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seresinhangmanjake · 8 months

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The One I Want

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x plus size!reader

Summary: You're new in town and some guy named Jake is about to be your roommate. Being skeptical of new people keeps you lonely and uninterested in any entanglements, but Jake is desperate to change that.

Notes: This is part one of a new series.

Warnings: Judgment related to weight. Cursing. Fluff. Angst. Eventual smut (alluded to/or other). Self-esteem issues.

Words: 1622

Masterlist

---

You’re going to be new again. You’re so terribly tired of being new. But that's how it’s always been. Never in one place long enough to be considered a usual in town. Never a constant in anyone’s life. No. You’re the new girl, because people don’t give you a choice to be anything else.

You learned it quite young. People’s lingering glances have nothing to do with curiosity or intrigue. They don’t stare because you’re particularly beautiful or unique-looking. Rather, they watch you so they may judge and criticize and tease. You learned it doesn’t fade as you age. People are people, and not all of them grow. Unfortunately for you, those people are scattered about the world as much as the good-hearted ones. But the good-hearted never approach you. They never look your way.

Eventually, as it goes, the life you’re living, surrounded by those people, becomes too much. You get tired again. You leave that disappointing town. You find somewhere new. You repeat. The many places you’ve been have become tainted, and now you’re left with few. So few that two nights ago, instead of four different cities scribbled on notecards to choose from, there were three. The options are slimming. You put the cards in a bowl, closed your eyes, and now you’re a California resident, for however long that may be.

It’s extreme, you sometimes think—writing off a whole city or town when they’re full of other neighborhoods with different people who have fresh pairs of eyes—but it makes you feel better. You can say to yourself that you no longer live in that city or town. That city or town was an old life.

In your new life—born from the moment you crossed the state line all of four hours ago—you’ve yet to feel out of place. Things have kept from souring. No wrong turns. No bad weather. A new apartment awaiting you from an ad you’d answered the day prior. The ad included a roommate you don’t want, but it’s cheap and all you can afford until you get a job.

It’s also a risk. This “Jake” guy could be as bad as the rest, but there’s only one way to find out. And if he is bad—well, you’ve got two more notecards in your bag.

—

It’s nicer than you expected, and that brings forth a hearty handful of questions. Why would this guy need a roommate if he lived here? Why is the rent so cheap? And when you finally knock on the door, Jake is actually…a woman?

You do a quick scan of her face and form. She’s beautiful in nearly every conventional way. Her features fit in all the right places on her face. Her body is proportional, filling out clothes the way they are meant to be filled out. She’s intimidating. Not the roommate you expected, and certainly not a roommate you can handle having. She might very well be lovely, but you don’t need a daily reminder of what you are not.

“Are you…Jake?” you ask.

“Natasha. You’re in the right place,” she replies, moving aside to make room for you to pass the threshold.

Looking around, you almost gasp. The interior matches the grandness of its exterior wrapping. Lofted ceilings; natural light; walls painted in thick, throughout coats so as not to allow the slightest hint of their previous shade to peek through. It officially confirms what you hadn’t wanted to acknowledge before—you’ve grown too accustomed to living in dumps. From the shine of the floor alone, you know you’ve never held yourself to this guy’s standards.

Will I have to meet those standards?

“Jake couldn’t be here so he asked me to let you in,” Natasha says. “The key is on the counter.”

“Right, um–” You swallow, unsure how to ask what could easily be interpreted as rude. “And this Jake guy, is he…”

“Not a creep,” she promises with a light smile, “Just irritating.”

“That’s a relief.”

“If you like arrogant pilots.”

You almost tell her that a know-it-all plane man is probably one of the last people you intend to worry about—falling in place next to old ladies, babies, and tiny dogs—but you keep your mouth shut. She doesn’t need your story. And if Jake is a pilot, then it seems safe to say he won’t be around enough to bother figuring you out, either.

“I can handle a pilot.” As long as he keeps to himself—Another thing you don’t say.

The brunette nods. “Then this might work out after all,” she says before giving you a once-over. “He’ll definitely be surprised by you, though."

That stops you, nudging you back into a past you’re trying to forget. It makes your breath catch in your throat. Your ears begin to thump from a quickening pulse. “What do you mean by that?”

Chocolate brown eyes widen briefly before relaxing back into an indifferent mask. “Nothing. I’m sure you’ll get along fine,” she says. Another smile. Same as before. Then, “If you’re okay, I actually have somewhere to be.”

Releasing a tense exhale, you plaster on a smile of your own. “I’m good. Thank you.”

She nods and makes her way toward the door, wrapping slender fingers around the brushed nickel knob. “Jake said to let you know he’ll be back late. So you have some time to get acquainted with the place.”

She twists the knob and steps through the open frame. When the door has nearly eclipsed the remainder of her body, she pauses and her eyes meet yours. “I hope you'll like it here. It’ll be nice to have another woman around to dilute the testosterone,” she says. Then she’s gone.

Standing in the apartment alone, you feel like an intruder. Though Natasha told you to get acquainted, you can't imagine going on the hunt for your bedroom, or unpacking your clothes, or reclining on the couch with a snack from the refrigerator. Something in you says it's better to stand in the same spot until your roommate returns to lead you about the place himself. If only you knew when that would be.

—

The only thing clueing you in that, at some point, you’d fallen asleep in the armchair by the bookshelf is the key-in-lock sound now stirring you awake. You jolt up out of the chair to find the sun had set so long ago that not a sliver of orange on the horizon remains. How many hours had been wasted making up for lost sleep when you should’ve been rehearsing how to respond to all possible reactions your roommate might have upon seeing you?

It doesn’t matter. You’re out of time now.

You’ve barely readjusted your shirt to hide the exposed line of your bra by the time the door opens. But the man who walks through is far from what you imagined, and you had imagined plenty.

You wait for a second, breath trapped in lungs. But then you realize he has yet to notice you, so with curious eyes, you use his unaware moment to truly notice him.

He’s tall, broad, with short sandy blond hair and a jawline you’ve not seen on any man outside of a TV screen or glossy magazine page. Sharp like etched marble. His stubble is a day's worth, and while you suspect it’s not a representation of his usual appearance, you can’t say it doesn’t suit him well.

Through pink parted lips you hear the exhale of his sigh, and suddenly see from the slump of his shoulders as he removes his jacket to hang on a nearby hook that he’s as tired as you are. Likely for very different reasons, but tired all the same. An affliction of sorts you understand too well.

When he runs a hand down his face, as if to wipe off the exhaustion like a wet rag removing dirt from skin, you get your first full image of him. Before it was just his profile. That was enough to tell you plenty, but straight on he’s…more. From the hallway light, you catch a glimpse of the green hue of his eyes. You notice the tanness of his arms–not natural, but from spending too much time in the sun–and the veins that trail along them like rivers in the earth.

You’re suddenly not so sure what you’ve gotten yourself into. Men like him you’ve dealt with before, and it doesn’t often do you well. However, you promised yourself that with each town, you’ll pretend your past pain doesn’t exist so you may approach the new people and places without preconceived opinions. It’s a struggle of a promise to keep, but you do your best. And having just arrived, it would be silly not to try to do your best here as well.

Those green eyes finally find yours and he stops short, almost stumbling as if he forgot to expect you. But he recovers quickly, standing straight and sturdy to confirm his height. His slightly slackened jaw coupled with the stare he gives you, however, doesn’t quite manage the same impressive recovery rate. His face can’t hide his surprise.

A throat-clearing is followed by, “You’re my new roommate?”

You can’t tell if there’s judgment in his tone. Disappointment, maybe? He’s still staring.

“Yes,” you say calmly, giving him a chance to not be the prick you suspect he might be. Don’t break your promise, you internally scold.

His gaze lingers on each feature of your face. Eyes pause at your lips before traveling lower; much lower until he reaches your toes then makes his way back up to where he started.

A beat passes. He swallows hard. Then that deep voice, having turned a bit husky, mutters a soft, “Fuck.”

---

A/N: again, this is a new series. So part 2 soon. I hope you liked it :)

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hier--soir · 7 months

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a lover's pinch | six

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: joel and rachel have dinner. a confession is made. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, JOEL POV, sexting/nudes, joel has bad restaurant etiquette lmao, descriptions of arousal, references to past smut, the guilt and shame that sometimes go so neatly hand in hand with wanting, miller daughter cameo, mild angst, discussion of a car accident. word count: 4.8k series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: just a reminder that this is set within ALP5, when joel goes to have dinner w rachel. just a short little peek into my beloved professor’s mind, and some context between j & r. hope you like it x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part six of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five.

Sunday.

“Nina thinks it’ll rain tomorrow. Overcast too, probably.”

There’s a faint hum through the phone as she speaks. A vague buzz that crackles and pops in almost every beat of silence. Not for the first time, Joel wishes she would let him buy her a new phone.

A gust of wind whips against his face and he cringes, turning his back against the draft.

“Okay,” he replies. “That’s okay, right?”

“It’s fine,” she grumbles. “Wanted to take you to this bar, though. They do these tacos we love. Nina says it’s the best Mexican place in New York.”

“Now how many times do I have to tell you there’s no good Mexican food in New York?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Joel can practically hear her rolling her eyes. He chuckles.

“What time are you coming ‘round?” Ellie asks. “I’ll be in the studio for most of the day, but we normally get home around five. Could do dinner around eight?”

Joel hesitates, and then raises his voice to be heard over the rushing wind. “I was actually thinkin’ I’d come see your studio.”

A moment of humming, crackling silence.

“I’d love to see some of your work,” he continues, peering in through the window of the restaurant. He thinks he can see Rachel through the frosted glass – her mess of dark curls vaguely visible, tucked away somewhere in the corner of the space. He hears Ellie breathing through the phone as he looks. “And s’been too long since you showed your old man any of your paintings.”

“Joel,” she huffs, and it’s that smartass, pained tone that has him grinning wider than anything she’s said up until this point.

It’s few and far between lately – hearing that name coming from her mouth. Joel. Something that’s been intermittent for almost a decade, and has been steadily decreasing since she moved to New York five years ago.

Joel, Dad, Joel, Dad, Joel, Dad.

Joel for years, and then one day—Dad.

It was Summer; Ellie was eighteen and he was thirty-nine, and this word that he’d grown so accustomed to hearing suddenly felt like a fist squeezing around his heart. It became something new, something different. Because Joel knew that, for her, family had always meant mistrust. Had always meant loneliness. Knew that sometimes her childhood felt like a knife stuck in her throat, and on those days, she had to decide whether to leave it in and stem the blood flow, or pluck out the blade and watch everything turn red.

And then one day, years on, it seemed that she’d drawn that dagger enough times. The blood stopped, the mistrust fell away, and—Dad.

Dad to Sarah and now, finally, Dad to Ellie.

“Ellie,” he imitates her tone, well-versed in mirroring her attitude after so many years of practice.

A voice rears up directly behind him and Joel stiffens, glancing over his shoulder to watch a couple exit the restaurant. Coat collars dragged up to protect their necks, arms linked as they smile and start down the street. He imagines Rachel sitting inside, alone, and his smile falters. He knows he should go back in soon, but can’t quite bring himself to cut this short.

“Yeah, okay,” Ellie answers finally, and he can feel the weight that rests in those words.

The admission, but also everything that goes unsaid alongside it. A silent acknowledgement of years spent reading between the lines, trying to know each other; years of her locking her bedroom door, hiding her journals, her artbooks, her pencils. Anything to keep someone else from seeing the way she expresses herself – from understanding that she feels anything. And this yeah, okay – well, it’s as close to I love you as the two of them ever get.

Joel says, “I’ve been missin’ you, kiddo.”

And she says, “I know.”

More silence. More contemplation of how to respond, how to keep emotions level when he is not Joel in this moment, but Dad.

Plucking out the blade.

“Ten tomorrow morning. I’ll send you the address,” Ellie says after a while. “Don’t be late or I’m not showing you shit, old man.”

Heat blasts his face when he steps back inside the restaurant. He tugs his jacket off as he wanders his way toward their little corner table inside San Vecchio—old saint. A small Italian place that Rachel likes to visit whenever she’s the city, and has slowly but surely grown on him.

When he gets close enough to see the table his stomach drops, face twisting into something apologetic as he lowers himself into his chair.

“Shit,” Joel mutters, staring at their food. Brought out while he was on the phone, sitting untouched; she didn’t even pick up her fork in his absence. A shameful heat rises in his face. “I’m sorry, Rach.”

“Hon,” she just laughs him off. “It’s okay, it only just came out.”

He nods, grateful, and lets her pour him a generous glass of wine. Red. A bottle of the Carignan, please, he remembers her telling the waiter. Although, when he takes a sip, he can’t tell the difference between this and the twenty-dollar cabernet he buys once a fortnight from the grocer.

They press the lips of their glasses together and murmur soft calls of cheers and another conference done, the words all but swallowed up by the raucous sounds around them.

“How is she then?” she prompts, never able to tame her curiosity.

“Ellie?” Joel’s eyebrows jut up, and he sets his wine glass down. “Good, yeah, good. It was nice to hear her voice, I, uh, I’ve missed too many of that kid’s calls over the past few months.”

Rachel nods, and when she smiles his chest feels a little lighter, because it’s the type of smile that says it’s okay, everything is okay, you’re a good dad, you took the call. And she has always had that kind of soothing effect on him, since the day he met her all those years ago. There’s this compassion to her character; a warmth akin to that of a sister. Smarter than hell and kinder than she’s ever been given credit for.

“Are you seeing her while you’re in town?”

“Mhm, tomorrow.”

“Well, that will be lovely,” she beams and takes a sip of her wine. Carignan stains her mouth. “Is she still with Nina?”

“She is.”

“God, that must be, what, four years they’ve been together now? That’s great, Joel.”

“I’m happy for her,” he smiles, gripping his fork. “They’re renting out this art studio together at the moment – Nina’s an artist too, did I—?”

“Yeah, you told me.”

“Yeah, they’ve been using the space to work on some new stuff. Ellie was tellin’ me ‘bout this gallery downtown, how they’ve offered her some exhibit space. Gonna have a show down there in March.”

“Wow, that sounds amazing,” Rachel’s eyebrows raise, top lip quirking into a soft smirk as she twirls her fork through a mess of red pasta. “Do you think they’ll get married? Follow in Sarah and Tim’s footsteps?”

Joel can’t help but laugh at the idea. He tries to imagine Ellie and Nina in a chapel, or on a beach, or anywhere, professing their love for one another with friends and family watching on. Tries to imagine Ellie, all tattoos, messy hair, and gangly arms, tucked into a suit or a dress. The image doesn’t come easily.

“I don’t really think they’re the type,” he admits, and Rachel laughs too then.

“No,” she agrees. “I guess not.”

She asks more questions about the girls, the way she always does. Asks about Sarah’s job at the primary school, if teaching is all she thought it would be.

And something like halfway through their meal, around a mouthful of food, Rachel says, “You know I’m glad we’re here, because I need to ask you something.”

Joel’s hands still, face going slack as he meets her eye. There’s something conniving in them. Something sly in the way she smiles, baring her teeth at him. It makes his stomach twist into a tight, burning knot. What does she know?

“Okay,” he says slowly, lowering his knife.

“So,” she hums. “At the conference yesterday…”

“Yeah?” he rasps, blunt nails digging into his thigh beneath the table.

“I couldn’t ask you about it because I didn’t want anyone to overhear us, but… did you see what Professor Neilson was wearing? That blazer?”

“Jesus,” he deflates.

“Oh, come on,” she sputters, and there’s lipstick stained on her front teeth and he finds himself smiling too, relaxing.

“You’re a filthy gossip, you know that?” he raises an eyebrow.

She grins back at him. Winks and says, “Don’t act like you don’t love it, Miller.”

So, for an hour they eat, and talk, and drink. Don’t stop until their cheeks are sore from smiling and their ribs are tight and aching from laughter.

With full bellies and rosy cheeks, they scrape their plates clean. Lips purse and pucker around final sips of wine, and then… and then Rachel reaches across the table and places her hand atop his.

And Joel has never noticed that she has sunspots across her knuckles. Never noticed that she wears a ring on her pinkie finger, one with a dark emerald stone in the middle. Never noticed the thin white scar beside the nail on her index. She squeezes his hand, the pad of a finger skimming his wrist, and he remembers how he held someone else’s wrist only hours before this. Felt her skin beneath his fingers – the frailty of the tendons and veins beneath it, swimming with life as his thumb pressed down.

Joel feels his eye twitch. Works to keep his face relaxed, calm. And when she leaves her hand there, he laughs a little. A choked, wary sound. Turns his hand over so his knuckles are against the table and his palm is against her palm and squeezes once in return. Rachel isn’t smiling anymore.

“You okay, Rach?”

“Do you…” she pauses, mouth twisting into a shy smile as she clears her throat. Joel feels something heavy settle in his stomach. A type of dread that curdles and burns like red sky at morning. “Do you remember when Sarah was in that car accident a few years back?”

Joel swallows. Her hand feels too warm against his, her palm tacky with sweat.

“We were… we were at work, and… and Tim called you and told you she was in the hospital—”

He almost cringes at the memory. Her husband’s name flashing across his phone screen during a lecture. Stomach churning and why is Tim calling me, heart racingand Tim never calls. Remembers hearing those panicky breaths down the line and thinking Texas and Maine had never felt further apart than in that moment.

“You drove me to the airport,” he nods. His knuckles feel tight – he wants to pull his hand back and crack them. Wants to feel the joints pop beneath his skin, let the tension slip away like a sigh.

“You were so distraught,” Rachel sighs. “I’d never seen you like that. So uncomposed, so… chaotic.”

Joel huffs out an awkward laugh and tries to pull his hand back, but she squeezes harder. Keeps it in place beneath her own.

“What’s this all about?” his eyebrows furrow, face pinching into a sort of scowl. He can feel it, he can always feel it when his face does this. So unpleasant, so unwelcoming, and he knows it. Just never figured out how to stop it from happening.

“We were in the car,” she continues, and her eyes are so earnest now. So wide, the whites shining, her lashes darkened and fanned out around them in a way he’s never seen before. She’s wearing makeup. “And you didn’t even have a bag packed, you just wanted to get to your girl. Needed to see her with your own eyes, make sure she was okay.”

His jaw feels tight inside his head; teeth clenched painfully, digging into the gums around his molars as the memory plays in his mind.

Tim’s voice wavering, crying, she was unconscious when they pulled her out.

His hand is numb beneath Rachel’s. She’s fine, he reminds himself. Sarah’s fine, that was years ago.

“I think I knew then,” she says quietly.

“Knew what?” Joel tries to keep his voice level. Ignoring the odd feeling that twists in his chest and has his heart racing faster, so much faster than normal, faster than it has ever raced for Rachel.

“That I loved you.”

It’s almost dreamlike, the way everything seems to blur and fade around them after she says it. Or perhaps nightmarish is the right word. A sharp pain sparks between his ribs and he feels his body stiffen and then loosen all at once. Face, shoulders, hand beneath hers – everything softens. Fuck. His mouth tastes like sandpaper, tongue resting fat and gravelly against the roof of it as she stares at him.

When he doesn’t say a word, she says, “I’d always known you were so kind, so generous to the people around you. But to see the way you love? It’s… shit, Joel, I just knew.”

He’s convinced his throat is tightening.

“And I held it in all of these years, and I’m sorry for that. I was just never sure of how you felt, and you never tried anything with me, never hinted at any feelings. But after the conference yesterday...”

“The conference?” he whispers. He pictures that bench outside NYU. Remembers the nasty wind, an empty champagne flute on the ground, the side of his body going hot where it pressed against hers.

“Walking around that hall together,” Rachel smiles. “You kept holding your arm out for me to hold, and I thought, god, maybe this is it. Maybe you actually feel the same.”

Joel imagines that this must be what people describe as critical velocity. Everything that once was smooth turns turbulent. Every second, every minute, that he’s allowed himself to careen forward, wanton and reckless, on the deliciously destructive course he’s set for himself – all of it just for someone close to him to step directly into his line of fire.

And his silence is so painfully telling. He knows immediately when it’s been too long, too much quiet, too many seconds of nothing said, of no reassurances offered. The muscle in her jaw ticks, and a vertical line appears between pinched eyebrows. Confusion, surprise, hurt. Her hand pulls back, and he tucks his in his lap quickly.

“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh, shit.”

Joel is suddenly certain that he’s going to be sick. His hands shake beneath the table, a violent tap tap tap where they’re clasped against the inside of his thigh.

“Rachel—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Please, don’t apol—”

“I shouldn’t have said—”

“Rachel,” Joel’s voice raises, just a little, just enough to make her pause, enough for conversation at the table beside them to halt for a second. “If anythin’, I should be the one apologisin’.”

She laughs; a sad, quiet thing. Shakes her head at him.

“I guess I… somewhere in my head, I thought you knew,” Rachel says quietly. “Thought you….” The unspoken words hang in the air between them. Thought you felt the same.

And it hurts. His skin prickles at the sound of her voice; laced with pain, with rejection. Your fault, he thinks. That pain is your fault.

“Is there someone else?” she asks then, and her voice is so feeble. So small, so un-Rachel that it makes his chest feel tight. Your fault.

Joel sighs, cringes, fumbles for the right words. The words to explain something that he himself doesn’t even fully understand. Words that will make her feel better, that will put her at ease. Put him at ease.

“It’s not….” he trails off, half-prepared to lie. But then he meets her gaze. Sees the tears that have settled on her waterline and knows he can’t. Wants to hate her for asking, wants to beg her to take back the question. But in the end he just admits quietly, “I suppose there is.”

She sniffles, and when she speaks again, it almost sounds like a question.

“You never mentioned anyone.”

“I know,” Joel nods. “I’m sorry, I think I just… it’s complicated, and it… it’s new.”

“New,” she repeats softly. “And you never… you never thought of me that way.” This time it isn’t posed like a question. There is nothing open ended about it. Instead it’s resigned; final.

The corners of her mouth are downturned, and her lower lip wobbles, a movement so miniscule that he could have missed it if his eyes weren’t trained on her face. Trying painfully to understand this situation that feels as if it has crept up on him in his sleep.

“I’m sorry,” Joel finds himself saying again, and he thinks his eyes must be wide, unblinking, because they’re dry, and he feels panicked.

In his mind all he can think of is every cup of coffee in her office, every borrowed book, every sly joke in the corridor at work. Comforting smiles offered at conferences, snarky notes passed back and forth during faculty meetings. His friend. One of the truest, longest, most persevering ones in his life. One so dear to his heart. The idea of all of that being no more seems almost too painful to contemplate in the middle of a restaurant, with your fault thundering in his chest.

Rachel waves a hand. Feigns nonchalance and offers a watery smile.

“I’m happy for you, Joel,” she says. He doesn’t miss the waver in her voice, nor the harsh splash of crimson humiliation that stains the skin of her face. “I am. Really.”

Except he doesn’t know how to respond to that, doesn’t know what there is to be happy for. Can only watch her face. Can only sit, and stare like a fool at the way the skin beneath her eyes tightens as she draws back tears.

“I’m—” Rachel swallows. Sucks in a huge breath and flattens her palms against the table. Her napkin, stained with soft blots of red and brown, is pressed beneath the fingers of her left hand. The one with the sunspots and the ring and the scar. “Sorry, if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I’m going to use the restroom—”

“Rach,” he tries, hand reaching across the table for—for what? Joel isn’t sure. What is there to do? To say? “What can I do?”

“It’s okay,” she stands, holds a hand out to silence him. Steps out from the behind table and squeezes past him. Her fingers brush against his arm as she goes. “It’s fine, I’m fine, I just need a second to freshen up.”

Joel watches her weave through the restaurant, shifting around tables, until her back disappears through a door at the far end of the room.

There’s a minute of painful quiet. A sort of buzzing in his ears that won’t go away. For a moment all he’s aware of is the look of disdain coming from the woman on the table to his left, and the sharp pain in his chest, and then the sounds of the restaurant come rushing back in. Cutlery scraping against plates, conversation, laughter, the sound of a bell ringing. And something buzzing, really truly buzzing this time. Something against his leg.

Joel pulls his phone out of his pocket and tries not to wince when he sees her name on the screen.

Are you enjoying your dinner?

The glance he spares over his shoulder is short, searching, looking to see if she’s coming back yet. Don’t make this worse than it already is.

Yeah, the restaurant is nice.

What are you doing?

Well my bags are packed, and I just tucked myself into bed

Something tightens in his stomach, and he knows what she’s doing, knows this game so well. The way she always manages to creep beneath his skin. Knows exactly what to say, to do, to have him hanging on her every word.

His fingers hover over the screen, contemplating a response.

Is that right? he types out, and then grimaces, backspacing quickly.

Want some company? he types next.

“Christ,” Joel mutters under his breath, erasing that too.

Embarrassment itches across his body. And then guilt, like a tidal wave chaser rushing to cool his inflamed skin, as he notices Rachel walking back toward him. You fucking asshole.

He straightens in his seat, tucking his phone out of sight as she hovers beside the table, eyes darting between him and her empty chair. She doesn’t sit down again.

“I think,” she takes a deep breath. “I think I should probably go. Early flight to catch, you know? I need to get some rest.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

He can feel his mouth hanging open, dumbfounded, ridiculous, as his brain scavenges for something to say. Never the right words, never when he needs them. Not for her, and not for Rachel.

Rachel reaches for her purse, and he holds out a hand. “Hey, let me… I’ll cover this.”

She pauses, nods. “Thanks.”

“Course,” he says gruffly. She pulls her coat from the back of her chair, wraps it around herself and does the buttons up slowly. Her mascara is smudged. “Hey, Rach, can we… should we talk about this some more? I don’t want to—”

“Not tonight,” she interrupts sharply. “Please, Joel, I’m sorry, just…. not tonight.”

—lose you.

“Sure, okay.” His throat is tight, your fault lodged heavy against his Adam’s apple. “You need help to get a taxi?”

“I’m fine,” she places a hand lightly on his shoulder, and presses her thumb against the skin beneath his collarbone. “Get home safe, okay? We can talk in Maine.”

“In Maine,” he repeats, and the words split and sour inside his mouth. “Okay.”

He doesn’t watch her leave. Doesn’t want to have to see her retreating from him. Doesn’t want to think about if this will be the last time they get to do this.

The waiter returns and he pays the bill, hastily jotting down a generous tip, and offers the women at the table on his left a tight-lipped smile before standing up.

When he finally makes his way outside, he finds a tax idling by the curb, lights on. The driver notices Joel staring; rolls down the window and raises his eyebrows. Where to?

Joel only shakes his head a little, leans his back against the dank, cold brick wall behind him. He takes a deep, shuddering breath before opening his phone, and sends two words.

Show me.

And then, when she doesn’t respond for a moment, he sends another message. Insistent now. Desperate, and even more desperate not to let it show.

I know you want to show me, sweetheart.

And when she does show him, it takes all of his might not to let this guilt consume him. Takes everything not to ruminate on how quickly he can shift from I’m sorry to Show me.

Because her skin.

So much skin.

Soft, smooth; shrouded in a robe that covers more than he’d like, and he knows how it tastes. Knows how it feels. Could press his fingers, his lips, his nose, to every part of it that he’s touched, in the exact same places, from memory alone.

It’s cold outside – windy, the beginnings of tomorrow’s storm twisting through the air. He feels it snake across his neck, curl beneath the lip of his collar, as he takes in the curve of her breast, the stiff point of her nipple, peeking out from behind white fabric. His cock stiffens in his pants.

He gazes at the softest part of her stomach, the thatch of curls that cover her mound, and wants to press his palms against the plush of her thighs. Wants to lay himself atop her, feel that skin against his again, hear her whimper and moan beneath the broad weight of him as he slips inside her. Wants to snatch her finger from her mouth and glide it inside his own. With her slick and her skin against his tongue, he’d sink his teeth in and inhale that warmth, that beating, pulsating force that he’s found himself so intoxicated by.

And to think, only hours ago, he was doing just that. Lowering himself to the ground in a public bathroom and drinking her down. Feeling the muscles in her thighs pull tight and then loose against the sides of his head. Anything to satisfy the craving that only she seems to inspire in him.

Resolute, persistent – a probing, prodding thing that nips at his heels and thrusts him forward at a double time pace.

A hunger that follows him down the nights and down the days.

A hunger that can only ever be sated like the taking of a sacrament – on his knees, devotion in his eyes.

Jesus.

Are you wet?

You know I am.

Are you touching yourself?

Joel’s jaw tightens. He holds his breath and waits. Can’t quite tell what would be worse; knowing that she’s touching herself, alone, thinking about him, or that she isn’t, that she’s waiting for him. He can feel his cock leaking against his thigh.

No.

He exhales heavily, and the faintest hint of a groan slips out with it. Fuck, pull yourself together.

Joel’s fingers float over the keyboard, and for a moment he thinks of Rachel.

Thinks that if he could only bring himself to look up, to look away from her, he might be able to see Rachel still. The back of her coat, the dark scrawl of her hair, disappearing into the night. Joel thinks of the tears in her eyes, taunting him, threatening to spill spill spill, to streak down rosy cheeks and wet the hollow of her throat. Feels something throb and crack in his chest – a painful, resounding ache that hurts so much like fear, like loss.

Your fault, your fault, your fault.

And wouldn’t that be so much easier? If he were to look away, to chase his friend down the street and tell her that he was wrong, that he wants her, that it makes sense for them to be together. Wouldn’t it be easier if that were true?

But he doesn’t stop looking at her. He thinks of Pothos, of Himeros, and stares at the soft curve of her stomach, the indent of her belly button. Looks at the way her lower lip rests below her finger and pictures it swollen, slick with a medley of her spit and his. Even notices a small mark, nestled in the crevice between her hip and the top of her thigh. A fading remnant of where his teeth had once pinched – like a tangible little footprint, whispering that he was there.

Longing and desire flame between the cracks of his ribs; a bright white heat that curls itself around your fault until he manages to shake the thought.

What was it that Kaminsky said? There was no mythology: Odysseus hanged himself. Homer drank to death and stank of mud.

And perhaps he was right; for there is no witness to this. No being over his shoulder, God or mortal, to lay their eyes upon this moment and understand that all he has ever known of love is deprivation. That fondest, blindest, weakest part of his being that has always yearned for, or perhaps grieved over, this love that once seemed so intangible and now, at last, maybe he has been deemed worthy of.

Alone so long, living in a body grown accustomed to such quiet. Familiar with no touch other than that of his own rough palms. And now… the intensity of it shakes within him. The urge to sink his teeth in like a bad dog and hold, hold, hold, to consume and be consumed, and never yield to anyone who wants to take this away from him.

No, there is no looking away from that, from her. Joel feels the noose tighten around his neck the longer he stares – a dog on the leash of its own longing, that need only sharpening with every second that dares to pass.

And Joel knows that nothing has ever been easy. Considers the idea that maybe that’s how it was supposed to be for him. And perhaps he doesn’t want easy, doesn’t want simple. No – Joel was always drawn to the flame.

Good.

Dinner finished early. Where are you?

And that flame welcomes him now in kind. The arms of a lover spread open for embrace; the address of her hotel sent directly to his phone.

Joel looks up and makes eye contact with the taxi driver again. Light still on.

Where to?

**the Kaminsky mentioned in this is Ilya Kaminsky, and the quote is from Dancing in Odessa.

thank you for reading! x

#my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #professor!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction

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archangeldyke-all · 5 months

Note

I thought of this and just need somewhere to keep it you can share if you want:

Sevika with a nail tech gf

Sevika letting her paint her nails on her human hand from time to time

Sevika eventually letting her do acrylics on her (nothing too long or two flashy)

Sevika only fighting with her mech hand whenever her nails are done

Sevika being more expressive with her hands when she does get a bit of a fancier set

Sevika getting her nails to match yours whenever you do them

Sevika getting your initial on her nail once and asking for it every time after that

Sevika beaming to let any and everyone know that her girlfriend did her nails, and yes, that's her inital on there

Yeah, I wanna do her nails for her omfg

THIS SI SSOO..... IM SOBBING.

men and minors dni

at first, she doesn't let you anywhere near her hands. she's horrified of all the little drills and scissors, and she's never been the type of person to do anything to her fingers.

but... you look so sad practicing on your little plastic fingers, so she gives in pretty fast.

it starts with just a clear top coat on top of her natural nails, that have been all cleaned up and trimmed.

and... she absolutely loves it. she can't stop looking down at her shiny, healthy looking nails all week.

so... when you ask the next week if you can add some color, she says yes.

she starts with blacks and dark purples and reds. the colors in her pallets.

but as time goes on, and you gain more and more products, she starts letting her restrictions go, lets you paint her nails whatever color you want.

sparkles in the summer, pride nails in june, french tips in winter, sometimes even fancy nail designs when you're feeling fancy.

she doesn't love all your outcomes, but she loves you so much. and she loves the hour or two the two of you set aside every weekend, her hand in yours, as you gently clip and buff and oil her fingers. she loves the sweet concentrated look you get, the pride in you eyes when you're all done, and more than everything-- she loves the kisses you press to her fingers when they're dry.

when you start learning how to do acrylics, she refuses to let you near her human hand with them. she needs her hand to fight and write and work, and she can't do anything with the extensions on.

but her mech hand? she'll let you do whatever you want to it.

can you imagine her with 2 inch acrylics hanging off her gold fingers? painted gold and copper to match her arm?

they'd make her feel sooooo fucking hot. especially when she's fighting people and she can claw the fuck outta them with her new fingernails.

she'd insist that you match her short human nails to whatever design you do on her acrylics.

half the time, she can be found gently gazing down at her fingernails, a small smile on her face.

she becomes so high maintenance about them. the second she gets a chip or looses an acrylic, she's coming home to you with a big pout, begging you to fix them up, or better yet, give her a fresh new set.

she'll start coming home with crazy ideas about her nails she wants you to try. "do you think you could encapsulate some glitter so it can move around freely inside the nail?" or "you should drill a hole through the tip so we can add some charms dangling off." she's adorable.

she starts making you do her toes too. she keeps those more simple, just black or white or a basic color matching the base of whatever design you'd done on her fingers.

she talks with her hands now, all the fucking time. she was never that expressive when she spoke, but now she emphasizes everything with a wave of her pretty nails. people can tell when she's pissed because she starts drumming her acrylics on the nearest flat surface-- many goons have pissed themselves at the sound of the acrylics slowly tapping a table as they try to explain their latest mistake to her.

and every single time someone compliments her nails, sevika grins and starts gushing about her incredibly talented girlfriend, pulling your card out of her back pocket and forcing it on the poor person who was just trying to give her a compliment.

also the initial thing?? yeah, she never considers a manicure complete until she's got your initial or signature carefully painted on her pinkies.

i am so in love with her

taglist!

@lesbeaniegreenie @fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther @gr0ssz0mbi3 @ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @leomatsuzaki

#sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika

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sleepingdeath-light · 3 months

Text

relationship hcs ; undertaker

requested by ; mod / self indulgent

fandom(s) ; black butler

fandom masterlist(s) ; hub | specific

character(s) ; undertaker

outline ; “dating headcanons for undertaker”

warning(s) ; none, just fluff!

undertaker has been witness to many many deaths over his unimaginably long (after)life — some by his hand and others of those he loved deeply — which makes him incredibly protective over you to the extent that he’s hesitant to even let you out of his sight for a moment and any injury or illness, no matter how faint, will lead to him fretting over you and confining you to the home to be doted on as you recover

this also extends to his willingness to kill anyone in his way if it meant keeping you safe — this goes doubly if the person in question happens to be a nonhuman threat (such as another reaper or even a demon, like sebastian) but he’s also not above personally taking the lives of any humans that threaten your well-being in anyway (or, if his time would be better spent by your side, setting his followers on them in his stead)

he’s incredibly affectionate with you and isn’t above engaging with pda for any reason, or no reason at all if the mood simply strikes him — stroking/braiding your hair, caressing your face, nuzzling against your cheek, kissing your hands and arms, pecking your lips, dancing with you around the funeral parlour, etc. — his customers either find it amusing or hate it, but he doesn’t much care either way

he’ll often ask you to help him paint his nails or braid his hair when he’s feeling tired — it’s a good opportunity to just talk and gossip amongst yourselves and sometimes, if you let him, undertaker will return the favour by helping you with your self care routine and doing your hair shortly after you’ve finished with him

when it comes to pet names he tends to lean towards things like ‘dearie’, ‘darling’ and ‘pet’ — but he’s also been known to just call you your first name when he’s otherwise very preoccupied (such as with his work with the bizarre dolls, and especially the resurrected ciel)

he loves making you laugh and being made to laugh by you, so mutual humour and being able to joke around with each other is a strong pillar of your relationship — it’s probably how you fell in love in the first place as you were effortlessly able to make him laugh when you met

oftentimes he will forgo sleep when you’re resting in his arms, just watching you as you dream to make sure that you live through the night — terrified of losing you as he’s lost so many others in the past (though he always feigns a restful sleep when you wake up as to not worry you)

thinks it’s adorable when you ‘steal’ his clothes and will laugh if you try and mimic his demeanour and voice — bonus points if you do all of that with his coat and hat on because he will be rolling with laughter by the end of your performance

he’s quick to jealousy but he’s also excellent at hiding it from you — taking full advantage of his cheerful and non threatening (if odd) persona to tease and mock the offending party, subtly humiliating them until they’re too embarrassed to stay (but if that fails he’ll make some excuse to get you out of the room before dropping his playful act and actually threatening them, which never fails to have the other person fleeing with their tail between their legs)

#sleepingdeath #gender neutral reader #fluff #fluff hcs #black butler fluff #kuroshitsuji fluff #black butler undertaker fluff #kuroshitsuji undertaker fluff #kuroshitsuji undertaker x reader #black butler undertaker x reader #black butler x reader #kuroshitsuji x reader

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chimerahyperfix · 1 month

Text

CW: Graphic depictions of violence, lots of Death and Gore, Psychological horror for like 3 lines, mentions of drowning. Please read the tags and take caution. This one's more than a little visceral.

-----

The King is here.

You walk through crowded halls of rushing Housemaidens getting into defensive positioning. It's like fighting a wave in the ocean, hard to push through the crowd. You make do anyways, curling through paths you normally wouldn't take.

It's a big deal to everyone but you, at this point. This is the big event, the big fight; to you it's simply where time loops back. Just another day, y'know? You've done it over and over, and you'll probably keep doing it anyways.

It's odd, pushing through the crowd. Everyone is going one way and you are going another. Rushing versus strolling. Your hands are in the pockets of your lab coat. You're practically whistling, for crab's sake!

You simply cannot be bothered this loop. It's a failure from the start: you crabbed up making the bomb, which means you're crabbed from the very beginning. You climbed up the Favor Tree and wedged yourself between the braches for a few hours to pass the time, because looping back would be too much of an inconvenience, and you could just wait until the tears started spawning in the house to go back. The birds had a good time at least, one starting to craft a nest next to you.

You ghosted throughout the day, and now its go time. Everyone else is prepared and ready to fight for time itself, and here you are just. Walking. Realistically you're searching for a tear to stop it all before it starts, but luck isn't on your side this loop.

You can hear it, hear it-- the horrors. All the screams of those unfortunate enough to cross the King's path and fight back. It would be easier, for them, to just bow back and let themselves be frozen-- but no one wants to be frozen, because that's having choice itself stolen from you, a cage of ice to lock yourself in forever. It's just as bad as being dead. Stagnant and eternally screaming.

So they march to their deaths.

The King does not take kindly to the Housemaidens fighting back. Some loops, the House isn't prepared for his attack. Those loops are the nice ones, the less gorey ones. Less dead and more frozen bodies, because no one was prepared to brawl with the monster. He can just... swoop on through and take the House without more than a handful of casualties. This loop is one of the bad ones, because your fellow housemaidens were all prepared. You always think your prepared, too, to see the outcome, but you never truly are.

You turn into the main hall, and freeze still.

No matter how many loops you go through, the carnage always gets to you. There's a nasty, overpowering smell of iron in the air and big dark stains painting the walls, the floors and the roof. Bits and pieces of mashed guts and viscera. There were people in this hallway, once.

Not anymore.

It makes you sick to your stomach like every other time. Just the thought of it. There were people here and now there's only parts of them left. Just ten minutes ago or so, there were people here.

There were people here.

The gore goes in a trail down the hall. Paints practically everything-- including frozen people, if you look down the hall. All frozen with shock and absolute horror on their faces. You recognize some of them.

You try not to think about it.

You push on. Try to ignore the way the blood seeps into your shoes very fabric so they become damp. Try to ignore the fact you're trailing someone's very life behind you now with bloody shoe prints.

There are still no tears.

Plan B, then. The King himself.

You hate going against the King. It always ends terribly with you in agony. But that's the only option left right now, so you chase him down on his little path carved from the blood of the innocent. You find him quickly, too- just down the hall.

He stops before you can get too close. The smell in the air is overpowering, the sharp tang of blood and the burning sensation of the sugar.

"Burning one." He says to you. You're not sure where he pulled that one from: the nickname was something different at some point, but you've long forgotten what it was. Maybe it's the smell of burnt, rotting sugar or maybe it's the potions that burnt your throat. You're not sure anymore.

He just... stands there. Turns around and looks at you. You can feel the dead expression you're pulling as you stare back. Blood glints on his armor, shining and the worst sight in the world and all the same kinda beautiful in its own way? Like the lightless gore is the night sky itself, sparkling with little dots. Makes you feel sick just thinking that.

"How have you done it?" He asks. He asks it every time the two of you face off, the same five words. How. A inquiry. Something you have done, you shouldn't have, and he knows it.

You... think you've gotten it, now. Your hypothesis: How you wished. It's not something you were supposed to do. You did something different something WRONG, and it did something to time itself, tearing a hole in the fabric of space. It's wrong. It's wrong, and you know it and so does the King.

He stares in your direction. You think? Despite his hands, blood-stained as they are, not being infront of his face, the mop of hair is still in the way. You can feel the glare still. Enraged. Daggers in your side.

"I don't know." It's the truth.

"You don't know?"

"I don't remember."

The King goes silent. It's odd, having an actual conversation with him. Even if it was a tiny exchange, it still throws you off. He's willing to talk, even if just a question. He's never really talked to you-- or anyone, to your knowledge-- before.

"Ouuuuhhhh... of course you don't." He wails. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard to you. "You shouldn't have been able too, oohhh... not at all..."

He raises a fist up. It sparkles like the night sky, dark dripping from between his fingers. There's still someone's remains painted on them. Preemptively you brace and throw your arms up in an attempt to block.

It's a different thing that hits you. A new attack. A giant open palm slams into your chest, and you go flying backwards into the wall. The world turns to slow motion as something in you SNAPS. Crunches. Your bones shatter and explode with the force and speed, shooting little shards of agony everywhere.

It hurts. It HURTS. Pain rips through your entire body, and you realise you've started to scream when your chest begins to hurt. Blood splatters onto your glasses, blotting out your vision.

You look up at the King. How'd you get on the floor? How are you breathing, with no lungs? You can see fragments of bone stuck between the metal of his armor.

"Let this be a lesson to you, Burning one."

Metal clinks, and your vision swims-- dots in the corners, figures blur. Blood drips down into your left eye and paints half of your vision a dark shade. Nothing but pain.

Make it stop. Make it stop, make it stop make it stop-- it hurts, it hurts it hurts it hurts.

You

Simply stop thinking. Just for a moment.

So your brain can catch up! Yeah, sure. That's a good enough excuse.

Just. Pain. You are pain incarnate, and that's all you will be until you die slowly and loop back.

You

Blink,, and

The King. Is gone. You can hear him leaving, loud stomping footsteps dissapearing down a bloodstained trail, and you just stare.

How lucky, HOW LUCKY of you to be left alive this time. Like this isn't a fate worse than death. You gasp for air, and realise all you have left is blood filling your lungs.

It hurts. You want it to end, now. It's hard to see, over the blood and spots dancing across your eyes, but you see them; tears, floating around you. A quick out. You reach out, and the pain in you flares alive, ripping and tearing you apart. You feel like your flesh is going to peel off.

Your fingers brush into one of the tears, and you sob as the ice rolls down your arm and consumes you. It feels a hundred times better than what you were feeling before.

You freeze in time-- and luckily theres no nightmare you have to endure, you just wake back up at your desk. You spend a good chunk of the morning curled up in the bathroom getting sick, because, wow! That's the worst one yet! It's curled into your very being, the feeling of breaking your bones like rock candy, the feeling of drowning in blood.

You just... have to do it better this time, or... something. Hope is fading away into background static. You can't... do this anymore. It hurts too much. You want it to stop. Please make it stop.

#isat #in stars and time #isat spoilers #in stars and time spoilers #claude looping au #isat claude #in craft and cages #cw death #cw gore #cw mentions of drowning #cw graphic violence #---#ok. wow. this ones really hard to read.#like ok genuinely im worried this might trigger someone so i slammed every tag i could think of on #now im a horror artist. this is my wheelhouse. i do the gore n shit right #please PLEAAAASE be careful. if this one sounds upsetting to u PLEASE sit it out #genuinely very worried abt this one #but also proud as fuck because this is Pretty Good to me and also prib over 1000 words lol #just. dont push y'alls selves for funny au content plz #im very anxious abt making ppl upset haha #i get isat does horror and stuff but this is pretty graphic #please let me know if i need to tag anything else. very antsy here

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sabosbabygirl · 2 years

Text

Here’s my take on How I think Simon Ghost Riley would treat you plus a lil bit abt SAS.

I’m military, so I’m using my knowledge, have seen and what I have actually researched

Simon is my favorite Britain

Also idk why ppl keep saying “i wish british ppl existed?!” Like they do…fictional ppl don’t 😔

First off SAS is one of theeeee best special forces teams in the World. The US equivalent would be the Army Delta Force (the unit).

The SAS go through physical and mentally exhausting trainings. Only the fittest, hardest and most resourceful soldiers become part of the SAS.

SAS is real and is British lol. Its not made up. In fact most of the CoD stuff is real minus the operators and respawning after dying lol.

Lets dive into how he would treat you:

-Ghost and Simon same guy but different. Ghost is the job version. While Simon is your sweet honeybun.

-I will forever say this but NO HE DOES NOT WEAR THE MASK OUTSIDE WORK..any special forces personnel that does is stupid tbh. Bc that is risking his entire life, family, friends, etc.

-The man drinks bourbon. It is said, and I’ve researched this, that people that drink bourbon are: unique, passionate, complex and free spirits. I mean the man dumped a dude in a garbage can after killing him..thats free spirited enough for me.

-He is an old soul. He may be in his mid 30s but he has a wealthy amount of knowledge. Another perk to being an old soul is once his eyes are on you, they are only on you.

-Observant. That one dress you like but in a different color, he’d notice. The new hairstyle, he’d be first to compliment you. He is observant to every detail. All your scars, freckles, curves, all of it. As a special forces personnel they have to be observant and aware of their surroundings.

-Loyal. The man is SAS, loyal to his country..so why would he not be loyal to you?!

-Having a bad day and he’s not there, the florist down the shop got his message and will be bringing you flowers. Having a bad day and he is home: he got off early and raced home. Made your favorite tea, started your bath, ordered pizza and has that scented candle on.

-Passionate! The man loves his job. You can tell by way he performs execution moves and the way he shoots perfectly. But that also translates outside the field. He is passionate towards you. Expressing his love whether it be through sex, taking care of the house, cooking or as simple as “did you eat, my love?”.

-Expert at many things. You need your car fixed, he’ll do it (just don’t ask him to drive it), need a new coat of paint on the walls, he’s there with a roller brush. That dishwasher is leaking, he’s got his tools out ready to be your bob the fixer or whatever.

-Sex is great! When the man goes on missions, tbh, the chances of him having time, whether it be actual time or alone time to masturbate to you is probably slim. But once he is home. Its game over. That pussy is his and he’ll be swimming in it all night long.

-Honestly he’s a good man. Claims to have a cold heart but considering his past trauma and his SAS experience, I don’t blame him for having a wall up. But once he meets you, he will tear that shit down and settle with you.

#cod mw2 #cod mw2 headcanons #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #simon riley #ghost x you #ghost x reader #light read on ghost #ghost is baby

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yona049 · 20 days

Text

𝐀𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬 ♤

Joker x fem!Reader x Jason Todd

Part 1

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༺༺༺༺༺༺༺༺༺༺༺༺༺༺

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

༺༺༺༺༺༺༺༺༺༺༺༺༺༺

Disclaimer!

>This story uses Jared Leto's Joker and the batfam from another universe.

>Grenade's and Gun violence.

>Toxic Joker relationship that could be triggering to some.

○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○

A shining knife spins through the air towards a target finally hitting the wall beside it. A complete miss!

Y/n snarls before fixing her hair back into its wild style. A girl that wore clown themed makeup with ecstatic colors. Two bright red lines diagonally crossing her eyes and black lipstick reaching her cheekbones to emphasize her smile.

Y/n, more known as The Ace an accomplice of the crown prince of crime. Along side him in many crimes!

"This is impossible Harley!" she whines picking up another knife off a table.

The warehouse was covered in bright spray paint with alot of clown faces and aggressive 'Hahaha' fonts on the walls.

Harley Quinn, ex to the crown prince of crime, Joker. She sat in the corner of the room away from the targets set up, wiping some blood off her iconic hammer.

"Nah, you're just a little out of rhythm!" she stands up and walks over to Y/n ready to throw another dagger.

"Ace, daggers were never my strong suit, but Ya gotta keep your wrist straight! Aim before ya throw!" she scolds and lifts Ace's wrist a little.

Ace bites her lip and aims directly at the bullseye, her hand pulls back and throws it with an incredible speed.

It flies and hits, only for it to bounce off the target and hit the ground.

She sighs heavily as Harley snickers behind her then remarks.

"You could almost take it as a sign! Not being able to hit the mark and missing every time!"

Ace lifts an eyebrow looking at the insane girl.

"What are you on about?"

"I'm just saying girl! That's how your future with that toxic asshole is looken!"

Harley skips back to her seat and goes back to cleaning her hammer.

Ace rolls her eyes and takes a third dagger flipping it around her hand like a fidget toy.

"Harls, you're not gonna get me to break up with the Joker, even if he is a Toxic asshole!"

She smirks thinking about him. Joker. His pale skin and many tattoos across his body and face. His iconic smile tattoo on his hand being his most prized and favorite of the bunch.

Harley rolls her eyes and leans back into the wall behind her.

"Well! You're 'boyfriend' hasn't done alot of crime lately! Must be getting lazy!"

Just as she finished her insult a slow growl comes from the doorway.

"Lazy huh? I don't see you doing anything!"

Ace looks up with an immediate smile seeing Joker leaning on the door frame. His purple coat and sleek hair.

He watches the two girls before he spots Ace and pats on his chest. She immediately walks closer to him and puts her hands on his tattooed chest.

Jokers hand moves around her waist and pulls her against him suddenly.

"Hey, baby."

Joker smirks with his eyes only on her, then planting a slow kiss onto her lips.

Harley audibly gags in the background with a heavy eye roll.

Joker pulls back with a purr and traces Ace's jaw before his eyes land on a small bruise she had on her cheekbone.

His face turns from an amused smirk to an intense dissatisfied glare. He grabs her cheeks and pushes her head to the side to get a better look.

"Their name, Give me their name."

He uses his thumb to rub away the makeup trying desperately to cover up the bruise. Ace slowly moves her hand over his and pulls it from her face.

"It was no one! Really." Ace looks at him with pleading eyes knowing what he'd do if he knew someone hit her.

Joker grabs her face again and yanks it close to his. An angry whisper forces Ace's eyes to look up at him.

"Who hurt you?"

Harley sees Ace's panicked expression and quickly interjects.

"It really was nothing, J! I just took her out for some fun, is all! Some asshole at the bar turned it into a fight!"

Joker looks back at Ace and from an aggressive grab his hand smooths over the side of her head.

"Did you kill him?"

Ace smirks again and runs her finger tips over Jokers lips seductively.

"Ripped all his pretty little teeth out."

She giggles a little in turn joker laughs with her. Getting the confirmation he needed, that Ace was ok he turned to Harley.

"You took her out?" he questioned walking closer to Harley.

Without looking up from her hammer she nodded.

"Yeah, She wasn't gonna go against you're rules! Might aswell take her out because you weren't gonna!"

Joker slams his fist into the wall right above Harley's head.

"I'm not gonna let her out of my sight! She stays for a reason."

He takes his gun from the holster and spins it around his finger, then pushing it against Harley's forehead.

Ace gasps and growls.

"J-!"

"This DOESN'T concern you!"

He yells back at Ace without looking away from Harley.

Ace felt her heart shrink for a second but her fear turned to anger quickly when teeth clenched.

"You've been breaking too many rules, Quinn. I think it's time you go." he states with a raspy voice.

Harley chuckles a little before pushing him back and off her.

"With pleasure!" she gives a final bow with her hands stretched out wide before flipping Joker off as she walks away.

Ace gives joker an angry glare but runs past him catching up with Harley.

She finds Harley in her room, throwing clothes into a bag aswell as some very powerful hand guns.

Her room looked similar to the warehouse with spray painted walls, with the exception of a broken window and bullet holes in the walls.

She had an old vintage closet with dark brown wooden walls but once again, spray painted and plastered with stickers.

"Harley! Don't go! We really need you around here!" she pleads closing the door behind her.

Harley pulls three beautiful wooden bat's out of the corner of the closet and holds them to her chest.

"No Ace! You need me. It's been a long time coming and I should've just left after I broke things off with Joker!"

She throws the bat's onto her bed with heavy clanking.

Ace pouts for a second and sits on the bed.

"But where will you go? What if you get hurt!"

Harley spots Ace's sad expression and gives in. She sits next to Ace with a sigh and takes her hand.

She talks in a very quiet whisper, just enough so only they could hear.

"Y/n. You know I'll be ok. Me and Ivy have been wanting to get a place of our own anyway."

Ace bites her lip hearing her real name for a second and tears weld up.

"We were enemies when I got here because you still loved Joker, now you're leaving, as my best friend!" she sniffs and rubs her eyes.

Harley smiles before delicately rubbing Y/n's head.

"Now I gotta leave ya to handle J's bullshit by yourself. But listen! If you ever feel like leaving that silver teethed cry baby! You know where to find me."

Ace smiles and the girls share a tight hug. Their friendship growing even stronger in a moment of sadness.

"Thanks, Harley."

---

The car zoom's though the streets with a roaring engine. It's red blur as it drives past the windows and glass doors. The night air cold making the hot car engine hiss.

Ace looked over at Joker driving the car, his silver teethed grin made her growl with anger before looking back out the window.

"You shouldn't have done that!"

She growls.

"Done What..?" the Joker said slowly like poison filling a wound.

"Chased Harley away because she was pissing me off?" he said with a teasing voice answering his own question.

"Yes! Now she's run off with her plant obsessed girlfriend and left me to deal with you." Ace sneered glaring daggers at Joker.

Joker takes a sudden turn making Ace fall to the side and right into the jokers grip. He held her tightly by the shoulders against him now driving with only one hand.

"I ain't that bad, doll. Besides, Harley was getting out of place, breaking all the wrong the rules. She had to go." he chuckles and it slowly morphs into a slow laugh.

Ace breaks from his grip and looks back out the window.

"At least Harl's knew how to have some fun, you're all business these days." she rests her head in her palm and looks at all the different colored city lights.

Joker turns to her and looks a little offended before his signature grin takes hold.

"Well then, geuss we have no choice then. Lets have some fun."

He lifts his sharply shined gun from the holster on his side and sticks it out of the car window.

Ace felt excitement bubble up inside her before she grabs her own weapon of choice. Grenades with faces painted on them, smiles and angry faces.

Joker shoots a few rounds into the sky and suddenly all the pedestrians skater like rats. Ace takes a grenade and pulls the pin. She moves to stick her upper body out of the window laughing maniacally.

"Now that's more like it!" she yells as she tosses the grenade into a small shop that looked quite empty. The grenade went off and people screamed in terror.

She hold's onto the edge of the window swinging her body back and forth as she laughed. The car radio blasting with loud music and gun fire echoing through the night sky.

The car suddenly hits a bump and Ace almost falls straight forward and out of the car.

Just before her face could get shaved off, a hand grabs the back of her shirt before yanking her back into the car.

She lands onto the jokers lap with a second of silence and staring. She hears him start laughing arrogantly before she joins him in their psychotic harmonious laughter.

"I got ya, baby." he laughed as she nuzzles her way into his neck.

Their drive came to a sudden holt when joker spotted a fancy looking store with fancy clothes and shiny jewelry. "Allow me to spoil you, doll."

He opens the car door and doesn't bother closing it as he carries Ace bridal style towards the store. Ace giggles with a grin before taking jokers gun from his holster.

Not daring to break eye contact she shoots bullets into the air sensing the employee's in the boutique.

When they finally enter the room Ace is dropped to the ground and with a skip in her step she grabs the first glittered dress off the hanger.

Joker smirks and takes his second gun from the holster.

"Excuse me! You can't-" a brave employee steps forward but stops in his tracks when Joker puts a bullet in his chest.

He walks closer to Ace and uses the gun to lift her chin making her laugh in excitement.

"Ya like that one?" he breaths out with a teasing tone.

He bites his lip with a seductive growl. "All pretty and dazzled for me?"

Y/n pushes her arm though the sleeve of the dress before placing her hand on the back of Jokers head.

"I could wear it for you all night." she moves onto her toes and kissed Joker slowly pushing his head forward.

Joker closes his eyes enjoying the deep kiss.

"I'll get ya every sparkling dress you want!" he grabs hold of her waist and they both start laughing in harmony.

"Not tonight, asshole!" A strong voice interrupts the laughter.

Ace's head turns to look at the Batman and Red Hood standing at the entrance. Red Hood is the first to jump forward and pull out two guns.

Ace growls and throws the dress off her arm and over Red Hood's mask.

"We were just starting to have FUN!" She yells in frustration and grabs another grenade off her belt.

She takes a step forward blocking Joker with her body, only for Red Hood to send a bullet into her thigh.

She yells in pain and falls forward throwing the grenade as she does.

A sudden explosion shakes the ground but red Hood took cover behind the front desk of the shop.

Joker growls loudly and charges toward Ace.

"Baby! Ace!"

Just as he was about to reach her Batman sends him flying back with a kick.

He laughs a little lifting his body up before sending bullets flying towards Batman.

"Hitting my girl first Batman? How bold!" his purple coat flutters through the air as he runs.

He shoots a few more bullets towards batman's face, Batman used his arm cuffs to block oncoming fire. But with his eyes covered he didn't see joker push a shelf with expensive handbags onto the Batman.

The shelf collapses with a thud snd purses fly every which way.

"Suits you!" he laughs once again running right past Batman to Ace who was crawling on her stomach and tossing grenades at Red Hood who was still huddled behind the desk.

"I'm coming, baby!" Joker calls out to her.

She looks back at joker for only a second, Red Hood takes her distraction as an oppertunity. He jumps out from behind the desk, using his grappling gun he catches Ace's wrist then dragging her through the rubble and into his grip.

Swift and quick he's got her in a choke hold, stareing Joker down.

"Don't move or I twist just hard enough to break her neck and rip her jugular!" Red Hood threatens.

Y/n struggles punching at Red Hood's arms trying to grab his head.

"Joker-" She chokes out.

Joker lifts his gun again and points it right at Ace.

"Hold still, Ace."

His eyes glisten as she stares down the barrel over his arm. His focus so intense and aims towards Red Hoods arm holding Ace down.

He cocks the gun back ready to fire but Batman is first to kick him down.

Within moments Ace's eyes close and her body falls limp.

Red Hood throws her over his shoulder and runs to the Batmobile that was waiting outside. Batman follows shortly after and they zoom off in the black sleek car into the dead of night.

Joker recovers with gritting teeth running into the street. He shoots the batmobile with all the ammo loaded into his gun screaming after it.

"You can't take her! She's MINE!"

○○○

Y/n Shoots up from her bed with a sudden gasp.

Thick wooden walls around her with mesmerizing carved architecture. The bed she layed in was a double with a thick goose feather blanket.

She was comfortably sat down with a bandage around her throat which she delicately traced. A glass of water was on the bed side table along with her grenade belt and gun she kept on her person.

She looked up at the mirror in the corner of the room. Smudged clown make up and still in costume, only difference was her hair was down and a small bandage over her nose from her harsh fall.

She growls when the door opens and her body tenses ready to move.

In walks a familiar black suit along with a shiny red helmet with creepy white eyes.

As soon as they came into view Y/n pounces onto Red Hood tackling him to the ground her hands grab hold of the helmet and she yanks it off his head.

"I'm gonna KILL you, Jason!"

She yelled looking down at the blue eyed boy, dark fluffy hair with a white streak through the front. Jason Todd. The one and only Vigilante Red Hood.

He slowly smirks and moves his hand onto Y/n's cheek giving it a gentle rub with his thumb.

"I missed you too, babe."

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masterwords · 6 months

Note

I had a fun idea!

Derek is very tired during a difficult case and throws himself a little over enthusiastically onto the bed of the cheap motel they're staying in and breaks it. He goes to the front desk but they're all booked out and the only person in the team with a twin room is Hotch...

Well, anon, that idea is fun indeed! I had some fun with this, it flew from my head to the doc at lightning speed...I hope you like it! <3 It was nice to step out of the angst I've been writing lately and do a little cute mutual pining nonsense with adorable derek and awkward hotch. thank you for making my brain go bzzzzz!

pairing: pre-hotchgan (maybe...maybe not...)

words: 1.7k

He didn’t mean to. That’s all he can think as he stands in front of the door to room 164 with its crooked 6 and chipped up paint. The bright orange paint is old, probably seven layers of lead beneath whatever they last put on when they re-branded. He knows how this works, his mother worked in plenty of cheap hotels when he was growing up and he can remember each time she came home with a new uniform from new owners who slapped a coat of paint on and hoped it would fool people into thinking it wasn’t the same shitpot it always had been. His hand hovers over the door, loosely balled into a fist, ready to knock. He could always sleep in the SUV.

The thing is, he knows Hotch isn’t going to have a problem with him moving in. It isn’t like they spend much time in their rooms anyway, and he might even get a laugh out of the way Derek had come by this need for a new room it’s just...things have been awkward lately. He’s always sort of had a thing for Hotch, the Gucci ties and the expensive suits are easy on the eyes and he’s no fool. He knows Hotch would be a good date from beginning to end, they’ve known each other long enough that he’s certain of many things...the problem is, lately he’s been getting a vibe like maybe Hotch might have a thing for him too.

Things got a little awkward during the ride home from New York, that case was when he started to notice things. Little things. And his own feelings of jealousy hadn’t helped anything but that ride home. Well.

He thinks again about sleeping in the SUV, even turns to look at it. He could curl up in the back and be perfectly comfortable. It’s not cold and there are emergency blankets back there. New York wasn’t that long ago and Hotch is still pretty messed up by it, he’s not likely to want company. He’s nearly to his decision when the door opens to reveal Hotch nearly stepping right into him, looking at his phone.

“Morgan?” he asks, confused. Derek offers him a sheepish smile.

“Hey boss. I got a little problem.”

“The front desk called to verify that it was alright to move you into the room. You’re welcome to stay. I have to go sign some new papers with the attendant, make yourself at home.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the beds were so…”

“It isn’t a problem Morgan. Back in a minute.”

That minute turns into something that starts to worry Derek as he unpacks his bag for the second time during this trip. He doesn’t spread out as much though, Hotch has his things in certain places and he’s not going to intrude, he’s just going to make a little space. They use the same toothpaste, that thought buzzes through his mind right about when he hears the key in the door and smells the pizza before he even sees it.

“I brought back dinner,” Hotch announces, tossing his keys on the little desk with a clatter before setting the box down. “Do you still like extra olives?”

“Hell yeah,” Derek says, walking back into the main room with a smile. “Olives, mushrooms and green peppers. What do I owe ya?”

“My treat.”

Derek studies Hotch as he moves around the room, slipping out of his shoes and shrugging out of his jacket. Had he been wearing them the whole time or had he just put them on to go out? Derek thinks it was the former. He rarely allowed himself to be comfortable during cases.

“Well hey, thanks man. For letting me crash in your room and buying me dinner.”

He thinks he can detect the slightest hint of a blush in Hotch’s cheeks as he fumbles around in the little kitchenette for paper plates. Of course he brought paper plates. A man who never eats during cases still thinks about these things.

“You can turn on the television if you’d like.”

“You wanna watch something?”

“I’ve got a bit of a headache, I’ll probably just take a shower and go to bed. Please don’t mind me.”

“Wait, you’re not even gonna eat the pizza?”

Hotch levels his gaze at Derek helplessly and suddenly Derek can see something he’s been concealing for weeks now. He’s not just a little off the mark, he’s actually suffering. He hides it too well. It’s almost scary.

“And here I was thinking you were setting up some kinda date night here…” Derek says quietly, a sneaky little smile on his face. He’s trying to lighten the mood and the way the crease disappears between Hotch’s brows says it almost worked. Almost.

“Is this really how you think I…” Hotch starts, but catches himself. He’d been lulled in by the warmth of the room, by Derek lounging easily on his bed, by the smell of pizza as Derek flips mindlessly through television channels. It was almost too easy to let himself slide, to let himself bare something he shouldn’t. Derek doesn’t miss it though. Not even a little. He drops the remote and sits upright.

“How I think you what?”

Hotch hums and runs his thumb along his fingernails, back and forth against his thigh. Derek is looking at him expectantly, he has to finish the sentence.

“Okay. So you wouldn’t do it this way. How would you do it?”

“How would I…?”

“First date. You and me. If it’s not a broken bed and a pizza with some shitty made for TV movie starring Tori Spelling then...what is it?”

He’s clammed up pretty bad, just standing there hovering between honesty and the feeling that he’s about to cross a line from which he can never return. The thoughts in his head are so wildly inappropriate he can’t even believe he’s entertaining them. The thing is, some part of him fundamentally changed when Haley had him served with divorce papers. This innate part of him that placed work on some pedestal, the part of him that said if he worked hard enough everyone around him would benefit from it. He knew now that it was all lies he was feeding himself when all he was really doing was avoiding giving himself to something that might really hurt. And in the end? Well, it hurt worse than he ever could have imagined.

Now he’s looking at Derek and thinking about how badly this could hurt, but he’s not scared of it like he used to be. He would land on his feet if he had to leave this job. It would be better not to be disgraced, but he thinks he’d land on his feet even if he was. People had done just fine after much worse rules being broken.

“Hotch?” Derek asks, standing now. “You okay?”

“Oh. Yeah. Just thinking, I’m sorry.”

“Thinking about what I asked or how to get out of it?”

Hotch smiles and shrugs. “A little of both.”

“You’re worried about breaking some arbitrary fraternization rules when I haven’t even kissed you yet. If I did, would you immediately start planning your next career move?”

Derek is having a little too much fun now, watching the bright red rise against Hotch’s throat.

“Hotch, chill out. I’m just flirting. There’s no harm in that.”

Hotch looks down at his feet for a moment and feels the burn of honesty in his chest. It isn’t that simple for him, it never has been. And that’s why it hurts so bad when he messes it all up. “There is if it isn’t just flirting.”

“What else would it be?”

Silence. Hotch feels like he’s on stage beneath a spotlight and he’s forgotten all of his lines. How did he get here? He should have been more adamant that he was going to take that shower. The dizziness and ringing in his ears is bad and he’s fighting against it with everything he’s got, which is making it a lot harder to navigate these dangerous waters. But then Derek’s hand is taking his, his long fingers smoothing Hotch’s worrying thumb, holding it in place.

“Hotch. It’s okay to have feelings for me. I got ‘em for you too. All the time we’ve spent together over the years, all the things we’ve shared that no one else will ever come close to? The injuries and the nightmares and all that travel time...I think it’d be impossible not to feel strongly about each other. Doesn’t make it wrong and the Bureau’s rules can’t change the reality of it.”

“I’m your boss,” Hotch whispers finally, devastation in his voice. “It would be a gross misuse of my power.”

At that, Derek laughs incredulously and shakes his head. “You’re a trip, man. You know that?”

“Too many things could go wrong,” Hotch offers after a moment to reconsider his trepidation. “It would be a mistake.”

Derek shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe. I got rules about dating people I work with. You would if you’d ever given that any thought...but when I think about all the reasons I don’t date where I work, none of those things would be an issue with you.”

“What if something happened?”

“Alright. Hey. I was just tryin’ to flirt a little, see if you would maybe flirt back. If you’re thinking something more serious, here’s my offer: you go take your shower, do some thinking. Come back out and eat a piece of pizza and watch this movie with me. When the case is done...we meet up and talk this out. And if we decide it’s too complicated or maybe the emotion was just running a little wild tonight and it didn’t mean anything? No harm no foul.”

“Do you mean it?” Hotch asks, finally meeting Derek’s eyes. “Because the last thing I would ever want…”

Derek shakes his head and cuts him off with a gentle squeeze of his hand, the hand he’s still holding. “I mean it. No harm no foul.”

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #criminal minds #hotchgan #fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction

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gabessquishytum · 11 months

Note

I hope you are feeling better!

I'm blaming this one on nail polish fumes.

Hob gets Dream to allow him to paint Dream's nails. Sure, Dream could change them with a thought, but Hob wants Dream to spend some time on himself, as a form of self care or even just self-indulgence. Of all the ideas Hob reels off getting his nails painted is one of the more favorable options to Dream. It means Dream gets Hob's hands on him after all.

Hob goes all out with the idea. He might not have known how to do a manicure before, but he's had a week to plan and access to YouTube. When its time for the manicure to start, he massages Dream’s hands gently and makes sure everything is as relaxed as possible. Dream doesn't have anything as mundane as cuticles or nail ridges, but Hob still pays each flawless nail close attention.

Dream is already fighting off the need to squirm, and Hob hasn't gotten to the actual painting yet. The color that he pulls out is the deepest black Hob could find, of course. Hob is oh so careful when he pulls the brush from the bottle, making sure there is not too much lacquer on the bristles. Dream can't help but draw the parallels between Hob's movements and the care an artist takes with their masterpiece.

Hob, not unaware of how this is affecting Dream, holds each finger rock steady as he applies the fist coat.

Dream had not considered until he sees the wet lacquer that the nail polish would mean that he would not be able to get his hands on Hob in return until it dried.

When Hob finishes up with the last nail, he smirks at Dream and tells him to keep his hands still and not smudge anything as he goes from sitting across from him to kneeling between Dream's legs. Hob quickly unbuttons Dream's pants and gets to work on the feast presented to him.

Dream's first instinct is to grab at Hob's hair and direct him to exactly where Dream wants him, but that would certainly smudge to lacquer. Dream could make his nails dry instantly, but he promised to do this the human way, and he is a creature of his word. So all he can do is keep his hands spread to the side while he uses the little bit of leverage his spread legs can manage to try and buck until Hob's tongue is exactly where he wants it.

Hob manages to orchestrate it so that Dream cums about the same time his nails are ready for the next coat, only taking the time to clean off his hands before starting on the next layer. When he finishes up with the lacquer, his mouth right back on Dream. He starts up the third layer after he has made Dream cum for a second time.

Hob has been told that the trick to a smooth, long-lasting manicure is many thin layers, and Hob intends to give Dream only the best.

When Hob finally decides he is on the last layer Dream has cum enough times that he is floating on pure endorphins. He doesn't even notice that the top coat Hob has chosen is embedded with tiny holographic glitter leaving the black struck through with a rainbow sheen.

Hob is definitely looking forward to being made to pay for that choice when it is noticed in the morning.

-💥

Ajsjdbfhs!!!! Make Dream do self care!!!! I love it, I love it so much. Particularly with added blowjobs.

Oh the torture of having to let Hob totally do all the work and dedicate himself to Dream’s pleasure! Dream just has to sit there and enjoy himself! It's genuinely A Task for him to just. Have a nice thing without thinking that he's doing something wrong. Hob is starting to think that nail polish is the most effective type of restraint ever. Dream is too vain to risk fucking up all those perfectly painted layers, so he has to sit still!

Hob also happens to be pretty fucking excellent at sucking cock. Like, Dream is acquainted with actual Sex Gods who don't give head as good as Hob. So that's. A lot.

Hob also ramps up the "torture" by spending the entire time he's painting Dream’s nails, telling him how wonderful he is. How he's beautiful and lovely and amazing and so loved, and how Hob would do anything for him, and how he deserves the world.

Dream is a total mess by the time Hob is done with him. All that praise, plus the fact that he's cum five or six times in pretty quick succession, means that he's a bit tearful and floppy. Hob carries him carefully off to bed and tucks him in, with one final check to be sure his shiny nails are perfect. Each finger gets a kiss, and by the time Hob has done all that? Dream has passed out. Bless him.

#💥 anon #the sandman #dreamling #nsft

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needcake · 10 months

Text

So today is the birthday of one of my favorite persons in this fandom and this life:

✨✨@oumaheroes / @rainbowfruitpastilles✨✨

(lovingly nicknamed Rains by yours truly back when we first starting talking because of eurovision, but who also goes by Ouma, Heroes and Fandom Grandma✨)

And to honor her and her incredible work I wanted to do something a little different this year! I've selected some of my favorite passages from her beautiful beautiful fics and I hope this makes you go insane and absolutely feral the way I know you like it 😌😚

From Earthbound, chapter 4:

Peter dreams that his legs reach down deep into the ocean, right to the sea bottom, and he watches the years pass silently by. Cast in metal and garbed in rust he falls, piece by piece, into an unforgiving sea. He dreams of rain, of smoking guns and angry curses, of abandonment and loneliness as he's left behind. He tosses and turns, unable to get comfortable, as wisps of memory lap gently against his consciousness. He dreams of a gruff voice mumbling soothing words after a nightmare, handmade toys and a warm calloused hand carding through his hair. Hot tea and biscuits in front of a fire. Bedtime stories and scratchy kisses. Of a man who loves him but who just doesn't know how to do it the way Peter needs. He wakes with dried tear tracks on his face and the ghost of a name on the tip of his tongue.

This fic is so incredibly beautiful, every character, every story. It brings you to this new and remade world that is fatally flawed, and as the characters slowly go back to their original Earth, their memories of their past lives and past selves come back like a punch, and the force of it just leaves us gasping. It's so powerful, so beautiful!! I absolutely adore it!!

---

From Lavender's Blue:

New officers are the worst, in Arthur’s personal opinion. They have this hopeful gleam about them that Arthur, world-weary as he is, cannot stand. Butter and milk fed children chasing honour and glory into hell itself, so blinded by it that they cannot see the dangers that litter the ground around them. They’re terribly young: nineteen, twenty, twenty-two. This and this alone causes Arthur to soften enough to answer them and he shakes himself back to the present where he doesn’t want to be, ‘Yes?’ ‘Come and play cards with us. We’ll deal you in.’ One of them breaks the deck expertly, a flick of his wrist and fingers sending the cards from one hand to another. Arthur can’t help but think of Gilbert doing the same thing sprawled across a sofa in Arthur’s parlour merely a few years ago, sleeve damp with rum where he’d spilt it. Too drunk to bloody well hold a glass of Arthur’s finest alcohol but hands always sharp enough for pretty tricks. Eyes clear despite it all, watching Arthur mischievously over Francis draped loose limbed in his lap. ‘No, thank you.’ Arthur straightens up and rolls his shoulders, feeling the knots and tension there under his coat. He’d been sitting too long. He’s due out on patrol soon and he checks his watch to assess the time.

I don't think I've told you enough how much I love this fic, the grittiness of it, the desperation, the idleness. You can almost see the men in the trenches, see the young officers playing cards to pass the time while they wait and Arthur's restlessness and anxiety. Absolutely flawless! ---

From Gold Filigree and Chainmail:

‘I’m not entirely vain.’ ‘We could have been doing many things today but instead we are here, admiring you.’ ‘We are not admiring me,’ France told him, coming up alongside, ‘Just my people and history. Which you can argue is me, but it is not really.’ England gestured at the painting with his head, ‘That’s you.’ The diner in question was in profile but it was easy enough to tell, from those who knew him well, that it was France himself. A habitual way of draping himself on a chair and the same loose, wavy hair as today. Half grin unchanged, a connection through time via the almost direct look at the painter through the fourth wall. He looked so much younger. France smiled fondly, ‘Ah, so it is.’

No one writes such delicious Fruk like you do!! You have such a hand handling these two together, you can take them from having a fight to talking about philosophy and love and it'll always be absolutely delicious and banter-y and iconic, and I'll always want to jump into the page and grab France by the hair and give him a good shake and kick England in the shin for good measure (but also lock them in a closet and throw away the key).

---

From Seen From The Other Side, chapter 1:

Their captain died last year. He died at their feet and now he turns and grins. Sees them staring, sees them know. Watches as they take him in, the horrifying, unholy miracle of it. Strong arms and broad shoulders, sharp white teeth in tanned skin. Blood in his heart and no hole near his neck. Ancient eyes that hold them there.

This entire series just makes me want to go ballistic!! I want to eat a hole in the concrete every time I read it because it's so good!! LOOK AT IT THAT'S SO GOOD!!!!!

---

From It's All About The Delivery, chapter 8:

‘Mr Williams, I did not and you are stepping way outta line here.’ ‘If you just look-‘ ‘No!’ his voice was far too loud- it rang out clear across the marble floors but the PM couldn’t help himself, an uncomfortable churning feeling inside his chest clouding all reason and logic, ‘I will not, Mr Williams. I’m doing so much already; I’m here in a manor in the middle of nowhere with a posh boy Lord who believes he’s the embodiment of dirt and I’m quite willing to go along with that to keep things smooth, but please, for the love of God, stop pushing me.’ ‘I do beg your pardon.’

The embodiment of dirt!!!!!!!! I laugh so hard every time I read that!! This entire fic makes me both want to give Matt little kisses and tuck him in at night and throw my laptop into the sun because Stephen is so STUBBORN (I adore Leigh though, we can keep her). It's the perfect mix of politics, family affairs, work relationships, interpersonal relationships, PMs that are too dumb to be alive, glorious jokes and little genuine heartfelt moments that just make me weep with joy!! Absolutely perfect!!!

---

From Reset, chapter 8:

They fell silent, remaining pressed together tightly until England had stopped shaking. 'I was supposed to have Reset.' He said, voice distant and quiet as if he were speaking more to himself than to anyone in particular. France was almost about to fall back asleep again, but became alert instantly, 'What?' 'I'm due one, it seems.' France racked his brain, struggling to try and think of the last time England had had his stint at being human. 1800s? No wait, before that... it couldn't have been anywhere around the 1600s, he'd been too busy starting to pillage and conquer to allow himself to enjoy a mortal existence. Late in the 1700s then, perhaps? 'We're all probably due one,' England continued, 'so much has changed even in the last hundred years that we're all a bit out of touch- Francis' lifespan being one example.' 'How could you tell that you...' France floundered, 'why do you think that?' France felt England give a small shrug, 'I know it was time; it was very hard to stay, I guess. You're dead but still there, but this time I had to actually think about staying.' He ran out of words, language not really enough to describe what he intrinsically knew. 'I knew it wouldn't be a good idea though, not right now.' France huffed. 'Well no. I, for one, would have to deal with your government and also reintroducing myself to mine, whilst at the same time being embroiled in a murder inquiry.' 'Don't forget that someone is still trying to kill you.' 'Oh yes, that too. How could I have let that slip my mind.' England chuckled and then coughed, lungs not quite ready. France helped him sit up a bit higher and rubbed his back, 'This isn't something we need right now. One more hit on you and it'll be even harder to fix this mess if you actually stay dead.' England continued to cough and try to wrangle his breathing back under control, but shook his head. France tutted in annoyance. 'I doubt that you'll be able to put it off for long, it's not something that you can simply avoid.' He sighed and leant back against the tree. The gap between them had filled very quickly with cold air, and once he stopped struggling to breathe France pulled England back down again and covered them both back up. 'This is going to make things a whole lot more difficult, you know.' 'Dreadfully sorry.' England did not sound in any way sorry. 'Next time I'll just die better, shall I?' France gave him a smiling kiss to the temple, 'You could always learn to die better, you are never very pretty when you do.' England elbowed him in the gut and leant hard against him on purpose. 'I cannot wait to not have to see your face again after this.' France huffed at him. 'You would miss my shining example of poise, culture and beauty before too long.' 'Would not.' 'Oh! Think of how boring your life would be without me to enhance it, for example, consider that nice long holiday we'll go on after all of this blows over. Southern France, by the beach and in the sun...' 'You can sod off, I'm going home.' 'Back to your rainy lump in the sea, of course my dear. I shall not join you.' 'Thank fuck for that.'

DO YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN WHEN I SAY YOU ARE A MASTERMIND WRITING WITH THEM??? I love to see it!!!! I read this with the biggest grin because every dialogue just jumps out of the page and they are both so alive!!! I absolutely love it!! I love the plot, I love the idea of Reset for them, I love the execution, the humor, the romance, the love!!!! I love it!!!!!!!

--- And to close this humble offering on this very special day, I hope you have the most wonderful day today, my dear, and that we can share many many birthdays and eurovisions and stories together for many many years to come!! I love you and I hope you all the best in this entire world!!! 💖💖💖💖💖💖

#rainbowfruitpastilles #oumaheroes #hetalia #fic recs #fruk #hws england #hws france #hws sealand #HAPPY BIRTHDAY RAINS!!!!!!!#🥳🥳🥳

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fieldofdaisiies · 11 months

Text

Ars Amatoria | ch. XIII

Elucien AU word count: 3,5k words warnings: none

masterlist

“His brother truly has a very good gut feeling.” Azriel Ardinghelli leans back against the wall of the carriage. Night has already settled over the landscape, the inside of the carriage is dark, one can barely see the other. “Knew something was off. You were taking too long.”

Azriel folds his hands, leans forward a little, forearms braced on his knees. “There was no sign of your carriage driver. We caught the horse. But the driver…no idea where he went. They either took him with them, which would make no sense or he ran and escaped.” Azriel pauses, averting his gaze for a moment, his face covered in shadows. “Or he willingly left with them and was part of the conspiracy.”

“Conspiracy?” Elain asks, a tinge of panic in her high-pitched voice. Her eyes widen and her body goes rigid which makes Lucien next to her stir. She wraps her arm tighter around him, his cheek still pressed against her shoulder.

She can barely make out the movement, but Azriel Ardinghelli bows his head. “Yes. The Vanserras have a lot enemies. They are the most important and influential bankers that there are in Italy. Many people envy them, want what they have. We—I am almost sure this was a conspiracy.”

“Could it have been Hybern?” The question just darts out of Elain, she can’t stop herself, but it is the most obvious option.

Azriel shrugs his shoulders, this movement only visible through the small stray of moonlight that falls into the carriage. “Possibly. But I’ve noticed nothing. And I have people who keep an eye on everything that happens in the city.” Like a spy, Elain thinks, and nods her head at him. Lucien next to her feels cold. Azriel’s coat is draped over him. His breathing is more steady now and he can also sit upright again. Elain's heart is now calmer, sadly beating in her chest, but at least the panic and terror are gone.

“You are Venus in Jurian’s painting, Madonnna Medici.” And you are my brother-in-law’s secret lover, Elain wants to say, but stops herself, knowing the carriage driver will very likely hear them and actually she is not supposed to know.

“Yes,” she answers. “And you are Mars.” Elain smiles polity, thankful for the little distraction this conversation offers her.

“I am,” Azriel answers and leans back again. “How did you and Jurian meet?” Azriel, who is normally not one to talk so much, knows he has to do this for her, too keep her distracted as otherwise her mind would start spiralling again. Just like when he found her and Lucien and she was on the verge of going crazy, wailing and crying. She panicked and barely let Azriel pick up Lucien, seeing him as an enemy as well. Her vision had been to blurry with tears, her eyes too swollen to recognise Azriel immediately and she lost it. She has thrown her fists at him, punched him, also very close to his very private parts, has thrashed her hands out, until she realised who is he is.

Now everything is better — at least a little bit. Elain feels safer, more secure, and just awaits their return to Florence so a medicus can finally look over Lucien, can finally really tend to his wound. It is all going to be good, Elain tells herself as she draws in a deep breath.

“Jurian approached me on one of his visits to Venice. He asked if he could paint me and after I had asked my father for his permission he painted me in our family home. The painting he made was called La Primavera, which I love as spring is my favourite season.” Elain smiles a little to herself, her cheeks warming. She still can’t quite believe that he wanted to paint her, and still does so. “A day before he left he came to our house again, asking for the permission to make some sketches again. Those would then be transferred to a bigger canvas and the final piece with you on it would then be called Venus and Mars.”

Azriel smiles in response. “He is painting you again, isn’t he?”

When Elain shifts a little on the bench, Lucien moves as well, groaning lightly when a sharp pain courses through his belly. Elain holds him tightly, providing him with a sense of safety.

With a tinge of sheepishness in her voice, Elain says, “Yes. He wants to paint the birth of Venus, he said. But we have only done half of my face so far.” Azriel hums deep in his throat, nodding his head, but Elain can only barely see that due to the darkness inside the carriage.

Lucien next to her groans whenever the path is a little bumpier and the carriage wiggles. Elain holds his hand so tightly her knuckles turn white. But she needs him to know that she is there for him, that she keeps him safe, that she protects him. He needs to know this.

She turns her head a little and rests her cheek against the top of his head. “Just stay with me, we will soon be back and then all is good,” she whispers, closing her eyes for a moment to draw in the scent of his hair. Despite the blood and dirt, he still smells so much like himself — forest, wood fires, nature. The corners of her mouth move up a little and form a small, sad smile. “It is all going to be good, I know this, my husband.”

She inhales once again, and opens her eyes. Azriel has nearly fully vanished into the shadows of the carriage, his whole figure barely noticeable.

“Why did you come to find us?” Elain finds herself asking in a hushed voice. She is not entirely sure why she asks, but she wonders why Eris had not sent any people who work for him, his soldiers, or sentries or another carriage driver.

Azriel turns his head back to her, but she can’t make out his expression. It is too dark in the carriage and as they are now going down another path, the moon is no longer facing the window of the carriage.

“Who else should have come to save you?”

It is not quite an answer, Elain thinks and furrows her brows. “Well, I don’t know. I don’t know anyone here, safe for a few people. But soldiers, for example.”

“There is not a lot people you can trust these days, but I guess Eris—Messer Vanserra trusts me.” Of course, he does, Elain wants to say. She wants Azriel to know that she knows about them and not having him to feel uncomfortable. But she can’t. She does not know if Lucien would want it that she lets them know she knows as well. It is better to keep calm for now, talk to Lucien one day, and only if he is alright with it, share it with them.

“But it has not always been like that, has it?”

"What?" Azriel asks, his tone solemn. Elain can hear the unspoken part of his question— is she asking about Eris trusting Azriel?

But she is not. She is talking about the whole situation in Florence. "The situation between the banks." She presses her lips in a thin line, waiting for his answer. She is truly interested how someone who is not part of the feud and not part of either bank views the situation.

“I am only 28 years old, Madonna, I can’t really say much about the past. But the feud, the feud between the Vanserra and the Hybern bank has been going on for decades. They have always been rivals.” Azriel releases something like a long-suffering male breath and rests his head against the wall behind him. “It is all very complicated and deep rooted and now that the Pope is ill, will only get more complicated.”

“Why?” Elain shudders a little, it is cool, yes, but mostly she shudders because of the uncertainty the future and then new issue Azriel is addressing. What does the Pope's health condition now have to do with it?

“Because the new Pope will mostly likely be a person stemming from the Hybern family.”

“Why?” Elain finds herself asking again, feeling a little silly for asking so much and always the same question.

A little chuckle escapes Azriel. “ You are quite a curious one, Madonna,” he says in his deep voice and pauses for a moment. “Because they are influential and have good relationships to the papal state. And the Vanserra family for example has no one to send there. Someone who could become the next pope.”

This makes sense. Well, if Eris and Ianthe had a son, they would have someone. Or if Elain and Lucien did so in the future… But would she really want this for her child. To be sent away at a young age, stealing his choice of maybe wanting family? She knows, she could never do that.

After quite a long time on the road, Elain finally releases a breath of relief. They are shielded from the outside world and Lucien is safe next to her, the carriage somehow creates a cocoon of security, with Azriel as its guard and that brings her comfort. The sound of the horses' rhythmic hooves against the dusty road create a soothing symphony, almost like a lullaby that makes Elain's lids feel heavy. She yawns, leaning her head against Lucien’s.

The only thing that occasionally interrupts the peaceful silence is the creaking of the carriage's wheels. And outside the world transformes into nothing but cool darkness, like a veil being placed over the whole landscape.

✢ ✢ ✢

“What happened?” Eris demands, his voice loud, hollowing through half of the city. Dressed in only his night robe, he rushes out of the family home, his hair disheveled, deep circles under his eyes. Azriel assists Lucien, providing guidance as he exits the carriage. Elain is immediately at his side as well, lifting his arm over her shoulders to also hold him up. The younger Vanserra brother’s lids are heavy, his breaths ragged, his posture slumping.

“Your gut feeling did not fool you, Er— Messer Vanserra.” Azriel tips his chin. “They were attacked. Found them shortly after Bologna.” Eris walks up to Lucien’s other side, taking him from Elain.

He extends his arm that is not holding Lucien up and brushes his hand over Elain’s head. A small smile appears on his face when he says, "Are you alright, cara?"

Tears well up in Elain's eyes at his sympathy. She shakes her head, then nods. "I am. But Lucien isn't! He's injured, badly!" Elain's voice trembles with a mixture of dread and panic, and Eris immediately understands the urgency of the situation.

“Azriel, you need to inform the medica. I can carry Lucien alone from here on, I have Elain after all. Please get us the medica!”

Azriel understands, and without saying another word, hands Lucien to Elain. Lucien groans, but something about Elain touching him, comforts him. She is there, has not for one second not been there for him. She did not leave him alone, despite him telling her to. She is his wife and she would never leave his side.

Elain and Eris assist Lucien as they enter the house, carefully guiding him towards the library, which offers the closest available couch. With great caution, they lower Lucien onto said couch, ensuring that no further pain is caused. Elain is shivering, her entire body shaking like a leaf caught in a gust of wind. Sensing her distress, Eris quickly retrieves a blanket and drapes it around her shoulders, before embracing her protectively in his strong arms. Elain continues to weep silently, her tears soaking into his chest. Eris asks in a soft voice, "What happened? Can you recall anything? Did you see anyone?”

Elain's voice quivers as she replies, "No... I was knocked unconscious. Even if I had seen someone, I wouldn't have recognised them. But I heard someone... someone who believed we were dead.”

Eris, his body tense with understanding and concern, releases a low hum. His posture is rigid, every fiber of his body on high alert.

They medica needs nearly an hour to arrive. It makes sense, Azriel had to run there first and alert the medica who was probably asleep already, and then the medica had to come here. In the meantime brother and wife have managed to help Lucien out of his shirt and have provided the necessities for the medica — a basin with water, fresh clothes and towels and some small bowls for mixing herbs and medication.

Eris leans against the back of the couch, watching the medica, Madja, as she slowly peels back the fabric and stockings Elain has wrapped around Lucien's torso. Her eyes sparkle with silent admiration as she does so.

“You are quite a smart girl, Madonna Vanserra,” the medica comments as Elain crouches down next to couch and clasps Lucien’s hand in both of hers.

It feels like time stands still. Madja, bathed in the soft glow of the oil lamps Eris has brought closer to the couch, meticulously studies Lucien's belly and the wound. With careful hands and coordinated movements, the medica cleans the wound, removing dirt and debris, as well as blood and pus and the small splinters of wood that are still stuck in his skin. When all is clean, Madja observes the wound. A metallic tang fills Elaine’s senses and she realises that she has been biting down on her lower lip a little too hard. She swallows thickly, watching the shallow rises of Lucien’s chest. The rise and fall is slow, but steady.

From a well-worn leather satchel, Madja retrieves a number of tools and small bottles. Elain knows that Madja’s touch, almost like a soft caress, conveys reassurance and care to Lucien — she takes her time, she knows what she is doing, and she will heal him. She pours the liquid of a small, green-ish bottle onto Lucien’s belly, then dabs it dry with a small cloth. Madja puts cream onto the wound, and then with both Eris and Elain’s help, them holding Lucien up again, she wraps a cotton bandage around Lucien’s middle. The youngest Vanserra brother lets it all, occasionally groaning and yelping, but displaying bravery as he endures it all. Even as Eris and Elain assist him to his bedroom later on, he does not complain about the pain. Instead, he only releases muted sounds of distress, followed by a deep sigh of relief when his body hits the soft mattress of his bed.

“Anything special happened here?” he groans, his lids closing. Eris wipes his hand down his face, beads of sweat caught in his eye brows. He ponders, not sure if he should tell Lucien. He does not want to put him in more distress, but he opts for telling him. Lucien has a right to know.

“Jacobo is running for Gonfaloniere,” Eris informs his brother matter-of-factly and Elain can almost hear how Lucien’s blood chills. She doesn’t really know much about politics, but she knows that this is not good. Really not good.

“And Ianthe is back.”

“Fuck,” Lucien breathes and a sharp pain erupts in Elain’s heart. It troubles Elain, that Ianthe, who is Eris' wife and Lucien’s sister-in-law, would be talked about in such a vulgar manner. Yes, maybe they don’t love each other, but that is still not the reaction one would expect someone to have about their sister-in-law.

Eris only huffs in answer, straightens his sleeping robe and drums his hands onto the lower bed frame. “I will head back to bed now. There is a lot to do tomorrow. Call when you need something.” Lucien dips his chin and thank his brother who leaves the room a moment later. The door is snugly shut and silence falls over the couple in the room. But Lucien shits a little, turning to his wife.

“Stay with me.” He looks up Elain, his lids heavy, his head rolling to the side.

“Of course,” Elain answers, her voice soft with affection. She blows out the single candle on Lucien’s bedside table, surrounds the bed and carefully climbs onto it. She hesitates for a long moment, not sure is she should move closer or keep some distance between them. She opts for the former, and rests her head —her arms stay close to her body— on his shoulder, always careful of his wound.

“I am so relieved it all turned out well. That were are back and safe. That you are fine,” she breathes and a single tear falls onto Lucien's warm skin.

He leans his head against hers and places a soft kiss upon the crown of her head, a gesture of comfort and affection that speaks volumes without the need for words. Inhaling deeply, his body trembles a little. “I will never be able to thank you enough for saving my life, Elain. What you did…was outstanding,” he finally says and a silent sob parts Elain’s lips. “You mixed herbs, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Elain answers and feels the tiniest bit of pride bloom in her heart. Yes, she did. And she thought of it and she mixed it and she put it onto his skin to heal him. And no one else told her to. It was her idea.

“So smart.” Her husband's voice is laced with admiration and also a hint of pride when he tells her his compliment. “Thank you, really. Thank you so much.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I am your wife. This is my—“ “You saved my life, Elain. And I will thank you for that, no matter what you say.” He leaves no room for discussion, his voice strong and unwavering.

Elain accepts it, and decides to change the topic. She is tired and she knows Lucien is as well, but she also wants an answer. She has to address it now. Tomorrow too much time will have passed, now the topic is fresh, and as his wife and Eris’ sister-in-law she feels entitled to know. Or…she is just very curious and nosy. A trait she does not like that much about herself…

“So, Ianthe is back.” It is all she says and then waits for Lucien to answer.

“Unfortunately,” he grumbles. Elain finds herself enveloped once again by the same melancholic emotion, as the familiar wave of sadness washes over her again. Why would he talk about Ianthe like that? And would he ever talk about her like that as well? She doesn't believe Lucien is capable of talking about her like this, that this is in his nature, but still the doubt is here, strong and thick as it stretches out like a dark cloud that settles over Elain.

Lucien must have sensed her troubling thoughts and says, “Ianthe is…she is a bad person. And she, with what she said and did, hurt me deeply. And she also hurt Eris. She is not a good person, she does not own a heart and soul like you do. Her is rotten, spoiled and wrenched.” He sounds spiteful when he talks about her and Elain wants to take the pain from him. Why would this woman have caused him such pain? What could she have possibly done?

“What did she do?” Elain asks, her voice soft, but she speaks through clenched teeth.

She did too many things, Lucien thinks. Things he doesn’t want to recall, so he opts for the one thing he allows himself to think of, the thing he will partly share with Elain. “I lost someone close to me and on the day they were buried Ianthe told me to behave like a man and stop crying and that it was my fault they died.” His throat is dry, aching fiercely when he swallows around the lump the size of a peach having formed there. He can’t say more, it would break him in his already vulnerable state. He will tell Elain one day. He will tell her everything. But not right in this moment.

“Now, sleep, Elain. You need to rest. You, out of everyone, deserve it the most tonight.” He kisses the top of her head again and Elain is lost for words, although she wants to protest that he needs it more.

Even though he does not tell her more, she knows she can believe him. Trust him. Since the day she met him, she has known that he is kind and good. But now, now she knows something else. She knows she is falling for him. And that head over heels. She is falling for her husband — a thought that is not at all absurd, but still surprises her a little. She would have never thought so when she left Venice for Florence.

~~~~~~~~~ taglist AA: @octobers-veryown @velidewrites @areyoudreaminof @acourtofthought @liftyourhipsformelovex @hallway5 @stickyelectrons @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @bibliophiliaxvignette @thelovelymadone @sunshinebingo @arabellatheauthor @autumndreaming7 @nestas-workwife @rarephloxes @tuzna-pesma-snova general el. taglist: @rippahwrites @shadowhunter2003 @my-inner-crisis @ladyelain @acourtofthought @itwasalwaysaboutthetea @multifictional @moonlightazriel @aayo-whatt @brekkershadowsinger @sunshinebingo @gracie-rosee @a-frog-with-a-laptop

#elucien #elucien au #elucien acotar #acotar elucien #acotar #acosf

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rainyraisin · 1 year

Text

OKAY SO, RETICENT INFO DUMPS!!! The first half of Raph's wasn't in my notes so I had to steal it from Instagram. These are from 2 weeks ago so the characters have more to them at this point but I'll only keep infodumping if people ask :)

Raph continuation:

Raph is the only brother other than Leo who goes up to the surface, usually to get more fun things for his brothers rather than what they genuinely need. Mikey receives spray paint gear and painting supplies, also said to be from Splinter, but Raph suspects he knows who its truly from. He hides in his room whenever Splinter actually does visit so he doesn't get into a fight with him and "scare him off" for a few months. The only crime Raph really commits is stealing. Despite his temper and tendency to get into fights, he's actually quite responsible. He's the one who stops his twin from committing too many crimes. The vandalism he permits, the arson he does not. He wants to be closer to Mikey and Leo.

Mikey:

Mikey is 15 and the younger twin by 2 days!!! He's more of a traditional artist and enjoys painting. He was introduced to spraypainting by April and does it around the lair pre-season 1, to Splinter and therefore Leo's dismay. Following the start of season 1, he starts doing spraypainting with Casey which was a big bonding activity for them. Mikey struggles with expressing anger verbally and does it through other things like burning stuff or going out to spraypaint. He was almost caught by the police once due to him being too loud and disturbing the peace whilst spraypainting to relieve some stress. He's the best cook in the family and when he was deemed old enough by Leo he was allowed to start cooking for them (with supervision of course, and Leo handled things like knives). He wants to be a cool older brother to Donnie but tries a bit too hard and kinda just comes off as weird yet kind funny. They're still not the closest though. He wants to be closer to Donnie and Raph. Later on he bonds with Donnie a bit through baking as his little brother enjoys the chemistry part of it (he is completely banned from the stove though). Raph is their taste-tester.

Donnie:

Donnie!! The youngest at 13!!! (And a half as he will constantly remind you). Donnie is autistic but literally has no fucking clue, just like the twins with their ADHD. He's a bit clingy to Raph and shares similar traits to him due to spending the majority of his life around him. He acts the same way around April as Mikey does around him, trying to be a cool little brother. April doesn't understand what the hell he's trying to do. He questions why Splinter brings him materials for his inventions yet seems so disapproving of them. Donnie feels like his brothers view him as a liability first and family second. Leo tends to try keep him out of the way a lot of the time, mostly when sparring, which leads to him being weaker than his brothers in that aspect, although Raph eventually has enough and begins sparring with him in secret. Don is the reason they met April as he went out looking for Splinter when he was 9 and got lost, only finding his way back to his brothers due to April offering to help him. He stole Leo's coat so the majority of his features are covered up. She only realises that shit might not be right here when he tells her he lives down in the sewers but like, is she really gonna leave a kid to get home alone??? No, ofc not.

April:

April! The oldest of the group at 17!! She will lord the fact that shes just over a month older than Casey over him for the rest of his life. April acts quite apathetic and snarky but genuinely does want to help her brothers cause she cares a lot about them. She just doesn't know how to and she feels so guilty about it. She also tries not to get too involved in their personal stuff because she thinks that they don't view her as a sister. She hasn't met Splinter yet but has heard a lot about him from Raph and isn't very fond of him. She doesn't like Casey too much at first as she's worried he'll break their trust and reveal her brothers' existence to the world but over time they grow closer and become friends. When she first met the turtles, she was a bit freaked out cause holy shit there are mutant turtles in the sewers why why why why why- But she came to realise that they were just kids trying to survive and warmed up to them quickly. She came round as often as she could to make sure they were okay and eventually bought them all radios in order to keep in contact with them better (she let Donnie mess with them to increase the range). Very supportive of her brothers cause like, who else is gonna be? Their dad sure isnt and she's the only one who knows about them otherwise (until a certain goofy guy comes along)

Casey:

Casey Jones!! Second oldest of the overall group, also at 17!!! He's just less 17 than April (don't question me I can english). He's the catalyst for the series as a whole and is completely confused by what the fuck is going on the majority of the time- bro is just slowly learning how fucked up this family is and he's just like "ARE U GUYS OKAY??? 💀💀💀". He wants to help the sillies stop being so damn emotionally constipated. He is also a silly little vigilante guy‼️‼️‼️ He is not very good at it but don't tell him that he's trying his best. He also plays hockey cause he slays like that. He is very loser/affectionate. He's definetly been arrested a couple of times although never actually sent to jail or anything, just made to wait with an officer until his dad comes to pick him up. He acts way more confident than he is. (I have way less on him than everyone else atm lmao I'm sorry)

Also just realised, here's a very old Leo infodump, like literally from the second day of Reticent's existence

Anyway if there's anyone who wants to know more about all of the sillies or even just one particular silly, throw an ask into the box!!! :D

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microwavedmetal · 1 year

Text

Day 6: canon divergence rec list

a ghost never leaves a haunted house

bluebears

Mike looked at him unimpressed. “See you say that. You say that. But you never actually mean it.” He flung his hands out, gesturing at him. “You’re always making stupid promises that you can’t keep.”

Will gaped at him. This was ludicrous. “Name one promise that I haven’t kept!”

“You keep leaving!” Mike burst out. He practically shouted it. If the outburst took him by surprise, he didn’t show it. “Everytime I just get you back you end up leaving again. And it was fine at first, I guess. With the Upside Down and the MindFlayer. Like at least then we knew how to bring you back. But now there’s nothing taking you away but you still aren’t here. And I can’t figure out why. I’ve racked my brain trying to understand what’s going on with you but I just don’t get it! We’re supposed to be best friends but lately it’s only felt like that on my side of things.” ____

The Upside Down is gone. Or so everyone keeps telling him. But Will knows the truth. You can burn all the vines and close all the gates. But you can’t flush out a virus once it’s already been spread. After all, how do you kill something that’s intertwined with the very root of Hawkins without affecting the real world?

These feelings are not my own

Corvi_dae524

Will Byers has enough to deal with already. After returning to Hawkins, he has been getting flashes of what's happening in Vecna's mind too often for his liking. Not to mention everyone keeps their distance from him in case he goes all mind-flayer-super-spy again. Well, almost everyone. On second thought, maybe it would have been better if everyone did stay away.

Or, Will accidentally forges an emotional connection between Mike and himself, and he doesn't know how to deal with it

Don't bite your DM (unless he says yes)

Pennyplainknits

An argument arises over the damage potential of a human bite. Mike and Will settle it in a totally normal way

The Stars You Wrote Me

MrHalloween2

Mike Wheeler is a Star Trek fan.

He also happens to think that Kirk and Spock are soulmates, like many do, and secretly writes about his two favorite characters.

Will Byers, just looking for his coat in Mikes closet, is invested and also very in love.

Ready As I'll Ever Be

snow_bunn257

Turn the world upside down? Did he even have the power to do that? What could he really do? Make the world a better place? With the Upside Down? He had already remade the entire Upside Down in his hometown’s image. If the Upside Down actually leaked into Hawkins, could Will remake the whole town? Make it better? Could he finally make a world in which he could be happy? Those were delusions of a villain, weren’t they? Words injected into his brain by Henry. And yet…

That didn’t sound all too bad.

My take on a Will Villain arc! I really think that the only way he'd switch sides is if convinced it was for the right reasons. Inspired by Ready As I'll Ever Be from Tangled The Series!

By His Side

careful_wish

“You guys saved me, Mike,” Will whispered. “You saved me. I’m okay.” He giggled – actually giggled – when Mike leaned over and kissed Will’s cheek, the smile on his face infectious. He then rested his forehead against Will’s, feeling Will shaking slightly, and thought his mouth would fall off his face from smiling so hard as Will whispered, “I like you too.” Mike hugged him fiercely now, Will letting out a louder laugh as he was knocked back to the floor. Mike moved so he wasn’t squishing Will, squeezing him tightly. “You’ll go to the Snow Ball with me?” he breathed in disbelief, burying his face in Will’s shoulder. He felt Will hugging him back just as tight, nodding. “Yes, Mike, I will,” Will mumbled. “I won’t leave your side all night.”

Mike doesn't think through asking Will to the Snow Ball, so when Will says yes...

broken hearts can always mend

sarol3

"The Road to Madness really wasn’t just a grayscale painting. It had colors scarcely hidden along the way - they were tiny patches in size, yet they felt bigger than life itself, the darkness making them even more vibrant as they called out to the eyes with their beauty. Their presence made the journey feel all the more sorrowful."

Or:

While growing up, Will is being visited by a tall, 15-year-old boy with dark hair and dark eyes, who looks just like his best friend, Mike if he were a little bit older. Will thinks he might be a ghost; he always disappears without a trace after all.

#BylerFicRecWeek2023 #byler

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p-artsypants · 7 months

Text

Paint it Black (6) Wondering

Robin disappeared three months ago. Now, Jump City's crime rate is mysteriously being taken care of by a normal, albeit strange, teenage boy who goes by the name Black. As the Titans befriend this lunatic, they begin to see a correlation between him and their missing leader. Will they be able to find Robin, or will Black turn them all insane as himself? [Actually, does not contain an OC]

Ao3 | FF.net

Starfire flew solemnly over the city. In her own selfish way, she wasn’t really patrolling, just going through the motions. She’d finish up with this, and then go home and—

What? Watch those videos again? Go through that torture, again?

Maybe she’d check in on Black, make sure he was asleep and not causing any trouble.

It was a horrible feeling living in her head.

She had come to see Black as a friend. A friend with a great need for care. But the way he had spoken to her on top of the Wayne building the other night…maybe he was a murderer?

The very thought made her lose altitude quickly.

She thought of Robin’s smile and that one time he said she was really cool and regained her place in the sky.

“Star…fire?” A gravelly voice called out for her.

“Hello?”

“Ov…over here, love.”

Starfire turned about, before finding the source. An old man was duct taped to a scaffolding on a building under construction.

“Mr. Mad Mod? Is that you?”

“Correct, love!” Then he coughed. He had no youth to preserve him, and looked sick. Very sick. “I know we haven’t seen…eye to eye on many things…”

“You have hypnotized my friends and I on numerous occasions.”

“Yes…well, do you think you could help me?”

“In what way?”

He coughed again, more severely. “I was doing something bad, yes. I had some revenge planned, and then…that boy…” He coughed. “A boy in all black ambushed me. Didn’t even have the chance to protect meself.”

“Black, you say?”

“That’s the stuff! He tied me up ‘ere two days ago. I thought someone would have been ‘ere by now, but you’re the first to find me.” He gave her a pained smile. “Been without me medicine for a few hours. If you want to turn me into the bobbies if you can, but I might need to get to hospital.”

“Oh!” Starfire immediately got to work freeing the man, and he collapsed into a coughing fit soon after. “Please hang on, Mr. Mod, I shall get you to the hospital as quickly as I can.”

“Thank you, ducky.”

—

Robin. Black tossed and turned as that name reverberated in his head over and over. Robin. Who was he, anyway? He saw his picture, he knew his roles, and saw the respect his friends had for him. But still, who was this person? And why did his name make Black so angry?

Robin. A stranger. Robin. A phobia. Robin. An enemy.

Black saw no point in sleeping anymore that night. Sure, the bed was comfortable, and sure, the tower was warm and dry. To date, it was the most comfortable night he ever had (to his knowledge). But the more he slept, the more he dreamt. And the more he dreamt, the more memories came back.

As Black rose, he made the bed lent to him, he wondered why only bad memories came to him. People dying, crying, bleeding. Pain, sorrow...things you tend to try to forget first we're coming back first.

He also wondered how he knew how to make the bed. He hadn’t ever owned one, that he remembered. Getting undressed was a struggle, and he had done that at least twice before.

It was the middle of the night, still dark in the tower. He snuck out of his room. His eyes were keen to the dark, but the light glow from the numbers on the appliances in the kitchen helped a bit.

Black's reasoning was, the Titans had taken him in out of the kindness of their hearts, the least he could do is keep from being a burden.

A rather sane thought, don't you think?

First though, since he was up and all alone, he decided to take care of himself. If he was staying here, he had to know what he was working with. His coat was still hanging up in the ops room, slightly damp. That was fine, as long as the contents were dry. He dug through the pockets, finding everything still there, and wrapped in the plastic he used to protect it. His knife, his gun, and his stash.

He HAD to have his stash.

He squirreled these things back into his new room, hiding them under the mattress. He allowed himself a tiny taste, just to take the edge off.

Next, he allowed himself a tour of the tower. Some rooms he explored more than others; such as the medical room. He found the bathrooms, the garage, and the evidence room. He took a waltz through the basement.

For each of the bedrooms, he took time to acknowledge whose was where. With Raven's, he poked his head in, saw the shadows and left. In Beast Boy's, he stepped in, got a whiff, and backtracked quickly. Cyborg's room was a bit more fun. Black tiptoed in, noticing the gauge on his computer. The tin man was charged up to 80% according to his screen.

Black tinkered with some of the tools sitting on the workbench, but when one dropped and made a loud clang, he bolted from the room.

Next was Starfire's. The boy peeped his head in the room, and when he saw no machines or demonic statues, and smelled no tofu armpit barf, he slid in. He liked Starfire for that; a comforting sort of normalcy in the tower. Ironically, the most normal room belonged to the alien. He acknowledged her lacey white curtains, and the random stuffed animals around the room. But he was most interested in her, moreover, how she slept. Her feet on her pillow and her hair draping over the end of the bed.

"I wonder if that's comfortable," He mused.

She stirred.

Black hushed himself. He stared at her a bit longer and then moved on.

Finally, his bedroom exploration ended with Robin's room. He stood in front of the door for a long time, trying to find the will to open the door. But he had nothing. He couldn’t do it. Nothing was stopping him. He didn’t even respect this stranger.

In the end, he just went back to his room, and hummed some forgotten tunes until dawn broke.

Morning rolled around with Raven first to wake up. She walked in the ops room, only to be utterly surprised. She expected the house guest to be still asleep, not cooking breakfast.

"Good morning, Blackbird!"

"Raven," she corrected.

"But ravens don't sing in the dead of night."

"And neither do I," She quipped.

"Fair. Coffee?"

"I'll stick to tea."

Next, in came Cyborg. "Dude, what's that smell?"

"Bacon, eggs, ham, fat, grease...what do you want?"

"You made all of this?"

"Well, it didn't poop out of thin air!"

"Just as a heads up, Beast Boy doesn't eat meat, remember?"

"That's why I made the tofu French toast from the fridge."

“I thought you didn’t eat processed meat either,” said Raven. “What is ham and bacon, then?"

“Well, if I prepared it, and it’s in its package…I wasn’t really going to eat it anyways. I found some yogurt.”

Beast Boy grunted and shuffled into the room. "'Mornin'"

"Yo BB! Black made breakfast, and it is awesome!"

"Off the hizzy," Black corrected.

Last to enter was Starfire, and she looked bedraggled.

“Good morning, Princess Fiona! Would you like some breakfast?”

Starfire leveled a glare at him. “You did something very horrible to Mr. Mad Mod.”

The rest of the team stopped what they were doing and stared at the two.

Black chuckled nervously, “I’m sure I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“The very old villain who is sometimes not very old and speaks with a strange accent.”

“British,” Cyborg added.

“Yes! Him! I patrolled last night and found him tied up within a construction site. He said he had been there for several days without access to his medication. I spent several hours in the hospital with him last night just to make sure he was healthy!”

“Wow Star,” said Beast Boy, impressed. “That was nice of you.”

“I didn’t know he’d be there for so long. I thought they would find him.”

“‘They’?” Raven pressed.

“The workers.”

“But it is the week’s end! Would the builders not be off until Monday?”

“Oh. Yeah…I didn’t think about that.”

Cyborg scowled. “That’s your problem, man! You don’t think! Not when you fought against Mumbo, not when you took off your pants! What’s wrong with you?”

Something is very wrong with you. We might have to operate.

“There’s…there’s nothing wrong with me,” Black insisted. “I’m fine. I’m the normal one!”

“You know that’s not true,” said Raven, coming closer. “Starfire told us about your mood swings. You’ve been following us for a while. You seem all nice and friendly when you know we’re looking, but you’re up to something. That’s not normal.”

He looked at Starfire, a grimace pulling on his lips. “You told them?”

“We do not have secrets,” Starfire argued. “Robin hid secrets from us, and that is how he disappeared. I chose to not withhold information.”

Black frowned hard, his nostrils flaring.

“Dude, we don’t have to be against each other. You can get in on the trust circle. Just don’t hide stuff from us. Let us help you.”

Now you’re all alone, and no one to save you.

“I…” he backed away from them all. “I don’t know…there’s so much I don’t know.”

“Then just tell us what you do know,” Raven insisted.

Before they could pry any information out of him, the alarm sounded.

“Looks like our little pow-wow is going to take a back seat,” Cyborg checked the report on his computer. “Ugh, Johnny Rancid.”

“I can help!” Said Black, running to grab his coat.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Raven encased him in her magic and deposited on the couch. “You’re grounded.”

“Grounded?! Why!?”

“One, we were just talking about trust. Two, you’re injured. And three, you don’t know how to fight in our dynamic. So sit.”

“We shall return shortly, Black.”

“Fine, whatever,” he pouted, arms crossed.

“Titans Go!” Cyborg shouted as they ran out of the room.

When they left, Black wandered over to the computer, where the report of this ‘Johnny Rancid’ came in. The location popped up and blinked at him.

There was a funny voice yelling in his head. Sitting around and doing nothing was the wrong thing to do.

So he embraced it.

Raven and Starfire raced through the air while Cyborg and Beast Boy chased in the car. Rancid had a motorcycle, and what looked like a long electric whip. On his back he had a large duffle, stuffed with money he’d just stolen from the bank.

“Go ahead and try to stop me, losers! You were nothing with the little Birdy Boy, and now you’re even less!”

Starfire threw bolts at him, and at the road, which he expertly dodged. Then, without looking at the road, snapped the whip at her, zapping her and making her collide with Raven.

“Ah ha ha! Too easy!”

“Not that easy!” Cyborg took aim with his canon from the driver’s seat.

Rancid simply took a sharp turn down an alley, where the car couldn’t follow.

Beast Boy escaped the passenger seat and turned into a cheetah, taking chase. He caught up to Rancid, running at full speed.

Rancid cared little, and snapped the whip out again, several times, eventually striking Beast Boy.

“Nothing! Nothing I say!” Rancid laughed.

The rev of a motorcycle caught Rancid’s ears, and he perked up in interest. “Bird Boy?”

The R-Cycle came recklessly speeding around the corner, on a collision course with Rancid. But instead of a yellow and black cape billowing behind it, there was a tattered trench coat.

“A new challenger? Rock on!” Johnny changed direction quickly, and the race began again.

Starfire and Raven followed the revving engines to the source, only to look in dread.

“He has taken Robin’s bike!” Starfire lamented.

“And he’s not wearing a helmet!” Raven shouted. “Black! Go back home!”

But Black couldn’t hear her over the roar of the engines, or the adrenaline pounding in his ears.

Rancid drove straight into a construction site, where the path became treacherous and unpredictable. An expert biker would struggle.

But Black seemed to be keeping up just fine.

“You’re pretty good for a kid! Who’re you supposed to be? Bird Boy’s replacement?”

“Nah, I’m your mom’s new boyfriend!”

“What!”

Black turned his bike to bump into Rancid, colliding their bikes together to try to shake him.

“Watch it, punk! I just had this thing detailed!”

“Could have fooled me! Looks like a rust bucket!”

Rancid snarled as he returned the collison, and tried to shake Black off his bike.

“Hey, what has webbed feet and quacks?” Black asked, with a meaty smile.

“Uh, a duck?”

“Good job!” And Black lifted off the bike to donkey kick Rancid in the face.

Johnny lost control of his bike for a moment, swerving through the construction.

Black brought his bike close and leapt onto Johnny’s, letting the R-Cycle crash behind him.

“Get off!”

“YEEEEE HAWWW!” Black reached over Johnny’s hands to engage the throttle, to speed up the bike even faster. Then he took out his knife and stabbed Rancid in the thigh, making it difficult for Johnny to brake.

Johnny cried out in pain, and Black bailed from the bike, rolling several painful feet.

The crash that followed was startling. Johnny’s bike exploded as he collided with a wall.

“Yes!” Black cheered, covered in road rash.

Cyborg finally caught up to them. “Oh my god, oh my god!” He rushed to connect his cannon to a fire hydrant and put out the explosion.

Raven arrived too, and yelled at Black, “stay put!”

She and Cyborg worked to recover Johnny from the wreck while Starfire and Beast Boy caught up.

“What did you do?” Beast Boy asked.

“I won!”

“It is not winning if the criminal is killed,” Starfire said woefully.

“...killed?”

Raven brought out Johnny’s bloodied, battered, and unconscious body. “He’s alive, but he needs to get to the hospital, ASAP.” Then she turned glowing eyes on Black. “What are you doing here? You were supposed to stay at the tower! That was an order!”

“I said I wanted to help.”

“You totaled Robin’s bike,” Cyborg said with venom. “We built it together. You had no right to take it.”

“But—”

“But nothing!” Cyborg shouted, getting right in his face. “This is what we were talking about! You don’t think! You don’t listen to us, you don’t consider risks! You’re lucky Rancid isn’t dead!”

“You are lucky that you are not as well,” Starfire said, softly.

Black blinked several times, finding it hard to swallow. Then, he started to cry. A few tears rolled down his face while his mouth quivered.

The very action took the wind out of everyone’s sails.

“Starfire, you take Black home and get him patched up. Cyborg, Beast Boy, you take care of Rancid, I’ll collect what’s left of Robin’s bike,” Raven stated, so coldly, it felt like ice formed at their feet.

“Please Friend Black, do not resist. We will return to the tower.”

Black nodded at her, still sobbing.

She wrapped an arm around his waist, and they took off.

—

In the med bay, Black sat in his underwear once again, while Starfire attempted to clean his road rash. He winced with each pass of the rag.

“I am sorry if this pains you, but there is debris I must remove.”

“I know, go ahead.”

Starfire worked diligently, occasionally flicking out little pieces of asphalt from his wounds. “Why did you not obey Raven? Why did you fight?”

Black was quiet for a while. “You asked me something similar in my hat. There was this…voice, screaming at me. I couldn’t sit around. I couldn’t ignore it.”

“For everyone’s sake, I hope next time, you do.”

His mouth scrunched up, and he blinked back tears. “I disappointed you.”

“A little bit, yes. I had hoped that…since you asked us for the help, we would be on the same side. But it seems as if you are not. You are on your own side.”

“I…I’m sorry.”

Starfire looked up at him. His face wasn’t so deranged, his eyes held sadness instead of malice, and he seemed genuinely remorseful. “If you are, you should apologize to the others, and stop with these stunts of peril.”

He sighed. “For you, I will.”

—

Raven couldn’t sleep. It had been an exhausting day, but her brain would just not turn off. Several nights since Robin’s disappearance, she would awaken with a start. She had a connection to Robin the others didn’t. She had been in his mind. She saw his memories. And she felt his presence.

Cyborg seemed to be certain that he was dead, but determined to find a body to give a proper burial. Beast Boy seemed to fall more and more convinced that Black was the other boy in those videos, and that he had killed Robin before he lost his memories. Starfire? Well, she was always hoping for the best, but Raven wasn’t sure she actually believed.

Like a pilot light in the basement of a house, the faintest whisper of a presence, even now, she felt it. Robin’s life. If he had died, she would have known. But it was there. Robin was alive, but only barely. Asleep? Magically sealed away? Hell, even banished to another dimension? She wasn’t sure.

Which was why she was so troubled by the videos he had sent. As immoral as those conditions had been, they had been the work of men. Very evil men, but mere mortal men. Unless they were aligned with another being that hadn’t given a clue in the video, Robin’s presence should be stronger than it was.

So not dead, but not alive. Somewhere in between. It made little sense.

Giving up on rest, Raven got up and went to the ops room.

The door opened quietly, so quietly, the other person in the room didn’t notice.

“Beast Boy?” She asked.

He morphed into a cat and leapt off the couch like a lightning bolt. Then he calmed and turned back. “Raven! You scared me!”

“I have the tendency to do that. What are you doing up?”

“Oh! I uh…I couldn’t sleep, so…I thought I’d watch some TV!”

Raven peered up to the screen. He was watching the videos.

“You won’t sleep better after watching those.”

He shrank. “Yeah, I know…I just…”

She came closer, watching again. Beast Boy had the volume low so as to not bother the rest of the tower. It was the third video, the longest.

Beast Boy was quiet for a moment, then explained, more seriously than she’d ever heard, “I think Robin left this puzzle for me.”

Raven met his eyes. “You do? Why?” It wasn’t dismissive, but genuine curiosity.

“I know those songs. I just…don’t know what he’s trying to say.”

“All of them? You recognize them all?”

He shrugged. “Mostly. I don’t really listen to music for the words, more the…well, music. But they’re familiar.”

“Explain.”

He gave her his ipod. On the screen was a playlist called ‘Robin.’ “These are all the songs he gave me. He found out what music I liked and gave me a bunch of CDs to rip.”

Raven scrolled through the list. “Beast Boy, all these songs are by the same band.”

“Yeah, Radiohead. It’s his favorite.”

“One second!” She left to go to her room. When she returned, she had the list of lyrics she had copied down. “I don’t have all of them, but here’s what I got.”

“Okay,” he scanned the list. “Uh, I think I need to listen to him sing them again before I can point out what is what.”

“Alright. So we’re going to do this again. Would you like some tea?”

“Uh…yeah. I think that’ll help.”

So they both got to work. Beast Boy started from the beginning, listening closely.

“The first video doesn’t have any songs,” he noted.

“Right, but he gives us two pieces of information. There were twenty young men at the start of this, and Robin feared someone was listening to his recording, so he created a code.”

“Ooohh…yeah. That makes sense.”

“So the second video is the first one where he sings.” Raven pressed play, listening very carefully.

“This is my way of saying goodbye. 'Cause I can't do it face to face. So I'm talking to you after it’s too late.”

“It’s just one song,” said Beast Boy. “Oh! It’s ‘Videotape’! Duh!”

“So he’s ––what? Stating the obvious?”

“I think this one is more about the words. I think he’s telling us…this is the last we’ll hear from him.”

Raven frowned, but didn’t want to dwell on it. “What about the next one?”

“That’s the one I was working on,” he held up his own notes in his messy handwriting. “The first song is ‘Last Flowers’ and then ‘We Suck Young Blood.’”

“Hmm. Keep going.”

They restarted the video, and Beast Boy pointed out the parts where one song started, and another began.

“She looks like the real thing. She tastes like the real thing. My fake plastic love.”

“‘Fake Plastic Trees’,” Beast Boy snapped his fingers as he wrote it down.

“I've been climbing up this ladder. I've been wasting my time.”

“And that one is ‘Up on the Ladder’.”

Raven frowned, starting to fear the worst. Robin was never very good at sharing emotions. Maybe, just maybe, he was just…using music to convey emotions he couldn’t explain?

“Just 'cause you feel it doesn't mean it's there.”

“‘There There’.”

No. Why record this many unless there was a point? Why subject them to the horrors in the background if he was just trying to say goodbye?

“You've got a light, you can feel it on your back, a light, you can feel it on your back. Jigsaw falling into place.”

“And then, obviously, ‘Jigsaw Falling into Place’.” He wrote the title down and showed her the list.

“Jigsaw…like, a puzzle piece?”

“I’d assume that’s what they were going for.”

“Wait a second… ‘Last Flowers, We Suck Young Blood, Fake Plastic Tree, Up on the Ladder, There There, Jigsaw Falling Into Place’…Beast Boy! These are directions!!”

“To where?”

Raven stared at it longer, begging the answer to hit her.

“Oh! Raven! I forgot! ‘Last Flowers’ is the short name! The full name is ‘Last Flowers for the Hospital!”

“Hospital!” She nearly shouted. “Blood, tree…I bet there’s something for us at the bio labs at the hospital! Let’s go!”

“What, now?”

“What is with all the noise?” A sweet, sleepy voice asked from the door. Starfire had emerged, one of Robin’s capes on her shoulders.

“There’s been a break in the case,” said Raven.

“What case?”

“Robin’s case.”

Starfire was wide awake. “Tell me everything!”

“We will on the way, let’s wake up Cyborg!”

#fanfiction #teen titans #TT #tt animated #starfire #robin #robstar #dick grayson #koriand'r #paint it black

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