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little-diable · 1 year

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Daylight - Dean Winchester

Will she ever stop writing song inspired fics? I daut it (I hope y'all get the joke). Inspired by the song Daylight by David Kusher. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this. Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Dean is taking the reader on a small getaway, reminiscing on their past years together.

Warnings: 18+, smut, short description of piv, some angst, but mainly fluff

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader (1.6k words)

“Dean?” Her tired murmurs filled Baby, eyes slowly opening to take in Dean’s features. His green eyes met hers as a smile tugged on his lips, hand finding her knee.

“It’s alright, darling, you can sleep some more.” He didn’t dare raise his voice, not wanting to rip his girlfriend from her drowsy state. They had been driving for the past hours, leaving Sam behind as Dean started the car, murmuring something about wanting to spend some time alone with (y/n).

But while Sam had made some inappropriate jokes, Dean had only shaken his head, not wanting to share any details. Something inside of Dean had begged him to take (y/n) and leave, desperate for some moments of calmness, freezing the world around them. Both were exhausted, running low on their motivation to hunt those they’ve been surrounded by for years, pushed into this very life because of their families, well aware that there was no way out.

“Mhm, I love you, Dean.” Her eyes fell shut once again, cuddling herself further into the leather seat. His throat felt tight, he could only squeeze her knee, not understanding how a woman like her would want to stick around, picking a dangerous life over the calm moments she had deserved.

“Can’t you understand that I want this? God, how thick can you be? I would choose this life over any other life if it meant being with you, Dean.” Tears were welling up in (y/n)’s eyes, shaking hands pressed into her sides to stabilise herself. Just moments ago he had asked her to leave, wanting to show her the way out of his messy lifestyle, asking her to part ways in order to save her.

If there was one thing Dean Winchester was good at, it was pushing people away to save them, at least that’s what he thought he was doing.

“I wake up every night thinking you got hurt somehow, and I blame myself, every single time. You deserve something better.” He was hurting, but while her tears clearly gave away her emotions, Dean tried to compose himself, holding back on the gasps of air threatening to leave him. The mere thought of parting from (y/n) left him breathless, trembling in fear, and yet he’d always put her first. It felt like he was drowning, the water kept rising, would swallow him whole any moment now, and she was the rescuing hand he tried to ignore.

“Dean, I love you, probably way too much, I won’t leave you, not now, not ever.” Her shaking hand found his, interlacing their fingers. He couldn’t reply, eyes squeezed shut to try and keep his tears bottled in. She was pulled against his chest, allowing her to listen to his racing heart, mind torn between their fight and the loving three words (y/n) had just spoken for the first time.

“I love you too, hence why I’ll always try to save you from this.”

Dean could still remember how he had felt in that very moment, no longer part of his fleshcage, soul freed from its grasp by the confession she had spoken. It had felt like he had been pushed from one dimension into another, one with the love she was sharing, one with the life she wouldn’t ever leave behind, one with the grasp their souls had on one another.

It had taken him weeks to finally accept that she wouldn’t leave, weeks filled with that sinking feeling simmering inside of him, as if he was preparing himself for the day where he’d wake up to an empty bed and empty closets. But that day hadn't come, and deep down Dean also knew that it wouldn’t ever come.

“Need you Dean, please touch me.” (Y/n) whispered her words, eyes set on his green ones, filled with that special glint she found herself yarning for. It had been weeks since Dean had last touched her, weeks filled with one hunt darker than the other. Both were finding shelter in Baby, with his naked body pressed against hers, with his fingers wandering along her sides, finding their way to her pulsing bundle of nerves. “Oh fuck.”

She arched her back off the leather seat, fingernails clawed into his skin as he circled her clit, preparing her for the upcoming moments, needing to feel her wrapped around his cock. Dean’s plush lips found her throat, sucking on the spots that left her gasping, desperate to feel everything he could offer to her, sharing sins in the darkness, hidden from the daylight.

“Look at me, don’t close your eyes.” Their eyes met, binding one another closer together as Dean pushed into her, making her gasp his name. He gave her a few moments to adjust before he started fucking her, hand squeezing Baby’s leather to stop himself from leaving bruises that wouldn’t fade for weeks to come, trying to hold back.

(Y/n) struggled, trying to keep her eyes open, while Dean forced her closer to the edge, making her see stars. He wasn’t gentle, and yet took care of her just like she knew he would, knowing her body better than she knew herself.

The moon was following Baby around, trying to shield them from the darkness calling their names, a clear sky Dean was hoping for. He didn’t have a destination in mind, could only think back to the soft words (y/n) had spoken weeks ago, murmuring something about wanting to stargaze, something she hadn’t done since she was a mere teenager. Back then Dean had only chuckled, hand cupping her cheek to pull her in for a kiss, storing the confession in the back of his mind.

But while Dean didn’t have a certain spot in mind, he knew what he was looking for, a remote area in the middle of nowhere, allowing them to catch the twinkling stars. A smile tugged on his lips the second he took a turn left, parking Baby on the side of a road, next to a field.

“(Y/n),” Dean murmured, watching her wake from her light slumber. He couldn’t help but take in her features for a few moments, admiring the woman he had fallen for years ago, very well knowing that she was the lifeline he kept clinging to. She whispered his name, blinking a few times to adjust to the darkness filling the car. “Come.”

He left the car, rounding Baby to help (y/n) stand up, stretching her limbs without noticing the clear sky above them. “What are we doing here, Dean?”

Her chuckles left him smiling, forcing her to watch him pull a blanket from the backseat before he pointed his finger towards the sky, “I thought it was finally time for some stargazing?”

With awe laced in her gaze, (y/n) kept watching the sky, lips slightly parted to take in the numerous stars no human eye could ever count. She couldn’t reply, fully hooked onto the breathtaking view, barely sparing Dean any of her attention. He pulled her onto the blanket, had his back leaned against Baby’s side, with (y/n) sitting in front of him.

No words were shared between the two, but there was no need for any vowels that wouldn’t manage to describe what she was currently feeling, nor what Dean was thinking of. His mind was racing, thinking back to the day where he had bought that ring with Sam, wondering if he’d ever feel ready enough to ask (y/n) that one question. It wasn’t about marriage, at least not really, neither Dean nor (y/n) needed any vows nor a ring to promise one another endless love, and yet Dean couldn’t stop thinking about asking that one question.

“When will you do it?” Sam’s lips were pulled into a smirk, trying to hold back with his jokes, genuinely interested in his brother’s plans. They had bought a ring minutes ago, and while Dean hadn’t spoken many words, voice caught in his tight throat, Sam had asked one question after another.

“Don’t know, when the time feels right, I guess.” Dean didn’t look at Sam once, eyes focused on the road ahead, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. For a few moments an uncomfortable silence wrapped itself around the brothers, forcing them to ponder over their words.

“Why did you get a ring, if you aren’t sure of it?” Sam didn’t dare use much strength for his words, not sure what was going through Dean’s mind.

“I am sure of it.” Simple murmurs Sam couldn’t help but scoff about, shaking his head as he was turning his body towards Dean. He studied his brother for a moment, wondering if he was truly that unsure of their relationship.

“Dean, she won’t leave you, there’s nothing you need to wait for, no day where she’ll suddenly pack her bags and break up with you. You don’t need to be scared.”

Dean’s hand found the pocket of his jacket, feeling the box he kept carrying around with himself. His hand lingered there for a few moments, before it found its way back to her middle, pulling (y/n) even closer. Perhaps a day may eventually come where he’ll get over his fear, the enemy he carried around with himself. Perhaps a day may eventually come where he’ll feel ready to ask that one question.

Perhaps the breaking daylight may guide him through the arising high simmering deep inside of him.

#Dean Winchester imagine #Dean Winchester smut #supernatural imagine

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heliads · 1 year

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All in the Words

Based on this request: "race and some of the newsies are hanging out with yn and yn is acting all tough. They keep trying to make her drop that attitude by making jokes, and race flirts with her as a joke. Yn gets all nervous and blushy so he just keeps going thinking its adorable until yn fires back and he kinda dies"

me when i flirt with someone and they instantly perish

masterlist

Dawn comes and goes, and you are not there to see it. Normally, this would fill you with more than a small amount of fear– miss your morning schedule, and you’ll be hours behind when it comes to selling newspapers. Newsies live in the daylight hours, shouting slogans and catchy headlines as long as there are still people out on the street who can see enough to hand you coins. It does make it difficult to get up so early each morning, but it’s not like you have a ton of options otherwise.

Yet when you open your eyes this morning and see not sunrise but a well established day, you feel not a bit displeased with yourself. After all, why should you? Today, as it turns out, all newsies across the city will have a day off. The newspapers don’t like printing on holidays, so you can get off scot free for the whole set of twenty-four hours. Nothing says special like that.

For newsies, days off are a bit of a mixed bag. There is, of course, the immediate response to hearing that you won’t have to get up at dawn and spend too many hours out on the streets hawking papes. That would explain the shrieks and calls of glee from some of the younger newsies. Older ones, too. The second Jack Kelly heard about the holiday, he muttered something about having to talk to someone and hurried off in the direction of the New York Sun. You have a feeling he’s tracking down a particularly pretty journalist.

It’s great to think that you won’t have to work. However, you aren’t a newsie for the thrill of it. Not working means you don’t get paid, and that’s far less fun than one would care to imagine. That’s why you’ve been carefully saving your pennies for weeks now, just trying to make sure you’ll have enough to cover today’s costs before your job comes back the next day. It’s a life spread thin, to be sure, but it’s what you’ve got, and you don’t intend to waste it.

Still, sleeping in is pretty nice indeed. You allow yourself one last moment of leisure before dragging yourself out of bed. Most kids in the Manhattan Lodging House have partaken in the same delights– more than half of them are still sleeping peacefully in their bunks. You do your best to get ready as quietly as you can, and shut the door silently behind you.

By the time noon rolls around, the rest of your friends are up and at ‘em. Most of you are choosing to either kick back and relax in the Lodging House or go look for trouble somewhere else in the city. You heard Spot popped in once to check on a deal with Jack, but other than that, there are no threats in sight.

None to your physical health, at least. Threats to your peace and quiet still exist. You’ve barely sat down on your favorite threadbare armchair in a corner of the main room (the title being won by a good few rounds of fisticuffs, all solidly settled in your favor) before your name is being tossed around by some of the newsies nearby. You have a feeling that they’re trying to be discreet, but their whispers sound more like shouts when you’re indoors instead of yelling to be heard in the streets of Manhattan.

Four boys are causing trouble today, as it appears. Race, Jojo, Albert, and Romeo. All of the newsies are good friends– you have to be, at any rate, or you’ll lose your head with the godawful conditions of being outside all day– but these four are no exception. They’re the closest of anyone here, exceptions being Jack and Crutchie.

Today it seems they’ll be proving their camaraderie by trying to get a rise out of you. This isn’t anything special. You have a bit of a reputation for being stone cold, but can they blame you? Girls have to fight twice as hard to stay alive in this city, so what if you’re more here to keep yourself afloat than make friends? You’re nice when you have to be, but you keep your distance when you want it. Just because you’re not flirting all the time doesn’t mean you hate the rest of them.

The ‘Hattan boys know you don’t hate them, but that doesn’t stop the four newsies nearest you from trying to win you over anyway in the only method they know best: being annoying and turning everything into a joke. Romeo tries his luck first, shooting his shot with a tip of his cap and a wink. You arch one derisive brow, which is all it takes for him to give up and head back to his friends.

Albert is next. He starts off strong with a story about a dream he’d had last night about pretty girls going out with him, but you cut him off thoughtfully with a recollection of a dream you’d had recently where all boys left you alone under pain of death. Struck out, he gestures for Jojo to take over.

Jojo’s attempts at flattery are so awful that you give up on trying to entertain yourself by watching them fail. You reach over for a paperback Katherine had left behind on her last visit to the Manhattan Lodging House. The book serves the dual purpose of letting you ignore the laughter of the boys and also hiding your face for the last of their attempts.

See, you can ignore Albert or Romeo any day. They’re just friends, just coworkers. You’ll never see them in any sort of romantic light. The problem comes with Race. Race is charming. Race is cute. Race is the only one who has ever been able to get through the strongest of your walls. It doesn’t matter if he’s just doing it as a joke, if Race flirts with you in the slightest, you will be affected by it.

Best to make sure he can’t tell, then, so you prop up the book in front of your face and pray he can’t see the slight smile that makes its way across your lips when Race tries his hand at flirting. It wasn’t even a good pickup line. Still, it worked, and that is absolutely devastating to your reputation.

The worst part is that he knows it, too. Even though you do your best to act as if you’re absolutely fine, you can tell by the triumphant tilt of his head that he knows it. Y/N’s got a weakness at last, and it’s Race. Of course it is.

The other boys don’t seem to have caught on, though, they’re just laughing raucously amongst themselves about the usual. Albert calls something out to Race about wanting to go take a tour of the shop next door, but Race doesn’t even look back, gesturing for them to go on without him without turning even once.

“You should go with them,” you say as indifferently as you can.

“Why?” Race asks, cocking his head to the side, “I’ve got a far prettier sight in front of me right now.”

You roll your eyes, but even you can feel the slight heat pricking your cheeks. “You’re insufferable.”

“Apparently not,” Race muses, “or you wouldn’t be smiling at me.”

You do your best to hide the offensive expression away, but your best attempts at staying serious just make your smile more stubborn. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” he says happily, “it’s not just because of me, is it? I bet Y/N L/N would never be susceptible to something like a boy.”

“Not even to a cute boy?” You ask, eyes wide with pretend surprise.

This, of all things, makes Race stutter over his words. You didn’t think it would be possible for Race to get nervous over someone flirting with him, but apparently you were wrong, because he’s all but shaking in his boots right now.

“That’s sweet of you,” he manages to eke out.

You grin. The tables have turned. “Funny,” you say, “I didn’t think Race Higgins would ever be susceptible to something like a girl.”

“I love it when you pay attention to me,” Race retorts, but it carries far less of the easy confidence he’d had earlier. In fact, Race looks like he can’t believe his eyes.

“I’m sure you do,” you muse, “Shame it doesn’t happen more often. If I knew you were going to react like this, maybe I would have started flirting back earlier.”

“I think you should keep doing it anyway,” Race whispers.

You laugh. “Only if you flirt back.”

“Oh, always, sweetheart, you know that,” Race says.

It’s easy to smile after that. Maybe Race has been flirting with you for a while, but maybe he’s meant what he said all along, too. It’s good that you’ll have plenty of time to figure him out, then. Yes, plenty of time indeed.

newsies tag list: @lovesanimals0000, @misguidedswagger, @thatfangirl42, @amortensie

#race #race imagines #race x reader #race oneshot #newsies #newsies imagines #newsies x reader #newsies oneshot #race higgins #race higgins imagines #race higgins x reader #race higgins oneshot #newsies race #newsies race imagines #newsies race x reader #newsies race oneshot

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speakergame · 1 year

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Bi-Weekly Update - 3/28/31

hello and happy spring!

This update was supposed to be last week, but I got my weeks backwards (I blame the combination of daylight savings time and spring break) so I'll do it this week instead 😅

Progress has been a little disjointed and uneven this month, but it's still going! I'm finishing up testing what I managed to get done so I can get it out onto Patreon in the next day or two, and then back to coding, coding, coding.

The good news is that I've made it through the crucible of March in an altogether better state than I was in this time last month, both mentally and physically. Only time will tell how much of a change that means, but I feel so much better now.

In personal news: Saturday, April 1st is A) the 2 year anniversary of Speaker's release on itch.io, and B) my 10 year wedding anniversary 💙

I think that's all I've got for this time. Back to work 😉 I hope the weather where you are has figured out what season it wants to feel like, and that you enjoy the rest of your week. Happy anniversary! And I'll see you all in April 💙💙💙

#speaker game #weekly update #not to get into too much detail in the tags but: turns out I was allergic to an ingredient in one of my medications #not deathly allergic but bad enough that it was fucking with my head #which is probably a major reason in why this coding has taken me so godsdamn long #but I'm on new meds now and I can already feel the difference

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dia-souls · 8 months

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DIABOLIK LOVERS DAYLIGHT Analyzes [ Vol. 4 Sakamaki Subaru ]

Original title: 不機嫌の理由

Source: Diabolik Lovers Daylight Vol. 4 Sakamaki Subaru

Seiyuu: Takashi Kondou

Analyzes by: Admin Afra

Admin's note: Finally, it is the turn of Tsundere boy. Of course, we all know that Subaru and Yui's ship is one of the most famous ships in the fandom. I used to think that maybe one of the reasons is Subaru's shyness and how he shows his tsundere side in front of Yui. But Subaru's feelings are much bigger than these words. This guy is willing to give his heart to the girl he loves more than anyone else and he doesn't care what happens to him even if it means he won't breathe again in this world, he still doesn't care because His heart will beat in the body of Yui, who is more precious to him than anyone else.

The flashback left me with a lot of questions. For example, are the legends of demons real or not? Maybe this is something we can investigate outside of the daylight series, but in my opinion, the fact that Subaru could not find that fruit does not mean that it is not real.

Let's go back to the story. Surely someone must be so important to Subaru that he would put all his hope in a legend. I understand Subaru's dark and sinister side well and I can say that this boy has really improved, especially since he is looking for a small glimmer of light in his black pit of despair to save Yui.

Maybe we can say that this is not something important because all the boys did it. But if we have a brief overview of their behavior in the first seasons, we will realize that this progress is really admirable. Especially about Subaru. who is ready to believe a fairy tale even if it seems ridiculous to him to save Yui.

After the flashback, as usual, a normal routine begins, which is very annoying in Subaru's opinion. Why? Because, as usual, Yui puts the wishes of others before het own, and this is what torments Subaru the most. It's not like Yui can reject others' requests very easily like Subaru, but this is what Subaru expects from her.

For Yui, it doesn't matter what time of day or what day it is. In any case, she accepts others' requests and this can have two reasons. Fear of punishment or kindness and naivety. I myself prefer to say the second case. Of course, I don't deny that Yui is afraid of punishment because she has gone through a great journey with the boys and endured severe torture from them. But if we take a look at Yui's life, we will realize that she has always been like this. Not just about boys but about all people. For example, if someone makes a request to her, she nods her head with kindness and a sweet smile, rather than rejecting the request. And this is what Yui is and makes it stand out from the rest and be special. She does not expect anything from anyone and does work for them without regret.

But apparently Subaru is not happy about this and blames Yui for paying so much attention to the wishes of others. I will put my thoughts at the feet of Subaru's jealousy. Subaru, as someone who has never seen the love of his mother and suffered a lot because of his mother's bipolarity, does not want to lose someone who really loves him from the bottom of her heart. Maybe Subaru is afraid that Yui will turn away from Subaru's love like his mother and stop loving him. It can be said that this is normal from a boy who wants nothing from life but love.

When Subaru decided to punish Yui, Yui's trembling and weakness scared him a lot. This means that even if Subaru is rough with Yui or angry at her, the first and last thing he thinks of is Yui and he never wants to lose her. At that moment, Yui's illness was not very serious, and only a simple tremor in Yui's body made Subaru panic. Because Subaru sees his own life in Yui's life.

Realizing that Yui only listens to others' requests because of her loyalty to Subaru so that they don't drink Yui's blood makes Subaru regret and you can understand this regret in his words. Subaru doesn't express his apology in words and tries to show with his behavior that he is sorry and this is because he is a little shy.

After Subaru notices Yui's absence at school, he decides to skip classes and return home. Well, I never thought of Subaru as a responsible person, so it's quite normal that he worries about Yui more than school, even if he thinks Yui's illness isn't too serious.

But in any case, Subaru is upset with Yui for not telling him about her bad health. When it comes to Yui, Subaru never likes to fall behind his brothers, that's why the fact that he found out about this later than Ayato bothered him a lot. It can be said that Subaru is somehow jealous that he is not as close to Yui as Ayato because only Ayato is in the same class with Yui and he found out about Yui's situation earlier.

Maybe we find it very funny that Subaru is angry with Yui for such a small matter. But don't underestimate the Tsundere boy. When it's Yui, he gets jealous very easily.

In any case, the fact that Yui hid her illness from Subaru upsets Subaru more. You can understand that Subaru wants Yui to feel comfortable with him and not to hide anything from him. Because Yui is the only person that Subaru trusts and Subaru wants Yui to feel the same way about him.

But it was very interesting to me that Subaru called Yui unlucky because she has Cordelia's heart and is chosen as the legendary Eve. Because many people consider Yui lucky to have Cordelia's heart and it is because of Cordelia's heart that she is still alive. Well, with Subaru's words, we realize that this thinking is completely wrong. Cordelia's heart did not save Yui, but her kindness and wonderful personality and her golden heart made her survive until now. Otherwise, the boys would have killed her a long time ago. Apart from that, Yui is not lucky to have Cordelia's heart. On the contrary, she is very unlucky. Because Cordelia's heart has only taken away her freedom and happiness, and also her life. It is not easy at first glance, but if we pay close attention, we will realize that Yui was chosen because of having Cordelia's heart and fell into this hellish life. Something Subaru confirms here. Having Cordelia's heart has caused Yui to be hurt by many people and her life becomes shorter and shorter. Well, this is not something that can be called happiness or good luck, but it is exactly the opposite of this obvious example of bad luck.

Yui's thinking is different because her heart made her meet Subaru. Well, maybe this is normal from Yui. After all, she is the girl who easily forgives others and forgets their mistakes. This even makes Subaru upset about it. Because he knows Yui deserves more than this. Yui's kindness and compassion only hurts herself and this is what upsets Subaru.

I can say that just like Reiji, Subaru believes that not only himself, but this world needs a person like Yui, and this thought gives him the motivation to try to save her life.

I cried after Yui donated her blood to Subaru despite her illness. Yui is not in good health and is worried about Subaru's bad mood. She blames herself for not being able to offer her blood to Subaru.

After drinking Yui's blood, Subaru talks about its strange taste and it is here that Yui becomes disappointed. Not because she is sick, but because her blood is no longer special. I can understand why Yui was upset about this.

Yui has suffered the most severe torture and punishment from these boys and if we remember the first CDs and games, almost all the boys have told Yui several times that the only thing that makes Yui special is her blood and Or all her value is because of her blood and she has no value and blah blah blah.... Honestly, if I didn't know Yui well, I would say to myself that she was just disappointed by all this and decided to deal with her fate. But now that I know het well, I realize that she accepts this issue not for herself but for the person she loves.

She thinks that if all her worth is in her blood, then she will give her last drop to someone she loves, and it doesn't matter what happens to her, and it doesn't matter if she enters a hellish life. She thinks that the boy she loves has suffered enough, and if her blood makes him even a little bit happier, she will give it to him, even if she has to endure a terrible life.

This was exactly what made Subaru angry. He hates Yui's behavior. That Yui doesn't care about herself at all and she doesn't care what will happen to her. Don't do this, Subaru wants to scream at the top of his lungs. "You are worth more than me and my brothers. You deserve a better life. You should worry about your health and life, not that your blood is no longer special. Think about yourself, not worthless creatures like us."

It's hard for Subaru to express these feelings in words, that's why he just yells.

In any case, Subaru tries his best to save Yui. He apologizes to her and tells her that "I don't care about your blood at all. Your existence is precious to me. You were the one who saved me from the monster inside me and that's why you are dear to me."

Subaru sees his own life in Yui's. Because Yui was the only girl who did not look at him with the eyes of a monster and understood the goodness and beauty inside him and called him beautiful. Subaru does everything to save her. And when he sees that Reiji is useless, he gives his hope to the legends, even if this legend is not true, but it gives him a small hope that Subaru will try his luck. Because Yui is the only person he never wants to lose.

How does Subaru describe Yui's fake coma to keep herself alive?

"Your heart is not beating. Your skin was white as if you were really dead. At that moment, my heart stopped. I would give anything for you to breathe again. my foot, my hand, my arm....everything."

This sentence simply describes that if Yui disappears from this world, Subaru will also disappear. If Yui doesn't live in this world, Subaru has no reason to stay in this world. This simply shows that Subaru loves Yui more than his own life, that he is willing to give his whole being to Yui so that she can live and breathe.

Yui considers Subaru to be kind, but why does Subaru not approve of Yui's thinking. Because Subaru simply knows that he will never be as kind as Yui. Yui is willing to sacrifice her life to make the person she loves happy, but Subaru wants to sacrifice his life to be satisfied and happy, so Subaru considers himself selfish, not kind.

Subaru doesn't like churches, but he's willing to take her to church to make Yui happy. The church where they first met, and according to Subaru, both of them have changed a lot since then.

In any case, Subaru is not willing to watch Yui die and even if he can't find a magical fruit to replace Yui's heart, he is willing to give his heart to Yui. And he does it for himself, not Yui. He can't live in a world without Yui and that's why he wants to keep her alive at any cost.

Honestly, I find this very kind of Subaru. In any case, even if he is not alive, he knows that his heart will beat in the body of the girl he loves. Yui might cry, but as Subaru said, if you don't want to lose me, you need to know how I feel. Subaru doesn't want to lose Yui either.

Yui is precious to Subaru. More than anyone and anything else. Yui is the rose that shines in the dark for Subaru and makes him smile. Yui is a treasure that Subaru never wants to lose. Even if he gives his life to Yui.

How Subaru survived the loss of his heart left a lot of questions, but I think the ending was more symbolic. A symbol of a bridegroom who surrendered to the pure love of a girl.

#diabolik lovers #dialovers #subaru sakamaki #sakamaki subaru #yui komori #komori yui #yui x subaru #subaru x yui #subayui #diabolik lovers drama cd #drama cd analyze #drama cd

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beliscary · 8 months

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ladyhawke au ladyhawke au ladyhawke au thinkinggggg

-i'm imagining the setting is sort of canon but all the furniture is three inches to the left?? -dion is stuck as bahamut in the daylight and terence is a fox during the night (he's got a black and silver coat aaaa) -the curse isn't placed on them out of romantic jealousy but more of a punishment for "misplaced loyalties" "dereliction of duty" etc -like. we're not gonna kill your lover we're going to keep him alive and any chance of you ever giving him his life back or looking into his human eyes again depends on you :) -"this is the path your lives would have taken anyway. it could never have been. only when you learn it can you feel the sun on your face again and he be saved from this sorry fate" kinda thing -terence was mega fired and also sentenced/cursed by cardinal firing squad so no one person could have the blame in bahamut's eyes. don't ask me how, dragons are out here drinking crystal juice ok just let me have this -oh god do they both have ticking curse timers on them now....? dion for sure. it goes slower but it's still happening -kihel is their go between :D girl you gotta help terence convince dion to defect i s2g

#doodle tag #dion saying isabeau's bomb ass line is my favorite dion i've ever drawn #teredion #dion lesage #sir terence #ffxvi

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shibaraki · 2 years

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HONEY TRAP ┊ AIZAWA SHOUTA

tags: suggestive, GN reader, mild descriptions of violence (excessive force + dislocation of shoulder), reader is a vigilante (with unnamed quirk), brief criticisms of hero system and quirk discrimination, sexual tension, strangers (enemies?) to lovers, kissing, morally grey relationship

wc: 2.3k

If it weren’t for the shift in atmosphere, you wouldn’t have ever known he was near. You can feel how the dipole between your bodies pulls taut, a frisson of excitement dipping the length of your spine. There’s an inexplicable magnetism begging to close the distance, an urge you want to indulge in but can’t, lest you have your arms broken three different ways.

Instead you acknowledge him quietly, a breathless murmur, “Eraserhead”.

You’ve been trying to bait him for over a week now. The initial embarrassment of it soon dissolved and you’d become admittedly shameless about using his patrol routes, even going as far as replicating his personal ciphers on every villain you apprehended so he would receive credit. He’s a stubborn man, busy too, so you knew you’d have to shorten his wick enough that he felt compelled to deal with you himself.

“This was all a bit much, don’t you think?” he rasps.

There’s a low drawl to his voice, an air of sarcasm that releases the tension in your shoulders. You’re poised on the rooftops edge overlooking Naruhata, crouched with fingers hooked like talons into the brick wall, ready to leap over to the next building if his patience wore thin. Eraserhead was known for being more lenient on vigilantes than his daylight counterparts, but you also knew he wasn’t one for nonsense or disruption in his work. Both of which you were skilled at.

At the very least, he didn’t seem angry. Exasperated at most — and you can’t help but to latch onto the slight endearment in his tone. “I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at,” you reply blithely.

He huffs, but it sounds suspiciously like a laugh, “This one-sided cat and mouse game you’re playing is becoming a nuisance”.

You feel yourself pouting, avoiding his gaze and focusing on the streets below. Illuminated by dim white light, throngs of people stumble home arm in arm, pink cheeked and loose lipped. The night is cold, and you envy the sake warming their veins.

“Mean,” you murmur, relinquishing some of your inner restraint to cast him a sidelong glance. He’s closer than you thought, standing two feet away with his arms folded across his chest. Despite your vision being adjusted to the darkness he still appears like a shadow. You’re surprised he hasn’t fallen into a defensive stance, nor does he have a hand ready on his capture weapon.

Egregious yellow goggles pushed up onto his crown, dark hair no longer curtaining his face, this might be the most you’ve truly seen of him. The first time you crossed paths he’d wasted no time in grappling you; the scarf had been around your ankle and violently sweeping you off your feet without preamble. Though you couldn’t blame him, he had found you in a small warehouse full of Trigger after all.

Eraser readily dislocated your shoulder that day, seating himself on your back to keep you pinned as you explained what you were doing there, ignorant to the pain. Just reconnaissance, just gathering information to hand off to the police anonymously, nothing more. At that point you’d only been participating in vigilantism for half a year, having slowly worked yourself up from good deeds that escalated with each favour. Every fight, every win, every life saved filled your belly until you were drunk with it.

He didn’t believe a thing you said, but before he could interrogate you any further the yakuza lackeys had returned for the goods. You ran after helping to disarm them and felt the phantom of his weight for weeks.

Admittedly, you were more than a little intrigued. The way he’d incapacitated you — bowing forward to speak roughly into your ear, his stubble scratching the cartilage as he spoke — still lingered under your bedsheets. By the third meeting he had taken to reminding you of the law. You appreciated that it felt informative, from a place of concern rather than condescension, but you were well aware of the legalities and told him as such. By the fifth he seemed resigned to accepting your tenacity, instead criticising the makeshift armour you wore for protection and asking about your quirk.

Seeking infrared eyes over the lower half of the Oni mask worn to conceal your identity, you’d curved forward into his space until your chests touched. “You sure want to know a lot about me, don’t you?”

He didn’t take well to flirting or to sudden contact, you learnt that sooner rather than later. Less that he didn’t like it, more that he didn’t know what to do about it. The broad, stern and scary Eraserhead would tuck his expression away behind his scarf with shoulders hunched to his ears, and your heart would swell.

You didn’t get to see each other as often as you’d like. A few times a month at most. But with each encounter came the slow acknowledgment of a real, tangible connection between the two of you. He still manhandled you on occasion, amidst the adrenaline. Restrained or pushed aside whenever you got too reckless. Sometimes you bruised and sometimes you didn’t — you would exaggerate the injury regardless, and he would play along knowing it was a lie, just for the excuse to touch you again.

Last you saw him, the months long build up crested. You’d removed your mask and kissed him, caked in dirt and blood in your teeth. He’s been avoiding you ever since.

Thus, you turned to drastic measures.

“This is hardly one sided,” you grin behind the mask and hope he can see it in your squint, “you chased me down in the end, like you always do”.

“Forced me up here kicking and screaming more like,” he grumbles. The sole of his boots scuff against gravel once he approaches, the soft hair at your nape standing on end. You allow yourself to straddle the border of the roof as Eraser mirrors you, relaxed by his usual demeanour. No cuffs, no anger, no sign of taking you in. Just him, exactly how you wanted.

“If you keep this up Tsukauchi will have you taken into custody. You've escalated. The villain you intercepted yesterday will never be able to use his right arm again,” he warns.

Feigning innocence, you shrug under his pointed stare, extending your leg to gently nudge his calf. He doesn’t move away. “Good. Should’ve been both, so he’ll never put his hands on someone without their consent again,” you reply.

He hums, the sound reverberating over distant drunken laughter. “That’s not your call,” turning his body to observe the group as they stumble past, you think he’s inclined to agree with you, even if he can’t say it.

“Then who’s call is it?” you exhale through the frustration, “sure as shit isn’t the daylights. Patrolling here gets them no coverage”.

You feel him push back against your foot, rubbing along your ankle. “It’s not your call,” he reiterates, soft but firm with his instruction. “I don’t disagree, and I’ll gladly leave you to it with the excuse of self defence. But I can’t do anything once you’re arrested for using a quirk with intent to cause grievous bodily harm”.

This is starting to sound frustratingly familiar. “You don’t know that, you’ve never even seen me use it. It could be that I don’t have one at all”.

That gives him pause. He blinks away the dry irritation, brow pinched with genuine contemplation. “You’re quirkless?” he asks.

“Would it be a problem for you if I was?” you return sharply, a test of the waters. You liked him, attractive and reluctantly indulgent with you as he was; most of all you enjoyed how different he seemed in comparison to any other hero you knew. Sometimes you could see yourself reflected in him, as if you were both closer to the blurred line than you realised.

It would be disappointing if he held baseless prejudice.

But where another might begin to spew insults or back away with uninformed fear, he is so clearly searching for the right thing to say. “Of course it wouldn’t. Obviously you’re more than capable without,” he blinks again as a chill is blown across the roof, sweeping the clouds above along with it and deepening the shadows beneath his eyes. “I’m just curious”.

You nod, his answer relieving the defensive tension that had slowly wound itself back into your limbs. “You know, centuries ago humans made it to space. They climbed mountains and explored the oceans all without quirks…” a wistful air imbues your rambling, fingers wrung together and fidgeting in what felt like an unusually intimate moment. “I’m not quirkless, but I don’t rely on it all that much. I’m more than just that”.

The corner of his mouth curves upwards and he regards you tenderly. “You really are something else,” he mutters, “I wish you’d stop being so careless”.

Drawn towards the warmth in his voice, you stretch across to brace your palms atop the weathered edge, closing the distance. He doesn’t flinch. “Worried that you’d miss me if something happened?” you ask, tilting your head to play coy.

“No,” he says, though it doesn’t hurt, because he’s leaning forward, imperceptibly, just enough that your lungs stutter. “Though I’m sure you would miss causing me problems”.

“You like it though”.

His jaw shifts, cheeks slightly pink and chill-bitten as he snorts, “Jury’s still out”.

“Mean,” you quietly repeat, the old brick sharp beneath the pads of your fingers the more pressure you give. The only obstruction now is your mask; you reach behind your head to loosen the strap, letting it fall and hang against your sternum. Left behind is a tight sensation over the bridge of your nose, where the plastic had cut into skin.

“If not, then why are we still sitting here? Shouldn’t you be putting me in cuffs?”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

His stare lingers where you wet your lips, still wearing a barely there smile on the end of an amused exhale. You don’t know him all that well — don’t really, truly know the person that he is underneath the hero Eraserhead — but you can gather that he’s a man of few words. The subtle kindling of want in his expression tells you plenty.

“I guess you’ll just have to shut me up”.

His fingers are rough along your inner wrist as he idly traces the length of your forearm. You’re still steeped towards him, waiting as he weighs the consequences. If anyone were to peer up at the skyline, they’d find two solid silhouettes turned into one another, teetering on the edge of something more.

“Any way I can do that without jeopardising my hero licence?”

“You could be a coward and run off like last—!”

Your lips part minutely as his nose bumps your cheek, nuzzling gently into the skin. Eraser lingers there, his breath ghosting the exposed curve of your throat, purposefully slow to unwind the spool of heat in your belly. Pressing a barely-there kiss by your mouth, you feel him grin at your sudden silence.

“Troublesome,” he rasps, hand rising to cup your jawline and keep you from chasing for more. “I don’t think you appreciate what a risk this would be for me”.

He’s big, warm and calloused; his hands say more about him than he realises. “I do because it’s exactly the same for me,” you sigh. Surrendering to his grip, you turn into the cradle of his palm like a contented cat, peering at him through half lidded eyes. “For all I know you were sent here to seduce me for information. Your charm has already tricked me into revealing my face”.

“That’s some imagination you’ve got,” his laughter rings in your ears, a low rumbling in his throat that leaves you aching. Eraser angles himself just right, still smirking as your mouths fit together. Any initial hesitance quickly dissipates, the seam of your lips parting to meet his tongue, the hand by your cheek sliding to rest searing against your throat with a thumb pressed to your pulse. Greed swells and you feel insatiable; senses heightened as the breeze passes, strumming your centre of gravity. You fist the fabric of his jumpsuit with a sharp inhale, first steadying yourself on the edge, then feeling the firm muscle behind it.

Cognisant of your precarious position, he wraps his other arm around your waist and cages you further into his space. You pull away for breath yet still whine his name in complaint — Eraser — and he clucks his tongue before dipping to briefly kiss you again, teasing and with finality. You knew he had to get back to his patrol, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.

“Aizawa,” he corrects. When you squint in confusion he adds, “next time call me Aizawa”.

“Aizawa,” you mumble, rolling the name around your tongue and understanding the weight of what it means to hold it. Next time, he’d said. You watch him get back to his feet with a sense of restlessness, but the trust he’s given you is enough to sate the dissatisfaction. “Is it really alright for you to tell me that?”

He glances back at you, all teeth as he readies himself to jump over to the next roof, “Why, should I be scared?”

Following his leave you bring your mask up to cover the lower half of your face, and subsequently, your lovesick grin. Just as the clasp is secured at the back of your head, a drunken brawl begins in the narrow alley across the street. In your descent, you can’t help but to laugh at his parting words.

“If anyone’s the honey trap here, it’s you”.

#bnha x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa x reader #mha x reader #m.aizawa

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cakeboxie · 2 months

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A future to hope(?) for/The looming dread of horrors you can’t yet fathom

In which Zevlor (unwillingly) thinks through the course of his life, and fights the urge to set a perfectly innocent book on fire.

Tw. unprocessed trauma resurfacing at inopportune times, vomit + graphic nausea, inconsistent/failing memory, victim blaming (on himself,) abuse, graphic depiction of a panic attack, implied death, self hatred.

(Yall can thank @hallowsden for this btw, she had the idea of Zevlor having visions of his future that this entire fic revolves around)

The little pad of parchment in his hands taunts him. His name messily embroidered in the leather. (And the name of his baby sister below it. Guilt crawls up his spine as he turns it over, one name of too many lost.)

On its backside is a moon, the embroidery much cleaner, in the same yarn the book was bound in. It’s aged leather burns his hands, yet his calloused skin is not marred.

This first of many dream journals, and idea of his mother from when the dreams, or perhaps more accurately, visions began.

He remembered this one well, or did he? Was this truly the first? Surely not, (it is) surely he should toss it to the fire and dig up the true original. (He doesn’t)

“Momma- I had a funny dream!”

“Is that so sweetling? What was it about?”

(His head spins, he tosses the book onto his desk as he tries desperately to find the sound of her voice in the haze. It doesn’t come, only the words, flat and empty. He pushes on.)

“I was a hellrider! I had one of the big swords an’ everything!”

“Ooh you should tell your father, i’m sure he’d be more than happy to teach you to wield a sword.”

(An old scar, imperceptible under a myriad of newer ones, aches anew. The timbre of his fathers voice rings clear as daylight between his ears as an intense wave of nausea crashes over him, he cannot run. He pushes on.)

He sees himself, barely 5 years old then, running to his father. He scolds himself for his impatience, he should’ve known better than to disrupt him.

His memory jumps (thank gods) to years later, he’s almost as tall as his mother now.

“Momma I had another dream!”

Concern etched into her brow, his baby sister sleeps in her arms. (What did she look like..? The face forms slowly, older than she was then? Before he can stop it the face of her corpse is plastered onto the memory. The nausea climbs further up his throat, he swallows thickly, and he pushes on.)

“Hopefully not another nightmare..?”

“I dunno, it wasn’t a good dream, wasn’t bad either? I was old, older then you n’ dad. But I was… sad? My chest hurt like I was sad, but I couldn’t cry like when you’re sad.”

(Should he be crying? Has he not done enough?)

Her expression is complicated (she knows the word loneliness, he realizes that he did not) she reaches into the bedside table, the book now in front of him, the cover is blank.

“You remember when we found out about your sister, and I told you I might not have time for your dreams all the time?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, I think since you’ve been having so many not good, but not bad dreams you should try writing them down.”

His sister stirs in her arms. The memory falls away as her burnt flesh warps into something akin to an open mouth. He can’t look away, she cries for his help, for their mother, for peace. Her voice swallows him, and he’s out of his seat and retching into his chamber pot before he's consciously aware of having moved.

Time crawls, his entire body aches as he lets himself lay flat on the floor. He is safe here at least (he is not- he needs to run? Run where? Away, he can’t help her- he can’t help any of them. Pathetic oathbreaker he is he can’t save them.)

He wheezes, feels it more than hears it, barely even that over the thundering of his heart. It’s all a world away now. He realizes slowly that he is afraid, though he knows not what is causing it. A thick layer of mud between him and his body, he is afraid. He is afraid? He is afraid.

The book, it’s in his hand? Maybe not, his senses come to him slowly. His throat aches, has he been screaming? Or perhaps just sobbing. The nausea wanes and he sits up slowly, his body protests, he pushes on.

The acrid smell of bile hits him finally as he sits fully upright. The nausea returns. His body doesn’t have the energy to make him throw up again, does it? Hopefully not.

The book?

The book.

It used to have a latch, he thinks. One of them certainly did. A gift from a friend (don’t think about faces don’t think about faces don’t think about faces-)

His writing is cleaner than he expected, as far as expected for a child that is.

‘Momma says i’m supposed to write my dreams down. I think its silly, but if she thinks it’ll help I’ll try!’

It it silly? Maybe he should start a new dream journal, commission dammon to make the latch, he must know a leatherworker for the cover. He could bind it himself, he’s sure-

Off track. He’s off track. Flip the page.

‘I didn’t like this dream. It was so hot, I was tired, but I wasn’t allowed to stop. It was like when-’

Avernus. Flip the page.

Flip the page.

‘My chest hurt this time, it was hot again.’

Avernus. Flip the page.

‘There was a lot of screaming too, I don’t know who was screaming.’

He should flip the page.

‘A little kid with one eye was staring at me, maybe she was screaming?’

FLIP THE PAGE

‘I’ve been stabbed, it wasn’t like that kind of hurt. It was deep between my ribs, like something was missing?’

FLIPTHEPAGEFLIPTHEPAGEFLIPTHEPAGE

His chest aches

Deep beneath his ribs

Like something’s missing.

He sees himself, sitting on the floor of his office, is it his office? His room? He’s not wholly sure actually, he was so focused on the visions he’d not fully processed how far he’d moved when he saw his si-

(DON’T THINK ABOUT FACES YOU PATHETIC WHELP)

Yes, pathetic. A feeble excuse of a paladin, a worse leader, he feels his breathing get heavy again.

He flips the page, and with it he is unceremoniously stuffed back into his corpse. Again, nausea, again, he pushes on.

‘I start martial training today! Real martial training! Not just father yelling at me and hitting me with sticks and stuff, I’ll get to use a real sword! I think I will anyway.’

That at least gives him a reference for how long it’s been, did he really use this journal for that long? He was 16 that day.

‘I don’t like the commander. He reminds me of father, mother says that’s a good thing. I do hope he actually teaches me something.’

He was taught plenty, a firm hand did him wonders.

Did his father not have a firm hand?

Perhaps he did, but his father said little to help him parse his mistakes.

When did he stop calling them dad and momma?

(When did he start forgetting things?)

Flip the page.

He’s at the end of the book.

The end of the book? There were many years of visions, they only recently stopped, he thinks in passing that it’s because he’s fast approaching the end of his life. Just over a decade between him and the average lifespan of a healthy tiefling, he’s hardly healthy, perhaps kelemvor will weigh his soul sooner for that.

… of all things to ponder and not react strongly to his own looming mortality certainly is something.

Perhaps he is just exhausted.

He lays back on the ground where he sat. He is home, he may lay wherever he likes. (A strange anxiety claws at him anyway)

His visions from when he was at the grove pull themselves to the front of his mind. Did he see this perhaps? A mess of a man laid on the floor focusing extraordinarily hard on not hyperventilating (again)

He didn’t.

He saw the pod though, of being an absolute thrall. The gap in his chest “filled” (filled with deceit and gore, ripped further open with dirty claws.)

He's glad of all things, of hundreds- perhaps thousands of visions he had been able to decipher that one. The first and last one he’d been able to.

He still couldn’t save them, he knew of her lies and he still fell to the influence of a tadpole he didn’t yet have. (And would never receive)

He sighs, and closes his eyes a moment, don’t think of faces.

Who are you looking at? His face is familiar yet distant, it’s been an age since you’ve seen him. (Has it?)

Halsin? Halsin. Former Archdruid, one of the group you have to thank for your (pathetic, doomed) life.

He is sad? He has certainly been crying. You are comfortable, your chest nor joints ache, there’s a soft pressure beneath you. Like a comfortable bed, but it presses too close to your shoulders to be a bed.

You are tired.

Another looks down at you, pale as a ghost. The vampire, you think. His name eludes you. You feel guilty, it passes quickly, as does he.

You are tired.

Yet another, with a false eye, Wyll. He smells of Avernus, the smell is uncomfortable but somehow not unpleasant. Then another behind him quickly, one horn and a booming voice. You can’t hear their words, but they’re both crying.

You are tired.

More come and go, you are tired. You cannot move, cannot blink. (Are your eyes even open?)

(they are now)

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up more sore than he wanted, with an awful headache and an odd, comforting calm. It’s rare that he doent’t remember his dreams, typically they sit vivid in his mind like memories would. He stands slowly, anticipating the nausea, the dizziness, the ache.

Nothing.

He pours out his chamber pot and returns it to its usual spot. The book remains on the ground.

He considers leaving it there, before tucking it into his desk.

His ribs begin to ache, it's manageable now. He’s not sure what changed.

As usual, he pushes on.

Part of @eveningatthemoviesnetwork

Taglist: @yarnnerdally • @starrry-angel • @yuelqnn • @yeonpm

Wanna be added? Send me an ask off anon and lmk if you want to be on the sfw only list!

#cakewrites #zevlor bg3 #bg3 zevlor #theres hellgrove if you squint #eveningatthemoviesnetwork

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sixpossumsinatrenchcoat · 4 months

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Memories of Defeat (part 2 of 3)

Siffrin self-destructs. The party phones a friend. (You can start from ch 1 here.)

“Hmmm…" The star strokes their shattered-glass chin. "I’m not sure it’s my place to tell you. Haha, just kidding!! Siffrin’s business is my business! They’re my special little guy!’ Isabeau turns pale. “Y-You and Sif…” “Mm~hmmmm?” “Are you—um. Were you two—” “—lovers?” the star gasps, clutching their pearls. “Are you asking if my sweet little Stardust and I have been carrying on a secret affair, right under your noses? Holding hands and stealing glances and, and… braiding each other’s hair under the stars?” They take one look at Isabeau and burst out laughing. “Oh, don’t look like that. I'm only teasing. I don’t even have hair! And Siffrin isn’t fit to be anyone’s lover. They’re more like my… hamster? My helpless little guy! I want to put him in a tank and feed them sunflower seeds! But he’s much too messed-up to date. I do have some standards.” Isabeau bristles. “Sif’s not messed up.” “Aw!” the stranger coos. “Even after all that stuff they said, you’re still so quick to leap to his defense! I guess it’s true what they say… Love sure makes you pathetic!” (“No one says that.”)

[spoiler warning for the entire game. i'm kinda beating a dead horse here but i don't intend to stop till i've reduced that horse to a mangled heap of pulp & powdered bone, so let me just say for the thousandth time this week: please please PLEASE go play In Stars And Time.]

There’s something— Someone? Someone impossible waiting under the Favor Tree. They’re mostly humanoid (or at least human-ish), with two arms and two legs in all the usual places. But where their face should be, there's only light. A shatter of blinding white, like catching sunlight in a shard of glass.

When they notice Isa and the others coming up the path, the impossible stranger’s face lights up. Literally. It’s a break in the clouds, clearing the way for an eye-watering sear of daylight. Isabeau shades his eyes, but not before the afterimage of that shattered-mirror smile is burned into the inside of his eyelids. Ow. And also: what????

Still blinking the sunspots out of his eyes, Isa elbows Mirabelle. “That’s… That’s not the King, right?”

“Definitely not,” Madame Odile says firmly.

“She’s right,” Mira agrees. She looks worried, but, to be fair, she almost always does. “All firsthand accounts agree that the King is enormous. And he’s… human, still. Even after everything. I’m not sure what that, um, creature is, but it certainly doesn’t look human.”

“Gasp!!” the stranger shouts—like, they actually shout the word ‘gasp.’ “Excu~use me!! I’m right here, you know! With perfectly functional ears, probably!”

Isabeau sets his jaw. He doesn’t really have room for any more surprises. It’s barely 9 am and he’s already exhausted. Can you blame him? It’s finally time to fight the King, and Siffrin is gone.

Maybe they had a good reason. Maybe something came up that seemed more important than saving the entire country. Or maybe they used up all their fighting spirit going all scorched-earth on the whole party’s morale. Excavating Isabeau’s darkest fears and doubts and second-guesses and forging them into a sledgehammer to swing at him.

Of course Isabeau was hurt. He’s still hurt. Siffrin was being an asshole, apparently on purpose. But mostly he’s just… confused. Flattened and embarrassed and over-exposed. What’s that expression again? ‘The mortifying ordeal of being known’?

…Well. It was definitely crabbing mortifying.

The really messed-up thing was how different Sif felt. Like a stranger wearing someone else’s face. Siffrin said all that stuff and stormed off and left Isabeau wondering if he’d ever really known them at all. Did he even know anything about them? Where they came from; what they’d seen and done? No matter how hard he racked his brain, Siffrin’s story stayed a mystery. Like maybe the Sif that Isa knew had never existed at all.

Stop, Isabeau tells himself sternly. That’s obviously not helping. “So… what do we do?”

“You guys are being so lame!!!” Bonnie huffs impatiently. “I’m just gonna say hi!!!”

Before anyone can stop them, they’re already moving, so fast that they almost crash into the impossible stranger.

“Haha, hiii~!!” the stranger giggles, beaming down at them. “Hehe… This is a little awkward, isn’t it? It’s not exactly how I thought we’d meet. To be honest, I was sort of hoping to be introduced.”

“Oh,” Mira says delicately. “I’m. Um. Sorry to hear that?”

“What the crab are you?” Bonnie demands, less delicately.

For just a second, the stranger seems to flinch. But they recover so quickly that Isabeau can’t be sure that he saw it at all.

“Who, me?” The radiant stranger bats their half-moon eyes. “Ohh, no one, really! Just a… sort of a… friend of a friend, I suppose. Which is, haha, sort of what brings me here today! Because our mutual friend is… not doing very well.”

Isabeau’s stomach twists. “You’re talking about Sif.”

“Ahh, little Sif! Yes! Love the nickname; very cute, if a bit lacking in originality. But yes, you got it in one! He’s the one who’s, ah… well… you know. Sort of… blowing themself up. So to speak.”

“How do you know Sif?” Isabeau can tell that he’s talking too loud but, in his defense, it’s been a very stressful 24 hours. “If you’re his friend, why haven’t we heard of you?”

“You mean they never mentioned me?” the stranger gasps, clutching their pearls. They hold the pose for a beat before winking. “Teehee! I’m joking, of course. I know Siffrin doesn’t tell you anything.”

Isabeau is not an angry person. He's so not an angry person that it takes him a second to recognize the feeling. But it’s undeniable. Deep down in his guts, he wants to smash this thing to glitter.

He takes a breath, lets it out. “…What is Sif to you?”

“Oh.” The impossible stranger blinks. “Huh. You know, I have no idea how to answer that.”

“You could try the truth?”

“Ohh, but that would be far too easy, wouldn’t it? Why, that’d be no fun at all! Besides, I’m not sure it’s really any of your business, teehee!”

Isabeau doesn’t even notice his hand curling into a Rock sign until Odile grabs it and pries it open.

“Get ahold of yourself,” she snaps. “And stop—feeling so much. You're encouraging them. ”

“But they—”

“I’m very much aware of that, yes. And you,” rounding on the stranger. “What’s wrong with Siffrin? In ten words or less. Do not waste our time.”

“Well!” the glittering stranger giggles. “Ma’am yes ma’am, I’m sure! I suppose I'd better get straight to it!” They frown for a moment, considering, and then count the words off on their fingers. “‘Siffrin is looping in time.’ Ooh, that was only five! Only half of what you offered! Do I get a prize?”

“There’s no prize,” Odile says harshly.

Isabeau’s head is spinning. Looping in… “What do you mean, looping in time?”

“Ooh, I’d just love to explain! But alas,” flinging a wrist over their eyes, “I’m only permitted five more words! Unless… Do you know what? I think I can work with that. How about… ‘Years of the same two days.’ —Ohhh, nooo, that was six, wasn’t it? Stars, how embarrassing!! You’ll think I can’t even count!!!”

Isabeau’s eyes narrow. There’s that word again. Stars. The sparks of light in the black of night; the way they glitter and blink… The stranger’s shattered-glass face flickers in almost the exact same way.

“No more word limits,” Madame Odile says coldly. “Tell us what you know.”

###

“...‘Looping in time,’” Mirabelle says numbly. She’s said the same thing at least a dozen times already. Probably hoping that, if she says it enough, it’ll start to make sense. (Not that it seems very likely.)

“Mhm, yup! Just the same two days, over and over and over again till all the words have lost their meaning! One great big dissociative fugue!”

“You’re lying,” Isabeau growls. “Sif wouldn’t hide something like that.”

“Wouldn’t they?” the star asks slyly. “How well do you know them, really? Where are they from? Do they have any siblings? Pets? Pastimes? Past crimes? What sort of work did he do, before he started traveling?”

No one answers.

“Well?” Gesturing imperiously with one coal-black hand. “Go on, then! It’s not a rhetorical question—I'm really looking for an answer! Can you tell me anything about them that you didn’t see firsthand?”

There's a weighty silence.

“Ah,” the star says sympathetically. “I see. So you don’t really know anything about them at all. Almost as little as they know about themself, teehee!”

“Excuse me,” Madame Odile cuts in. “I’m sorry, but this is absurd. Are we really going to indulge this? One of the fundamental forces that govern our world, rewriting itself? No one’s ever proven that Time Craft is even possible. Any prospective wielder would be killed on the spot.”

“U-Um,” Mirabelle whispers. “Except for, um… well. The King, freezing Vaugaurde in time… Isn’t that arguably, sort-of Time Craft? And Siffrin has been sort of…”

“Callous?” the star suggests. “Ruthless? As conscientious as the average battering ram? So emotionally erratic as to appear utterly unrecognizable?”

Isabeau winces. Because… yeah. Yes. That pretty much sums it up.

The star frowns thoughtfully. “Hmm! I wonder what could have happened to make little Siffrin change so radically overnight! It’s almost as though they’d gone through a traumatic experience that no one else remembers! Like these past two days passed very, very differently for them than the rest of the world!”

…It is sort of like that, isn’t it.

Isabeau’s self-control snaps. “How???”

“Great question! I’d love to learn the answer someday!”

Ugh. Then… “How long?”

The star strokes their shattered-glass chin. “Hmmm… I’m not sure it’s my place to tell you. —Haha, just kidding!! Siffrin’s business is my business! They’re my special little guy!’

Isabeau turns pale. “Y-You and Sif…”

“Mm~hmmmm?”

“Are you—um. Were you two—”

“—lovers?” the stranger gasps, clutching their pearls. “Are you asking if my sweet little Stardust and I have been carrying on a secret affair, right under your noses? Holding hands and stealing glances and, and… braiding each other’s hair under the stars?” They take one look at Isabeau and burst out laughing. “Oh, don’t look like that. I'm only teasing. I don’t even have hair! And Siffrin isn’t fit to be anyone’s lover. They’re more like my… hamster? My helpless little guy! I want to put him in a tank and feed them sunflower seeds! But he’s much too messed-up to date. I do have some standards.”

Isabeau bristles. “Sif’s not messed up.”

“Aw!” the stranger coos. “Even after all that stuff they said, you’re still so quick to leap to his defense! I guess it’s true what they say… Love sure makes you pathetic!”

“No one says that,” Isa mutters.

“But sure, I’ll tell you! Who’s gonna stop me?” The star winks. “This is, hmm, maybe their… 123th loop? 133th? It’s hard to keep count, if I’m honest! Every time I take my eyes off him, he just keeps on dying! I mean, really! Even babies have some sense of self-preservation! At a certain point, it’s just sad!”

Isabeau feels his blood go cold. It’s just— If that were true, then Sif would have been lost in time for the better part of a year. That’s longer than Isa’s even known them.

He flinches when a hand lands on his shoulder. Madame Odile.

“Are you going to keep it together?” she demands. Her mouth is pressed flat, her eyes cold.

“U-Um!!!” Mirabelle squeaks, slipping between them. “I think what she means is, are you, um, okay?”

(“That is in no way what I meant.”)

“Yeah,” Isabeau tells them both. He’s going to keep it together. And he’ll probably even be okay. Just as soon as he wraps his mind around the fact that Siffrin may or may not have been locked in time prison for months.

A shout from around hip-height jolts him back into the present.

“You guys are being so dumb!!!!” Bonnie says hotly. “Who even cares how it works!! Who cares about stupid science?? Frin’s in there doing something stupid, again!! Trying to get himself hurt, again, for no reason!!! So can we just go and save them already???”

…Oh. Yeah. Bonnie’s right, aren’t they? Whatever this entity might be, it’s no coincidence that they finally deigned to show themself right after Siffrin pushed everyone away. Sif is in trouble. And this time, they’re all alone.

The glittering stranger quirks an eyebrow. “From the mouths of babes, am I right?”

“I’m not a baby!!!!” Bonnie huffs. “I’m almost twelve!!!!”

“From the mouths of preteens,” the star concedes. “Well, then! By all means, let’s cut to the chase! Your Wanderer needs help. Whether you care to provide that help is, of course, another matter altogether.”

“Shut up,” Isabeau snarls. “You think we don’t care?”

“Well. They did do their level best to burn all their bridges, this time around.”

Mirabelle draws herself up to her full, extremely un-intimidating height. “And you think we’d turn our backs on a friend for something like that? They’re not going anywhere until I get an apology, thank you very much!!! Now are you going to help us or aren’t you?”

For just a second, the impossible stranger’s radiant face goes slack. Then their eyes crease, and their mouth curves up.

“Aw,” they say fondly. “Heroes. You’re all sooooo~ stupid. And!!” they add hastily, when the whole party opens their mouths to argue. “It’s just such a pleasure to, haha, uh, ‘meet’ you!! You can call me Loop, if you like. I’m a sort of friend of Siffrin’s. And of course, I’m here to help.”

###

The House is full of Siffrin’s ghosts. Remnants. Echoes of every time he’s ever died bloodily.

Odile flips a hidden switch and for just a second, Siffrin is standing in the center of the hall, smiling, holding out a thumbs up. And then with a terrible rumble of stone on stone, he’s crushed by a boulder the size of a city block. The clatter of falling rock is deafening, but not quite loud enough to drown out the wet crr–rrnch of splintering bone.

Isabeau looks down. There’s one small gloved hand poking out from under the stone. The index and middle fingers twitch and flick, like an ant that still hasn’t realized that it’s already cut in half.

—And then it’s gone. There's no blood on the floor. The boulder is only a boulder.

Deeper in, the halls throng with huge, oblong beads of floating water. The oilslick iridescence playing over the surface might be pretty, if it wasn’t so unsettling.

“I’d steer clear of that stuff, if I were you,” Loop’s voice suggests. “It could— Oh, never mind, my Stardust will show you.”

Sure enough, another phantom Siffrin is sauntering up to the Tear. They look over their shoulder and wink—(it’s a wink, not a blink; Isabeau can always tell)—before thrusting their arm inside. Their skin stiffens. Their stance hardens. The light drains from their eye—

—and they’re gone.

“Sooo, yeah!” Loop chirps. “That’s why we don’t do that.”

Isabeau watches Sif fall in a hundred ways. Crushed, fileted, asphyxiated. Mutilated. Obliterated. Siffrin smiles and smiles and dies. He winks and laughs and dies.

It’s not real, Isa reminds himself—except that it is. Or… was? If Loop is telling the truth, then Siffrin did die here, run through by the scythelike arm of the biggest Sadness that Isa’s ever seen. And here, with their own dagger buried to the hilt in their chest. Black blood trickling between his teeth as he tries his best to smile.

“Aww,” Loop’s voice says sympathetically. Apparently they can interject anytime, even though everyone else has to use the secret hand-sign. “I guess this explains why the poor little guy was so secretive! They knew how you’d react, if you learned the truth. I guess they really were protecting you, after all! I’ll have to apologize when we find them. Assuming they’re still, you know. Alive.”

Isabeau’s blood boils.

“Teehee! Aw, don’t worry! Not all of their deaths were so yucky! Most of them were quick and painless!”

“What does ‘most’ mean.”

“Ohhh, I don’t know… 60 or 70?”

“Percent?”

“Nope!”

…Right.

“But it couldn’t have been more than 30 that really hurt. Oh, unless you count… Hm. Do you know what? To be safe, I think we’d better make it 40.”

Isabeau’s head feels light. “Wh. What are the extra ten.”

“Oh! Well! That’s when they used the broken glass!”

“To do what.”

“Isabeau,” Odile says warningly.

“Well, to stab themself, of course! I remembered the times they used the knife, and when they got too impatient to finish off the King, but I forgot about the glass! As our mutual friend might say, I—teehee—I guess I ‘saw straight through it.’ You know, because it’s see-through? Oooh, we had such~ a big fight after that,” they add, dreamily. “I wouldn’t talk to them for a whole loop!”

Isabeau feels sick. He feels sick. He wants to throw up, but he’s pretty sure it’s not going to make him feel better.

“Aww!” Loop simpers. “Don’t worry, big guy!! They love you!!! All of you! Siffrin’s only trying to protect you! They’re just really, really, really-really bad at it.”

Isa doesn’t answer. He’s barely listening. He can’t seem to finish a thought, much less a sentence. They— Sif, they—

A small hand grabs hold of his and squeezes, hard. Mirabelle. Who else? She was always so much braver than the rest of them.

“We’ll talk to them soon,” she says firmly. “About—everything. And they’ll explain everything. And then—then we can decide how to feel. But there’s no use doing it now. We haven’t even saved them yet.”

“Belle’s right!!!” Bonnie shouts. “Stupid Loop is just messing with you, the same as Frin does! Except meaner! But maybe not meaner than yesterday because yesterday he was ackshly pretty mean!! But it’s okay, ‘cause people fight all the time, and then they make up and it’s fine! So stop being sad, stupid! You don’t even know what you’re spose to be sad about yet!!”

In spite of everything, a little giggle slips out of him. “Yeah. Y-Yeah! Sorry I, um… yeah.”

“Don’t be sorry!” Bonnie huffs. “Just don’t be stupid!!”

“Thanks, Bonbon. I’ll do my best.” He ruffles their hair fondly. “Good thing you’re so smart, huh?”

“I know!!!”

Isabeau darts a glance at Odile, who’s been worryingly quiet since they entered the House. “Um. Madame…?”

“Don’t distract me,” she snaps. “I’m trying to think.”

So that’s alright, then. All they have to do is save Sif, and everything will be okay.

###

When the party finally catches up, Siffrin is barely recognizable. It’s not just that he’s frozen in time: skin withered hard as tanned leather; his single eye matte-black as a chunk of rough-cut onyx. They’re also… shrunken. Diminished. Barely a shadow of their former self. They look half their normal size, which was already pretty crabbing small.

Isabeau can feel the fish heads curdle in his stomach. What could Sif have seen, to make them look like that? How long have they been trying and dying and fighting and dying alone, without anyone even seeing? Without anyone slowing down for long enough to notice?

…It doesn’t matter. This will be the last time. He’s going to make sure of it.

###

They beat the King, of course. There was never any other choice. (And also, Sif seems to have done an unsettlingly thorough job of kicking the snot out of him all by themself. By the time the rest of the party rolled up, they were really only picking up the pieces.)

The worst part is how confused Sif looks, when Mira wakes them up. How utterly, unconditionally floored. Like they were fully certain that their friends were just going to leave them to die. Sif opens his eye and stares at the others like he’s not sure they’re even real. Like he thinks they shouldn't have come at all.

Sif was always so excruciatingly expressive. It’s something Isa loves about them, normally. Now it means that he can see every emotion splashed stark across their face. Denial, disbelief. Roiling, sickening self-disgust.

They’re also in crabbing shambles. Sweat-slicked and feverish and knock-kneed as a colt. They take one step before their legs crumple like wet cardboard. Normally Isabeau is very careful about respecting Sif’s space, but he can’t just let them split their skull open on the cobblestone. He can’t stand the thought of them having to go through it all again.

...Sif really must be exhausted. When Isa slips an arm around their back and hoists them back onto their feet, they don’t even have the strength to pull away. They just sag against him, boneless.

Isabeau lets out his breath. They did it, didn’t they? They actually did it. The King is frozen in time, hoist on his own stupid crabbing petard. Sif is—alive, if not well. No one else has so much as a scratch on them. Which means that everything is fine, right? Everything is going to be okay. It’s finally, actually over.

###

But of course it isn't over.

you may have noticed that i’m not spending much time on any of the story beats that we got to see in-game! that’s bc i think this game is a fucking astounding feat of storytelling, and i just really don't have anything to add (at least when it comes to siffrin's arc). no sources of lingering dissatisfaction! no incongruence stuck in my craw! we already lived that shit in the first person!!! so i'll likely be skipping to postgame in ch 3. hopefully that makes sense & doesn't feel too anticlimactic! if u wanna know when I next update, feel free to subscribe to the series on ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/52448152/chapters/

#isat fanfic #isat spoilers #isat siffrin #isat isabeau #isat loop #look im not gonna write everyone's name but the gang's all here

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galaxymagitech · 4 months

Text

take a break (and maybe commit some arson)

Gift fic for @132132jebb! Part of the Batfam Secret Santa 2023, run by @wait-whos-batman. You can find it on AO3 here.

Requests: Tim Drake or Tim x Bernard; Fluff or Angst

Tim’s eyes are going blurry, he can’t remember the last time he’s has a sip of water or a wink of sleep, and he smells overwhelmingly like coffee and sweat. It’s gross, but Tim has bigger concerns right now. Bigger concerns like triangulating Killer Croc’s position in the sewers, solving the Riddler’s latest riddle, and figuring out what the heck is going on with the gangs in the Narrows, because something is off about them right now.

When he saves his latest attempt at locating Killer Croc on the Batcomputer, he finds that the program won’t run. Blinking, Tim tries again, letting his chin rest in his hand and his elbow slide down his desk. Suddenly, his screen goes dark. For a moment, Tim’s heart jolts, shocking him upright. And then he notices Oracle’s faceless symbol in the righthand corner of the screen. Tim groans as words appear at the bottom of the monitor.

GET SOME SLEEP, ROBIN

Blearily, Tim flips open his laptop and tries to log into his Wayne Enterprises account. As if the crimefighting issues weren’t enough, the gangs are doubly Tim’s responsibility. The Neon Knights are facing opposition at every turn from a new politician, and Tim is drowning in paperwork required just to keep the program afloat, let alone work on making the shelters safer for kids avoiding the CPP. If he can’t find the Rogues, at least he can help with this.

But he’s locked out of WE too. This time, he blames Tam. He’d always thought that if Barbara and Tam joined forces, they’d be terrifying. He supposes the universe is lucky that they just want Tim to sleep instead of harboring a secret desire to conquer the world, but…

…Tim doesn’t want to sleep right now. Or ever, if he can help it. Eventually, he’ll collapse, but he’ll remain productive for as long as he can. He shuffles over to the coffee maker, thinking. The Bats don’t keep paper records, not really, but Babs and Tam can’t keep Tim from going out in the field. Tim checks the time—8:32 AM. Well, Robin’s not supposed to be out in the daylight, but he knows Duke wouldn’t mind. Right? It’s not like Duke would know if Tim just did some reconnaissance.

Think of the vigilante and he shall appear. Duke walks into the Batcave, eating a muffin and glaring some sort of newscast on his phone. When he looks up, tucking his phone into his sweatshirt pocket, he sees Tim and does a double take. “Tim? Why’re you still up?”

“Working,” Tim says. “Until I got locked out. Hey, you wouldn’t mind if I went out during the day today, right?”

Duke squints at him suspiciously. “Why’d you get locked out?”

“Babs and Tam have strong opinions on sleep cycles, with which I disagree.”

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?” Duke asks.

“Uh…” Tim doesn’t know. He probably conked out for a bit yesterday—there’s just no way that writing a single project proposal took him four hours. But he doesn’t remember sleeping, so maybe he was just really distracted thinking about his—

—about his date with Bernard. Today. At noon. Tim scrubs a hand across his face. He’ll have to cancel. He can say it’s because he doesn’t feel safe with this many Rogues out—Tim is a prime target for kidnapping, after all. Tim hates lying to Bernard, but he needs to find Killer Croc and he needs to solve the riddle and he needs to get his paperwork in. And yeah, he feels bad because he cancelled his last date with Bernard, but Gotham comes first.

“Seriously, Tim, just get some sleep.”

“This is important,” Tim insists. “There are suspected Croc killings across the city, the Riddler’s getting impatient, the gangs are acting weird, Calendar Man is still at large, Green is attempting to destroy the Neon Knights program, and—”

“You’re not the only Bat,” Duke says. “We’re just as competent as you are and we can handle it while you rest. Trust us.”

Tim sighs. “Duke, I appreciate the sentiment, but—”

Duke shakes his head fondly. “But you’re going to ignore whatever I say and work yourself to death anyway.”

Tim doesn’t respond. He isn’t ignoring Duke, per say, but he’s not exactly listening to him either. Besides, Duke is younger than him, it’s not like Tim has to listen to him. And Tim disobeys Batman all the time, so… “I’ll be fine,” Tim says.

“Yeah, I know. But stay off the dayshift, I can handle it myself. See you around,” Duke says, waving as he heads over to the changing rooms.

Damn it.

Tim knows he can’t get around Oracle’s lockout on his account. He’d definitely be able to get around Tam’s, but…he has a better idea.

He logs out of the Batcomputer, ignoring Barbara’s ‘GOOD CHOICE.’ And then, grinning, he logs into Dick’s account.

Stealing Dick’s passwords is disturbingly easy. All he has to do was get Dick distracted in a conversation and he would forget that Tim had a reputation for this sort of thing. Tim could create a recursive password algorithm so that the passwords change each time, but…why would he do that when he has perfect access to Dick’s Batcomputer account? It’s not like he’s using it for anything bad. He’s not spying on Dick. He’s just circumventing attempts to force him to make good life choices!

Grinning, Tim opens up reports of dismemberment in the Diamond District and gets to work.

A little over an hour later, Dick’s motorcycle rumbles into the cave and he dismounts, pulling off his helmet to reveal giant bags under his eyes. “Tim?” Dick says, as if he’s not entirely sure he’s not hallucinating. Tim stays very still. Maybe Dick will think he’s just a hallucination.

Unfortunately, Tim has no such luck.

“Tim, don’t you have that thing today?”

“What thing?” Tim asks innocently.

“You have a date. In less than three hours. When did you last sleep?”

“I’m fine,” Tim says. “And I’m not going on the date. I have work to do.”

Dick sighs, walking over. “No, you have a date to go on. You told me how excited you were for this.” Tim shrugs. “Tim. You’re sixteen. Go on your date. I’ll take care of whatever you’re doing.”

“I can handle it,” Tim says.

“I’m sure you can. But you should be able to go have fun with your boyfriend.”

“Not when there are Rogues on the loose. If I waste even an hour, who knows what I could’ve accomplished in that time? How many lives I could’ve saved?”

Dick pulls up a chair and Tim groans. This is wasting so much time. “It’s not all on you, Tim. You need to take a break.”

“You’re one to talk,” Tim says. “How long’s it been since you last slept?” Dick does not respond. “Yeah, I thought so. Please, I can handle this, Dick.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“Well, I do.”

“No, you don’t. There are—nine of us, Tim. You’ve done your part. It’s time to take a break.”

Tim knows that Dick’s just trying to help, but it grates on him. Dick doesn’t do this to the others, except maybe Damian, and Damian’s a kid so that doesn’t really count. And even then, Damian can just stab Dick to emphasize his point and get away with it. Benefits of being raised in the League of Assassins, Tim guesses, but he ran the League of Assassins for a bit—surely he’s entitled to a little stabbing as a patronization deterrent. “I appreciate it, Dick, but I’m fine. You’ve been dealing with whatever’s going on with Deathstroke for twenty-four hours, you deserve a break. Bruce is in space, Damian wouldn’t be able to do the Neon Knights stuff, Duke is finding Calendar Man, Jason’s halfway across the country, and I’m not leaving Alfred and Steph to handle this alone. Please stop.”

Dick frowns at him. “Then I’ll work too. And I’m not leaving until you do. So if you want me to sleep, then you need to—”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Come on, Dick. I’m old enough to make my own bad decisions. And you know I’ll collapse when I really need to.”

Dick doesn’t want to leave, Tim can tell, but he’s exhausted. So, Dick leaves, and Tim continues to work from his older brother’s account.

It’s another hour later when Steph storms into the Batcave, her arms crossed. “I don’t like running errands,” she says, “but Babs is pissed.”

“At…me?” Tim asks. He’s found Killer Croc and sent the location to Steph and Duke, since they’re the only ones who aren’t too sleep-deprived to fight him right now. But he still has the riddle and some Neon Knights paperwork has been rejected on a technicality so Tim has to redo it all over again and close that stupid loophole. And the riddle…it’s just a bunch of repeated words, with stupid-sounding parts like ‘I am what I am at what I am,’ something about Uncle Sam, and what Tim was able to translate into a French tongue twister.

“Yes, at you. And no one ignores Oracle and gets away with it.” Steph gestures to the Batcomputer, which clearly says ‘Nightwing’ at the top of the screen.

Damn it. Steph must’ve told Barbara that Tim was clearly still working when she got the coordinates. “I had to,” Tim justifies. “She locked me out.”

“For a good reason. And anyway, don’t you have somewhere to be?” Tim looks at Steph, startled. He doesn’t usually discuss his dating life with her, for obvious reasons. Steph rolls her eyes. “Dick mentioned it.”

“I’m not going,” Tim says. “I have to finish this.”

“Ugh. You cancelled your date?”

Tim freezes. Because—yes, he decided to tell Bernard he couldn’t go. But he’s not 100% sure he actually called or texted him. “Crap,” Tim says.

“No way,” Steph says. “You are not standing up your boyfriend.”

“There’s an Arkham breakout!”

Steph grabs Tim by the shoulder and hauls him out of his seat. “As your friend, I’m not going to let you mess this up. Go. On. Your. Date.”

“I wish I could,” Tim sighs. “But…” he gestures at the Batcomputer and his laptop.

Steph slips past Tim and sits down in front of the Batcomputer. “Let me. Signal will handle Croc.”

“But—”

“Cluemaster’s daughter, remember?” Steph says, jabbing her chest with her thumb. “I can solve a riddle. And you are not the only person involved in the Neon Knights program and it’s a Saturday, so no one will be reviewing your paperwork anyway. So send an email, take a shower, and go on your date. ‘kay?”

“Yeah, alright,” Tim says. “Thanks, Steph.”

Steph raises her eyebrows. “Fighting crime is literally my job. You’re not alone, Tim.”

***

Tim meets Bernard at a diner in a somewhat sketchy part of the city. For Gotham, it’s not that bad, but it’s not exactly the best place for a date. And yet, Bernard had suggested it with a familiar glint in his eye that told Tim he had a Theory.

He gets there a couple minutes early and stares at the menu until Bernard slides into the booth across from him. Immediately, Tim can feel his heart jump in his chest and his lips turn up into a smile. Like Bernard is a magnet that just induced an electric current through him, lighting up his world. And that’s stupid and poetic and mushy and Tim just grins like an idiot. “Hey,” Bernard says.

“Hi,” Tim responds, and waves, before facepalming. That was…so stupid. Why did he wave? Bernard is right across from him.

Bernard waves back. “My parents almost didn’t let me go out. Even though I told them I was meeting up with friends in Bristol. Killer Croc doesn’t really care where you are.”

“If you want to go back—”

“Nah,” Bernard says. “’course not. Besides, I’ve been training in martial arts. Maybe I could hold Killer Croc off for a bit.”

“You know,” Tim responds. “Six percent of American men think they can beat a bear in a fight unarmed.” A statistic that Steph had chirped out on patrol when Damian had confidently stated that he could fight Killer Croc alone.

“That’s easy,” Bernard says. “About that many men are gay. Clearly, they’re talking about a different type of bear. It’s a lovers’ spat.”

“Bernard. The poll said a grizzly bear.”

“Maybe those bears have beards.”

Tim laughs despite himself, feeling his smile get even wider. The sun streams in through the nearby window, and Tim can almost, almost forget that he’s shirking every single one of his responsibilities and hasn’t slept for real in multiple days.

A waitress comes over to take their order. Tim tries to get coffee, but Bernard gives him a knowing look and so Tim orders a milkshake instead. Predictably, Bernard gets a strawberry milkshake. Unpredictably, he asks for two waters. “Tim,” he says as the waitress leaves. “I’m guessing your blood is more coffee than water at this point.”

“I don’t think that’s scientifically possible,” Tim says.

“Hey, d’you think that would explain the Flashes?” Bernard asks. His eyes light up and Tim leans forward subconsciously. Bernard clasps his hands on the table. “Maybe their bodies react differently to caffeine due to a latent meta gene. It would explain why they’re always so hyper. I mean, have you seen Impulse? He’s so jittery that you can’t even see him on video sometimes. He’s got to be constantly ODing on caffeine.”

Tim knows that this is definitely not the case. And he can’t in good conscience agree with the theory. But he loves talking to Bernard and he also can’t help but engage in the conversation. “I don’t know, they seem kind of ADHD to me,” he says. “Wouldn’t that mean that caffeine would help them focus?”

“Wait—yes,” Bernard agrees. “I’ve got it! Caffeine helps them focus their meta energy into speed. Like how caffeine helps someone with ADHD focus all their energy onto the task at hand.” He leans forward, matching Tim. “I mean, have you seen the footage of Impulse at Starbucks?”

“No?”

Bernard takes out his phone, tapping away at it for a few seconds before placing it sideways on the table so they can both see it. Tim moves a little closer than maybe is necessary and Bernard mirrors him. He can feel the tips of Bernard’s hair brush against the shell of his ear. Focus, Tim tells himself, looking at grainy footage of Impulse tapping his foot impatiently in a crowded Starbucks. A barista calls out four drinks with eight shots of expresso each. Impulse picks up the drinks, and pours them into one giant bottle as the barista looks on, horrified. And then, he disappears from the camera. “That is absolutely insane. Unless you’re a metahuman whose body processes caffeine differently.”

Tim rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. He…remembers that. And it was not Impulse drinking the 32-expresso shot drink. “It’s…not that bad,” Tim argues weakly. In his defense, he was having a really tough week.

“Please tell me you’ve never done that,” Bernard says.

Tim looks him in the eye. “I have never done that,” he says, voice monotone.

“Oh my god, Tim. Seriously? How are you not dead?”

“It takes a lot more than that to kill me.”

“Maybe you’re Impulse,” Bernard says.

“Bernard, my hair is black.”

Bernard shrugs. “You could wear a wig. Or maybe you’re a shape-shifter.” He smiles lopsidedly. “I bet you’d be a great superhero.”

Tim leans back, shifting himself back into the booth. “No way. I’m not really cut out for it.” That’s not entirely a lie. He only became Robin as a last resort, and he’d never really intended for it to be a permanent thing. And yet, he couldn’t just quit, not when people needed him.

Bernard’s lips twitch. “You totally are.”

“Nah.”

“Well, if you aren’t a superhero, you could be my guy in the chair. Like Ned in the Spider-Man movies. You know, there are theories that the Bats have one.”

“A guy in the chair?” So…basically Oracle. A gal in the chair. Literally.

“Yep. See, they have got to have comms, right?”

“Sure…” Tim says cautiously.

“But there are so many of them that someone’s got to be helping them with the channels. Because think about the Robins’ costumes—nowhere to hide comms. So if the comms are in their ears and small enough that no one can see, there’s just no way that each person has control over who they can speak to. Someone has to be patching them into the right channels.”

“Maybe they have an AI handling it,” Tim suggests. Which is pretty much the case. They’ve used a combination of strategies throughout the years, but the most effective one is usually a simple algorithm designed to recognize names and activate the comms based on that.

“Well, that’s the other theory. That this guy in the chair is a computer program. But personally, I don’t buy that. I think the ghost is Batman’s handler. Like a spy.”

The milkshakes arrive and Tim orders pancakes, because it may be noon, but that’s practically lunch for a Bat. Bernard asks to keep the specials menu for a little longer, whispering “you’ll see” when Tim looks at him quizzically.

“Well,” Bernard said, “if you were a superhero, what would your name be?”

Tim has to think about that. He is a superhero, or a vigilante at least, but he’s not exactly the best at…original names. After all, he took on a legacy title, adopted a suit already stained with blood, and then returned to his old title. He’s never been able to think of his own name. But he wants something cool, maybe something flight-themed… “Drake,” he decides.

“Drake.” Bernard echoes.

“A dragon!” Tim explains. “That’s a pretty cool name.”

“…a male duck,” Bernard counters. “Also, that’s literally your last name. Secret identities exist for a reason!”

“Ah, but no one will suspect someone named Drake will name himself Drake to hide his identity!” Tim says triumphantly.

“If you became a superhero named Drake, I think I’d have to put you out of your misery. It’s my duty as your boyfriend.”

Tim sighs. Sure, Drake sounds cool, but…a duck. “My ghost would thank you, I guess.”

“You could be Wraith,” Bernard suggests. “They call the comms presence Ghost online, so if you’re my Ghost, that would fit really well.”

“Wraith sounds a little villainous, though. Like…wrath.” It sounds like something Tim would’ve taken up in the League of Assassins.

“I mean, you’d be an awesome villain. But you could be, like, the cool morally grey hero. If all the heroes went evil, you could fake your death and rebel against them as the Wraith.”

“Alright, that is a cool backstory.”

“Told you!” Bernard smiles slyly. “But since I named you, you have to name me.” He spreads his arms wide. “I submit myself to your terrible naming skills.”

Well, now Tim needs to think of a good name. “You could be…the Conspiracy? Wait, no, I’ll think of a better one. You could be the Kraken. Like a force of destruction, rising from the depths. Or…Prism. You work with perceptions and how they’re warped. Or…”

“I like Kraken,” Bernard says, repeating it like he’s trying it on. “Kraken. Kraken.”

“Kraken and Wraith. I like it.”

Tim digs into his pancakes while Bernard pours syrup all over his waffles. Why does Tim always end up dating people who like waffles? It’s unnatural.

“I’m guessing there was a reason you wanted to come here specifically,” Tim says. “And…I’m guessing it has to do with the specials menu you asked to keep.”

“Yeah,” Bernard says. “Look.” He passes the menu over to Tim, who squints at it curiously. It doesn’t have any particularly weird foods on it, and this is Bernard, so Tim immediately looks for secret codes. And sure enough, the letters of the appetizer specials spell out BWRY, the entrees are TN, and the desserts are PM.

“Bowery at 10 PM,” Tim whispers. He looks up at Bernard, astonished. This is—well, maybe they’re overreacting, but there’s a decent chance this is something real. “Bernard, I think you may have found an actual conspiracy.”

“You found that really quick,” Bernard says.

“I had context,” Tim shrugs. “I’m guessing what clued you in was the commas?”

“Yeah,” Bernard nods. “Last time I went here, it was saying Crime Alley…they had ‘Rice, Fried’ and ‘Yellow Rice’ on here. Inconsistency in formatting…”

“…means that someone really wanted it to be formatted that way…”

“…and this is Gotham, which means it’s nothing good. Plus, rice isn’t typical diner fare. I look for patterns, and this just jumped right out at me.”

“Wow,” Tim says, at a loss. He would not expect criminals in Gotham to pass messages through diners, but Bernard did. Bernard expected the unexpected and because of it, he saw a pattern no one else would’ve picked up on. “You’re amazing,” Tim blurts out.

“Obviously,” Bernard says, with an exaggerated grandiose motion. Then he snorts and leans back, laughing. “So, what do you think it is, Wraith?”

“I don’t know,” Tim says. “But—what do you say about finding out?” He really should leave Bernard out of this. There’s a chance that it could be something really serious, something for Robin to handle. But…Bernard is the one who found this. And Tim would trust him at his back.

“Thought you’d never ask.” Bernard grabs his backpack from under the table and pulls out a UV flashlight, a set of lockpicks, and what looks suspiciously like bolt cutters.

“You come prepared,” Tim says, scanning over the prices. If he was going to hide a secret message in the diner menu, he’d consider doing it there.

“I looked at the prices,” Bernard says, leaning over the menu with Tim. “I couldn’t see anything, but maybe you can.”

The prices aren’t weird, but they are inconsistent. Some things cost a certain amount of dollars—others cost a certain amount of dollars and 99 cents. There aren’t enough specials for a message, but—Tim calls over the waitress and apologetically asks her for the menu again. She mutters something about growth spurts and passes him one from an empty table. “Do you have a notebook?” Tim asks, and Bernard passes him one with a pen from his bag. “Are you a boy scout or something?”

“I was a cub scout,” Bernard says.

Tim starts recording down the prices—ones with cents as 1 and ones with nothing as 0. He tries translating the first few letters using ASCII, but they’re gibberish, so he switches the ones and zeroes and tries again. This time, he gets a word. And with a grin, Tim is off, pencil tearing across the paper as he translates at top speed. When he’s done, he sits back, breathing like he just ran a marathon.

“It’s a message,” Bernard whispers.

MASTERMIND DISTRIBUTION POINT. VICTORY IN A VIAL. RIDDLER.

“It’s an advertisement,” Tim agrees, scanning over the paper. “I don’t know exactly what mastermind is, but…”

“But you can guess,” Bernard says. “They’re distributing something.”

“And knowing the Riddler, it’s probably not guns or people. Likely a drug that’s supposed to increase your intelligence, and the Riddler is using the people who take it as his lab rats. I doubt it actually increases your intelligence, but…” He closes his eyes, slumping back in the booth. “I knew the gangs were acting weird. I knew it.” Tim’s eyes snap open. “From the Neon Knights program,” he clarifies, because he’s gotten so caught up in solving this with Bernard that he completely forgot the other boy doesn’t know Tim is Robin.

“You are really hot when you’re doing that genius thing,” Bernard says.

What is Tim supposed to say to that? Help, he thinks his brain is melting. “You too?” He tries, because, well, it’s true. That’s what you’re supposed to say to a compliment, right?

“Hey, want to find out what it is?” Bernard asks.

“I don’t know…maybe we should leave this for Batman and Robin.”

“If you’re sure about that,” Bernard says. “But surely a little look into the kitchens couldn’t hurt.”

Tim…can’t find it in himself to refuse.

They get the check and squabble over who’s paying (eventually, they play rock paper scissors, winner pays). And then, the two pretend to head for the restrooms.

Slipping into the kitchen area proves too difficult. Tim might be able to blend into the shadows as Robin, but he can’t blend into harsh fluorescent lighting, and Bernard has no such training. “Okay, so about reporting this to Batman…” Bernard says.

“Wait,” Tim tells him. “If they are storing drugs in this building, there’s no way they would carry them through the kitchens. That’s a literal recipe for disaster. There’s got to be another way in.”

Bernard points toward a closet door right next to the restrooms, labelled, ‘Extra Cleaning Supplies—Susan Only.’ “There’s no way they clean anything in this diner,” Bernard says, “let alone use any extra supplies.”

“Very suspicious,” Tim agrees.

“Okay, so, I have lockpicks,” Bernard says. “But…I don’t know how to pick locks.”

For a second, Tim tells himself that lockpicking skills are not something expected from a sixteen-year-old rich kid, and a lack thereof would be the perfect excuse to get Bernard out of danger and handle this as Robin. But Bernard stands there smiling with the lockpicks held out, like he already knows that Tim can do it and he’s proud.

Tim has a problem and Tim knows he has a problem, but that doesn’t make it any less of a problem. His fingers close around the lockpicks. “You ready to save Gotham’s youth?” Bernard asks.

“This is peer pressure. I’m being peer pressured into attempting to thwart the Riddler.” By my civilian boyfriend, Tim adds in his head. What the hell? This is not how the day was supposed to go.

“You’re already saving Gotham’s youth,” Bernard says. “If you don’t want to do this, it’s okay.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Tim admits.

“I’m the one who has martial arts training, remember? And if we get caught, we can just pretend we were looking for somewhere to make out.”

“I—what—Bernard—” Tim splutters.

“Hey, it’s a good tactic,” Bernard says, raising his hands defensively.

“We—we don’t have to get caught sneaking into a Rogue’s drug lair to make out. If you want to,” Tim says, cheeks red.

“Noted,” Bernard grins, blush just as vivid. “But let’s save the making out for when we’re not possibly in mortal peril.”

“Right,” Tim says, and begins to pick the lock. He slows himself down significantly, so he doesn’t look quite as suspicious.

“How’d you learn to do that?” Bernard asks as Tim works. “And why?”

“YouTube tutorials. It looked cool and I spent a lot of time alone as a kid so there was no one to tell me I was wasting my time.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem like a waste of time now,” Bernard says.

The lock clicks open and Tim cautiously opens the door. A concrete staircase descends into the darkness. “Let’s go,” Tim says. “Before we get caught.” The pair steps in and closes the door. Tim shivers. He’s vulnerable in civilian clothes, without his bo staff, with a civilian to protect who doesn’t know that Tim isn’t a civilian too.

Bernard flicks on a flashlight and passes one to Tim. “You really did come prepared,” Tim whispers.

“I was planning to investigate a conspiracy,” Bernard whispers back. “Of course I did. I was kind of hoping it was the Court of Owls, though I’d imagine they wouldn’t work out of a sketchy diner, and my theory is that they’re hiding in a tunnel complex beneath Gotham. So, I’m extra, extra prepared.”

“Did you bring caving supplies?” Tim asks.

“…yes.”

At the bottom of the staircase, they reach a corridor with a single, flickering light.

“This is creepy,” Bernard whispers.

“Rogues are dramatic,” Tim shrugs. He scans the corridor. Bernard takes a step forward and Tim throws an arm across his chest. “Wait.” He points to a small black circle on the wall in front of them and a black circle on the wall opposite from it.

“What’s that, do you think?”

“Banner sensor of some type. Break up the invisible beam between them, and we get found out. We should be able to crawl under it.”

Tim and Bernard army crawl a few feet forward and then get back on their feet, clothing slightly grimy. “This is like a heist movie,” Bernard whispers. “I don’t see any more of them.”

“Me neither.” The pair makes it to the other end of the hallway, where a door in the side opens up to a large room. Bags upon bags of powder are stacked on shelves, each labelled with scientific names of chemicals and serial numbers.

“Drugs,” Bernard says.

“Drugs,” Tim agrees. He steps forwards, snapping a photo of the room with his phone. If he was Robin, he’d take a sample and then destroy the stash. But right now, he’s Tim Drake, equipped with a phone and a lockpicking set, with no believable way to contact Batman without revealing his identity. And he’s pretty sure Bruce would not consider this an appropriate reason to reveal his identity.

And then Bernard takes out a matchbox and a thermos.

“What the heck?” Tim asks.

“Be prepared,” Bernard says. “I’m deferring to your judgement here, Wraith. But these drugs are going to go to teenagers. And I’m up for committing arson.”

“We could…we could go to jail for this.”

“Who’s going to report us? The Riddler?”

Tim stares at Bernard. Bernard stares at Tim. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” Tim says quietly.

Bernard nods and puts the thermos away. “Alright. We could probably turn in the evidence to the police. I don’t think the Riddler would have any in his pocket, at least.”

And then Tim turns and sees the security camera. “Crap. Alright, new plan. Arson it is. I’m guessing that thing is digital, which means we need to give them something bigger to worry about than two kids who know too much. ASAP. I’m guessing that thermos has gasoline?”

Bernard nods wordlessly and takes out the thermos again. His face is set with determination. Tim thinks in this moment, that Bernard would be an amazing superhero. But he’s not, and here he is, committing arson to save people anyway.

Tim shakes his head. “You absolutely terrifying. In a good way.”

“Says the boy who drank thirty-two shots of expresso in one drink.”

“I was being stalked!” Tim defends. He also had to fight Lady Shiva, and then fight with Lady Shiva. And aliens invaded the Earth. It was a difficult week. Bernard pours the gasoline on the drugs and dribbles a thin line out. “Okay,” Tim says. “Ready, Kraken?”

“Ready, Wraith.”

Tim lights one of Bernard’s matches and drops it on the gasoline line. Immediately, it catches on fire, flames racing toward the drugs. Smoke curls into the air. “We need to get out,” Tim says. “Now.”

They crawl under the banner sensor as fast as they can. Tim takes the sleeve of his sweatshirt and wipes the doorknob, trying to get rid of fingerprints. They thunder up the stairs, and then unlock the “supply closet” door, again wiping off fingerprints.

“Calmly,” Tim warns as they step out of the bathroom area and walk through the diner. Bernard reaches out and grabs Tim’s hand. By all accounts, they look like a normal couple. “Stay calm,” Tim says as they exit. They walk for two blocks before Tim collapses onto a bench. “I think we’re good,” he says. “I think we’re good.”

“We’re good,” Bernard repeats. He doubles over. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Tim, we just—”

“We’re good.”

And then Bernard grins and Tim can’t help but grin too and they’re laughing. It’s not funny, but they’re laughing with fear and exhilaration and relief, all mixed into one cocktail too volatile to hold inside. Bernard laces his fingers with Tim’s, each boy holding both the other’s hands, eyes meeting. Tim can feel his knees pressing against Bernard’s as they sit on the bench together, riding the adrenaline high. And then, Tim’s leaning forward like a planet caught in a gravitational orbit, but Bernard’s leaning forward too, so it’s more like a binary star system, each star orbiting around the other. Bernard’s lips press against Tim’s, and it feels like the world shrinks to that one moment, fireworks exploding in Tim’s heart.

Time starts again and the moment ends, but it’s not a disappointment, not a let-down. Tim can still feel Bernard’s hands clasped in his and the giddiness of their adventure still fills every inch of him.

“Do you want to see a movie or something?” Bernard asks faintly. “There’s a showing of that weird Batman parody at 2:45.”

Against his will, Tim opens his phone and his stomach sinks. 2:07 PM. He’s spent two hours here. Bruce must be awake by now, and Tim has so much work to do, and— “I can’t,” Tim whispers. “I’m sorry. I—”

Tim can feel Bernard exhale. “It’s okay. I know you’re very busy. I can’t even imagine how this would affect the Neon Knights situation.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, looking down. He draws his hands back and puts them in his lap. He doesn’t want to leave. Tim had forgotten what it felt like to be excited, to be happy, to be this alive. And he loves it. He doesn’t want to return to the darkness of the Batcave and the work and the bitter taste of coffee filling his mouth because he hasn’t quite sunk to taking caffeine pills just yet. Why can’t he just stay?

Well, he’s Robin, that’s why. He has a job, and he needs to do it.

“I’m sorry,” Tim adds.

“It’s okay,” Bernard repeats, looking Tim in the eyes. “It really is. I know your work’s important to you. But…please, Tim. Get some rest.”

“I’m fine,” Tim mutters. “I just committed arson with you, I’m not sleep-deprived.”

“It’s not just sleep,” Bernard says. “You need to rest. But, well, you are sleep deprived. You look kind of like a raccoon.”

“Hey,” Tim snorts. “You said I looked hot!”

“You look like a hot raccoon,” Bernard clarifies.

“That is…so weird,” Tim says. “That’s like a furry or something.”

“If anyone is a furry in this city,” Bernard says, “it’s got to be Batman.”

Tim chokes. “No. No way. No. Just…no. Do you have bleach in your backpack, Bernard? Because I need it for my brain.”

“Dresses in a giant bat costume…”

“He dresses in a uniform with bat symbolism.”

“Ears on his cowl, a cloak like wings…”

“No,” Tim says, holding out his hand. “Brain bleach, please.”

Bernard takes his hand and holds it to his chest. “Please, Tim. Promise me you’ll rest a bit.”

Tim sighs. Peer pressure at its finest. “Okay.” He did just deal a blow to the Riddler’s operation, after all. He looks at Bernard. His boyfriend’s hiding it well, but there’s no way he’s not freaked out. Tim would be freaked out, if he was a civilian who had just gone up against a Rogue. And when Tim is freaked out, he desperately wants something normal. “You know, if we hurry, we can make that movie you mentioned.”

They do make it to the movie theater. Tim eats about three pieces of popcorn before falling asleep, head resting on Bernard’s shoulder. When he wakes up, he has a cramp in his neck but a soft, glowing ember in his heart.

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