt with much the same attitude from older acrobats jealous of his talent. So chances are…
“Hey,” Dick called. “You must be the famous Arach-Kid.”
The boy turned, startled. His brown eyes wide, like he didn’t expect Dick to actually address him. He straightened, trying to play it cool. “That’s what they call me,” he said. His voice cracked just a little. “But, uh—yeah. That’s me. I tried for Spider-Man, but it didn’t stick.” There was a lilt of humor, like an inside joke.
Dick offered a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure you’ll grow into it.” the kid shrugged, clearly still bummed.
“Grayson, Dick Grayson,” Dick said, giving a mock bow and a grin. “At your service,” that got a small, genuine laugh from the boy—bright and unguarded.
Then a side eye. “You sure you ain’t a scammer?” He leaned forward, eyeing Dick up and down. “Like, Flying Grayson Dick Grayson? For suresies?”
Dick’s irritation eased a little, despite himself. It was hard to stay mad when faced with a wiry teenager in glasses too big, a gap in his two front teeth, and the funniest attempt at sizing Dick up he’s ever gotten.
“Last I checked.” He tipped his imaginary cowboy hat.
The teen squinted at him, staring for a couple seconds longer before he seemed to believe Dick, eyes lighting up in wonder.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone recognize his name, and certainly won’t be the last, but it was one of the few times associating the “Flying Grayson” part didn’t come without awkward condolences or whispered mentions of tragedy. Just awe. Plain earnest awe. Once he got past the skepticism, of course.
Peter tried to recover, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow. Uh. Yeah. Sorry. I just—your form’s, like, legendary. I’ve seen videos. A lot of them. Probably too many, actually. That sounded creepy, didn’t it?” He ducked his head, “Sorry, I’m Peter.” Peter wiped his hands, but hesitated on whether he should actually shake hands or not.
Dick met him half way, amused.
“Little bit,” Dick said, grinning. “But my brothers’ worse, so I’ll allow it.”
Peter laughed awkwardly, still avoiding direct eye contact. “Cool. Uh. Thanks. So, are you really here to—like, work here? Or is this one of those, uh, publicity things?” He blinked. “No offense.”
“Little of both,” Dick said smoothly. “I wanted to see how you do things here. Maybe learn a few tricks. Maybe teach a few.”
Peter perked up instantly, the tension fading from his shoulders. “You’d actually teach me?”
“Sure,” Dick said, crossing his arms. “Though I might have to steal that quadruple somersault back first.”
Peter flushed, flustered. “I—I didn’t mean to copy it! I swear, I just—someone showed me a recording, and asked if l could do that, and I—” He trailed off, realizing what he’d said.
Dick’s smile didn’t fade, but his mind sharpened like a blade. Someone showed him.
Not that it’s hard to get ahold of recordings of the move, but rather the fact someone expressly asked if he could do it. Nevermind how dangerous it could be to other people, messing up the quadruple somersault can end with a couple of your bones broken, with a range of severity.
“Relax, kid,” he said, easy and calm. “I’m not mad.” The hell he wasn’t.
Not at Peter, anyway.
But whoever decided to hand a teenager his family’s signature trick like it was a party trick? That was a different story entirely.
Peter hesitated, eyes darting toward the tent flap as if half-expecting Charlie to materialize from across the tent. “Good,” he said quietly. “Because I don’t think I could pull off a quadruple somersault and survive getting yelled at in the same day.”
Dick huffed a small laugh. “Yelling’s standard circus management, unfortunately. Comes with the smell of sweat and disappointment.”
“That explains so much about Charlie,” Peter muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Dick to catch.
Dick raised a brow. “You and he get along well, I take it?”
Peter barked a short laugh. “Oh, yeah. We’re besties. He yells, I nod, and everyone’s happy. It’s a real healthy work environment.”
“Sounds it,” Dick said dryly.
Peter shrugged, tugging absently at one of the fraying seams of his sleeve. “He’s… manageable. Mostly. I just keep my head down, do my sets, and try not to outshine the adults. Again.” He smirked.
Oh ho, kid’s got sass.
“You that good?” Dick asked, a teasing lilt in his voice.
Peter looked up, surprised, and then grinned, some of the tension melting away. “I mean, I didn’t die doing your move, so… probably?”
Dick snorted. “Cocky, huh?”
“Confident,” Peter corrected, dusting his hands. “If I were cocky, I’d start charging commission.”
Before Dick could answer, one of the older acrobats called out from the rig, voice dripping with false sweetness. “Hey, Arach-kid, maybe let the legend get some space, yeah? Don’t want you wasting his time.”
Peter froze for half a second, then smiled too brightly. “Wouldn’t dream of it!” he said, voice all polite cheer. He had that customer service voice down-pat.
Dick’s observed. He watched their interactions, watched Peter’s reactions. The others had gone right back to ignoring him, moving through their warm-ups like the teenager wasn’t even there. It was a well-practiced dance—acknowledge him only when you needed to remind him where he stood out of a sense of insecurities. Dick was all too familiar with that treatment.
It’s an easy remedy, once you figure it out.
Peter rolled his eyes, just a flicker of motion, and leaned in slightly. “They’re real team players,” he muttered, then louder, “I’ll, uh, start rehearsal.”
He started climbing the ladder toward the high platform, movements efficient but too careful—like someone who’d learned the hard way not to make mistakes where people were watching.
Dick watched him go, that tight knot forming again in his chest. The kid was witty, skilled, and still learning his place in this circus. It's obvious that he’s being ostracized because not only is he an outsider, but he’s become the top banana* of their troupe in, give or take, three months. (From media posts and a vague timeline Tim had made last night of when Arach-Kid started appearing. Give or take a couple weeks.)
Charlie reappeared at his elbow, all smiles and gold chains. Maybe the kid was right to be whispering, this guy was nosey. “Talented boy, isn’t he?” he said, voice oily and proud, like Peter was another shiny trophy for his shelf. “Got the reflexes of a cat, that one. And obedient, too.”
Dick kept his expression pleasant. “He’s definitely something,” he said.
Charlie clapped him on the back, too hard to be friendly. “You’ll see what I mean during rehearsal. Maybe he’ll even do that trick of yours, hmm? If he’s not too tired, of course.”
Dick hummed, caught between wanting to see it and the wrongness of someone not a Grayson performing it. “Right. Can’t wait.”
As Charlie waddled back off to sit in his, frankly, ostentatious chair. It was like he wanted to simultaneously micro manage everything, without actually managing. He just stuck around to brag and order people around, while accomplishing zero work in the end.
Dick glanced back up at the rig.
And something about that made Dick’s stomach twist.
Because brilliance like that, in a place like this, under someone like Charlie Delmar?
It rarely ended well.
The acrobats—four adults and one kid—moved like a machine missing a few bolts. Their timing was good, but there was a stiffness to it, a lack of trust between them that any trained eye could see. Or any eye, really, if there were no flashing lights, fog machines and expectations skewing your view.
Dick tilted his head, subtly checking his phone for information Tim had compiled on the other members Dick would be spending the most time with. Tim had taken it on himself to briefly look into everyone at the circus, maybe sorta illegally.
Jean-Luc Moreau, the ringleader of the acro team, was a wiry man in his late thirties with a permanent sneer and the kind of arrogance that comes from having just enough talent to think you’re irreplaceable. His voice carried a heavy French accent, the kind that made every insult sound like poetry if you didn’t speak the language. His jet-black hair was slicked back, a little too much oil glinting under the lights. He was someone who picked on those weaker than himself, and sucked up to anyone with power.
Beside him, Malcolm Reeves was his opposite in every way—taller, broader, older. In his forties, his power came from steadiness rather than flash. His dark skin gleamed with sweat under the stage lights, and his movements were careful, efficient, and practiced. He had the whole dark and mysterious thing going for him.
Then there was Deborah Boone, also in her thirties, uptight and bitter. She used to be a contortionist for horror movies. She hadn’t done anything very notable, acrobat wise and personal life wise.
The youngest, Sasha Dean, in her early twenties. Her timing was off—a half-second late on every catch, a beat too long on every release. She had the energy, but not the instincts, and it showed.
And then there was Peter.
The kid had the natural rhythm of a born aerialist—graceful, elastic, alive in motion. Dick’s only critique was a lack of proper form; it was clear Peter was self taught. If his reflexes were any slower, some of his flips and tricks would end with a not-so-fun trip to the hospital.
His red-and-blue unitard flashed like a spark as he swung from the trapeze, settling into position between Jean-Luc and Deborah. He was smaller, lighter—the flier of the group—and clearly used to being tossed, caught, and flung across the rig like he was weightless.
Jean-Luc barked out a series of cues, slipping between English and French as the group began their routine.
Deborah took the first swing, her legs slicing the air as she flipped forward into Malcolm’s grip. A smooth exchange. Then Jean-Luc climbed up to the next platform, balancing effortlessly before leaping outward, twisting twice before catching Deborah’s wrists.
Peter stood ready on the far platform, waiting for his mark. When he jumped, it was with the easy confidence of someone who trusted the air to hold him. His legs extended, spine straight, eyes locked on his catcher.
Jean-Luc caught him, but the moment they reconnected, Dick saw it—the faint shift of weight, the subtle twist of wrist that turned a secure hold into a near-drop.
Peter slipped, managing to hook one leg around the bar just in time to save himself.
“Mon dieu, kid, focus!” Jean-Luc barked, shaking his head as if Peter had fumbled. “You have to stay tight! You’re too loose!”
Peter’s face flushed red. “Sorry,” he said automatically, breathless. “Won’t happen again.”
Jean-Luc muttered something in French that definitely wasn’t complimentary.
They reset. Again, Peter launched—another solid takeoff, another near-miss as Jean-Luc let the timing slip by a heartbeat before catching him. It was deliberate. Subtle, but deliberate.
Dick’s eyes narrowed.
Jean-Luc smiled up at him, all teeth. “You see? He needs polish, yes? But he has potential.”
“Sure looks that way,” Dick said evenly, keeping his expression neutral.
Dick narrowly missed the annoyed glare thrown his way, and the blank stare Peter directed at Jean-Luc. It was a stare Dick often saw on Jason before he decided he wanted to ruin someone’s future.
On the next go, Malcolm stepped in as the base, solid and steady. Peter arced through the air, caught Malcolm’s wrists, and this time the connection held cleanly. No wobble. No “accidental” slip.
Jean-Luc clapped sarcastically. “At last! Bravo, petit araignée!”
Peter scrunched up his nose, as though the act of Jean-Luc complimenting him was worse than purposely getting sabotaged. “Merci,” he said, dry as dust.
Deborah and Sasha took their turns, running a series of simpler passes—a few layouts, a tucked double, nothing spectacular. The whole act had that safe, repetitive feel of a troupe coasting on old routines. Which isn’t a bad thing! Dick’s own troupe had done the same, except they had, well, the Graysons. Kind of a different bracket here.
Peter’s section was the only one that made the crowd—small as it was now—hold its breath.
After pulling off the quadruple somersault last show? They’d need a whole bleachers stand for the next show, without a doubt.
When Peter dropped back to the net after another flawless double, Jean-Luc called out, “Work on your form, boy, before you make a real mess of yourself!”
Peter climbed down, rolling his shoulders, muttering just loud enough for Dick to hear, “Pretty sure the only mess around here is your form, Jean-Limp.”
Dick smothered a laugh behind his hand.
Peter smirked, having seen through Dick.
Deborah and Sasha took their turns, running a series of simpler passes—a few layouts, a tucked double, nothing spectacular. The whole act had that safe, repetitive feel of a troupe coasting on old routines.
Peter’s section was the only one that made the small crowd of onlookers hold its breath. But Dick could tell it wasn’t the act that made them uneasy. It was the way Jean-Luc handled him. The calculated little slips. The digs. The whispered blame. The kind of quiet sabotage that eats away at a performer’s confidence until they start to believe it’s their fault.
“Wonderful!” Charlie boomed like a one-man parade, clapping his hands so loudly that Sasha, mid-swing, missed her grip and landed flat on the net with a startled yelp. Oblivious—or maybe not caring. “But, ah, we need more zing, more pizzazz! You’re giving me math when I want fireworks!”
Jean-Luc blinked down from the rig, clearly irritated. “We are rehearsing the sequence, monsieur.”
“Yes, yes, and the sequence is fine,” Charlie said, waving a dismissive hand. “But no one pays to see your ‘technical perfection.’ The audience wants drama! Flips! Spins! Some—” he paused, searching for a word, “—some falls and near catches! Legacies happening right before their eyes!”
Deborah closed her eyes briefly, like she was praying for patience. Malcolm just exhaled through his nose.
Charlie turned to Dick, beaming. “You’d agree, wouldn’t you, Mr. Grayson? Showmanship over science, yes?”
Dick’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Depends on whether you like your performers alive.”
Charlie laughed far too hard at that. “Alive, yes, yes, of course—safety first!” he said, clearly not meaning it. “But! Speaking of legacies…” His grin widened like oil spreading over water. “Why don’t we end with that little Grayson number? What do you call it again? The quadruple somersault?”
The air in the tent shifted instantly.
Peter froze on the ladder, one hand gripping the rung, knuckles white. Jean-Luc shot him a sideways smirk.
Dick’s jaw tightened, but his tone stayed mild. “I see you’ve taken quite the liking to my move.”
Charlie’s eyes gleamed. “It’s quite the showstopper, Mr. Grayson. You know how the show business is.”
He clapped his hands again, loud and sharp. “Come on, Arach-Kid! Let’s see the magic! Give our guest a taste of what makes my circus worth his time.”
Peter hesitated, his eyes flicking from the rig to Dick. There was a crack in his exterior—a sliver of uncertainty, of guilt. “I—uh—Mr. Delmar, maybe we should—”
Charlie’s smile twitched. “Come now, Petey, aren’t we pals?
Peter swallowed hard. He nodded.
He climbed the rest of the way up, every motion tighter than before. No jokes now, no muttered words under his breath. Nothing too nice, from what Dick lip-read.
Dick stood perfectly still, eyes locked on him. Every detail, every movement—he cataloged it all.
Peter perched on the bar, breath steady. His hands flexed once, twice. Then he pushed off.
The swing started slow, controlled. His timing was sharp, but his shoulders betrayed the faintest tension—a telltale stiffness before release. Then he let go.
The world seemed to still for a heartbeat.
One flip. Perfect tuck. Two—tight rotation, no wasted motion. Three—body alignment flawless, momentum steady. Four—clean execution, bar caught dead-center.
Seeing someone else do it, up close… Dick saw it in the micro-adjustments, the instinctual awareness of air and weight and speed. Not learned, not drilled—lived. Self-taught, pure reflex, and raw genius.
He landed the dismount with the precision of a veteran and the shakiness of someone who hadn’t breathed the entire time.
The tent erupted into polite applause, Jean-Luc forced a grin, and Charlie laughed like he’d just witnessed a miracle he owned.
“Beautiful! That’s what I’m talking about!” Charlie bellowed, spreading his arms wide. “See? The people eat that up!”
Peter climbed down the ladder, biting his lip, avoiding eye contact. Dick didn’t stop watching him for a second.
Charlie was still crowing to himself, but Dick barely heard him.
Because in all his years, he’d never seen anyone outside his family make that move look like theirs.
Peter dusted chalk off his hands and shot Dick a guilty look. Probably deciding if he was angry seeing his own move performed right in his face. Studying him. And, to be fair, Dick was studying him too. Just not as blatantly as Peter. Well—blatantly to Dick, who had received formal training. Peter was actually pretty slick otherwise.
Now, Dick would’ve stepped in sooner, in regards to the blatant bullying of a kid right in front of him, but… he wanted to see Peter’s reactions first. He wasn’t here just to make friends and mess around. He’d found out someone had shown and asked Peter to perform, and he had a pretty good theory as to who. Nothing a little snooping couldn’t help with confirming or disproving.
No records, no files, no clear background. Just this wiry teenager who’d pulled off a quadruple somersault like he’d been born under the same net Dick had once fallen through.
So, yeah—Dick watched him. Closely.
He studied how Peter carried himself in the air: wary, but not afraid; confident, but never cocky. His natural instinct was insane—his sense of balance and awareness of his surroundings downright absurd. The kid was getting tossed, dropped, and flipped with barely any disorientation. He moved like someone born for the air, not trained for it.
When Jean-Luc barked, Peter didn’t flinch. When someone missed a cue, he covered it smoothly, without calling attention to it. When he fell (read: got dropped), he didn’t curse or sulk—he just got back up.
He was tenacious. And untrained.
And that’s what bothered Dick most.
Anyone could try to copy the Grayson's technique. Keyword: try. But it wasn’t something you could just mimic. You had to understand it. You had to know how it felt. The control, the rhythm, the breath before the drop. The precision. The training it took.
Countless people had tried, failed, broken bones, and even paralyzed themselves trying to learn.
But he didn’t move like someone who’d been taught. His form wasn’t perfect—it was personal. Improvised. Self-built out of observation, instinct, and sheer stubbornness. Every swing and catch was just a little too sharp, a little too fast, the kind of thing you learned by watching others and saying, I can do that, instead of being told how to.
Dick’s stomach knotted, a faint pulse of unease under his calm expression. He wasn’t angry at Peter. Not really. But he itched to know.
So for now, he’d keep watching. Studying. Seeing how Peter moved, talked, laughed, lied.
Then he’d decide whether the kid was a prodigy— or a problem.
…Was he starting to sound a little too much like Bruce?
So just in case any More Than Meets The Eye/Lost Light fans missed it; Chinese toy company AULDEY is releasing IDW versions of Drift, Cyclonus, and Tailgate. #Maccadam #transformers #auldeytransformers #IDWDrift #IDWCyclonus #IDWTailgate
Swerve likers.............. correct me if I'm wrong but why do I feel like Swerve is the type of mech who'd buy into the whole performative male starter pack and genuinely believes humans find it attractive </33 he'd even try to replicate it just to impress his human crush </33
You just walk into the bar one day and this mf is blasting fucking laufey or beabadoobee while swirling around a comically large glass of what seems to be sparkling green liquid (it's definitely NOT matcha. but it's the closest thing he could get his servos on ok </333) all while reading feminist literature on his datapad </333
I can see roddy doing this too but he's much sloppier and did little to no research aside from the obvious satire he saw once and took it as his main reference to woo the lost light's resident human. </333
This whole thing stems from my hc where I think Swerve is humansexual and would do ANYTHING just to get a crumb of human hole. He has little to no views aside from what his human crush thinks, insert that one tweet that goes:
"If a human disagrees with me I will immediately change my views. I have no principles."
"Well, maybe you should have principles."
"You're right maybe I should."
Roddy fits into this too but he's less endearing and more annoying abt it. He's the reason why HR became a thing in the Lost Light.
SHSJDSJSSYJNKIEDDVHJ THIS IS GOLD
I adore this omg
Yeah, Swerve is humansexual. He's trying so hard to date and get that hole. Meanwhile, Rodimus gets written up by Ultra Magnus for inappropriate work place behavior
It's the fucking Chad vs Incel meme but with Swerve and Rodimus
I have been thinking. I would love to see a soft series with a deaf reader. Lol They can use sign language to communicate and the bot would be so confused why their potential conjunx doesn't out right talk but keeps using their hands to make 'weird' symbols lol
I can try
Soft
Drift x Reader
• It’s still so strange to him, these soft, tiny organics trying to court Cybertronians, looking for mates among a whole different race. Part of him wonders if it’s a play to make lasting connections between both races in the hopes that if the war starts back up, this world will be spared. Wonders what the little organics would think if they knew what Cybertronians had done to their own world during the fighting. Clearing his vents softly, he turns at a soft sound. Sees curious eyes peeking around the wall before you disappear again. Having second thoughts about choosing him? But no, you reappear pulling a cart and your hands flutter in front of you when you let go of the handle.
• How did they really think this was going to work? Because you’d guessed the aliens wouldn’t understand you, but your assigned bot’s blank stare confirms it. Maybe your boss had just assumed the Cybertronians wouldn’t want to talk to the help. Smiling weakly, you pull your backpack off and dig your tablet out. Writing out a message and holding it up, belatedly wondering if they can even read your language. On the bright side, you can curse your boss out to his face later for this, because as long as you’re smiling, he assumes you’re signing something nice or asking a question. He’s never bothered to learn a single sign.
• Leaning, arms resting on his knees, he reads the tablet you’re holding up and frowns slightly. You’d introduced yourself, explaining that you’re deaf, but can read lips if he speaks slowly. “This,” he says slowly, trying to make the same gestures you had and your nose wrinkles slightly. “It’s like chirolinguistics?” And you only shake your head, hands moving again before you make a face and write on your table. Explaining that you don’t know that word and he reaches out a hand, hesitating before mass shifting and you startle, shying away. “May I?” He asks, reaching again.
• Staring at those big, metal hands as your heart races from the surprise of seeing him just shrink, you curl your fingers under, pressing your hands to your body. Before looking up at his too human face and those blue optics. Almost want to refuse, because if he hurts you, accidentally crushes your fingers, you won’t be able to sign. Will be even more isolated than you already are. Blowing out a breath as you search his face again, you reluctantly hold out a hand.
• Rumbling at how small your hand is in his even mass displaced, his servos brush your fingers. “This. Cybertronians have a language used to talk with our hands, too. We call it chirolinguistics,” he explains, though he doesn’t bother to explain that it’s more than just touches and motions, it’s reading fields and yours? You’re telegraphing like you don’t know how to guard your emotions and it’s endearing in a way that you’re so open with him. Reminding him that you’d chosen him even though he’s not sure how good a conjunx he’d be. If you’d still want him if you knew his past, knew the things he’d done. “Can you teach me?” He asks and your lips part slightly, surprised.
i blame @lovckett or this, spawned by their SI!Armada!Starscream appearing in TF: Prime Idea
random scene of armada starscream rescuing breakdown from mech's first capture. (let my boy have BOTH his optics pls and thank you)
===== Armada x Prime =====
"Open him up."
Breakdown would never admit to feeling fear at the sight of the drill coming closer to his optic, but he won't deny that he was feeling something akin to it. Which was fragging natural considering this was a drill about to take out his optic!
Suddenly, the tunnel he was being kept in shook. Breakdown gritted his denta as the tip of the drill shook and scratched along his faceplate instead, the shaking missing his optic by inches.
"What was that?!" The fleshling, Silas barked as the drill was reared back and powered down. The screen suddenly shifted to a closed entryway, the start of the tunnel.
The metal shutter was dented inwards with the metal gleaming red as if something hot had exploded against it. The armed humans at the closed shutter seemed hesitant but had their guns aimed at the dented and idly melting entryway.
Breakdown squinted his optics, wondering what was going on- had Lord Megatron or someone else sent Decepticons to rescue him? Great, if a little embarrassing considering he'd been captured by organics of all things.
The tunnel shook again as the metal shutters exploded, a violet beam cutting through the giant dust cloud that came from the explosion, miraculously it didn't hit any humans but it left a series of small explosions in its wake.
"Jetstorm, Runway, Sonar, go!" A voice, a mech's voice, commanded. A voiceprint that Breakdown was unfamiliar with.
From the dark cloud, three small jets, smaller than even the average Earth vehicle, emerged. The humans were stunned, but not stunned enough to not react- they shot at the flying vehicles but were chaotically rammed into by said jets, they cried out in surprise as the three jets flew around and aimed for any human nearby.
"Unfortunate, but intriguing." Silas said before he motioned for the other to follow him. "A shame to cut this short, it would have been a lot more interesting cutting open a live cybertronian instead of sifting through the leftovers of those lesser Decepticon ones that the Autobots love going through. Another time then, Breakdown."
His spark dropped, did he mean the vehicons? Was that why they had less body parts to retrieve lately? How dare they-
Three thumps interrupted his rage, and his optics flickered at the sight of... minicons? Minicons? Here? On Earth? "What the frag."
The three minicons beeped in their private little minicon language, Breakdown had never really bothered to learn about it or more about minicons. The little espionage bots throughout the war were more of the Intel and Communications part of stuff while Breakdown- well, obviously he was not that.
Reminds him of the minicons that Soundwave used to have. (He wonders if those two are okay, Soundwave has never been the same without them and Ravage)
The minicons looked up and waved their arms, beeping and chirping cheerily and with pride.
Pedesteps.
"Yes, yes, good work you three. You cleared the way and made it to- well, this poor gentlemech." That voiceprint... Breakdown strained his helm to see who it belonged to.
It was... a seeker? Big one, bigger that Starscream.
Bright red with white, and- orange optics? Strange. He doesn't know this mech. No Decepticon brand... but no Autobot brand either. Neutral?
Pretty thing though, the red finish reminds him of Knock Out...
Was that another minicon on the seeker's shoulder? Four minicons?
"Who are you?" Breakdown asked suspiciously, optics narrowing at the seemingly Neutral seeker (who was neutral nowadays? He didn't know there were any neutrals left...)
The seeker huffed, "Your savior." He deadpanned in reply before reaching back and detaching his wing??? What??? The??? Frag??? Could seekers do that?
He watched in stunned silence as the wing folded thinly into a blade-shape, before gleaming red with energy. A fragging laser sword?? Again. What the frag??? Could Starscream do that??
The minicons jumped off of his restrained body as the unknown seeker stepped closer, raising the sword high, was he going to—
Breakdown flinched as the sword was brought low in a swift, yet beautifully efficient movement. Not a klik later, his restrained were sliced open. Breakdown had no knowledge of swordsbotship, but damn had that been cool.
"Come on, we need to go." The seeker barked, turning on his heel. The minicons beeped and chirped, motioning Breakdown to get up.
Breakdown was quick to do so, "Hey! Wait!" He and the minicons quickly caught up to the seeker who was now jogging through the tunnel. "You didn't answer my question."
"Yes I did."
Breakdown frowned, "You didn't tell me your designation."
"You asked who I was, not for my designation." Was the seeker's smart aft reply. Breakdown held back an annoyed growl. "Call me... Armada."
Breakdown's optics narrowed again, Armada? He doesn't recall any mech or seeker going by the name. Clearly a fake designation. Before he could even ask or demand the seeker's actual designation, they ended up at the entrance- where more of those pesky humans were.
Breakdown didn't bother holding back his growl this time, servo shifting to his hammer while the seeker dropped into a defensive stance with his sword, shielding his faceplate from the annoying fire from the smaller creatures.
The minicons took shelter behind them, the one at Armada's shoulder moved behind Armada's helm and tapped it insistently, bleeping and chirping rapidly. "Absolutely not! Just get down with the others Swindle!" Armada growled.
Swindle?
How fragging hilarious, the minicon shared a name with that money-grubbing conmech. He can't wait to tell KnockOut later on.
Swindle, hah, bleeped even harder but reluctantly dropped to the ground with the three other minicons. Just in time Armada to swat away an incoming missile with his still glowing sword.
Missiles were being launched from helicopters above while cars of humans were shooting annoying yet distracting bullets from below, moving around like the chaotic insects they were.
Breakdown used his canon to shoot at them, and his hammer to pound down any car that dared to come close enough.
Armada was using his sword to gouge the earth and cut cars in half, using one half of the car to lob at the helicopters- direct hit. Breakdown grinned, following his lead and grabbing a smashed car for one of the other copters.
One of those copters had a strange electric canon thing, it charged and narrowly missed Armada who had dodged just in time with a incensed growl.
Breakdown was a little more distracted, trying to smash every car in his wake so he was very surprised when Armada suddenly tackled him from the side- he was less surprised as the spot he'd been standing at suddenly exploded thanks to that electric canon.
The seeker was quick to get back on his pedes while Breakdown stared up at him with wide optics. Damn.
Usually, between him and KnockOut, it was KnockOut who liked to bring mechs into their open relationship for a good time. Breakdown rarely did that on his own, content with his conjunx but Primus, was this new seeker making him think—
He suddenly hears blaster fire, and from the distance, he sees blue blaster fire shooting at the helicopters from the ground. "You called the Autobots for backup?!" He hissed but was surprised by the glare he got from the seeker.
"No, I did not." He growled back, looking displeased and annoyed. "They must have been in the area and heard the noise."
Breakdown doesn't know if he should believe that, but as much as he hates the fact the Autobots were around. At least their presence was useful, with the added numbers of threats growing, the humans- MECH- decided to retreat.
Leaving Armada and Breakdown behind to deal with the Autobots. Or, well, Autobot.
Turns out it was just Bulkhead.
"Well I'll be, if it isn't Bulkhead." Breakdown sneered as the former Wrecker came forward, blaster smoking. "I'll admit, didn't expect to see you here alone. Again. Ready for round two?"
"Breakdown." Bulkhead growled back, optics narrowed, "Should'a known you of all mechs didn't need rescuin'... Who's your friend?" He glanced over to Armada but faltered at the sight of the four minicons that were peeking from behind Armada's legs. And then double-taking as he watched Armada's sword de-activate, fold back into a wing shape and reattach it back on his back. "Uh..."
Honestly, not even Breakdown can blame him because that was the exact reaction he had watching the whole thing. "I'm not his friend." Armada replied with a scoff, "Just someone who knows it's a bad idea for Cybertronian biology to end up in the hands of humans like MECH. It's trouble no one wants." He said, crossing his arms.
"You're a Neutral?" Bulkhead muttered, a bit awed as he sees no brand on the seeker. "Didn't think you guys were still around."
Armada sent him a sharp look, "And whose fault is that exactly?" He snarked before shaking his helm, "I'm done here. You two can go back to your war and your fighting. Try not to destroy this planet like Cybertron and countless others."
Both bots flinched at the scathing tone the seeker had, "Hey! That's not fair- it was the cons who destroyed Cybertron not us Autobots!" Bulkhead protested and Breakdown glowered at him.
Unfortunately that was true, however- "It was you 'bots who forced us to do that!"
They both readied their hammers before a loud, angry jet engine growl interrupted their fight. "Both of you can shut the frag up! As far as I see it, both of you Decepticons and Autobots ruined Cybertron! It's always you two! No matter what uni—" Armada cut himself off, inventing sharply with a bitter and pained look. "... Cybertron is dead, thanks to this Unicron-damned war. Autobot, Decepticon... You both have energon staining your servos. Don't act as if the other side is the sole blame for everything."
There was a silence in the air as Armada seemed to hug himself, his minicons beeping and chirping sadly at the seeker who avoided looking at both ex-Wreckers.
Well... seemed like trying to coax Armada to either side would be difficult if that was his mindset over everything. Breakdown had to wonder if Armada had sided with either during the war, or was he neutral all along? Hard to say.
Suddenly Armada's wings perked and he looked up to the sky, "Scrap." He said, spotting lights in the distance in a formation. His wings twitched again and he looked off to the side, more lights in the distance. "Scrap." He repeated.
"Swindle! Jetstorm! Sonar! Runway! We're leaving, now!" Three of the minicons immediately transformed into their jet alts, taking to the skies while the fourth, Swindle, climbed up Armada's leg. Armada turned to Breakdown, glaring at him determinedly. "You owe me for this Breakdown, remember that."
"Armada—" Breakdown was interrupted when the mech jumped into the air, transforming into a jet with Swindle in his cockpit. Soon, he, along with the three other little jets, were off. Flying as far and as fast as they could.
By the time both Decepticon and Autobot back up returned, it was just the ex-Wreckers left behind.
And though there would be an ensuing fight, said Wreckers would have quite the tale to tell to both sides.
===== Armada x Prime =====
this is definitely not canon to Hound of the Stars since i have no idea WHEN hokori is going to drop Armada in, in the Primeverse timeline. just a separate snippet about Armada saving Breakdown that i had to write bc it was itching at my brain.
why did armada save breakdown? because he hates MECH and Breakdown should've had more screen time. VERY bitter about cybertron's fate in nearly all the continuities they know of, its added by armada!starscream's own personal memories as a child soldier who probably never saw cybertron's golden age and stuff. all he knows is war and he hates it.
that's this armada though, i am very much looking forward to whatever hokori is cooking for Hound of the Stars.
also yes, those are the names for the minicons who make up the star saber- i had to dig for those. swindle is the laser canon. ive implied a lot of stuff, also made breakdown and knockout conjunxes bc yes.
honestly i have another scene in mind of dreadwing meeting armada and immediately falling helm over heels for the seeker. bright paint, good at minicon care (sparklings anyone??) and strong warrior? oomf. likewise, i kinda want soundwave to be lowkey obsessed with armada bc of the minicons. and oo, wheeljack? fellow swordfighter hello???
look i just want armada to be hot and be sought out for by both sides.
areudirty
baratheonpilled
yousharknotpass
discoholicmusic
andulkaphoto
