#maybe i'm unto something here

[rmorde]

This idea has been bouncing off my head.

Tengen evolving is a threat because she will become a higher being and may become a threat to humanity. Keyword: May.

Just spitballing here, what if her evolution is something similar to what Gojo experienced while he was "high"? He is definitely NOT acting like how normal humans would react during that time. He was too busy just vibing with the universe and looking like a loony.

Gojo didn't even seem to want to pick a fight and just showed up to Toji so he can rub it in that he survived. Toji is the one who initiated a Round 2 with Gojo going "Is it? Yeah. Maybe!"

While "high", Gojo was blissfully indifferent - just floating and smiling like a loony in the air. Toji even get to warm up. He could have retreated and Gojo wouldn't give a fuck.

Gojo only went for the kill when Toji made it clear his intentions was to slaughter him again - the moment when the assassin ignored his instincts that "Something was off".

Now, what if that is how Tengen's evolution would work? She would become "high" - blissfully one with the universe but utterly indifferent with humanity until attacked which is inevitable.

Humanity fears what cannot be understood. Again, this can be observed when Gojo was "high". Toji called him a "monster" while Geto looked scared at Gojo even when the latter was asking for his advice.

Humanity will always attack what they fear. Maybe that is what Kenjaku is preparing for: 1) Let Tengen evolve and humanity develop its weapons. 2) Foster fear in humanity to attack Tengen. 3) Tengen retaliates with extreme prejudice at the perceived threat (just like Gojo did with Toji).

[sttm99]

Part 2 here!

'Fuck.'

It had been just two nights since you'd given him head in the dark of his dorm room, and Bakugo hadn't been able to rid his mind of the sensation ever since.

He knew it was stupid to even agree to it. You were the one girl in class he felt comfortable enough to talk about anything with. Be it grades, his fears and even more sexual topics. It also helped that he knew you wouldn't ever judge him for anything.

You were his closest friend; more so than Kirishima. And he liked that... he liked that he has someone he could trust with his life, someone he could relate with so effortlessly.

And you felt the same way with him. You told him everything; every little secret, every dirty detail, and he never laughed or judged.

Which was why you both were in his room, many hours past his bedtime, sitting opposite each other on his bed as you recounted your most recent almost-sexual endeavor.

"-and it was so awkward cause it was just hanging there in my face and I didn't know what to do." You groaned out, with your body hunched over, face covered with your palms as you recounted your experience in the school's storage room with a General Studies boy you'd been seeing casually.

Bakugo chuckled at your demeanor from where he was. "Yeah then maybe you should have stopped him when you saw him undoing his fucking belt."

You glared at him through the cracks between your fingers.

"Seriously," he laughed. "If you didn't wanna give him head, you should have told him the moment you entered the closet."

You groaned and fell back unto his bed. "The thing is I want to do it."

You turned your head to stare up at Bakugo.

"So why didn't you?"

You groaned again. "I don't know. I mean... look, I wanna be able to make the guy I like feel good, you understand. And I really thought I wanted to give him head, but then he was pulling his jeans down- and I was getting cold feet and then he pulled down his boxers and I wanted to run away right then....

"But I pushed through- and I got down... and it was just staring at my face and-"

"Maybe you just don't wanna do it." Bakugo raised his brow, cutting you off from your rambling.

You frowned. "Maybe. I mean, I think about giving head...and I wanna do it, and then I get an opportunity and I panic. You're probably right."

There was silence for a moment, before Bakugo shifted in his position, pulling his knees higher up, closer to his body, and leaning his forward.

"Or maybe... you don't wanna do it with him."

You furrowed your brows. "Meaning..? I don't really like him or what?"

Bakugo shrugged, "I mean, do you?"

You began sitting up. "Don't I?"

"Come on, Y/N." He raised a brow, giving you an unimpressed look, "You don't even text him unless he texts you."

"Yeah because he's always texting me."

"See! You even say it like you're frustrated." Bakugo jutted his arms out at you.

You paused, sitting up and pondering it.

Bakugo groaned. "Listen, I know you, okay? You- frankly, you're horny... more so than most people-"

You scowled at him.

"-and the fact that you don't even let him put his hands under your fucking skirt most times should tell you that you're probably not all that sexually attracted to him."

You stared at Bakugo, eyes narrowed as you began to see his point. "I guess you're on to something."

"Look," he began, "I honestly think you're just with him because of how aggressively he pursued you. And that's fucking dumb."

You pouted. "I guess... so now I have to find someone else to practice head with."

"Why do you wanna learn how to give head?" He laughed.

"Cause the girls were talking about giving head one time and I wanna be able to join in conversations." I groaned out, exasperated, and flopped back unto your back.

Bakugo took a moment to look you over, before adjusting his shorts and clearing his throat.

"I can give you pointers if you want."

Silence.

"What?" You mumbled, sitting back up, with your weight on your palms and narrowing your eyes at him.

He scowled at you. "I'm not repeating myself."

You rolled your eyes and hissed at his stubbornness. "You idiot."

"But..." You started slowly. "If you're offering to give me tips on sucking dick, I don't mind."

He shifted a bit. "Yeah... well- it'll only work if you're sexually attracted to me. If not, it'll just be like with that guy earlier- and shit would be awkward." He was looking away now.

"Wanna find out?"

And that was how he found himself heaving against his headboard with his shorts and boxers flung at the far end of his bed.

"Shitshit- fuck Y/N."

His hands were fisted into your hair, knees raised in the hair and thighs spread on either side of your head, as you laid on your stomach before him, nose pressed into his dark blonde pubic hair and lips wrapped tightly around his dick.

His eyes were blown wide, lips parted as grunts forced their way out his mouth.

It was just bordering on too much; the sensation of your mouth, and he'd suddenly realised how seriously you'd taken his analogy.

-"Consider it a bottle of smoothie or something, and there's that chunk that can't pass through the bottle mouth properly, so you're trying to suck it out." He'd said, holding his already hard dick against your cheek.

"That sounds stupid, Katsuki." You retorted, as you scowled up at him.

"That's the best I got, I ain't some sex therapist, okay!"-

"Oh shit- you're good," he groaned out, head thrown back and thighs quivering. "Fuck- fuck! Fuck, you're fucking good, baby. Just like that, yeah..!"

His grip on your hair tightened, pushing you down on his dick so he could feel the sliding of your tongue on his shaft as he dipped into your throat.

It didn't help that you were drooling all over him- and yourself-, your hand cupping his balls and squeezing softly.

He was going into overdrive, thrusting up unto your mouth, his eyes rolling back as he slipped down your throat over and over again, and he moaned as he felt you gag, your throat constricting against his tip.

He brought his head forward to peek over at you.

"Slut," he groaned out, eyeing your positioning; one hand infront of you, playing with his balls, and the other stretched underneath your body, fingers dipping into your sleepshorts. "You fucking slut- you like this shit, don't you?"

You moaned around his dick, vibrations coursing round his veins and your eyes looking up to meet his; lids hanging heavy and pupils blown out as you sucked on his cock.

He came heavy- hard. With spasming thighs and choked out groans as he spurted his seed down your throat.

It was a lot... too much. He kept spurting out his cum and his sight was blurry as he looked at you.

Now he couldn't look at you without remembering your stupid, fucked expression when you were between his legs. And it's weird, because all you're doing is grinning an Sato as you hover around him whilst he bakes.

It's stupid. He knows it is.

You don't even like him that way.

Part 2 has been posted here!

[geddyqueer]

tidbit tuesday

since the people asked. idk how quickly i'll finish this but here's some 8x17 reaction fic:

"I was homeless," Buck says, as the light turns green. "When I was younger."

He feels, rather than sees, Tommy's gaze linger on him briefly before he takes his foot off the brake. "When you were traveling?"

"Yeah. And for a while in LA, too. Like—I was sleeping inside, but I didn't have a mailing address for a long time. And then I was couchsitting. And then I lived with five other guys, and then I squatted at Abby's for a few months after she ghosted me."

Tommy releases a long breath at that. "The green apartment?"

"Yeah," Buck says.

"Did you ever find a pair of black Chelsea boots? Size 12? In a closet or something? I never got those back from her."

Buck turns to look at him. He's focused very hard on the road. "Were they Red Wings?"

Tommy nods.

"Yeah," Buck says. He remembers the way they were molded to someone else's feet, the way they chafed at his ankle bone, but that they carried him along through the loneliest days back then. "I wore them into the ground."

He realizes, as Tommy bursts out laughing, as he bursts out laughing too, that this is the first time they've actually talked about Abby since the night they broke up. Not like they've had time, in the intervening months. Maybe they'll have time now.

"I'm glad someone was wearing them," Tommy says, when he finally catches his breath. "I'm glad it was you."

He turns onto Bedford Street and slows down.

"The loft was the first place I ever lived that was really mine," Buck says. "Other than the old Jeep, I guess. I lived in that for a couple years. Sometimes I'd find short term rentals, but usually I just slept in the car."

Tommy's hand makes its way across the center console, open and inviting, and Buck slots his hand into it. They're pulling into the long stretch of empty street parking in front of the next house, now. It doesn't look like Eddie's here, but Tommy leaves the driveway empty anyway.

"This place felt like mine for a little while. Not—not anymore."

"Whatever I can do to make my house feel like home, Evan," Tommy says. "For as long as you want to live there. Even if it's just a week, or for—I don't know. Just say the word and I'll do it, okay?"

"What if I want a bunch of flamingos in the front yard?"

"Plastic ones, I hope," Tommy says. "I can't afford to put in a flamingo pond right now."

"But you would do that?"

"If I had the money, and you really wanted it, then yes," Tommy says.

"I don't think I want a flamingo pond," Buck tells him. "Not right now, at least."

"We can table it," Tommy says, and he gets out of the truck.

Buck sighs, and squares his shoulders, and heads once more unto the breach.

[kiraavi]

show you a body

Summary: After a night out you return home and your insecurities take ahold in the quiet. Joel makes it his duty to chase away all those bad thoughts even if it means spinning a thousand pretty words and tender touches. CW: smut, pwp, unprotected piv, creampie, oral f!receiving, body worship, praise, nipple play, thigh riding, a mirror is heavily involved, reader is feeling insecure + related negative self talk, emotional hurt & comfort Note: this was supposed to be a quick little fic to get me out of my writing slump, but it ended up way longer than I initially intended. This one hits pretty close to home as someone who continuously deals with body image issues and a lot of insecurity, and I hope that maybe it will bring some comfort to those who can relate. You're beautiful and loved!! As always, this is written with game Joel (Goel) in mind. No, I will not stop spreading the Goelspel. Also reader is specifically written to be plus size here. Credit to @/saradika-graphics for the divider. Comments, reblogs, and likes are all so incredibly appreciated! I'm always overjoyed to receive feedback. It means a lot to know that people have taken the time to stop by and read my fics. Lot's of love to y'all and happy reading! Word Count: 4.5k Ao3 Link: read here!

It had been a wonderful evening. Truly. On all accounts. One spent beneath twinkling string lights and surrounded by the little community Jackson had fostered, but it came at the worst of times—with its slow and silent crawl from the dimmest recesses of your mind. And yeah, maybe you’d left the window open a sliver, or maybe it had slipped in through the crack in the wall that you’d put off patching up. Maybe it didn’t matter who poked the slumbering beast or how the waters came to be stirred. 

The quiet voice arrives unbidden and undeterred by the love you’ve surrounded yourself with. It seeks to pick and chip away at the already fragile fissures of your confidence. It imparts unto you all the haggard things you don’t want to feel. You’ve stewed in it—in the discomfort of your own skin and the fictitious judgements. You’ve fretted over the unseen looks and imagined thoughts that you have conjured up on others' behalf.

You are unraveling. A ball of yarn unspooled and frayed at the ends, one thread drifting farther and farther from the collective whole. The mattress dips as you lower yourself onto its edge. In the quietness you can hear the gentle rush of running water. On any other day you might’ve joined Joel in the shower but you’re too far gone, too wrapped up in your doubts. Your dress bunches in your lap, your fingers clutching at the fabric as you let out a shaky exhale. 

When you lift your gaze, you’re met with your reflection across from you in the sliding mirrored closet doors, and you think that you might like to tear them from their track. It is not the image you wish to happen upon in this moment—not when your vision is so warped and perception skewed. But something urges you to stand, and your feet carry you closer. That cold and harrowing feeling washes over you, ebbing and flowing, prickling over your skin. It is the ice in your veins. It is the lump in your throat. It is the ache that wells unbearably in your chest. It is the recognition of all you try not to acknowledge. It is the realization that you must be blind otherwise everyone else is a liar. 

All of the sudden your dress is too tight. It hugs your stomach and hips awkwardly. It outlines you weirdly or maybe you were just shaped that way to begin with. The straps showcase the pudginess of your arms. You should’ve worn something with longer sleeves, something with a skirt long enough to cover your legs, something looser, something with enough flowy fabric to cover every flaw. You wonder what possessed you to choose this dress out of all the others. Did you really let others see you like this? You hardly recognize what you’re doing—dissecting, scrutinizing, taking yourself apart piece by piece. Carving and whittling away until all that was there is gone. 

The bathroom door creaks and white light spills into the bedroom, but you don’t really register it. You’re so absorbed in your thoughts and judgements that you only notice Joel's presence when the door swings shut behind him. He stands there, salt and pepper hair tousled and damp, wearing nothing but his plaid sleep pants. For some reason, seeing him makes everything you feel expand and grow tenfold. You jut your chin to the side but he’s already closing the distance, coming up behind you and winding his arms around your middle. 

Warmth pours into you as his scent envelops you—cedar, citrus, and comfort—that fresh, lovely smell of the homemade soap he uses intertwined with a scent that is so distinctly yet indescribably him. A damp strand of his hair tickles your cheek as he plants a kiss along your jaw. His hands slide lower and your breath hitches. He’s oblivious to your turmoil but your silence won’t go unnoticed for long.

“The- the door…” you start but your voice wavers and you stumble over the words. “The hinges need to be greased.” 

It’s a lame and poor excuse for conversation—a hurried, trembling remark to fill the silence and feign some sort of normalcy. You see the moment his brows knit together, and he lifts his gaze to meet yours in the reflection. A look of realization dawns on his face. Your watery eyes, trembling lip, and the critical, assessing look that you direct at yourself. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” His hold grows firmer, tugging you tighter against his body. There’s a low, quelled anger that simmers beneath his next words. “Did somebody say somethin’?”

And that’s the worst part, isn’t it? There is no rhyme or reason to this feeling you harbour. Would it be easier if there was someone to blame? Would it be easier if there was a simple and concise reasoning for the tears currently brimming your eyes? But there isn’t. There’s just you, and this habit—this line of thought so often and secretly tread that the path has become trodden and trampled, stomped down a hundred times over.

“No… no, it’s nothing,” you say weakly, reaching down to pry his hands away but they don’t budge.

“Oh, s’nothin’?” he asks. “Nothin’s why you’re standin’ in front of the mirror on the verge of tears?” 

You open your mouth to protest but nothing comes out, and then the tears are slipping down your cheeks before you can hope to stop them. You wipe them away furiously, but whatever mirage you had been trying to construct wavers and the curtains are drawn back. The truth floats between the two of you even though it remains unspoken. 

For a long moment neither of you say anything. You watch silently as he takes in your form, but his eyes hold none of the contempt that yours do—just the pure adoration that your brain tries to convince you must be a trick of the light. He knows exactly what kind of thoughts have flayed you open and torn you up inside.

“Do I not tell you how beautiful you are every day?” he questions, pressing himself closer to you. 

“Joel– that’s… not,” you huff, shaking your head. It’s not anything he’s done or hasn’t done. You don’t know how to articulate it properly. It’s you. There isn't an outside source. No, it comes from within—there is something inherently wrong within you. A deep rooted insecurity so ingrained in yourself. You’ve done your best to bury it, but it surfaces from time to time. A festering wound that refuses to heal no matter the remedy. You see the gears turning in his head, and you can already tell that Joel’s going to make it his sole purpose to be your cure and chase all those bad thoughts away.

“Does my girl not realize how obsessed I am with her?” He coos as his hands sink lower, slipping beneath your skirt and caressing your thighs. He pauses to give them a firm squeeze, finger tips dimpling the plushness there. “These thighs…”

He coasts his hands up to feel out your tummy, hiking your dress up with the movement to reveal the pretty panties you’d chosen to wear. He hums, eyeing them appreciatively as he nuzzles against your shoulder. The scruff of his beard scrapes against the supple skin there. One hand slips between your legs to cup your mound. He tucks his fingers right over your clothed slit and you jolt when taps them against your clit. “Your curves.”

A shudder courses through you, hips twitching at the contact before he raises his hands up, up, up. Your ample breasts fill his hands, fitting into the grooves of his broad palms. “These pretty tits.”

“My gorgeous, gorgeous woman…” he continues, kneading your breasts. His head nudges yours, urging you to look at your reflection. He’s scooped your tits right out of your dress, they spill into his hands in surplus. His body wraps around yours from behind, completely entangled with you. Your skirt is ruffled and disheveled, partially rucked up your thighs. A shaft of sunlight pours into the room through the gap between the curtains. The last glittering light of golden hour illuminates you, catching in your hair and along the lovely shape of you. He gazes upon your reflection with the most ravishing look. “I love every fuckin’ inch of you. Your body is a work of art, darlin’.” 

“What do I gotta do to prove it to you, hm?”

It’s a hopeless sort of feeling to hear those words pour from him, from his heart, like it’s the truth—like it’s something you’re meant to take for gospel. Yet it doesn’t quite compute in your brain. He sings a song of praise, but the words are misshapen pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit alongside the image you have of yourself. You don’t know how to admit it without breaking his heart.  

“Joel, this isn’t necessary,” you mumble as you look at your reflection. Your vision is blurring again, tears gathering anew. 

“Isn’t it?” he says as he curls his fingers into your panties and begins to lower them. “Let me love on you… ‘s what I’m here for.” 

His hands move to your waist next as he walks you backwards. The backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he drops down onto the mattress, pulling you down to straddle his thigh.

“I love this dress on you.” He tugs at the hem, lifting it up and off of you. “Couldn't keep my eyes off you all damn day, wonderin’ what I ever did to deserve a beautiful woman like you.”

You're entirely bare now, and though he's seen your body many times before, it feels different this time. As though a nerve has been scraped raw and exposed, but he handles you with the utmost care. Gentle, tender touches that seem utterly uncharacteristic of the kind of man he appears to be.

He brushes a stray hair aside and kisses your temple. His lips linger there for a moment, his eyes fluttering shut as he seems to relish in the moment. 

“It’s fine– I’m fine…” you whisper. It is second nature to deny yourself this treatment—to pave it over with fibs and false reassurances. Even if it’s something you crave. It feels a little too much, but also way too damn good. You hesitate to indulge in it like you want to, afraid that the rug might be pulled out from under you. “There’s no need for all of this.”

His eyes snap open, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips. “I beg to differ.” His thigh jolts beneath you and a soft sound tumbles from you. Your hips roll down against him, the fabric of his pants catching against your clit. His hands grip your waist, guiding your movements over his leg. “You look so fuckin’ sexy… my girl takin’ her pleasure from me, mhm… that’s it.” 

You’re sick of feeling this way—of constantly falling over yourself, doubling back, and thrashing against all the good, sweet words. You want to feel beautiful. You want to feel like the woman Joel describes before him. So you decide that you’ll try to wrap yourself up in his praise, and cradle your tender heart, brittle ego, and scarred eyes in whatever antidote he’s concocted for you.

His words goad you on, your head tilting back as you grind down on his thick, muscled thigh. Everything else falls away. The whirlwind storm at the forefront of your mind is temporarily subdued as you immerse yourself in sensation.

“Gonna come for me?” He husks, leaning back to take in the sight of you. “Gonna come on my leg, sweet girl? Look at that mess you’re making…”

“Nghh– Joel, hah…!” you mewl, shaking your head. It’s not quite enough. The pleasure doesn't compound upon itself. The growth is stunted and frustration wells inside you, unfurling and overshadowing satisfaction. “N-need more– please!”

Joel stills your hips and adjusts you over his lap. His face comes to rest against the crook of your neck, fitting perfectly into the curve. He shifts to trail a couple kisses along your shoulder before slanting his gaze up at the mirror. 

"Spread your legs f'me,” he murmurs and you comply, inching your legs apart. “Wider.”

You hesitate, legs trembling. He takes matters into his own hands, prying your legs open and hinging them over the tops of his knees. You gasp, clasping at the arms that move to cage you against him. One strong arm bands around your midsection, his hand splaying over your plump stomach, fingers dipping into the pillowy flesh there.

“Good girl." The praise spurs on the whirring butterflies in your tummy. Warmth creeps up your cheeks as another kind of heat sinks low. His other hand is between your legs in the next instant, fingertips grazing your clit as he brings two digits down to part your folds.

“Look at that perfect cunt,” he groans, pulling your own attention to the lewd sight in the mirror. Your entrance contracts around nothing as he pulls his fingers up to strum at your clit. “How could you ever think you’re anythin’ less than perfect?”

You moan, writhing and pressed flush to him as all his attention converges on that little bundle of nerves. “Gotta rid your head of all those nasty thoughts… make sure my pretty girl knows how beautiful she is.” 

Your eyes flit all around before landing on the inevitable again. And you think that you catch a glimpse—even if only a fraction—of what he witnesses each time he sees you. Warm sunlight bathes the room, limning your figure. It snags on every contour of you. You’re a painting depicted in gold luminescence and luscious curves. 

But mostly, it is the way he looks at you that makes you feel beautiful. The light catching the branches of golden brown radiating into the mossy green of his eyes as he holds you so tenderly in his gaze. As though the rest of the world has fragmented and disintegrated, and you’re the only thing left in existence. Or maybe he looks at you in spite of all the beauty that can be found elsewhere because you’re the only sight he finds worthwhile.

Two thick fingers follow the seam of your pussy, dipping low and sinking into the wet heat while his thumb continues to bear down on your clit. He eases them deeper then curls them, and drags them back out, intentionally passing over that sensitive spot inside you. He kisses his devotion into your skin, skimming his lips back over the slope of your shoulder to the nape of your neck, and then to the side of your face, his nose ghosting over the apple of your cheek. He holds you steady and grounded as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of your cunt.

Slowly and languidly he hales sweet sounds from your lips. He revels in the hitch of your breath, the punched out gasp, and every whiny, needy noise. He gets off on the sight of his fingers vanishing into your slick heat, and the obscene squelch of each movement—the way you’re spread open for the mirror and bared to him but also, and more importantly, bared to yourself.

The hand on your stomach rises, journeying through the valley between your breasts and stopping beneath your chin. He holds his hand still at the column of your throat, directing your gaze toward your reflection. He doesn’t say anything. He just continues to dismantle every self doubt—every ugly and terrible thought with each drag and curl of his fingers and the reverent gaze that belongs to you. Only ever you.

“A-ah! ‘M close… so close!” You drawl, feeling that meandering sensation well and roil in the pit of your stomach. He brings you closer and closer to that sweet precipice, stringing you along with firm circles rubbed over your clit. 

“Yeah? C’mon then, let go…” he murmurs and all it takes is a few more seconds, another pass of his fingers against that spongy spot within you, and another swirl of his thumb. You’re locking up, muscles drawing tense and rigid. Your hips stutter, canting up into his hand and seeking more as though he isn’t giving you it all. You cry out—a weak, snivelling sound as your walls spasm around his digits, seemingly trying to bring them deeper. “Mm, there we go… You did so good, baby girl. So good for me.”

Joel looks on in awe while you fracture atop his lap, thighs quivering as tiny earthquakes send tremors through your rattled body. He firms up his hold on your neck for a fraction of a second before sliding it back down. He withdraws his fingers from between your legs, and hauls you off of him, laying you down across the mattress.

He crawls over you, looking down at you tenderly, and using the back of his hand to caress the side of your face before bringing his glistening fingers to your mouth. You part your lips and he pushes them inside, brushing them over the flat of your tongue. You hum, tasting your own arousal on his fingers. He makes a muted noise before pulling them free.

He ducks down, nuzzling against the generous swell of your breasts. Your breath catches in your throat when you watch him turn his head. His lips feather over your dusky areola before he latches onto the stiffened nub of your nipple. You keen as he suckles it into his mouth. 

“J-Joel!” You squeak but he doesn’t let up. One hand comes up to lavish your other nipple with some attention, pinching it and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. He stays there for what feels like an eternity before pulling away, and moving to take your other nipple into his mouth next.

Once he’s had his fill, he releases the bud, leaving it glistening with his saliva. He takes a minute to worship your pillowy breasts some more, fondling and massaging them. His large, work roughened hands look almost out of place against the backdrop of supple plushness. 

“I love every part of you…” he whispers, finally and reluctantly sliding his hands from your breasts and down your sides, stopping at your waist to squeeze the pudginess there. “Every. Single. Part.” Each word is punctuated by a kiss to your left side, then your right, then right below your belly button.

“Every mark,” he adds, pressing a kiss to each freckle he finds—every beauty mark, or scar, or birthmark. He plants a row over the spiderwebbed stretch marks scrawled along your tummy. “Beautiful. Gorgeous. Sexy as hell.”

His fingers parse over you like you’re sacred scripture, leaving no page unturned, unlearned, unmemorized. They glide up and down, feeling out every divot and fold of your body before coming to rest at your thighs. He tugs them apart and seats himself between them. His warm breath fans over your folds causing your hips to jerk in anticipation.

“Ain’t gonna be able to think about shit else ‘cept how good it feels,” he says before leaning in and running his tongue up the length of your slit. “Sweetest damn pussy…” he moans and instantly presses closer to take his first sip from you.

His tongue flicks at your clit, keeping all his attention there for a long moment, feeding off of your moans and whimpers. His arms are hooked around your thighs, and his grip tightens before pulling you closer. He groans as he dips his tongue lower, prodding against your entrance. He’s got himself smothered in your cunt, nose bumping against your clit. There is no need for oxygen. You are the only thing he needs in order to keep on living.

He eats you open and drinks you up as if he takes pleasure in it himself. And he does, doesn’t he? He’s addicted to you. He thrives on the taste of you, the feel of you, the sound of you. Every aspect of you is something that exists purely to be worshipped by him. He’d place himself upon your altar and offer himself to you. He’d devote the rest of his time on this Earth to making you feel like the Goddess you are.

You whine and wriggle, but he’s got you held still. He laves his tongue through your folds and pushes it deeper again. He’s lost in the act, humming, moaning, and rutting his hips against the mattress. He eats you out as if he’d happily drown in you—as if he’d gladly forgo his next breath if it meant another second spent pleasing you. Like it would be both a privilege and a pleasure to suffocate in you. But he finally diverts his attention back to your clit with the goal of winding you up and coaxing you to another shuddering peak.

An ever tightening coil twists and rolls in your tummy. You hang in the moment before the inevitable break, back arching and hands clutching at the sheets beneath you. And when that coil snaps, you’re left gasping out, entrance clenching helplessly around nothing and aching to be filled. He laps you up, working you through your orgasm as the waves wash over you in quiet susurration. 

Joel pulls back and stands to full height in front of you. Your eyes survey his form—the droplets of your arousal like dew in his greying beard, the thatch of curls atop his chest, down to the trail of hair that leads down beneath the waistband of his pants. You sit up and reach for them, pulling them down. His erection clearly strains against his boxers, barely containing his burgeoning arousal. You raise your hand to cup the bulge. He grunts, grabbing your wrist and forcing your hand away so he can rid himself of his underwear.

He pulls them down and frees his cock. It’s thick and veined, an angry red at its drooling tip. In the next moment he’s gently pushing you back down, and caging you against the mattress again as he notches the head at your entrance.

He meets your gaze, asking silently for permission and you nod. He’s pushing in one drawn out motion, breaching your tight cunt with a bitten off groan. He retreats minimally to gather your legs, and bring them up before bending them toward your chest. You mewl, legs hooked over his shoulders as he sinks back inside you. 

He rocks into you, carving deeper with each roll of his hips. Your head tips back, eyes falling upwards to the ceiling as you keen. Your tits bounce with each thrust, and he’s momentarily mesmerized by the way your body jiggles and moves under his. Still, he’s quick to cup your cheek and tilt your gaze back to meet the intensity of his own. You are impossibly full of him—split in half on the girth you’ll never quite get used to.

“You’re exactly what I want…” he coos, thumb running under your eye, the simple touch transcribes an immeasurable amount of reverence. “As you are–you’re everythin’ I could ever ask for… nghh, and you feel so damn good.”

He continues thrusting into you, shifting your legs from his shoulders and laying his body over yours. You whimper as he drives his cock forward over and over. His breath catches in his throat, as he presses his head to your temple. You feel his breath and muttered utterances flitter over your ear. Quiet, wispy praise and strangled curses.

His cock twitches—he’s getting close. He slips one hand between your bodies and finds your clit, rubbing it in vigorous circles. He’s hellbent on bringing you over that crest again. The two of you moan in unison, and when your walls contract and pulse around his shaft, it sends him over the edge too. He stills, nestling himself inside your cunt as his cock jerks and fills you with thick, warm spurts of his cum. 

Both of you go limp in the aftermath, lost in a post orgasmic daze. Your bodies are pressed flush to one another, slick with a thin sheen of sweat that plasters the mess of his hair to his forehead. He pulls back slowly, and you reach up to hold his face and coax him back down. His lips meet yours in a slow, passionate kiss. He pours himself into you and you do the same in return, humming and arching into it as his tongue licks into your mouth. After a little while, you break off, panting and chest heaving.

Joel leaves your side for only a few minutes, but it feels a bit like forever. He returns with a damp rag in hand and helps you clean up, gingerly wiping between your legs, and lathering you with gentle affections and soft kisses. He brings you a new set of clothes, and helps you into them not because you’re incapable, but because every fibre of his being yearns to tend to your every need.

When all is said and done, he lays down on the bed beside you, his form molding and curling around yours from behind. He brushes his fingers along your face, admiring you silently and when his gaze flits up, he meets yours in the reflection of that damned closet door. You look a little misty eyed. A little disbelieving. A little bit like you’re some place else.

“Aren’t you seein’ what I’m seein’?” he questions, tilting his head as he addresses you. “The most gorgeous woman to grace this Godforsaken Earth…”

You exhale sharply, your eyes rolling upwards as you try to find the right words—ones that won’t shatter this perfect, fragile moment, but also aren’t made of half truths and deceptions.

“It’s just– it’s so hard to look past… all this.” You gesture vaguely to your body. 

“Baby, all this is a blessin’,” he says, rubbing a hand over your hip. “You oughta trust me on that.”

“I’m trying,” you manage to say weakly, your voice quivering. Because despite all the wonderful things he’s said and the blissful ways he’s laid his hands upon you, it simply won’t be something you get over in one night or two. “I really am.”

“That’s all you have to do, understand? Just gotta try everyday, little by little, to appreciate yourself,” he murmurs, giving you a reassuring squeeze as his lips graze your temple. “And if you need some remindin’ from time to time, well, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You place your hand over his at your hip. You take it and turn it over, running the tips of your fingers up his wrist before pressing your palms together and entwining your fingers. “Can I schedule a reminder for tomorrow morning?”

His lips twitch into a smile.

“I think I can manage to pencil you in, pretty girl,” he murmurs, burying his face against your neck and kissing you there. “Always.”

Tags: @smvtwitchmiller, @iloveshawn

[anneapocalypse]

I cannot help feeling like the tendency to see Inquisition!Leliana in stark contrast to Origins!Leliana has led to some people forgetting what... Leliana is actually like in Origins.

In fairness, as in all Dragon Age games some very revealing character moments happen in party banter which makes it easy to miss. But the gentle-hearted mystic who desires only to draw others unto the love of the Maker has never been all that Leliana is, and it's always been in direct conflict with the side of her that is not only adept at intrigue and yes, violence, but enjoys those things. This is the central conflict of her whole character, and it's not a trivial conflict, because there is not one simple answer to who Leliana truly is. She is both of these things. She is deeply religious and finds comfort in her faith, and thinks it should bring comfort to others as well. She's also prone to gossip and pettiness and all the qualities that helped her thrive as a bard.

There's this one particularly revealing piece of banter with Alistair if the Warden is in a romance with Morrigan:

Alistair: So have you heard? Morrigan and him are... you know. Leliana: Have you nothing better to do than to spread idle gossip? And besides, he can probably hear us both. You're not being very discreet. Alistair: No, look, he's not even paying attention. Leliana: Hmmm. maybe. You don't... think that he's serious about it, do you? The woman is a vile fiend. Alistair: Well, look here, now who's an idle gossip? Me-ow! Leliana: You're the one who started this, I might remind you. And I'm... well, I'm ending it!

I once had the especially entertaining experience of getting this banter, and minutes later hearing Leliana turn to Morrigan to give her the "It's so nice that you're together, isn't love wonderful?" line. But whether or not you have the pleasure of hearing them back to back, I think this dialogue make it pretty clear that while Leliana would like not to think of herself as a gossip, it takes very little prompting from Alistair to get her to slip back into that mean girl persona. And Alistair (who is more perceptive than he often gets credit for), calls her on it immediately, clearly embarrassing Leliana--who realizes that her mask has slipped.

I don't think it follows from this that Leliana necessarily hates Morrigan unilaterally. There's something much more complex going on between them, in my opinion, because they are such distinct opposites in upbringing and personality. Both Leliana's faith and her life of courtly intrigue are nonsense to Morrigan, who neither believes in the Maker nor has much patience for intricate social graces (at least, not yet). Meanwhile, I think Morrigan's outward self-possession and the sense of power she exudes is a source of both fascination and frustration for Leliana, who thinks she understands power, both social and divine--but finds in Morrigan a kind she cannot fully comprehend. (I also think you can definitely feel some sexual tension into their banter, especially the much-beloved banter about the velvet dress.) Ultimately, both of them are very concerned with power, but approach that concept very differently. And Leliana responds to this clash of ideals in a particular way because her own self-image is so conflicted.

As all great Dragon Age foils do, Leliana and Morrigan needle one another, push each other's buttons, challenge one another's sense of self, and in doing so reveal one another in their complexity and sometimes in their ugliness. It is perhaps easy to write this off as the tired trope of women being unable to get along with one another, or conversely to claim that they get along just fine and fandom has fabricated the tensions between them; I think to do either of those things diminishes a genuinely complex and sticky relationship that serves to reveal a lot about both characters.

[angelpuns]

“ I've eaten bigger birds than you for lunch, is that all you got?” Leo chuckled, hopping backwards as one of the thugs slashed at him. A lie, since he quite literally had run away from said ‘bigger guy’ just a little bit ago, but these mutant thugs wouldn't know that. 

He’d stopped running when he realized those guys weren't following him, hopping down into an alley to see if he could find something to wear for the time being. It was still chilly, even as the sun was rising into the sky, and he wasn't sure how long he'd be out here. 

After all, he'd yet to come up with a good plan. 

All three of thugs were some kind of birds, though obviously Leo didn’t have the time or care to identify them. 

The one attacking him screeched and slashed at him again with knife-sharp claws, barely missing his plastron. He could probably take these guys, but he had also just woken up, been ran out of his home and was fucking freezing. 

Time for plan B. 

“ As pheasant as it was talking with you, this is starting to get hawk-ward,” 

He dodged another swipe and opened a portal, giving the oversized birds a quick salute as he stepped into it, 

“ so I'm gonna go ahead and duck out while I still ca-”

He was cut off by a screech and the painful tug of one of the thugs grabbing his leg just before he made it into the portal. 

It wrenched him out with a grip far stronger than he thought it'd be, the creature flinging him into the nearest wall with a CRACK!. 

His shoulder burned with pain, a thin line of blood oozing down from a scratch there. He barely had a moment to cover it before he was slammed back into the wall, face pressed into the gritty bricks. That was gonna leave a mark for sure, especially because he was missing his mask. 

His swords were on the ground, just next to his feet but still just a little too far too reach. 

“ H-hey, don't get your feathers ruffled, guys!” He chuckled, fear creeping unto his chest. This felt a little too familiar. Like the leftover sensations of his nightmare were creeping into reality. 

The thug holding him scoffed and pressed harder, sharp talons pressing into his scales. 

“ all turtles this fuckin’ talkative or just you?” 

Leo swallowed. Shit, what was he gonna do? No swords, and he was never really good at hand to hand combat. If he could just…

“ Hey, I'm the only talkin' turtle out there,” he tried to sound convincing, even if then hulking creature in his bedroom had been vaguely turtle-shaped, “ your whole flock as fowl-mouthed as you?”

That earned him another slam into the bricks, and a harder squeeze. Blood trickled down his face and into his eye, Leo blinking hard to try and clear it. He inches his right foot closer to his sword, if he could just distract him enough to break free…

He was starting to feel a bit lightheaded, though, and one more slam could easily be a concussion if he wasn't careful. Or worse. And trying to get home like that would be…yikes. So he had to time it just right. 

“ Hey, what do you call-”

The joke has barely left his beak when something slammed into the thug, taking him down in an instant. There was a flash of red, purple and orange, and Leo quickly grabbed his swords.  Whatever it was, they acted so fast he could barely keep up. Shit, maybe he already had a concussion. He hated treating those, keeping himself awake through’em was like torture!

He hurried to make a portal, turning to thank whoever it was, only to see the same hulking creature and the only slightly familiar faces of the two other guys from his room earlier. 

He went cold from head to toe, falling backwards into the portal and letting it take him wherever it took him. He couldn't go home, they were following him. 

Tracking him! But how - he has portaled, he had- 

Leo swallowed as he landed firmly on his bed - despite not wanting to go home - and a new dread filled his stomach. 

They must have put some kind of tracker on him while he slept. He sat up, the motion making him dizzy. 

How the hell was he gonna get out of thus one?

-----

More of this unnamed au :)

I don't like writing fight/action scenes so this one ended up being pretty short, but I hope y'all like it nonetheless ;)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | part 5

[alexispunkkk]

not yours

♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰

god only knows — chapter 6

read the series!

last chapter | next chapter

- warnings: religious trauma + guilt, joel's perspective, mention of loss of innocence idk, age gap description, very light sexual thoughts. honestly nothing in here this is js joel's perspective regarding it all, anyway he's sexy and tortured but a great man and deserves a big ole kiss

- summary: joel's turmoil when you fall asleep in his bed

- word count: 1.5k 😓😓 this is a filler chapter i'm so sorry i totally didn't feel like writing tonight so this is the best yall are getting i fear...

on ao3

JOIN THE TAG LIST FOR POST NOTIFICATIONS WHEN I UPDATE!!!

Joel doesn’t sleep. Barely breathes. 

After the warring night you spent dealing with your hypersexuality–and Joel calming you down from it–it wore you out. Your excuse was that it started raining and you didn’t feel safe to drive home in the dark. But, in reality, you both know it’s because you wanted nothing more than to stay.

He’s the only thing down here in Texas that actually makes you feel safe. Makes you feel seen. And you need to soak up every bit of comfort in his little house that you can before you’re forced to leave.

So, that leaves you in his bed. He’d moved you there from the couch after finally giving in and formally allowing you to spend the night. You end up curled up in the middle of his mattress, tucked into one of his old t-shirts that he so generously slid over you. Your limbs fold in on themselves, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. Small and delicate in his big, warm bed.

It’s the stillest you’ve been all night after being disgustingly touchy and fidgety with Joel. The bed smells like his shampoo. Sweet and soft. Something too old and out of reach for you.

The thing that drove you to sleep was the gentle kisses on your forehead and soft stroke of your back that he offered. It felt comfortable, as tranquil as a holy sanctuary. 

But he got up, moving across the room to the old armchair in the corner. Dark red and brown, sunken in from years of use–little rips and a few cigarette burns in the worn fabric. His elbows are on his knees, hands knotted together as if praying, or waiting for the passing of a storm that already hit. 

It ripped through the house in the shape of you. Your body, thighs, the hands trying to push up his shirt and feel his soft belly. Your mouth on his lips, later gnawing animalistically at his Adam’s apple. 

Joel closes his eyes, trying to think of quite literally anything besides that–besides the feeling of you forcing yourself onto him and the way your voice broke when you begging for him so desperately:

Please, Joel. I need you.

As much as he hates to admit it, even to himself, it did turn him on a bit. He chose the less sinful route tonight, shutting you down and telling you not to throw yourself away like that. But little did you know he was achingly hard after the interaction, twitching uncomfortably in his pants as much as you were dripping wet in your little thong. He wanted to give in. But he can’t. You may have stopped believing entirely, but a small part of him is trying to hang on to God, despite having a feeling deep down that He isn’t real. 

It’s not that you’re rubbing off on him. Joel’s been thinking of this for a while now. Hell, years, even. He used to be such a good man of God, attending church with the brightest smile, the glow of the Lord. But over the years, the love has warped into a sickening mix of doubt and confusion. 

Maybe seeing you slip away like this did the same to him. Or maybe it brought him closer to God in hopes that it wouldn’t also happen to him. He feels bad. So, maybe, it’s worsening him. He’s too focused on helping you that he doesn’t care–he’d do anything for you, essentially.

His eyes open back up. Fuck it. He reaches for his Bible on the table.

It’s old, wrapped in leather and cracked from years in waves of different habits: either sitting untouched for months or being obsessively read for a span of a few weeks, only to be disregarded again on his nightstand. The edges of the paper are yellowing.

In hopes it might speak to him, give him some guidance with what to do with the girl in his bed, he runs a thumb across the cover. It could have some answers when he’s too weak to have any of his own.

He flips to a random page, the verses once imprinted in his brain now a lost cause. Doesn’t even read it, but lets the words blur together on the page. With the way they looked, he’d think he forgot to put on his glasses. But no, they’re resting on his nose like always.

It’s the words’ fault. They don’t stick like they used to–don’t echo in his brain and whisper the answers to him in a time of need like this one. You’re in his bed, and he can feel the ghost of your wet mouth on his throat. The way your hips rolled forward in desperation into his, just trying to break him.

The Bible stays open. But it’s useless. He’s watching you instead.

Your breathing is slowed,mouth slightly parted and cheeks pink and soft with exhaustion. The red color of that sinful lipstick is still on your mouth but faded from tears and rushed kisses, hardly hanging on where it’s smudged off the corner. You look so small, the same way you did in his arms when you whispered how badly that you needed him. 

To Joel, it’s kind of sad to see your innocent body wrapped up in his sheets like that after tonight. He could ruin you–further than the church already has. Further than your father did. 

He wants to hold you so badly. Scoop you up and never let go, leave everlasting kisses to your forehead and hope that you don’t wipe them off right away. But he can’t.

You’re cracked open, raw and vulnerable.

It’d be bad to worsen that. But he still wants to. The ache sets into his chest, pressing down with the weight of the situation–your sleeping frame in his bed, the Lord, and everything in between. He’ll remember the feel of your knees pressing into his hips each time he sits on his own couch, the smell of your stupid vanilla perfume you’d put behind your ears and ankles in hopes of getting something in return. 

He’s at least a little proud you didn’t get anything tonight. He didn’t give in. Not only is it a sin, but it’s also ruining you. He can’t crack you like that, can’t steal your purity. Not when he’s known you since you were born, not when he used to lead prayer circles with your father. 

Especially not when you’re this vulnerable, your emotions heightened so terribly that you pounce at every little touch and opportunity. 

You’re not his. 

He thinks it once. Then again. As if repeating it like a mantra would make it register in his brain. She’s not yours. Never was. 

The main bit weighing on his mind that makes it all so much worse for him, besides his own religious guilt, is your innocence. He thinks of seeing you when you were a child, leading Christmas plays with your feet dangling from the pew at the front of church. He’s known you for so long–you called him ‘uncle’ a few times as a child, even. Which makes it worse that you’re grown now and so, so pretty. 

You trust him too much. You shouldn’t be with someone his age–shouldn’t even risk being with someone in the church because it stirs your emotions further. He isn’t made to be your savior.

So, the Bible sits unused and open on the table, and he can’t touch it again. Instead, looks back at you, sleeping softly and unaware under his blankets. He’s afraid.

For the first time in years, he’s afraid.

The man’s been through hell, hardened by years of tough work and baggage that he carries in his dark undereyes. He’s not afraid of much, but this gets him. Not of God or sin, but what he’s doing to you.

The rest of the night he doesn’t let himself get closer. Doesn’t take his boots off, sleeps in the chair as if punishing himself. He tries to pray but his hands seem to push away from each other like magnets of the same kind do. The second he almost admits to himself how much he wants you, he grips the arms of his chair to stop it. Grounding himself in the chair. Stays there, doesn’t take his shirt off either. Can’t go in his own bed because you’re in there. 

But on the other hand, he just can’t bear to leave you alone tonight. He’s only a man, after all. 

@joeldarling @melmel-fandom @ssssc0m @rafeovermorals @lilac-boo @funkifiedzee @mermaidbarlvr @seenthroughmia @umadirectioner @deardev0teddelicate @dingusandbats @lobotomyprincessdollangel444

[thejack-ofalltrades]

WITCHLIGHT EP 58 (the newest one)

⚠️SPOILERS ⚠️

I love talking about all the things that had me dying so here we go

When figuring out who should sit on the chair, Gideon said he thought kremy was also thinking about them putting the child on the chair.

Gideon said he's been strapped down and shocked for fun before (not beating those masochist allegations gid) and kremy trying to hush gid and to "not tell people that"

Frost being very salty/petty with gideon even though torbek confessed to being the first person to throw a rock lmao.

Frost saying they should bludgeon gideon with rocks

Gricko being smaller than the kid

Gricko and gid fighting over who would go into the hole/cave (gricko calling gid a bitch and gid going first out of anger lmao)

Frost not wanting to help gid when he got stuck

Kremy trying to push gid through with his cane

The Lil frost backstory/info we get between him and torbek (with being open to talk about what torbek has seen cause frost has also seen it)

Gideon telling them to send either gricko or frost through next (knowing there's spiders cause he's annoyed with them lmao)

Kremy knowing gideons lying about there not being spiders

Kremy REFUSING to go in because of spiders

Kremy arguing with his shadow

Kremys shadow scaring off the spiders (whole scene was just cool)

Torbek raising a hand to be called on and kremy really trying to look anywhere but at him

The (Yawn) yon joke >that Derek has made multiple times but was acknowledged when mikey did it lmao<

Kremy being fae cursed to be the embodiment of greed (nothing changed)

The troll toll (that whole scene was really really funny) and torbek punching gricko in the face

Gid being fae cursed to coughing up blood and kremy being really worried about him and talking about them retiring in Tahiti

The flower wiping blood off gids face and gid saying "thanks, you probably have something now" and "I'd shake ur hand but I'm extremely confident on where I'd been so I won't do it" (mace leaning Gideon into being way more of a sex pest than before has me in tears went from lady's man who sleep around to openly talking about kinks and making dirty jokes and I love it)

Torbeks tent being ass (even though it's suppose to be whatever they want it to be >poor guy might not think he deserves good things or maybe he's unlucky<)

The talking toilet makes a return (poor frost)

Then everything in frosts tent being alive

Pixie wives mentioned and Gideons protection joke in refrence to the fae (condom joke) and gricko asking about busty lmao

Kremys haggling for the tents and gricko messing it up and almost loosing hootsie

Frost going back unto his tent "I'm back everyone"

Kremy buying the tents with teeth and nails

Kremy asking gricko how badly he wants the tent when they need more teeth and gid already cracking his knuckles

Gricko taking forever to answer and kremy "gid would you kindly" "Well, here we go" from gid before punching gricko

Gricko sounding like the Don after getting teeth punched out

Quinoa getting stuck in grickos gum holes

Dame of unhappy endings >everyone saying to each other to be cool< and trying not to laugh or make jokes and failing

There's still no French dressing sauce

Being told the witch has shears that can separate you from ur shadow and kremy looking down "you hear that?" To his own shadow

Kremys akwardness talking about how it's rare to see people who can control shadows and whatnot (this arc will be peak for kremy, I can just feel it)

[lunememes]

🌙 * ― 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐓 ( a collection of sentence starters from season one of amazon's fallout show. feel free to adjust the wording and pronouns as needed! do not add to the list. )

❛  and in that respect, he could be a cannibal or just like, crammed full of tumours. ❜ ❛  flesh is weak but steel endures. ❜ ❛  unless you know what to find and preserve, you're more useful as a corpse. ❜ ❛  how do we know they're not feral? ❜ ❛  well what makes you think i give a good goddamn about that? ❜ ❛  well what the fuck would you know 'bout where i'm from? ❜ ❛  but for me, well, i do this shit for the love of the game. ❜ ❛  you come from a place of rules, of laws. this place is indifferent to all of that. ❜ ❛  question is, will you still want the same things when you have become a different animal altogether? ❜ ❛  you earn the suit through acts of bravery. this is an act of bravery. ❜ ❛  and i'm telling you you're gonna go through a whole lot worse if you stay 'round here. trust me. ❜ ❛  clean hair. nice teeth. and all ten fingers. must be nice. ❜ ❛  the vaults were nothing more than a hole in the ground for rich folks to hide in while the rest of the world burned. ❜ ❛  you know your kind ain't welcome here. ❜ ❛  you gotta be fucking kidding me. ❜ ❛  you'll be lucky if you can make it to fucking breakfast. ❜ ❛  i'm sorry for yellin', been shot in the leg. ❜ ❛  do you have anyone else you can trust in this town? ❜ ❛  do i really have to kill him? ❜ ❛  well, if you like the taste of lavender, why not just drink a bottle of perfume? ❜ ❛  that's the worst thing i've ever put in my mouth. that's horrible. ❜ ❛  do unto others as you would have done unto you. ❜ ❛  thou shalt get sidetracked by bullshit every goddamn time. ❜ ❛  water water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. ❜ ❛  where do you think you're going? you ain't going nowhere. ❜ ❛  there you are, you little killer. ❜ ❛  no! what a disgusting idea. i'm simply going to harvest your organs. ❜ ❛  i may end up looking like you, but i'll never be like you. ❜ ❛  i really wanna believe you but practically every person i've met up here has tried to kill me. ❜ ❛  listen, hey. you don't get this medicine, you're gonna pass out, okay? and if you lose consciousness, we're both gonna die. ❜ ❛  i've seen these in old engineering manuals but never in real life. ❜ ❛  now, seeing as everyone on earth seems to be after that thing, i'm guessing that's what you're looking for too? ❜ ❛  and you could've killed me when i collapsed back there and you didn't. ❜ ❛  i get that trust doesn't come easily up here. but you can trust me. ❜ ❛  i hate it up here. ❜ ❛  the things i'm willing to do for you never cease to amaze me. ❜ ❛  hey, hey, hey. come here. i'm sorry. i know you always try to do the right thing. that's what i love about you. ❜ ❛  trust doesn't come easily to those of us with a guilty conscience. ❜ ❛  in my experience, the apple tends not to fall too far from the tree. is that true in your case? ❜ ❛  these people are hiding something from us, and i'm gonna prove it to you, okay? ❜ ❛  there's always some new little faction, ain't there? brand new team of believers with their own dumbass ideas about how they gonna save the world. ❜ ❛  so what d'you think [name]? am i really walking out of here today, or are you gonna try and draw on me for what i did? ❜ ❛  a good bad guy doesn't see themselves as the bad guy. ❜ ❛  and yet power is taken, not given. a lesson you seem to have learned. ❜ ❛  war never changes. ❜ ❛  you look out at this wasteland, looks like chaos. but there's always somebody behind the wheel. and that's who i wanna talk to. ❜ ❛  maybe you can stop them. maybe you can't. maybe all you can do is try. ❜

[loggiepj]

To Love A Lannister

chapter 2 | chapter 3

The crowd had gotten louder the moment you opened your eyes, squinting at first against the sun. You wanted to shield your sight but with your hands tied behind your back, all you could do was wiggle your head to the opposite direction. And when you looked to the sides, there Cersei stood, her lips curved into an evil smile, along side her son, King Joffrey. The sound of a man grunting beside you made you turn your head. A masked man was pulling some kind of rope beside you. Your eyes followed where it leads, ending on a machinery located on top of you. It only took you a second to figure out it was a guillotine.

Thwak!

You abruptly woke up, grasping your neck as if on instinct if it was still connected to your body. You weren't scared to die, not for now, anyway. But you'd have a far chance getting killed from drowning rather than execution.

It was only a harmless threat, you thought. Cersei was known for it. And even when you knew what you were getting to in the end, it couldn't hurt you a little less to try, that maybe the endless looks you get from Cersei during dinners and passing meant something other than distaste.

Sleep was hard to get by after that. With nothing else left to do, you decided to wake up for the day.

Oberyn and Ellaria were still fast asleep so you tried to find food for breakfast. And if luck permitted you, you might bumped into the Queen herself.

It was not the Queen you met by the courtyard near the Kitchen's Keep but Tommen, her youngest son. It appeared he was chasing something that scurried further away into the bushes.

When he didn't see you standing behind him, he bumped into your chest. "Apologies My Lady, I was just chasing my cat."

"No worries, My Prince," you greeted back as you bowed. "In fact, I saw him running towards those bushes. I'd help you, if you'd allow it."

"Please, I don't want to bother-"

"Nonsense," you said, then you and Tommen crouched unto the dirt and began looking for his cat. Fortunately, a sliver of gray caught your eye before it jumped to the nearby fence.

"Got you," you said as you caught the furry cat, brushing its fur as you returned it to a smiling Tommen.

"Thank you, My Lady," he said.

"Does it have a name?"

"Ser Pounce."

"An honorable name."

"Do you think so? Joffrey doesn't think so," he said sadly. "He always says he'd kill him and make me eat it."

"I'm sure he's only kidding, My Prince," you said, though you didn't doubt Joffrey wouldn't do it. "If you need any place for him to hide for the meantime, you can always ask me."

Tommen smiled from ear to ear. And that was when you finally noticed you two weren't alone.

"It's time for breakfast, Tommen," Cersei called, her hands tightly clutching against the post. The Queen possessed a kind of beauty no one could compare. And you were completely enamored.

"Your Grace," you greeted, bowing your head.

"Coming, Mother!" Tommen answered before turning back to you. "Would you like to join us for breakfast, My Lady?"

Before you could reply, Cersei added, "I'm sure Y/N has something else to tend to this morning-"

"Of course, I'd like to dine with you," you interrupted, chuckling softly. "I feel famished myself already. Tommen here can tell me more about Ser Pounce and how he became a knight."

Tommen laughed as you walked together towards the dining hall, ignoring Cersei's warning glare she was sending your way.

Luckily, Joffrey wasn't around to join. And that meant Tommen was free to discuss with you about his cat and about the cats in Dorne. You had shared with him how you used to have a pet cat who died due to old age. You mentioned it was your late cousin Elia's cat.

"That's terrible, I don't want that to happen to Ser Pounce," Tommen said as he brushed the furry cat on his lap.

"I'm sure he'll live a long life, My Prince," you assured him. "In fact, Myrcella has also gotten herself a cat in Dorne."

The mention of Cersei's daughter made the Queen drop her spoon.

"Really? I can't wait to meet them. Mother, can we go visit Myrcella in Dorne?" Tommen asked.

Cersei could only force a smile. You didn't mean to put the Queen on the spot so you eventually changed the topic.

When Tommen had excused himself to chase after Ser Pounce, who suddenly jumped from his lap to chase a mouse, the air in the room grew thick.

"You seem to have gotten close to my daughter," Cersei began, after sipping her wine. "I'm glad hospitality is still being practiced in Dorne nowadays."

You smiled at her. "Yes, Your Grace. Myrcella's a bright girl, kind and exceptional. I loved having her around when we're reading scrolls about the night sky and the history of Dorne."

"She doesn't need to know the history of Dorne, when she'll be back to the Capital once she's of age," Cersei said.

"Well, Myrcella always seems curious. And there's no harm seeking more wisdom when there's nothing left to lose."

There was utter silence as you both continued to eat.

"She misses you, Your Grace," you said sincerely. This softened the Queen's stature. It even brought a little smile on her face.

"Mm, we do send each other letters from time to time," Cersei answered.

"You know no words would be tantamount to physical presence-"

"Are you suggesting I should visit Dorne?" Cersei asked, chuckling.

"Why not, Your Grace? I, myself, could give you a tour."

Cersei laughed softly. And it was the kind of laugh that didn't sound evil. It was a genuine one. A soft one. One that's full of longing.

The conversation went on as you both talked about Dorne, about Myrcella, about Cersei's travels when she was young, how being a Queen caged her from exploring and how she once had a dream she had a boat of her own and she'd be the captain.

It only ended abruptly when Jaime arrived, setting his helmet on the dining table rather loud and harshly, as if he was intentionally interrupting your conversation.

~~~

Later that night, Tywin held a small dinner for the guests. You would have enjoyed it, however, the sight of Cersei and Jaime rather close together only made your stomach churn with spite.

And there was King Joffrey, boastfully showing off the wild boar he had caught earlier that morning. You knew he had ordered a servant to do that for him. You were about to counter his speech but decided against it, remembering how you had promised to control yourself around Cersei's first son.

The only time you couldn't pretend to be happy were the times Cersei was with Jaime. Jaime came back a week ago with a decapitated hand. You felt pity for the man who had suffered being a hostage by the Starks yet you couldn't help feeling bitter whenever he and Cersei had gotten close.

You knew the rumors. Drunk Tyrion even confirmed it one night you accompanied your cousin in certain brothels. That Cersei was truly involved with her twin brother Jaime. That the King was not the true heir. Even Myrcella. Or Tommen.

You decided to ignore them when you could still control yourself. One wrong comment from you would make your nightmare come true.

And then there was Ser Loras Tyrell from Highgarden, brother of the bride to be Lady Margaery, the one Cersei is arranged to be married.

This made you feel more hatred as if you had any right at all.

Cersei was staring outside the window alone with a glass of red wine in her hand when you noticed Loras approached her. She immediately dismissed him the soonest he opened his mouth to talk before she went to watch by the next window instead.

The disappointment on Loras' face brought comfort in yours.

This was the time you finally approached Cersei.

If she'd dismissed you like the way she did to the poor guy, it was probably a sign from the heavens to give up on pursuing after her.

"Your Grace," you greeted, bowing your head before standing beside her by the window. The celebration had spread outside the Red Keep, where you could see a couple of people drinking loudly and yelling outside their houses.

"Parties in Dorne are different," you commented. "It's lively and thrilling."

Cersei snorted before she sipped her wine, her eyes still on the horizon. "And what of the Capital?"

"It's dark and dull, the complete opposite to be honest, but I mean no offense, Your Grace," you replied.

"If it was such a bore to you, why bother come?"

You smiled. "And miss this chance to meet you, Your Grace? I wouldn't trade it for anything in this world."

Cersei's cheeks flushed but your eyes could only be imagining it for the torches inside the castle could be playing tricks on you.

She licked her lips before speaking, "What do you want?"

"What?"

"You've been certainly making it your priority to catch my attention," she went on with disdain in her voice. "Sparing with Joffrey, getting close with Tommen and Myrcella. Is it Tommen you want? I'm sure Dorne won't tolerate such a thing."

It made you laugh. "I believe you're right, Your Grace."

Cersei chuckled darkly. "I'd better be dead before I'd allow your marriage to my youngest boy."

You quickly shook your head, still laughing. "No, Your Grace. It was just to catch your attention."

"To what end?"

And you only stared at her as if you had nothing else to say.

She scoffed, suddenly realizing. "You must be out of your mind. In fact, I believe you want to get yourself killed."

"Dorne is amazing," you reasoned. "In fact, richer and more powerful than Highgarden. And we all know Ser Loras is a pillow biter. And. . . Myrcella already loves it there in Dorne-"

"I don't think you have noticed one wrong physical aspect. How would you even gift an heir to my father?"

You smiled. "Trust me, I have no problems with that, Your Grace. I'm sure the rumors about me have also spread upon my arrival."

Cersei only fell silent as her eyes quickly darted to your crotch back to your face before gazing out the horizon.

"If you think I'd entertain such a ludicrous idea then I suggest you guard your doors at night because I myself will slice off your tongue. You're not even a known Martell. What makes you think degrading myself to your level would even be a fair comparison as to marrying Loras?"

"Forgive me, Your Grace." You bowed, hurt upon the admission. "I didn't mean to offend-"

"Offend? You insulted my family name."

"Cersei, a word?"

Both of you turned to Tywin's voice.

"Apologies My lady Y/n, I have something to discuss with my daughter."

"Of course, Lord Tywin," you said, then you looked at Cersei, avoiding her eyes. "Your Grace."

[yanderehsr]

Hope you have a wonderful day and remember to take breaks every now and then! 😴

Unto the request, can I please request yandere high cloud quintet (Jingliu, Jing Yuan,Blade and Imbibitor Lunae) finding out that Baiheng had a descendant before she perished, that descended being the reader who bears a striking resemblance to her. I can just see the 4 of them being obsessed and overprotective of the reader.

-I just recently watched the cutscene for Jingliu’s companion quest and its so top tier

3 hours is plenty of sleep, sometimes I even get 4🥴

And I knoooow, that cutscene was truly top tier😆

Hope you'll enjoy😁

Trigger Warning: Yandere, Obsessive behaviour, Possessive behaviour, Kidnapping

Jingliu: Baiheng was her biggest regret, and now that she sees you who not only is her descendant but also look just like her, how could she help herself but to feel protective against you, and not only that but to possess you as well.

Jingliu's Mara-Struck mind makes her even more possessive over you, she can't help but fall into instincts around you even with her high resistance against the mara. She knows it's wrong, horrible of her even, but she has to admit, you look so pretty when you cry for her.

"Don't move, don't make me repeat myself... Baiheng would be disgusted with what I'm doing to you, but I can't find myself to care right now, you're mine and you will need to accept this"

Jing Yuan: He knows about you, he always had known about you as well, you are his secret, something he wouldn't even share with the rest of High-Cloud Quintet, you look so much like Baiheng that it's ridiculous. He has known you for so long that he doesn't even see Baiheng when he looks at you, he instead thinks Baiheng looks like you instead.

Jing Yuan hides you away from the world, what happened to Baiheng will not happen to you as well, you are locked away at his home, he treats you like you're above him, probably due to his guilt about Baiheng, he will guard you, you are safe with him and nothing will ever befall you, least of all death.

"It's almost uncanny how much you look like her... *sigh* Anyways, what do you want for dinner today, I'm cooking"

Blade: He doesn't see you as a descendant, no he thinks you are Baiheng, nothing can convince him otherwise. He never adresses you by your name, he always calls you Baiheng cus that's who you are, he thinks you have just lost your memories but that's okay, he will always be around to remind you of who you are.

Blade calls you that so many times that you may believe him yourself, I mean how can you know about what you have forgotten, and reincarnation is a thing that happens so maybe you really are Baiheng. Blade doesn't care what you think you are, all that is important is that Baiheng is back and you are all his.

"I am so sorry Baiheng for the past... but you are here now... yo-you make me feel whole and alive again, never leave my side ever again, okay"

Imbibitor Lunae: When Dan Heng is like this he starts to remember his past life a bit more clearly but there is one thing he can remember a bit clearer then others, he can remember Baiheng's face, and in turn he recognizes your face as soon as he sees you. Imbibitor Lunae knows that this isn't Baiheng but he still went to talk with you, you looked just like her, he couldn't help himself.

Imbibitor Lunae finds you to be a joy to talk to, not only that but he finds you beautiful as well, a look he has only caught in his dreams now stood before him, he can't help but fall, and he falls deep and hard... he wonders if he can convince you to join the express, otherwise he might need to use... unpleasant ways to get you onboard.

"You look heavenly, like a deity... isn't the view from the express lovely, I hope you'll get used to it, you will be seeing it a lot in the future"

[dnickels]

I don't think Gibson gets enough credit for how skillfully he extricated himself from the sodomy allegations. Long post to follow ->

The evangelical mindset is "we are constantly under siege from both invisible powers and our fellow man (and even one's own thoughts), every waking moment is nonstop spiritual battle" so Gibson framing himself as too weak to refuse advances (without spiritual backing, naturally) is a brilliant play for Irving's own anxieties while also putting him in the position to be the shepherd rescuing one of his flock. A direct appeal to the Victorian bourgeois savior narrative, expertly played. He's given Irving a script so familiar and one he's so eager to act out he doesn't for a second question its veracity.

And now we depart to the realm of pure speculation (oh boy my favorite) but I always wonder what exactly Gibson told him, and how much it actually corresponds to what we hear Irving scold Hickey for. I wonder if something got lost in translation (Irving heard what he wanted to hear which is not quite the same as what's actually being said). I think Gibson is perfectly capable of shopping Hickey to save his own skin no question, but that scenario doesn't quite jive with how surprised/concerned he is that Hickey and Irving apparently had a chat about the situation. Surely Gibson didn't think he could say "I was coerced" without some kind of follow-up? It could be a feint, he's just acting to try and keep Hickey from holding a grudge (I think Gibson knows with brutal clarity that you do not want to be on Hickey's shitlist) but his reaction reads to me like he's seeing his fib start to spiral out of control. Of course, one of the grand themes in Terror is people not being as smart as they think they are (or, more charitably, that even well-conceived plans often shipwreck on the shoals of human unpredictability) so it could just be an example of a reasonable plan blowing up on contact with an unreasonable person, as individuals are a universe unto themselves and truly unknowable to each other. Or maybe he really didn't think Irving would do anything, because he asked him to keep it quiet? Maybe that's how it usually goes, everyone agrees to keep it quiet-- sobering thought.

Still, it intrigues me to think about Irving as the wildcard in Gibson's plan, not Hickey-- bringing baggage to it that Gibson didn't include in his calculations. I wonder if Gibson heard the lecture, how many of his own words would he recognize? I can see the shape of a communications breakdown, where a tactful "the temptation was overwhelming, I couldn't resist him" becomes "he used overpowering force" or "I didn't come forward because I was afraid" becomes "he threatened me into silence". Not unreasonable assumptions for Irving to make, honestly, I just think its interesting to play with the idea that they are assumptions and not part of Gibson's ass-saving explanation. Just no accounting for what happens in the pressure-cooker of the evangelical brain!

Obviously the darker read here is that Irving can't understand a messy gay situationship despite spending years at sea is because he is homophobic (while desperately refusing/denying/fighting his own desires) or was himself party to coercion, either towards himself or someone else.

I just think its interesting to think of how it might have played out if Gibson and Hickey been surprised by say, Hodgson instead-- who might have given them a stern "I don't want to catch you two not at work again" but otherwise let the matter slide, or Little, who I can see loading them down with donkeywork but refraining from escalating because doing so means talking to Crozier and Oh God, Please No.

I keep coming back to the question of whether or not Gibson was ready/intending to burn Hickey as badly as his lie makes it seem. While I think he's perfectly capable of it, but it seems like such a risky move when his confession (owning what Irving has no real proof of, I'm more familiar with the early 19th century legal situation on land but the standard of proof for sodomy specifically was actually pretty high) could just as easily backfire on him rather than exonerating them both. We only have Gibson's word that he acted for their mutual benefit, and even if he's telling the truth it seems like stepping on a landmine: no one seems to think Hickey would hang on his accusation, so he's going to still be around after a potential flogging and presumably pissed off. Obviously its a bad situation all around but I am so curious about his own risk/reward accounting. For me, I really enjoy imaging him trying to play master manipulator to Jirv who is absolutley not a player and mostly lets Jesus call the shots. Very funny to me to be so ambitious and skillful and willing to play the Great Game but it all comes to nothing due to human folly. Thesis moment.

[honglufan]

I'm here to be unhinged again

Just talked to my friend and FINALLY I've found another soul who doesn't think that Outi will betray LC. Making her a traitor would be such an obvious choice I will be severely disappointed if PM will even consider making that possible With that said, Gregor and Rodya are the most likely ones to be the traitor. Gregor. Literally the 13'th Sinner. Has strong ties to Hermann's Group. His feelings weren't resolved during his Canto. While it wasn't confirmed as cannon, I suspect that he might have ties to Demian's Group via Grete (or maybe Hermann will use Grete as a way to manipulate Gregor to switch sides). Rodya. Has strong ties to Hermann's Group. Her feelings weren't resolved in her Canto. She still has aspirations to be special and try to make the City a better place, and Limbus Company doesn't really help her achieve any of that. Meanwhile, Sonya is definitely unto something. And considering that book Rodya had feelings for Sonya, it really doesn't paint a good picture for her. To conclude everything: My source? Carmen. She puts these deranged thoughts into my cranium.

[bestducky]

Fragments of Tomorrow

Master Chief x female reader

Chapter 1: Static

Prologue.

Summary: Stranded and alone aboard the crumbling wreck of the Forward Unto Dawn, (Y/N) searches desperately for answers in a place that feels more dead than alive.

When a strange voice — calm, commanding — reaches out to her from the ship’s systems, (Y/N) finds herself an unwilling witness to something far beyond her understanding: the awakening of a soldier unlike any she’s ever seen.

As the ship groans and tears itself apart around her, (Y/N) realizes the real nightmare hasn’t even begun yet.

Notes: Chapter one is here, around 3k words :D. I hope I'm writing it well, if not, someone please tell me! <3

The machine lay half-open on the worktable, its strange internal wiring catching the flickering light of the broken bulb overhead. (Y/N) tightened a tiny bolt with shaking fingers, feeling the satisfying click as it slotted into place. She sat back on her stool, adjusting her glasses with the back of her wrist. Her head was starting to pound — too much concentration, too little water, and the strange electric tension that had been slowly thickening the air all evening.

She should have stopped hours ago. Normal people would have. But curiosity was a stubborn thing. It dug into your ribs and refused to let go.

She wiped her hands on a grease-streaked cloth, eyes scanning the machine again. It didn't make sense. None of it did. Most old tech was predictable — gears, wires, printed circuit boards — simple things she could rebuild in her sleep. But this? This machine was... different.

The crystalline filaments running through the device hummed faintly under her touch, shifting colors in ways she couldn't explain. The casing wasn't any alloy she recognized. There were no screws, no visible fastenings — just smooth plates sealed with a precision that felt alien. Almost like it had grown instead of being built. And the strangest part — it wasn't connected to anything. No external power. No visible batteries. And yet it was waking up.

The apartment was silent except for the occasional creak of settling wood and the soft rasp of her breathing. Outside her window, the city lights shimmered in the humid night air, smearing neon trails across the glass.

(Y/N) leaned forward, elbows resting on the worktable, and studied the exposed core of the machine. There, at the very center, something glowed — faint and blue, like the last heartbeat of a dying star.

Maybe it was foolish, but...

She reached out carefully, fingertips hovering just above the pulsing core. The air around it felt... thicker. Heavier. Like standing at the edge of a deep, deep pool and feeling the pressure of the water dragging you down.

Go on.

The thought flickered across her mind, not her own voice exactly, but familiar all the same.

Go on. Find out.

Her hand trembled slightly as she pressed a fingertip to the edge of the crystal.

The first jolt was soft. Barely a static shock — like brushing a balloon after rubbing it against your hair. But then it deepened. The vibration grew under her skin, humming through bone and blood, until her vision wavered at the edges and her ears rang with a rising tone that wasn't quite sound.

(Y/N) staggered back, nearly knocking over the stool. The machine pulsed once, twice — and then the lights overhead blew out with a sharp pop, plunging the room into darkness. She gasped, clutching the edge of the table for balance. A deep, low thrumming filled the room — a vibration so strong she could feel it in her teeth. And somewhere inside the machine, the glow sharpened into a blinding point of light.

Curiosity battled fear inside her chest, fists clenched, heart racing. Part of her wanted to run, to get out, to abandon this thing before it could drag her into whatever nightmare it had been hiding. But another part of her — the stubborn part, the dreaming part — stayed rooted in place.

This was it. This was the moment she'd been chasing all her life without even knowing it. The moment when the ordinary ended. The moment when the world changed.

(Y/N) lifted a hand, squinting into the blinding light, and took a single step forward.

The machine exploded.

Not with fire. Not with sound. But with light — a wave of it, so bright and pure it seemed to strip the world down to its bones.

The floor vanished under her feet. The apartment walls tore apart like paper. The city beyond the window melted into nothingness.

And (Y/N) fell — not downward, but inward — folded into a place with no up, no down, no time, no breath.

Floating.

Sinking.

Burning.

She tried to scream, but no sound came out. The pressure around her crushed her chest, squeezed her bones, pulled at her mind until thoughts scattered like ash in a storm.

Every nerve ending flared with pain. Every heartbeat was a war cry. She was being torn apart and rebuilt at the same time, stretched across places she couldn't see or name, pulled through cracks that shouldn't exist.

The light tore through her glasses, blinding her. She reached out blindly, desperately, for something — anything — but there was only the endless roar of static filling her ears, her lungs, her mind.

Come.

A voice? Or her own thoughts, unraveling?

Come through. Come home.

Then the world snapped. Like a rubber band pulled too tight. Like a door slamming shut behind her.

And (Y/N) hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from her lungs, pain lancing through her ribs.

She lay there for a long moment, dazed and broken, blinking up at a ceiling she didn’t recognize. Steel beams. Flickering emergency lights. Distant alarms echoing through endless corridors.

The air smelled wrong — cold, sterile, tinged with something sharp and chemical.

(Y/N) coughed weakly, curling onto her side, her body trembling with aftershocks. Everything was a blur of shifting shadows and red warning lights. She pressed her palms against the ground — smooth, cold metal — and forced herself to sit up, muscles screaming in protest.

Her ears rang with a high, thin whine. Her mind spun, trying to piece together what had happened.

Where was she?

What had she done?

The machine. The machine at the shop. The humming, the light—

And then... this.

The emergency lights flickered again, revealing long, empty corridors stretching in every direction. Pipes dripped overhead. Sparks rained from severed cables. The ship groaned and shifted, metal hull flexing under unseen pressures.

A low, rhythmic thud sounded somewhere far off — heavy, mechanical, steady.

Footsteps?

No — too slow, too deliberate.

(Y/N) pushed herself to her feet, swaying dangerously. Her hands scraped against the rough surface of the deck plating, leaving faint streaks of blood. She staggered toward the nearest wall, pressing a hand against it for balance.

Panic clawed at the edges of her mind — hot, sharp, relentless.

Stay calm, she thought wildly. Think. Breathe.

The ship — if that’s what this was — vibrated under her feet, the distant rumble growing louder. Another flash of red light illuminated something stenciled across the wall in large, blocky letters:

FWD UNTO DAWN.

(Y/N) stared at it, the words swimming in and out of focus. She had no idea what it meant. She had no idea where she was.

All she knew was this:

She wasn’t home anymore.

The corridors stretched out before her, endless and hollow.

(Y/N) staggered forward, hands scraping along the steel wall for balance. Every step echoed into the silence, a hollow, ghostly sound swallowed almost immediately by the weight of the place. Shapes lurched at the edges of her sight — broken machinery, shattered panels, puddles of stagnant water pooling on the warped deck.

The emergency lighting pulsed in slow, sickly heartbeats, casting jagged shadows that crawled across the walls. Something creaked far above her — the metallic groan of a ship too long adrift.

(Y/N) hugged herself instinctively, trying to stop the shivers racking her body. Her clothes — a simple T-shirt and jeans — were thin armor against the unnatural chill that seeped into her bones.

Where was she? What was this place? Had she died somehow? Was this some twisted version of the afterlife, a purgatory built of broken machines and endless dark?

The static buzzed faintly at the edge of her hearing, a whisper growing louder with each staggering step.

Her fingers brushed against a console jutting from the wall — slick with condensation, sparking weakly from exposed wires. Above it, a shattered screen flickered fitfully.

Text scrolled sluggishly across the fractured display:

WARNING: HULL BREACH DETECTED WARNING: LIFE SUPPORT SYSTEMS FAILING WARNING: UNKNOWN PRESENCE DETECTED

Her throat tightened.

Unknown presence.

Was that her? Or... something else?

(Y/N) turned a corner too fast, tripping over a broken pipe jutting from the wall, and tumbled hard to the floor. Pain flared in her wrist and knees, sharp and immediate. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting tears. This was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare.

Somewhere in the flickering darkness, a heavy, metallic clang echoed through the ship — closer this time.

(Y/N) forced herself upright, biting down on a sob. She had to find a way out. She had to find someone. Anyone.

The next corridor opened into a cavernous chamber — ceilings soaring high above into shadow. Rows of massive glass pods lined the walls, half-buried in frost and condensation.

Cryo chambers.

She'd seen pictures of them once — in sci-fi movies, in dusty history books. Not real. Not supposed to be real.

She stumbled closer, squinting through the cracks of her glasses. Most of the pods were empty. Shattered. Dead. But one, near the center of the room, still held a figure — massive, still, suspended in cold blue light.

(Y/N)'s breath caught painfully in her throat. The figure was armored head-to-toe in dark green plating, battle-scarred and battered. A rifle was magnetically clipped across its back. Its face — if it even had one — was hidden behind a gold-plated helmet, reflective and cold under the emergency lights.

The air crackled faintly as (Y/N) stepped closer to the cryo chamber. The figure inside loomed behind a thick wall of frost and reinforced glass, massive, intimidating, and utterly alien. She wiped her glasses on the hem of her shirt, trying to clear the smudged lenses. It didn't help much.

She was about to take another uncertain step forward when a voice echoed above her — soft, clear, and very human.

"You're not one of ours."

(Y/N) yelped, stumbling back, her heart hammering against her ribs. She spun around, searching wildly. No figure. No body. Just the voice, threading through broken speakers embedded in the walls.

"Who's there?" she called out, voice shaking.

There was a brief pause — almost thoughtful.

"I'm... Cortana," the voice said at last. "An artificial intelligence assigned to the UNSC Forward Unto Dawn."

Artificial intelligence. (Y/N) turned in a slow circle, trying to spot anything — a camera, a projector — something. Anything.

"You’re... what?" she whispered, stunned.

"A.I.," the voice repeated, a touch of amusement coloring her tone. "A holographic intelligence. Designed to assist in ship operations, combat strategy, and tactical analysis."

(Y/N) stared up at the cracked ceiling, at the broken lights and severed conduits. Talking to a ghost. Talking to a machine. And somehow, the machine sounded more sane than she felt.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

"This is real?" she croaked. "You're real?"

"In a manner of speaking," Cortana said. "And you are very real. Biological signature confirmed: human, female, early-twenties, no UNSC service record detected. Civilian."

(Y/N) swallowed hard.

"Where am I?" she asked.

A pause. Then, evenly: "You're aboard the UNSC vessel Forward Unto Dawn. Current status: critical. Structural integrity compromised. Life support failing."

Her mouth went dry. "What happened?"

"That is... complicated," Cortana answered carefully. "At this moment, our priority is survival. Yours and mine."

The words sank into (Y/N) slowly, cold and heavy. Survival. Not escape. Not rescue. Just survival.

She turned back toward the cryo chamber — toward the silent giant sleeping inside.

"And him?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Alive," Cortana said immediately, and there was something fierce in her tone. "Still alive. He's our best chance."

(Y/N) hesitated, heart pounding painfully against her ribs.

"I don't even know who he is."

"You'll find out soon enough," Cortana said quietly.

Another deep rumble shook the floor under their feet — distant, but growing.

"Hostile forces are boarding the ship," Cortana continued, voice sharpening. "I need to bring him back online. He can protect you."

(Y/N) stared at the chamber. The armored figure. The machine's voice in her ear.

Trust a stranger. Trust a machine. Trust a nightmare.

Not much of a choice.

Slowly, she nodded.

"O-okay," she said hoarsely.

Above her, unseen machinery stirred. Systems groaned back to life. The cryo chamber hissed violently, releasing a blast of cold steam. Locks disengaged with a heavy metallic clunk.

The man inside began to wake.

[lucabyte]

i am looking at nohats au 👀 please share more

So! NoHats! I'm going to grab you and use this to ramble. A Lot.

The NoHats AU is @samhainian's it's just that I'm the strange little freak who takes the words said unto me and executes on them. But I can still do a little explainer on what our overall thoughts and vibes are. (And, that we are in fact propping up a little box with some cheese under it here. 🪤 Please (PLEASE) feel free to pick up what we're putting down.)

We're far from the only ones exploring a "what if siffrin fucking died" AU, though the main difference with NoHats is the placement of the death in the timeline. Instead of being 'Mal Du Pays Wins' or 'Act 6 encounter goes horribly wrong', the death is… Just after the (literal) falling action.

(This placement is because Sam is a comic book fan who thus has become used to characters being ripped away at the cruelest times by shitty writers. THANK FUCKING GOD adrienne is not that and isat is delightful yippieee, but, back on topic.)

Giving the party the full understanding of What Happened that you get by putting the death after black hole siffrin, but before the A6 encounter leaves an interesting gap to be filled. See, making Siffrin's death very much not Loop's fault means that… this once again reads (when not read as simply a tragedy...) as the universe doing what it sees fit to fulfull Loop's wish… Thus making Siffrin's death Loop's fault again, but only in their eyes. And only in a way they could express if they were honest about who they were…

And this is where having had excuse to waffle about my general Postcanon Loop thoughts the other day comes in handy, because Sam and I have that as our canon-compliant reading to begin with, NoHats plays off of a lot of the same readings of Loop's character. Namely: Uh Oh Somebody's Lying By Fucking Omission Again. (BECAUSE TO BE FAIR THIS TIME… HOW THE FUCK WOULD YOU HANDLE THAT?)

Now, neither Sam nor I are fanfic writers, so this has been a little bit trapped in our heads and DMs (and my unfinished art but,)

But our thoughts on how NoHats like… Goes.

Siffrin's death is peaceful, but that does not mean the aftermath of it is. I can't imagine the party takes it well, especially after understanding the circumstances of the Loops. (And, of note, in A5 where nobody had the discussion on what to do with each other's bodies should something happen…) But I'd imagine it traumabonds them somewhat (understatement of the century) and now knowing how the rest of the party feels, they resolve to travel together for the forseeable future.

The party track down Loop to deliver the terrible news, since they were clearly Siffrin's friend too, and invite Loop along to travel at least long enough to (let them grieve) get the burial over with. Loop, here, can be helpful in knowing what Siffrin would've wanted where the party would be at a loss. Loop, I think, takes a bit of a lead on the funerary aspects of it all, because, um. (Performing rites on your own body, huh?)

Then, as things are after a death, life just… Kind of has to continue on as normal. The party travel, pick up Nille, and get to know Loop as this mysterious new person. Maybe in this situation they might stay in Bambouche for a while to give Bonnie more stability since. They are probably taking it the worst. It would've come out of absolutely nowhere for everyone in the party obviously but god, for a kid? For A Kid?

It should be stated NoHats is not intended to be grimdark, just y'know. An exploration of grief. This is also why it's got a bit of a lopsided focus on Bonnie vs the rest of the party because hhrrhghghhghghhhghhghhh <- incoherent

Now, a crossroads.

How does the party discover Loop to be Siffrin? How long does it take. How much have the party embraced them as part of the family (especially with something as intense to bond over as this)?

There's the Odile option. Have her put it together and have to bring it up somehow. This could also be done by Isabeau, perhaps. He's smart. (which. God. If anything's the real Isabeau Torment Nexus it's this)

Then there's the other option batted around by Sam and I. The: The Universe Dislikes Duplicates option.

The items in the house that fzzt away when inspected. The Universe doesn't like there to be two of something, at least not when they're acknowledged. But one of something is just fine…?

Which is to say. I'm not a personal proponent of 'Loop getting their body back'. EXCEPT …… except this one time.

There's only one Siffrin now, so they don't need to be obfuscated to exist.

Consider, if you will. Loop swallowing their guilt for long enough to be comfortable. Falling back into old habits. Without another Siffrin around to compete for the niche of, they actually begin to act like Siffrin again. Not intentionally, it's just… The party is as welcoming as they've always been. And the party swears they keep catching glimpses of a face under all the light.

Then, one day, while still not fully human again, the resemblence becomes undeniable. Loop having not even noticed until everyone looks at them like they've seen a ghost.

Has it been months? How long have they kept up this lie? Is it even a lie, to them? They're Loop. But they were, once, Siffrin.

Even after explaining it, does that make it better or worse?

Bonnie cuts through the betrayed, struck-nerve reactions with a sobering "I missed you."

… Anyway !

Yeah so that's the vibe for NoHats. As for LoopLoops? That's more nebulous. I think it can go anywhere really in the NoHats timeline. I err personally toward the "Loop continuously replays the last 10 minutes before Siffrin's death almost immediately after they find out and have to parkour their ass up the House in the most distressing situation possible to try and get them to hold on, just please hold on." (Remember! Siffrin can remember the contents of Loop's loop backs in the A6 fight!)

But there is the possibility that this happens months, or worse years down the road. One last Loop back. Throw it all away for the chance to just get that one thing you didn't know you even wanted but now know you NEED.

Misc:

Okay miscellaneous time.

This is where I admit that I have a bunch of unfinished NoHats art that I haven't gotten around to yet because I feel like a right tool being so obviously Loop-Centric with my fancontent (I AM . . I REALISE I AM NOT DOING MUCH TO BEAT THE ALLEGATIONS.) So like if people want to see that please say because euaghghghhfh <- the nervous.

this is like the most fucked up place to do isaloop fr. anyway.

one of Sam's mid-game observations that I'm just going to share for no particular reason is that Bonnie's hair shares a bunch of shapes with Siffrin's. The flick up at the top, the 3 pronged shape of the fringe… just something to think about.

Without 2 Siffrins around to compare each other to it'd likely be a lot harder to notice Loop's similarities. Doesn't mean that those similarities don't sting more in this context though.

If you do NoHats without LoopLoops. The concept of this all fading into memory years down the line while they just have slightly-glowy but otherwise regular Siffrin hanging out is fucked up to think about. Just like real grief. Augh

6. a peek into the original dms as a treat from us

[miryum]

"Halloween III"

Summary: Detective!Jason Todd x detective!Reader based on Jake and Amy’s relationship

Series Warnings: Swearing, descriptions of violence (but nothing descriptive), guns and other police stuff

Series Masterlist

"Attention, squad! Today is the most important day in the history of this precinct,” Y/n cried out in the briefing room. She raised a dramatic hand and said in a low voice, “for today is Halloweeeeeen!” She turned to Captain Wayne, pouting. “I thought we were going to say it together.”

“I never agreed to that,” he stated.

Y/n sighed and continued, “as you may know, for the past two years, Captain Wayne and I have engaged in an epic battle of wits. The goal: to determine who must call the other an amazing detective-slash-genius.”

Wayne cut in. “The first year, by sheer, dumb luck, Y/n eked out a feeble victory.”

“And last year, I let the Captain win, because he's old and sad,” Y/n retorted. 

Wayne raised a brow and quickly quipped, “sad because the competition was so dismal.”

“Is this meeting about something?” Steph asked from a chair. Jason sat next to her, his nose red and eyes tired.

“It's about everything.” Y/n said, aghast that her best friend would even ask that. “This year's the tie-breaker, a final heist to decide once and for all the true ruler of the six-six. Halloween Heist Three: The Heistening. Tagline?” She pointed at Captain Wayne excitedly.

“This year we both attempt to steal the same object instead of L/n attempting to steal one from me.”

Y/n huffed and whispered, “I gave you one direction on the tagline! Make it snappy. But yes, we will be attempting to steal the same item... this.” She held up a plastic crown etched with faux jewels.

“The crown will be locked in this briefcase, which in turn will be locked in the interrogation room.” Wayne took the crown from Y/n and placed it in said briefcase. 

Y/n sang quietly, “And so unto the briefcase goes the crown!” 

“This year,” Wayne continued, “we have decided to include the rest of the precinct, and so to be fair, we're holding a draft.”

“Everyone who participates will get the night off,” Y/n said. “Captain?”

Wayne hummed. “With the first pick of the draft, I choose… Richard.”

“Alright, I'll take Steph.” Y/n grinned and high-fived her best friend.

“Damian.”

“I take Cass.” Y/n said.

“Todd is too sick to participate,” as if on cue, Jason sneezed. “In fact, I don’t even know why he's still here…” Wayne muttered. “And Drake is too loyal to L/n.”

“Nuh-uh!” Both Y/n and Tim cried. 

“Have you seen his ass-kissery?” Y/n asked incredulously. ”I can’t trust him! Tim would do anything to win your approval, including pretending to be my friend for the past years only to betray me now even though Wayne only joined the six-six three years ago.”

“L/n, you are majorly overthinking this,” Tim said.

“Maybe, but it's a risk I'm not willing to take. Tim’s out.”

“I agree. So we agree that by midnight, whoever has the crown shall be the ruler of the six-six.” Wayne had a rare smirk on his face.

“So,” Steph strolled into the room and said to Damian, “I see you've been assigned to guard the briefcase too.”

“Correct, Brown. I’ve been given clear instructions to keep a close and clear watch on both the briefcase and you.” He nodded towards the briefcase which sat in the interrogation room. He and Steph currently stood behind the two way mirror.

“Well, I have exciting news!” Steph exclaimed. “I found the perfect guy to set you up with!”

“After zero consideration, I'm happy to say, ’hard pass.’ It's incredibly… sweet that you wish to set me up with someone, but I do not trust your taste in men.”

“I have spectacular taste in men. You would love Jon.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “You are impossible.”

Y/n paced the break room. Jason lay on the couch, a blanket tucked over him and a box of tissues at the ready. Y/n had Doordash open on her phone, popsicles ready to be ordered for his sore throat. Jason lightly groaned and turned over in his sleep and Y/n’s head whipped over to him. She crouched down next to him and brushed her hand over his forehead. He officially had a fever and she placed a cool washcloth over his forehead. She went back to pacing the room and suddenly, a Halloween decoration with motion sensors rang out. The cackle of the fake witch blared throughout the room and Y/n cried, “gah! Scary witch! Scary, so so scary!”

“I am not going to meet my next boyfriend through a Stephanie set-up.” Damian crossed his arms.

“It's go time, Brown.” Y/n whispered into her comm from up in the vents. “Holt and Terry have closed the blinds... release the spiders.”

Stephanie discreetly took a bag of spiders out of her pocket and dumped them onto the floor. “Oh, my god! Damian, look! Spiders!” She let out a scream and jumped back.

Damian squatted down and hummed. “Achaearanea tepidariorum. The common house spider.” He placed a finger on the ground and some spiders crawled over his hand. “How did you fellas get in here?”

Y/n strapped herself into the harness and grinned. “Commence operation, ‘oh crap, wrong vent.’” She opened the vent cover and dropped down, suspended a couple metres from the ground. “Oh crap, wrong vent,” she said. “This was a mistake.”

Damian scoffed. “Nice try, imbeciles. You blew it. Honestly, I expected better from you, L/n. It seems as if all my trainings failed to pay off.” While Damian was distracted, Cass used two plungers to suction the window glass off of the interrogation room door.

Y/n smacked her lips. “Yep, we totally blew it. And all because Brown marked the wrong vent.” Meanwhile, Cass silently somersaulted through the window and to the table the briefcase was handcuffed to.

“It's not my fault!” Steph defended. “I thought it was the right vent.” Cass took out a knife and cut open the briefcase and extracted the crown. She placed it between her teeth and flipped the briefcase over, hiding the hole.

“I'm having trouble even believing you right now.” Y/n shook her head, still hanging in the air. “That is the last time I let Steph mark a vent.”

“I'm normally great at marking vents.” 

Cass jumped back through the window and replaced the glass. She whispered into the comms, “lock picked.”

Y/n was attempting to stall for time. “Never, ever, never, ever, ever, never, ever, ever, never, ever, will I ever, never, ever, ever, ever, ever, never, never, never- I forgive you, and good-bye!” She hoisted herself up at Cass’ command and crawled back through the vents. Steph quickly excused herself and Damian’s eyes flickered to the briefcase. It was still there.

Later, the trio met crowded around Y/n’s desk and she gushed, “wow, you should have seen us, Cass! Steph and I were amazing.”

Cass folded her arms and announced, “I somersaulted through a window, cut the crown out of a briefcase, and replaced everything in under a minute.”

“Yeah, I guess you helped a little.” Y/n stuck her tongue out and returned back to her and Steph. “But our fake argument was super convincing. And all of a sudden, we had to make it longer, and we did!” She took the crown from Cass and stuck it in a filing drawer. ”Anyways, now all we gotta do is guard this drawer until midnight, and the best part is that Wayne has absolutely no idea.”

From inside his office, Wayne towered diabolically over his monitor which showed the video feed and sound from the bullpen, the camera and microphone pointed directly at Y/n’s desk. “She is such a fool,” Captain Wayne said. “Yes, believe I'm the fool. You fool.”

“So we wanted Y/n to take the crown?” Dick asked, peering over his shoulder.

“Sergeant, are you familiar with the Hungarian fencing term, Hosszú Gorcs?”

“You gotta realise my answer is no,” Dick deadpanned.

Wayne explained, “it’s a strategy of letting your opponent win points early on as to give them a sense of overconfidence, thus exposing a much easier target for you later.”

“You think she's overconfident enough?”

From the monitor, Y/n proclaimed, “I'm the smartest woman alive. I'm never gonna die!”

Damian was doing his best to ignore Steph when a knock sounded on the door. Stephanie grinned and said in a high-pitched voice, “oop, I wasn't expecting anyone.” She threw open the door with a flourish. “Come in, Jon.”

A tall, muscular man with dark windswept hair entered the room, smiling brightly. “Hey, Steph. What’s up?”

Steph turned back to Damian. “Dami, this was the boy I was telling you about.”

Damian’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down before he regained his composure and glared at Stephanie. “I know what's happening. This isn't a setup... this is a setup. He’s supposed to distract me from the heist.”

“The heist?” Jon asked, glancing at Steph.

“Shut your cute face,” Damian snapped before scoffing. “I don't buy it. This is an obvious trap and I expected better of you Stephanie. I thought you were one of the smart ones.” He turned back to Jon. “Who are you, really, Jon? If that even is your real name…” He poked Jon in the chest and pushed him towards the door. “Okay. Bye-bye, Jon!”

“Hey, Cass,” Dick shuffled up to her, knowing he was probably about to lose one of his nine lives. “I'm not saying these are from your motorcycle,” He held up a pair of handlebars. “But... I found these outside.”

Cass’ nostrils flared. “You better not have messed with my bike for this heist.” Her voice was laced with venom. ”Let me remind you, Sarge, I'm carrying a weapon and I’m not afraid to stick it to the man.”

“We all have the same weapon, Cain,” Dick deadpanned. However, when Cass pulled out an SRK, he exclaimed, “Geez, Cass! Where'd you get that?” Cass grumbled a swear and stalked off. Relieved he hadn’t died, Dick said into a comm, “Orphan has left the nest.” He swept out of the room.

“And…” Captain Wayne folded his hands together, smirking. “Ding.” On cue, the elevator opened, emitting a ding.

“You wanna see Daddy?” Kori led her daughters into the bullpen. “Come on!” Martha and Tammy were dressed in small replicas of police uniforms for Halloween, clutching pumpkin candy bags in their fists. They had just turned three and looked absolutely adorable with identical pigtails.

“Time for the twin twist,” Wayne said. “And I love a good use of alliteration.” 

“Hey, Y/n.” Kori greeted her friend.

“Hey, guys!” Y/n cooed at her goddaughters.

“We wanted to surprise Dick. Have you seen him?”

“Oh, he just went downstairs for a bit, but he should be back soon,” Y/n said.

Kori nodded and called to her twins, “Martha? Tammy? Do you guys want to take a picture with Auntie Y/n?”

“Yeah!” Martha abandoned poking a sleeping Jason and Tammy looked up from inspecting a pair of handcuffs. Y/n’s eyes narrowed at the question.

“You don't mind, do you?”

“Uh... no, of course not.” Y/n began nodding slowly. “That would be so fun.”

“What if we do it in the briefing room, like you're assigning them a case?” Kori was a perfect actress, delivering her lines with ease.

Y/n hesitated and glanced around for a sign of Damian, Wayne, or Dick. “No, I mean, you know what would be even more fun than that... is if we took a picture right here, and I could have my hand on this cabinet.” She smiled broadly, laughing loudly.

“Okay,” Kori conceded.

“Nailed it,” Y/n congratulated herself quietly.

From outside the window on the precinct deck, Captain Wayne could be seen peeking through, carefully watching Y/n and her filing cabinet.

“Here we go…” Kori held up her camera. Wayne slowly opened the window and rolled through it, crouching on the ground. “Oh, God, it was in video mode... sorry.”

“Take your time,” Y/n reassured her. “I could do this all day. Matter of fact, what if we did one where I had both hands on the cabinet... one on top, and then one on the front?” She took her arms from around the twins and placed them on her cabinet. Wayne crawled to the backside of the cabinet and took out a silenced drill. He began unscrewing the bolts of the backside of the cabinet.

“Uh, yeah? Looks good.” Kori held up her phone again as Wayne stealthily took off the back of the cabinet and extracted the crown from inside. “All right, smile... three, two, one…” The camera snapped just as Wayne stood up and showcased the crown in the picture. “Cheese! Very good.” Kori beamed and gestured to her girls. Wayne somersaulted, akin to Cass, into the break room. ”Great, you guys. Let's find Daddy!”

Y/n snickered and muttered, “daddy.”

As Wayne straightened up, the witch decoration cackled loudly. At the sound, Y/n shot out of her seat and Jason startled from his sleep. “What's going on?” She ran to the break room where Wayne threw the crown into the trash to conceal it. “Aha!” Y/n points an assuring finger towards him. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing…”  Wayne looked around and spotted a can of soda. He picked it up and studied it. “Just enjoying a taste of my favourite beverage, the… soda pop.”

Y/n glared at him. “Really? I have never seen you enjoy soda before.” She clicked her tongue and tilted her chin up. “Why… uh, why don’t you have some now?”

Wayne stared at her, a look of contempt and hatred deep in his gaze. Not breaking eye contact, he took a sip. “It's delicious,” he said, grimacing.

“I don't buy it,” Y/n sneered. “You're making the same face you made when you found a chocolate chip in your trail mix!” She shook her head. “Something's up. I'm patting you down,” she decided. “Though I hope it’s not weird though, work dad. It’s just for the heist.”

“Of course,” Wayne nodded and held out his arms.

Y/n patted him down quickly and swore. “Fuck, nothing but a surprisingly toned set of abs!”

Wayne raised a brow. “And why would I have the crown, L/n? Isn't it still in the interrogation room?”

Y/n put her hands on her hips. “Yes. Yes. Of course. Of course it's still in there!” She sucked in a breath and conceded, ”Welp, I guess I'll see you at midnight.”

“After you.”

“No, after you,” Y/n smiled tightly.

“I insist.”

Y/n glowered and moved past time, triggering the witch again.

Later, Dick met up with Wayne in his office again. “You drank a soda? I’m not sure that's the worst thing in the world.”

Wayne shook his head and looked at Dick like he was delusional. “It was the worst thing in the world... worse than a fruit-forward Riesling.“ He held up a hand to stop Dick from speaking. “And no, I'm not exaggerating. Anyway, I cleverly ditched the crown in a trash can. We must wait a moment so as to not arouse suspicion when we retrieve it.”

“Got it.” Dick moved towards the door then looked back at his capitan and snickered. “Hey... while I'm in there, should I get you a soda?”

“I know you're joking, but on the off chance you aren't… No.”

“The handlebar thing was fake,” Cass announced as she marched back into the bullpen. ”They were trying to distract me. I think they made a play for the crown.”

“I thought so too, but I had my hand on the cabinet the whole time, so I'm pretty confident there's no way they could have gotten it.” Y/n said before opening the drawer to reveal an empty cabinet. “They got it.”

“Look at the back.” Cass squatted and pointed to the cabinet. “The screws are loose.”

“Damn it.” Y/n slammed her fist on her desk. “That son of a bitch is good.”

“Sir, we have a problem.” Dick rushed back into Wayne’s office. “The crown wasn't in the trash can. Y/n must have taken it back.”

“Damn it.” Wayne slammed his fist on his desk. “That son of a bitch is good.”

“We have to get that crown back!” Y/n exclaimed. “I already changed my email to "queeny/nrulez" with a z. Everyone's going to think I'm an idiot!”

“Hello, L/n,” Wayne glared at his detective.

“Captain,” Y/n greeted stoically. “Midnight nears.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Tick tock.”

“Tick tock indeed.”

“But tick tock for who?” Y/n hissed.

“It's ‘for whom.’” Wayne corrected.

“Don't try to provoke me!” Y/n cried out.

At the same time, both captain and detective declared, “I'm going to get that crown back!”

“Wait... what?” Y/n paused and squinted at Wayne.

“Huh?” Wayne shook his head. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

“Yes, I too need to be excused,” Y/n stuttered.

Y/n pushed Cass into the briefing room and whispered sharply, “he doesn't have the crown! Cass, what do we do?”

“Pull the security tape,” she decided.

Damian stepped back into the interrogation room after Dick had informed him of the events. “Richard said you stole the crown when Y/n came through the ceiling,” he hummed.

“Yeah, I can't believe you fell for that,” Steph shrugged. ”You really think I'd mark the wrong vent? I've never marked a wrong vent in my life!”

“You're incredibly intense about vents,” Damian commented. He paused and then said, “wait... so Jon wasn't a distraction?”

“No, he was very real. Handsome, cool, hair as thick as a collie's. I found you the perfect guy, and you drove him off,” Steph said.

“Ugh.” Dami’s head fell into his hands. “I’m sorry. I should have trusted you. Please call him and tell him I messed up.”

“Yay!” Steph squealed.

“Alright,” Y/n and Cass poured over the security tape. “Here I am taking pictures with Dick’s kids.” She sighed and said lovingly, “man, I look so cool standing next to them. Should I have Jason’s kids?” Jason lifted his head up from the next-door table and groaned questioningly. “Go back to sleep, love,” Y/n reached over and patted his head.

“Okay. It's Wayne.” Cass watched as Bruce tumbled through the window and extracted the crown. “Whoa, how did he do that?”

“Man has an insane set of abs,” Y/n explained. “Oh, look, he's got the crown. And he's headed to the break room.”

“He dumped it in the trash,” Cass narrated, exhaling. She fast forwarded the video. “Did he go back and get it?”

In the feed, a janitor slumped in the room and pulled the trash bag out before hauling it away. “The janitor came in and grabbed it. But which janitor? Looks like I'm going to have to squint.” Y/n pushed her face close to the computer and glared at the screen. “Her name is Alice… Alice the janitor.” She glanced at the clock and mumbled, “it's eleven p.m. now. Alice's long gone.”

“How are we going to get her home address?”

“Who's the one person you know who sends out holiday cards to every single employee?” Y/n grinned.

“Tim!” Cass shouted out.

“What do you want, L/n?” Tim didn’t look up from his computer.

“What?” Y/n scoffed and brushed him away. “Why would you assume that I want anything? What I want is to apologise to my bestie, who I hurt.”

“It's ‘whom,’” Tim corrected.

“Why does the word ‘who’ even exist if you're not allowed to say it?!” Y/n huffed. “Anyways, now that I've apologised and you've accepted, can you please give me janitor Alice’s address?”

“This is related to your heist, isn't it?”

Y/n shook her head and stumbled over her words. “No, no. It's- uh, about a crime. I think janitor Alice is... going to kill the president.”

Wayne strolled up to Tim’s desk. “Oh, Drake. There's my protégé.”

Tim took a breath. “Let me guess? You want the janitor's address.”

Wayne looked up at the ceiling and then down to the ground. “Janitor? Address? Alice?”

“I never said her name,” Tim pointed out. He then leaned back in his chair. “Well, isn't this nice? After being excluded by both of you, here I am with the power to decide who wins and who loses your little heist.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way,” Wayne interrupted. ”You are my wisest detective.”

“Pathetic,” Y/n spat. “He can't be manipulated, sir.” She then turned to Tim and begged, “Tim, we are best friends! I know I usually reserve that title for Steph, but now’s a good time for you to take that, huh?”

“Friendship? Ha.” Wayne gawaffed. “What's friendship compared to the respect of a workplace superior?”

Y/n looked around desperately before bending some on one knee. “Timothy Drake, will you-”

“Excuse me?!” Jason shot up from his desk.

“Enough!” Tim yelled out, silencing everyone. “Pretending to be nice to me is worse than being mean. You know what? You want the address?” He picked up his phone and typed away. “Here, you can both have it.” Both Bruce and Y/n’s phones dinged. “Hope you're happy, you selfish monsters.” He stomped to his feet and slammed the break room door shut.

Y/n groaned and murmured, “I feel terrible. We should apologise.”

“Yes, I agree,” Wane said. “You definitely should now; I'll do mine later.”

“Fat chance!” Y/n snarled. “Steph!” she yelled into her comm. “I need you. Meet me downstairs.” 

Y/n, Cass, and Steph stood on the front steps to a tall apartment building, glaring up at it. “Okay, she lives on the sixteenth floor,” Y/n announced. “I think we beat Wayne here.”

“Or did you?” Their Captain appeared behind them, Dick and Damian in tow.

“I'll get the elevator,” Steph offered. When she noticed the ‘Out of Order’ sign, she cried out, “Shit! Looks like we're taking the stairs.”

“Alright, it's sixteen floors,” Cass breathed out. “Pace yourselves.”

Wayne’s team dashed ahead of them and Y/n screamed, “Forget it. Run as fast as you can!”

After a gruelling sixteen floors, Y/n pushed Wayne out of the way and slammed her fist into Alice’s door. “Ha ha! I win. I knocked first.” The door opened and an old woman greeted them. “You're not Alice…” Y/n said.

“You're looking for Alice?” The old woman asked. “She’s having a cigarette on the roof.”

“The roof?” Wayne grimaced.

Y/n burst through the roof door and panted, “yes. I did it. I… I am the greatest- holy shit that’s a lotta stairs- the greatest athlete in the world.” She leaned over and promptly vomited as the rest of the six-six trouped up after her.

“Alice? Alice?” Wayne looked around. “Where's Alice?”

Y/n glanced up to see a woman standing by the edge of the roof. “Oh, there she is. There she is! I did it! I did it!”

Wayne stared at Y/n, disgusted. “Good God.” He shook his head before turning back to the woman. “Are you Alice the janitor?”

“Nope. I'm your worst nightmare.” Alice turned around and took off her cap and the wig sewn into it. 

“Tim Drake…” Y/n gasped. “I don't understand what’s happening.”

Tim chuckled deviously, yet before he could speak, Y/n piped up and said, “allow me to explain. Tim and I were ahead of you the whole time.”

“No, you aren’t part of this.” Tim shoved Y/n back towards Wayne. “Get back to the loser side, loser.”

“Worth a shot,” Y/n murmured. “So how'd you pull it off?”

“Y/n, remember when you set off the witch?” Tim asked, lips curled into a smirk. “You made Captain Wayne flinch, which was weird, since his door was closed, but not weird, since he actually heard it over a bug he planted at your desk.” Y/n’s mouth dropped open and Tim continued, “I tapped into the bug's frequencies, so I had ears on Y/n. However, I still needed to know what Wayne was up to. That's where Jason came in.”

Jason stepped out from behind the door, still wrapped in a fuzzy blanket and his nose more red and snotty than ever before. He said in a nasally voice, “I masterminded the entire plan.”

“Jason, you did one small thing and I had to explain it to you forty-five times because you accidentally took NyQuil instead of DayQuil.” Tim shook his head before beginning his speech again. “He left a tiny crack in the blinds so I could read the Captain's lips.”

"Kori and your kids will distract Y/n. They'll be here at nine-thirty sharp. My waffle xylophone on the cheese man."

“What?” Wayne asked incredulously.

“My lip-reading is not flawless,” Tim admitted. “Now that I knew your plan, it was simple to disrupt. After I got into character, Wayne triggered the witch, which brought Y/n into the room.”

“And I threw the crown in the trash can…” Wayne nodded along.

“Exactly as I planned,” Tim grinned. “Then I sent you all here, placed an out-of-order sign on the perfectly functional elevator, made you all walk up thirty-one flights of stairs, and vomit.”

Y/n grumbled and muttered, “actually, it was three times, if you count all the stairwell stuff.”

“I'm my own person, capable of making my own decisions, and I decided to humiliate you both,” Tim finished his speech.

“One last question: where's the crown?” Wayne asked.

“Oh, it's at Orin’s Bar, the official site of my coronation.”

Tim strode into the bar, decked out in a royal cape and sash. Wayne held up the crown and declared, “all hail the crown of destiny.” The precinct cheered as their capitan concluded, “and all hail who wear it, Tim Drake, the ruler of the six-six.”

“And I believe there's something else you both need to say,” Tim snarked.

Both Bruce and Y/n said, “Tim Drake is an amazing detective-slash-genius.”

“Drinks are on us!” Wayne shouted. Y/n shook her head and he corrected himself. “Drinks are on me.”

“Heyyyyyy Y/n…” Jason sniffed as Y/n helped him through the door of his apartment. “I forgot to tell you but I think I broke up with Rose.”

“You think?” Y/n chuckled. “How about you tell me when you’re not hyped up on meds?”

“I will.” Jason fell down onto his bed. “I’ll also tell you I love ya.”

Y/n stilled and flushed. “O-oh? Really?”

“Yeah.” Jason sniffed once more before falling asleep, snoring loudly. 

Y/n swallowed before leaning down and kissing his forehead. His fever had finally broken. “I’m gonna make you some soup,” she whispered, “and you better eat it tomorrow. I already told Wayne that you’re not coming into work tomorrow, so don’t you dare try to pull another stunt like today.” She moved out of his room and before Y/n closed the door, she smiled softly. “I love you too, Jason Todd.”