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venus-haze · 8 months

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You're My Best Friend (Homelander x Reader)

Summary: Homelander was a test tube baby, raised in isolation in a cold, clinical lab. But that doesn’t inspire America, does it? Vought tasks you with creating the idyllic backstory for its hero, and what starts as a limited comic run spirals out of control when Homelander himself demands your help in making the story a reality.

Note: Gender neutral reader, but no other descriptors are used. Based on a request by @crash-and-cure as well as a bastardization of one of the sweetest love songs ever written (sorry, John Deacon!) This got kinda meta? Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Emotional manipulation, I guess some gaslighting on Homelander’s part? Do not interact if you’re under 18.

When Vought hired you to create their long-awaited Homelander origin comic series, you were thrilled—until they gave you so little information about his childhood to work with, you weren’t even sure you could come up with one comic, let alone the ten they requested. The details about his childhood were minimal, not even a full printed page—a loving mom and dad, played baseball, did well in school, strong sense of justice from a young age, his friends called him “Johnny.” Your requests to meet with Homelander so you could get some stories from the man himself were constantly denied.

You almost considered dropping the project, until you decided to throw caution to the wind and pull from your own childhood and set it in good ol’ generic suburbia. Some of the storylines were based on your own experiences or things that had happened to people you’d grown up with, though you changed enough names and details to not link it to anyone in particular. Except yourself, of course. Using a pseudonym professionally meant you felt no need to change your own name in the comics. Sure, making your cooler fictionalized self Homelander’s childhood best friend was a bit self-indulgent, but no one would know, really.

To your relief, the editors at Vought loved your ideas, making minor changes before bringing the storylines to their comic artists to bring it to life. The result was Finding Homelander: A Boy’s Journey To Be a Hero. The issues flew off shelves when they were first released, ironically praised for their relatability and authenticity. Vought extended your contract, asking you to produce the cartoon adaptation and another ten issues.

Still, in all of that, you’d never met Homelander. A representative from Vought emailed you to let you know to tune in to his interview on a talk show one day, saying that he’d be talking more about the cartoon project on it. You recognized the host, Tracey, always chipper and having some extravagant giveaway for her audience members. Daytime TV was never your thing, though.

“I think what resonates with so many people is how relatable your childhood is,” Tracey said, holding up a copy of Finding Homelander issue #3, where he saved ‘you’ from getting hit in the face with a baseball at one of his games, catching it with ease. It’d been the happy ending to a short storyline of him struggling to find his place on the team and you encouraging him to not give up. “You and Y/N were pretty close, do you still keep in touch?”

“You know, Tracey, not as much as I’d like, unfortunately. Adulthood can be so busy, you need to cherish those childhood memories,” Homelander said. “I did give them a call when the comics first came out, and wow, the laughs we had over those old antics of ours. Talk about a walk down memory lane!”

You guessed the bullshitting was all part of the promotional circuit for Homelander. Knowing this childhood of his was your own fabrication, you couldn’t help but wonder what else about him was fake. Maybe he wanted to maintain his privacy, you could certainly understand that. You couldn’t shake the voice in the back of your mind that said it wasn’t so simple, that the narrative Vought pushed was a cover to hide something in Homelander’s past.

“Now, I’ve heard rumors of a cartoon show based on the comics in the making, is this true?”

“It is! I’m excited for this project, getting back to my ‘roots’ so to speak. I’ll be voicing myself, of course, but it’s funny you’d bring up Y/N, because they’ve agreed to voice themself, too.”

“How fun!” Tracey exclaimed over the roar of the talk show crowd’s applause and cheers. “I guess this is the hopeless romantic in me, but I hope this reconnection leads to something a little more. I’m just a sucker for childhood sweethearts!”

Homelander laughed along with the host’s giggles, “Well, you never know.”

You balked at the television, mouth agape. Surely he couldn’t be talking about you. ‘Y/N’ could be anyone with your same features. Vought had probably hired a professional voice actor for the role and were pushing the authenticity angle. The whole situation felt odd.

When you checked your work email again on your phone, you nearly dropped it on the floor.

SUBJECT: Meeting with Homelander This Week

The email contained a list of days and times throughout the week wherein Homelander would be free, apparently wanting to meet you to thank you for the success of the comic series and discuss upcoming work. Yeah. That last part you sure as hell wanted to discuss too. You responded with the soonest time available, in a meeting room in Vought Tower the following evening. As soon as you hit ‘send’, you wondered what exactly you were getting yourself into.

Anticipation filled your gut as you went about your day leading up to meeting the supe himself. What would he be like, really be like? Was there even a version of Homelander that wasn’t hopelessly manufactured for the masses? You knew then that his upbringing was a lie, and thus stood the probability that so much else was, too.

When you stepped into that meeting room, you hadn’t been expecting his face to light up at the sight of you.

“Homelander, hi, it’s great to—“

“No need to be so formal, Y/N! You can call me Johnny, just like old times,” he said cheerfully, in on a joke you clearly hadn’t been aware of.

“Sorry, Johnny,” you said, playing along. “It’s great to see you again.”

He pulled you in for an unexpected hug that you returned. “Figured we should catch up before things really start getting crazy, don’t you think?”

You nodded, your nose brushing against him as you did so. Just as your lips parted to offer an apology, he smiled, shooing away the assistant who’d accompanied him out of the room.

He sat down, motioning for you to do the same.

“Gotta say, I’m a fan of your work,” he said.

“Thank you,” you said. “I’m not sure I understand exactly what’s going on, though.”

“What’s there to understand? I’m not allowed to know more about my best friend, our lives together growing up?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Wasn’t hard for me to put two and two together, but considering everyone else around here has their head up their asses, they have no idea,” he said, before lowering his voice conspiratorially and giving you a charming smile. “I haven’t told anyone. What’s a secret between friends?”

You nodded, overwhelmed by the intensity of his attention on you. “What do you want to know?”

He sighed, resting his head on his hand. “Everything.”

So you told him. Not quite everything, of course, but enough to abate his curiosity. At least for the time being. His interviews were sharper, more specific with details rather than rattling off whatever had been in the comics. You watched in shock as convincing photos of his Little League days were posted to his social media accounts, anecdotes provided by his increasingly frequent conversations–or more like interrogation sessions–with you, but in his style, of course. It was almost scary what the graphic design team at Vought could accomplish, not that you’d ever know how, exactly, as they were all under the same strict NDA that you were.

He started spending more time with you, too, and after a while, it did seem like you were old friends. Part of you flinched whenever you called him Johnny, because Johnny wasn’t even real, but with your complacency, this fabrication was slowly morphing into a strikingly tangible memory. With each conversation, he drew you deeper into the world you’d been paid to create for him until you found yourself slipping up.

You’d been showing him a goofy stuffed monkey on your desk, a cute little thing with big sparkling eyes. A prize for getting two out of three at the ring toss. Probably spent more money winning it than it was actually worth, but it was about the effort, the memories made.

“You remember, don’t you? You won it for me at the county fair,” you said without thinking.

He laughed in agreement, as if he actually had. Except he hadn’t. Your high school boyfriend won it for you a week before graduation. Sensing the mood shift, he set down your prize and looked at you with the same intensity he had when you first met.

“It’s been a while since we were there, huh?” he said. “Why don’t we go back?”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Go where?”

“Home.”

With a strong arm around your waist, he took off for your hometown. You could hardly tell which way was up or down, he was flying so high, but he didn’t seem to mind the way you clung to him at all. When he finally landed, you recognized the community baseball field where all of his fictional games were set.

“Geez, it’s like nothing’s changed,” he said cheerfully.

You looked at him in disbelief. How long was he going to expect you to go along with it? Or maybe the question you should have been asking was, how long were you going to enable him? The end wasn’t anywhere in sight as he took your hand, and you walked him through your childhood, further enmeshing him in it until you arrived at the house you grew up in.

The middle of the day, no one was home, and so you let yourselves in like you owned the place. Suddenly, the house seemed too small for a man like Homelander to occupy, but he was engrossed in the details of it. He scanned the kitchen, no doubt inspecting the contents of the fridge and cabinets with his x-ray vision. Moving onto the living room, he stared at photos on the wall, the magazines and DVDs that were strewn on the coffee table, giving away your parents’ taste in entertainment.

“Which one was your room again?” he asked.

You swore you could feel his breath on the back of your neck as you wordlessly led him to your room. Each step down the hall felt dangerous, as if you were about to walk into a trap. Face-to-face with the closed door, you opened it, standing aside while Homelander looked around, from what you had hanging on the walls to the knick-knacks you’d left behind.

An uncomfortable tension settled over the room when Homelander closed the door of your childhood bedroom. An odd blend of hurt and amusement spread across his face as he observed the way you were eyeing him, body ready to fruitlessly run from him the way a rabbit would a hawk.

“C’mon, after how long we’ve been friends, I would never hurt you,” he said, as if reading your mind. “We’ve been through so much together. I mean, we were each other’s first kiss.”

You froze. Issue #9. That was something Vought’s editors had added, claiming a romance angle would make the series appeal to the younger female demographic. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

He slyly backed you into the wall, leaning over you as you slinked down the slightest bit.

“Show me how we did it,” he whispered, his hand caressing your cheek. “So clumsy and nervous, I can even feel you…quivering.”

“Homelander, I don’t know what you’re—“

He tsked. “Y/N.”

You let out a shaky breath, “Johnny—“

He hummed in satisfaction. “It’s alright. I know it’s been a while.”

You let him kiss you, sweetly in a way that put your actual first kiss to shame. His lips were soft against yours, his tender movements intentional as he cradled your face, pulling you the slightest bit closer to him when you kissed him back.

A sense of familiarity settled over you, warm and comforting like pulling a blanket out of the dryer on a chilly evening. Every time it seemed like you were beginning to overthink the situation with Homelander, he drew you back in with the kiss, a more than effective distraction until you pulled away with a dazed smile on your face.

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #the boys x reader #the boys x you #the boys tv #the boys amazon #homelander #homelander the boys #the boys

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flamingpudding · 7 months

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Reincarnation is a tricky thing

A/N: This was sort of inspired by this post from @nerdpoe and the rebblogs of it. I came across it again scrolling through tumblr and reread it during my break and couldn't help but continue thinking about DC characters being a different version or a reincarnation of people Danny knew. Blame the too many reincarnation or isekai light novels / manwhas / mangas I read if you want.

At first Danny didn't mind it. Becoming the Ghost King had its pros but its cons as he learned later on. By accepting the title he had become an interdimensional being, and thus had gotten kicked out of the reincarnation cycle. Clockwork nor Pandora thought about telling him that sooner. But in a way Danny still didn't mind it.

He still got to watch and protect his friends and family or at least their souls and reincarnations. Though there were some things with the recent one he definitely did not expect. For one, Dan wasn't part of the reincarnation cycle either, so to pass the years he took up the same position Fright Knight had. Danny suspected that it was more to spent time with his ghostly best friend than actually doing Danny a favor.

Dani on the other hand had become a part of the reincarnation cycle, he hadn't liked how her childhood had been but once the reincarnation of his father took her in things started to turn better for his once upon a time clone sister.

He laughed at the fact that his mother in this life had become a thief, well at least she wasn't ghost obsessed but he wasn't sure if cats were a better one considering a lot of the things she stole were cat themed. But at least she still had a thing for his dad.

The man was still a lovable oaf but different, more stoic and short worded but when he put on acts for the public Danny could see hints of his previous life shining through. His dad was still a genius and inventing things that added him and his goals in protecting the city. Just like he did previously, just a little less extreme and upfront.

Jazz wasn't his dads and mothers direct daughter this time around but she still got counted as a daughter in a way as he watched her becoming a crime fighter alongside his father and the kids his dad picked up before an incident made her take up more of a operator like position. And ancients did Danny cackle watching Jazz still pulling one over everyone every time she gathered information on their family.

He was sad to see how Sam's life went but at the same time he was proud of her. Undergrowth's influence had swapped over into this life for her and he watched how as a criminal at first she continued to fight for what she believed was right. He was definitely happy when he saw her fall in love and turn a new leaf.

Tucker was not as electronic affine as he was before but he had what the humans started to call Meta Powers now. It was funny, whenever Danny compared his usually brain behind the scenes best friend with the vigilante that got mentored by his father.

All in all he was definitely happy with the life's his family has gotten this turn. Even if the start of some of their lives wasn't as ideal as it was supposed to be. He still hadn't figured out where Vlad's reincarnation was and to the ancients he hoped he wasn't the crazy clown obsessed with his dad. That would be just wrong.

Still as he watched them he couldn't help but muse at the knowledge that he originally was supposed to be among them. He also knew who he was supposed to be, thanks to clockwork but that boy had gotten a brand new soul, one that hadn't been in the cycle before. He wasn't mad at that but just a tiny bit sad. He would have loved to become a vigilante alongside his father too, even if this version of him was socially awkward and instead of space had a fascination with animals and art.

He still would have loved to live among them but he had gotten kicked out of the reincarnation cycle so all he could do was watch over them. It still made him feel giddy whenever he found another soul of the ones he had known before.

That was until the cultist decided to use would-be-him as a sacrifice to summon the interdimensional being that was atactual-him and he ended up face to face with some stupid soul magic mumbo jumbo tied to the kid.

Clockwork was laughing at him, he just knew this was pure entertainment for the ancient of time. Pandora was most likely shaking her head and Dan was probably literally rolling on the ground of his throne room laughing.

"You are supposed to be me, aren't you?" The boy had whispered wide eyed and Danny huffed in annoyance as he saw a familiar fear flit across the boy's eyes. A fear he had seen with Dan as well as Dani so long ago before.

"Don't talk bullshit kid. I am an Ancient being. This is your life." He was just now stuck having Danny tied to him like a guardian angel while being the only one able to see him clearly. How was he going to explain to the kid that he was entirely his own soul and not tied to Danny at all aside from taking his place in the reincarnation cycle without mentioning that nearly half the people in the kids life where his family and friends previously?

Danny was starting to have a crisis stuck to his would-be-him in the mortal realm and all he could think was to yell at Dan and Clockwork to stop laughing!

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stardust-falling · 4 months

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Hi! I keep seeing ppl debating if SQQ's eyes are canonically green or black. What do you think? Somebody said SQQ's eyes are green in the cover, but if you think otherwise, why? If you've discussed about this before in your page, may I see the link?

Hey! I posted this one on my meta blog (this might be what actually stirred up the discussion), but I still need to update the post there to include the timeline and all relevant information provided by various commenters.

Anyway, I'll go ahead and give a little summary here.

SQQ has black eyes in the novel, and they're explicitly described that way (黑，乌黑 specifically, color words meaning black and crow-black (like jet black)).

This means that a depiction of SQQ with green eyes is contrary to novel canon.

At some point, people on the wiki said his eyes were described as 青 (qing）which is turquoise green/blue. I'm not exactly sure where this came from, but one very, very loose potential for this could be a misreading of the following description: 眉清目秀 which is used to describe the appearance of a young SJ. It's possible, perhaps, that the character 清 (clear) here was accidentally misread as 青（green/blue) but i don't think that's a particularly easy misreading, especially since in that phrase the 清 is linked to 眉（brows) instead of 目（eyes). But anything is possible, and this is the only place in the novel I could find reference to "clear eyes" in regards to SQQ, and the only potential way this misreading could have basis in the novel. Either way, his eyes are never described as 青, so that's an incorrect assumption.

So, the only thing I really consider canon proper is the novel itself, but that's my own stance. A wider stance would be considering the novel as primary canon, while the donghua/manhua are secondary canon, and things like official art could be tertiary canon. In this framework, details included in the donghua that aren't in the novel but aren't contradicted by it would also be considered wider canon and fill in those gaps, while things that contradict the novel would be canon as well, but specifically alternate, donghua canon. The same would apply to official art-- if it doesn't contradict the donghua or novel, it fills the gap, otherwise it's another kind of alternate canon.

Under this wider system, then Shen Qingqiu's canon eye color would go this way:

Primary canon - Black eyes Secondary Canon - Grey Eyes Tertiary Canon - Black, Grey, or Green Eyes

So depending on what you consider canon, then the answer can change-- but in my opinion, the novel overrides other sources.

Okay, so let's go into the secondary and tertiary canons, then. On the post on my meta blog that I linked earlier, in the replies and reblogs, there are some references about the evolution of SQQ's character design in donghua and fanart, so I'll leave those explanations to speak for themselves.

Let me talk a bit about the official art, then.

Though the English edition has the most vivid green eyes in character design, it is NOT the only cover art with green-eyed SQQ!

Across translations, he is depicted with varying black, grey, or green eyes, as follows (using purple color for grey since tumblr doesn't have a grey color):

Taiwanese (OG) - Black Taiwanese (Revamped) - Darker green, occasionally darker grey (some variety here) Thai - Lighter grey Vietnamese - Black Burmese - Medium grey or dull green (again, some variety) Korean - Black, but may vary to grey or very dull green (resolution not high enough to tell)

And then of course the vivid green of the English edition.

So when it comes to official art, it's basically evenly split, with three black, three grey, three green (counting the ones that vary).

Green-eyed SQQ is not exclusively a western fandom thing. I mean, on some levels, it makes sense for character design-- matching his eyes to his clothing color.

Personally, I wouldn't call it canon. And I think if anyone does want to claim it's canon (via the tiered system), that it would be a good idea to preface that you're going off of alternate canon instead of novel canon, so that it's not used as an argument when the discussion is specifically centered on novel canon.

There is a level of canonicity to either green-eyed or grey-eyed SQQ, but such depictions still contradict the novel, even if supported by other mediums, since his eyes are specifically described as black there.

I guess, it depends on how you want to define canon at the end of the day. I'm not here to tell other people how to play in their own sandboxes, I just personally like to play in novel canon only so that's my stance on it.

Hope this is the sort of info you wanted!

#svsss #answered #anon #shen qingqiu #at this point #my sqq eye color posts will be a treasure hunt across tumblr lmao #zhuixing svsss

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curiousquirks · 4 months

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Day 14 | Dabi x F!Reader (18+)

Sex Pollen | Begging

Content Warnings: Sex Pollen, Quirk Misuse, AFAB Reader, Dubious Consent/Somewhat Non-Con, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Unsafe Sex, Oral (Female Receiving), Pet Names Used (Sweetheart), Dabi burning fingers digging into your skin, Overstimulation, Bullshitted my way through a quirk for plot

Word Count: 3,094

Summary:

You were important to the Meta Liberation and finally got brought into the Paranormal Liberation Front. This brought you face to face with Dabi, who grabbed your attention. You intrigued him as well and with the help of your quirk, he’d be yours in no time.

Reader has a quirk: Small colorful flowers in your hair that produce a puff of odorless power that make the target have an amplified sexual desire towards the user. The more the target views the user in such a way without aid of the quirk the stronger the desire gets.

The day’s tasks stretched on more than it needed to, and yet things kept happening adding to Dabi’s growing frustrations. Making it worse currently was being dragged into a meeting. Again. Normally he wouldn’t even bother but it’s like Skeptic always knew how to include things that piqued his interests. He’d have to give him credit for that at least. Once he got the information he needed, Dabi had no issues getting up and leaving in the middle of the Paranormal Liberation’s briefing. He’d already been tuning out most of the discussion for the past few minutes anyways.

“Dabi, don’t you want to hear about—” Mr. Compress began, looking up towards him from his tablet.

“Not interested.” Dabi interrupted, swinging open the door and only pausing when he saw you standing outside the door. Small colorful flowers were animated and littered throughout your hair. He eyed you curiously as he let his foot hold the door open. “What do we have here?”

He heard ReDestro clear his throat from the table behind him. “You can come in now.” Skeptic had called towards you, and your eyes lingered on Dabi’s for only a moment more before you had made your way into the room.

Dabi’s eyes lingered on you as you passed him, everyone going back to what they were apparently originally talking about. You were a member of the Liberation Army who they valued and would be a vital member of the Paranormal Liberation Front. Dabi kept that in the back of his mind as he continued on his way out. He’d find out more about you later, especially since he wanted to know more about why you were so valuable but he couldn’t care enough to know now.

A few days passed, Dabi having spent his spare time working on personal projects that you hadn’t crossed his mind. That was until he saw you across the way one day in the villa. His mind lingered on you for a while that day, being genuinely surprised when you popped up on the same side of the villa again. You were walking towards him, and kept this intense eye contact with him. It piqued his interest, it made him want to know more about you. Nowadays that was a hard thing to do.

You smiled as you got closer, making a beeline towards him. He made no motion to stop walking, so you instead decided to just walk beside him. “Fancy seeing you again, especially since it seems hard for people to get ahold of you.” You said, glancing towards him.

“Skeptic tell you that?” He asked, not really wanting an answer. “I know that’s not true because he sure as hell knows how to bother me.”

“Everyone says that you aren’t really in many meetings, seem to be doing your own thing.” You said. “I can admire focusing on your own thing, it must be important.” Your interest was focused intensely on him. He noticed.

“If you’re trying to get information from me to give back to the Liberation, I’m pretty sure those freaks know enough.” He said, turning a corner.

“I was just trying to get to know you.” You explained, letting your quirk subtly activate. A small puff of odorless powder floating into the air from the flowers in your hair. “Your whole mysterious aloof personality made me curious.”

“Cut your losses and leave me alone, sweetheart. I’m not about to tell you anything.” He said, part of his mind not really meaning it.

“I’m sure you have something that you want to share with me.” You teased, knowing it wouldn’t take long for him to take the bait.

He thought your perfume smelled really nice. The scent was light, not too strong. He slowed his steps to be more in sync with yours. “Why should I do that?” He asked. “Why are you suddenly so interested in me? They certainly took their time dragging you into the fold, despite how long we’ve been set up here.”

“I could be more direct but where’s the fun in that.” You said, taking note of where you were in the villa. It was working. “I’m not doing this for any nefarious reasons, you just caught my eye.”

“Considering that doesn’t happen with me, unless someone wants something, I find that excuse to be bullshit.” He said, feeling his body heating up. He tried brushing it off. “Knock it off and stop beating around the bush.”

“I’m serious, Dabi.” You explained, lying through your teeth. His name falling from your lips was really getting him going. “You caught my eye.”

You were really pissing him off. The back and forth banter was a turn on, but your lying was doing nothing but angering him. He hadn’t noticed that you had been guiding him through the villa at all, until you were both steps away from the main meeting room. He paused and took a second to process that he hadn’t been paying attention to much aside from you until now. The confusion was apparent on his face and you were stifling a laugh.

“Why are we over here?” He asked, something he actually wanted answered.

“I was following you.” You lied, moving your way towards the door. You pressed an ear up to the door for a moment. “It doesn’t sound like anyone’s in there–”

He pushed your body up against the door, pinning your arms against your back. His body was warm against yours, his breath fanning against your ear. “What’s your fucking game?” He asked. Your quirk activated again, small puffs of that powder releasing into the air from your flowers. Dabi coughed and tightened his grips on your arms. “What the fuck was that?”

“You’ll find out soon.” You teased, rubbing your ass against his crotch. His cock twitched excitedly in his pants, steam started lifting from his skin as his body started heating up more. “Do you get it now?”

“You’re one fucked up bitch.” He spat, yanking you from the door before shoving you into the room. “All this shit with your quirk just to convince someone to fuck you.”

“You wanted to, I’m just speeding up the process instead of waiting.” You explained as he shoved you over to the long meeting table. “Not that it matters now.”

“You fucking talk too much.” He said, bending you over the table. His breathing was rough, he was used to his body feeling warm but this was different. He started shedding layers of clothes, tossing them to the side. “Lying to me, leading me over here so you can get fucked in the meeting room huh? Probably some sick fucking fantasy of yours.”

“You hate being in here so much I thought you might want to take your frustrations out on me here.” You said, wiggling your ass at him.

He didn’t bother taking his pants off, just down enough to free his cock. You had already gotten rid of anything that would obstruct his access to your dripping pussy. You braced yourself just in time before he roughly pushed his cock into you. A moan was ripped from your throat as he wasted no time slamming his hips into yours. Your warm walls were squeezing him and enveloping him in intoxicating bliss. He just couldn’t get enough of your pussy.

He selfishly chased after his own high, not that you minded because you knew he was far from done. His fingers gripped into your hips, blistering heat burning into your flesh as he neared his climax. His cum was so warm as it shot inside of your welcoming pussy, your walls clenching and squeezing every drop out of his cock.

He pulled out of you, expecting the intense high to leave him. He braced himself against the table next to you, his breathing uneven as he tried to keep ahold of his sanity. “What the fuck is your quirk?” He slowly asked, looking over at you in time to see another odorless powder puff out in front of his face. “What–”

He groaned, his cock twitching violently as he felt an intense desire course through his body. He looked down at his cock in time to see some of your juices dripped off of his cock. His mind was consumed with only you, he’d barely seen anything of your skin but the way your pussy felt wrapped around him was enough to fuel his body. Steam was actively rising from his skin, his body heating up as his thoughts raced.

You were long ahead of him, being the only sane one in the room after all. You pushed yourself from the table, observing him struggling beside you. It made you so wet knowing how much men lost themselves with lust wanting to fuck you. They’d do anything to sink their cocks into you. You took a few steps away from the table, removing the rest of your clothing. This is when Dabi finally paid attention to your movement. His eyes narrowed, intensely watching your movements especially when your hands cupped your breasts.

“Come here.” You commanded, breathlessly.

He shoved himself roughly away from the table, moving towards you. You didn’t let him get too close before you had tripped him, pushing him onto the ground. He grunted as he landed, glaring at you. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He asked, moving to push himself off the ground.

You hovered over him, crouching and pushing him back onto the ground. “I had to force you down here because you weren’t about to do it if I asked.” You explained, grinding yourself against his cock. “I wanted to be in control for a minute.”

“If you wanted to do all the work all you had to do was ask, sweetheart.” He said, thrusting his hips up as you continued grinding against him. “Stop fucking around, you’re the one who wanted this.”

“I think you want it more than me.” You teased, deliberately going slower in your movements. Your wet folds dragging agonizingly slowly across his throbbing cock. His hands found your hips, digging into your skin again.

“You’re playing a dangerous game.” He said, strong heat burning into your skin. You hissed in pain as you stilled your movements. Your quirk activated again, puffs of smoke filling the air which had Dabi using his strength to flip you over. He hovered over you, leaning really close to your face. “Didn’t really think this through did you?”

Your face was flushed, and your chest was rising and falling rapidly. Your eyes were half-lidded as your lust consumed you. He wasted no more time, pushing his cock into you again. His hips slamming into yours, your body clinging to his. Curses were muttered under his breath as he buried himself as far he could into your pussy with every thrust. The heat consuming your body and how good his cock felt left you nearly breathless.

“You fuck me so good, your cock is so–mmgn big.” You moaned, wrapping your legs around his waist. He had an animalistic pace, rutting himself against you. “Fucking fill me with cum, fill me–yeeess, oh...”

Dabi couldn’t even form words right now, just grunts and groans as your walls sucked him with every thrust. Your voice dragged him closer and closer to the edge, the need to fill up your pussy with so much cum that it spilled out was burning in every fiber of his being. He need to keep going, he was going to spend every waking moment fucking you, bruising every inch of your skin with his fingers as he bend you in every position. It was your own fault though right? Your quirk caused this, you asked for it. You wanted it.

He slammed his hips into you again, his burning hot cum shooting inside of you again. He choked out a groan, his hips staggering thrusts against you as he rode out yet another orgasm. You kept your legs wrapped tightly around him, not wanting him to move. You clenched your walls around his cock, hearing Dabi groan above you. You did again.

“Still desperate for more of my cock, slut?” He asked, getting inches from your face.

“I think you’re still desperate for my pussy.” You shot back, clenching your walls around his cock. “You can’t get enough of it can you?”

“Smartass little brat aren’t you? Your fucking quirk is…” He trailed off, his cock twitching inside of your intoxicating pussy. He was trying to keep his thoughts straight but it was easier than actually done. Another puff of your quirk activated.

“You’re right, this is my fault. My quirk got you in this state.” You conceded. “Want me to ride you? Give you a little show while you let me take care of you.”

You unwrapped your legs from around his waist, he took the initiative to pull you close to him and roll himself over to lay onto his back. You laughed at the sudden movement, moaning as you adjusted yourself on his lap. His cock was twitching inside of you still, his hips thrusting up into you driving his cock further inside of you. You whined, bracing your hands onto his chest.

You finally met his wishes by lifting your hips up to start riding him. Your breasts bounced as your body grinded down against him, his attention entirely on you. You whined, locking eyes with him beneath you. He couldn’t handle not being in control, dragging your body towards him as he started thrusting his hips roughly up against you. His cock drilled deep inside of you, hitting your sweet spot in a new angle.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, just like that.” You whined, your body tensing up. “I’m gonna come–-oh please, please, please, please…”

“You like that?” He groaned in your ear. “That’s right fucking beg for it.”

“I wanna come, I wanna come all over your cock.” You moaned, your thighs starting to shake. “Your cock is so deep, you’re fucking me sooo good.” You were so close. “Let me come, please, please–.”

Your orgasm got delayed as his interrupted, more spurts of his hot cum coated inside your pussy. You whined, that tight coil in your core slowly loosening. You felt his arms let go of you, allowing you to sit up. You glared down at him, bracing your hands on his abdomen.

“Don’t look at me like that, you deserve it.” He said, placing an arm over his face. “Selfish bitch.”

“I’m selfish?” You shot back, offended. “You don’t even know how my quirk works! You got to come three times and you couldn’t even let me come one time?”

“Forced me to have sex and now you’re gonna get hung up on me not letting you get off? You did this to yourself.” He said, panting as his body was still heavily affected by your quirk. “Fuck, how long does this shit last.”

“Depends on your attraction, asshole.” You explained, lifting yourself up off of his cock. “So actually you did this to yourself.”

You got most of the way up before you felt his hands on your legs. He dragged your lower body towards his face.. “What are you doing?” You asked as you looked down at him. “Don’t tell me you suddenly feel like giving back because–”

He answers by shoving his head between your legs. The sensation of his insanely warm tongue against your folds had your legs buckling. You collapsed forward, forcing both of you onto the ground. His hands held you in place as his tongue pressed against you like he was trying to make up for mistakes he didn’t even make. You gasped and whimpered as his tongue devoured you.

You knew you wouldn’t last long. Your juices mixed with his cum were leaking out of your pussy, coating his chin as he lapped at your swollen clit. His tongue against you making wet noises echo through the room almost as loud as your moans.

Your fingers found his hair, gripping it tightly as you grinded against his mouth. “So good–soo good…” You moaned, your eyes nearly rolling into the back of your head. His fingers were digging into your ass now, forcing your body as close to him as possible. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

You heard a muffled groan from him, which almost had your vision turning white. You couldn’t think straight, nothing other than pure euphoric pleasure and how good his tongue felt. There was sweat coating your body, just another fluid you were going to be covered in by the end of this. Another string of curses left your mouth, along with promises of anything if you could come.

“I’m so close–so close.” You whimpered, rocking your hips against him as you felt that coil tighten again.

It only took a few more flicks of his tongue before your orgasm slammed into you. You cried out, your hips tightening around his face as you almost collapsed forward. You don’t get much breathing room before Dabi’s tongue starts its assault on your clit again. A noise gets choked out as you squeeze against him. Your body twitches as jolts of pleasure and pain from the stimulation run through your body. You feel his fingers dig into your skin, that searing pain from the heat radiating off of him burns into your skin.

“Stop stop—fuck e-enough!” You cried out, falling on deaf ears as he continued torturing you.

Your body tenses up, whines leave your lips as your fingers dig into his hair. Tears prickle at the corner of your eyes, the sensations clouding your every thought. You’re a whimpering mess as every flick of his tongue has you reeling with gasps and cries.

“Please, please stop. Please I c–can’t handle it.” You whined, trying desperately to pull your hips away from his mouth. “Fuck, Dabi STOP!”

You keep leaning forward, curling in on yourself. It gets hard to breathe as your gasps from the pain and pleasure coursing through you consume every thought. You only feel relief after you feel your body falling forward as he finally lets you go. As you catch your breath, collapse against the ground do you finally feel the intense pain from his fingerprints burned into your hips.

Dabi sits up, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He looks over his shoulder at you. “You have until I get up and come over there to recover. I didn’t say I’m finished with you yet.” He warned.

#dabi x reader #bnha smut #kinktober 2023 #curiouskinks 2023 #bnha fanfiction #dabi #touya todoroki x reader

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mangoisms · 9 months

Text

circle k (back to you)

summary: in which you're just the graveyard shift employee at circle k bombarded by vigilantes.

━ chapter three: this doesn’t feel right | read chapter two

━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader

━ word count: 6.6k

━ warnings: robbery, gun gets pulled but nothing happens, brief mention of blood, basically canon-typical violence

━ masterlist

━ a/n: decided to include the last minute scene i wrote between tim and steph, specifically the one at the very end. fair warning, we shift to steph’s pov! also my first time writing for a canon chatacter so be gentle <3

“How’ve things been?”

“Like you don’t know.”

Red Robin, you think, sure has the gall to look as smug as he does right now.

After all, it’s not as if he had a point to prove to you. You very specifically told him he didn’t and that you didn’t care what he did regardless of whether he took your advice or not.

Despite the look on his face, he manages to say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” you say, a little bit more accusingly than you mean to, following him as he ventures to the candy aisle.

“Alright,” he concedes, not looking at you as he bends forward to peer at the display of gummy candy. “But just so you know, it ended up taking a life of its own. You’ve made a solid impression so far.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all. The list of places we can visit like this without having the cops called or worse is very short.”

“But that perception works.”

“Well, sometimes it’s less about fear and more about plain disapproval. Which also does its own job but… tiring, sometimes.”

That… makes sense. The Flash can walk down the street in Keystone and Central without anyone getting all up in arms about it. These guys can’t.

“But it’s necessary, no?” Just curiosity. Not agreeing, exactly.

Red Robin takes two packs of sour gummy worms and straightens, turning away from you to head to the refrigerators at the back. “Doesn’t change the fact that we can find it a little bit tiring. Makes you wonder if you can strike a balance, but in the end, it’s nothing more than an ideal. Fear rules best.”

“I’m sure.”

“Civilian, remember?”

“Yeah, well, this civilian gets to pass judgment since I’m a citizen of this city just like you guys are.”

Seems like they forget that sometimes. Or Batman does. You’ve heard whispers of metas who found out they had powers and attempted to use them for good. Only to be sharply turned away by Batman.

There is something to be said about ensuring not just anybody goes out and does what they do, lest they get themselves and others killed, but the impression you’ve gotten is that he doesn’t allow metas in the city. No matter their experience or skill level. The only exception to the rule, so far, is Signal.

You don’t know. When you were younger, they seemed cool. As you got older, that changed. How could you trust them? How could anyone know if they were trying to do good or if they were just enacting their own convoluted brand of justice? Red Hood’s existence several years ago proved that to you and all the others.

Even if he was trying to set himself apart from Batman or whatever, the fact remains that everyone in East End, in Park Row, in the Narrows, in the Bowery, feared that they might be next. Didn’t matter if you were innocent or not because one’s definition of innocent differed sharply from his—from theirs. And when you were desperate like most people there were, that changed everything, too.

Sure, the GCPD is corrupt and so is the justice system and the government and practically every institution in this city, in this country, but… you just don’t know.

So, maybe he does have a point to prove to you.

Maybe they all do.

“Well, look,” he starts, surprising you as he turns with two bottles of Zesti in hand. “If you want us to stop coming around, we will. No harm done.”

Fine.

Maybe you’ll regret the decision but… it does make them all the more tangible to you.

“It’s fine. Keep coming around. Might discourage anyone from trying their luck and it keeps my shifts interesting.”

“And it’s all about you, is it?”

“If not, find another Circle K to haunt.”

He laughs. The sound is familiar but nice, in a way. Comforting almost. It’s then you shake your head and turn away sharply, trying to push the feeling away.

There’s that, too. Maybe if you can keep Red Robin coming around long enough, you’ll figure out what exactly it is about him that bothers you, that niggles at you.

It should help take your mind off things. Like your growing concern about Tim’s lack of contact with you. You and Steph have hung out twice since she came back and both times he said he was busy. It shouldn’t be something that bothers you, but the fact that your attempt a few days ago to hang out with him alone for ice cream was also shot down with that same excuse. And of course, his sparse replies to your texts.

But he did reply eventually. Just some agreement about what you said about Signal. Didn’t exactly carry the conversation much further but at least he replied, right? Same goes for the shared group chat between you, him, and Steph.

You haven’t spoken to her about it, either, but you don’t want to.

It’s—complicated.

That’s just what your life feels like these days.

Complicated.

Red Robin keeps coming around.

The others come around, too. You don’t see much of Signal working the night shift but you do see Black Bat again. Even Spoiler, though she keeps her distance for a reason you can’t understand. Not to say she is mean or anything. She just waves at you but she never says much else. You’ll hear her and Black Bat talking quietly, though the words themselves are lost on you no matter how hard you strain your ears.

You keep worrying about Tim, of course, and hanging out with Steph, who squeezes in time to see you in between her internship with social services.

For a while, things are calm. The vigilantes who pop up grow increasingly familiar and any wariness evaporates.

Then you get a new face.

The guy walking around the store in the oversized grey hoodie is doing a bad job at robbing you, you think.

Well, he hasn’t actually robbed you. But his hand stays in the pocket of his hoodie, clearly grasping something as he makes a couple circuits around the store. Either scoping it out to see if there is anyone else to worry about or trying to work himself up to it. You think it’s the latter, with how nervous and sweaty he looks.

Mostly, it’s for your own nerves to think that.

It’s been a hot minute since the store was robbed and you were held at gunpoint (or knifepoint). You aren’t explicitly allowed to trigger the silent alarm until either of those things make an appearance, so even with the bad feeling in your gut, you can’t yet do anything.

You are close, though. So very close.

But you don’t have to wait any longer as he rounds the corner and pulls out the gun.

Oh, great.

Before he can say anything, before you can say or do something, the door swings open.

When you both look, there is nothing there.

You wince at the rush of hot smelly air from the outside.

“Who—who’s there?!” he yells, then swings the gun back to you. “What did you do?!”

“I didn’t do anything—”

The arrow comes out of nowhere.

One blink and it’s embedded in his hand, the same hand holding—previously holding—the gun. You flinch as the weapon clatters sharply to the ground, your stomach churning at the sight of the arrow embedded in his hand, blood dripping; he yells in pain, dropping to his knees.

Then comes the owner of the arrow.

Dressed in black and dark shades of purple, the Huntress is a sight to behold. Her boots are soundless on the tiles. She looks… bored as she talks to someone. Some kind of comm, you guess.

“Yeah, I know, I’m on my way back, I’m picking up coffee. From the—yeah. So he’s gotten to you, too? Figures. What’s the sound—? Oh, just some idiot trying to rob the store. Yeah, go ahead and call the cops.”

You stare, heart beating so quickly you feel a little dizzy, as she knocks the guy out, leaving him to slump on the ground. She kicks the gun further away from him for good measure.

Finally, she looks at you.

The Huntress, a figure you’ve only seen in the newspaper or articles online, mostly grainy pictures, is very pretty up close. Shoulder-length dark hair, olive skin, lips painted a deep, pretty shade of purple, and sharp blue eyes, easily revealed through her mask.

“Are you okay?” she asks, watching you carefully.

“Y-Yeah,” you stammer. “Thank you.”

A slight shrug. “All in a day’s work. Coffee?”

“Um. Over there.”

“Thanks.”

You watch, befuddled, as the Huntress steps over the body of the now-unconscious robber and strides to the coffee machine, entirely unbothered as she grabs three cups.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know how you take your coffee, O. Give me some credit. Is Cat coming by? No? Alright, just you and BC, then.”

As the machine sputters out coffee, she comes back over to you. “Do you have any drink carriers?”

“Yeah, they’re over there.”

You point them out, on the other side of the Slurpee machine, and she nods her thanks, grabbing one.

She returns to the counter a couple minutes later.

“So, um,” you start, clearing your throat. “Is there anything in particular I should say to the police about this?”

She tilts her head, confused for a moment, before realizing what you mean.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. You can say it was me. They’ll want to see the footage, too. Let them.” She pauses, giving you an appraising look. “Is there anyone you would like me to call?”

“Call?” you ask, confused as you ring up the coffees.

She fiddles with a pouch in her utility belt without taking her eyes off you, pulling out a ten dollar bill.

“Red Robin?”

“Red—no. No, I don’t think… I’m fine, I mean.”

Huntress nods and lets it go, accepting her change.

“The cops’ll be here in a few,” she says. “I’ll be around until then, so don’t worry.”

“Thank you, again.”

She gives you the smallest of smiles. “Like I said. All in a day’s—night’s—work.”

You watch her go, one part of you not wanting her to leave, but the other assuaged by her promise to hang around and make sure nothing and nobody bothers you again.

The police arrive a little while after that. By the arrow in the man’s hand, they already know who saved you, but they still demand to see the footage.

“So, it was the Huntress?”

“Yes.”

“Has she ever come by?”

“No.”

“Have you ever interacted with her anywhere else?”

You pause, barely stopping yourself from narrowing your eyes, because you do not like the accusatory tone this cop is giving you. What did he say his name was? Bullock or something.

You send a silent apology to Sandra Bullock for having to share her last name with this idiot.

“Well?” he asks, burning cigarette hanging from his lips, arms crossed. The smell of tobacco is nauseating this close. What’s worse is you’re outside while the other guys handle things inside. Even at one in the morning, the heat edges on unbearable and the humidity is even worse, making your skin tacky with it.

“No,” you say, a tiny bit exasperated. “I have never interacted with her before this. Why would I want to?”

“You were talking to her.”

“She was talking to me. Asked me if I was okay.”

Unlike any of these assholes who blew in here, sirens wailing, and made you put your hands up as they came in, guns brandished, even though the guy was obviously down for the count. Honestly, they scare you more than the shooter. At least in that moment. These guys can be real trigger-happy.

Now, they’re just a pain in your ass.

You need a Slurpee, you think. No, deserve one. For your troubles.

“It’s cut-and-dry, Harv,” the other detective, Montoya, puts in, having stepped away. She sends you a sympathetic look that just annoys you even more. “Got some calls from a few other convenience stores for suspicious activity. They saw this guy, too, but he always left before doing anything. Guess he finally worked up the nerve to do it here but it didn’t work out well in his favor.”

Bullock grunts. “You run her ID?”

Oh, for the love of—

“She’s clear. We’re good.”

Behind you, two EMTs haul the still-unconscious robber out and into the ambulance, which promptly leaves; a cop with gloves on steps out, the gun in a baggie.

Montoya asks you a few more questions, obviously trying to make up for Bullock’s brusque manner of speaking, but it’s a futile effort. You still cooperate, however, as politely as you can with the annoyance still burning inside you and this damnable heat.

Eventually, they leave, called away to some other incident, cars peeling away from the curb, blue-and-red lights flashing, sirens wailing.

You watch them go, allowing your scowl to come out full-force, your arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“Bullock’s always like that. It’s not personal.”

“Jesus,” you hiss, heart pounding as you whirl around; it takes a moment for your eyes to pick out Red Robin leaned against the brick apartment building next to the store, his figure mostly cloaked in shadows.

He steps into the light. Despite the nonchalant tone of his previous words, he looks, dare you say, worried.

“Just coming around?”

“No. I heard what happened. Wanted to come and see how you were.”

“Annoyed. And hot. And tired. Come on, let’s go inside. The AC isn’t that great but it’s better than this.”

Red Robin follows you in. You click your tongue upon finding the blood from the guy’s hand still on the tile. So, now you have to clean that, too, on top of the paperwork you have to fill out for the incident. Great.

You jump at the nudge of a knuckle between your shoulder blades. “What—”

“I can clean it up.”

“No, that’s—”

“Let me do it. I have more experience cleaning blood than you.”

“Charming,” you mutter. “But alright, fine. Thanks.”

“Cleaning supplies?”

“First aisle.”

A nod and he turns, cape fluttering behind him.

You rub your forehead, feeling a headache start to form, and continue for the Slurpee machine at the other end of the store.

A few minutes later, Red Robin joins you, wiping his gloved hands with what looks and smells to be antiseptic pads.

“Good as new,” he tells you, reaching for a Slurpee cup, too, as you sip at yours. “Like nothing ever happened.”

You sigh. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

“So,” he starts, holding the cup beneath the tube for… the Zesti Cola flavor? What a complete weirdo.

“Are you—” he stops when he looks at you. “You’re judging me.”

“Who comes in to get a Cola-flavored Slurpee? That’s weird. You might as well just get a bottle of it.”

“Woah. It’s so not the same thing. If there was a drink form of, what do you get? Blue raspberry? Yeah. If there was a drink form of that, would you do that instead? A Slurpee is about the consistency. The slushy factor.”

Okay, that’s fair, but something about everything he just said makes you laugh. Hard.

Maybe the heat is getting to you. Maybe it’s the hysteria setting in. Maybe it’s Red Robin passionately defending his choice in Slurpee flavor and saying shit like ‘The slushy factor’ with a straight face. You don’t know.

“You’re finally losing it, aren’t you?” Despite his words, Red Robin looks almost relieved. He really was worried, you surmise, which is a… touching thought.

You quell your giggles, shaking your head; though the laughter was nice, your head is really pounding now.

“Here,” he says, digging through a pouch at his utility belt, pulling out a mini packet of… huh. Tylenol.

“Tampered?” you ask, taking it from him, anyway.

“If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it already.”

“Again. Charming.” But it still doesn’t change the thoughtfulness of the action; he doesn’t have to. If anything, this stuff is probably best kept for him. Though with their proclivity for putting their lives in danger, you don’t imagine Tylenol would be particularly helpful against gunshot wounds, but still…

“Thanks,” you say, a little quieter now, more meaning in your voice as you tear it open and shake out two pills.

Red Robin shakes his head. “It’s the least I can do.”

You can tell he means it. Which is, again, both touching and maybe a little bit confusing, too.

But trying to decipher why he does what he does is a futile effort.

This is, after all, the same guy who dresses up and goes out fighting the worst of the worst night after night.

Best not to look too closely. Who knows what you might find.

Despite your best efforts, Steph finds out about what happened. Something about the newspaper, which is odd, because you don’t recall seeing the news there—honestly, much more crazy shit happens overnight in Gotham. Robberies are old news.

But either way, you can’t complain too much because you are appreciative of her coddling the next day, which includes, but is not limited to, ordering takeout, burrowing on your crappy couch together, and watching old 2000s movies.

The only thing missing is—

“He said he was busy but he sent me the money for takeout. To make up for it.”

You purse your lips but don’t say anything. That you don’t want his money. You just want—

Nothing.

“We don’t need him,” Steph says determinedly in the next second. Which is a departure from what she usually says—that you’ll see Tim eventually, that his work at WE will let up. You don’t have the energy to ponder why.

You sigh, sinking further into the couch. Steph is warm next to you. You can smell her shampoo. Jasmine.

“I guess not,” you concede in a mumble.

You can’t do anything but concede. After all, it’s your initial avoidance of him at the start of June that caused this, right? And he keeps dodging your calls, your requests to hang out—points in which you might’ve been able to clear the air, apologize for it, but… no.

It’s not like you could track him down. You know the apartments he lives in—down in Old Gotham, in a much more expensive building than your shitty one here in Coventry. But sometimes he spends time at the manor, too, up in Bristol and you can’t ambush him there. You couldn’t. That would be too much. Right?

Trying to find him at WE is a lost cause, too. Not just because they have three given locations throughout the city but because you wouldn’t know if he was in or not.

Or maybe you’re just looking for the easy way out.

Complicated.

Why does it have to be so complicated?

“You look tired.”

“Thank you, Red, because that’s what every girl loves to hear.”

“Just a simple observation,” he responds, leaning against the counter, eating a kolach. Your Slurpee cups sweat in the mid-June heat, creating rings of condensation on the scuffed and scratched counter. You watch a droplet slowly roll down, joining the ring of water.

Your eyelids are heavy, dragging with each blink. A dull headache reminds you of your restless sleep and you’re sure the bags under your eyes tell it to the world, too. To Red Robin, specifically.

He finishes his kolach, crumpling the wrapper in one hand, looking steadily at you all the while.

“What?”

“Is it because of what happened last week?” he asks and his voice is frightfully gentle in a way you are not emotionally prepared to deal with.

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s not that.”

The occasional nightmare bothers you but that’s normal. You can deal with that.

“Then?”

You shake your head. God, you are exhausted. You fold your arms on the counter and bury your face there.

It’s quiet for a minute.

The refrigerators hum at the back. The AC makes an odd clanging noise before it turns on. Somewhere outside, a dog barks.

“I’m a good listener,” Red hedges after a minute. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“It’s stupid,” you say, voice muffled.

“Why?”

“Because it’s, like, stupid twenty-year-old drama and not, I dunno, the latest rumors on drug trades.”

Red laughs. It’s a pleasant sound that makes something inside you unwind.

“You should be relieved to hear I am up to date on the latest rumors on drug trades. And also, believe it or not, I do like to talk about things other than crime.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

A soft chuckle. It sounds almost affectionate.

“Come on. Whatever it is, it’s making you lose sleep. That’s not good.”

“Losing some sleep isn’t the end of the world.”

“I don’t know. Feels like it might be for you.”

You grunt, an old memory from Keystone niggling at you. You set it aside for the moment.

“It’s nothing,” you say eventually. “It’s just—nothing.”

“I don’t think it’s nothing,” he remarks. “But if you don’t want to talk about it now, that’s cool, too. If you ever do—”

“Dr. Red, to the rescue.”

He laughs. “Well, I’m not a licensed therapist and I can’t promise my advice is sound, either, so…”

“Don’t sue you?”

“Like you even could. But still, I’m here.”

You want to ask why but that might be too much for you right now.

You let yourself settle with some generic explanation, that he is obligated to ask that as a vigilante, as someone who is generally supposed to be concerned with the wellbeing of the citizens of this city. And also he is trying to prove some kind of point, so this is part of that.

“So,” you quickly say to change the topic. “What are the latest rumors on the drug trade?”

He laughs. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“You look tired.”

“Thank you, Flash, that’s exactly what I’d like to hear.”

“Just a simple observation,” he says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.

“Well, rest assured, I have Tim and Steph on my case about it. They’ve both demanded a video call with me tomorrow despite me telling them I am alive and well. Apparently, just saying I’m alive isn’t reassuring. Can’t imagine why. That’s more than enough in Gotham…”

Mother hens, the both of them.

And Flash, too, apparently, though he does a better job of covering it up.

Off near the coffee machine, a melodic hum of Dancing in the Dark, the song currently playing lowly overhead, reaches you. You tune into it, the sound lulling you, both because it’s pleasant and because the song makes you think of Tim and his love for Bruce Springsteen (largely in honor of his late father, Jack Drake). Because of that, you totally miss Flash’s next words.

“—here? Oh, Jesus, Piper! Stop humming. You’re distracting her.”

“Oh, sorry!” comes the apologetic and still melodic voice of the Pied Piper. More normal now, though, letting you shake your head and focus again. Piper comes around the aisle, a big cup of coffee in hand; he gives you a handsome and apologetic smile that you wave off.

“It’s fine—what were you saying, Flash?”

He wiggles his fingers at you. “I’m just curious about those two, that’s all, since they seem very worried about you, oh, practically all the time. Not that it’s unwarranted, of course.”

“I’m fine, Flash.”

He gives you a look. “I don’t believe that but seems like they got it covered so, I’ll let it go. I’m still curious about them, though. What are we talking here? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Both boyfriend and girlfriend? That’s cool, I don’t judge.”

“Are you—what? In regards to who?”

“You, obviously.”

You shake your head quickly. “No. No, absolutely not. Tim and Steph dated when they were teens, they’re exes. That’s weird.”

A bit of an uncomfortable discussion, too, if only because you are… too aware of your own attraction to Tim. A different kind of attraction. One that has you constantly admiring him. Or had you, back when you were in Gotham. With Steph, you know she is stupidly pretty but it doesn’t fluster you.

It's… nothing.

(It has to be nothing.)

“Feelings are a natural part of life, kiddo! Nothing weird about it. Have they been weird about it?”

“We’ve never even discussed the remote possibility of me dating either of them—because that would never happen in a million years.”

“Well, if they’re friends, then it shouldn’t be a problem. You don’t get many exes who can stay friends after a breakup. Right, Pipes?”

“It’s true,” he says easily, and, hold on a fucking minute, is… is the Flash implying that he and Piper dated?

“Yes, we did,” Flash answers and oh, you said that out loud, and this is… a bit of Flash lore that you aren’t sure you ever needed to know.

But still. He continues, shooting a grin at Piper. “And we’re still great friends! Me, him, and my wife!”

“Wife?” you choke out.

Great. More lore.

Piper rolls his eyes. “Flash.”

“Okay, I didn’t mean to give that away but it’s fine, we can trust her. She’s a friend.”

The words would be sweet if you still weren’t compartmentalizing the fact that he is actually married and… apparently dated the Pied Piper at one point. The Pied Piper who used to be part of the Flash’s rogue gallery, then reformed. Huh.

“You—” you point at him for good measure “—have a wife? Someone actually married you?”

Piper bursts out laughing. It’s a pleasant sound you could get lost in… No! Focus.

Flash looks affronted. “I’ll have you know I am excellent husband material!”

Piper, still chuckling, looks at you and gives a small shrug. “It is true. The superhero community isn’t very ripe with it, for reasons I’m sure you can figure out, so, Flash is a bit of a standout in that area.”

“Because the bar is low.”

“Not true,” Flash interjects. “Superman is married. You know how hard it is to compete with Superman? It’s hard. But I manage it. We’re nearly neck-and-neck in terms of husband material, I’d say.”

He ignores Piper’s snort of laughter and leans in conspiratorially. “But you know who isn’t married? Batman. He’s not husband material. He’s not even boyfriend material.”

You look at Piper, who shrugs. “Never met the guy, thankfully, but from what I’ve heard from Flash, I have to agree. The tall, dark, and broody thing can be attractive but—”

“He’s just a sourpuss,” Flash finishes. “No sense of whimsy whatsoever.”

“Oh, and you have that?”

Piper laughs as Flash sputters. “I can have fun! Why do you think I hang around you?”

You laugh. “That’s… Alright. Fine.”

Flash cocks his head suddenly, no doubt listening to the police frequency he tunes into. Piper fishes out a twenty for everything and tells you to keep the change. In the next moment, the both of them are gone, leaving you with a sharp gust of wind and arcing blue lightning that makes your skin break out in goosebumps.

Okay, then.

Your video call is the next day—Saturday—and it goes as well as you think it will.

“You look like shit.”

Steph is more blunt about it, but the sight of Tim’s grimacing face on your laptop screen shows he very much agrees.

“Thank you, my dear friends, it is lovely to see you, too, yes, I’m doing quite well, thank you. And you?”

“Okay, fair,” Tim says, holding up a hand, “but don’t lie and saying you’re doing ‘quite well.’ Someone doing ‘quite well’ doesn’t look as exhausted as you look.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “And you wonder why you don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Or boyfriend,” Steph tacks on immediately, not one to miss an opportunity to tag him.

He rolls his eyes. You shuffle around, freshly showered, looking around for your lotion, then remember it’s in the bathroom.

“Give me a sec,” you say to them, heading over to it.

The audio of the video call feeds out from the speakers of your laptop, so you can easily hear their next conversation.

“It’s so hard, isn’t it?” Steph asks

“What is?” comes Tim’s confused question.

“The urge to resist wiring her money. It’s written all over your face, duckie.”

“Like you don’t want to, either,” he shoots back.

A pause.

“Maybe we can—"

“I can hear you!” you call as you go back to your desk, bottle of lotion in hand. They look a tad sheepish as you settle in your chair. “And look, fine, I won’t say to a couple bucks—"

“Define a couple bucks,” Tim says.

“Max twenty—for dinner—” as soon as you say that, they’re both scrambling for their phones. You grimace. “Guys, come on, it’s not that bad.”

Tim gives you a concerned look. “Even your bags have bags.”

You blink. “Did you just… quote Spongebob?”

Steph grins in the other frame. “He’s finally cultured.”

Then they both return their focus to their phones.

A second later, yours chimes with notifications from Cashapp, twenty dollars from each of them.

“Guys… everything is fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Steph says stubbornly. “But that’s fine. You know you can rely on us, right? We’re friends. That’s what friends do. I know Timothy over here doesn’t always set the greatest examples for it—”

“Thanks, Steph.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies without missing a beat. “Anyway, let us help.”

“You’re already helping,” you soothe. “So, it’s okay. This semester is going to be tough but it’ll be worth it. And after this, it’ll be easier, okay? You guys are here now—”

“Not in a way that really matters,” Tim mutters.

“Which is not an invitation to come over here,” you warn—him, mostly. Steph would go along with it but he’d be the instigator.

They both pout.

You smile. Sometimes, it’s hard to handle the fact that you have friends like this. Friends who care so deeply, who love you so much, it feels hard to breathe. Because you know you love them just as much.

“I love you guys,” you say next, because you have to say it, they have to know; it’s hard for you, sometimes, just because it scares you, but after everything, you know how important it is for the people you love to know you love them.

They soften, echoing the words, and that’s enough for you.

Of course it is.

You don’t have much. No parents, no other family.

But you have them.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

A slow blink. “Updating Redbird’s security protocols?”

The garage of Tim’s townhouse smells sharply of oil and rubber. But he isn’t elbow-deep in the engine today, just seated off to the side, laptop perched on his lap and hooked up to its system. ‘Updating’ it. God knows why. The Redbird’s security protocols are just as stringent as the Batmobile’s.

Jason once regaled them with his plan, way back when, to blow it up. Bruce included. And how he went about it.

“It’s got safeguards like crazy, right? Even when it’s idle or shut down. Come up to it, fire a gun, launch a missile—doesn’t matter. Not gonna touch it before the security protocols kick in. It can sense you on thermal, air currents, video recognition, all of it.”

“So, how’d you get past it?”

“SEAL-grade wetsuit. Invisible to thermal with reflection fibers that play hell with video. But the biggest thing? Going slow. And I mean slow. Like five seconds per inch slow.”

The insane attention to detail and paranoia runs in the family, obviously.

Tim had sat in for that. Stephanie remembers the look on his face. Begrudging respect, combined with a familiar twitchiness that told her he was absolutely dying to run out and start updating his stuff.

Question everything. That’s what Bruce says.

Tim tries to separate himself from it. He really does. It gets tiring, exhausting, to live like that. But old habits die hard and his big brain precedes him sometimes. Wondering at the possibilities, at the million-in-one scenarios.

Ordinarily, Stephanie has more sympathy for him. Really. But right now, after your phone call about his little visit to Circle K…

She’s pissed.

“Don’t play dumb,” she says, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

“What is it that I’m playing dumb about?” he asks, averting his attention back to his laptop, keys clacking quickly, pausing momentarily as he takes a swig of Red Bull.

She tells him.

At the sound of your name, he stops.

But now that she’s started, she can’t stop. “Visiting her? As Red Robin? What are you thinking, Tim?”

The clack of keys resumes. The set of his gaze on the laptop screen is very intentional now. Avoiding her.

“It’s nothing, Steph,” he says and she almost believes it. But she knows him, so she doesn’t. “It’s harmless.”

“So, why won’t you hang out with us? Her? Because I assume you’re also avoiding her individually.”

A little sigh. Impatient. “I’m not avoiding her. I really was busy. Have been busy. You know how the heat messes with the city.”

It’s the excuse that bothers Stephanie.

Tim is making some kind of choice here. Choosing to favor Red Robin over himself, over Tim Drake, and it makes no sense. Red Robin isn’t your best friend. He isn’t even your favorite vigilante. (Black Canary is. She agrees, though it would be nice for Spoiler to get some spotlight but that is neither here nor there.)

You know who is your best friend? (One of them, anyway.)

Tim freakin’ Drake.

Stephanie knows why he’s avoiding you all of a sudden. The connection will be too easy to make. It’s why she—as Spoiler—keeps her distance. Tucks away her hair, hides her face even more, when she and Cass visit Circle K.

Even though! They had talked about telling you. Stephanie wanted to tell you so badly. You know who her father is. Was. You know how her mom used to be like. You know everything and you never once judged. You were, to be sure, a bit wary of them—the vigilantes—but most were. You wouldn’t turn them away if you knew.

If there is anything Stephanie knows, it is that.

But then she went away to Metropolis for a week and a half and suddenly, he’s visiting you as Red Robin. And he’s not trying to ease you into it, not trying to help you latch onto some clues, to make it easier—because they’d discussed that, too!—he’s doing it because… Well, she doesn’t really know. But there is a reason. She knows that much. A big reason.

It makes no sense to her, considering his feelings. Complicates things unnecessarily. Especially with how he’s avoiding you because of it, because he apparently got cold feet on telling you the truth.

And it’s the excuse… it’s the excuse that pisses her off.

Their relationship, back when they were kids, had some questionable origins. It did. Stephanie did things she wasn’t proud of. He did things he wasn’t proud of. It was messy. She tries not to kick herself about it—about being a silly girl in love, awed at the attention of a boy like Robin, knowing he was dating a girl (Ariana Dzerchenko, her name was, she would later find) and making moves on him despite that, moves that he always, always went along with. Like two magnets that couldn’t help but fall together.

Don’t get her wrong! The blame is not solely on her. It’s on him, too. She shouldn’t have pushed. He shouldn’t have went along with it, knowing he had a girlfriend, too. He shouldn’t have held his knowledge of her identity over her head the way he did. He isn’t mean-spirited at heart but he had an advantage over her. He knew she was Stephanie Brown. She knew him only as Robin and nothing else. Not until later on that would change and that… that was another mess entirely.

But they were dumb and young. Stephanie tries not to hold it against herself. They know better now. She knows better now. Knows what she deserves.

But this feels too close to him crossing that line.

No, he has crossed that line.

Given one persona up for another.

Approaching you as Red Robin, while you know nothing of him, and doing god knows what…

Someone is going to get hurt.

Last time, it was him. The circumstances, Bruce’s unceremonious reveal of his identity to her—a mistake, an egregious overstep—it all culminated in Tim feeling betrayed. Betrayed that Bruce would reveal that to her without Tim’s say so, without even asking him if he was okay with her knowing. Betrayed that Stephanie went along with it.

This time?

Stephanie feels it in her bones.

The person who is going to get hurt is you.

You, clueless about these lives they lead, clueless as Tim monopolizes your time as Red Robin, all the while you have no idea it’s him. You, her best friend. Stephanie loves you to the end of the universe.

She doesn’t want to see you hurt.

The mere thought of it, of the potential fallout, leaves a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Steph. Steph, it’s fine.”

She blinks, coming back to herself. Tim is standing in front of her now, dark brows knitted together, blue eyes intent on her face. Concerned.

“You’re lying to her.”

“We’ve been lying to her.”

“Not like this,” she says quietly. “Not this way. You’re… This is too much, Tim. I don’t understand why you’re doing this. What happened?”

“Nothing,” he says. For what it’s worth, to anyone else, it sounds believable. But like she said. Stephanie knows him. For better or for worse.

And on that end, she also knows he is not going to budge. No matter how much Stephanie wants to drill this into him, grab him by the shoulders and make her point. Once he’s made a decision, he commits.

Or more like he’s dug himself into this grave and he doesn’t (can’t?) want to get out.

“This is a mistake,” she says. “And you know it. I just hope you actually try to fix it sooner rather than later. Because if you break her heart, I’m going to break something of yours.”

Stephanie loves Tim. He’s a great friend. They’ve had their ups and downs—even discounting their relationship—but they’re solid. They are.

But she loves you, too. So much so it sometimes feels like she’s going to burst with it. She’s never had something like that, like this, and in the end, she doesn’t want to choose, but Tim knows better. And because he knows better, you are her first priority.

Even worse, he doesn’t seem bothered by the threat. Relieved, if anything.

“I’m counting on it, Steph.”

Which is so unfair in so many ways (fix it, she wants to yell, don’t rely on me to come clean up when shit hits the fan—do it yourself!) but she’s had enough of this conversation and all the ways this can go wrong.

Maybe he will turn around. Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But she doesn’t think so. He won’t. Not until the consequences of this, of his lies, of his excuses, come hit him in the face.

She wishes it weren’t like that—knowing what it will result in.

But some things you just can’t change.

She knows better with Tim.

She really, really does.

reblogs are appreciated!

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#tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #dc comics imagine #tim drake imagine #red robin imagine #tim drake x you #tim drake x y/n #red robin x y/n #red robin x you #dc comics x reader #batfamily x reader #batfam x reader #batfam x you #batfam x y/n

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ladykailitha · 5 months

Text

Royal Pain Part 27

Just two more chapters to go. The end and a short epilogue.

Here we have more communication and the girls threaten to murder Eddie if he leaves Steve sad again.

Pt 1 Pt 2 Pt 3 Pt 4 Pt 5 Pt 6 Pt 7 Pt 8 Pt 9 Pt 10 Pt 11 Pt 12 Pt 13 Pt 14 Pt 15 Pt 16 Pt 17 Pt 18 Pt 19 Pt 20 Pt 21 Meta|Pt 22|Pt 23|Pt 24|Pt 25|Pt 26

****

Steve and Eddie curled up on the sofa that must have been older then they were put together. But Steve didn’t care. He was wrapped up in each other’s arms.

“Was that the reason you were angry all the time when you called?” he asked gently.

Eddie sighed. “Shit, I didn’t realize you were picking up on that. I was trying to keep upbeat and happy for you.”

“Babe,” Steve said, nuzzling their noses together, “I want to hear about the good and the bad. If you’re upset I want to know. I was so scared you had found someone else and didn’t know how to tell me.”

Eddie’s eyes went wide and his jaw dropped. His first thought was to argue that he would never! But thankfully a second voice in his head, which sounded suspiciously like Wayne, prevailed. Steve didn’t know that. They had barely confessed to each that they did love each other, that they did want a relationship before the whole thing with Metallica fell in their laps. There was no way for Steve to know that.

He gathered up Steve in his arms and pulled him close. “I was angry at myself because I knew I was going to chose you. Because I love you more than I love the thought of fame and fortune. And that scared me how easy it was to chose you.”

“Especially since you knew I wouldn’t do the same?” Steve asked softly.

Eddie kissed the top of his head fiercely. “No, baby, because I knew you shouldn’t have to chose between your dreams and mine. Because I lived my dream. I can honestly tell people I toured with Metallica.”

“Aren’t you worried about what people are going to say when they ask you why you don’t tour anymore?”

“I tell them what I told everyone today,” he murmured. “That touring was too stressful and that it took me away from the people I loved.”

Steve kissed him tenderly on the lips. “Okay.”

Eddie tilted his head. “Just like that?”

Steve nodded. “I guess I just needed to hear you say the words. I believe you, Eds.”

Eddie hugged him tightly. “Bloomington isn’t that far away if we decide to take the deal. We’ll still see each other. Especially on the weekends and on the days you do my tattoo.”

“You still want me to finish it?”

“Of course I do, sweetheart,” Eddie whispered. “I have the whole fucking members of Metallica following me on Instagram to see the final product. I wouldn’t want to disappoint the biggest metal band of all time, now would I?”

Steve giggled. “Yeah, okay. I’ll finish you’re tattoo.”

They kissed again.

“I’m not sure it would work,” Steve began, “but since you guys still need to practice for your weekend gigs, and since you’ll already be in town on Tuesdays and Thursdays, have those be your practice days and then be in the studio on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

Eddie blinked. “I’m mean gas would be killer, but yeah, I think it would work.”

“And since Hawkins is in between Bloomington and Indy, you’d get to see Wayne more...”

Wayne walked out of the kitchen where he had been steadfastly trying not to eavesdrop. “If I didn’t like you enough already, Stevie, you’d be my new favorite person besides Ed.”

“Who is it currently?” Steve asked with a grin.

“Claudia Henderson’s pecan pie.”

Eddie and Steve laughed.

“Steve already is my favorite non-family member,” Eddie said kissing Steve on the cheek with a huge smacking noise.

“And how does Jeff feel about that?” Wayne asked with a chuckle.

“We already decided that Royal Pain employees and Corroded Coffin members count as family and not friends,” Steve said with a fond smile.

Wayne smiled back. “You’ve certainly got a good head on your shoulders, Stevie. Be good to each other, yeah?”

Steve and Eddie nodded.

Eddie turned to Steve. “You going to be staying tonight?”

Steve nodded again. “Yeah, I just have to be in at ten to open shop. I’ve already pushed back so many clients in the last couple of months, I really can’t do that again.”

“Robin get some grumbling when she rearranged your schedule for this?” Eddie asked, sitting on the sofa so that he he could prop his elbow up on the back of it.

“Vickie too,” Steve said with a nod. “She got so flustered on a couple of them that Robin had to take over.”

Eddie winced. “Yeah, you really shouldn’t miss anymore days, then.”

Steve leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what, if you’re good and get me to work on time, I’ll show you my new tattoo when you come in to do yours.”

Eddie lit up. “You have a new tattoo? Where?”

Steve tapped the space between his hip and side on his right leg.

Eddie licked his lips. “Yeah?”

“Yup,” he said with a seductive grin. “So how about it, Eds? You get me to work on time and you get to see my new tattoo?”

“Deal.”

Eddie stuck out his hand and Steve shook it.

“You boys have both had a long day,” Wayne said. “You should hit the hay, I’ll wake you up before I go into work, okay?”

Steve and Eddie agreed and got ready for bed, Eddie lending Steve a pair of sweats to sleep in.

Eddie took a moment to appreciate his boyfriend’s broad chest and tight abs. Both dusted with thick hair. He licked his lips slowly.

Steve caught him looking and laughed. “No fair trying to get a peek at my tattoo before you fulfill your half of the deal.”

Eddie pouted. “Just a little taste?”

“Come to bed you menace,” Steve said with a big smile.

Eddie scrambled into the bed and Steve took the other side. They wrapped up in each other’s arms and sighed happily.

“I’m happy you’re here, darlin’,” Eddie murmured.

“Me, too, sunshine,” Steve agreed. “You make me happy when skies a grey!”

Eddie poked his ribs until he squirmed away, giggling. “Sap!”

Steve kissed him, hot and searing. “So are you. Mr I wrote dozens of songs for you on the road.”

Eddie blushed. “Whole songs, too. Lyrics included. The boys knew I was missing you. Of course they did. They heard the songs I was writing. But I don’t think they knew how much until I told them today.”

Steve kissed him again. “Saturday night, you and me. After your gig, my place. I’ll make dinner. You sing me sappy love songs and I show you my tattoo.”

“Sounds good, baby.”

Soon the room was filled with the soft sounds of two people wrapped up in each other, like there was no one else in the world.

Eddie dropped Steve off at his apartment to get a shower and change clothes with promises that he would see him that afternoon.

So when he walked into the shop at nine with a spring in his step and smile on his face he didn’t blame Chrissy and Vickie for thinking he had gotten laid.

Steve laughed. “No, but we talked and we’re still going to take it slow, and see wait happens.”

“Lame!” Erica said, rolling her eyes. “You so lame.”

Steve eyed her. “Yeah and what’s your boyfriend’s name?”

Erica’s jaw dropped.

Chrissy pounded her palm on the counter. “Oooh...”

“Whatever!” she said and stomped back into her henna parlor.

“She’s eighteen,” Steve said with a shrug. “She’s got time.”

“Brochacho!” Argyle greeted as he came in, just behind Steve. “You made it back in time. Little Birdie was concerned.”

Robin squawked from her perch behind the counter. “What! I was no such thing!”

Chrissy tilted her head and raised an eyebrow.

Robin blushed. “I may have been a little worried when you weren’t home by the time I left for the shop this morning.”

Steve waved hand over himself. “As you can see, showered, changed, and ready to go tattoo people’s poor life choices on their skin.”

They all laughed.

Chrissy pinched his arm on her way back to her room. “It’s good to see you smile again. And if he does that again, I’ll murder him. Got it?”

Steve nodded.

Argyle went to go setup Steve’s kit and left him alone with Robin.

“I’m with Chrissy, by the way. No one would find his body.”

Steve smiled. “Well, then you’ll be happy to note that the reason he was freaking out wasn’t because he was going to leave me for fame and fortune.”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “Oh, then why was he freaking out?”

Steve leaned on the counter. “Because he was going to leave fame and fortune for me.”

Her eyes went comically wide. “Seriously?!”

He nodded. “He said that the decision was so easy that he had to really think about it and make sure that’s what he wanted.”

Robin whistled long and low. “Now that’s devotion.”

“It really is.”

“So...” she said grinning slyly. “Has he seen the tattoo yet?”

He laughed. “Nope. I needed to make sure he was going to let me come into the shop today so I told if he got me here on time, then he can see it.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

Steve smiled. “He’s actually going to be coming in for his appointment today, too.”

Robin gasped and covered her heart with her hands. “What a shocker! That he wants to see you after not seeing you for three weeks!”

He swatted at her. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it. He’s head over heels in love with me and I am just as smitten as he is.”

She smiled at him fondly. “I’m happy for you, dingus.”

“Me, too.”

She laughed. “You’re happy for yourself?”

Steve grinned. “Hell yeah I am. I’ve got a hot boyfriend, the bestest best friend in the world, and a shop I’m proud of, why shouldn’t I be happy for myself?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Robin said waving him off. “I’ll call you when your first appointment gets here.”

“Love you, Chamberlainne,” Steve said, using her Royal Pain nickname, causing her to make a face.

“Argh,” she huffed. “There just aren’t any good names for the power behind the throne and still being a woman.”

Steve laughed. “Sure there is. It’s called the queen.”

Robin laughed. “Or even higher, empress!”

“Empress!” Steve crowed. “There we go. Empress Robin, the real power behind the king of Royal Pain.”

“And don’t you ever forget it.”

He kissed her cheek. “Never.”

As he walked back to his tattooing room, she watched him go with growing fondness. He really was her person.

****

Part 28 Epilogue

Tag List: @spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @artiststarme @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gregre369 @pyrohonk @bookworm0690 @chaosgremlinmunson @goodolefashionedloverboi @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence @plyerice27 @thedragonsaunt @sapphirecobalt-1 @a-little-unsteddie @i-must-potato @danili666 @carlyv @rozzieroos @wonderland-girl143-blog @itsall-taken @justforthedead89 @emly03 @aizawa-emma @yikes-a-bee @redfreckledwolf @thesuninyaface @bookbinderbitch @archermightbegay @littlewildflowerkitten @scheodingers-muppet @hallucinatedjosten @ellietheasexylibrarian @anne-bennett-cosplayer @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @bestwifehaver @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @oldwitcheshat @nightmareglitter @tinyplanet95 @novelnovella @jonesn4coffee @slowandsteddie @awkwardgravity1 @steaddie-on

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #tattoo artist steve

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gasolinerainbowpuddles · 7 months

Text

Jizz Fingers║ ⓞⓝⓔⓢⓗⓞⓣⓢ

|| ꂵꍏꀤꈤ ꂵꍏꌗ꓄ꍟꋪ꒒ꀤꌗ꓄ || | PAIRING(s): alien!Joel x reader

| RATING: explicit material | 18+ | WORD COUNT: 3.2k | CONTENT: This is a crackfic. Joel is not Joel. He’s an alien that can shapeshift and isn’t into the splorgimums on their own planet. He wants to nut in you with his creampie fingers. It’s not supposed to make sense. It’s not supposed to be anything but fun and sexy and silly. It’s meta. It’s tongue-in-cheek. It’s self-indulgent. If you’re not into that kinda thing then idk what to tell ya, bud.

| SYNOPSIS: u get creampied by a dick finger alien Joel Miller.

The sonorous silver ship glided above you before descending gently into a large clearing in the field ahead. Bright light flooded your vision as a hidden door pushed away from the spacecraft and revealed an occupant.

It appeared to have an amorphous, fluid corporeal form, but no matter the shape it always remained an off-white greenish gray color. Six large onyx orbs were situated near the top of the form. You assumed they must be eyes or some other sort of organ. When the greenish grey flaps snapped together and apart a few times in quick succession, you realized they were in fact lidded eyes.

A warbled voice sounded inside your mind. “Do not be afraid. I come in peace, and I stand before you with no intention of harming you.”

You realize the creature is speaking to you through your own mind.

You should be afraid, but instead you’re just fascinated and exhilarated. You aren’t sure why they’d say the same thing twice, though, just in a slightly different way. You also aren’t sure if you should respond in your head, out loud, or at all.

“That’s kinda a weird thing to say. Like, you said it twice,” you point out, speaking loudly and clearly enough that the creature can hear you.

At least, you think they can hear you. You don’t see any ears. Then again, they possess the capability of telepathic speech, and there must be some equivalent to hearing for that. You try to think what that is called or what that might be called when the creature shifts back and forth but still doesn’t approach.

“Those were two separate statements,” the voice in your mind contends firmly.

“Huh?” you ask. You’re sure you sound dumb, but you were never really going to be a match for a higher level intelligent being anyways.

“When I bust, it is peaceful for every being involved. I also greet you with good intentions,” the voice patiently clarifies.

Suddenly you are standing no more than arm’s length away from the being. “I saved your achilles the trouble,” the voice in your mind said, as if it was some huge favor.

“My achilles is fine,” you grumble awkwardly. “I know I should hit leg day more, but sometimes it’s just so–”

“Our sex organs are complimentary,” the voice interrupts. “We could perform the Divine Dance, if you’d like.”

You wanted to ask why they had to come all the way to Earth just to get laid, but you think better of it.

“The splorgimums on my planet just don’t get me,” the voice explains. You realize you said your thought aloud.

“Oh. Uh, okay. S-Sorry about that. I, uh, didn’t mean to offen–”

The creature waves a gelatinous blob arm dismissively. “No offense taken. You’re not like other splorgimums. I can tell. You’re different,” it assures you.

You feel a blush creep onto your cheeks. “Oh. Well, uh–” an awkward giggle “—thank you. But I’m not really that special, here on Earth I mean. There are other women who are wayyyyyy more attractive. Oh! I know! You should try driving by Doja Cat’s house because oh my god she is so. fucking. fine. Like, if I had her in that I’m A Cow Bitch Moo costume for 5 minutes I’d—”

“No. No Doja Kitties. Only you.”

You shrug and accept their obsession with you.

“Okay. So now what? I don’t know where your Divine Dance hole is, and your floating blobs are sort of freaking me out,” you admit.

You keep tabs on the hovering goops that orbit the creature. They remind you of the time you tried to make Key Lime Jello Shots for your uncle’s cousin’s dog’s recital but added too much vodka.

“I can take the form of something pleasing to you. An earth male, perhaps? The female of your species is more difficult to capture as they are far superior.”

“So fuckin’ true,” you agree. “But, hhmmmm, a male specimen? I mean, I hate all men, but Pedro Pascal seems pretty decent. Maybe you could turn into Joel Miller? You know, from The Last of Us?”

The creature nods — you think it’s a nod — and transforms into Joel. Game Joel.

“Oh, uh, look, Pixel Daddy is fine as hell, especially in part 2, but I meant the HBO adaptation of the game. Please,” you correct.

“How’s this?” Pedro’s version of Joel’s voice asks aloud.

Your pussy bottoms out. “Oh, fuck yeah.”

You disrobe completely as you enter the spacecraft.

“I set it to 72º Fahrenheit. Is that a suitable climate for your meat suit?” Joel asks.

“Yeah, that’s perfect. Mr. Alien, could you, like, put more of the twang into his voice? And use words like he does? Like, how he sounds on the show? You know what, let’s watch a few clips to get it right.”

You pull up your account on your phone, but it takes you a minute to find it because you forgot they changed it from HBO Max Go to just Max. “So fuckin’ stupid. Purple is a better color than blue anyway,” you mumble to yourself as you pull up an episode.

The galactic creature uses some magical time skip thing to binge the entire series and gets a yucky smudge of goop on your phone screen when it attempts to find season 2.

“There’s just one season? Please tell me there’s another one,” Joel implores.

“Yeah, there’s a second season, but it’s not out yet,” you inform him.

“Damn. But you said there’s two games already? So what happens in the second game?” he asks.

“You know what, we super don’t need to get into that right now. Let’s see what you’re working with,” you quickly change the subject and grab at his crotch.

He grunts in approval. “Needy lil thing, aren’t’cha? You want my cock, baby?”

Your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Did you use a time jump thing to read a whole bunch of Joel Miller smutfic on Tumblr?”

Joel blushes and scratches the back of his neck. “Eh, mighta read a few.”

“Oh my god, you’re gonna be super nasty and dominant, aren’t you?�� you sigh.

“Only if that’s what you want, baby. I’m a consent king,” he assures you.

“Well, alright then. I want you to rawdog me and slap my ass, okay?”

He smirks and pulls you close. “I’ll give ya what I give ya, and you just gotta take it,” he grunts into your neck as he nibbles and sucks downward.

You gasp at the sensation and grind your hips into him. “Oh fuck, Joel,” you whine. “I want you to wreck me, please!”

“Gonna fill that cunt up,” he says gruffly as he gropes your ass and breasts.

“Yes, Daddy, please!” you beg.

He pauses for a moment and looks confused.

“Oh, uh, you must not have got to those kind of fics–” you cough awkwardly “–uh, anyway. Sorry. Joel. Yes, Joel, please.”

“I can sense the vibrations of your inner sex organ when you call me that. If it is sexually gratifying to you, I wholly welcome the use of it,” the original voice says inside your mind.

“Oh wow. I love that you’re not kink shaming me. Glad you didn’t make it to that side of Tumblr,” you huff in a laugh.

Joel suddenly pins you against the wall and presses his hard, clothed cock against your bare skin. Even through the denim you can tell he’s huge. Apparently all those fic writers were right all along.

“Who’s gonna fill up that pretty cunt uh’yours, huh?” he demands as he grabs the back of your neck for leverage.

“Y-You, Daddy,” you say in an aroused tremble.

“That’s fuckin’ right. When my fat cock is inside you, I better hear you singin’ some thank you’s to Daddy for fillin’ you up so good,” he warns.

“Yes, Daddy, I’ll be your good girl,” you promise.

He flips you around without warning and pushes your chest flush against the wall.

“Even good girls need to be reminded every once in a while what happens if they don’t listen to Daddy,” he says in a low gruff.

His clothes have magically disappeared with the help of his alien outerspace boi powers. You feel him firm against your backside before a harsh slap of his palm replaces it. You jump and yelp in pain at the surprise spanking.

“Mmmm, pretendin’ you don’t want it, but I feel you pushin’ your ass back for more,” he taunts.

You whine because he’s right. You can only imagine the derisive comments he’d make if he felt how wet you are.

He lands another three harsh swats on the same patch of skin. Tears prickle up in your eyes. “D-Daddy,” you moan.

“You gonna thank Daddy for keepin’ you in line, baby?” Another swat. It stings so much you know there must be an imprint of his hand clearly outlined by your welting red flesh.

“Thank you, Daddy!” you choke out. “Th-Thank you for k-keeping me your good girl and not letting me b-be bad, Daddy. I only wanna be good for you, Daddy!” you wail.

“That’s what I like’tuh hear, baby,” he grunts into your ear. “Ask Daddy to make you into his own little cocksleeve. Ask Daddy to give you this big, fat cock.”

You whimper as he slips his length between your folds and rubs back and forth in teasing passes.

“Daddy, I want you to use my pussy. I need it so bad. Please. I just wanna be your cocksleeve. Use my holes, Daddy,” you whimper.

You barely finish your sentence when he flips you around again and lines himself up with your entrance. Apparently the alien creature was just as into this as you are because their altered form reverted back to the amorphous gray green blob. You’re way too horny to be picky about it right now, so you squeeze your eyes shut. You forgot to charge your vibrator, anyway.

Their penis was more like fingers that kinda moved around randomly. You don’t know. You’re not an astrophysicist or whoever it is that would best be knowledgeable about alien wieners.

Its spongy gray appendage felt firm and slimy as it entered you. There was some sort of phantom connection to your mouth and throat as well, the sensation of its finger-penis dragging back and forth, able to be felt in both your pussy and your mouth. It was weird, but you knew if it was Joel Miller doing it then it would somehow become totally fine and very hot.

“You’re getting too lost in the sauce,” you whine. “You’re in your true form again. Change back.”

“Mmmmm, sorry, baby,” came the familiar gravelly voice once more.

When you felt brave enough to open your eyes again, you saw those familiar Wreck-It-Ralph sausage fingers and sighed in relief. The alien had changed back to your preferred form of Joel Miller as portrayed by José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal.

As much as you wanted to stare at his face, you also wanted him to dick you down through the floorboards of the ship. You wiggle to sink down onto your hands and knees. “Wanna be wide open for you, Daddy,” you pout.

He makes an approving growling noise and scrambles behind you, shoving you downward between your shoulder blades until your face is smushed into the floor. He makes no effort to warn you before slamming his entire length into you. The impact of his wide tip against your cervix is so forceful it punches the air out of your lungs. You let out a panicked, strangled moan, suddenly unsure if you were going to be able to take this dick like a champ.

Joel grabs your hips for leverage and starts pistoning rough, deep strokes into your drenched pussy. “Gaahh–Goddamn! Fuckin’ chokin’ it, honey,” he rasps in a labored voice. “Feel so fuckin’ tight for me.”

“It’s s-so big, Daddy. I dunno if I can take it,” you cry.

“You can take it. You can take it for Daddy. Be a good girl or m'gonna hafta punish you,” he cautions. As a reminder of what that might entail, he strikes your backside so hard your entire body jerks as you let out a sob.

A high pitched moan gathers in Joel’s throat as you start to accommodate his size. “Yeah, fuckin’ like that, huh? Like when Daddy spanks you? Makes ya listen?”

“You’re so good to me, Daddy!” you sob. Your arousal is practically dripping down your thighs. You listen to the hum of the engines mixing with the sounds of your drooling cunt being fed Joel’s massive cock over and over again. He grabs your wrists and pulls you upward, using your limbs like reins on a horse. You have no control over the depth of penetration in these positions, and Joel is opting for nothing less than utterly devastating your pussy.

“M’gonna give you these fingers, too, baby. Know you can take it,” he pants.

He releases your arms and lets you scramble to catch yourself before faceplanting.

“Hey! You could’ve at least–”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth and take what Daddy gives you,” he snarls.

You whine and clench around him. You feel a boogery churro type object prodding at your asshole. You turn your head quickly enough to see the creature has let Joel’s arm halfway revert back into the wiggly blobby thing.

“Did I say you could turn around?” he barks. He spanks you again with his 100% Joel hand, hard enough that you know there are pinpricks of blood beginning to seep through.

“I’m sorry, Daddy!” you scream.

You feel him now inside both holes. It’s overwhelming and amazing. The phantom throat thing is back again, and you like how you gag even with an “empty” mouth.

“Got enough for every hole you got and then some, sweetheart,” he practically slurs. He sounds completely wrecked.

You feel your lower belly heating up and quickly tightening.

“Oh my fucking god, Joel. I’m getting so close,” you gasp.

“THAT AIN’T MY FUCKIN’ NAME WHEN I’M STUFFIN’ YOU WITH MY COCK, SWEETHEART,” he grits out as he wraps his hand around the front of your throat and squeezes.

When your breaths quickly become hard to take, you know you’re going to come soon.

“I want your space juice inside me, Daddy!” you cry out, not caring if you’re breaking the illusion. You still needed to be clear and consensual in your approach to this intimate exchange, and you needed to address the weird topic of whether or not your birth control could do effective hand to hand combat with spaceboi cum.

“Our sexual organs are compatible, but our reproductive hormones and liquids are not,” the voice explained in your mind.

The Jim Carrey baby grinch was kinda cute, but you still felt better knowing you weren’t going to birth a little green gremlin alien baby. (Although you did think Victor or Clementine would be nice names.)

“Put a baby in me, Daddy! Fuck your baby into me!” you beg now that you know you can’t actually get pregnant.

“Uh, I mean, there’s just so much pregnancy fic out there,” Joel hedges carefully, still maintaining his merciless thrusts. “You don’t really wanna make this into a whole thing do you? Ya know, with the pregnancy storyline and stuff? Some users have actually said they prefer—”

“No, Joel, I’m not actually—” you interrupt in a huff “—I’m just saying it to be sexy. It sounds sexy. Besides, there’s some fic writers who basically only write creampies but none of their characters ever seem to get pregnant. It’s kinda wild. There’s a fic writer I can think of right now, actually. She loves creampies so much.”

“So she’s just really into pussy gettin’ drenched but nobody’s gotta deal with babies? Sounds like a pretty sweet deal if ya ask me,” he approves.

“Yeah, I think the only pregnancy fic she has is, like, this really nasty oneshot where the reader is already pregnant and she gets double teamed by Tommy and you at the same time. Oh and she lactates. I wasn’t into it at first, but it was kinda hot. Maybe you’ve read it? The author calls herself Puddles?”

“Oh, her? That Gasoline Rainbow lady? I thought she just made memes?” He sounds surprised and impressed. He’s hitting your cervix repeatedly with such force that you feel like your vagina is going to look like somebody dropped a tray of lasagna on a pubic hair linoleum floor.

“No, she actually has, like, legit fic on there, too. She’s, like, really talented. I can’t believe she doesn’t have more followers,” you laugh incredulously.

You’re glad he doesn’t ask how you would know how many followers she has since that isn’t publicly available information. You hate it when plot holes have to be smoothed out nicely and still fit in with the story. It’s so boring and way too much work sometimes.

“Maybe stuff like alien jizz fingers is a little too much for people to–”

“Okay, this is getting too meta. Let’s just get back to you fucking me so rough I can’t walk right for an entire week, okay?”

“Hnngg, fuck yeah. Daddy’s gonna wreck this cunt,” he hisses as his thrusts pick up pace.

“DADDY, I’M GONNA COME,” you cry as you start clenching and seizing around the massive circumference of his cock.

Joel lets out a guttural, choked moan as he empties inside you. You can feel it from his weird creampie fingertips, too — even the invisible one in your mouth and throat. You’re trembling, trying to keep yourself upright as Joel fucks into you through his orgasm. You lick your lips. There’s a flavor there. Is that….?

“You like Daddy’s brisket cum, sweetheart?” he grunts as his thrusts slow to a sloppy grind.

“I thought I tasted barbecue,” you muse. It was bewildering, but mostly satisfying.

“Yeah, tastes just like those Fourth of July backyard get-togethers you love in that Texas heat,” he breathes. "You runnin' around in barely anything, makin' me hafta adjust myself so your dad don't catch his best friend ogling his precious daughter."

“I’m starting to think you read more fic than you admitted to earlier,” you assert.

“I like it, darlin’,” he shrugs.

“Are you gonna follow Puddles now? Oh! Can you do a mind link thing with her and see what she’s working on next?” you implore.

Joel appears to zone out for a minute, and you take the opportunity to stare at his naked body. He looked perfect. His eyes focused again as he looked at you.

“Her waveforms are erratic and very concerning, but once I subdued a Brain Goblin inside her mind I was able to discern she is likely to be releasing some Ezra from Prospect centered fictional stories,” the voice inside your head revealed. "They are very sexually aggressive."

“Nice,” you say under your breath.

“So you gonna let me have that sweet pussy again, sweetheart?” Joel drawls.

“Yes. But I’m going to need you to familiarize yourself with Pedro’s extensive works. I’m thinking we could do some really great Mando roleplay in this spaceship,” you say with a big smile as you gesture around.

Joel smirks at you. “Don’t matter what form I take. You’re still gonna be callin’ me Daddy.”

“Yes, Daddy,” you agree with a big grin.

I hope those splorgimums understand what they lost bc that's our man now! Special thanks to Multiversed Daydreamer (Fuzz) for inspiring part of the title and @xdaddysprincessxx for the shared derangement over That Old Man™.

Undying thanks to @psychedelic-ink and @bonezone44 for writing some of my fave ~aLtErNaTiVe KiNk CoNtEnT~ and inspiring me to let my brain run wild with this crackfic.

Art in graphic includes transformed works of the Mucinex booger man.

catch ya later, ♥Puddles♥

P.S. - I counted how many times "Daddy" appears in this, and it's 29.

tagging: @wannab-urs, @gracieispunk, @milla-frenchy, @patti7dc. @lumoverheaven, @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog, @toxicanonymity, @rubyfruitjungle, @huffle-punk, @jupiter-soups, @swiftispunk, @theywhowriteandknowthings

#crackfic #joel miller #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #tlou fic

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orphanedsource · 6 months

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I generally keep out of like fandom meta stuff but man

I’ve drawn villains ever since I began drawing fanart and I can count maybe 3 situations where I got hate across several years

But in the couple months I started posting for bg3 I’ve got like

-called a nazi for liking minthara

-told I’m the worst part of the fandom for liking Orin

-suicide baited for drawing gortash (lol)

-blasted by strangers as biphobic bc I don’t prioritize m/f ships between the characters

obviously none of them stop me from posting but it does sure change how I view the community

what the heeeeell is going on that is so much worse?? I didnt even get this shit while drawing DA2? stop it

Like how are you gonna expect creators to make the things you want to see when it kind of sucks to interact with you all

#my twt following is under 20k it’s not like I get massive amounts of traffic now that would explain it

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impulsivesuperrobin · 1 year

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i saw a post talking about neverafter slander on twitter so i went to check it out

here are some thoughts: (keep in mind, i’m not calling anyone out or saying your opinion isn’t valid if you agree with one of these points. try to read this as a light hearted discussion, like talking about a book with a friend)

a lot of it is people saying the season wasn’t horror enough and while i agree it’s not exactly as straightforward horror as the marketing suggested i think that that’s a take that is fundamentally misunderstanding what this is. it’s the horror season of dimension 20 which is a d&d show first and foremost. it’s not going to be following the beats of a horror movie because that’s not what they’re doing. when you run a horror campaign you fold in horror elements which they have been excellent at doing especially in the eldritch and existential categories

not to make assumptions but it seems to me that a lot of people making a big fuss about this haven’t played d&d for themselves. the things i have seen suggested the most for making the season more in line with the horror people were expecting involves turning the campaign into a more dm vs players situation (which is joked about a lot in fandom but in more of a meta humor way than is being suggested). this is something that anyone who has ever played in a bad campaign knows makes it a hell of a lot less fun to play and, i’m assuming, not so fun to watch either. the point of playing d&d is to work together to tell a story, if you go into to making a campaign with the goal of making your players lose, everyone is going to be miserable and your story is going to suck.

following that, some people are ragging on brennan for forgetting details and not having the lore entirely fleshed out. as someone who does unnecessary worldbuilding for homebrew campaigns every single time, i would just like to say on behalf of dms everywhere: it’s hard! there’s so much stuff to keep track of and so little time to keep the lore straight if you want the session to keep moving smoothly, i’m sure it’s even harder when you have a limited time to film the episodes/season

and maybe it’s just me, but i love horror movies (and other media) and neverafter is about as scary as most horror movies i’ve seen. it’s definitely better written than a lot of horror movies, we get to know the characters and are fully invested in them when bad things happen. it’s sort of on the level as the hellraiser reboot imo. some people make the point that besides the body horror, there’s not enough gore/blood kinda stuff, but i think gore isn’t truly horror, especially in a spoken format. it’s more of a shock factor thing, like a verbal jumpscare

and i’ve seen people saying that the pcs are too much like heroes/they’re too capable to be in any real danger, but in a horror movie, most of the bad things happen around the protagonist(s), they’re still thrown into the shit but most of the time they make it out. horror as a genre is so ill-defined anyway that people still debate if slashers and thrillers even count. plus, how many times in a movie has a side character been forgotten or something about the lore has been off? and that’s with multiple people overseeing the production.

jumping away from the “it’s not like the horror movie i envisioned” complaints, i’ve also seen a lot of people say it’s confusing??? and tbh i’m more confused about that than the campaign. to me it’s pretty straightforward, no more confusing than starstruck at the very least.

for the big picture: it’s different factions of people with conflicting (but occasionally overlapping) goals than all need to get to macguffin in order to reach whichever goal they’re aligned with

the pcs have their own character arcs which are very clearly laid out throughout the season

the minute details are there because that’s how you make your world feel lived in

and yeah, there’s a lot of potential in the stuff they could’ve done but didn’t. but i feel like that’s the whole point, y’know? this is the story they did tell, and the thousands of other ways they could’ve told the story live on like every retelling of a fairytale.

#tbh a lot of the criticism feels like people nitpicking to find stuff to hate but you can’t please everyone ig #feel free to disagree and tell me why! just please don’t turn my notes into a rage-bait discussion #dimension 20 #d20 #neverafter #dimension 20 neverafter

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yourantag · 2 months

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The Red Means I Love You (Edgar×Reader)

AN: This was supposed to be finished and posted on Valentine's Day. However, as you can see from the word count, that was a fool's errand. I wanted to delve more into yanderes since I find them fascinating in writing, and now, here we are. Staining White Day red, I present to you the most generic title for an Edgar fic you will ever see. (Btw, I apologize to Edgar fans- I might've massacred your boy but I swear I tried my best.) Word count: 4.9k words TW: Blood, violence, murder, yandere themes, and blackmailing. Summary: Accepting the invitation of a dubious letter sounds just about as bad as it actually was. Oletus manor is not a name spoken without notoriety, after all. Was that where it all began? Was this your first mistake? No, it was further down the line, wasn't it? Yes, perhaps it was when you became the muse of an artist with no inspiration.

Reality has disappointed you time and time again. The expectations of a life of peace was crushed easily under the hands of society. So, you fled. You fled inside your head, transporting yourself into worlds of fiction. Romance, mystery, fantasy, and the likes kept you alive. It was the only thing you could really call safe.

Among many genres, you favored one above the others.

Horror.

There’s a certain comfort that comes from these fictional tales. You know they aren’t real, that the killer can’t find you, that these psychopaths don’t exist. Are there people similar to them? Sure, but they aren’t in your life. Thus, they merely stay as silly little people within a book.

But, it’s not quite enough. The thrill of words upon a page cannot compete with the real deal. While you weren’t stupid enough to seek out murderers or the like, you were still dumb enough for Baron DeRoss, apparently.

The envelope is white as a dove, a blood red stamp sealing it shut. It whispers promises and praise, false hope and rewards. It’s an enticing offer, truly. Would you let it guide you astray?

Well, you were never one to turn away from the call of the abyss.

“I really don’t get it. I know it’s game changing, but it’s not helpful for anyone else but me! Why do they want me to team up with them?” You huffed, resting your face on your palms. Edgar merely rolled his eyes, flicking his wrist. Focused on the canvas in front of him, he let the brush streak red through white.

“You said it yourself, your abilities are game changing. We don’t even know the full extent of your abilities– who knows? Maybe you could completely uproot the current meta. Besides,” He smirked, peering at you from the corner of his eye. “The hunters are terrified of you.”

You paused, letting your arms fall flat against the table.

“Scared? Of me? I’m just another survivor– what do they have to be afraid of?”

Edgar hummed, tapping the handle end of his paint brush against his lips. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t quite fancy being stabbed.”

Okay, yeah, that was fair.

Most survivors didn’t possess the ability to fight the hunter, not really, yet here you were. When Jack had first chased you, he had the reckoning of his life. You wince at the phantom feeling of stabbing steel into flesh and bone. That was, admittedly, not what you had expected to be your special skill.

You pouted, cheek against the cool wood of Edgar’s table as you glanced around. His room was an odd combination of an art exhibition hall and an actual bedroom. It was big and extravagant, but you wouldn’t expect any less from him.

Well, kind of.

Edgar confused you. Intriguing, even among the sea of other unique characters within the manor. You suppose that’s why he’s your favorite comrade and closest friend, if you could call him that. He’s never kicked you out of his room or flat out yelled at you, so safe to say he didn’t hate you, at least.

He’s neutral on all matters within the manor, composed regardless of what he faced. All he cared about was his art, nothing more and nothing less. Perhaps that was how he was unaffected by everything.

You suppose that’s natural for an artist. You can’t claim to understand it perfectly, but in a way, you truly understood.

“It’s like… you’re a moth drawn to a flame, right? Art is something you’re willing to give your life to, dedicate your whole body and soul to. Even if you have to sacrifice your time, energy, or health, for the perfect outcome, you’d do it.” You had said it off handedly, not thinking much of it then. In some respects, wasn’t his passion for art just like your obsession with thrill?

But then he had grabbed your hands, looking into your eyes with such fervor. His gaze burned, a certain desperation flickering within it. What was he seeking so fiercely? What was making Edgar, apathetic, snide Edgar, act like he had found an oasis in the desert?

“You get it?” He whispered, almost pleading.

“Maybe,” You responded.

That had been enough for him.

Since then, you and Edgar had become an odd pair. Not quite friends, but too close to be acquaintances. You gravitated towards him, as he did to you. More often than not, you’d ask him if he’d like to team up for matches. More often than not, he’d say yes.

You suppose that’s another reason why other survivors regard you with care.

Edgar isn’t the most difficult person to work with, but definitely not the easiest. He’s all too much and too little: haughty and snide, distant and cold. He’s a reliable teammate, not a likable one.

Still, the playful sparkle in his eyes as he led the hunter straight to you made you beg to differ. You’d curse him out as you ran, glaring at him after the match was over, before begrudgingly thanking him for supporting you with a painting or two.

However odd it was, you wouldn’t trade your friendship for the world.

There’s a letter in your mailbox.

That isn’t especially weird, considering that’s what a mailbox is for. Letters, mail, packages, whatever. Still, you can’t help but pause as you stare at it. A white envelope with a lovely red seal, the stamp itself in the shape of a camellia. The embossed flower is outlined in gold, shimmering softly in the low light of your room.

Gently, you pry open the seal, careful not to damage it or the envelope. Once you’ve successfully extracted the letter without destroying everything, you stare at it with uncertainty.

It seemed like this was a love letter from the presentation alone, yet you couldn’t help but feel a bit unsettled. You couldn’t understand why, however. It was beautiful, but simple. It wasn’t overwhelming, nor alarming. So why, from the depths of your heart, was your subconscious screaming at you to run? As though you were about to open Pandora’s box?

You unfold the letter and read.

Edgar gives you the nastiest side eye you’ve ever seen. Perhaps you deserve it after the stunt you pulled. Then again, what else were you supposed to do? He was going to be sent back to the manor if you hadn’t let yourself go down.

In the end, thanks to your sacrifice, the potential tie had turned into a win. Sure, you were the one sent back to the manor instead, but a win was a win! Though, Edgar seemed to disagree.

“You’re an idiot.”

You would be offended if it weren’t for the fact that he was wrapping your wounds. The tender touches were barely there, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings. He was being careful, making sure you didn’t feel even an ounce of unnecessary pain. The concentration he was putting into taking care of you was something you had only seen when Edgar was painting.

The subtle quirk of his lips, eyes barely narrowed, and relaxed shoulders expressed more to you than any words ever could. The guilt that pooled into his chest, made evident by the quiet sighs he’d let out, seemed to manifest itself as kindness and gentle care.

It made you really want to tease him.

“Ow!” You hiss, flinching slightly away from the man. Edgar freezes, staring at you with concern.

“Shit– sorry, I didn’t mean to.” The sincere remorse in his voice immediately makes you regret your decision.

“Wait, wait, wait, no, I– gah, sorry. I was just messing with you.”

The painter’s formerly soft expression faded into a scowl, a glare sent your way even as he finished wrapping you up. Edgar immediately stands up, leaving you scrambling to do the same as he leaves the infirmary.

“Ahhhh, wait, I’m sorry! Wait, Edgar, I’m sorry, I swear I won’t do that again! C’mon, don’t leave me like this! I–” You trip on something, stumbling as you lose balance. You fully expect to kiss the ground, what with one of your arms in a cast, when lithe arms catch you.

You glance up at Edgar with a sheepish smile, gazing upon the apathetic look upon his face. Apathetic, to anyone else but you. You can see the little curl of his lips, the faint swirl of amusement in his eyes.

He helps you reorient yourself, hands on your shoulders. Once you’re safely standing, Edgar turns and continues down the hallway. His steps are slower than usual. It’s probably the closest you’ll get to an invitation.

You grin, chasing after him once more.

“So does this mean you forgive me?”

“No.”

“How do you manage to stay sane, painting the same thing over and over again?” You ask, half dangling off a couch. Edgar’s room is still as grand as ever, but you can see the changes. It seems more lived in, more homey. There’s a table that isn’t covered in paint, brushes, or other art supplies. There’s shelves with books instead of art supplies. Then, those cabinets have, wait for it, something other than art supplies.

It seems like a small shift to others, though that’s probably because they don’t visit Edgar half as often as you do. The first time you saw the couch, you thought you were hallucinating.

The Edgar Valden, using something other than a stool? Incredible, revolutionary, absolutely groundbreaking.

He did not appreciate your dramatics, or so he claimed, but you knew he was covering his mouth to hide his smile.

“I’m not painting the same thing, and I am, in fact, going insane.” Edgar responds, frown deepening as he mixes a few colors together. You hum, peeking at the canvas as much as you can from your position. From the sketch, you could tell it was a portrait. A rare occurrence, considering Edgar preferred landscapes.

“Why the sudden interest in portraits?” You ask, sitting more comfortably on the couch. Glancing at the shelves, you skim through the books. Edgar wouldn’t mind if you read one of them, right?

The man pauses, his expression almost bashful. It’s so bizarre you can’t help but raise a brow. Edgar has never been afraid to draw attention to himself. He’s no pushover, willing to fight for what he wants while still remaining relatively neutral. To see him like that, a dust of what can only be blush upon his cheeks, twists something in your heart.

Before you can untangle what exactly you were feeling, the painter coughs.

“Well, I tried talking with Victor about expressing oneself. He suggested letters, or other mediums I’m comfortable with. So…” Edgar stares at his canvas, his smile more so a grimace. “I’m trying out his suggestion, I suppose.”

You tilt your head, humming to yourself as you nod. Sliding off the couch, you grab one of the books on Edgar’s shelf. “Well, then I wish you the best of luck.”

His eyes linger on you, closing softly as his expression relaxes. When he opens them again, he starts creating new hues with more focus.

“I’ve been getting letters recently.” You mention, flipping another page in your book. Edgar paused, turning to look at you.

“And?”

You closed your eyes, contemplating. This really wasn’t something you had to tell him. But, well, nothing too interesting has been happening lately. The matches have finally grown duller, the thrill fading as you stayed longer. You were running out of things to ramble about, so why not?

“They’re love letters. Nicely decorated, with neat handwriting. If I had to guess, someone born into privilege.” You think Edgar flinches at that.

“It’s really sweet, honestly. A shame they’re anonymous.” You skim over the words on the page, brows knitting themselves tight. The main character was oblivious to the danger so close to them. How frustrating.

“A shame, really.” Edgar echoes back, delicately brushing shadows along the red camellias. His painting seemed nearly finished, if you only stared at the beautiful flowers. The rest of the canvas was rather barren, a figure still not yet painted whole.

“C’mon, theorize with me! Who could it be? I put my bets on Jack.” You sighed dramatically, head thrown back with your hand on your forehead.

You received no response, however.

“Hear me out! He called me darling, dear, and tried to kill me. Obviously, he fell for my sick kiting skills and great looks. I rest my case.” Still, nothing.

You were getting really worried with how unresponsive Edgar was being. Usually, when you started overexaggerating like that, he’d make a snarky remark. Something like “please, you get terror shocked at 5 ciphers” or “you make amphibians look appealing.”

The silence was really getting to you.

“I mean, he’s got confidence in spades so it probably isn’t him. Still, I kinda hope it is, he’s rather attrac–” SNAP!

Your head snaps up from your book, turning to Edgar so quickly you nearly give yourself whiplash. There, in his hands, are the remains of a broken paint brush. Blood oozes from his tightly clenched hands, slowly trickling down his palm and under the cuff of his shirt. That was reason for concern as is, but the most startling thing of all was his eyes.

Blue, like the sky. Blue, like the sea. Blue, like the wings of a morpho butterfly.

Blue, like the swirling vortex of the night sky.

You rush over, grabbing the first aid kit you know he keeps for you, before standing next to him. You’ve never seen him like this, eyes so dark and blank. It’s honestly scaring you a little, but that means nothing when he’s hurt.

So, you kneel, pulling out tweezers, disinfectants, and bandages. Gently prying his hand open, you discard the larger pieces of the brush. With the tweezers, you pick out splinters of wood embedded in his skin. You whisper apologies as you do, knowing this definitely hurts, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.

By the time you finally disinfect his hand and wrap it, Edgar seems a lot more like himself than before. He gazes at you with quiet consideration, blinking slowly. Languid, calm, almost cat-like.

“Are you okay?” You ask, holding his hand. In all the time you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him react like that. The kinder side of you hopes it’ll never happen again, if only so he won’t needlessly hurt himself like that. The morbid side of you wants to see him like that again, what you can distinguish as cold, searing rage threatening to consume him whole.

Edgar leans his head forward and onto your shoulder. The scent of citrus, chamomile, and something chemical tickles your nose, brushing against you as the painter sighs. He seems… tired.

“Let me rest my head, just for a bit.”

You don’t have the heart to say no.

The next few letters you get are… odd. Passionate as always, but far more obsessive. The first few had been sweeter, more tender. This was escalating in a weird direction, and as much as you loved yourself a good horror story, romance and horror never mix well. They were starting to threaten you, saying they’d hurt the people around you, and that was where you drew the line.

So, you start ignoring them. It sounds foolish, especially for a connoisseur of all things freaky, but life is more mundane than fiction. If this person doesn’t have the guts to confess to you, does it make sense that they’d have the guts to actually go through with their threats? Logically, no.

Besides, even if they did, the people of the manor are strong. They can hold their own. Even if they can't, that person will get outcasted for hurting a survivor, regardless of if they’re a hunter. “No violence outside of matches,” that was the first rule both factions set.

So, it was safe to assume you had nothing to worry about. You have more important things to deal with, anyway, especially with a new survivor arriving. His name was Orpheus, a novelist. You were thrilled, especially since he was the author of some of your favorite series.

You were busy with preparations, practically skipping with joy. The other survivors poked fun at you, both for your enthusiasm and the lack of a certain painter at your side.

Edgar was concentrating on his art, as per usual, and you didn’t want to bother him. He seemed a little lonely, though, so you tried to convince a few people to talk to him. They all just looked at you as if you grew another head.

“Are we… looking at the same person?” Mike asks, smile strained. You frown, turning away from the banners you were fixing.

“Yes! Edgar Valden, our resident painter, our sassy rich boy, our lovely old friend. I say he is lonely, and I think you should talk to him. I mean, you’re easy-going, fun, and silly. Who wouldn’t like you?” Even if half of it was an act. Still, Mike was one of the people Edgar tolerated better than most. Perhaps it’s because he’s another form of an artist?

“Why can’t you just, I don’t know, talk to him yourself? You guys get along just fine.” Mike looks away, fiddling with his hands. You narrow your eyes at the sight.

Mike Morton, local funny man, someone with dedication and deceit running through his veins, nervous? It’s not faked, the sweat rolling down his neck and the faster breathing all indicating he was genuinely nervous. Maybe even scared.

“Edgar, I really do love him, but he needs more friends. I think the only people who talk to him on a regular basis are Luca and I. Adding a few more people to that list would be nice, so…” You bring your hands in front of you, clasped tight as if you’re about to pray. “Could you please talk to him?”

Mike deflates, sighing as he nods. You smile brightly in response, promising to make it up to him.

“Hey bestie! You excited for the new survivor?” Demi croons, grinning as she tosses an arm around your shoulder. You laugh in response, leaning into her.

“That’s about the dumbest thing you could ask me. Of course I am! He’s written so many good books. God, I don’t know how I’m supposed to act around him. He’s made some stories that have basically shaped who I am now!” You sigh, smiling so widely your face hurts.

“Well, don’t forget your boyfriend in all the excitement! I can see he’s basically seething with envy.”

You pause, turning to look at Demi.

“Who?”

Now, it’s Demi’s turn to look confused.

“Uh, you know, Edgar? Are– are you guys not together?” She asks, genuinely shocked. You feel your face heat up, your hands itching to cover your blush.

“Wh– no! We are not! Why would anyone ever think that?”

Demi gives you a deadpan expression in response.

“You two are basically glued to each other’s side, go into every match together, hang out almost every day– Hell, you’re the only one Edgar has allowed in his room without it being necessary!”

Well, that’s news to you.

You furrow your brows, blinking in shock. Sure, you two hung out a lot, but it wasn’t like you guys were friends exclusively with each other. You had Demi, Mike, Melly, and even Violetta while Edgar had Luca, Victor, Andrew, and Galatea. It wasn’t like you… hung out… every… day…

“Oh fuck, we really do look like a couple.” You mutter, having half a mind to smack Demi as she laughs. She’s completely unapologetic about it, struggling to breathe as slowly calms down and giggles.

“So, you two aren’t dating?” She asks, wiggling her eyebrows. You huff, fighting back a smile.

“Nope, not at all.”

“Then in that case, I’m allowed to flirt with you as much as I want!” Demi cheers. She spins you around, causing a laugh to bubble up from your throat. The two of your twirl around in a silly dance, the faint sound of Frederick playing the piano the only background music.

At the end, she dips you down, smile upon her lips. She leans close to your ear as your smile is wiped away.

“Be wary of him.”

With Edgar, it’s like you’re taking three steps forward, then five steps back. Just when you think you’ve got him all figured out, he throws a curveball at you.

That desperation he had in his eyes the day you became his friend, flickering like a brilliant flame, you understand it now. However much he claimed he didn’t need people to understand him, how he didn’t need to understand others, it didn’t mean much. He still craved it, to be understood. To not have to be questioned, to not be approached with dishonesty, with intentions that lied beyond just him being him.

You suppose that’s exactly why you got along. You wanted to understand him, and he wanted to be understood. A match made in Heaven, you suppose.

It’s why it miffed you a bit that you really can’t understand Edgar at the moment.

He hates drawing portraits, yet he draws a figure, the same exact one, in every one of his new pieces. They look familiar, a lot like you, but you’re pretty confident Edgar would rather die than paint you. You’d tease him to Hell and back, all while he complains and swears up and down he’s never being nice to you again.

The landscapes, adorned in reds of all shades, always have that figure in each one without fail. Is he in love with someone? That would explain why he’s so weird lately.

Edgar’s odd behavior was already messing with you, but on top of that, the letters were getting worse. Instead of being slid into your mailbox, they were flat out in your room now.

Normal people would think someone just slipped it under the door. Reasonable assumption. However, unless that person has not only a very thin arm, but a long one, you don’t know how they’d manage to get it all the way to your desk.

You stare at the white envelope, stamped shut with a red seal in the shape of a camellia. The outline of the flower is in gold, though the beauty of the letter and the seal means nothing. Not when it got into your room. Not when it clearly has a splotch of dark red glaring at you.

Your hands are shaky as you open the envelope, a familiar curl of thrill fighting with your new found protective instincts. The letter is white as a dove, the red tainting it made all the more stark.

With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you read.

‘I didn’t imagine love would be like this. Wonderfully warm, like the rays of the sun in winter, and unbearably painful, like a knife in my heart. Do you just like hurting me? No, I know that isn’t true. After all, you always look at me with concern when I’m injured. Still, it’s hard to believe you’re this dense.

These past few weeks have been driving me mad. Your attention has been solely on the arrival of the new survivor. You’ve been ignoring me so much I can barely stand it. Can’t you spare even a moment for me? Is that novelist really that important? Seeing you look at him with stars in your eyes… it makes me want to rip his head off his shoulders. He doesn’t deserve your attention, nor your admiration, not like I do. I’ve known you longer, loved you for longer. He doesn’t deserve anything from you, yet he gets everything I could ever want and more.

Did you know? When you’re excited, your smile turns bigger, more genuine, till dimples show. Your eyes crinkle just a little, your hands moving to curl in front of your chest. You stand taller, you shine brighter.

It’s such a beautiful sight, I hate that I have to share it. Sometimes, I wish I could just put you in a cage and never let you go. Then, you wouldn’t look at anyone else but me. You wouldn’t think about anyone else but me. But, that’s not how you should live. You deserve to be free and happy. So, I’ve decided to get rid of anyone that doesn’t deserve to be around you.

I think I’ll start with that novelist.’

Your blood runs cold.

Fuck.

FUCK.

Just who is this? Who are they and just why are they so obsessed with you? Get rid of those who don’t deserve you? Who gave them the right to decide that!?

You take a deep breath, desperately trying to calm your nerves. Your heart is racing, and for the first time, the thrill in your heart turns into true fear.

You’ve never minded being the one hunted. In fact, you practically adore it, the addicting rush of adrenaline pumping through you. It’s why you came to the manor. But your friends? They’re not the same, and you wouldn’t want them to be. You want them safe and happy, not hunted down by some freak who thinks they “aren’t worthy of you” for whatever sick reason.

“Fuck, fuck… Orpheus, I need to find– no, it’s probably too late for him, there’s blood on the letter. Okay, okay, stay calm, stay fucking calm. Who would be the next victim? Mike? Melly? No, it’s probably Ed–” You pause.

Almost comically, everything clicks in place.

Camellias.

Red.

Ignoring them.

Edgar.

You bolt out of your room.

Normally, you’d knock. You know Edgar hates it when people barge into his room. However, considering the circumstances, you think that’s the least of your concerns.

You can’t help but pray in your mind. To whom? You don’t know. You don’t think anyone can truly help in this situation. It couldn’t be anyone else but Edgar, but still, you prayed. You hoped against all hope that your conclusion was wrong.

Edgar would scold you for barging in, sigh, before smiling and asking if you were really that desperate to see him. Everything would be fine. It would all be just a cruel joke.

But just as life is more mundane than fantasy, reality is far cruller than fiction.

The large windows to Edgar’s room let in the light of the falling sun, casting the room in many shades of gold and orange. In the middle of the room, in all his glory, is Edgar. His back is to you, paint brush in hand. You’re hit first by relief, then with the heavy scent of iron.

You shake, hands covering your mouth as you finally process what's around Edgar. Orpheus, drained of blood, head sat on a chair, body left haphazardly on the ground. Jack, ghastly white and face twisted, his horror eternally memorialized in death. Demi, eyes closed and serene, seemingly asleep if not for the purple veins that roam along her arms.

You fall to your knees, the shock hitting you so strong you can’t stand up any longer. He was your secret admirer. The one who kept sending letters. The one who went into your room just to place them on your desk. The one who threatened to kill your friends. The one who did kill your friends.

Edgar, finally, turns around. His cheek has splotches of blood on it, his hands no better. It’s startling just how much of it is on him, but worse yet, you know not all of it is on him. There’s a lot of blood in a human body, much more in two, so where was it?

When he smiles, it’s just as sweet as it was yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Was this really your friend, or a demon in disguise?

His smile, ever so sweet, only serves to unsettles you, looking more like a nightmare.

“Ah, you’re here! Come, I need to show you my newest masterpiece.” Edgar steps closer to you, dragging you by the hand to a canvas you hadn’t noticed before. He was standing in front of it, so it was only natural.

You numbly follow, heart in your throat. You’re grateful, distantly, that the “masterpiece” is not the corpses of your friends. You think you’re going to throw up, eyes trying to look at anything but them.

So, you gladly look at his so-called masterpiece.

You really wish you didn’t.

There, on the canvas, is a portrait. This time, it’s so painfully obvious it’s you that you can’t even deny it. Surrounded by red camellias, hands curled in front of their chest, with a smile so genuine, dimples showed. Eyes crinkled, back straight, and God, did it have to be so accurate?

The red of the camellias are familiar, as is the red of your blush, the colors of your clothes, your hair.

It’s all been painted using your friend’s blood.

Edgar comes behind you, his arms circling your waist. A content sigh leaves him, his chin resting on your shoulder. His hold is gentle, but firm, possessive in a way you never thought him capable of. His lips brush against your neck, a kiss much like a collar pressed into your skin. You can feel them curl into a smile.

“What do you think, my muse? The red means I love you.”

#idv #identity v #identity 5 #idv edgar #idv painter #edgar valden x reader #idv fanfic #identity v fanfic

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ireneksstuff · 2 months

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Rant below

I'm sorry the fuck did WE do???

Like I think this whole thing started mainly with crows being mad ab the fucking eyeball lore rp, and some of them literally overstepping tubbos boundaries, being borderline ableist, and then accusing him of spreading homophobic rhetoric (and I'm not just referring to that ONE person, that post had like 15 reblogs with people agreeing with them and a lot more likes)

And when we rightfully called them out, they all doubled down until their OWN streamer called them out (bc tubbo addressing it did nothing)

And then sunny happened. Sunny had been expecting good things from phil and tallulah and chayanne bc tubbo spoke very highly of them. And even if it wasn't for tallulah s distrust, which I can write a thesis about tbh(since I think it's unfair to expect sunny to be ok with people disliking her for where she was from) Phil's language was insensitive towards a very traumatized kid that he had not build a stable relationship with. That's a fact. He didn't talk to empanada like that, so why did he towards sunny?

Yes, he did not mean to do that. But the Tubblings used it as an opportunity to have an angst moment. And crows fucking LOST IT. Like no we do not hate Phil guys.We love that old man. We can still make angsty theories with his interactions with sunny.

ALSO, when it was PHILS turn to take lore srsl, he acted the same way he did always due to not realising the gravity of tubbos' death. And that is not a bad thing. But when the Tubblings, instead of getting upset ab him not participating seriously in the lore,we chose to add it into the story, crows were all over it with meta reasons for why we shouldn't do that.

Like do you want serious lore or not? Pick one

I'm not here to pick a fight. Many tubblings have also gone to crows blogs and have sent hate and death threats which are NOT acceptable no matter what.

I'm just trying to point out that the pure hypocrisy that some crows have shown has made tubblings be fed up with this bs. Cause we expect the hate now.

Again we love phil. I was a crow first and i know thats the same for many of us.

However, EVERY time that he interacts with tubbo or when bolas are mentioned, I just feel the exhaustion of preparing for the disaster that my feed will be, due to like 3 crows starting shit, and then tubblings defending themselves.

I'm not kidding. Every tubbling was ready for war on twt when they did the prank, and we were relieved that at least we had the doozers with, so we wouldn't face this shit again on our own.

I am tired of this shit. I love hanging around in Phil's chat when he's playing qsmp. But when I read chat messages like these, I'm just angry? Disappointed that this is still happening? Like you can claim that we are toxic all you want, but so far, every time our communities have been at each others throats its been the crows picking the fights(and no making angsty hc ab the possible perception of a characters behavior does not count, it's normal fandom behavior)

Even while writing this, I had to check my language like 10 times to make sure I didn't piss people off for no reason.

Whether you like it or not, the toxicity didn't start with us

#qsmp discourse #tubblings #crows #qsmp fandom neg #crows neg #i guess?#its more of a criticism #yknow considering im a crow as well #although i am considering ditching this sh and going to the ghosties #it prob gonna be better over there #its the soulfire trauma ig #its made us understanding of each other

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haxorus612 · 4 months

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actually i can't stop thinking about it. amiya bossfight meta time.

amiya as a fighter is not particularly exemplary in any regard. she doesn't defeat any notable opponents, she doesn't have particularly powerful arts, even her own unique arts aren't especially suited to battle so why do i want to fight her? easy: she knows you, same reason i want to fight kal'tsit. kal'tsit would also be a terrifying boss fight, but she constitutes a massive physical threat, whereas amiya would need to get craftier.

amiya would be a boss with relatively low stats, and few defensive abilities. instead she would make up for it by reacting to the player's actions. deploy a specialist? she massively increases your operator's redeployment timers. deploy a defender? their maximum hp decreases. deploy a sniper? she turns herself and all enemies invisible. defeat her with arts? her resistance/arts dodge increases. her personal arts is empathy reading, she can't 100% read your mind, she can't prepare *perfect* counters, but she sure can get those surface thoughts and get a leg up over your strategy

i also figure that despite her low stats, she'd be a long, grueling fight. you'd take down her first health bar, and she'd just get another one, like 5-6 times in a row. more like an elite enemy that won't stay dead. her high true damage attacks especially would turn it into a grinding battle of attrition. amiya isn't super strong, but she's persistent, both in battle and in life. when she encounters an obstacle it's time to think of a new solution, not give up which is why, just like the endspeaker, each phase would give her a new, stronger buff, and her debuffs would get harder and harder to deal with. if i got my way it'd be like: if you deploy a specialist in her 1st phase, it increases redeployment times by like, 70%, pretty bad but you can work around it. in her 6th phase though? it'd be like, 420%. that operator is gone for the rest of the operation. 90% HP debuffs. 90% attack debuffs. -200 aspd. you basically have to soft-ban entire classes just to have a functional defense depending on how it happened, the various phase buffs could be themed around different sarkaz heroes throughout history, but i'd like it to never make her particularly superhuman. her weight is like, 4-5, so you can still shift or lift her. she still has a block count of 1, so even melantha can block her. instead it's just like phase 1: arts damage, melee range phase 2: arts damage, true damage skill, 1.2 tile range phase 3: arts damage, elemental damage skill, true damage skill, 1.5 tile range phase 4: dual hits arts damage, mass multi-hit arts damage like her s2, and all the previous skills. 2 tile range etc etc, nothing terribly crazy like "teleports 3 tiles and disables the attack of all operators in range and calls you mean names and steals your lunch money" i think it'd be cute if she didn't even turn invulnerable between phases, she just leaves and comes back later. like she's redeploying after using her s3.

obviously there's no way that they'd ever do something like this, but this is the first thing i'd do when making a fan game sdlkfjs also other ideas: she deploys operators from her squad. amiya is the boss, ofc, but you also have to fight dobermann and a lot of unnamed rhodes personnel. best case scenario: you're fighting the *entirety* of rhodes, and she deploys some real heavy-hitters like blaze and rosmontis against you. just pray logos, ascalon, and misery are out that day. kal'tsit would also be an entirely separate boss fight

still, it's one thing i really can't stop thinking about. theresa chose her as the king of sarkaz for a reason. what if it wasn't just out of desperation? what if she saw something rich, and powerful in her? i know it's selfish of me, but i want to see that from the other side. what do our enemies see in amiya?

#arknights #amiya #we don't even know her last name #though hopefully to the grinning valley will be a little more amiya-centric #also i don't really need to argue against any of amiya's in-game “victories”#they're all either phyrric victories #she didn't do it alone #or she wasn't fighting them for real somehow #hard to judge her in a vacuum #amiya is an interesting character because of how she clashes with the tone and weight of the piece around her #and clashes with it on purpose

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that-fanperson-meg · 10 months

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Did somebody say

chapter two???

that’s right! I finally finished chapter two of my fanfic for @stardustshimmer’s Meta Pirate Au!!! (Sorry it took so long lol)

Ao3 Version <- if you prefer the formatting on there!

and without further delay here it is!!!

The early rays of the sun filtered through the water and brought light to a previously dark seafloor. Strands of kelp and seagrass functioned as a curtain, hiding the cove which the siren called home away from the world. The set of islands which sailors had dubbed ‘Popstar’ was idyllic for Dedede and his family; no ships ever sailed around the waters, no settlements were on the island itself, and most importantly, the food in the surrounding area was unmatched.

However, in the past two days, that had been turned on its head. Because now, Captain Meta and his ship were basically right outside Dreamland cove.

If Dedede had spent two seconds thinking before telling Meta where he could find him again, maybe wouldn’t have.

But he hadn’t. He’d told that swashbuckling captain exactly where he would be in hopes that they’d meet again. In hindsight, Dedede wasn’t sure why he did that.

Maybe it had been the adrenaline of nearly losing the one thing that prevented him from turning into a raging sea monster that had been talking that night.

Or maybe it was the fact that he’d seen something different in the captain, something that made his heart beat like crazy whenever Meta looked at him, something that the siren wish that he didn’t have a tail and could join Meta above the waves.

A second after Dedede heard his own thoughts, the siren stopped swimming and silently freaked out for a minute.

“Nope! Nope! Nope! I’m not thinkin’ ’bout that anymore- no siree! You can count me out!” Dedede told himself, with embarrassment and surprise in his voice.

Despite his best efforts, Dedede’s mind continued to linger on what his thoughts had said just a minute ago. Though the more the siren thought on it, wistfulness took hold.

In his heart, Dedede knew Meta was meeting him for only two reasons; he had the Broach of the Sea King and every pirate that wanted to go down in fame knew that getting that broach would guarantee that; and just like Dedede, Meta was curious and simply wanted to know what it was like to live under the sea.

Eventually, Meta would leave him. It’s in a pirate’s genes after all, and why would anyone want to be with him?

He’s the last siren for a reason.

“King Dedede? Where are you?” Called a voice that the siren immediately realized was Bandana Dee.

A second later, Dedede continued swimming and found Bandana who upon seeing the siren wrapped their flippers around the king in the biggest hug that he could manage.

“Heya kiddo, whatcha doin’ up so early?” Dedede asked Bandana who had now let go of the siren.

The smaller fish seemed to hold a look of worry in their eyes, “I woke up a while ago, but I got really worried when I noticed that you weren’t there.”

The siren sighed, knowing that the situation could’ve been avoided if he’d simply returned back sooner. “Bandee, I’m sorry. I was out on my favorite baskin’ rock an’ I guess time got away from me.”

Bandana Dee held a weak smile in his eyes, “it’s fine. I just thought maybe…something had happened to you and..and I’m not strong enough to take care of me and Kirby.”

Not even a second after the Waddle Dee had finished their sentence, Dedede put his flippers on either side of his guppy.

“Bandana, look at me. You’re one a’ the strongest Dee’s I know, if somethin’ were to ever happen t’me -which I promise, it’s not- you would be more than capable of protectin’ ya’self an’ Kirby. So don’t let me hear anymore of that self deprecatin’ nonsense!”

The Waddle Dee stopped for a second thinking over what Dedede had told them. Until eventually he held a smile in their eyes and quietly thanked the siren.

“Right, now let’s back ’fore Kirby wakes up.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a tried and true fact that at any point in time, something was happening on the Halberd.

Whether that be Mace and Axe telling their tall tales to each other, Sword and Blade competing in arbitrary competitions against each other that almost always end with something getting broken, or even the occasional crew wide sea shanty that was brought down by Vul’s terrible singing.

The point being that there was never a dull moment.

However, that changed after the Halberd arrived on the Popstar Islands. As now they stayed anchored in waters that most people considered to be cursed, as opposed to sailing wherever the captain said was their next stop on the constant search for treasure.

“You seeing anythin’ over there, Sword?” Called Blade from the other side of the ship.

With a roll of their eyes behind his mask the pirate responded, “no Blade, I haven’t seen anythin’ in the last two minutes since you asked me that same question.”

Sword hoped that his brother would take the hint and leave them alone for the rest of their shift. Though he knew Blade too well, and knew that hope wouldn’t come true.

“Do ya’ really think that the siren is actually hanging ’round this island?”

Choosing to give into answering his sibling’s questions, Sword replied, “if the cap’n thinks that he’s around here, I see no reason to doubt ’im. Plus we scared the Squeaks off, which basically means we have all the time in the world to find the guy.”

“Speaking of the cap’n,” the younger of the two pirates began, “why d'ya think he's taking the first shift of night watch so much?”

The pirate in teal armor thought for a minute, “my best guess is that he wants to find the siren first t’get some sort’a vengeance cause the guy got away from ’im with that broach.”

The conversation between the two siblings trailed off, leaving the deck of the Halberd quiet except for the distant sounds of waves breaking on rocks.

“Ya’know the other night I heard something weird from Trident.” Sword recounted.

A second later, Blade decided to interrupt, “what was it?”

“If ya’ let me get on with it, I’d tell ya’.” He said, voice rising with annoyance.

Blade grew quiet after that, and allowed their brother to continue.

“So last night, Trident had apparently gotten woken up by someone ’aving a conversation here on deck. He came to check what was going on, but the only person he found was the cap’n.” The pirate remarked.

Blade looked back out to sea, “that’s not that weird- maybe the cap’n was just talkin’ to himself?” They figured, sounding disappointed.

“But that’s not the weirdest thing of all!” Sword refuted, “Trident also said that Meta was playing concertina, why would a person -let alone the cap’n- play music and talk to ’imself if there wasn’t another person there?”

The older pirate’s reasoning stumped Blade for a while. Out of all of the crew Sword and Blade knew the captain the best, and if what Trident said was true then there definitely had been someone else there that night.

A second later, Sword continued his thoughts, “I honestly think ’e’s trying t’lure out the siren with the music, ’e’s had stranger plans before I wouldn’t put it past ’im.”

“If ya’ think that,” Blade began, “then do ya’ think ’e’s gonna take first watch a third time in a row?”

Sword didn’t even wait a second before responding, “of course I do.”

“Well I guess all there’s left to do is wait ’till sunset then.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just the other day, the siren had been so excited to see Meta, that at the first chance he’d got to swim up to the surface he’d gone straight to the pirate’s ship.

Though this time, that level of giddiness had been replaced by the feeling of sea butterflies drifting around inside Dedede’s heart. But still, something in the siren made him want to return back to that ship, back to the captain that showed him that not all pirates were the same.

The sea had become darkened as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the light of the moon reflecting on the waves.

After making sure one final time that both Bandana and Kirby were both asleep, Dedede began to swim towards the Halberd.

Passing by coral of all hues and fish with silver scales that glistened in the light of the pale moon, the siren soon arrived where the Halberd was anchored. Rising just enough out of the waters so that Dedede could see the deck of the ship, he could see the distant lights of the lanterns and the figure of someone sitting atop the bulwark.

“Heya Meta!” The siren called and was greeted by the warm yellow eyes of the pirate captain.

“Greetings, Dedede.” Meta parroted, “it is a pleasure to see you once more.”

A smile found itself on Dedede’s face, “same here! How’ve things been above the waves?”

“Same as yesterday, which is making my crew grow antsy- we normally do not spend much time in the same spot.” The captain mused.

“Ya’know I’ve been meanin’ to ask ‘bout them -your crew I mean-” Dedede told, “I can’t imagine there’s a ton’a folks that wanna become pirates, so where'dya find them?”

Meta paused for a moment, like he was recalling a fond memory.

“I’ve known Sword and Blade since I was young; Trident was an old rival of mine; Axe and Mace were stowaways and had wanted to join the crew; and Vul offered to be the quartermaster and I let him because I owed him, as he helped me restore the Halberd to what she is now.”

The siren paused for a moment not expecting such a straightforward answer, but afterward focused on the last part of what Meta said.

“Wait, ya’ didn’t steal ya’ ship? I thought all pirates did that- so did ya’ just…inherit it or sumthin’?”

The pirate chuckled, “well I suppose you could say something like that.”

Thoroughly confused, Dedede waited for Meta to continue his thoughts and give context.

“My mentor, the legendary Captain Galacta, had an armada of ships and the Halberd was but one of them. After he ceased sailing, the ships fell into disrepair, but I found the Halberd and decided that she would sail once again.”

That name stuck in the siren’s head for a moment, it sounded almost familiar. He couldn’t recall where he’d remembered it from, but deep down Dedede knew he’d heard that name before.

Eager to switch conversation topics, Meta found it was the right time to bring up the second reason that he’d come to the Popstar Islands.

“Oh, the treasure…” the siren said sheepishly, “yeah I’ve got treasure! Just give me a minute!”

With that, Dedede dipped back below the waves and it was at that time that Meta realized something that he’d hadn’t noticed as he had talked.

The captain barely ever spoke of Galacta, -and those who did know about him never brought it up to Meta- but he’d talked about Galacta to Dedede so freely that it didn’t even register in the pirate’s mind.

‘Why was talking with Dedede different than how he spoke with his own crew?’ Meta asked himself, trying to rationalize his actions.

“I told ya’ I got treasure!” Dedede exclaimed, holding up a treasure chest with a lock that’d tarnished over time, and looked like it was barely keeping together.

The siren then proceeded to throw the chest onto the deck of the Halberd, rocking the ship with the force of the throw. After catching his hat before it fell into the waters, Meta made quick work of the lock and threw the lid of the chest off.

For a minute, the captain was at a loss of words. He’d expected a fair sum of gold and perhaps some jewels from a chest that size -if most of its contents still were there that is-, but what the chest held was more gold than what was held in the Halberd’s own chests at that very moment.

“Dedede, where did you get this from? I don’t even think the Squeaks have this much gold.” Meta asked, dumbstruck.

The siren shrugged, “most’a it was actually gifts from the Waddles, and while it’s nice an’ all, I don’t really ’ave a use of any’a it and it was kinda just collectin’ barnacles, but you can actually use the loot and stuff.”

Still reeling from being handed such a large sum of treasure, the pirate couldn’t think of anything smart enough to say to Dedede to thank him, and left the siren in silence.

The moon’s pale gaze morphed with the waves, projecting its shine onto the deck of the Halberd while stars glistened high above the unlikely duo.

“Ya’know Meta, before I met ya’ I was absolutely terrified of what was ‘bove the waves,” the siren admitted, “but if I’d known someone like ya’ were up ’ere, I would’ve swam up a long time ago.”

A moment after Dedede’s word’s registered into the pirate’s heart, Meta’s face grew warm like if only for a second the sun pierced through the darkness of night and shone on him, and him alone.

From below him, Meta could hear the sounds of movement across the lower deck of the Halberd. Signifying to the captain that his meeting with Dedede was coming to an end.

Perhaps realizing this himself, Dedede was quick to give Meta his farewells. “I’ll see ya’ tomorrow, Meta!” The siren called, as he dove back into the briney waves.

The captain smiled, and replied back to no one, “until tomorrow, my king.”

#meta knight #meta knights #kirby #king dedede #stardustshimmer’s meta pirate #cross posted on ao3 #metadede #bandanna dee #bandana waddle dee

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