#he hasn't been able to function after work

[tinytrashkid]

badger is currently asleep from weed downstairs. i wonder how many more cuts i can get away with tonight...

[cuubism]

more physical therapy au

--

Dream comes to his next physical therapy appointment marginally--marginally--less apprehensive than before. When he'd first gone, he'd expected to be told he was being melodramatic. That he should just be grateful that the surgery was successful and he has some functioning. That he should just give up on his art, that it didn't matter, that it was hopeless.

He doesn't know why he thought that. It's been hard to have a charitable view of people, lately.

But Hob wasn't like what he feared. Hob was... kind. To him.

So he goes back.

He has, in fact, been doing the exercises that Hob gave him. It is not as though he has much else to do with his time. Other than setting up his new flat, where he now lives after fleeing what had once been his home. Even a few months later, the place is fairly... minimalist. Which is not Dream's style. But he'd left with little more than his art portfolio and the clothes he was wearing, deciding that it wasn't worth going back, and he hasn't had the energy to replace anything since.

Or the two functioning arms required to move things.

His flat is depressing enough that even the physical therapy office feels warm and welcoming by comparison. Hob gives him a big smile as he comes in. It's pathetic that it makes his heart flutter.

He goes over to Hob, setting the folder he brought on the table.

"You look cheerful," Hob notes. Dream highly, highly doubts that. But he is perhaps slightly less morose than last time. Nevertheless, he finds Hob's optimism... somewhat cheering. Normally, he would find such a thing annoying. But there is something very steady and reassuring about Hob. Not much in Dream's life has felt steady in some time.

"I have tried finger painting," Dream tells him. He takes the piece out of the folder and shows it to Hob.

It had been interesting, at least. Distracted him for a moment. Made him think about the way children make art, before becoming mired in theory and technique.

He had considered bringing one of his usual pieces to demonstrate to Hob what he's meant to be able to do, in case that would be helpful, but it's still painful to look at them.

Hob takes the painting and stares at it with wide eyes. "How is this actually good?"

Dream should probably be offended by his incredulity but instead he just finds it amusing. "I had lots of time to spend."

He has, once again, painted a bunch of cats, all different colors, cluttering the page. It's simple, and lets him avoid thinking about his more conceptual pieces he hasn't been able to work on.

"Wow," Hob says, propping the painting carefully against the wall by his computer. "Okay. Good work going above and beyond on the instructions, Dream."

That praise alone shouldn't make something in his chest start glowing. But it does.

"It did not hurt... much," he says tentatively, before Hob can ask. "However, with a brush..."

It is incredibly frustrating. It's like his body continually wishes to betray him. He's lost his home and everything he owns and now he cannot even have his art.

"Give it some time," Hob says, reasonably. He is much more patient, and optimistic, than Dream.

He makes Dream draw and write again. It's... perhaps marginally easier after the exercises Hob had given him. Still, he finds himself getting frustrated by the weakness of his grip. And the more frustrated he gets, the tighter he grips the pencil. He knows he shouldn't. But.

"Lighter," Hob tells him, and Dream glares at him. Hob raises his hands. "Not telling you how to do your art. Just telling you how not to hurt your hand."

Dream bites down on his annoyance, but loosens his grip.

He doesn't see very much progress, but Hob seems satisfied. He makes Dream run through some other strengthening exercises, which... don't hurt as much as Dream was expecting them to. He'd expected that this whole process would be nothing but gritting his teeth through agonizing pain, to minimal results. Perhaps Death is right, and he should be less pessimistic.

In any case, Hob seems proud of him at the end. Even if Dream doesn't think he's done anything to be proud of.

But he does leave, perhaps, slightly more hopeful than he entered. And he wants to come back. At least to see Hob again.

~~

Hob doesn't know if it's patronizing to be proud of Dream, but he is. Over the last few sessions, his grip has improved a lot. Dream doesn't seem to see it, but that's alright. Hob does. He's been keeping all of Dream's drawings. They are getting better.

Hob is pretty good at optimism. But even so, it somehow hadn't occurred to him that quiet and morose wasn't Dream's natural state. That is until he sees the joy that lights up in him the first time he's able to draw a cat without his hand shaking. Dream smiles so wide, like he isn't even aware Hob is still watching him, and Hob realizes that there is lightness to him. It's just been buried down.

The time after that, Dream even brings some of his old art to show. Hob's been dying to see it for ages, but hasn't pressed. And Dream's art is gorgeous. Hob can understand, now, why he'd been dissatisfied with those first cats he'd drawn, no matter how charming Hob had found them. His big pieces are so finely detailed, so precise. It's... possibly going to take a bit more time to get him back to that than Hob had thought. But he's determined.

But Dream seems happy to be sharing his art, doesn't fold in on himself this time just to mention it. He talks with enthusiasm about his process, the most words Hob's heard him say in... well, ever. Hob tells him that he's made enough progress to pick up painting--with brush, not fingers--again if he wants, but not to beat himself up if it doesn't look the same as his old ones. And for once, it seems like Dream actually accepts the instruction not to berate himself.

All of this is, most certainly, the reason Hob does the insane thing he does next.

He's organizing his records, having already walked Dream out, when he hears raised voices from out on the walkway. The front door is still open a crack, he realizes, so the sound carries.

"Come on, you're overreacting," says an unfamiliar, male voice. "I said I won't do it again, didn't I?"

"Do not," Dream replies, voice anxious, but determined, "follow me."

"Well if you'd just pick up your phone--"

Hob steps outside. An unfamiliar man--the ex-boyfriend, Hob assumes, he doesn't know his name, hasn't asked, doesn't care--has Dream cornered in the doorway. His posture doesn't immediately scream rage or aggression, which is more unnerving rather than less, considering this is the same person who'd snapped and broken Dream's hand.

And Dream looks scared. Under the mask of stoicism he likes to wear. Any cheer or hope he'd gained from today's session has evaporated, and he looks like he did before, when he'd first come to Hob's office, curled in on himself. It breaks Hob's heart. And makes him angry.

"Stop being selfish and just--" the ex-boyfriend continues. Hob means to cut in and diffuse the situation. Tell him to leave in a reasonably professional manner.

Instead he punches him in the face.

Ex-boyfriend's nose goes crunch in an extremely satisfying way, and he reels back with a shriek, hands going to his face. Dream startles back, hands clutched around his art portfolio.

"What the FUCK!" yells ex-boyfriend, voice nasally from the blood running down his face. "You can't just-- this is assault! I'll call the cops!"

Oh he wants to go there, does he? "You wanna talk about assault?" Hob says, voice rising in volume. Dream edges behind him, though Hob's not sure he's fully aware he's doing so. "You want to get police involved, that's really what you want?"

Ex-boyfriend looks from Hob to Dream and back, hesitating. That's fucking right, Hob thinks. Not so easy to kick someone around when there's consequences, huh?

It helps that Hob is visibly stronger than Dream, and spends all day physically moving people around. If ex-boyfriend tries anything he's going to get put on the ground.

Finally he retreats, though with a look of rage towards Hob. Once he's gone, Dream finally seems to relax, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

"You did not need to," he murmurs.

Hob shakes his head. "No one gets to come and threaten you here. Particularly not that dickhead."

Dream huffs a small laugh. Then he picks up Hob's hand, studying it. Hob winces. It's certainly going to bruise.

"Now you will need physical therapy," Dream says, lips twitching. Hob's glad for the humor in his voice.

Hob laughs. "Worth it."

"No one has..." Dream starts, slowly, "done something like that. For me."

It hurts, to think that no one's stood up for him. Or even let him know that someone should stand up for him.

"If he comes back I'll do it again," Hob says, and gets a tentative smile from Dream.

Then asks, "Does he know where you live?"

Dream frowns. "I do not think so."

"Want me to walk you home?"

He doubts Dream's ex-boyfriend will come back to the office now that he knows Hob's willing to deck him, but that doesn't mean he won't try to corner Dream elsewhere.

Dream deliberates, then says, "Would you?"

"'Course, love. Just let me lock the place up."

He doesn't realize what he's said until he's already turned back to lock the door. Shit. Today has already gone so far beyond what he's supposed to do as Dream's physical therapist, and now...

In the end, Dream doesn't call him out on it. But he does stick close to Hob's side as they walk, and occasionally when Hob looks over at him, he catches a tiny smile on his face.

[tokoyamisstuff]

Fragments Pt. 1/3

Homelander / GN! Reader

Ch. 1: Fallen Angel

Summary: After a new drug rendered Homelander both powerless and amnesic, he gets saved by someone blissfully unaware of who he is.

Shoutout to @blindmagdalena who did the impossible: Making me simp for this guy. Your writing is simply impeccable! 💌

Warnings: Injury, blood, lots of exposition, not proofread

Notes: Hurt/comfort, OOC, pre-canon, Scientist! Reader, idc about logic gaps (I will cry if you point them out to me)

Four days already, and he still hasn't woken up.

Winter in the Canadian Arctic was rough, with the polar night bringing permanent darkness, as well as severe snowstorms that could last up to a week.

Luckily enough your old radio communication system was still functioning, so you were at least able to request a few necessities in advance: Food and water for another person, a doctor of course...

...and clothes for the guy you had to cut out of this ridiculous costume to patch him up properly.

Leaning back in your chair, you take some deep breaths, unable to concentrate on your work. Your glance unwillingly wanders back to the man lying on your bed, still unconscious.

Who knows how long the weather will cut you off from help arriving? You just hope he will make it until then.

Maybe it's for the better, though - since whoever had done this to him could still be out there wanting to finish the job, too.

It bordered on a miracle that he landed so close to your research station, when you were outside to notice at that. And the storm followed only shortly after you managed to pull him inside.

That man really had more luck than anything, even while having been messed up like this.

You watch him until you're sure he's still breathing and not in any discomfort, once again catching yourself admiring his handsome features.

If you didn't know any better, you'd say he was a literal fallen angel that crashed from the goddamn sky, right into your little front yard.

Damn it, the loneliness that came with this job made even your thoughts pathetic...

Well, to your defense, you've been raised pretty isolated your whole life, with parents being a doctor and a scientist that were devoted to spend their work at the most remote areas of the world.

It surely was a unique childhood with lots of traveling, and you were mostly spared the soulless corporate-controlled bullshit that was modern society. To add to that, your parents were never fond of using electronics for more than practical reasons. Not that there was internet connection where you lived either way.

All in all, while you obviously know about supes in general and might even have heard about Homelander the brief time you spent in civilization, the last time you've actually seen his face on a magazine or some sort was decades ago - and you didn't care enough to remember.

So it was no wonder that you were completely oblivious to who exactly was lying in your bed this whole time.

Sighing, you close your laptop with a dramatic gesture before making your way to the kitchen unit. You pour yourself a coffee to fill your rumbling stomach, having rationed the food in favor of your new involuntary roommate.

Having followed the footsteps of your parents - yet without proper funding - you led this mission all by yourself. At first it was bearable, since an elder native couple came to visit and assist you from time to time.

But your work demanded you to stay secluded from human intervention, deep in the mountains with the next tiny village being half a day march away. And now that winter made traveling scarce due to the dangers, the idea of some company certainly wasn't so bad.

You almost felt bad for being excited about him being here - whatever had happened to make him end up here was exactly the oppsite of great, after all.

Even though the emergency power aggregate was whirring loudly, the sound of strained groans reaches your ear - not the first time those past few days. So you immediately rush over to the man's side, pouring him a glass of water and dissolving some painkillers in it.

"It's gonna be alright" you assure him, unable to tell if he can even hear in this state. Blood is seeping through the makeshift bandages, making you realize you should probably reapply them soon. Maybe after the meds had some time to release their effect...

...however, just when the cup touched his lips, two icy blue eyes snapped open, making you wince.

"Don't touch me, fuck!" a raspy voice snapped at you, quite understandable in his situation. He pushed you away from him, causing you to stumble and fall as the glass scattered on the floor right next to you.

"Whe-where am I? And who the fuck are you?!"

"Who the fuck am I?" You felt almost offended at the accusation in his look, having to remind yourself that the person in front of you is in fact in an exceptional situation. "You're in my house. I found you injured in the middle of nowhere. So I should be asking you!"

His face fell in shock at the realization, internal struggle present in his features as he finally whispered - no, whimmered "I...can't remember..."

Racketing his brain around to make sense of the situation, he stumbled across his own words and repeated "I-I-I-I can't remember!"

"Can't remember what exactly?" You spoke more softly now as you got up, tentatively approaching him. He on the other hand jumped up from the bed, panic increasing with every passing second.

"Anything! I-I don't know who I am- shit, what happened?!" He was shaking, muscular chest having as he started to hyperventillate. You hesistantly put your hand on his back, feeling him tense at the sudden contact. "Please don't move too much. You're injured."

Only now he noticed the medical wraps around his chest, abdomen, left arm and both legs. Hell, his whole body was aching but the adrenaline wouldn't let this stop him from standing up, pacing around the small room.

Being overwhelmed with the situation as well, you decided it was best to tell him everything. "D-don't freak out, but we're in the middle of the arctic." Having a feeling that he wouldn't believe you - fair enough, though - you opened the door, revealing a snowy landscape. The doorway was already halfway buried under a snowy blanket, and the heavy winds were biting his exposed skin. "We'll have to wait until the storm settles. And even then, with your injuries you probably won't make it to the nearest village."

There was a long pause of silence between your explanation and his response, blinking at you in both disbelief and despair. "...if you don't know me, then how the hell did I get here?"

"My best guess is that you're a supe" you shrugged, hoping his memory loss didn't also affect his general knowledge. You pointed towards the torn bodysuit in the bin, stating matter-of-factly "You literally fell out of the sky. Even with the snow absorbing part of the impact, you should be dead - especially with those injuries."

Not really good at comforting someone, huh, you internally scolded yourself. Yet you gave it your best to calm him down and sign your goodwill.

"Sit down or your wounds will reopen." After a brief moment of looking at you all forlorn and maybe even a little distrustful, he accepted your help. You led him back to the edge of the bed, sitting next to each other as support for him to stay upright.

"Doesn't feel like anything about this body is 'super' right now..." he joked bitterly, rubbing his sides. You chuckle sympathetic, carefully patting his back in reassurance. "Maybe you don't have access to your powers because of the amnesia? I'm not quite sure how any of this works."

"Yeah, maybe..." His eyes were now locked on you, forcing a weak smile as he finally took a proper look at you. "You still didn't tell me to who I owe my life."

"Me?" as inappropriate as it was for the situation, he did manage to make you flustered just by that - and it didn't really help that he was still only in his underwear, testing your decency not to stare. "Oh, my name's Y/N Y/L/N. I'm an ecologist. Been here for eight months to document the effects of climate change on the biome, and-"

"Climate change?" he rose an eyebrow at you, "There's a goddamn snowstorm outside, woman."

Oh. He was one of those guys. Note taken.

"Anyways" you changed the topic to not provoke a pointless discussion, still unable to keep yourself from rolling your eyes. "Do you at least remember your name?"

The man clutched the ragged costume you had handed him, forcing his exhausted self to remember something, anything at all...

...but every time he tried, there was a sharp pain in his forehead that tore him away from the memories locked away somewhere in his brain.

And smehow, no matter how insane it might sound, he felt like this was his own mind's subtle warning to better keep it this way.

"I think...my name's John" he ultimately stated, rubbing his temples as his face contorted in pain. You continued rubbing circles on his back in an attempt to comfort him, whispering "Hey, don't overdo it. Focus on healing first, and then we'll see if anything else comes back. Alright?"

John nodded mutely, and you gifted him an uplifting smile, cheering "Well then, nice to officially meet you, John! Feel at home as long as you need."

He shook your hand almost symbolically, feeling almost hopeful knowing that despite the grim situation, he was supported by such a kind stranger.

"Nice to meet you too, Y/N. I'm all in your hands."

_____

A/N: This was written on my phone at 1am, so please bear with me. The next chapters are gonna be better.

[Part Two]

[mmmichyyy]

40? for the prompt

#40. "am i your husband or your taxi service?"

the first time it happens, mickey doesn't think much of it.

can you pick me up after my shift? too tired to take the L

when mickey is near the station, he parks the van a block away. force of habit from when he and his brothers used to sneak up and collect from people who owed terry money. plus, he doesn't particularly want ian's coworkers to see their stolen ambulance, even though it's completely unrecognizable after debbie helped them revamp the entire thing and paint over it with the logo sandy designed.

here

i don't see you

i'm parked a block away

pick me up at the station

your legs don't work?

i'm tired :(

i drove the van

it's fine no one will be able to tell lol

mickey rolls his eyes and drops his phone in the cupholder. as he pulls up across the street from the station, he sees ian standing on the curb, chatting with someone wearing a matching EMT uniform, a shorter man with tan skin and curly hair.

mickey honks once, a bit impatient since he's hungry as fuck and there's a large pizza he ordered earlier waiting for them at their apartment. ian lifts his head and smiles. as he waves goodbye to his coworker and jogs over to the van, mickey doesn't miss the way the dude is gaping at mickey with wide eyes and a dropped jaw.

the hell is this guy's problem?

"everything okay?" mickey asks, once ian buckles his seatbelt and reclines his seat.

"just tired." ian yawns. "had a long shift today."

"well," mickey puts the van in drive, reaching over the center console to ruffle ian's hair, promptly forgetting ian's weird coworker, "i already ordered a pizza so we can eat then turn in early."

ian smiles sleepily and interlaces his fingers with mickey's. "you're the best husband ever."

mickey shakes his head, biting back a smile. "sappy fucker."

*

after almost two weeks of ian asking to be picked up, mickey suspects something is up. not that he minds or anything, since he makes his own schedule nowadays. after the security business started turning a profit and ian went back to being an emt, he hired a couple of guys to drive the routes so he could work from home and catch up on admin work, freeing up a lot of time in his day to day.

but ian never used to mind the commute. he's the kind of long-legged freak who liked to take the scenic route and go on long runs in the morning, just for fun. absolutely deranged behaviour, in mickey's opinion. but lately, ian has been flashing his kicked-puppy eyes and asking to be chauffeured like a pampered prince and, well. mickey could never resist spending more time with his husband, so he hasn't said anything. not yet, anyway. god he's so whipped.

the excuses ian came up with, however, were more unbelievable as it went on, ranging from the train broke down (mickey knew for a fact it didn't), to spraining his elbow (though he had no problem throwing mickey on the bed later that night with his supposedly injured arm), to how it was going to rain later (it was sunny all day without a cloud in sight).

when mickey tried to call him out on his bullshit, ian either got down on his knees or flipped mickey over and fucked him senseless into the bed, promptly making mickey forget what the hell he was trying to say.

it's gotten to the point where ian stopped making excuses and simply asked mickey to come get him. which truthfully, mickey doesn't mind at all. but he just finds it odd how his beefy athletic husband had gotten so lazy.

"what's with you?" mickey finally asks one day, as ian climbs into the passenger seat.

ian blinks innocently. "what do you mean, dear husband of mine?"

mickey rolls his eyes. "am i your husband or your fuckin' taxi driver? 'cause i've been picking your ass up every day for the past two weeks when you have two perfectly functioning legs."

ian huffs, crossing his arms. "maybe i just want to spend more time with you."

"we live together," mickey points out flatly, "how much more time do you need?"

"i–"

a tap on the glass interrupts them, and mickey turns to see a woman with brown hair tied back in a ponytail, enthusiastically gesturing at him to roll down the window.

"the fuck?" mickey turns to ian, whose face has turned slightly pink. "did you forget something at the station?"

"ah, no." ian scratches his head sheepishly. "sue is just being... sue."

sue waves her hand again and mickey reluctantly lowers the window.

"mickey, this is sue, my supervisor, and sue, this is–"

"the elusive husband." sue grins. "i've heard a lot about you, mickey."

mickey raises his brow. "have you now."

"oh sure," she says, ignoring ian's frantic head shaking, "ian won't shut up about you, yapping on and on about mickey this and mickey that. we're all jealous at the station actually, everyone just complains about their partners while ian keeps gushing about how perfect and amazing his husband is. his words."

"huh." that explains a lot, actually, why there was always someone different waiting with ian every time he came to pick him up, and why they all stared at him like a circus freak. "well, i bet ian didn't tell you the time we stole an ambu–"

"okay," ian cuts in loudly, reaching over to turn the key in the ignition, "we're leaving. i'll see you tomorrow, sue."

"come to the company picnic next month," sue calls out. "it's a potluck and everyone is bringing their family. it'll be fun!"

"uh sure," mickey says, even though a social gathering with ian's nosy coworkers sounds like the least fun thing he's ever heard of. he looks over at ian, slumped in his seat, avoiding mickey's eyes. "I'll check my schedule."

once mickey drives around the corner, he playfully flicks his finger at ian's temple and ian rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

"you yap about me to your coworkers," mickey teases. "you're so fuckin' whipped."

"whatever," ian grumbles. "stupid sue calling me out."

"is that why you keep asking me to pick you up?" mickey asks, amused. "to parade me around like a little show dog?"

"well, eduardo blabbed to everyone he saw you, then everyone kept asking about you and wanted to see you in person, so..."

"hm." mickey reaches over and brushes his thumb over ian's palm. "what do you say about me?"

ian links their fingers together and sighs. "that you're attentive. funny. caring. protective. loyal. the ideal man."

mickey laughs. "you're really overselling me here, gallagher. did you forget i'm an ex-convict, pimp and drug dealer?"

ian waves him off and continues. "kind. loving. perfect in every single way, except when you leave your socks on the floor. oh and that you're hot as hell with an ass that won't quit."

"you talked about my ass?"

"okay, i didn't say the last part," ian amends, "your ass belongs to just me. but i meant everything else i said."

"you really are a sappy fucker."

"you love it."

"i'd love it even more if i didn't have to be your chauffeur every day, at least they get paid to drive back and forth."

"you come with me to the picnic, i'll pay you with favours in bed. i'll even throw in a big tip."

"a big tip, huh..."

[icallhimjoey]

More!!! More!!!! More bookstore!joe! MORE!!!!!!!!!! we've seen his erratic behaviour when he visits the store after not having been able to come in for a while, but what about the visit before he knows he's not going to be able to come in for a while?

omg im so here for the bookstore!joe requests, but the "i already miss you even though youre still here" somehow turned into whatever this is... idk why i went where i went, my apologies, and tw for vomit Wordcount: 3K

---

Lost Moments To Keep

You hadn't stopped staring at Joe with the biggest eyes. You seemed confused and weirdly mesmerised. Your eyes tunneled a little, vision darker around the edges.

"That's Joe." Anne just said, and then your eyes moved to give her the same wild look.

"And I'm Anne. We like me, a lot. We don't like Joe. You've got temporary loss of normal brain function, look, Google says." Anne held her phone to your face, too close for anything to register.

"You're not helping, Anne." Joe scolded through clenched teeth.

"Wha–"

Joe was on the phone to someone, and... you knew who that was. You knew who that was. What the fuck. What was Joe Quinn doing in your bookstore?

And why were you on the floor, exactly? Your left elbow hurt, but the back of your head much worse.

"Yea, she's awake. She hasn't lost consciousness at all." Joe said to whoever was on the other side of the line. "Confused, though. Brain's all scrambled."

"Do you feel dizzy? Google says you might feel dizzy."

"I... what day is it?"

"Oh my God, she's asking what day it is." Anne said, turning to Joe like she was blaming him for what you'd asked. In Anne's terms, she was panicking. Anyone who didn't know her, though, would think she was being exceptionally calm given she'd just witnessed her boss lift a box of books that tipped her over backwards.

Your head hurt.

And you did feel dizzy. And nauseous too, a little.

It made sense that you had fallen, but it was strange to not remember and to have two strangers fret over you in your own business.

Your eyes darted from the worried face of famous actor Joe Quinn who was stood by your feet, to the wildly uninterested face of a younger girl who sat next to you with her legs crossed as she scrolled on her phone.

"Any vision disturbance? Are you more sensitive to light than you'd usually be, do you think?" Anne asked, seemingly going down a list she'd found online.

"Okay, thanks. We'll make sure she doesn't move until you get here." Joe looked at you as he said goodbye and hung up. That looked like your phone.

"Her mum's on her way."

Why was he using your phone?

"Any mental fogginess?" Anne continued, ignoring Joe and additionally ignoring you, entirely unfussed that you weren't answering any of her questions.

"Hey," Joe softly said, catching your attention as he stepped closer and leant an elbow on the counter as he bent down a little. He smiled warmly at you when he asked, "How are you feeling?"

Joe Quinn.

Joseph Quinn.

What was he doing in your bookstore?

And who the fuck was Anne?

Your eyes moved from one to the other until you saw black spots and the pain behind your eyes grew. Your ears were ringing when you softly said, "I'm... I'm gonna throw up."

Joe almost hadn't gone in today. He almost hadn't, because he didn't really have any time to waste. But, Jesus, he was glad he was there.

God, imagine if he hadn't been.

When Joe had woken up that morning, he thought he was likely going actually insane. He was flying out for work the next day, and instead of preparing, of packing, of seeing family and friends before he'd be off for a while - instead of all that, he showed up on the bookstore's doorstep at 10 am sharp. Right when Anne unlocked and opened the door. Just because that was where he wanted to be. He kind of already missed the store, even though he was right there.

Anticipatory nostalgia; Joe could feel it in his bones.

Instead of stepping aside and letting him in, she gave him a deadpan tired stare and waited for him to take the A-frame from her hands to put outside on the pavement.

Joe happily helped out. Said, "Good morning, sunshine!" all chipper and laughed when Anne looked like she had to try really hard not to vomit.

He'd called a good morning into the store, got a faint "Morning!" in reply from the backroom where you were making yourself a coffee, and found his ledge... empty.

Anne saw him look at the spot where he usually left the books that he was reading. You'd granted him that small little surface area of the store so you wouldn't have to keep putting his books back on the shelves, and so Joe wouldn't have to go looking for those same books again the next time he'd come in. A win win little ledge of excuses for Joe to return to your store. A real privilege, Joe thought.

Except he'd left books there.

He knew he did.

Where had they gone?

"I tidied." Anne said unsentimentally and challengingly looked at Joe over her mug as she took a sip of hot coffee.

She loved being a little shit and inconveniencing Joe wherever and whenever she could. Tidying the store was part of her job, and Joe knew if he was to complain, she'd have the upper hand, because what was he even really doing? The store wasn't a library, no matter how much he had starting treating it like one.

So instead, Joe used her inconvenient power move as an excuse to take his time to browse the whole store and took care to be in the exact wrong spot at the exact wrong time.

You secretly smiled every time you heard Anne sigh with frustration and heard her mutter, "Move!" under her breath before using a shoulder to push him aside. Every single time, Joe pretended he was totally oblivious. Would go, "Oh! Sorry! Was I in the way?" all innocently, but you could see how his mouth was fighting to keep his own smile hidden.

It took maybe forty minutes for Joe to have built up a little stack of books on the small sidetable next to your granddad's armchair in the window, and then Joe sat and read undisturbed for an hour and a half.

You loved it when Joe was in.

Just sat there.

Reading.

Absolutely engrossed in his own little world.

The faint feeling of envy was always overshadowed by the joy of being allowed to unashamedly stare at him from the counter, leant on both elbows.

You'd brought him a coffee after those 90 minutes of silent reading, and he'd given you a quick wink and a smile as a thank you.

Customers filtered in and out, and you went from moments of it just being Joe in the store to having eight people needing your attention simultaneously. It was both busy and not, and the switches in energy had left you in a weird spot mentally.

You hadn't realised you'd fully skipped lunch.

You'd seen Joe dart out for some pastries, and you'd ordered Anne to get her ass into the back to go and eat something, but you never followed up on your "I'll take my lunch after."

It was why, in a moment of quiet, you'd picked up a box of books from behind the counter that had sort of been in the way the whole morning, you been unsuccessfull.

Maybe you'd gotten up too fast.

Or maybe the box was just too heavy.

The entire thing had taken you down quicker than you'd been able to get it off the floor. It didn't help that the box was open. The reflex of your body became about making sure none of the books would tip out and hit you in the face, when the reflex should've been about cushioning your fall.

You shot no arms out.

You didn't drop the box.

You just... fell.

The weight of the box pushed the air straight from your lungs and left you gasping.

The back of your head had hit the wooden floorboards so hard, you immediately saw stars.

After impact, for a short moment, it was pin-drop silent. Anne froze, pausing for a moment, listening. She was waiting for you to go "I'm all right!", but that never came.

Joe was ripped from his book at the sound of the fall, but was confused. One moment you'd been there, and then now, you were gone.

When a soft wincing gasp was heard from where you were hidden form his view, he was on his feet in an instant, rounding the counter and finding you there on the floor, box of books heavy on your stomach, eyes completely glazed over as you rapidly blinked up at the ceiling in an attempt to erase the fuzzy bits in your vision.

"Oh my G– Anne!" Joe was quick to remove the box and the books that were tumbling out. "Breathe. Careful, don't move, just focus on breathing." Joe advised as he watched you struggle.

"What dropped?" Anne asked, getting closer now and trying to find the source of the whack.

"She did."

"I know she did, but what was that–"

"That was her." Joe tried to make eye-contact. "Hey, just breathe, all right? Are you hurt?"

The eye-contact failed, as did answering Joe's question.

You hadn't even properly heard him it felt like.

Anne and Joe shared a look, for a moment both unsure of what to do. Who was going to take the lead on this? Joe didn't work there, but Anne was a literal teenager.

Before they could even think of discussing a game plan, you incoherently asked through a constricted panicked voice if anyone had thought of the fire escape. They both turned to look at you, both faces frowning in confusion.

"Huh?"

"What was that?"

Joe and Anne spoke at the same time.

"I think I forgot. Are the bugs gone?" you winced as you moved a hand to where your head hurt, and Joe was quick in deciding he was going to have to be the one to call the shots on this. He'd clearly chosen to spend all day at the bookstore for a reason, so it seemed.

It took a little while for you to return to normal.

You babbled through some more disjointed chat whilst Joe carefully checked with his fingers if your head was bleeding. It wasn't, which was good. But you did wince in pain as he slowly felt around in your hair before you tried to sit up and take your shoes off.

Anne had to fight you back down onto the floor and sternly told you to relax whilst Joe slid his folded jacket underneath your head.

When your consciousness returned into the room, you were met by a girl sat by your side who was scrolling through concussion symptoms, and a guy stood up by your feet, talking to someone on the phone.

"What's going on?" You'd asked, and Anne had just casually said, "You fell."

Joe'd called your mum on your phone. Anne knew the code. Joe told himself he'd give her a stern talk about normal-people things like privacy later. Priorities lied elsewhere right now.

And then you'd thrown up into the box of books that had taken you down earlier.

Served it right, Joe thought.

Joe'd held your hair through it, and kept brushing back little pieces that kept falling into your face. His touches were so tender and gentle but they still hurt, and you were absolutely mortified. So fucking embarrassed. There was a fucking celebrity in the store and you were vomming into a box of books that, halfway through, got swapped for an empty bucket.

It smelled awful, and it probably was the most unattractive thing in the world.

You felt like the most unattractive thing in the world.

"Sorry you had to see that." you croaked when Anne handed you a glass of water to rinse your mouth.

"We think you're concussed."

Somehow, that made perfect sense.

"You took quite the tumble. The back of your head must be hurting."

You moved to sit with your back against a cupboard door, careful to not lean your head back too far, and Joe decided to stay put next to you. Keep an eye on you. Hold your hair back in case you weren't quite done throwing up yet.

Meanwhile, Anne had moved into the backroom and did her best in trying to save whatever books she could from where you'd thrown up over them.

"Do you have any pain anywhere else?"

You paused a second to focus on the feelings inside of your body, and then moved an arm to touch the opposite elbow.

"Your elbow? Are you bleeding?" Joe used a soft hand to move your arm so he could have a look. "Does it hurt a lot?" No broken skin. Joe hoped that maybe the blow he'd heard had been your elbow, and not your actual skull.

"Stop asking her a million questions!" Anne shouted from the back, like she hadn't been doing the exact same thing before.

"You'd tell me if you weren't okay, wouldn't you?" Joe's voice remained soft and warm for you. All kind and gentle.

For a moment, you just looked at him.

"Hi," he smiled, and he saw how you were trying to puzzle the situation together. "I'm Joe."

"I know who you are."

"Oh, that's great!" Joe exclaimed.

"Were you... did you happen to just be in here to buy books, or..."

Oh.

Not so great.

You knew who he was, but you didn't know who he was.

"Um, no, not really. I actually come in here a lot. I um... you let me hog one of the armchairs where I read books."

"You do?"

"Yea, it's awfully rude of me." Joe smiled. "But I'm lucky. You're very cool about it."

Joe could feel his chest swell at the faintest hint of a smile coming from you.

"He's your boyfriend." Anne bluntly interrupted as she stepped back into the storefront, and before you could even begin to process that wild bit of information, she added, "But not really. The two of you are... you're really weird about it."

It sounded like a weird joke, and you looked between the both of them to figure out what the punchline was, because you didn't get it.

Joe just smiled when you looked at him.

"She hates it."

"I do." Anne confirmed, walking across the store to move the sign on the door to 'closed'. Your mum was going to come by and pick you up to get your head checked and there was no way Anne wasn't going to go with.

Joe craned his head to watch Anne as she went to fetch the A-frame out front and then leant close and whispered, "We kind of like that she hates it."

That made you smile into your lap.

"Have you um..." you started, suddenly frowning. "Do you have a plaster for me?"

Joe's concern immediately grew again. He wasn't quite back where he was twenty minutes ago, when you'd laid right where he was sitting now, unable to catch your breath properly, but his eyes bulged like he was just as worried anyway.

"Why? Are you bleeding? Where?"

"I've not finished my homework."

"You've not..." Joe tried to make sense of something nonsensical before he realised he'd lost you again.

Joe wondered if he could let someone know he wasn't going to be able to leave the city tomorrow. Let alone the fucking country. The prospect of leaving you like this for a few weeks and having to actually do a job seemed impossible.

How was he not going to be thinking about you all the time?

To be fair, his life was already like that, a little.

But especially now; after all this, no one could expect him to not constantly worry if you were all right, could they?

"I don't think I've got any plasters for you, sorry."

"Oh," you seemed disappointed, but only for a second. "You bought Blindness from me."

There you were. Back again. God, he really did already miss you, even though you were right there.

"I did."

"You hadn't... you'd not read it, but you'd seen the film."

"I had."

"I remember."

"Read it in one day."

You'd likely be fine.

People got concussions all the time, didn't they?

"Sorry, I'm all over the place."

"You're not actually," Joe smiled. "You're right here."

Joe was going to leave the country tomorrow, and you'd stay with your mum until you'd be one hundred per cent again. You would keep the store closed, so there was no use in him hanging around anyway. And then, when you'd be all better, he'd pop back in on a random Tuesday morning without any warning, and then he could tell you all about today. You'd likely not remember a thing of it, all of it a lost moment to you, but one that he'd get to keep. Get to cherish. Get to share with you later.

"My head hurts..." you suddenly said like you'd only just realised it.

"Yea, you fell." Joe could go through this loop again, he didn't mind.

"I did?"

"Hmm, we think you're concussed. Your mum is coming to pick you up, have you checked out by a doctor to double check and make sure you're okay."

"We?"

Joe saw how you went to reach for the back of your head again, but before your fingers could disappear into your hair, the bell above the door chimed and Anne said, "No sign of her yet."

"That's Anne." Joe calmly explained, and then reached to grab hold of your hand, protecting you from touching your painful bits again. He'd make sure to hold it until your mum arrived.

Joe saw your eyes grow wide as you recognised him again, and smiled.

"And I'm Joe."

---

The Taglisted

@ali-in-w0nderland, @alwayslindie, @babybluebex, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson,

@choke-me-eddie, @demonsanddemogorgons, @did-it-work, @dirtyeddietini, @djoseph-quinn,

@dolcevit4, @eddies-puppet, @emma-munson, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee,

@figmentofquinn, @ghost-proofbaby, @ghostinthebackofyourhead, @hanahkatexo, @harringtonfan4,

@hazelenys, @jewellethief, @joesquinns, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke,

@lovelyblueness, @manda-panda-monium, @mandyjo8719, @mexicanfolklore, @munsonluvrr,

@munson-mjstan, @nadixq, @nglharry, @notverywise, @pepperstories,

@phyllosilicate-s, @royale1803, @sherrylyn0628, @sidthedollface2, @solzi1420,

@songforeddiemunson, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73,

@werepartnersnow, @winterwakesthewolf, @witchwolflea, @yelyahcardella, @yunirgo

taglist currently full, sorry

[brucewaynehater101]

Deep down, Tim knows that they are at fault. Deep down he knows that Jason and Damian attacking him like that *isn't ok*. But that's a truth he can't bring himself to face because even if he did, would Anyone believe him? If he told Bruce or Dick that the attacks still happened, that one of them tried to take his life at least once a month still, that neither of them would do anything. Tim doesn't know if they would defend him and punish Jason and Damian, or if they would just say, "you need to be more careful Tim, they can't always control themselves." And if the answer is anything but the first he knows his heart wouldn't be able to take it.

Instincts are there, but they are easy to over come. They very from shifter type to shifter type and usually fall into groups by Animal Type. Such as a Tiger and a Housecat will have similar instinctive problems but they won't be the same as a Wolf or Dolphin's. As a snake Tim 100% has the urge to nap in warm places and does get slower when cold. His suit has special heaters in it that the others don't have due to his inability to regulate his own heat. Damian insists that Tim being unable to function without "a bunch of hand warmers" I'd proof that he shouldn't be in the field and should be fired. Tim bites his forked tongue to stop himself from screaming that if Damian can't not give into his instincts and attack Tim anytime he sees him Shifted then he shouldn't be in the field because he's gunna attack a civilian.

Also for now Bruce has no idea how shifters work. But this is Good Dad Bruce. He's going to put in Effort. He's *going* to find the resources he needs to parent this New Tim because he doesn't think he can bring himself to send any version of any of his children to a home that could hurt or likely kill them. Until then, Bruce is going to insist on New Tim (he gets called TJ thanks to Duke. After all, they can't call him Drake, he hates Timothy, Tim would be confusing, and neither Tim likes the idea of being called "Jackson") takes one of their spare rooms and gets a full 8 hours of sleep every night/day and 3 full meals a day. TJ was Visibly Confused by this due to the fact he hasn't been staying in the manor at all for almost a year due to Damian and Jason. He only sleeps in his nest which has Beyond Batlevel Security to keep them out.

Also, I can't decide. Would a healthier version of Damian and Jason stay away like Tim wants them to or would they go "no *fuck* your bastard excuses for Brothers we will teach you what it's like to actually trust and have us have your back."

Tim not seeking an answer or help is very angsty. He chose his emotional/mental health over his physical well being. Part of it may be him knowing how to navigate the murder attempts but not knowing how bringing this up would change the status quo (in possibly worse ways).

I like what you've added about Tim's instincts. A good milestone for that batfamily is if they find Tim napping on a window seat. This would be a huge show of trust by him and an indication that he feels safe.

I think a healthier version of them would give Tim space and communicate boundaries with him, but they would also try to bond with him.

For Damian, this is a lot of parallel bonding. The kid will find wherever Tim is in the Manor and sit in the same room with him doing something different (like drawing or doing his homework). It is an effective way for Tim to get used to his presence and stop seeing him as a threat. Of course, Tim is nervous or on edge the first 10 or so times this happens. Eventually, he starts to lower his guard enough that Damian can make a comment or two. They slowly work up to full conversations and Tim seeking out Damian's presence himself.

For Jason, he'd try to read in places near Tim as well. His main strategy, though, might be favors or gifts. He'd learn what foods Tim likes, what activities Tim wants/needs to do that Bruce won't let him (like sneaking out), and generally just helping Tim out in small ways. It at first freaks Tim out, but they work up to Tim himself asking Jason for favors.

[meara-eldestofthemall]

Tim and Damian: A Tale of Two Robins

The latest issue of Batman (# 147) clearly underscores the differing ways Tim and Damian each approach the role of Robin. It's why DC has been able to get away with having two very different characters simultaneously wearing the mantle.

For Damian, Robin is fundementally a position of honor and a source of pride. It's an affirmation of his unique status as the biological child of Bruce Wayne. Damian wants to do good and he wants to be the best at it. There's nothing wrong with that per say. Many heroes are driven by the same inner need for validation. Being Robin is an honor to which Damian feels he has earned the right.

For Tim, Robin is foremost a calling or vocation. The Robin mantle is definitely an honor but it's not the primary driving force behind why he's in the cape. To him Robin is much more than just a kid who fights with Batman. Tim is heavily invested in in protecting the symbolism of what both Robin as well as Batman and Robin stand for. Please note that it's not Damian or Dick that tracks Bruce down in this issue even though they're both quite capable of doing that. It's Tim who goes after Bruce.

Tim being the one to step up to save Bruce from his own worst impulses is what he does. He's an Emotional Support Robin as much as he is a partner to Batman. From the very beginning Tim saw Robin as someone Batman needs to function properly.

To this day Tim still maintains that Robin's primary responsibility is not to be a sidekick but be someone who will save Batman from both external and internal threats when required. He's a vital balance, a counterweight to the shadows that Batman inhabits.

In many ways that idea is at the crux of the differences between Tim and Damian's approach to being Robin.

Damian initially saw the mantle of Robin as his birthright due to his being Bruce's biological son. Yes, it seems like a strange idea but let's cut the kid some slack. Damian was all of ten years old when he first met his father. He'd also been raised in a cult that all but worshipped the AL Ghul family. He was an arrogant little princeling because that's what he was raised to be.

Tim sees Robin as Batman's partner but not his subordinate. Sure, all the Robins started as "sidekicks" but Dick and Jason's Robins never had the kind of independence Tim's Robin enjoys. Remember that it was a lack of autonomy that drove Dick away from Bruce in the first place. Jason's Robin rarely, if ever, worked independently of Batman. Tim, on the other hand, started handling his own cases less than a year after debuting in the role. Tim doesn't see himself as an apprentice but as a full partner. What's more he throughly enjoys that aspect of being Robin.

People wonder why Tim hasn't created a new identity that's not linked to Batman. The short answer is that Tim feels that he's already doing that. Robin is an independent hero and has been for years. He's been more than capable of operating without a net since before Damian showed up. Tim isn't shy about that view point, either. When Bruce tries to push Tim's Robin in ways Tim doesn't like, the kid will tell Batman "no" then continue doing things on his own .

Damian, on the other hand, constantly chafes against how Bruce's Batman wants him to act as Robin. Just like his father Damian doesn't like to be wrong and that shared stubbornness causes the two of them endless arguments. Damian's earliest teachings within the League will forever be at odds with Bruce's demands of Robin. The clashing expectations cause an internal conflict that leaves him at war with both his father and himself. No wonder the poor kid has a short temper. Trying to be both Damian al Ghul and Damian Wayne has got to be exhausting.

It's a testament to Damian's strength of character that he's been able to overcome the indoctrination from the League as much as he has. It's never going to completely leave him, however, because the lessons engrained into Damian at such a young age formed the core of his personality. Working with Dick's Batman helped him to learn some empathy and the value of tempering his worst impulses. Unfortunately Damian is primarily working with Bruce not Dick.

Damian is also 13 years old who has been seeking his father's approval and respect since the day he met the man. Bruce, being the emotional disaster that he is, fails to recognize that most of the time. This is why Damian is so completely taken in by Zur pretending to be Bruce. For the first time Damian is getting both approval and positive attention for being more violent than is necessary. His dysfunctional childhood and his work as Robin are finally in harmony and Damian loves it. It's also why poor the poor kid is so crushed when he figures out what's going on.

Tim, meanwhile, has stepped into his role as Emotional Support Robin (whether that's a good or bad thing is a debate for another time). His ability to ground Batman is why he can have this conversation with Bruce:

Tim also has one other crucial advantage that Damian, Dick or Jason never had. Tim was Bruce's partner long before he became his son. He's able to slide back into that role at the drop of a hat.

Damian will always be the son of Batman first and Robin second. That father/son dynamic that Bruce isn't very good at will try and lock Damian into a subordinate position in a misguided attempt to keep his son safe. That kind of micromanaging is something Dami will only tolerate for so long. Leaving Robin to take up a mantle of his own creation is all but inevitable.

Tim and Damian may both be Robin to Bruce's Batman but their perceptions of who and what Robin should be is radically different. And as I said before, that's not a bad thing at all.

[bunni-v1]

Hello! Can I request malleus x reader angst?

Malleus breaks up with reader because he is afraid he will hurt her after putting her under a sleeping curse during his over blot

<33

Malleus Afraid to Hurt Reader Again After Blot

TW: Poor Attempt at Angst, No real resolution either, Mild swearing, Bunni hasn't actually written something in a while give them a break, please

Info: Short fic; Angst; Malleus x Reader

🍓I... didn't have much thought process when going into this. I just kinda wrote, and I think I did what I wanted to do? I'm not sure, but I did have fun writing it! This is less focused on Malleus and more focused on the readers internal thoughts and how they dealt with it. Idk I don't like Malleus, so I'm not gonna pity the guy lol. Anyway, enjoy lovelies!

Summary: In the title

Malleus had become… distant since his blot. Despite everything having been solved, you ultimately deciding to stay in Twisted Wonderland, and Malleus generally being forgiven for his transgressions he had only seemed to close off more than before. Of course, that made sense. Overblotting was traumatizing, and he had so much weight on his shoulders before and after it happened. The distance was natural. But it had been a month, and he had been avoiding you like the plague.

You tried to be patient, tried to be understanding. With reassurance from Lilia and Silver and even Sebek that he was fine, you were making it through, but… you missed your boyfriend. You were also experiencing pain from the overblot, from multiple overblotts. All you wanted was to heal with your boyfriend, but he was shutting you out. It wasn’t fair.

Ace, Deuce, and Grim agreed — in fact, they seemed more passionate about it than you were, adding fuel to your slowly growing angry fire. Every time you came crying to one of them with your woes, they only seemed to get more and more exhausted and livid. Deuce always tried to comfort you (pathetically), while Ace and Grim ranted on about how you should ‘just break up with him,’ and ‘he doesn’t deserve you if he’s gonna treat you like this.’

You were beginning to agree with them. Weeks of this was weighing on your poor heart and mind, getting in the way of your studies and day-to-day life. The only reason you were social was because Ace wouldn’t let you hole yourself up. ‘Hiding yourself away just means you’re letting him win, you don’t want him to win this one.’

So, with your head held high, you did your best to pretend everything was fine. You went to classes, spent time with your friends, worked at the Monstro Lounge, and continued your regular schedule. Except now, instead of running to Malleus when you were done with your long day, you met up with Ace and spent your time decompressing with him.

Occasionally, you would feel Malleus’ eyes on you. You would turn to give him a smile and a wave, but he would always turn away before you could lift your arm. So, you just stopped. You stopped trying. Your chest still ached, but you couldn’t allow this to be the end of your life anymore. You deserved to be able to function, and Malleus would come to you and talk to you when he decided to grow up.

In Malleus’ eyes, however, this was the final nail in the coffin.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

That morning you received a knock on your door. Grim, Ace, and Deuce were out cold on the floor after one of your bi-weekly, ‘hangouts,’ (which were just sleepovers), so you were expecting Trey or Cater to come to fetch them. When you opened the door, however, you were greeted by Lilia’s little grin. He seemed a bit… off, upset, though you couldn’t place why.

“Lilia…?”

“Good morning little one, I’ve got a letter for you.”

“An invitation... from Malleus…?” you wondered allowed.

“You’ll have to read it and see,” he paused, “please remember you are always welcome to come and speak with me. You are like family, and I am here for you always.”

You said nothing, simply giving him a confused smile and nodding as he walked off. With a sigh, you shut the door and flipped the letter in your hands. Rich black paper with a red wax stamp and your name in pretty gold letters — most definitely from Malleus. You couldn’t stop your heart from leaping in your chest at the revelation. Maybe he would apologize, and things could go back to normal?

You took a few deep breaths to calm your excitement. Be realistic, you reminded yourself. You quietly crept to the kitchen, carefully opening the envelope and unfolding the letter. It was short, less than half the page of Malleus’ gorgeous cursive.

“My Dearest,

Firstly, I must apologize for my absence from your life. I’ve had much to think about after my blot, and I could not think clearly around you. I realized quite a few differences between the two of us. Firstly, you are human, and I am fae. I have a much longer lifespan than you, and am far more powerful than you could imagine. You have a small lifespan and are magic-less. You are easily affected by even weak magical spells, and the toll that my magic has on you is immense. As I saw with my blot, you are fragile and easily harmed. Therefore, I came to the conclusion that you would be safer and happier if we put an end to our relations with each other. You will be well, as I have seen your friends care for you deeply. Please find it in yourself to forgive me for what I have done."

You stared at the letter blankly, your mind struggling to comprehend what you were reading. Malleus had… broken up with you? Via a letter, of all things? Perhaps it could be worse, but a letter was Malleus’ equivalent of magicam… so could it really be? You hadn’t realized you were crying until you saw your tears blurring the ink on the paper.

You didn’t want to cry. You were more angry than sad, but the hurt stung worse in your heart, so you stood at the kitchen counter and sobbed. And you sobbed and sobbed and sobbed over a man who did not have the decency to face you in person. You cried so loud that it woke one of your friends, and you could hear the creaking of the floorboards as they grew closer until you saw the red hair in your blurred vision.

“Yo,” he said awkwardly, “watcha cryin’ about now…?”

You let out a half-hearted ‘nothing,’ but Ace wasn’t having it. He rounded the counter, settling awkwardly at your side. Somehow, Ace was worse than Deuce when it came to comforting you. He noticed the letter on the table and -- with a defeated shrug of your shoulders -- picked it up. You could see him grow angrier and angrier as he read it.

“Who does he think he is, huh,” slamming the letter down onto the counter, “couldn’t even do it in person. What a coward!”

You sniffled, wiping at your face. It was hard to disagree, especially considering the circumstances. 

“He isn’t even worth cryin’ over, so wipe those tears,” he grumbled, “you, me, and the other losers in there are going out and getting your mind off of that dumbass. Go get dressed, and I’ll get them up.”

You nodded, wiping up the rest of your tears and stumbling up to your room to do as you were told. The first thing you did when you arrived was look in the mirror. Your puffy eyes, ruffled hair, and tear streaks down your cheeks, and for what? A guy who ghosted you for weeks on end, who couldn’t even break up with you in person. What a joke.

Ace was right. He isn’t worth crying over. He isn’t worth worrying about anymore. So, why did your heart still ache? It wasn’t fair. Still, you cleaned yourself up, got dressed, and resigned yourself to a life without Malleus. If you could do it before, you could do it for the rest of your life. He would be graduating soon anyway, and you wouldn’t have to see him again after that.

Who needs him anyway? You’ve got your friends to take care of you. 

[myddle]

Okay Uzi, lets start Murdering, some Drones

The finale of Murder Drones has come and gone, this show has successfully buried it's way into my cerebral cortex, and I will now think about it until I die

Anyway, lets speculate on what the fuck just happened in Episode 8 (And Episode 7 a bit too I guess)

Warning: Biggest Post Yet, Spoilers, Opinions

I Was Wrong About The Admin Thing, And I'm Okay With That

Last time I did a post like this, I speculated that Uzi's Administrator status would be the key to victory against the Absolute Solver. In truth, it was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it lore point, which makes sense in hindsight, because the whole Admin thing was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it lore point to begin with. This kind of environmental storytelling is good to put in a text, of course, but casual viewers need to be able to follow the plot without it. Truthfully, this is actually an area where the show usually stumbles a little; if there's one criticism I have for Murder Drones, it's that it show-don't-tells a little too hard sometimes. Luckily, this show is good enough for me to want to excuse it's flaws by any means neccessary! FOR EXAMPLE,

Khan Doorman: Mischaracterised, Or Traumatised?

So, Khan was kind of acting a little too badass at the end there, huh? This drone was a delusional door maniac at the start of the series, but now he's this stoic badass with a goofy side? Huhwhat? Explain THAT, Smart Genius!

How about I do? Call it a theory, but I think that THIS, is the real Khan, and the dingus we saw at the start of the series was a broken shadow of him.

Khan was a respected man, seeming leader of the Worker Defense Force, front of the line in finding Nori and Yeva just after the Core Collapse, and say what you will, he can build a good door.

And then tragedy strikes. The Dissassembly Drones strike, and while the WDF fends them off, they are not without casualty. Nori is devoured by nanite acid, and Khan beats her head in to end her suffering. The worst has happened.

While Nori's heart sneaks away to go make the plot happen, Khan spirals. His efforts to fight the DD scourge have failed, so he turns to doors. He doubles, triples down, becomes obsessed with the only thing that hasn't failed him. His daughter still wants to take the fight to the enemy, but Khan rejects the thought so hard, he rejects Uzi with it, hence his "doors>uzi" bullshit in the first episode (for the record, I'm not justifying it, I'm just explaining it, he was still a piece of shit for this).

By the time "Pilot" rolls around, Khan has been in a door-obsessed fugue state for... maybe years, I don't think we ever find out how long ago Nori's "death" was. But by now, he's barely functional; Uzi's second excuse to go outside literally only worked because it was door themed. His fear and delusion almost kill his only remaining family.

But as the events of the show go on, Khan is shook out of routine, and his stupor begins to fall away. In "Heartbeat", he defends his daughter's eccentricities. In "The Promening", he clumsily attempts to be part of Uzi's life again, and watches her build an alliance with N and V. In "Cabin Fever", he opens up to Uzi, revealing the darkness that haunts him and admitting to his mistakes. By "Mass Destruction" his mind has mostly cleared, and while he's still a door-loving goofball, he trusts his daughter, knows what he needs to do, and is ready to kick some Solver ass.

Wow, turns out I had a lot to say about Khan friggin' Doorman, do excuse me. Alright, onto the actual finale, now.

And Now, A Summarisation Of My Thoughts On "Nuzi"

yes

TradJedy: A Bootlicker To The End

I've seen some people are unsatisfied with J's villanous and, lets be honest, kinda pathetic role in the finale, but as sad as it is, I think it was true to her character. J is, above all, two things: Tessa's closest, favourite drone, and a corporate underling for some reason. Cyn wearing Tessa's skin was no doubt the most demoralising for J; Tessa is dead, the killer is pantomiming the life she never had, and you can't stop her. Plus, J likely knows better than anyone just how powerful the Solver is, how futile resisting it's conquest could be. But, to have a place alongside it? An offer of safety? Why wouldn't she take that offer? Hell, even V was tempted by it; when Cyn confronts her, she almost instinctively says "I can still...", as if her survival instinct is telling her to serve. J simply gave in.

Anyway, onto some details:

"If I promised you anything, it tricked me too."

I've seen people get confused by this line, but I think J is speaking on behalf of Eldritch J, formerly the J clone that led N & V's DD squad. That J seemed to fully buy the JCJenson cover story, at least to me, and J Prime appears to have deduced that. I don't think she has all of Eldritch J's memory, though; that "PRIOR HAZARD" poppup strikes me as the impersonal knowledge of an error report, rather than personal experience of getting blown to pieces.

"I never needed either of you."

Yeah, buuuuuullshit. J definitely doesn't really mean this. She's in bridge-burning mode, trying to convince herself more than anything that she's moved on. That offer of safety has gained a heavy price of two old friends, and J is pushing herself to pay it.

Local Autistic Teen Fights God And Wins

This uno-reverse-card moment felt a little out of nowhere at first, but on a rewatch, I think I get it. While the past few minutes fighting Cyn were utterly nightmarish, and some of the most gruesome stuff I've ever seen get done to humanoids, it did teach Uzi one thing; resisting the CallbackPing is suprisingly easy. Before this episode, it seemed like the USB Patch was the only hope for escaping the Solver's clutches, but apparently strong willpower and personality is enough to stop it temporarily, and that gets a lot easier to pull off once you know that you can do that. A single "Bite me" or the hand-hold of love is enough to stop Cyn's advance, and once Uzi fully realises that, it stops scaring her. In addition, Uzi's use of the [NULL] shows that she is a very quick learner, and can easily adapt to Cyn's tricks, allowing her to pull this "no-u" and turn the tables on Cyn. This quick thinking is also what wins the battle against Cyn in the end, catching on to how she uses the teleport.

Teleport... that seems familiar... hey, WAIT A SEC-

Doll Is Alive And I'm Not Coping; A Thesis

Everybody has pointed to this frame after Uzi eats Cyn's heart; the box that says "UZI DRN" briefly says "RSN DOLL" instead. But funnily enough, that isn't even the first thing that made me suspect that Doll might still be alive deep within Uzi's code.

If you look closely at Uzi's new gradient eyes, you'll notice that thEY'RE SO PRETTTYYY AAAHHH <3 <3 <3

*ahem*

If you look closely at Uzi's new gradient eyes, you'll notice that a subtle but distinct tint of red sits in between the yellow and purple ends. Admittedly, you can also see pink and orange, so it's not airtight evidence, but it was enough to get me speculating. Obviously, that RSN DOLL frame basically confirms it on it's own, but I found some other stuff too, and I thought it was interesting enough to share.

Uzi consumed Cyn's heart (some of it anyway), and Cyn lived on inside Uzi, possessing her tail in the post-credits. Back in "Mass Destruction", Cyn consumed Doll's heart, and while the scenarios aren't one-to-one, it can be reasonably inferred that Doll might live on in Cyn, who now lives on in Uzi, resulting in a situation oddly reminiscent... of Russian Dolls. BWAM BWAM BWAAAAAAM

It's thematically resonant, which means it's basically canon, right?

[There used to be another thing here about Solver Powers, but it turned out it was a lot less airtight than I thought, so I'm moving it to another post. Thanks to @1-800-hellyeah for the catch]

In conclusion, Doll lives on in the depths of Uzi's code, and that matters. The ramifications of this are unclear, and there's another thing with Doll in the credits, but we'll get to that in a moment with...

The Credits Scene Lightning Round

The credits are full of scenes of the surviving cast enjoying life after the Battle For Copper 9, and while I haven't heard anything about their canonicity... I mean, they look canon. Liam has stated that this is the end of the series, and I'm inclined to believe him, but a lot of this stuff feels like plot hooks he could pick up in a second season someday, if he wanted. Or maybe he just left them to feed the fanfic crowd long term. Either way, lets see what we've got to chew on!

J Prime, Alone

Man, despite how much of a prick she was, I feel kinda bad for J. She gave up everything for the Solver, only for the Solver to get defeated anyway, at least for now. She's repairing one of the ships she destroyed, presumably to leave the planet, but where is she gonna go? What is she gonna do? Fake Tessa's JCJenson credentials imply that the company might still be operating out in space somewhere, but trying to pal up with them feels like a long shot, especially since J Prime probably has some blood on her hands from Cyn's orders. ...What's left for her?

Goopy Ghost Doll

Okay, so if Doll is in Uzi's code, how is she also here? I honestly have no real clue, but my best guess is that since Uzi is arguably the most powerful entity in the setting now, Doll could utilise a fraction of Uzi's power to project herself out into the world, unnoticed? Maybe? That's the best I've got. Anyway, she's probably gonna try to kill V again, knowing her.

And don't say it's just a hallucination or something; everything* in the show has either been real, or an illusion with a clear source. They've been very good about not pulling the hallucination card, and I'm inclined to trust they wouldn't do it now.

*I just remembered the weird skeleton thing behind V in "Home", I'm not sure what that counts as

Yeva's Corpse, Or Lack Thereof

People have seen this shot of Doll's house, and said that the absence of one of the covered bodies implies Yeva is also alive. While Nori proves that your body doesn't even need to be missing for you to maybe be alive... I don't know. I'm hesitant. If she's alive, why get her body back now of all times? It feels like there are other much simpler explanations, like maybe her body is just on the floor now, 'cause everything started floating at the start of the episode, and actually, didn't N pull the cover off of those two, anyway? Maybe he put it back, I don't know. Make of this what you will, I got nothin'.

Eldritch J, Alone

Oh, SHE'S alive. Now THIS is interesting. Her heart did survive the explosion in "Heartbeat", and I guess nobody's been down to the Cryosleep wing since. Understandable, I wouldn't exactly be eager myself. But it's possible Eldritch J was able to recollect all the matter that Cyn "gathered" with her back then, and has grown back to full size.

Now that Cyn isn't around to run the Solver, Eldritch J is probably fully sentient and aware now. That must have sucked to wake up to; last she remembers, she got shot in the face by a purple gremlin, and now she's this fucking thing. Oh man, my brain is already writing the fanfic where J Prime finds her whilst infiltrating the Outpost for ship parts. (That concept is free to grab it anyone wants to)

Alright, lets finish this off...

Cyn

I've long wondered about Cyn's true nature, whether Cyn is a remorseless mastermind or a tragic puppet of the Solver's true will... The finale didn't give us a straight answer on this - The two seemed narratively entwined in Cyn's heart, but in the post credits scene she seems... friendly. Friendliest she's been, potentially. Plus, The illusory camera heads appear in Uzi's reflection seperately, implying a seperation between Cyn and Solver.

After everything, I think I've personally settled on somewhere in the middle. Cyn was a willing accomplice to the Solver... for as much as that can mean for Cyn. In "Home", Cyn is contacted by the Solver on the brink of death, and is offered salvation, to not be discarded like she was before. Her life before this was likely very short; her owners probably threw her out pretty quickly due to her "quirks". Tessa tried to give her the love she gave to her other drones, but it was already too late; Cyn would spend her formative years under the influence of the Solver, so it's no wonder she ended up so morally twisted. She talked about her "back-ups" to excuse the deaths and suffering of her fellow drones... was it an excuse? Or does she genuinely think that made it okay? How much does she understand... anything?

She's acted without remorse, but she's only had the full perspective of a detached eldritch being that only cares for consumption. But even then, her personality shines through. She seems to have genuine affection for N, even if she expresses it in horrid ways. Her alignment with the Solvers goals seems to come from a personal desire for revenge on humanity, considering how she plays out the gala. And despite the circumstances, she's visibly enjoying herself in "Absolute End", having an absolute blast fighting the trio. It's like a game to her.

Her crimes are great, but she's hardly the only one in this show with a kill count. I believe that if someone gave her that USB Patch, then sat her down and explained how reality works, she would have a full change of heart and crisis of remorse.

In a way, she was a lot like J; a willing, but coerced minion to the Solver of The Absolute Fabric. The Void. The Exponential End.

I like to call it The Voiceless One.

[glaciertea]

Masterlist here~

Tales the Songs Weave

>>Ch.2

Summary: Miguel O'Hara is a leader. A leader who doesn't let anyone or anything distract him from the tasks at hand.

He's focused, unwavering, and ruthless.

But what happens when he abruptly pulls away from his territory and wanders into an unknown playing field he hasn't faced in forever?

Many say love holds no bounds, but how much will he be willing to break for you?

Word count: 1.5K

Chapter 1: You're A Natural, Living it so Cutthroat

My name is Miguel O'Hara.

I'm this dimension’s one and only 

Spider-Man… at least I thought I was… 

but I'm not like the others. 

“...el.”

I do things that others won't be able to do.

“...uel!” 

I've seen things that others will never see.

“...iguel!”

And I've given up too much to stop now…

“MIGUEL!”

A familiar voice sprung him out of his inner reflections as he snarled, snapping his head back at the figure below.

Jess crossed her arms over her growing pregnant stomach, glaring at her brooding boss. Her neck slightly craned, wondering why his platform must be at the highest point instead of closer to any subordinate that has the pleasure of communicating with him. 

“I'm here to give the reports for today's anomalies that were captured.”

Miguel twisted his body towards his dozens of monitors cascading, entrapped all over. A grunt escaped his throat as his eyes darted from screen to screen, typing away at whatever was tossed onto him. 

His second in command sneered, rolling her eyes at the permanently irritated man. 

Though it gets to a point where one is used to his tendencies. This is just who he is. The burden that copious amounts of spiders have to compromise with.

“Also, there's been a recent increase in anomalies as of late. Rampant even. We were wondering if we could get any input on that.” Jess clicked at her watch, sending the information to her ill-tempered leader, wanting to get this over with as much as him.

“Later.” Miguel refused to gaze behind him.

“Actually, I would prefer now so we can get a semi-head start on th-”

“I said later!” Miguel barked, going over the notes he received.

Jess scoffed, resting her hands on her hips. She wasn't going to allow him to speak to her in any sort of way. Jess is one of the few with the ability to pierce through Miguel's ‘bullshit.’

“As I said, I'm going to need that info ASAP. Presumably after you're done with those documents. Thank you.” She drolly spoke.

Before Miguel could offer a rebuttal, Jess was already making her exit out of his space, refusing to deal with him anymore for the time being. The man twitched as his claws dug through his metal desk. There's never any rest for the wicked, yet this is the life he must heed. The precedents he exposed to himself and those underneath his wing. 

He doesn't enjoy this harrowing cold stature, but it's the only manner that will get things done. 

He inhabited the lifestyle he was forced to construct. Harboring all the burdens so the others won't make the same mistakes he committed. The sins that constantly dangle over his head every single second, of every minute, of every day.

That perpetual reminder of what and who he is. 

Miguel lingered at his workstation for another hour and a half, as he found unhealthy comfort being close by it. If he never unoccupied his space, work will always be completed in functioning order. He begrudgingly issued data and charts towards Jessica, mostly as an excuse for her not to return and harass him any further. 

His tasks were going smoothly. No interruptions, no trivial disturbances from the other heroes. All was fluid sailing on his end. 

And that was very off-putting for him, but he decided to brush it off.

Ten minutes passed by as Miguel decided to view the footage of him and Gabi, the main reason why any of this exists in the first place. His main reminder to abide by is to focus on the main goal at hand. 

Keeping the multiverse safe. 

A miniscule smile began to form as the video rewinded and began to play… until the orange iridescent screens dimmed off. Silence rang throughout his area. Then a shattering crash of glass sprinkling surrounded the air.

“Lyla!”

The tiny hologram teleported in the air, casually waving her fingers as if she hadn't witnessed her creator violently hurl a computer at the wall. 

“Heya boss, what's the fi- hey, hey whoa!” Miguel's claws went to snag Lyla as she rapidly flickered several feet away from him.

“Isn't that a bit unnece-”

“¡¿Qué carajo pasó?!” He rammed his fist down onto the heavily abused desk.

“Uh, did you forget? Undergoing system maintenance today.” The A.I. brought up a digital calendar with a date circled in pink glitter marker and heart stickers surrounding it. 

Only a scowl etched across his already disdainful face. This wasn't helping Lyla's case at all. Lyla tapped her nail on the date, only increasing Miguel's fury. 

“The twelfth? Which is today?” She gestured toward the number.

His expression didn't waver. He should have been one of the first to be alerted about this. 

“Why wasn't I advised?!” Miguel hissed enough for spittle to fly out. 

Work needed to be done. Required. He doesn't have time for any delays; he must be the one to upkeep the endeavor of the headquarters. The multiverse. Everything. 

Lyla shifted her glasses near the bridge of her nose, raising a brow. “You were. In fact, you were the very first to attain that scheduling because you appointed the date, Miguel.”

He made an effort to recall, but the more he dug, the memories refused to pop up. Prepared to refute and prone Lyla for her attempts to gaslight him, she came equipped with several angles of Miguel hunched over, deep within some tasks as usual. 

The displayed date in the top left corner was a week prior, as a cautious Spider-Byte scrolled up to the high-rise platform. The teen announced her presence, only to be greeted with completely nothing. Spider-Byte clearly struggled to flag down his attention until a jeering ‘what’ sprang out of him. 

"We're still on for the system shutdown on the twelfth, correct?” 

Hushed. Nothing. 

“Yo, are we still on for the-”

Miguel hollered out for Lyla to jot down the time frame for it as the assistant saluted and disappeared.

Miguel dismissed an agitated Spider-Byte who threw her arms up, murmuring underneath her breath as she vacated the area, clearly refusing to deal with him any longer.

Lyla blipped the feed away and leaned back, crossing her legs as if she were pretending to be seated in a chair.

“So, you have the rest of tonight unofficially officially off just like the others. So… have fun!” Lyla retreated, abandoning him in solitude. 

That made sense as to why Miguel wasn't disturbed for the last duration of his work period. No one was essentially able to commute to the HQ. He remained static for a few minutes. The solemn, stagnant atmosphere was the only element left. There was an occasional whirring of a machine, but there was nothing else.

This isn't something to get used to. Something he wasn't used to.

He slumped himself on the metallic flooring, desolate. When duties aren't demanded, he doesn't exactly know how to handle the implanted turmoil racing deep in his mind. 

He pulled his watch near his face as it only presented his world, the time, and a missed alarm flashing. He pressed the tiny button as a message flashed, warning about the upcoming stoppage. Nearly thirty minutes ago.

Dropping his arm, he observed the bleak, dark-red area. His isolation chamber he relished in a sense. Second nature. But there was a commodity brewing within. A path beckoning him to stray away from his natural setting into an unaccustomed world. 

Gradually, he stood up before dropping off the edge and landing with a solid thunk.

He pressed through the wide corridor that led into his ‘office,’ past the contained anomalies, who thankfully are under a backup program, so they couldn't escape with ease. Stepping into the elevator, he tapped the down arrow, leaning back against the cool glass. 

Was he truly going to do this?

He trudged out until he reached the usual bustling facility, now still with a couple of spider stragglers reserved in their own bubble or quickly converging with one another before moving on with their business.

Some blissfully greeted him as Miguel nodded in acknowledgment when he passed by. Some curious ones eyeballed him, astonished to view him casually teetering around, but chalked it up due to the seemingly night off all the spiders “dolefully” received (many honestly are grateful; relieved for it).

However, numerous heads did rotate dumbfounded when Miguel… treaded out of the establishment with no warning or announcement. 

Clearly, this was one for the books.

Miguel allowed the chill breeze to graze across his face and curly locks as he compelled himself towards a direction. 

Where exactly was his destination?

Usually he appoints on having everything to the point, narrow, clear, and straight cut. But now? He's aimlessly roaming Nueva York's evidently pristine streets, allowing his legs to carry him to an unprecedented location.

He was out of bounds with the routine. Highly so. There undoubtedly had to be a reason for this particular circumstance for him willingly abandoning his homebound post.

• • •

For the puzzled ones, there's a meaning behind a reason. An answer to a question. A cause pursuing the effect, and Miguel surely didn't expect any of it. 

Even the most natural of ones can slip into the most foreign of fates.

[milksuu]

Hello!! thank you so much for carrying the heartbeats and for reviving the the league tumblr fandom. you are doing us are great service orz

Anyway may I request something nsfw with yone? just some general hcs if you do that. but if not then, what does he think of lingerie or what does he do when he needs to let off some stress? I personally think he doesn’t have much of a sex drive but what about the days where he does feel like it?

❥ prompt: Yone has more than one way to deal with his stress. ❥ content/warnings: nsfw 18+, masturbation ❥ characters/pairings: Heartsteel!yone

Yone would never mention anything about his private life. Whatever happens behind closed doors isn't anyone's business. Whether he pleases himself or not, it's never a topic he entertains. He does his job, he provides receipts. What's more to discuss?

Stress is inevitable. Comes with the demands of the music industry, celebrity lifestyle, and overall business management side of his career. Yone keeps a strict regime in the form of daily habits, which helps reduce stress by making things consistent.

Wake up at 4AM and take a morning jog for improved energy and health. Next, mindful yoga and meditation to improve focus. Then, a cold shower to increase metabolic function. After that, he reads a news article while drinking cold brew in complete, and qualitative silence.

However, some days prove to be more challenging than others. And his usual methods prove to be futile. As if all of his meticulous daily planning is all but thrown into an endless void. And he's only wasting precious time and energy. A pet peeve of his. When he's in this state, it breeds a terrible habit. One that he hasn't been able to shake off since his early college days, and that's smoking.

But there's a formula for when this happens. It happens at a specific place, at a specific time, within a specific headspace. Taking place in his private office, well into the night hours, and the emails seem endlessly blaring against his laptop screen.

He needs to take a moment to step around his room. Shifting through what is personally self persevering, to what exactly isn't. He's a man of logic. He rationalizes with himself. He doesn't do it often. Not often enough to completely quit, at least.

He keeps his cigarette pack and a single lighter inside a locked drawer at his desk. He lights one, taking a deep breath as he steps to his office window. He cracks it open, where a discreet ashe tray sits on the outside sill. He taps against the tray, staring at a ceiling that has changed so often in his life. Consistency, regime, habits...those were the only comforting things in such a fast paced world.

The nicotine hits perfectly. Easing the tension in his mind. As if the wires are slowly, but surely uncoiling. It eases him to the point of pouring himself a ball-glass of expensive whiskey, gifted by another Riot employee at a private soiree. A few more puffs and he ashes the cigarette. Taking a sip of the whiskey, he decides to nurse it at the desk. Time to get more work done.

He finishes sending the last email, wraps up a phone call with Alune, and creates his last reminders for tomorrow. It's time to prepare for bed. Which consists of a night time shower. Wash away the the smoke possibly lingering against his skin. Wash away pestering thoughts from the day. Wash away anything that doesn't serve him.

The hot water glides down his shoulder and back muscles. Drop by drop, it eases the tension of fibers. Yone closes his eyes, exhaling into the feeling. Behind his lids, he notices his insides feel warm, and his senses tingling. Ah...that brand of whiskey may have had a higher alcohol proof. He should have read the label. He runs his long fingers through his hair down the length of his neck. Doesn't matter. He's going to sleep after this. He may even get better rest because of it.

Twitch. How annoying. That pool of warmth travelled from his stomach well into his groin. He stares down at his erection, dripping with shower water. He was a man of logic and reason. Restful sleep wasn't promised if he first didn't take care of this inconvenience. Efficient in all facets of his life, servicing himself was no different.

He took himself in his hand. A low exhale, squeezing at his base. He closed his eyes again. His head buzzing from the whiskey. Black thigh-high pantyhose. He stroked upwards. Black pencil skirt. He dragged his hand back down. No underwear, straddling a leather office chair. He dragged his hand up and down, coating himself. Despite the warm water, a shiver ran down his spine. Nipples fully visible through a white blouse. His brows knitted together. He huffed, placing a free-hand against the shower wall for support. His cock slick and throbbing. Cherry red lipstick. Tongue circling the head of a cherry lollie. An audible moan escaped him. It bounced against the shower tiles, echoing around him. Licking and sucking. Licking and sucking. Until—Pop!

A hot, white flash of pleasure washed through his veins. His cock pulsed from the pressure, until his fluids came shooting. He caught a loud moan in his throat, gripping tightly around his shaft. Working himself through his climax, he messaged out the last of come from his tip. His mind, full of nothing but an erotic fantasy, now hummed with static emptiness.

Damn, he was exhausted.

an: REJOICE. secretly obsessed with this man. ty ty for the yone req. anon!

[cuubism]

a lovely person on ao3 expressed interest in more of this retired Dream chronic pain fic and I said well who knows maybe one day and then proved myself a liar by doing it Now. when it gets in your head it stays there until it's out

--

One of Hob's greatest joys, as boyfriend and caretaker to one retired King of Dreams, is finding new things for Dream to enjoy. Things that Dream didn't have time for, or never got the chance to try, when he was fully occupied by his function. It's so fun seeing Dream's joy. Dream has never allowed himself very much of it.

Of all the things Hob's introduced him to, he hadn't figured Dream would be a video game fan. Always thought he was more one for slower media like books, or maybe he just hadn't been able to imagine his ancient, ponderous stranger gaming.

Hob was wrong. So very wrong that ever since he made the dubious decision to buy Dream an iPad he's been stuck in a perennial competition with Minecraft for Dream's attention, and Minecraft might be winning.

He really should have known better, should have guessed that the once-king of the Dreaming would love the immersive dreamscapes of video games, not to mention that he can create things again in a way that doesn't have the world-shaking consequences of his former role.

When Hob gets home from work, he's unsurprised to once again find Dream twisted up in a complicated pretzel shape in his favorite armchair, headphones on, nose buried in the iPad. Sitting that way isn't going to help his joints much in the long run, but nowadays Dream only ever seems to either sprawl or to crunch up in a tiny ball when he's sitting anywhere--sometimes Hob wonders if, after so many years of carrying every aspect of his life so primly and correctly, Dream simply can't bear to do it ever again.

He's also said that that twisted way of sitting is the only position that helps his hip ache less, so Hob doesn't complain about it too much.

"Hey, love," he calls as he sets his bag down, sitting on the couch beside Dream's armchair. Dream looks up at him, pulling his headphones off so they sit around his neck. Hob can vaguely hear the audio--Christ, on top of working on his crazily elaborate Minecraft world--Hob's seen it, the thing's insane--he's also listening to an audiobook. Yeah, Hob was so wrong about expecting Dream's way of trying to relax to be slow or measured.

Dream looks tired now, though, not relaxed, dark circles along his cheeks and a pinch of weariness at the corners of his eyes. Ah. Tough day, then.

"How's the Minecrafting going?" he asks instead of remarking on it. He probably sounds like an old person when he talks to Dream about it--well, he is an old person--but Hob's never been able to stick to any one thing for too long, and he hasn't actually picked up this game since the first time it came out. Who knows how it works nowadays.

Dream shows him the screen. Predictably, he tends to just play in his own little world instead of interacting with anyone else, and said world has become an elaborate landscape of infinite cityscapes, art pieces, and complex structures Hob can't determine the purpose or design of. If Hob's not wrong, it's significantly more complicated than it was just yesterday. Dream has picked this all up with disturbing ease and gotten very fast at it besides. You can take the dream lord out of the craft but not the craft out of the dream lord, apparently.

"You're getting quick at that," he says. "Pretty soon it will be bigger than London."

"Were it to be made physical in equal dimensions, it would be," Dream says. Maybe Hob should get him involved in city planning, might be entertaining for him.

He tries to imagine Dream at a council meeting and nearly perishes at the thought.

While Dream is still looking at him, Hob cups his jaw in one hand, runs his thumb over the dark circle under his eye. "Not feeling so well today?"

Dream sighs. "No. I did not sleep well."

Hob had noticed that, but he'd hoped the fact that Dream was still in bed when he'd left for work meant he might get some sleep later on. Apparently not.

"I am..." his lips twist. "My joints. Hurt."

"I'm sorry, love." Hob would fix it if he could. God he wishes he could. "Where?"

"Back. Primarily."

Really, Hob should be grateful for Minecraft, no matter that he's been in a pitched battle against it. It's one of the only things that can properly hold Dream's attention and distract him when he's not feeling well. Without his game to occupy him Dream just starts getting sad in addition to being in pain and Hob can hardly stand it.

"I love you, you know?" he says, and the corners of Dream's lips tip up.

"I know."

"You want to do some stretches with me?" Hob offers. "You can laugh at my lack of flexibility as much as you want."

He has, in fact, gotten Dream into some yoga and light strength training. It seems to help, at least a little. Dream's new human body is already very flexible, though. It's actually part of the problem. Maybe that's what happens when you try to put an amorphous conceptual being into a fixed body. Maybe it's just the roll of the dice.

"I would not laugh," Dream says, but sets the iPad aside and starts disentangling the knot of his limbs to climb out of the chair.

"No, but I can always see you thinking about it."

"I would not exchange flexibility for you being strong enough to pick me up," Dream declares.

"It's not a one-off trade," Hob says, laughing. Then, perhaps to prove a point, he scoops Dream up from the chair and into his arms.

Dream shrieks and clutches at him with all of his limbs. He's so good at tangling himself up like that that sometimes it still feels like he's able to manifest twice as many of them.

"Could try something else to flex those muscles too," he teases, and Dream gives him a judgmental look, but Hob can see the smile secretly tugging at his lips.

"Taking perverse advantage of my ailments?" he says.

Hob feigns offense. "I was just going to give you a back rub! Totally innocent."

"Mmmm." Dream tilts his head, studying him. "Perhaps if you are truly committed to doing all of the work. I'm not finding myself inclined towards effort this evening.”

"Taking perverse advantage of my generosity?" Hob echoes.

Dream smirks down at him from his perch in Hob’s arms. “Always.”

It’s fine by Hob. Dream deserves a bit of generosity, in his opinion. And a lot more than that, too.

“You’ve indeed been most generous with me in my indolence,” Dream purrs. “Cared for me in my infirmity. How ought a man repay such a magnanimous patron?”

“Could think of a few things,” Hob says, letting his gaze deliberately track down to Dream’s lips. “I’m more inclined to spoil you, though.”

“I am amenable to that,” Dream says. Haughty little thing. Even dying couldn’t take the king out of him.

Hob doesn’t mind, though. He’s always had a bit of a thing for it. So he obligingly carries his still-smirking lover off to their bedroom to spoil him just as he’s promised.

--

Afterwards, when Dream’s sprawled across him, one leg tossed over Hob’s hips in a way that apparently relieves the strain in his lower back, though Hob can’t imagine how, he says, “Does it bother you that I have become utterly idle?”

“You’re not idle,” Hob says. “You do plenty of stuff. I see you do it.”

“Not with true purpose, though,” Dream says.

“If you mean do I think you should get some sort of career, then no, I don’t.” Hob kind of shudders at the thought. “As far as I’m concerned, you never have to work again if you don't want to. Do what you want. Work on your Minecraft cities. I’m just happy that you’re here.”

“You work,” Dream points out.

“I get bored,” Hob says. “Besides, my job doesn’t involve literally being the job, you know. You have to make up for about a trillion years of no work-life balance.”

Dream just humphs, but settles closer against him.

“Does it make you uncomfortable that I pay for everything, is that it?” Hob asks. Dream has always been so fiercely independent.

“Uncomfortable, not exactly,” Dream says. “I find I still fail to grasp the importance of money.”

Hob chuckles. “Yeah, you would.”

“Rather,” Dream continues, “the issue is equity. Something I am contemplating more as part of human society.”

“Okay, I understand what you’re getting at.” Hob wouldn’t want their relationship to feel inequitable either, but it’s not so much about paying for things, but about Dream not feeling trapped. As much as part of Hob wants to bundle Dream up and never let him leave the flat again after he literally died once already, he doesn’t want Dream to stay because he has to. He wants him to stay because he chooses to. At the same time— “But, Dream, it’s been only six months.”

“And?”

“For your lifetime— hell, even for mine, it’s a vanishingly small amount of time. And you were so tired.” It still hurts, still feels almost panic-inducing to think about, how Dream had been the last time they’d spoken before he… died. Hob’s never seen such weariness on a person, and he’s seen a lot. It would take a long time for that to lift from a human, and Dream is operating on a much vaster scale. “If I can give you time to rest, then that’s what I want to do.”

Hob could never figure out how to help Dream when he was Endless. At least there’s something he can do to help Dream now.

“Rest,” Dream echoes. “You are insistent upon it.”

Hob buries his hand in his hair, scratches at his scalp. “It feels better, though, doesn’t it?”

It takes a long moment for Dream to concede his answer, but finally he says, quietly, “Yes.”

“I love you beyond measure,” Hob says, aching with the words. “I want you to be well. It’s no more complicated than that.”

“I think I am,” Dream says slowly. “Well.”

Hob thinks so, too—at least, more so than he once was. He has his issues with his body. But some of the heaviness on him has eased. And that’s a step.

“I do not think I have been well before,” Dream continues. “At least, not in quite some time.”

This, Hob knows, too.

“Then we’ll have to keep working at it until you’re used to it,” Hob says. “And I’ll spoil you until then. Well, after, too.”

“You seem to take pleasure in it,” Dream agrees.

Hob kisses the top of his head, rubs his hand up and down his back until Dream sinks into him further, boneless and lax. Maybe later he will give Dream an actually innocent back rub, it seems to help with the pain a bit. For now he just lets Dream fall asleep on top of him.

He needs the rest, anyway.

[the-fo0l]

Super fluffy Ethan Winters x reader headcanons

Notes: this was written in one of my 10 min "i love ethan winters" episodes, more written for me than anyone else, also happy new year

Warnings: established relationship, pure fluff, maybe too much fluff, obsessed bf

Ethan would like nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with you

Despite the fact that you've been together for a while now he still looks at you like he's experiencing love at first sight over and over again

Celebrates full and half anniversaries of things that aren't even important

"It's the half year anniversary of when you agreed to move in with me!"

".....That's why you got me flowers???"

Loves to see you passionate about things you like

Will listen intently when you talk about literally anything

If you hate someone, he automatically hates them too

Loves doing lovely-dovey, cringey couple things with you

Travelling, cooking and baking together, date night, movie night- just living out his dream romance story with the love of his life

He's an amazing cook i just know it

Makes you breakfast every day

And dinner, if you guys aren't doing out to eat

"How was work today?", you manage to ask before Ethan kisses you hello. "Good, but I couldn't stop thinking about you", he says with a small smile. "Ugh you say that everytime I ask about work...", you say with sarcastic annoyance. "Well it's true" a stupid love-struck grin now creeping onto his face.

His heart just about explodes when ever you do something for him

It could be the smallest thing

Bring him tea or soup when he's sick, tug the blanket up more and kiss his forehead -his body temp gets twice as hot with the way he's blushing

Of course he's very careful driving with you in the car but it is kinda hard to keep his eyes on the road when you're sitting next to him, looking so perfect

Sometimes you catch him casually humming that wedding tune (you know what i mean right)

At least like 70% of the pictures on his phone of you, plus a ton of screenshots of things to buy for you

He could be having a horrible day but seeing you automatically makes him feel better, and any sappy shows of affection from you make his whole week

Cuddling up to you is something he always looks forward to at the end of the each day

Staring into each other's eyes, holding your hand, running his fingers across your face, pressing gentle kisses to your skin and being as close as possible

At this point he has trouble going to sleep without hearing your voice, feeling your touch

Leaves you little notes, informative or just reminders of his love. Sometimes you'll write your response on them and leave them up for him to see later (he totally keeps all the notes you've replied to)

Hugs from behind, giving and receiving

His love for you never stopped growing. At this point it's hard to function without being in some sort of contact with you

He would not be able to handle fighting with you, let alone a break-up (not something you should even joke about, he'll cry)

Loves petnames beginning with "my". Cause that's right, he is yours, completely and utterly.

After one of your friends/acquaintances rather rudely joined the cafe date you and Ethan were on, Ethan's been in an awfully salty mood. Your hand holding his is likely the only thing keeping him from going off on the girl.

All the while she's going on and on about how perfect your relationship is and how unbelievable it is that she "hasn't found the perfect man yet".

"Of course you haven't met the perfect man," you lean in slightly, "I already have him".

Well, that certainly bettered Ethan's mood tenfold. He can only chuckle awkwardly as his face heats up and the corners of his mouth tug upwards. He doesn't say anything as you two continue talking, but you can't help but notice how his grip on your hand tightens, and how his other hand goes to encase it completely, gently toying with your rings with that lovesick look on his face.

[dairy-farmer]

Am on a reversal of my other prompts kick~ :3c

Imagine~~

The Time Loop Prompt! A perfectly average, nothing happening, boring 24 hours. BUT THIS TIME?? It's NOT Tim who gets trapped! It's our dear Bat Boys!

Tim is still patrolling, been distant. Considering going back to The Nest. This upsets Bruce but he doesn't want to push and drive Tim away. Aggravates Damian, who is supposed to be putting away the Suspect Unknown Magical Object.

The more he listens to Drake make excuses, the more annoyed he gets. He gets careless. Too rough. Jason arrives, planning to look something up, but notices and corrects him. It's the final straw. He slams the idol down.

It shatters.

Magic sweeps the cave. Oh Shit.

Tim HEARD that. Respond. Respond! He's coming over! Tim IMMEDIATELY changes his plans. Awkwardness be damned, they just got exposed to Unknown Magics. He arrives. The Bats manage to peel themselves off the floor. Run through their standard "are we compromised" tests. So far? Nothing.

But Tim is gonna stay the night, just to safe. A 24 hour watch.

The next day is quiet. Maybe it really was nothing? Or it hasn't hit yet, knowing their luck. Could have just been the showy bang itself. Still... it's nice to actually have Tim AROUND for once. They wish they knew how to say that without starting a fight. They watch him head out around midnight. They hate it.

The NEXT day though? Oh. So THAT'S what it did. Timeloop. Well that's annoying. Except... except Tim's expression says he has no idea what they are talking about. But he was THERE, was he? They compare notes. And...

No. No, he wasn't. He HEARD the idol breaking, but wasn't actually THERE for it. He's outside of the Loop. So he'll have to take their word on it. Now, what are their options? Magic users, right?

They spend the day trying to figure out who they need to talk too. Then the next. Then the NEXT. Gods damn it they hate magic so, SO much. But! Constantine SHOULD be able to brute force them out? They are told this sort of situation is "his thing". Fine. So where is he?

Yeeeeah, about that.....

Bruce closes the link before he says something he will probably not regret, but would be DEEPLY unprofessional. Apparently they are on their own finding Constantine. Last known location: "probably Earth".

Fantastic.

It takes the rest of that loop to put together a functional program. One that will search for the House of Mysteries in a grid pattern, spanning the entirety of the planet. They cut it close, but manage to memorize it.

Next loop, start the program. Which... takes ALL of the Bat computer's processing power to run.. meaning they can't work on any cases. Now what?

They disperse. Try to find something to do. Read that book, finally play that game, maybe work on that art project. But... what's the POINT if all their progress gets undone? They try new foods, take naps, check out places they've put off going too.

The program has barely made a dent. The entire planet is not a SMALL place to search after all.

It's Dick who gets lonely first. Gets ideas. He'll swear of course, he didn't. It just... his friends are busy. Thanks to the loop? They'll STAY busy. Forever. He wants to hang out. Misses his Timmy Time. Things aren't great between them. But he is trying to be better.

And for Tim? It's a Rule. If someone stuck in a Timeloop wants to hang out, you hang out. Because YOU may have spoken to them yesterday, but for them? They could have been trapped alone for years. So he sighs and let's Dick drag him along.

Dick is THRILLED. Tim is having fun. HE'S having fun.

He genuinely can't remember when last it was just the two of them. Hanging out. Does Tim even skateboard anymore? Still WANT to see that photo exhibit? Yeah, Tim is having fun. But Dick gets the vibe he's humoring him. That... that he doesn't even KNOW him anymore.

So next loop he tries again.

It's not like Tim remembers their last hang out. He can keep trying! Movies and events and outings. Has he ever taken Timmy dancing, he wonders? Let's hit the clubs! Everything and anything! See what gets a spark of interest.

And... listen, maybe the clubbing was a mistake. Yes, Timmy is old enough. Yes, he had fun. But so did Dick. They got dressed up Super Hot. They got tipsy. Dick made sure to watch over Tim while he was their, made sure no one harassed him or put anything in his drink. Let him have fun in the loud music and strobing lights.

And... and... Realized Timmy... Timmers Tim Tim... grew up Hot. Watched him move. Laugh. Be gorgeous and relaxed in a way he rarely gets to be, surrounded by people who WANT him but who could NEVER know him like Dick does.

He... he should not be having these thoughts. Not about his baby brother. It's a distant thought. Weak in the face of things sliding into place at long last. Finally a name to apply to the complicated MESS that sat between them. One that seemed to come from HIM and not Tim. Oh.

His hands linger more then they should, helping his tipsy brother home. He dumps them both in his bed. Legs tangled, clothes on. Just to soak up the warmth of Timmy's body and press close, close, CLOSE. To let mad thought and insane plans rumble to life in his head. He shouldn't. He has to shut these thoughts down NOW while he still has a chance.

Tim is so warm. A bit giggly and boneless from the elaborate cocktails he wanted to try. Cologne all but washed off by sweat and stinking of the club. But... but cuddling him BACK for the first time in as long as he can remember, outside of an Ivy breakout. He wants and wants and wants. What if he could KEEP this?

It's so warm.

And waking up is so cold. No Tim. Just a reset timeloop and empty bed. Tim remembers nothing. But Dick does. Things have shifted. Lets go clubbing, Timmy! Why PAY for their cocktails when I can make better ones! It's called pre-gaming!

Soon they are tipsy, it's barely mid-day. But Tim is gorgeous and laughing. But, WHOOPS! Dick spilled his drink on your pants! Thank god we're still at home, huh? You can still change. BTW, unrelated, past boyfriends? Wanna rant?

He distracts Tim, pants off, with a rant. Nudges the conversation where he wants it. Dick's not nearly as drunk as he's pretending. But Tipsy Tim? Has GRIEVANCES! Don't get him wrong! He LOVES trying new positions! Practicing his BJs! So sue him, he's a perfectionist! But does that mean he never wants a little reciprocal action? No!

He, in fact, very much DOES want to get eaten out! Constantly! And other things! CONSTANTLY! He's horny and stressed okay? They lead stressful lives! But GOD FORBID men who will dive head first into radioactive goo monsters, put their Precious Wittle Mouths anywhere near his-!

Dick takes his chance. HE would never do that. You deserve BETTER. Have all those cases on the Bat computer, all that work at WE. He crowds forward, not looming, on his knees. Hands resting on Tim's hips. Not doing anything. Just so very, very Close.

Tim deserves to relax... doesn't he?

And Tim is torn. This does not seem like normal Dick behavior, but? Timeloop? Booze? And does he WANT this? Dick IS his childhood hero. He's had dreams about stuff like this. Should say no though. But then Dick leans forward, rests his flushed cheek against the soft skin of Tim's stomach. Rubs, just to feel them glide against each other.

Tim shudders. Y.. yeah. He deserves to relax. He mutters.

Like blood in the water before a shark. Tim squeaks he's lifted and moved so fast. He's being pressed down to the end of Dick's bed. He barely has time to register his boyshorts disappearing before his legs are lifted and spread. Then skilled, wet, heat is PLUNDERING him and he's jerking so hard you'd think he was tazered. Hands scrambling along Dick's sheets for any sort of purchase.

Gasping for air, whimpering, he can't for enough coherent thought to tell Dick to just-! Oh god! S-slow down! He spasms apart and then? Oh god. Clever, clever fingers. Sliding deep and rubbing just-! Dick is VERY good with his mouth. Tim come apart again and again, until he's desperately grabbing for Dicks head, slurring weakly for it to stop. For Dick to let him REST.

It's so god damn PERFECT. Dick has never seen anything better. Flushed and boneless and taken car off so good. He gently hauls him up the bed. Gets his Timmy all warm and snuggly. Then slides slick and perfect into his pampered little hole. Wraps him up close for a cuddle. Just the two of them, as he fucks. So, so good~

It's more of a rut then anything, honestly. But holding him? Feeling the gushing wet hole flutter around him as he rocks and rocks, just chasing his pleasure? Tim is so GOOD for him. A twitching, drooling, exhausted mess wrapped up in a safe little bundle, here in his arms. He slides as deep as he can, when he cums. Keeps Tim close and full.

Fails to notice, near midnight, when someone comes looking for him.

Tim may not remember, but Damian sure does. And he is NOT best pleased. Have you LOST YOUR MIND?! He may not li.. may have.. there may be strained relations between him and Drake, but that does not mean he will allow these PERVERSIONS!

Tim is baffled and wary. The Demon Child is sticking to him like glue. Dick keeps trying to subtlety separate them but what say WHY. As the day progresses, it escalates.

The NEXT Same Day? Tim is out right ALARMED. Dick tries to kidnap him for "bro time"? Did the magic idol turn him evil?! Shit! KON! He spends the day at the Kent farm.

Next loop? Wakes up in a safe house. One of Bruce's? WHY? Oh fuck. Damian's kidnapped him. Wait.... are... are these Bruce's KINK restraints?! Damian What The FUCK?!

And... look. Damian's at the end of his rope here. Richard is NOT giving up. Has years more experience and a plethora of allies. Drake doesn't even realize he's IN peril! No! Shut up!

He gags Tim. Begins explaining. Looks unhinged. Pacing back and forth. First the time loop, which is his fault. He KNEW better then to let his temper get the better of him! Has been working tirelessly to-! It doesn't matter. First the timeloop. His fault. Then Richard acting suspicious. Nothing out of place though? Until it WAS!

Liquor supplies raided! Held up in his room all day! Damian was suspicious!

The BASTARD! Forever going on about Family this and Family that! Blood relations don't mean anything! Still FAMILY!! He just wanted-!

Damian freezes, mid rant. Things connecting in his mind. Tim doesn't know WHAT and is too busy trying to get free of his cuffs to care. But then Damian spins to look at him. Eyes intense in a way that is VERY AL Ghul and thus VERY concerning.

Damian figured it out. Richard wanted Tim for himself. Of course he did. Tim is the favorite apprentice. Richard lied to Damian so Damian wouldn't be compition. He KNEW Damian desired Timothy and was doing everything he could to discourage it! Because Damian is the rightful heir. He has more to offer. Is a dangerous rival to have. He figure it out!

Tim has no idea what's happening and Damian may have finally gone insane.

Why is he coming closer? No! No coming closer! Go be insane somewhere ELSE! But Damian does not. He's not just Wayne stubborn. He's AL Ghul stubborn. He can TOTALLY seduce his freaked out, tied up, brother-rival!

Tim tries to kick him in the face.

Works for him. He's done research, he knows Dick's modis operandi. It apparently WORKS so... Holding the legs that tried to kick him, he inches forward. To tug sleep shorts out of the way until they are trapped near bound knees.

If Tim could remember it, could compare them, he'd tell you Damian is rougher then Dick. Demanding and exploring, tounge hot as it goes where it pleases. That he was far more merciless, in his inexperience, as that demanding mouth sucks and licks and toys with his clit. He chokes on air. Jerks and thrashes against the restraints binding him.

He's barely aware of Damian reaching for something, of some sort of noises, as he tries to escape the onslaught. But then there are demanding fingers. Slick and clumsy. Exploring, pushing deep as they can, more STUFFING him then fucking him. Full. Too much!

Something else replaces them. Over lubed. It SQUELCHS going in. Whats?

If nothing else, Damian has an EXCELLENT eye for sex toys. Tim all but HOWLS when he flips the vibrator on. Unthinkingly cranking it high, with little thought for Tim's sensitive hole. The orgasm is DRAGGED out of him. He.. he doesn't think Damian can even TELL he came. He's to distracted by eating him out.

Oh god. Tim's gonna die.

The vibrator keeps going.

By the time the loop resets, Damian has used several "interesting" toys he's tried. And fucked Tim's poor, throbbing hole full. Tim is losing time. His shoulders are screaming from the restraints and he's passed at least twice. Damian has... has never been softer with him.

Whispering praise and kissing every bit of skin he can reach. Cuddling close. Touching him reverently. Tim doesn't know how to feel. Doesn't... Doesn't understand.

He wakes up and doesn't remember.

Jason, however, catches both Dickface and the Hellion trying to kidnap his Replacement. Has some Opinions about that. He'd THOUGHT things were too quite.

There goes his reading day. And he'd been making such good progress on his books. This is some BULLSHIT. Meh, Timbers can sleep on the couch. Back to his regancy novel. Except of course his life could never be that easy. The fuckers team up. Lie their asses off to some Kryptonians. And he KNOWS that Kon-El has been just WAITING for an excuse, so DICK MOVE you FUCKERS! Oh shit!

Now they are in a lead lined bunker. No quality literature in sight. Timbits is convinced the idol turned everyone but him evil and you know what? Yeah. Yeah that's EXACTLY what happened. We should kick them in the dicks about it. It's the only heroic thing to do, really.

But then the fuckers FIND his lead bunker. HOW.

And the squirrly little shit he's trying to protect goes "don't worry, I got a place". Next thing he knows? Bam. Just... just a fuckin WALL of pictures of baby him. Timbers had a secret, Kryptonian-proof, stalker bunker? Oh. My. God. This is the creepiest, hottest, most pathetic thing he's ever seen.

Is that one of those WAIFU PILLOWS? Oh my God it IS! It's HIM! Booty shorts and all! Bruce shut that shit DOWN. They only ever managed to sell 15!

Tim regrets everything. Please. Just... for the love of all that is holy. Evil family members? Remember? Ignore my Secret Shame Bunker.

Jason will not. Don't think he didn't see the Red Hood merch. Supporting crime alley merchants are we? Cause they are the ONLY ones who sell those. The rest you had to have MADE. You're a creepy little fanboy. Holy shit. How did he FORGET that?

......Jason kinda needs to bend you over that creepy waifu pillow on those Red Hood sheets and fuck your brains out. Get over here. Now.

Tim would... LIKE to say as both a collector and self respecting vigilante, he doesn't desecrate his collection and get wildly distracted. But. Well. He would be a lying liar who lies. He's face down, ass in the air in SECONDS. Jason pounds him like he's trying to permanently bruise his hips. Makes him admit to all sorts of things he SWORE he'd take to the grave. Then flips him on his back, bends him in half, and goes AGAIN.

Somehow he finds Tim's old self-interest fanfiction. Drags Tim's head down to blow him as he reads it out loud. There are literary critiques. Tim's too distracted by the cock in his mouth to care.

Dawn comes. Tim does not remember. Jason wages war against the two fuckos who would prevent take two of "The Secret Fuck Bunker: An Epic Romance." He is INVESTED.

Bruce... finally acknowledges he can't keep ignoring whatever nonsense his sons are getting up too. It's loud and getting in the way of, you know, BREAKING THE TIME LOOP. You remember that, RIGHT children of his? He banishes them from the house. Well, Alfred does. He nods and agrees to it.

Tim is concerned but understanding. Bruce explains what progress they've made. They... they talk. Tim is supportive. He always has been, even when Bruce did not deserve it. Bruce.. admits the loop could not have come at a worse time.

The anniversary of- When he was lost in time? Tim finishes.

Yes. Being unmoored. Lost, trapped, and helpless before a force you can't so much as touch. Bruce has never liked timeloops. They are made to drive men mad.

Hesitantly, Tim climbs into his lap. Heavy and warm. Alive. Here. Arms wrap around Bruce in a hug and he just? Let's himself... breathe. Holds his boy back. Anchored and okay, if only for now. The hum of the computer, the chattering of bats, the smell of Tim's cologne. It's meditative.

Hands, running soothing fingers through his hair, gripping his sweater. A head resting against his own, Tim's lips ghosting against his forehead. Nearly a kiss, mostly just closeness. It's... it's the stillness that does it. Let's the thought he refused to think, finally slink forward. It's just them here.

And only he will remember.

But... He is an old and broken man. Has insisted on playing Father figure for so long, for all he did it so poorly. What right does he have to think this, much less ACT on it? To complicate Tim's life. Try to be something he's not even sure he can manage? What right does he have?

And why? He wonders, rubbing his exhausted cheek against the softness of Tim's shirt. Is he so very weak, so selfish, when it comes to love?

Tim's fingers pause... and then continue.

They have always been a lot alike. This may have been inevitable. But a day spent camping in his chair is not. It's terrible for his back. And for all that the loop may reset physical exhaustion, they clearly do nothing for mental exhaustion. The program will run just fine on its own, Bruce. Too bed with you.

For the first time in years, that old Batman Mischief. Oh? And who will keep him there? Hmm? You? Better supervise him. Make sure he stays. Tim's laugh fills the cave. Guess he has no choice then, does he?

Shukking clothes, Bruce feels decades younger. Back when the world wasn't so heavy on his shoulders. Just two young men, a soft bed, in the dark. He kisses Tim breathless as he works him open. Finds sensitive spots on his neck as he wrings and orgasm out of his boy, just to get him relaxed. Plenty of lube and stretching, and he's sinking in. Slow and relentless.

Tim gasping, shaking, gripping his arms like a lifeline. Tim feel like he's being impaled on a log. If he didn't love Bruce he'd have called it off the second his pants were off. He's never sitting again. Never WALKING again. It's not even rubbing against anything, just pressure. But... but Bruce is looking at him with such AWE and in such PLEASURE and he.. he cant.....

Bruce starts slow and relentless. Just getting Tim's body to let him GO. To stop clenching and relax. Little by little. Then faster. Harder. It feels ruinous. No ones ever going to be able to stuff Tim like this. He can't even tell if he LIKES it. So much. Full. Stretched and sloppy and all his inside pumped to pieces.

Should be crude. Violent. He's being RUINED. But Bruce is so loving. Holding him and praising him and kissing him. Gasping like it's the best he's ever had. That's cheating. How us Tim supposed to be mad if he does that? And then Bruce cums in him and he can't even... even...

Bruce loses count, how many rounds they go. Tim is absolutely fuck drunk and gapping, his poor little hole drooling and twitching around nothing. He should have held back. Next time he'll hold back.

Probably.

He pulls his sweet boy close and just... let's himself exsist. Holds him. Everything is warm and good. He drifts off.

And wakes up alone. Start of the loop.

Bruce breaks some things.

He also puts two and two together, as he stalks his was to go fetch Tim. The odd behavior of his sons makes a.. sudden sort of sense. Family Room. Now. Let Tim sleep.

No one wants to admit to anything. Them? Take advantage on the timeloop? They would never! Take advantage of Tim's lack of MEMORY of the loops? They would NEVER! In fact! What were YOU doing at the devils sacrament, goodie Procter?!

Accusations are thrown.

Bruce asks if they're done.

Because this can go one of two ways. They leave Tim alone until after the loops after finished. OR? They share.

What.

Tim can't make an informed decision with less then 24hours of information to go off of. We may remember our time bonding with him. But HE does not. We share, he decides. What, if anything, he'll do AFTER the loop ends. No fighting or No Tim.

Argue and I'll have Clark remove Tim from the house each day, every day, at midnight. Full 24 hours. Try me.

Tim wakes up to a VERY weird energy in the studio today. The vibes are Off. You guys... good? They explain the Timeloop. He chooses to believe it's that.

Right up until Jason pulls him into a guest bedroom and fucks him on the floor.

It takes a lot of days Tim doesn't remember, for the program to Find Constantine. He gets fucked in his bed, his brothers bed, the batcave. There are threesomes he doesn't remember. Face fucking. Machines. Each morning, the SAME morning, his family greet him with a stranger and stranger energy he can't quite place. He's missing something.

They find Constantine right before a loop resets. Tim is asleep when they head out to Argentina. He goes from dead asleep to WIDE FUCKING AWAKE.

TIM. REMEMBERS.

Oh, you BASTARDS. Not even a DRINK first? What is he, a cheap date?? Just a "hey gorgeous" and a hand down his pants!?!? He's killing them! Alfred! ALFRED! Where's the shotgun!?

Those fuckers better GROVEL. No dates, no ROMANCE, just fucking him against the nearest flat surface. In FACT! KON! Kon get your Midwest ass over here! You're my dad now!

The Bats hear Boss Music and are rightfully afraid to answer their phones. It won't save them. Tim is MIFFED and owed ROMANCE and ROMANTIC fuckings. Where the hell are his flowers? His fancy restaurants reservations? His ALIEN TECHNOLOGY!?

He's moving in with the KENT'S! No pussy for you! No pussy 1000 years!

😭😭😭😭 tim getting so MAD at the bats for not romancing him and just fucking him instead- repeatedly to. they used him like an open cunt at a glory hole!!! he would absolutely be livid and as for the bats, tim is angry but at least he's still talking with them even if it is to yell and insult them 😭😭😭

[master-sass-blast]

Let's Call it a Draw Between Us -Chapter One: Defeat.

Author's Note (uploading multiple works tonight, so I'm slapping this on all the fics I'm posting):

Uh... hi.

It's been a very long time. Longer than I'd hoped for, but suffice to say, this year hasn't gone according to plan.

In sum, I had a mental breakdown in Spring, got diagnosed with hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome in July, my husband totaled his car in September, I was sick for the whole month of October, my husband found a new (used) car... and then hit a deer at the end of November, and the insurance company ruled that it was totaled because the repair costs would be worth more than the value of the car.

Yeah.

There's been other shit, too, but part of what I've learned with the new diagnosis is that my body does not regulate or cope with stress well -which I sort of already knew, but it's to a vaster extent than I'd known. Essentially, this past year has just taken me out at the knees, and it will probably take my body a while to regulate and function well again.

I still want to write and post fics, but I now have a lot of anxiety around not being able to write and post fics (along with other things that my befuckened body interferes with), which is just... a lot. And frustrating.

I'm not throwing in the towel. But I also can't promise any sort of posting schedule moving forward. Right now, my body and brain are just too unpredictable, and I have to make sure I'm taking care of my basic needs (like eat and hygiene and sleeping, it's literally that difficult to deal with) so that I'm physically okay.

Thank you all for being so patient. I hope to see you more regularly in the coming New Year, but if not, know that I'm okay and still kicking, but that my body's just kicking back for the time being.

Much love and best of wishes to you all for the New Year!

Summary: Sevika pines. She drinks. Then she competes in some arm wrestling and makes some very sapphic eye contact.

She loses, loses again, and then she wins.

Or maybe she wins all three times. It depends on your point of view.

(Basically just a very self-indulgent fic that spawned from an idea about Sevika and a big, buff Reader that I'll probably never get around to writing in full, so I wrote this as a way of honoring that idea.)

Pairing(s): Sevika/Reader.

Rating: M for some sensual themes and making out.

Word Count: 10.1k. Whoops.

You drive her to drink.

Speaking of… Sevika leans against the bar and snaps her fingers at Thieram. “Whisky, neat. Half a glass.” She narrows her eyes when he raises his eyebrows at her, then scoffs and goes back to staring across the room once he jumps to. Idiot.

She hadn’t expected much out of you after she first met you. Properly met you, that is. Technically, her first introduction to you had been in an underground fighting ring stocked by Stillwater’s hardier, more opportunistic patrons. You’d made quick work of the other prisoners, but Silco had wanted a proper evaluation before deciding whether or not to scoop you up, so in she’d gone. She’d socked you in the jaw, you’d suplexed her through a shitty wooden table. Good times.

She hasn’t had any complaints about you. You’re quiet, compliant. You don’t get drunk on the job, and you don’t start fights with the rest of the crew.

But that seems to be about it. You don’t really hang out with anyone else. You’ll talk to her every now and then, but otherwise you keep to yourself. You don’t play cards with the others, shoot pool, or share drinks. No swapping of stories, or exchanging inside jokes. From what she can tell, you keep to yourself like a hermit in an invisible cave.

Like a shadow, she reflects as you hang back in your usual spot (towards the back of the bar, tucked into darkness, where no one bothers you). If you’re not watching it, you forget it’s there.

She’d thought that was it. She’s seen plenty of people leave Stillwater and fall into violence, or inebriation, or withdrawn sullenness. She figured you were a tragic statistic –yet another to add to Zaun’s tally.

And then…

Her upper lips curls when Jinx comes bounding down the stairs. She tracks the blue-haired sprite across the bar, over to where you’re sitting, then scoffs when you greet Jinx with a small smile before glaring down at her glass.

It’s like watching a flower unfurl after weeks of frost. You smile and open up towards the sun of Jinx’s exuberance like you’ve been doing it your whole life, like there’s nothing more natural to you than beaming at Silco’s brat. And, sure, Jinx is a kid and she’s kind of cute, for a demented gremlin. But she’s still Jinx.

Sevika scowls down into her whiskey. Fucking psycho kid.

You’d called it kismet when she’d asked why you tolerate Silco’s batty brat. You’d lost your baby sister when you’d gone into prison, Jinx had lost Vi after the factory explosion, and then, years later, the universe had brought you two together and balanced everything back out, or fucking whatever.

She supposes it’s a decent arrangement. Jinx isn’t nearly as vicious and off kilter with you around, and you get all soft, and mushy, and happy, and pretty–

Sevika motions to Thieram to top her glass up again. Fuck me.

You’re protective of Jinx, too. Not that the brat can’t handle herself (Sevika has her new arm to prove that). But, she can still remember the night Finn’s gang had crowded into the Last Drop. They’d been obnoxious, and overbearing, and more than a little sloshed. Jacen, one of Finn’s “good buddies,” had slapped Jinx across the ass as a joke.

He’d done it in front of Silco. He was a dead man regardless.

Before anyone –even Jinx–could react, though, you’d lurched out of your chair, grabbed the sledgehammer you keep with you in lieu of a knife or a gun, and taken two long strides across the bar. “Jacen!”

Sevika’s core clenches at the memory. She lets out a harsh breath, then gulps down half her drink.

The crimson, glittering spray of blood through the air had been beautiful. Like gems cascading through the air. Jacen’s face had caved in on one side from where you drove the head of the hammer all but through it. He’d dropped to the floor in a heap, unmoving.

“Anyone else want to have a go?”

She’d gotten herself off to the thought of it that very night. The fury in your eyes, the decisive, powerful movements of your body, the splatter of blood. She’d climaxed harder than she had in a long time.

The whiskey burns her throat –expected and grounding.

She takes it without coughing or gasping. She’s been an expert for decades. Her jaw works as she finishes swallowing, and then she turns her head so she can watch you again.

You’re listening and nodding while Jinx rambles. There’s a certain attentiveness to your expression. Maybe it’s the angle of your eyebrows, or the soft, lax look of your jaw, or the brightness in your eyes. Whatever it is, it’s a total abandonment from both the harsh, dominating fury she’s seen from you, and the skittish, withdrawn apathy.

Something soft and needy aches beneath her ribs as she watches you with Jinx. Sevika grits her teeth and exhales with practiced languor. I’ve gone fucking soft.

Sevika doesn’t consider herself possessive. She visits the brothel far too regularly, and has more than a handful of casual “situationships” with different ladies around Zaun to be possessive. She’s not monogamous, at least. She doesn’t think of other people as property. The children of Zaun don’t have the luxury of such affluent detachment.

But she wants you. It’s like this thing that sits beneath her ribs and crawls around inside her. It’s restless, and writhing, and it gnaws on her bones like a feral dog in the dark corner of an alley. It keeps her up at night with racing thoughts, vivid hopes, and half-formed “what ifs.”

It also keeps her up at night because, more often than not, she winds up masturbating to the thought of you –like some starstruck, gods-damned teenager.

She’s not used to wanting –not for companionship, at least. She wants her freedom, wants her equality, wants Zaun to stand strong against those fucking Piltie pigs… but that’s about Zaun. There’s a certain degree of detachment there. It’s not about Sevika personally, the woman who is renowned at the Gardens, beats everyone’s ass in cards, and can drink any citizen of Zaun under the table. The woman who got blown up and survived, lost an arm and came back stronger, and practically rules the Undercity with a steel spine and a –literal–iron fist.

She doesn’t want for company. Any attention she wants, she can easily get. She doesn’t stay up half the night yearning for anyone, much less a… lover? Companion? Affection?

Sevika knocks back the rest of her drink, but the burning in her throat pales in comparison to the ache in her chest. Janna, kill me. Put me out of my fucking misery.

She wants you. She wants to get her hands on you, get you underneath her (or on top of her, she’s not picky), and crack you open. She wants to drink you down, watch all that rage and goodness and steeliness and softness pour out. She wants to find its source and let it all wash over her. She wants it –needs it–for herself.

She wants it to be hers, even in part. She wants to bask in everything you keep held back by your silent, stoic mask.

There’s a headache forming behind her left eye. Probably from clenching her teeth; ever since the scars on her face crystalized, the muscles on the left side of her jaw have been more sensitive to strain.

She’s not used to this –this, this insipid, endless pining. It’s been going on for months now, and she’s just about ready to put a fork in her eye just to make it fucking end.

She barks at Thieram to get her another glass. Drink until you feel nothing. Zaun’s oldest remedy. She leans heavily against the bartop, then groans beneath her breath. Might as well buy the whole bottle. Against good sense, she resumes watching you. Warmth spreads through her chest when you grin at Jinx, and she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

“Y’know, somehow, I don’t think she’s going to figure out you like her just from you staring at her like a creep through a window.”

Sevika tenses, then glares at Ran as they sit down on the barstool next to hers. She picks up her refilled glass with her left hand and lifts it to her lips. “Fuck off. Nobody asked you.”

Ran stays where they are –a credit to their courage, at least. They smirk, then glance across the bar, to where you’re sitting, before returning their knowing, smug gaze to Sevika. “It’d be easier if you talked to her.”

“Shut. Up.”

“I’m just trying to save you the eyestrain.” They grin, thin and sharp, when Sevika flips them off, then lean against the wooden countertop. “Seriously, though. Why not ask her out?”

Sevika scowls and focuses on her whiskey glass, which is suddenly very interesting. “S’not that simple.”

“Why not?”

Sevika nearly kicks them off the stool and onto the floor (just for starters), but when she catches a look at Ran’s face and realizes they’re not teasing, she sighs and scrubs her face with her right hand. “I… I don’t know what she’d say.”

“Since when is that a problem for you?” Ran asks, face twisting with equal parts mirth and disbelief. When Sevika rolls her eyes, they shove her shoulder lightly. “It’s not like you ever have to work for it.” They pause, then smirk devilishly. “Maybe it’s weakened your game. Is that it?”

Sevika glares at them, then kicks Ran in the shin when they start snickering. “I’m gonna smother you in your sleep. And for your information, you giggling bastard, that’s not the problem.” When Ran swallows their smile and motions for her to continue (while rubbing at their shin), she huffs. “I –I don’t know if she likes women.”

Ran’s visible eyebrow arches. “You’ve seen her.”

“...Duh.”

“She likes women.” When Sevika grimaces, Ran narrows their eyes. “You think otherwise?”

“I don’t think she likes anybody,” Sevika admits; doing so is somehow both a relief and condemning all in one. “You’ve seen her around people. She’s not exactly interested.”

“Not everyone likes a girl in their lap the way you do.”

“That’s not the point,” Sevika snarls under her breath as she rolls her eyes.

“Then what is?”

It’s not easy to articulate. Sure, it’s an unspoken, universally acknowledged truth in Zaun, but that doesn’t mean anyone ever says it.

People go into Stillwater, and they come out –if they come out at all–different. Broken. You spent most of your life in that shithole –spent most of your teenage years there–at the anti-mercy of the wardens and other prisoners. It only stands to reason that any part of you inclined towards a relationship –or sex, or human contact–got snuffed out by the need to survive.

She feels bad for you, sometimes. Only when it’s too quiet, and she doesn’t have anything to do, and she’s not drunk and-or high enough to keep her thoughts from wandering to the dark, traitorously soft corners of her mind. She can almost see the child you started as –fiery, but so soft and good and kind–and it all got stomped out by the assholes ruling above them.

Sevika forces herself to loosen her death grip on the glass. Breaking it wouldn’t be the end of the world, but she hates picking shards out of the grooves of her mechanical fingers. “You haven’t seen her around Silver. She touched her shoulder–” she nods at you subtly “–without warning. I thought she was gonna break Silver’s fingers.”

“That’s Silver,” Ran says with a derisive curl of their upper lip. “She wouldn’t know the meaning of ‘boundaries’ if it rammed itself up her ass.”

They’re not wrong; the young woman’s brazen attitude is one of the things Sevika likes about Silver –albeit in small doses.

“She doesn’t talk to anyone,” Sevika murmurs, pathetic by her own standards. She’s worn down enough, though, to speak plainly. “She doesn’t go to any of the brothels, or take anyone home –and, yes, I’ve asked. She hates being touched, or being near anyone.” She presses her lips together to keep a pitiful smile back –she’d never forgive herself–then downs more whiskey. The burn of the liquor grounds her, brings her back to normalcy. “I don’t think she’s interested.”

Ran nods minutely, mulling the evidence over. They watch you for a minute, hawkish in their scrutiny. “She sits with Jinx.”

“Jinx,” Sevika grits out (both because it’s Jinx, and because of the implication of Ran’s observation), “is a kid.”

“She is,” they agree, unfazed. “But, clearly, she’s not entirely opposed to all human contact.”

Like I don’t fucking know that. Sevika clenches her teeth together to keep from snapping. She’s observed the same damn thing, and it’s what keeps that whining, consuming, itching ember of hope burning in her chest.

Ran watches Sevika for a moment, then continues when she doesn’t say anything. “She sits with you.”

“That’s different,” Sevika says on reflex.

“I don’t think it is,” they press. “She never sits with anyone else. It’s either on her own, with Jinx, if she’s here, or with you.”

“I–”

“It’s not like she’s in it for playing cards,” Ran continues, staring Sevika down when she tries to argue. “And she doesn’t drink much, either.” They prop one elbow against the bartop. “Frankly, if you’re not here, then she isn’t. She only bothers hanging around if you’re here.”

“That’s–”

“She talks to you a lot, too,” Ran drawls, tone both teasing and reflective. “The rest of us are lucky to get a word or two from her, but she’ll talk the whole night with you.”

“I’m–”

“She lets you touch her, too. I’ve even seen her touch your shoulder in return.”

“If you interrupt me again–”

“Quit moping,” Ran says, voice flat and final. “Ask her out, or get over it.”

There’s a lot she could say to that. First of all, no one accuses her of moping. But she tucks it away for later; she doesn’t want to start kicking Ran’s ass in front of everyone, because that means the trigger point for said ass kicking will inevitably become common knowledge. Her feelings are nobody’s business but hers. Second of all, no one but Silco tells her what to do, and that’s only for work. She is the only damn master of her personal life, thank you very fucking much. Third, she knows for a fact that Ran spent nearly two years pining for one of Silco’s assassins, so they’ve got zero room to talk shit.

Sevika downs the rest of her drink, then motions for a third refill. “She’s not interested.”

Ran stares at her for a moment. Then, they scoff and shake their head. “You’re an idiot.”

Sevika glares harshly at them–

The door to Silco’s office creaks open, then thumps shut, followed by the man himself quietly descending the staircase to the bar floor. “Jinx.” He finishes buttoning his trench coat shut. “Pack up your things. We’re going home.”

“What?” Jinx’s face screws into the picture of teenage consternation. The baby fat on her cheeks makes her look younger still. “But–”

“It’s alright.” You quickly and neatly arrange her blueprints and drawings into a single stack, then hand them to the blue-haired youngster. “We can talk later, okay?”

Envy curls in Sevika’s gut when Jinx hugs you and you reciprocate with one arm. She turns away and hides her scowl behind her glass. Fucking brat.

Silco addresses the rest of his crew, “I trust that you’re all competent enough to avoid burning the place to the ground?” He arches his good eyebrow, then smirks when a mix of serious answers and half-drunk jokes rise up from the crowd. “Good enough.” He turns to face Sevika and tosses her a key. “You decide when the bar closes.”

She catches the key with her right hand, then flips Petrichor off with her left when they start grumbling under their breath about Sevika being in charge. She raises her glass to Silco in lieu of a spoken fair well, then knocks the rest of it back when he leaves out the rear with Jinx in tow. “Fucking finally. Theo! Put something good on for a change.”

“Are you having another?”

Sevika looks down as Silver –one of Silco’s personal spies–materializes at her side. She eyes the younger woman –her tight dress, high ponytail, and alluring make up–then looks away. Not with you. “Probably not. Best to take it easy.”

“Since when?” Ran mutters under their breath.

Sevika subtly kicks their stool, then looks down when Silver situates herself between her legs.

“You sure?” Silver pouts –which does stir something in Sevika, given Silver’s plush lips and deep-colored lipstick, but it’s not the something that she wants tonight. Silver bats her eyelashes a little, then smiles coyly. “Could be fun.”

Sevika bites back a scowl; she doesn’t want to put Silver off permanently –not yet, anyway. She wracks her brain for some sort of believable excuse that even Silver would accept–

As fortune would have it, one falls into her lap.

“–pretty sure I hit three-fifty yesterday–”

A collective chorus of groans alerts Sevika to the newest problem –chiefly, that Arik is bragging about his “gym gains.” Again.

Nevermind that she could break him over her knee like a fucking twig.

“It’s taken a lot of dedication and hard work.” Arik stretches and flexes, preening while everyone else rolls their eyes. “I don’t want to brag, but I’m probably the strongest member in the crew.”

Sevika arches one eyebrow in judgment; it’s ludicrous, considering that he’s ignoring her, the bouncers, Leon and Boris, and Lock, Silco’s mountainous, tattooed henchman that works security at the Shimmer plants. Why do we even put up with you?

Theo barks out a laugh. “Fat fucking chance, dickwad. No way in hell you’re the strongest person here. Pretty sure Miss Silver could knock you on your ass.”

“I’d take that bet,” Silver chimes in, twirling a lock of her straight, powder purple hair around her finger.

Arik pouts, looking like a spoiled teenager. “Oh, yeah? Who’s strongest, then? You?”

“No.” Theo shakes his head. “I don’t have delusions of grandeur like you. Nah, it’s probably…” He looks around the bar, eyeing the bouncers, then Sevika, before twisting in his seat so he can see the back of the bar. “Actually, it’s probably Mouse, here.”

It takes you a moment to register the nickname foisted upon you by the rest of the crew. You lift your head, blink a few times, then straighten up. “What?”

“Cuntface here–” Theo jerks his thumb over his shoulder at Arik, who sputters and wheezes like a dying engine “–thinks he’s the strongest person in the crew. I wagered that title would probably go to you.”

“Oh.” You look around at everyone, then nod. “Okay.”

Arik huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “There’s –there’s no way to prove that! Size isn’t everything!”

Sevika bites back a smirk as every single woman in the bar glances at each other and rolls their eyes.

“You’re shitting me, right?” Theo sneers at Arik. “Look at her, and look at you. It’s not going to be much of a competition.”

“You can’t prove that!” Arik insists, expression petulant.

Theo swivels in his seat to face you again. “Can you knock him out to shut him the fuck up?”

“No one’s doing that,” Sevika pipes up when everyone starts chattering and laughing excitedly. When people start grousing, she levels the room with a hard, final glare. “We’re not paying to get blood out of the floorboards. Again. If you all want to be idiots and knock the shit out of each other, you do it on your own time and floors, where I don’t have to clean up after your fucking mess.”

There’s a lull, and for a moment it seems like that’ll be it–

Silver perks up. “What about arm wrestling?”

“Hey,” Ran drawls, eyes lighting up. “That could work.”

“Anything to get this moron to shut the fuck up,” Theo grumbles.

Arik pouts, but says nothing.

When she realizes everyone is looking for her –presumably for permission, not that anyone’s ever bothered asking before–Sevika waves one hand dismissively. “Knock yourselves out.”

You watch as a table is cleared and Theo all but shoves Arik into a chair. When everyone looks expectantly at you, you shoot a wide-eyed, somewhat panicked glance her way.

Sevika offers you a half smile, then shrugs as if to say ‘it’s your choice.’

You shrug back, then sigh before standing. You stride over to the awaiting table and sit opposite a very grumpy, red-faced Arik.

Sevika shifts on her stool so she has a better view. Heat unfurls in her core as you prop one elbow against the table. She watches the way the thick muscles in your arm and forearm ripple with each movement. Damn.

Arik shifts in his seat. His eyelid twitches as he eyes your arm and hand. “I– I don’t know–”

“Take her fucking hand,” Theo growls.

Arik swallows hard, then props his elbow on the table and takes hold of your hand.

“On go,” Ran declares –they’ve left the bar and now stand beside the table. “Three… two… one… go!”

It’s not even a competition. If anything, it’s almost pathetic.

Arik tenses his arm –then squeaks when you push his hand down so fast he nearly falls out of his chair. The back of his hand hits the wooden surface of the table with a dull thonk. He lets out an angry snarl, yanks his hand away, then lurches to his feet and storms off with such force that his chair topples to the floor.

Everyone else cheers and claps as the front door of The Last Drop slams shut behind Arik.

“Fucking finally,” Theo mutters before running one hand through his curly hair. He looks at you and smiles appreciatively. “Thanks for shutting him up. Want a drink?”

You lean back and away. “I –I’m good, thanks.”

“That wasn’t even a challenge, though!” Silver pipes up, pouting.

“We already knew it wouldn’t be,” Theo fires back drily.

“But,” Ran interjects with a wry edge to their voice, “if we’re really trying to figure out who’s strongest…” 

Sevika presses her lips into a thin line when they turn and look directly at her. Don’t you fucking dare.

“Do you think you could beat Sev?”

Traitor.

You look at her, then lean back in your seat and grin. “Oh, yeah. Easy.”

Sevika feels her brows rise up, and she grins back despite being annoyed with Ran literal seconds ago. “Really? That’s the stance you want to take?”

“I mean…” You shrug and smirk. “It’s the truth.” You raise one eyebrow as buzzed laughter and inebriated runs through the gang. “What, you're too scared to test it?”

Them’s fighting words. Sevika cocks her head to the side, smirks right back, then shoves off her barstool and stalks over to the table.

Your eyes light up as she sits down across from you. You lean forward, prop one elbow on the tabletop, and grin. “It’s nothing personal, Sev.”

The crooked angle of your grin makes her heart flutter in a delightful, squirmy manner. She swallows hard, forces down the childish feelings of elation, and props one elbow on the table without dropping your gaze. She smirks, and revels in the way your eyes dance in the bar lighting. “Nothing personal, sweetheart,” she fires back, making sure her voice comes out lower and huskier.

Your grin broadens. You clasp her hand and squeeze tight while Theo counts down…

“Three, two, one–”

Oh shit.

It’s like shoving against a wall. Granted, Sevika’s shoved, kicked, and punched a number of walls in her day. She’s left her mark –even broken a few–on nearly all of them. She likes to think that she’s a reasonably strong, generally indestructible motherfucker.

You watch her for a few moments, expression placid –save for the smug, wicked, coy, sexy smirk on your lips. You let her try for a little longer, then inhale sharply and blink rapidly. “Wait, did we start already?”

“Fuck you,” Sevika grits out without any real malice.

You grin, showing a brilliant, alluring flash of teeth –and then you push.

“Shit.” Sevika strains against your arm.

To her credit, she feels your own arm waver slightly; to your credit, you brace your muscles, and it’s like pushing against a wall again.

She grits her teeth and tries to up the ante again. She curses when it doesn’t work, then grunts when you push her arm down another fraction of an inch.

“You okay, baby?” You grin when everyone else laughs (it’s a mix of delight and shock). “It’s okay if you need to tap.”

She grins back. Right now, she doesn’t care if she loses. Frankly, if you keep flirting with her like this, she’s the real winner in this scenario. “Keep it up, baby. We’ll see who taps.”

It’s a lost cause. You take your sweet time, push her hand down smooth and slow, and talk a lot of smack all the while.

She’s got less than an inch between the table top and the back of her right hand, now. You’re not even actively pushing, more just keeping her pinned at that point. She grunts, then laughs when your arm doesn’t budge. “Come on, you cunt. Just fucking finish it!”

You laugh in return and wink. “You’re getting tired in your old age, Sev.”

She grins. “Say that again and we’ll take this out back, bitch.”

You wink –then shove the back of her hand down against the table.

The crowd clustered around the table breaks into cheers.

Sevika can’t find it in herself to give a shit. Yeah, she lost, people are teasing her for it, whatever. She’ll kick their asses later, if she feels like it. Right now, you’re laughing, and smiling at her, and she technically got to hold your hand. That’s all she really cares about.

“What about the other one?”

Sevika blinks a few times, then frowns, confused. She looks up at Theo. “Huh?”

“Her other arm.” He’s talking to you, but he turns and gestures to her mech arm. “What about that one?”

“Uh…” Trepidation flashes across your face as you eye her prosthetic. You cringe and lean back in your chair. “I doubt it.”

It’s fair; her mech arm is reinforced, has motors that work the joints the way her muscles used to, and it’s heavy as shit. She’s crushed bones with her mechanical hand, just by clenching her hand into a fist.

But, still. In for a penny, stupid ways of flirting –all that shit.

She props her metal elbow on the table, resulting in a muted thud.

The table quakes beneath the weight of her arm.

She grins in a way that she hopes is taunting and enticing. She holds up her left hand and waggles her fingers. “You scared, sweetheart?”

Your eyes flash. You run your tongue along the inside of your lower lip. You brace your forearms against the table as you eye her metal hand. You hesitate, pressing your lips together, then say, “Just don’t crush my hand.”

“Nah.” She shakes her head. She’s not out for revenge.

Your shoulders relax. You cock your head from side to side, stretching your neck, then put your left elbow on the table and clasp her mechanical hand. “Bring it on. Sweetheart.”

It’s a more even match; she’d certainly hope so, given the fucking mechanical arm.

There’s a vein popping out on the side of your neck. Your face is pinched, expression one of intense focus and strain. The muscles in your arm and forearm stand out in full, glorious relief, defined and rippling as you fight against the force of her arm.

Her arm isn’t shaking this time, at least; such are the merits of steel reinforcement bars. But she’s not moving your hand, either. Sevika growls. The motors in her arm whir as she pushes harder.

You grunt and shove back. You bare your teeth. Your gaze is locked on where your two hands are joined. Your hands trembles from the sheer force of your exertion–

And then her hand lowers an inch.

Everyone else gasps. Exclamations and expletives roll through the bar.

“Fifty gold pieces says Mouse does it,” Theo says. 

“Bullshit,” Ran fires back. “She’ll get tired, first.”

Kharim pulls out a pad of paper and a pencil. “That’s fifty on Mouse, so far. Do I hear one hundred?”

“I’ll put twenty on Sev,” Silver says with a sweet smile.

“Really?” Sevika grunts as she pushes harder against your hand. “Only twenty?”

You let out a breathless, strained laugh –then push her hand down further.

“Who’s got another fifty on Mouse?” Kharim asks.

Too late, she realizes her prosthetic arm is actually working against her, in this situation. She has to work against the weight of the mech arm –which you can use to your advantage, naturally. The built in mechanical safeties are hosing her, too. Her arm is designed such that, at certain angles or certain levels of exertion, the gears and motors will give to whatever she’s working against. It prevents damage to the internal mechanisms and bending the internal support structures. It’s invaluable for the longevity of her prosthetic, but it also means she can’t mindlessly strain against your hand like she could with her right arm. Her only hope is that her left arm can outmatch yours in raw strength.

Normally, she’d go all in on that bet. Normally –unless her opponent was doped to the gills on Shimmer–there wouldn’t even be enough force in the picture for the failsafes to override the locking mechanisms.

You growl, teeth bared in a glorious snarl, and shove her metal hand lower.

She can’t even find it in herself to be mad. One, she’s not some mealy-mouthed bitch who needs to be the strongest person in the room at all times; she, unlike some people (Arik), is confident in herself and her abilities. Two, it’s frankly impressive. It’s an unrepentant display of raw strength, and she’s not above respecting it. Three…

It’s hot.

She’s torn between focusing on resisting you and watching the muscles in your arm flex. Her mild buzz isn’t helping, either. In hindsight, should’ve stopped with the second glass. It’s taking far too much focus not to just gawk, to grin and simper like an idiot, and she likes to think she still has her pride –which is also why she’s not just giving up. After all, she has her pride. Sevika growls when you force her hand lower, then doubles down and pushes back. Maybe not for much longer, with how this is going. Fuck.

You grit your teeth. There’s sweat glistening along your hairline (which might be her only other saving grace, since her mech arm can’t get tired). You snarl, then grip her hand tighter.

Sevika swears when her arm suddenly jerks downward. She nearly topples out of her chair, saved only by managing to plant her feet beneath the table. She catches herself, blinks–

It’s over.

You shove her metal knuckles against the table with a thud –hard enough that the wood dents inward where her steel knuckle guard hits the surface.

The crowd goes nuts, loses their minds, whatever. If she’s being honest, she’s really not paying attention to it. A distant fragment of her brain registers the squaring of bets, exchanging of coin, but–

You’re still holding her hand.

A larger, deeply buried part of her is furious that she doesn’t have better sensory input on her left hand. She can detect pressure and temperature, rudimentary shit, but she can’t feel the calluses on your palm, or the precise texture of your skin. She can’t really gauge how thick your hand is in hers.

You’re still panting, somewhat dazed as you stare down at your joined hands. Slowly, your eyes trace up the line of her mech arm, up to her face, where you take in her stunned expression. You swallow, quick, then grin.

You’re breathing hard. Your skin glistens faintly with warmth. Your hair looks tousled, slightly sweat trapped. And your grin practically glows.

It’s the closest she’s ever been to seeing what you look like after sex. Sevika can feel her mind filing every single detail of how you look away for future masturbatory reference. She grins back, slow and a bit dazzled. “Shit.”

You let out a soft, quiet laugh. You drop her gaze for a moment, but when you look back up your eyes shine unabated joy.

You’re not looking away. You’re not pulling away. You’re not letting go of her hand.

Do it, a voice that sounds irritatingly like Ran’s whispers in her mind. Do it, you fucking coward. Sevika licks her lips, then leans forward, hoping that she comes across as conspiratorial and collected. “I–”

“Aw, don’t feel too bad, Sev.”

The sudden intrusion feels more like an assault. Fake, sweet perfume cloys at her nose. There’s arms around her neck, and unwanted weight in her lap.

Silver’s face looms into view. She peers down through her lashes, lips posed in a perfect, alluring pout. “It’s not–”

Whatever else Silver says goes in one ear and out the other. She’s looking over the smaller woman’s shoulder, instead.

You pull your hand back across the table. Your smile slips away, and your shoulders bunch up ever so slightly. Back to the usual mask of the careful, quiet mouse.

Godsdammit. Sevika shoves Silver out of her lap and stands with a snarl. “Fuck off.” She stomps away and up the stairs, to where Silco’s office and a few private rooms are. “Everyone, out! Tonight’s done!” She ignores the groans and jeers following her, storms into Silco’s office, and slams the door shut behind her so hard that it rattles in its setting.

Silco’s office is mercifully dark. Quiet.

Sevika collapses onto the quilted velvet couch tucked into the corner of the office. She drops her head into her hands and scrubs at her face. Janna’s left fucking tit, that was a disaster. She sits up, only to slump against the couch like a dejected teenager. This is never going to work out.

If she was anyone else, she might cry –out of sheer frustration, if nothing else. Since she’s not anyone else, she helps herself to a cigar from Silco’s stash.

She only gets as far as rummaging through his desk for the cutter. (Jinx must have absconded with it. Again.) Something in her hindbrain makes her go still; an old, well-tested instinct that says ‘something isn’t right.’

Sevika freezes. Her eyes scan the darkness for any signs of intruders, or one of Jinx’s traps. She strains her ears; aside from the faint, scuttling noises of stray pests, it’s silent.

Too silent.

There should be more talk coming from downstairs; she hadn’t really expected everyone to listen to her when she ordered them all to clear out. There should be music playing, people arguing, clacks from the balls on the pool table. At the very least, there should be complaining and the noises of a final clear down.

She’d half-expected Silver to follow her upstairs. Or maybe Ran, at least. But there’s no sounds of someone climbing upstairs, or Silver’s high-pitched voices, or even creaking floorboards in the hall outside.

Sevika pulls out a knife she keeps tucked in a sheath hidden behind the waistband of her pants. She creeps forward, deadly silent, until she reaches the door of Silco’s office. She gingerly places her right hand on the doorknob, until it’s completely encapsulated by her grip, then slowly turns the handle. Once the latch is fully retracted, she tucks herself behind the door and inches it open. She waits for a beat, then another, then peers around the corner.

The bar is empty.

Now that the door’s open, she can hear the sounds of someone rummaging around the main bar floor. There’s no conversation, though; it’s too quiet to be the usual crew, for another matter.

Sevika stalks down the hall. She quietly, efficiently clears each room before she passes it, until she reaches the end of the outer wall, where the balcony begins. She tucks herself into the shadows, then peers around the corner.

You’re down on the bar floor, putting the remaining chairs up on the tables.

Sevika watches you for a moment, somewhat dumbfounded. Where the fuck is everyone else? She blinks, until her brain finally processes that The Last Drop has not been broken into by assassins or other hooligans, then steps around the corner and into the full light of the bar. She taps the railing of the balcony with her metal hand to alert you to her presence. When you look up, she gestures around aimlessly. “Where’d they go?”

You look around, then back up at her and shrug with one shoulder. “You said to get out.”

“Doesn’t mean they’d actually listen.”

Your gaze cuts away from hers. You duck your head, then go back to putting up the chairs. “Might’ve pushed ‘em. Enforced the order.” You give a one shouldered shrug. “Thought you wanted ‘em gone.”

Sevika grunts and nods. Fair enough. At least, now, she doesn’t have to deal with Silver lingering around. For lack of knowing what else to do, she watches you as you continue tidying things up for the night. “We don’t pay you to do that.”

You shrug; your back’s to her, now, as you work your way around a circular table. “Doesn’t really matter. Thieram deserves a night off, every now and then.”

There’s not much point in loitering on the balcony and staring at you like a mooning idiot. She strides across the length of the balcony, tromps down the stairs, then crosses the distance to the table you’re working in three strong steps. She grabs one of the remaining chairs, flips it upside down with ease, then hooks the seat of the chair on the table top.

You go still for a moment. You watch her, gaze following her every movement, until you relax again and resume working. “‘M sorry ‘bout earlier.”

She nearly trips over the chair she’s picking up. Sevika stalls, blinks, then sets the chair back on the floor and levels you with an incredulous, confused stare. “What?”

“For kicking your ass.” The corner of your mouth briefly ticks up in a self-satisfied smirk, but it washes away to true contrition. “Wasn’t trying to humiliate you ‘n front of everyone.”

“I–” She pinches the bridge of her nose. Can’t imagine where that narrative came from. “I’m not. You didn’t.” She hangs the chair from the table, then scoffs, indignant. “Fuck’s sake, I’m not Arik.”

You smirk, but stay still as you watch her for a few moments. “You were mad about something.”

“I was mad at Silver,” Sevika grouses, careful to avoid making eye contact. And her lousy sense of timing.

You let her get the last few chairs, opting instead to grab a tray and collect stray glasses and empty beer bottles. “You two okay?”

She snorts. “We’re not involved enough to be ‘okay’ or otherwise. We’ve fucked before. End of story.”

“...Did she do something to you?”

The tight, lethal quietness in your voice gets her attention. She straightens up, meets your gaze, and shakes her head. “No. She just gets on my nerves now and then, s’all.”

You grunt, understanding, then add a couple more glasses to your tray before carrying the lot over to the bar.

Sevika grabs a couple stray, half-empty bottles of whiskey, tequila, and vodka, then follows partially in your wake. She stops at the bar counter, watching as you round the end so you can dispose of the beer bottles and set the used glasses in the sink. She sets the half-consumed bottles on the counter, then leans against the neon light-edged lip while she watches you. “Gotta say, it was pretty impressive.” She smirks when you half-turn, brows lightly drawn together, then waggles her metal fingers. “Figured I’d have you licked.”

You snort, then shake your head. “Might’ve.” You set the last of the glasses in the sink, then drop the beer bottles in the recycling can. “Probably would’ve if we’d gone longer. You’d have me beat on stamina.”

She can’t stop her automatic, teasing, too sultry for its own good reply. “Oh, I doubt that.”

You do a quick double take.You stare at her over your shoulders, eyes the size of dinner plates. Then, your lips press together before quirking upwards in a shy smile. You laugh softly. “Yeah, well, your mechanics would’ve won, in the end.” You toss the last of the bottles into the recycling can, then turn and step to the bar. “Figured it was just best to–” you draw your fingers across your neck in a quick slash and click your tongue “–cut things quick, override the locking mechanisms.”

“Smart,” Sevika purrs.

You lick your lips, then grin. You eye her for a moment, shifting from foot to foot –then, you grab the remaining bottles and crouch so you can stow them beneath the bar counter. “Course, helps that you’re shit at arm wrestling, too.”

“Excuse me?” she laughs, caught off guard and bemused. “Run that by me again?”

“You’re shit at arm wrestling.” You chuckle as you stand. “Your form’s terrible. Makes you easy to beat, even if I wasn’t stronger than you.”

She grins wide, exhilarated. Fighting words. “Oh, is that how it is?”

You plant your palms against the bartop. “‘S how it seems to me.” You smirk –which grows into a smile as she looks you over–then prop your right arm against the counter. “I could show you a couple tricks. Improve your odds a bit.”

She takes the bait like the happiest, dumbest fish that ever lived and sets her right elbow atop the counter. “Teach me your ways, oh wise one.”

“Right off the bat–” You reach forward and adjust the angle of her arm. “‘S really not about raw power. I mean, it helps, but angles are a lot more important.” Your hands slide along the length of her arm, adjusting things until you’re satisfied with how she’s positioned. You nod to yourself, then move to her wrist. You hold her right hand with both of yours. “Gotta think about how you’re holding your hand, too. Too many people wind up pushing with their forearms. Means that they got their hands at the wrong angle, most of the time. You want to be pushing with your upper arm and shoulder.”

“Whatever you say, coach,” she drawls, layering on the sarcasm to –hopefully–hide how breathless she is.

You snort, then lower your left hand and grip her right hand with yours –assume the position. “Alright. Try now.”

She does –not with as much vigor as she used in the initial match, but she still puts decent effort into it. Her eyebrows spike high when she feels less strain than earlier. “Shit.”

You flash her a lopsided grin. “See? Knowing what you’re doing helps.”

“Bite me.”

You fake a grimace. “Not until you shower first. I don’t know where you’ve been.”

“You implying something?”

“I’ve seen how many people you can beat up in a week, Sev.”

She chuckles, then shrugs in concession. “Fair enough.” She grips your hand tighter and smirks wickedly before shoving against your hand, hard. “Hope you’re ready to join the list–”

You grunt –then brace against her onslaught and force her hand the other way.

“Shit!” Sevika strains against your hand, but it’s veritably useless as you slowly push her hand downward (at least you have to work harder for it, this time). “Son of a bitch –motherfucker!”

“Still stronger than you,” you fire back as you finally pin the back of her hand against the bartop. You smile, impish and sweet. “But that was a good try.” You grin when she glowers at you, then toss your head back and laugh when she flips you off with her left hand.

She can’t think of a retort; the wrestling tugged your shirt off kilter, and your laugh exposed something new –fresh, smooth ink along the side of your neck, previously hidden by your collar. She stares, tracing the way the tendrils of the flowers curve around your neck and down your clavicle before disappearing under your shirt. “That’s new.”

You look down at her, blinking rapidly, then crane your neck to look down when she gestures loosely at your chest. “Oh. Yeah.” You shrug with the opposite shoulder. “Wanted to do something for myself. Cover up some of the shit I got inside.” You hesitate, then swallow hard and ask. “Do –do you wanna see the rest of it?”

“Sure.” The meaning of your offer doesn’t really hit until you let go of her hand so you can start unbuttoning your top. Sevika locks her knees to keep from toppling over as all the blood rushes Southward from her head. Janna, help me.

Mercifully, you only undo the top three buttons on your shirt. Unmercifully, that gives you enough leeway to push the right side of your shirt down over your shoulder, revealing more of your chest and your neck.

Oh, and the tattoo.

It’s pretty. It’s a good piece, too, done by someone who knew what they were doing. The design is a dense cluster of flowers that fans up the side of your neck and down over your collarbone.

“That’s real pretty,” Sevika ekes out, voice gone to gravel. She reaches up to touch it, but catches herself before her hand leaves the bar. Don’t startle her. “Do you mind?”

It takes you a moment, but you look down when she gestures with her flesh hand. “Oh.” You let out a soft, trembling breath. Your throat flexes as you swallow. “Yeah –go for it.”

Everything that follows feels like a dream. The world seems to take on a warm, golden hue that overpowers the glaring neon lights and the dark shadow of night outside. It feels like she’s moving through molasses, achingly slow as she lifts her hand towards your neck.

Your skin is unbelievably soft beneath her fingertips. The lines of ink stretch slightly as she traces down your neck and over your shoulder.

“This okay?” Sevika murmurs.

“Yeah.”

Something about your heavy, trembling exhale makes her look up.

You’re staring down at her with wide, dark eyes. Your lips are parted, and you’re practically panting despite standing still.

But you’re not pulling away. You’re not shaking. If anything, you’re practically melting beneath her hand. And your gaze is locked on her face –practically zeroed in on her mouth…

Oh.

She owes Ran a drink. Or another kick in the shin. Maybe both.

This, however, is at least more familiar territory –so long as she plays her cards right.

Various options flit through her mind, but they all desiccate before they reach her tongue. She quickly finds herself locking up instead as she tries to figure out what the fuck to say. Shitshitshitshitshit–

(She’s never been more grateful that you kicked everyone out. Ran would never let her live this down.)

“Ask her out, or get over it.”

Sevika swallows hard. Go big or go home. Not like the world’s gonna end if she says ‘no.’ She clears her throat. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re really fucking attractive?”

“I–” Your eyes go wide as you sputter. Your gaze flicks between her eyes and her mouth. “Not –no. Not really.”

“Shame,” Sevika drawls. She traces her thumb down the stem of one of the flowers inked into your neck, then looks back up at you. “You’d think they’d have eyes. I’ve noticed since the first time we met.”

You snort, equanimity somewhat restored. “What, in an illegal prison fight club soaked in the blood of others?”

She smirks and winks at you. “You made it work.”

You draw your lower lip between your teeth as you smile. You duck your head bashfully, then brace your forearms against the countertop –which puts you closer to her height. “I hope you won’t be offended if I say that I didn’t notice you ‘like that’ from the start.”

Her gut drops. “Oh?”

You shake your head, gaze still glued on the countertop. “I was, uh, a little concerned with surviving –making sure you didn’t knock my teeth out with your metal fist, that sort of thing.” You let out a little laugh, then look at her. “But I noticed later.”

Warmth blooms in her chest and abdomen. She grins, soft and slow. “Really?” Her grin grows when you smile shyly and nod. “Well, shit. Lucky me.” She strokes her thumb along your tattoo again; satisfaction curls in her stomach when you shiver.

“I–” You lick your lips and look at her eyes, then her lips, then back up, then back down again, then back up again. “I don’t…” Your gaze locks onto her lips when she smirks; your pupils blow wide, and you let out a ragged, heavy breath. “I’d really like to kiss you right now.”

Heady elation blooms in her chest and quickly spreads through her body. “That,” she murmurs as she slides her fingers beneath your chin and leans in, “sounds great to me.”

Your lips are soft against hers. Hesitant. You freeze, scarcely even breathing.

But you’re not pulling away –or panicking–so she decides to stay the course. She presses her lips a bit more firmly against yours, then smirks when you let out a quiet moan and angle your head towards hers. There we go. After a few moments, she breaks the kiss and pulls back incrementally to assess your interest level.

You’re trembling. There’s a faint glow of sweat on your forehead. Your breaths come ragged and fast, chest rising and falling heavily. Your eyelids are half-lidded, pupils blown so wide that your eyes nearly look black.

Before she can do anything, you lean in and kiss her again; this time, it’s her turn to moan against your mouth.

It’s clumsy. It’s easy to tell that you don’t have much –if any–experience in this department. But your unabashed eagerness more than makes up for lacking finesse.

Sevika gently grasps your jaw with her right hand, guiding you through the series of kisses that follow. She carefully angles your head as she pleases, and pulls back intermittently to both catch her breath and see what you’ll do. When you keep following her lead, she decides to nip at your lower lip –just to see if it’ll draw you out of your shell more.

You let out a throaty growl when her teeth graze your lower lip –and then you pull away.

A mix of disappointment and fear flash through her stomach –but it all drains away when you vault over the counter and land next to her. She smirks as you crowd into her space, but frown when genuine trepidation settles over your face. “What?”

Your brows pinch together. “I–” You clear your throat when your voice cracks. “I don’t… I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

Oh. That’s all. She smiles, lax and confident, then places her hands on your broad shoulders. “Touch me, sweetheart.”

“Where?”

She slides her hands down your chiseled arms, then takes your hands and places them on her hips. “Anywhere.”

You’re too still at first –nerves driven by inexperience. But you loosen up when she nips at your lower lip again. You draw in a guttural breath, then squeeze her hips tighter when she curls her fingers into your waist. You press closer to her when she slides her tongue against yours. When she slides her right hand up the back of your neck and tugs at the soft hair at your nape, you growl, then slide your hands around her ass and squeeze.

Finally. Sevika moans softly and arches against you. She wraps her right arm around the back of your neck, so she can keep you close, and rests her left hand on your hip. She plunders your mouth with her tongue, then moans again when you grope her ass more firmly. She hooks one metal finger through one of the belt loops on your pants and tugs you closer –then gasps when you shove against the bar.

You crowd against her, kissing her fiercely, eagerly. Your hands cup her ass and lift, forcing her onto the balls of her feet so you have better access to her.

Surprise flits up her spine. She’s not used to being in this position; most women come to her to be manhandled, not the other way around. But she can see the appeal of it; there’s a certain giddiness in the gut that accompanies it, like the hang time from jumping across rooftops.

The kiss devolves into something artless and hungry. The two of you meet each other in the middle, pressed against each other like teenagers in a closet.

She’s starting to get into that state where she feels like she’s melting into you, and vice versa. The bar, the faint drone of passersby always present in the Lanes, the buzz of the neon lights that wrap around the bartop, the arm wrestling match less than an hour ago –all of it’s gone, blurred into background coloration like splotches on one of those fancy, impression-type paintings, for which Pilties drop the equivalent of a Trencher’s life earnings (and then some). There’s that familiar, ravenous ache in her cunt. She ought to ask you back to her place; The Last Drop hardly seems poignant enough for your first time. But the notion of stopping your eager exploration of her body is downright offensive –especially when your open mouth catches her jaw and sends arousal curling through her gut.

You pause when she tips her head back. A few ragged pants fan across the sensitized, blood-hot skin of her neck. You swallow, then clear your throat. “I –is this–”

“Yes.” She curls her right hand around the back of your neck, then gently presses your forward until you lean the rest of the way in and press your lips against her throat. Her eyelids flutter as you trail soft, closed mouth kisses over the hollow of her throat. She moans softly, and her fingers curl into your short hair. Fuck. She waits for a bit, letting you explore, but pipes up again when she feels you growing more hesitant –nerves winning out over exploration. “Use your tongue.” She shudders when you lick beneath her jaw. “Attagirl.”

The praise does something for you. You moan into her skin, then repeat the motion again. You swirl your tongue against her throat, mimicking the way the two of you had kissed seconds before.

“That’s it,” Sevika encourages you, eyes rolling back in her head. She rolls her hips against you, then groans when you press closer, neatly pinning her against the bar. “Good girl.”

You whine, loud and broken, then lift. You half lay her out on the bar, then support the rest of her by locking your arms just beneath her ass. You bend over her and bury your face in her neck, devouring her like a starved stray.

Sevika locks her ankles behind your back. She clutches at the back of your shirt with her right hand, and braces herself against the bartop with her left arm. She’s in the perfect position to grind against you, so that’s just what she does.

A small, idle fragment of her mind notes just how great this is. Yes, she enjoys having her way with women –and she’ll get to you soon enough–but there’s something to be said for receiving. It’s a new spin on “being eaten alive,” and she’s never been happier to be dinner.

She slides her fingers into your hair when your mouth trails lower, towards her clavicle. “Good girl.” She gasps, then tightens her grip on your hair when you drag your teeth over her collarbone. “That’s it –good girl, good girl–”

You moan and grind your hips against hers–

Something crashes in the alleyway outside. There’s a loud slam, followed by the crystalline crack of shattering glasses. An enraged, muffled shout ensues, followed by more heavy thudding.

You both freeze.

She recovers first. A few minutes of hearing proves it’s just a couple of angry drunks going at it –she can hear slurred, if muffled, arguing and grunting that accompanies being punched. Idiots. She turns back to you–

You’re completely stiff. Your eyes are wide, gaze flicking around the bar. You’ve gone from holding her to gripping the edge of the bar top.

Sevika winces faintly when she hears your knuckles crack. She opens her mouth to reassure you–

Another thud makes you flinch –and then you press down against her.

Sevika grunts. She tries to sit up, only for you to push her back down. She stops struggling when you use your arm to cover the top of her head. What the–

There’s something so deeply protective about the gesture that it makes her brain short circuit. You’re literally covering her with your body, as though the ceiling’s about to collapse on top of the both of you.

It’s sweet. It’s also bewildering because nothing bad is fucking happening. It’s just drunks in the alley; they’ll probably pass out long before they could ever beat each other to death.

Sevika gingerly splays her fingers against your back, between your shoulder blades. She murmurs your name, but gets no response –not even a glance of recognition. Her stomach drops when another round of shouting makes you flinch. She feels your chest push against hers as your breathing speeds up –and okay, that’s enough, time to divert things. She says your name, louder this time, then carefully cups the side of your face with her right hand. “Hey, baby. It’s okay. Just look at me, alright?”

You jolt when her thumb sweeps across your cheek. You do look down at her, though, and let out a shaky breath when you meet her gaze.

She revels, just for a moment, in how quickly you melt again under her attention. You’re still tense –you haven’t let up your death grip on the bar top–but your shoulders loosen up and your breathing slows a bit. You swallow hard, then lean every so slightly into her touch.

Focus. She can already feel herself getting sucked back into dreamy, brainless bliss. Focus, focus, focus. She blinks hard, then clears her throat. “Hey. Let’s get out of here, yeah? My place is quieter.” She pushes up on her left arm so the counter isn’t digging into her back. “More comfortable.”

“Oh.” Your eyes go wide. “Uh–”

Sevika swallows a grimace. Shit. Maybe Ran was right; she’s rusty, too eager, and now she’s pushing too fast. “It’s okay if you don’t–”

“No, no,” you cut her off. “We can –I just–” You set her down, then lick your lips as you rock from foot to foot. “My bed’s probably bigger.” You shrug and shove your hands in your pants pockets. “That’s all.”

Only several years of playing cards keeps her from sagging in relief. She nods, trying to process as panic flashes and ebbs, then takes a moment to study you. She notes the tightness in your shoulders, the way you’ve got your head ducked, and presses her lips together faintly. “I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

Your eyes flash, and you step closer to her. “It’s not,” you growl, “an issue of want.” You swallow, then let out a self-deprecating laugh –which, fortunately, prompts you to relax a little. “I just won’t know what I’m doing, s’all.”

“I can work with that.” Sevika closes the distance between the two of you, gripping your hips when you bend down and kiss her again. She savors the feeling of your lips for a moment, then pulls away and grins up at you. “Lead the way, sweetheart.”

[iocaisaint]

Random things I'd change in ACOSF

Feeling particularly hateful, don't wanna see it move along

There's actually too many things to fix in canon!Nessian so it's not getting page time actually.

Figure out what Nesta's powers actually are/have 'Lady Death' actually mean something (in my mind she would be able to make things come to bring things back from edge of death, commune with the dead, kill people/parts of people like she can make a hand rot, summon the death trove etc.)

On that note instead of the imprisonment rehabilitation being about drinking /fucking have Nesta hurt someone accidentally (we know she was basically an atomic bomb levels of power AND was using alcohol to drown out powers it would make more sense)

She sequesters herself in Windhaven with Az (who's spending as much time as he can with mom post-war), the IC chooses not to be filthy hypocrites and listens to her when she doesn't want to be around Cassian

She meets Gwyn working in the library trying to figure out her powers. Gwyn storyline is mostly the same, only Gwyn has more of a desire to leave the library but hasn't reached the point in which she can. After their initial meeting Nesta starts helping Gwyn with her work.

Now Emerie! It's time to give my sister a storyline. So, one day when Nesta is out and about she finds Emerie like half-bleeding to death (in this version Nesta isn't in prison rehab so she can leave whenever she wants)

She helps her but Em is like tight lipped as hell as to what happened to her. We find out that Em basically runs an underground railroad type of situation where she takes Illyrian women and children from abusive homes to the more "progressive" camps; when Nesta found her her group had been intercepted and she chose to stay behind. Idk how old Em is but she's been doing this ever since her mother died at the hands of her Dad. I can't think of a better name so let's call them The Dropoffs™

Em and Az DO NOT get along in the beginning. His general feelings towards Illyria Vs her feelings towards the current leadership being functionally useless (she's right)

Em begrudgingly starts training with Az because he is the best and she wants to get better so that she can hold her own during The Dropoffs™ . Az also respects what Em is doing. Nesta doesn't train but offers moral support out 1. Fear 2. She doesn't want to

Nesta off-handedly mentions this to Gwyn, who asks whether she can join (same reason as in canon it would be something that Catrin would do. Nesta asks Az, he's like sure 🤷🏾. So slowly The Valkyries™ are born

Gwyn and Em butt heads initially because of the library. Emerie rightfully questions why she's risking her life when there's a sanctuary for this shit in her home that isn't offered to Illyrians

We find out that Beron & Briallyn are working with Koschei (we don't know the exact terms of the deal and won't find out until the next book)

Have Eris train her (I already know SJM gonna drag the shit out of Beron's death) he needs someone to kill his father, she needs someone who understands her powers.

This will include a side trip to GOT s3 known as the Autumn Court, we get Nesta being the courtier she was supposed to be, we get out of NC and we get Beron dead everybody wins!

We get some questions answered Mor, Jesminda etc.

Nesta & Eris kill Beron after much, much scheming and close calls. HL of Autumn Eris

While this is happening Az is whooping Gwyn and Em into shape decides to be dumb like in canon and show them off to the Illyria men. They get kidnapped for the blood rite.

Nesta is like absolutely not and goes to get them outta there.

She finds them with the bracelets, they've managed to climb Ramiel but Emerie is fucked up between having to basically carry Gwyn there and injuries they sustained along the way.

Nesta tells the Cauldron to go fuck itself in this version, has her one on one with the Mother and basically begs her to heal Emerie. The Mother does and everything including Emerie's wings are healed.

Sprinkled in for necessary character development Nesta coming to terms with her dad dying (we're sticking to the pre-acofas canon of her hating the man so she has actually complex feelings, also her feelings towards Feyre AND Elain, being turned into something she never wanted, her being really good at being courtier but also hating that she relishes in what her mother trained her in)

Also Modest Nesta in!

Lastly, Feyre is rightfully terrified cause her sister just came from murdering the oldest high lord to the blood rite, Nesta apologises for the cabin and also explains why she doesn't want to visit her dad's grave, she tells Feyre she loves her) AND SCENE

If I had to do a romance it would probably be Neris OR Nesta/Emerie cause why not

The only storyline I hate more than Nessian was Feyre's pregnancy so off-page Rhys got over himself called Tamlin and had him shift Nyx's wings so he could be delivered safely and then shifted Feyre's womb afterwards. A hard but ultimately peaceful delivery thank you!