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devilmademewriteit · 1 year

Text

Ultraviolence

pairing: raider!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

summary: thank god—a handsome stranger saves you from the grips of a pack of cruel, cruel men. unfortunately, said stranger, joel miller, is cut from the exact same cloth as the rest of them.

warnings: oh. boy. rough sex/smut (fem penetration, fingering, cum play if you squint) so 18+ only content; fem!afab!reader; raider!joel; canon typical violence; mentions of hair pulling/reader having long hair; light dacryphilia; age gap; pet names (baby, darlin’, sweetheart, girl); slapping, spanking, choking; !!!NONCON!!! (sexual violence/assault, coercion, allusions to more sexual abuse—Dead Dove, Do Not Eat y’all, protect yourselves).

word count: 4k+

no use of y/n in this fic

alright y’all!!! here is the non-con raider!joel fic!! stay tuned for the version coming out soon wherein Joel actually rescues the reader LOL join the taglist to be notified when I post it!!! y’all’s requests will quite legit be the death of me BUT this was fun to write so im not mad. this version is just purely depraved & Joel ‘Big Dick’ Miller is a mean mean man. wrote it pretty fast too so b nice 2 me.

love u all, sorry for searing your eyeballs:)

-em<3

—

The stucco prickles and tears at the flushed skin of your cheek, a reminder that it’ll be winter soon. The birds are sure of it, and most of them managed to get away before the frost stood a chance of nipping them.

You didn’t.

After a few years of non-stop struggle, losing everything but your own life, you figured there were worse ways to go. At least you would be… well—you, in the end.

In whatever shape this man and his leering group of accomplices left you in.

“Against the wall,” and his voice had been the crack of a whip, snapping by your ear as electricity shot up and down your spine, as the tingling realization that the chase was over—the jig, up—settled into your bones. “Spread your fuckin’ legs.”

There were more hounds around… waiting.

Always waiting.

They’d already gotten to your old, tattered clothes. The brisk air bites at your exposed skin, but at least the cold would account for the violent shivers wracking your limbs. Even as the beast pins you to the side of the decrepit house, forces himself between your knees, your primary preoccupation is to stifle your fear.

They’d get everything else on display—but they would never get to see that.

When the screaming starts, those confused grunts, huffs, and squelches of a blade carving into flesh, you mostly commend your own imagination:

“I did it. I’m in my happy place. This will be quick, then.”

But then a rough, unfamiliar hand grabs hold of your naked waist, flipping you around, slamming your spine against the frosty stucco.

This is real.

And you bear witness to his carnage.

He painted the side of the house into a mosaic of inter-mingling blood, splattered like a Pollock against the grass, the wrinkled clothes and the rugged face of your salvation.

His eyes rake over your still-trembling body before he wrenches a red-coated knife—never breaking eye-contact—from the throat of the man you’d been at the mercy of just a few seconds ago.

Blood gushes up from the fatal wound, and you both watch the cruel scene, mesmerized. The attacker’s eyes dull, all evil dissipating from that once-ferocious gaze. The rescuer’s big, wide hands flip him over, stripping him of his stained beige jacket. Then, he carelessly kicks the lifeless form face-down onto the yellowing grass.

“Put it on.”

You uncross your arms, snatching the coat from the stranger’s extended hands. It doesn’t bother you, its belonging to him.

He’s dead; you get his coat.

A fair exchange.

He keeps an eye on you as he sorts through the pickings: a few strips of dried meat here, a loaded gun there (two bullets in the clip—you watch as he checks), and a few good blades, stashed inside pockets, bags, and down shirt-fronts.

The man straightens up.

Tall.

“Get in front of me,” his low baritone strikes you, causing your knees to concede to a slight wobble. “You run, you die. Got it?”

Texan.

Slowly, you nod, and a firm grip circles your wrist, tearing you from the wall.

“Walk.”

Your heart hammers—near deafening in your ears—as the stranger stalks behind you, directing your trembling movements with brusque, snapped commands.

Finally, the scattered orangey-red leaves begin to multiply, the domestic remnants of a past civilization thinning. The neighborhood opens into a field; large oaks and slouching willows shiver under the weak glare of the afternoon sun.

There’s a house up there. It seems to be in alright shape (some things are built tougher than others) and it’s certainly a step up from a few of the more… unsavory places the outbreak had led you to.

Nearing it, you take not of how much it resembles a barn-house. Red, pentagonal roof, and a big, wide, brown front door.

Gingerly stepping a foot on the cracked wood of the porch, you turn to face your rescuer, uncertainty tying slippery knots in your tummy.

Because there’s clamour coming from inside. There’s people in there.

The momentary hesitation allows you to get a good look at your rescuer: he’s greying and dark—mixed, likely, or just disposed to a stubborn tan—and probably in his mid forties. Probably handsome, too, if it weren’t for the resident cruel scowl deepening his apathetic expression, or the violence dancing in his eyes.

A raise of his eyebrows.

“I tell you to stop?” He nods towards the looming house. “Move.”

But… you don’t.

“Are you gonna kill me?” and you’re downright shocked by the strength—the resignation—of your tone, the way the question comes out so matter-of-fact.

That sparse mustache crinkles in the corners, teasing into something wicked. “You want me to?”

“No.”

“So get movin’, then.”

That left little room for debate.

So, you turn, fingers and knees shaking with anxious anticipation. He cuts in front of you at the last minute, shoving the front door open with his knife at his side—for you or for something else, you’re not entirely certain.

He pulls you into the foyer by your forearm; to your great dismay, you’re faced with an entire group of middle-aged men. Killers—for sure—leering at you with that same starved, animalistic look your rescuer had fixed you with.

Then, he tosses the bag on the floor.

“Found ‘em by the school. Decent haul.”

Their eyes tilt to your shuddering frame, dwarfed by the jacket weighing down your shoulders. One of them looks strangely familiar, proud features reminding you of something else you were afraid of. “No shit, huh,” he commends, “Nice work, Joel.”

Joel.

As the shaggy-haired man speaks, his voice strikes familial resemblance, and it dawns on you. Your rescuer’s brother, or at the very least a cousin.

And what he says is a clearly marked taunt. That much is clear. Uttered with the kind of cruel camaraderie which collected on the tongues of men who committed acts of violence together.

Who hunted together.

And it’s obvious you’re not being rescued. Just… reclaimed. Redistributed.

Fuck.

Another voice joins the mix. “How much you think y’could get for her?”

Joel’s profile turns, harsh, brutal lines forming as he assesses you. “Depends,” and then—ohmothermary—he smirks.

“Gonna have to test her out first.”

A few snickers.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

You’re trapped with nowhere to go, once again surrounded by a gaggle of soulless monsters. Fear grips you, but thankfully, it’s muted, now, having been mostly expended during the harrowing events of the morning.

Just an hour ago, pressed to the side of an abandoned house, you’d allowed yourself to give up.

So, it feels easy—natural—settling back into that rhythm.

To submit to your inevitable, violent fate.

Joel’s voice cuts through the clamour of your racing thoughts. “Upstairs, the room with the open door. Go.”

Eyes glued to the floor, you put one foot in front of the other, your insides twisting and turning inside your core. Fuck, you can feel the pairs of eyes following you with every step you take. The stairs creak as your weight presses into them, squealing like wounded prey.

“N’ take that fuckin’ jacket off,” Joel calls after you, the echoes of his booming voice and the group’s degrading laughter chasing you all the way up into the room—the one with the open door.

And it’s nice, surprisingly. Dusty, admittedly, and clearly having belonged to someone else—a long, long time ago—but the bed is made, the window lets the light in, and the walls remind you of cinnamon.

No, this wouldn’t be the worst prison. Or the worst place to die. It’s a sure-fire step up from the gutter between two dilapidated houses.

You keep the jacket on, shivering under its weight. Even as you hear footsteps climbing the stairs, even as the more rational, civilized side of your mind urges you to accede to your (non)rescuer’s every command.

The conversation downstairs dies off just as Joel rounds the corner, appearing in the doorway—a giant. Though your stomach lurches, and though your legs feel like putty, you hold your ground.

“I’ll fight, you know,” you hiss, watching him seal off the entrance to the room behind him. His flannel has droplets of blood on the collar—reminders of your previous captor—would your other attacker have been a better option? Who’d be more merciful to your quivering body?

You charge your voice with every last modicum of strength at your disposal. “I’ll fight.”

He turns, smirking softly at your clenched fists. “S’good, sweetheart. I like a little fight.” He stalks towards you, swiping his thumb along the plushness of his bottom lip, his intimidating presence forcing your back to meet the flat hardness of the wall behind you.

So much for fighting.

There’s nothing living in his eyes as he says it—nothing save the roiling flames of hunger: “You see those guys downstairs?”

You glare up at him, trying not to notice the alluring hook of his nose, or the way your body works against you, responding to the earthy smell of him.

Then, you nod, wordlessly.

“Did you count ‘em?” He splays a hand beside your head, using one hand to pry your arms uncrossed.

Again, you nod. “How many?” He asks, his voice deceptively soft.

“Five.” Breathless.

“S’right, sweetheart. Ever had your lil’ holes stuffed by five guys at once?”

A swallow, and your voice cracks when you’re finally able to put it to use. “No.”

He pries your elbows to your sides, pulling the beige fabric open, revealing the torn remains of your underwear.

It’s almost a croon, feigned concern underpinning his low tone. “You wanna see what it’s like?” He drinks in the sight of your bare chest, almost groaning at the sight of your naked front.

It’s not cold anymore; no, suddenly you’re very hot.

“No, please, no.”

He slips the coat off of your shoulders, letting it fall in a heap to the ground. He assesses you once more: studying every square inch of your skin under his shadowed eyes.

“M’only gonna say this once, sweetheart.” All that fake-gentleness fades from his tone, replaced by the sadistic, authoritative timbre he’d first greeted you with. “I need you to be very careful.”

You’re frozen—all that fight, it drains out of you, captivated by the raider’s looming form, his mesmerizing speech.

“You’re alone, yeah?” A nod, which he acknowledges, trailing a hand up the length of your waist. “S’what I thought. N’ the way I found you today? That’s a best-case-scenario for a girl like you, out here on your own.”

He drags a finger up the centre of your breast, skilled fingertips just barely brushing the peaked nipple. You lean into his touch—the near imperceptible arch of your back doesn’t go unnoticed, and you kick yourself internally as the corners of his lips twitch up.

Still, the raider ignores your trembling.

“You’re mine, now,” he continues, egged on by your involuntary movement. “Means you’re gonna be a good girl n’ do as I say, n’ I’ll make sure I’m the only man who touches you.” His big hand drops to his heavy silver buckle, and the clearly defined, bulging lines underneath it have your heart clawing out of your chest. Joel senses your fear—and it only makes him harder. “I don’t like sharin’ what’s mine, y’know? But you try anything—you step outta line—I’ll throw you to my guys downstairs.”

His hand finds your throat, hunger and warning beating to the same rhythm in his gaze. “I have no problem watching.” He gives your larynx a squeeze, multitasking as he pulls the strap of his belt through the worn loops of his denim. “Understood?”

You have no words left, shaking from head to toe as the reality of the situation finally settles in.

As he works the intimidating weight of his cock out of his jeans.

A huff. Joel flips you over, impatient, pressing your scraped up cheek to the cinnamon-brown of the wall.

Déjà vù.

Your knees are separated by his own, and his weight flattens you. He wastes no time: lining himself up, his tip separates your folds. Resistance is futile—with one hand, he holds your thighs open—even as they try to press themselves closed, even as you whimper at the rough, male knuckles pressed to bruise on the insides of your legs.

Leaving his mark.

It’s not an option to simply take it. Joel forces you to participate in the sinful act: “I asked you a fuckin’ question,” he growls, gripping your chin indelicately. “You understand me, girl?”

A swallow and a flinch as you feel the head of his cock poke at your entrance. “Yes. Okay. Yes.”

“Yes, Joel,” he corrects. “Use my name. You’re mine now. Use my fuckin’ name.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes at the promised savagery in his tone. Holding back a sob, you respond: “Yes, Joel.”

You watch his hand, large and capable, splaying out a mere inch away from the tip of your nose. “Good,” he commends. “Z’are the only fuckin’ words you know, from now on.”

His free hand slaps against your hip, yanking you down onto his hard length. Your hips buck up against his abdomen, responding to the pull of his fingertips, even as you cry out at the sting, the stretch. The raider tries to force himself between your walls—muttering a grunted “shit”—and thrusting up against your ass.

But you’re too tight, too tense, and your stubborn body refuses to open up for him. Finally listening to you.

“Relax,” he orders, surprisingly softly. He moves his hand from your hip to the apex of your thighs, rubbing rough circles against your clit. Fuck, how’d he find it so fast? You gasp at the feel of his fingertips against your most sensitive, touch-starved spot, hating yourself for the way his pressure makes you feel.

Because…

Because—fuck.

It feels… good. The man knows exactly what he’s doing—methodical in his ministrations, prepping you only enough to ensure his own eventual pleasure. “S’too tight, baby,” he breathes against your neck, “Need to loosen up for me, yeah?”

He’s not gentle. No part of it is gentle. Nonetheless, pleasure ripples through your centre and down your thighs as he effectively turns you on.

“Thaaaaaa’s right,” and his voice is mocking and taunting and degrading as he drags his digits away, grabbing and pulling at your breasts, instead. Feeling the involuntary release of your cunt, Joel finally pushes himself in, sheathing the long, thick length of his cock inside you.

“Need to show this pussy what it’s fuckin’ made for.”

A current of pain flutters up your cunt just as he fills it up to the brim. You can’t help it—your stoicism crumbles to dust—and a soft, scared, pained whimper tumbles from your lips.

And he groans at it, thrusting roughly, over and over again. And again. “Hurts, does it?”

His breath is hot against your ear, and despite the fear, the ancient instincts gripping your bones, telling you to run, run, run, fight, fight, fight—it’s… enticing.

Hot.

“It hurts.”

He laughs, low and dark, bringing his hands to circle your hips, steadying you as you stumble on your tip-toes.

“Cry about it.”

And he keeps on going, tearing you open. The way his girth touches every starved part of your insides leaves you wanting, even despite the sting of his fingernails biting into your hips, the tears and cuts stinging at your opening.

You hate yourself for it.

But you clench around him, stifling a pathetic moan.

God, no—I am not enjoying this.

He breathes another laugh. “Feelin’ full, baby? Tell me how good it feels, c’mon,” and your inhalations come in heaves as he pounds into you, delivering a harsh slap to the side of your hip, hard enough for your skin to ripple from the contact. “Do as I say.”

When you refuse to sate him, swallowing all of your little noises, Joel grips your throat, bringing your head slamming against his shoulder. Your back arches into a perfect crescent, spine contorting at his will. A gasped cry fans out against his salt-and-pepper jaw.

A sob—of fear, of frustration, of reluctant pleasure. “You’re evil.”

The grip on your throat tightens, and he looses another laugh, squeezing your skin, muscles, and tendons oh-so-tight.

You’d be wrecked, bruised—branded—come sunrise.

“Yeah?” He groans, cock slamming up into your very guts.

“M-mhmm—” and the saltwater tears start pouring, trailing glistening slopes down your cheeks in long, long lines. Distantly, you hear his answer—“Yeah, well, you’re wet”—as those silver droplets keep on falling. Where they come from, you aren’t certain; of course, the terror, the physical torture, and the frustration at your entrapment contribute to the mess under your eyes.

But that warmth… the unbridled desire radiating between your thighs… that wasn’t helping, either.

“Fuuuuck,” he groans, muttering another “S’it—s’right,” and releasing your throat to tilt your head up to face him. He drinks in his creation, the ruined sight of your tear-stricken face, and his cock swells between your beaten walls. “God, you look so fuckin’ pretty takin’ it from me—cryin’ like your lil’ pussy ain’t desperate for this.”

Joel smiles when you sob.

It goes on for a while. He doesn’t tire quickly, bringing you right up to the edge of reluctant ecstasy before you remind yourself of the hatred you owed the man fucking into you. You get used to the sound of his hips snapping against your skin, your cries mingling with his gravelly, low grunts. It’s a dirty, depraved symphony—orchestrated by the monster between your thighs.

You can’t help the moan that escapes your lips when he finally, finally brings his fingers back down between your legs. He grunts in approval, barely grazing the length of your folds, pressing his thumb into the delicate flesh of your thigh, instead. “Dirty lil’ girl—fuckin’ dyin’ to be an old man’s whore, z’that it?” and he doesn’t even touch you, focussed on his own pleasure, but the proximity alone is enough to have you wrecked.

And you just can’t help it: “J-joel—”

“Y’know,” he chuckles, slightly out of breath, slowing his strokes to address your wanton whine, “You’re gonna make such a good lil’ fuck-toy, baby, f’you keep makin’ those pretty lil’ noises for me.”

The reality of the situation comes barrelling down on you as he acknowledges—praises—your enjoyment of his torture.

This man… this man was cruel. He was hurting you, and enjoying it.

You struggle against him, a pathetic show of weakness. Joel holds you in place effortlessly, arching your back further, keeping your hips preened back to receive the harsh thrusts he delivers to your torn, ruined cunt. “Where you goin’?” He laughs at your pathetic attempt at resistance, grips tightening. “Thought we were havin’ fun, baby—don’t it feel good?”

And he quickens again, slamming into every needy spot inside you. His breaths grow shallow, as rough as his hands and the ferocity of this punishment.

“No,” you manage, fingernails digging into his forearm.

He tuts, the vocal click constricted with lust, and his hand travels the length of you, settling against that aching bud between your thighs. “Fuckin’ liar.”

He presses down, proving his point. Your entire body tenses as pleasure ripples through you—despite your best efforts, climax crests through your core, threatening to implode within you. Joel hums, smirking when he feels your legs parting even wider.

“S’mine now, alright? You’re mine now.” He crams every inch of his cock up inside you, pulling you flush against his chest. “S’okay to come for me—s’okay, baby, I want you to—s’fuckin’ right, let go for me, baby—” and his crooning takes you over the edge.

Christ, it feels so good.

You clench around him, high-pitched pleas and moans tumbling from your lips, his own pair dragging down the swoop of your ear. In that split second, Joel—the devil at your back—is your favourite thing in the world: your hero, your haven, your God. Fuck, you could just kiss him, marry him, fuck him over and over and over and over—

A hand clamps over your mouth during those brief, blissful moments; the man practically bounces you up and down the length of him, muffling the cries of pain and pleasure tearing from your sore throat against the rough skin of his palm. He groans inside your ear—a stammered, sinful “fuuuck”—and then he’s spilling his seed inside you, shoving it impossibly deep as those quick, harsh strokes stutter and slow.

You come to, waking up from your pleasure-drunk daze. Before you get the opportunity to wriggle away from him, the monster flips you over again, slamming your shoulders to the wall. With his forearm barring your chest, and despite your fear and ire—somehow, all you can think about is the fact that he’s not as out of breath as he really should be (given his age and, of course, what he’d just done to you).

Joel leaks out of you. His cum paints masterpieces down your legs.

He slides his free hand down the length of his cock, collecting the last bits of slick clinging to him and not dripping out of you. The intermingling juices are brought to the roundness of your breasts—the raider slathers your sore peaks with his own spend.

“Nobody’s gonna fuck with you—but that means you’re Joel’s girl. Hear me?” With your head bowed, you glare up at him through silver-lined spider lashes, shame beating at your cheeks. When you hum your acknowledging “uh-huh,” the stranger continues on, gripping your jaw to angle your gaze up: “Means you listen—you-you don’t fuckin’ try me—n’ you take everything I give you, every fuckin’ time. Understand?” He tucks his softening length back in his pants, dark eyes dancing with satisfaction as he leers at your destroyed form.

When you don’t respond, he brings the back of his punishing hand colliding with the side of your face.

Something between a squeal and a gasp tumbles from your lips; Joel catches it, placing the pad of his thumb to your bottom lip, pressing down. Your cheek stings from his harsh slap, delivered on top of the scrapes and wounds a different cruel man had left upon your skin.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, baby, but I will f’I have to,” and he’s earnest, commanding and pleading at once. “You gotta answer me.”

Slowly, you croak out a timid, “Yes,” and an “I understand,” followed by a final “Joel.”

Nodding, he straightens, the violence in his gaze fading just minutely. When he lets go, you stagger—the raider senses the instability of your knees, reflexively snaking a steadying arm around your waist.

You’re not sure where the impulse comes from. Perhaps it’s exhaustion, the aftermath of your orgasm, or maybe it’s just a sick, twisted desire to sink into something beyond your body—either way, you respond to Joel’s support by throwing your arms around his neck.

And he responds by lifting you, walking you over to the bed, and tossing you down on the sheets. Awakening into reality, you scamper back, grabbing and yanking at the surrounding bedding in a desperate attempt to cover yourself.

But Joel pays you no mind.

Having had his way, he’s through with you—for now. Nonchalantly, apathetically, he runs a hand through his hair, tracing heavy steps towards the door.

“Lock the door when I leave,” he instructs, but his tone is soft… possessive and commanding, yes, but… caring. “Don’t open it for anyone but me.”

He waits for your show of understanding, your near imperceptible nod.

Then, he sighs, yanking on the handle and giving you his final address over a pair of creaky, squeaky, rusted hinges. “Try to sleep, sweetheart—got a long night ahead of you.” Chuckling to himself, he leaves the sanctuary of the room.

All you can hear as your body grows heavy and warm, travelling somewhere far, far beyond this violent world are the echoes of male laughter down the hall, and a familiar, satisfied, gravelly voice:

“Not worth much, now. Might just fuckin’ keep her.”

And you slip away, dreaming of belt buckles, blood-stained collars, and the lung-squeezing heat of the setting Texan sun.

—

He used to call me DN

That stood for deadly nightshade

'Cause I was filled with poison

But blessed with beauty and rage

Jim told me that

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

Jim brought me back

Reminding me of when we were kids

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

I can hear violins, violins

Give me all of that ultraviolence

He used to call me poison

Like I was poison ivy

I could've died right then

'Cause he was right beside me

Jim raised me up

He hurt me but it felt like true love

Jim taught me that

Loving him was never enough

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

I can hear violins, violins

Give me all of that ultraviolence

We can go back to New York

Loving you was really hard

We could go back to Woodstock

Where they don't know who we are

Heaven is on earth

I would do anything for you, babe

Blessed is this union

Crying tears of gold, like lemonade

I love you the first time

I love you the last time

Yo soy la princesa, comprende mis white lines

'Cause I'm your jazz singer

And you're my cult leader

I love you forever

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

I can hear violins, violins

Give me all of that ultraviolence

—

TAGLIST: @millllenniawrites @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @bookofbee @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @raeluvshammett @silkiers @jupitersmoon-cal @supernaturaldean67 @razrsharpwhiteteeth @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @sallymilkweed @fruitcupsworld @mads-grace4 @ayehomo @dzaga890 @killerrxger @niallsbunny @cilliansangel @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0

TAGS WILL CONTINUE IN A REBLOG (there are simply too many of you & I don’t want this post to crash <3)

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n #raider!joel miller #raider!joel #tlou #the last of us #joel miller the last of us #Joel miller fanfiction #Pedro pascal #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #tlou fanfiction #joel the last of us #joel miller tlou

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returnsandreturns · 6 months

Text

Crowley’s teased Aziraphale for centuries about not reading books exclusively because he likes the little crease he gets between his eyebrows when he doesn’t like how Crowley is behaving. He rarely gets to see it these days and it doesn’t show up as much as you’d think with some of the behaving Crowley does but the second he lounges against a shelf and says, “Dunno why you waste your time with all these books when television exists,” he’s sure to catch a glimpse of it.

“They do the reading for you, angel,” he says. “And there’s–explosions and things. You know, ka-boom.”

He makes a little exploding motion with his hands and Aziraphale levels him with a look that would immediately scare off a mere mortal who just wanted to casually browse in a bookshop with an open sign right on the door.

“This feels like blasphemy,” he says, “and I won’t have it in my bookshop.”

“Oh, you let me blaspheme all the time until it’s about books,” Crowley says, trying not to smile too hard when Aziraphale’s glare turns into a pout.

There’s an inevitability to books, though, with the amount of free time he’s created for himself and the amount of time he spends adjacent to them. He’ll leave the bookshop with paperbacks shoved in his back pocket, hidden by his jacket, always half expecting the angel to catch him as he’s leaving. His reaction would have been so complicated. Stealing is bad but reading is good. That’s the kind of black and white thinking you're taught upstairs. The gray of whether the virtue of reading overrides the sin of stealing is something Aziraphale is good at. A little puzzle that ends with the answer being libraries or politely asking.

The jig is up when Aziraphale happens upon him in the park, sprawled out under a tree with a copy of Tipping the Velvet, so engrossed in it that he doesn’t even notice until Aziraphale is standing over him.

“Shit,” Crowley says, startled, dropping the book. “Since when do you loom?”

“Since when do you read?” Aziraphale asks, like he’s just been given the most delightful gift he’s ever received.

“. . .I steal,” Crowley says, sitting up on his elbows and raising his eyebrows. “From an angel’s bookshop, which is, I assume, doubly a sin. If I happen to glance through my stolen goods, that’s my business.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, warmly, sitting a shopping bag down before moving to sit next to him. “Are there many paperbacks on my bookshelves?”

“. . .just the occasional one lying around, I suppose,” Crowley says, suspiciously.

“And why do you suppose that?” Aziraphale prompts.

“. . .did you trick me into literacy?” Crowley asks, gasping.

“I merely placed books I thought you might enjoy around for you to make the choice,” Aziraphale says, adorably pleased with himself.

“Well, that’s familiar,” Crowley says, laughing. “You tempted me into literacy.”

“Do you like this one?” Aziraphale asks, ignoring that and picking up the book, the broken spine immediately healing under his touch.

“I might,” Crowley says, defensively, then groans. “Oh, fuck, I lost my page.”

“I miracled a bookmark before it hit the ground,” Aziraphale says, handing it back to him, and Crowley flips it open to see a black bookmark embossed with his initials and a lovely snake pattern, laughing.

“Satan help me,” he says, smiling at him, “but I kind of like this side of you. Bit of petty mischief. It’s cute.”

“. . .could I tempt you into something else, perhaps?” Aziraphale asks, slowly.

“Lunch?” Crowley asks.

Instead of answering, Aziraphale reaches out to cup his cheek and kiss him, soft at first but then Crowley kisses him back, trying to hold back the impulses of thousands of years worth of not kissing Aziraphale as Aziraphale presses him down into the grass.

Of course it was books that finally did it.

“If I’d taken your suggestion to read all those poetry books you were pushing on me back in the eighteenth century, would you have done this then?” he asks, when they finally take a break.

“Well, darling, if you must know, they were love poems,” Aziraphale says, despairingly, starting to sit up again until Crowley drags him back on top of him.

“I’ll read any poem you want, angel,” he says, hushed, “just don’t stop.”

“Dangerous thing to say, darling,” Aziraphale says, kissing him softly on the forehead.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #this one is all fluff right up to the top #for u 🥰

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forgeofthenine · 4 months

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Is it the holiday season, or are you just a genius cause my yearning heart is being well fed by your tiefling headcanons. I hope this ask inspires :)

I’d go feral for some good pining headcanons; what are they like in the gray space between flirting and relationship? Especially if there’s mutual understanding that this might not be the best time (i.e. there may or may not be a mindflayer invasion in progress) and so they hold off on initiating anything, but have to watch as their crush dives headlong into danger? I love imagining ill-timed interruptions punctuated by longing looks.

Alternatively, how good are our darling tiefling bachelors at dancing? Would they learn a jig or two if their SO loved dancing?

Here's a lil' something something for you about pining, Anon. I didn't decide to write a full set of dance headcanons (despite it being on my to do list right from when I started the blog) but I am going to post something similar 👀

What the bachelors are like while pining for you

Dammon

This man pines so hard

He's touch starved to hell, quite literally, but has no clue about it

Dammon was sure he was fine right up until he met you and was hit with the realisation that he wanted more

The way he shows his affection is also anything but subtle, expect to know right away

It's never the type of affection that makes you feel guilty if you don't return it or makes you feel like you feel pressured

He's very easy going and good at reading people, he slowly increases how much affection he gives you until you both find a comfortable balance

Soon you'll find all your weapons and armour is repaired or replaced to the highest quality

Dammon is overjoyed if you return the same affection, even if you both know dating is off the cards for now

Bring this man some home cooking and he'll want to marry you right then and there

It's a grey area you both find yourself in for quite some time, to the point you both often get asked if you're together

The way he blushes when people ask is absolutely adorable, even more so when he hesitates to correct them

Towards the end you both basically already live together, both slowly easing into a romantic relationship without realising it

Dammon is more than happy once the ilithids are dealt with to make things official, finally not needing to correct people anymore

Zevlor

This man is the king of pining, absolute reigning champion

He knew he was in deep right from the moment he first saw you

It's something he keeps under wraps very well, to the point that you probably won't realise for a while

He tends to sneak peaks at you when you aren't looking, or he comes up with mostly reasonable excuses to come and speak with you

If you call him out on either thing then he'll heavily deny doing any of it, despite the blush on his face giving him away

Even if there wasn't an ilithid invasion happening Zevlor would still be cautiously optimistic about ever having a relationship with you

He's wary of a potential age gap or coming across too strong and scaring you away

A part of him also reminds him that you'd likely want a suitor your own age

The best way to quell those worries is to simply return his advances with some of your own

It could be anything, so long as he thinks you're interested he'll keep up his very subtle flirting

Soon, the two of you are already regularly having meals with each other and finding ways to spend hours together

Zevlor is absolutely already thinking of the life he'll have with you after this

Rolan

Rolan is a dick at first, he honestly is so out of touch with his own feelings that he doesn't realise he's into you

He's completely oblivious to anything that isn't directly spelled out for him, including how much he actually enjoys your company

It takes Cal and Lia teasing him relentlessly before he finally comes to terms with it

Once he does it hits him like a brick to the face

And after that, it's like a switch flips

He can barely speak to you now without second-guessing himself or tripping over words

It's enough to make you wonder what's going on until the siblings start teasing you both, much to Rolans embarrassment

He's always quick to shoo them away and apologise but his feelings are already clear

You're both smart people, it's easy to know now isn't the time to start a romantic relationship, but it's harder to listen to reason when your feelings get involved

After weeks of you both tiptoeing around each other, feelings clearly returned, he finally has enough

Rolans the fastest to take action on his pining, impatient and hating the uncertainty

You'll find yourself in Ramaziths Tower and kissing the tiefling that runs it in no time

Rolan is quick to pull you into him, kissing you passionately before making you promise you'll stay safe

#bri answers #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 x reader #bg3 x reader #baldurs gate 3 dammon #bg3 dammon #dammon x reader #baldurs gate 3 zevlor #bg3 zevlor #zevlor x reader #baldurs gate 3 rolan #bg3 rolan #rolan x reader

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gogh-with-the-flow · 6 days

Text

Part 2 of the 141 Mechanics AU

(Not proofread. Threesome. Blowjob, p in v, spit roasting. Sex as payment. Clothed/semi-clothed sex. Protected sex.

---

You got the call the next day that your car is fixed. Price isn't in the shop today, but Soap and Gaz are, and you stomach does flips in the Uber ride over there from the anticipation. What comes next? Who comes next? Literally! The bell rang as you opened the door to the front of the shop. You looked around but didn't see anyone right away.

"In here!" Shouted a distinctly Scottish voice from the back if the shop, where the garage was. You played with the hem of your skirt as you walked back. It wasn't terribly short, you didn't want to be too obvious, but you couldn't resist dressing a little more risqué than usual.

Johnny was leaning on a raised car as Gaz worked on it from underneath. He turned to greet you and gave you the biggest smile you'd ever seen from him. He looked you up and down as he swaggered up to you.

"There she is," Soap said playfully. He stopped in front of you. He wiped his hands with a rag he pulled from his pocket. "And doesn't she look stunning?" His eyes were fixated on the hem of your skirt, and your thighs peeking out from underneath. Behind him, Gaz rolled out from under the car.

"Doesn't she always?" He said with a wink as he stood up and walked to the shop sink to clean the oil from his hands. You smiled and ducked your head from their compliments.

"How's the car?" You asked.

"Eh, well, it's better, I suppose. For now, at least," Soap answered, rubbing the back of his neck and turning back to the car.

"What was wrong with it?" You asked as he walked to the garage door and pulled it down.

"The flim-flam was jammed," he answered.

"And the doohickey was upside-down," Gaz called from across the garage.

"And the whatcha-ma-callit was caught on the thingy-ma-jig," Soap finished.

This, of course, was not what they actually said. But it might as well have been. You never understood any of their mechanic mumbo-jumbo. They might as well have been speaking Latin for all you understood. So you just nodded and said okay. Soap chuckled at your response.

"You're so cute when you're confused," he mumbled. "Now, normally, this would've set you back almost a grand to fix, but..." he stepped into your personal space, looking down at you with hungry eyes. "Price said you two were able to work out a little arrangement. A sort of... 'loyalty discount,' is that right?" Just with him being so close to you, your heart was already skipping a beat. You nodded your head, and he reached up to put a finger under your chin. "So instead of paying an arm and a leg... I guess you'll be paying with pussy instead." Your eyes widened at his lewd words. His thumb prodded at your bottom lip. "Or maybe I'll take this pretty mouth instead."

You gasped at the feeling of hands suddenly grasping your waist and a firm, warm body pressed against your back.

"How about you take her mouth, I'll take her cunt?" Gaz asked, his mouth right next to your ear. Your pussy throbbed and you felt a rush of blood and wetness flood your bottom half. His fingers wormed their way under your shirt and started to push it upward. Johnny's eyes followed the movement, drinking in your exposed stomach, and licking his lips when Gaz revealed the lacey bra you wore. "How's that sound to you, baby?" He asked with a nibble on your earlobe.

"Sounds like a damn good deal to me," Soap interjected as his other hand squeezed your breast.

"Yeah," you agreed breathlessly. You were already hot and bothered from their words and hands. Imagining being split between their cocks had you dizzy. Gaz pulled your shirt over your head and Soap pulled your bra down, exposing your tits for him to fondle. Next, Gaz lifted up the back of your skirt, and you yelped at the harsh smack of your ass he gave you, which made both men chuckle. Gaz palmed and squeezed your ass, and then paused.

"Oh fuck," he groaned.

"What?" Soap asked. His question was answered when Gaz pulled your skirt higher in the front for Soap to see... no panties. His jaw dropped at the sight of your bare pussy. "Oh, you dirty girl," he grumbled, and then crashed his lips into yours with a moan. You parted your lips for him with a gasp as Gaz slid his fingers between your folds from behind.

"Fuck, she's so wet," he mused. You could feel the rumble in his chest behind you as he chuckled. You moaned into Soap's mouth as Gaz found your clit and rubbed circles into it. "Fucking soaked. You want this cock? Huh?" He smacked your ass again and you moaned into Soap's mouth.

The two of them guided you over to the rolling thing Gaz had been laying on, which he flipped up into a stool. He not-so-gently pushed you onto your knees and bent you over the seat with another spank. You could hear his clothes rustling behind you as you watched Soap kneel in front of you, one of his hands petting over your hair as his crotch became level with your face. Gaz patted his pockets and cursed.

"Shit. Tav, do you have a-" he was cut off by Soap tossing a small silver package over you. "Thanks, mate." You looked over your shoulder and watched Gaz tear open the condom and roll it onto his pretty cock. "You ready, doll?" He asked as he lined himself up to your wet entrance.

"God, yes," you answered. Then he pushed in, his cock stretching you out and filling you up slowly and deliciously. Soap smirked at the way your eyes rolled back in your head as he unbuckled his belt and pushed his pants down his thighs. It spring out and hit your cheek, and the three of you laughed breathlessly.

"Open up, bonnie," he told you, and you obeyed, opening your mouth wide and pushing your tongue out for him to rub against for a moment. Then, he places his hands on either side of your head. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, and you sucked around the head. Gaz dragged himself out and then pushed in hard, making you moan around Soap, which made Soap moan as well. "Fuck, do that again." And Gaz did, thrusting into you hard, the blunt head hitting you deep. The two of them started to set a pace, not too fast, but slow enough that you started to squirm on the bench.

"You want it harder?" Gaz asks from behind you. You moan around Soap again, bobbing your head as you nod. Gaz is more than happy to oblige, immediately fucking you harder and faster, ultimately pushing your throat deeper onto Soap. Your head starts to spin as your breath is cut off and Gaz keeps hitting the perfect spot inside you.

When Kyle reached around to play with your clit it was over for you, and your pussy squeezed tight around his cock. His hips stutter for a second, the tightness of your muscle momentarily trapping him inside and triggering his orgasm. He groans loudly and slams his hips against your ass, forcing your face against Soap's pelvis. His happy trail tickles your nose, and all of your senses are taken over by these two sweaty, musky men. Gaz stills inside you as he fills up the condom, and Soap pulls you off him so he can jerk himself off onto your face.

You flinch slightly at the hot droplets landing on your cheeks and tongue as he moans above you. The three of you take a moment to catch your breath, Soap leaning on your car beside him, Gaz behind you rubbing his hands up and down your hips, and you, slouched over the rolly bench.

"Yeah," Soap said after a moment, "I think that about paid for everything."

---

Guess who remembered how to write lmao. I can't even tell you how long this has been sitting in my drafts for. I forgot about is, oopsie. Anyway, let me know if you want pt.3 with Simon and his tow truck...

#kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick smut #john soap mactavish smut #soap mactavish #kyle garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #john soap mctavish x reader

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withclawandvine · 6 months

Text

katsuki thinks he's probably in love with his administrative assistant. he can't say for sure, but he spends an awful lot of his time in the office distractedly sneaking glances, and every time he hears that bright, "good morning, dynamight, sir!" he kind of feels like he's going to hurl. it's the nauseating combination of elation at the excitement in your voice — you must be happy to see him — and the disappointment at the sound of his hero name. so professional, distant.

he's complaining about it to the idiots he calls friends over a round of drinks — a decision he already regrets. especially when shitty hair opens his dumb mouth to ask if he’s tried talking to you. and not just about work stuff.

he thinks about it all weekend — do you think he's rude if he's only bossin you around? do you see it as bossing? would you like it if he just... talked? what would he even say??

and after an immediate and decisive failure on monday morning (in which you chirp, "good morning, dynamight, sir!" and he just nods like always) katsuki throws himself into his desk chair, opens an incognito tab, and types: how to start conversations into the search bar.

(you might even steal a glance at him, as you often do, and wonder privately at what he's working on — his face is awfully red)

so when you pop your head in to ask if he's decided about that charity gala next month, he goes for it. and... well, he's never been good at this kind of thing and until now, he's never cared. you tilt your head, clearly waiting for his response but all that's going through his head is how lovely you are.

it reminds him of tip #2: start with a compliment. but obviously he can't just come out and say that. it'd probably make you freak out and report him to HR. so he'd have to go with something... milder. or maybe he should forgo the compliment and try #6: ask for advice.

as he's weighing his options, he remembers that the first tip was to project positivity and figures maybe he should smile?? one time kaminari told him he had a nice smile, and to this day, katsuki isn't sure if the dunce was pullin his leg or not.

it feels... odd — his cheeks are stiff, his teeth feel too exposed. he's too distracted by that to really think about what he's saying. "'m gonna make a donation, but do you think it's worth goin? you're very ..... sensible." there. #6 and #2 done.

now if only you weren't looking at him like he'd just jumped up on his desk and started doing an irish jig. he can't quite hear your response over the blood rushing in his ears so he just nods and thanks you, and pretends to check his email. when his office door closes, he lets his head fall onto his desk with a dull thud. what the hell was that??? SENSIBLE!?!?!?!

he spends most of the rest of the day avoiding looking in your direction and contemplating doing a tenure in the states after all.

he does not expect you to come back into his office and present him with not one but two tickets to the charity gala. he stares down at them, trying to make sense of it, and then it clicks — what you’d been saying when he asked your opinion on the event. … and these kinds of things are more fun if you bring someone.

shit. not only had he agreed to going to the damn thing but now he has to find someone to…. he looks at you. that soft smile on your face — a real smile, not a pained grimace — and his stomach flips. but surely you wouldn’t want to come to some stuffy party with him.

#YES !! YOU DO !!!!!!#this played in my head like a movie while listening to 'ballad of a homeschooled girl' by olivia rodrigo #everything he does IS tragic #he just…. never cared about getting someone to like him until now. until you #ahshdkwloj i want to squish him #mha #bakugou x reader #my writing: mha

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cringecannon · 7 months

Note

So we know Raphael kept Gortash after his parents sold him, and that Gortash stole the Crown of Karsus after escaping the House of Hope. How would each man react upon finding out that Tav has been propositioned by the other to make deals/become allies? What if both are jealous of each other? Will Tav be caught in a hate sandwich?

The problem here is as much as they hate each other, you’ve given them the perfect opportunity to agree about something: being pissed at you.

When you walk into the audience hall you’d be more than a little shocked to see Raphael leaned against the back of Gortash’s throne. The jig is up. Don’t try and run, though. Before you can even turn around you hear a snap of fingers and the doors slam closed on their own. As you’ve begun to pull and shake the handles another snap sweeps your legs out from under you. You land hard on your stomach and an invisible force pulls you by your legs toward the expectant pair. Struggling is useless. Scratch your nails against the stone all you like, you’ll eventually be dropped unceremoniously at Gortash’s feet.

You’re unable to move, forced into a low bow on the ground beneath his throne. Gortash lets you simmer for a moment before speaking. They’ve come to an agreement-

A deal, Raphael interjects.

Gortash sounds agitated when he starts again, an agreement. You have been playing both sides, and that is intolerable. They’ve agreed to split your punishment. Raphael will break your mind, by any means necessary. After that, he will hand you over to Gortash. What he does with you at that point, well, he’s not quite sure yet. It’ll depend on how well behaved you are.

No need to worry your little head over the future though, you have no say in it. Onto more… pressing matters. Raphael cuts in at that point, sneering down at you. The next step is sealing the deal, so to speak. You know what they mean, don’t you?

He sighs. No wonder you’re so brazen, since your brain is so clearly lacking. Physically, mouse. The best deals are sealed physically. Normally a handshake will do, but… where’s the fun in that?

He crooks his finger and you’re pulled onto Gortash’s lap, flipped around so your back is against his firm chest. Metal claws dig into your hips as you feel something press against your ass. Raphael prowls around the throne, stopping in front of you. He runs his thumb over your lip, pulling your mouth open just slightly. It’s hard to focus on the devil’s words with Gortash running his mouth over your neck, teeth threatening a particularly sensitive spot.

Raphael pushes his thumb past your teeth and presses down your tongue. You want to bite. You try to. Something is stopping you. You can only glare as he looks down at you, clearly pleased. Now, now, mouse. It won’t be that bad. Once they have their way with you, you get to go home with him. Aren’t you excited? He can hardly wait.

#.raphael #.enver gortash #.bg3 #notsfw

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hellfireclubmember · 2 years

Text

short lil blurb. reader messing with boyfriend!steve. just something fun and cute.

boyfriend!steve harrington x fem!reader

warning: some suggestive stuff?, making out, (expect some mistakes, i wrote this super quickly)

w/c: 585

“Get off, you freak.” Steve was pushing your hand away every time you moved it near his face. You were both on your bed. He was under you as you sat on his abdomen, knees on either side of him. He kept turning away from your finger and you tried your best to keep his head still with your free hand.

You had started this little kerfuffle about five minutes ago. Steve was peacefully sitting on your bed, flipping through one of your magazines as you ran around organizing your room. When you were done with your work and looked at your boyfriend, your heart felt like it was doing a little jig in your chest. He was so perfect. And your first instinct was to tackle him onto your mattress. Originally, your intention was to cuddle him but then one thing led to another, you know how it goes.

“If you would just let me, then this would be over.” You were beginning to become winded.

“Why do you even want to, weirdo?”

“I just want to know you’d let me. Pleeeeease.” You whined.

Steve was trying his best to look annoyed but he couldn’t help the smile that grew on his lips. He could’ve definitely flipped you both over and pinned you down, but he was having fun. He thought that it was probably only fun because he was so stupidly in love with you, his endearingly annoying girlfriend.

He grabbed your hand and bit the pointer finger you were trying to get in his nose.

You gasped, whipping your hand out of his grip and looking at your finger. All your efforts halted to assess the damage. “How could you?”

“How could I?” He asked, his eyebrows raised. “You’re trying to stick your finger up my nose.”

You looked down at him. He was so pretty, his hair all messy yet still perfect, his cheeks a shade of light pink due to the harassment he had just endured, and an amused look on his face as you nursed your finger.

“I can’t believe you’re denying me, your wonderful girlfriend, the chance of putting just the tip of my finger in your nose.” You pouted, your lips twitching as you forced a smile off your face. “I’m not asking to pick boogers out of your nose.”

Steve rolled his eyes at your dramatics. “Baby, I gotta deny you something at some point.” He put his hands on your hips, his eyes on your pouted lips.

He brought his hand up to the side of your face and pulled you down towards him, connecting your lips. The familiar taste of your fruity lip balm drove him wild. He so badly wanted to flip you over and kiss every part of you.

Quickly, he turned the gentle kiss into a heated make out session. His hands slowly started making their way up the sides of your thighs, stopping when the tips of his fingers were tucked under your pajama shorts. Steve almost had a temper tantrum when you pulled away.

“You evil genius.” You were sitting up now, both your hands on his chest as you looked down at him. “You’re trying to distract me.” You poked him in the chest.

“You got me.” He laughed, grabbing one of your hands and kissing your knuckles. “I’m still not letting you put your finger in my nose.”

“That’s okay.” You leaned down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his neck. “I wanna do something else anyway.”

#stranger things fluff #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #steve x reader #steve harrington x fem!reader

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isa-ghost · 3 months

Note

OMG i would love to hear more qphil headcannons!

SET 5 LETS GOOOOO

Previous Sets:

Set 1

Set 2

Set 3

Set 4

When he's alone he gives so many less fucks. Anytime he passes a Federation camera or building or whatever he flips it off. Sometimes he'll stop to do it, do a funky mocking jig out of spite. If Fit has Fuck The Catfish (FTC) then Phil has FTF. Fuck the Feds

Besides the fact that he's sentimental about stupid shit, he also hasn't deconstructed the shitty dirt shack yet because he treats it as rent lowering gunshots. That's his wall. Bitch.

He's a teeny tiny bit sad everyone who lived IN the wall is sorta gone for one reason or another. It's a bit lonely. And eerie, considering a lot of the time they lived in there was before the worst of what's happened to everyone happened. The insides of the walls feel like a fucked up time capsule now...

We've seen this in canon but he LOVES to wander. Wanderlust his beloved. Find cool shit, collect cool shit, get cool pictures. It's just nothing but Ws. ... He feels a lot of deja vu doing it. He'd be able to place it if he could just fly...

Ever since that taste of flight in Purgatory, he's been aching so much more for it again. His stomach fills with dread at the thought of saving Tubbo's life costing him his wings. He'd make the decision he did again & 100x over, but flying is so core to who he is. He can't fathom being grounded for the rest of eternity.

If it weren't for the constant danger he feels like he's in, he'd LOVE to just lay down on his stomach on Chayanne's old house's roof & just sun his wings. Mmmmmm warmmmm

He'll never admit it to Tallulah, but sometimes he switches up what he eats between his avocado toast phases so he never gets sick of it. She thinks he just infinitely enjoys the stuff.

He's convinced the Baker is a paid [Federation employee? Cucurucho 3?] actor that can't, no matter what, break their stoic smile. Phil spends SO much time when he has no other responsibilities trying to get them to crack. He flips them off, he makes faces, he threatens them, he rambles off the wildest most random shit. He did the DK prank. He dances in front of them. Nothing. But one day he'll get them.

Just like cc!Phil, he loathes a lot of stereotypical British stuff, like tea. It's so funny. Fit & Tubbo especially like pushing his buttons about it, his food rants are the best.

When he heard someone on the island made up a rumor that Eggza is legit because Phil taste-tested a cookie out of curiosity, he took that and RAN. Yeah. He's egg sometimes. Who's his parent you ask? Well that's a secret (it's Rose).

The moment Fit told him he has a thing for Pac, Phil instantly launched into wingman mode (pun intended). No more,,,, Hitting The Gym Together. Fit wants more than a fwb, Phil is SO here for it

Cellbit & Baghera take priority over everything. But GOD is he not ready for the flashbacks when he gets to Egg Island to save them. He didn't know Etoiles left that scar on his back...

In very dad fashion, his sneezes and yawns are fucking atrocious. Unnecessarily loud.

(With the idea that Purg2 is canon): He can't help but think about all those new people going through the hell he did. What if he knew some of them? What if there were friends there he forgot about because the Federation meddled with his memory? It makes him sick.

The islanders closest to him + the kids are starting to think he's got some kinda sleep disorder. He sleeps for an awful long time sometimes... (when his hc streams get long :) )

This idiot sleeps in the worst places I bet his back cracks and pops like fucking bubble wrap (same tho)

#qsmp #qsmp philza #q!philza #philza #qphil headcanons

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kingthunder · 22 days

Text

Analysis of Jaskier's songs from s1—

—and how they reflect the narrative events and Jaskier's character arc through the show. I'm trying to keep this as canon as possible and not look at it through shipping goggles, but there is textual stuff about Jaskier's relationship with and love for Geralt that's impossible to ignore.

Toss a Coin to Your Witcher: Jaskier’s first big break, the famous and famously annoying Toss a Coin. He wrote this when he was around eighteen and it definitely feels immature. He’s cracking bad jokes like “elf on a shelf” (god I hate that one, it grates me every time) and substituting “bleat” for “beat.” He’s taking enormous creative liberties with facts. And he’s being a little thoughtless; in his enthusiasm to hero-wash Geralt, he’s throwing elves under the bus, calling them devils and pests while he’s talking about Geralt as a friend to “humanity.” (more about this when we get into some of his later songs and his time as the Sandpiper)

This is an upbeat, catchy (and kind of shallow) song that I mentally classify as one of his “narrative” songs. It tells a story. It feels optimistic, much like Jaskier himself at this point in his life. After all, this is the kid who saw a big scary witcher brooding in a corner and decided that nothing could go wrong by following him around. He’s got a head full of heroics and heartbreak and nothing is going to dissuade him, not even being nearly killed. This song is a perfect time capsule of the beginning of Jaskier’s career and also the beginning of his long-running relationship with Geralt.

The Fishmonger’s Daughter: Jaskier plays this at Calanthe’s court when she orders him to play “a jig.” It seems like a pretty typical bawdy tavern song, the kind where you try to drum up audience participation. Most of the court seems to know it and sing along with it. No idea if Jaskier wrote this himself. He probably didn’t. It seems like one of those songs that everyone just knows.

Her Sweet Kiss: This song makes me feel deranged. This is definitely a Jaskier original. We see him writing and noodling with it at the beginning of The Mountain (tm) and asking other people if his lyrics are scanning well. He’s been traveling with Geralt on and off for about twenty years now, so he’s forty years old or close to it. He’s seen some shit, and part of the shit he’s seen has been Geralt and Yennefer’s relationship. He is not a fan. He is so deeply not a fan that he’s writing a whole song about it. But also? He’s putting himself in the song too, and he’s putting his heart on his sleeve, the same way that he tries to do when he talks to Geralt about going to the coast. The lyrics of this song are about three people—a man (Geralt), a woman (Yennefer), and the singer (Jaskier). It’s about how the woman is bad for the man, and how much the singer loves the man.

Whether you see Jaskier’s feelings for Geralt as romantic or not, these are the facts:

He doesn’t like Yennefer or think that she’s good for Geralt, and says so, repeatedly, both in casual conversation and in his music. In the song, he writes, “She’s always bad news, it’s always lose-lose” and that, “She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss.”

In the song, Jaskier calls Geralt “my love” and says, “I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting.”

He asks Geralt to go to the coast with him, so they can “work out what pleases” them. He wants them to stay together and not go their separate ways like they often do.

Immediately after this plea, Geralt goes straight to Yennefer and (just in case anyone was doubting that Her Sweet Kiss was about the three of them) Geralt and Yennefer fuck while an instrumental version of Her Sweet Kiss plays over the sex. I still can’t believe the showrunners did that. That was A Damn Choice. (deranged, I am deranged about everything about this)

The kicker is that the song wasn’t even finished when Geralt flipped his lid and shouted Jaskier off The Mountain (tm) and out of his life. Which means that Jaskier, alone and heartbroken (his own words from s2), finished this song and published it afterwards, even knowing that the entire situation had gone tits up and that he might not even see Geralt or Yennefer again. Maybe it gave him some catharsis to sing it, who knows.

This isn’t a shallow catchy tune like Toss a Coin or even Fishmonger’s Daughter. It’s deeply personal and a tonal shift from his previous music.

(and it makes me deranged)

Stay tuned for my season 2 thoughts!

#witcher #jaskier #jaskier meta #julian alfred pankratz #toss a coin to your witcher #the fishmonger's daughter #her sweet kiss #come for the music stay for the author losing their shit over every single choice the showrunners made about her sweet kiss #song analysis series #geralt #yennefer #witcher meta #jaskier's songs

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pinky-in-blankets · 3 months

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TADC: ✨️SideQuests ✨️

---

A Clue! A Clue!

Route: S.O.S!Au

---

"WHAT is she, A Librarian!? HOW MANY BOOKS DOES RAGATHA HAVE!?"

Scribbles hissed in protest at the thought of going through every single book in the Potion makers shelf. Pomni, Caine, and herself were currently investigating the Ragdoll's Quarters.

The little Jerboa had taken one of Ragatha's Favorite ribbons and hidden it somewhere with the assistance of Jax under a guise of a prank, So they'd have plenty of time to search. If anything, those two could annoy eachother for hours.

"SO My Dear, Do tell me.. what exactly are we searching for?"

Caine mused as he poked a few of the empty vials and nearly knocked them over. Pomni was Quick to catch them and gave him a look.

"Anything that's suspicious or out of place."

She replied while placing the vials back in order. The last thing she wanted was Caine to be here during her investigation, seeing as he's a suspect.

But she need to keep a closer eye on the riddlemaster.. as he was the hardest to get a read on. It would be better to keep your friends close and your enemies closer after all.. yeah. That was totally the reason.

"Everything in this place is suspicious. I feel like I'm in a witches Cavern.."

Scribbles murmered under her breathe as she filed through the different books. She probably wasn't looking as throughly as she should- but ughhh this was so dusty and boring. "Tears of the world", "A handmaidens guide to Etiquette", "Darling, If you only Knew-"

**BONK**

"OW!"

Scribbles let out a slightly agitated cry as a big book fell on her noggin. The other two turned their heads to see what the commotion was.

"Little Knight?"

Caine asked as he walked over curiously to see what was wrong.

"You okay?"

Pomni asked as she also headed over, trying not to laugh. Whenever something hit scribbles, she sounded like a strained squeaky toy.

"Mmhm.. I'm okay.. just this silly Book.. Huh? That's weird.. this is the only book in another language. Isn't everything here set to "English"?"

Scribbles mentioned as she held up the book to the two. The entire book was written in French.

"That.. That is odd."

Pomni mused as Scribbles opened it and flipped through the pages. She squinted at the fancy calligraphy and let out a frustrated hiss.

"How can anybody read this stuff? I cant even read the title."

" Base de données des utilisateurs."

Caine chimed in, causing Both Pomni & Scribbles to look at him. He simply spun his cane around with a bit of pride, assuming that he's managed to impress the two.

"Why I can read MANY languages. French, German, Spanish, Chinese, Russian-"

He began to list off one of his many setting before pomni put her fingers to his teeth and shushed him.

" YES yes that's very impressive Caine but could you maybe just read this in ENGLISH?"

She motioned to the pages of the book the little Jerboa held out to him. He gave an awkward chuckle before nodding.

"Ah- But of course my dear! Allow me to shed some light on this verbal mystery!"

He stated as he began to read out the listed words in the pages... he was reading out names. But not just any names.. Names of all the missing persons on this case.

This was a HUGE piece of evidence.

"Yes.. YES! FINALLY! SOMETHING THAT COULD ACTUALLY BE A SOLID LEAD!!"

Pomni Said with a bright grin as she did a little jig in place. After months of wild goose chases she's finally making some solid progress. Caine had no idea how this book made her so excited but the sight alone made his non existenant heart flutter a little bit. Might as well join in the cheerfulness.

"That's simply marvelous my dear~"

Pomni couldn't contain her excitement as she immediately ran up to Caine and threw her arms around him. He was taken aback but happily spun her around a little as they had a small victory.

Scribbles was quick to catch the book before handing it back to Caine when he finally stopped spinning Pomni. Her face had flushed with the silly laughter she had.

"Finally.. I'm finally one step closer to finding out who's behind this all. Thank you. Thank you so much Caine.."

" Oh no, It was my Pleas-"

Caine began but immediately stopped mid sentence as he felt something wrong. It was as if the ground had went out from under him...?

As if he slipped on something, Caine went crashing to the ground and the Book went flying.. and landed right into Ragatha's Main Calderon.

It bubbled and fizzled as the book all but discenigrated into the green liquid.

A deathly silence fell over the room as Cain slowly sat up, Feeling the burning stares of the two Behind him.. even He knew that a Simple "Oops." Wouldn't fix what he had just done.

He felt his Code run cold as the strained Sound of Despair in Pomni's Voice can be heard.

"Caine... What did you do..?"

---

Song of sorrow Au belongs to @snuffydoo

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slocumjoe · 1 year

Note

Hi! I love the quality of You’re work, it’s so good!

Can you do companions react to overhearing sole and someone else talking, and all sole is talking about is how freaking amazing said companion is and how much they love them and about five minutes into the rant sole just pauses and is like “oh God I actually love them”

could you do gage too if you write for him

I studied for this one, y'know, just to do Gage right for once

Anyway, this got so long, i had to use multiple paragraphs per some companions. Whoops.

Companions react to Sole talking themselves into realizing their feelings for them

We're going to assume the feelings are mutual. Featuring non-romancable companions too, because i love yall and want you to eat good 💕

Cait; the C in Cait stands for Crisis. Panics and runs away, doesn't want to hear anymore. Sole being all sweet about her platonically about ripped her in half as is, but...holy shit. She has a chance with them. Cait didn't think this far.

The A in Cait stands for Assessment. She starts doing mental gymnastics. Okay, Sole's previous partner was like this. Cait is/isn't like that. Are they viable? Does she even know how to have a relationship? She and Sole get along very well, already. They're in- ew, no. They want to smang. Yes, that is it. No one wants her for long.

The I in Cait stands for Insecure. Cait has so many goddamn issues, man. After enough thinking, she talks herself out of it. What if she's wrong, what if she hurts them, what if they hurt her? She shouldn't try it. She'll fuck it up, right?

The T in Cait stands for Take the shot, bitch. Mentally, she decides to not pursue anything. This will fly out of the window the moment Sole flirts with her or gives her any opportunity. Cait is impulsive, man. Insecurity doesn't last long around Sole.

Curie; Curie lacks tact. Might be the most likely to just...walk in and confess her feelings too. Regardless. But she might also give them more time to ponder it, seeing as they just figured it out. The weird stuff happening in her chest (joy, confusion, bashfulness, she's learned) might also nerf her for the moment.

In the time it takes for Sole to confess properly to Curie, she'll give them lots of space, so that they can think of it without her influence. Will be painfully obvious to anyone else that she's over the moon, though. Listens to love songs and stares dreamily at the sky. Draws hearts in her notebook. Gets terrifyingly excited whenever Sole talks to her, thinking it'll be the moment. If they take too long though, WILL approach them on her own.

Danse; I'm gonna be honest, second most likely to hit the legs the moment Sole starts talking about him. Danse is not built for praise. Danse isn't even built for people being neutral towards him. And he isn't the type to eavesdrop. So, we have to assume that he gets there, like, right before Sole says it. At which point, most likely to stumble and fall on his ass. Sole hears the commotion and comes to check, only to see Danse hopping a fence, or sprinting down a hallway. So, jig is already up, Sole knows he heard.

But, Danse is 1 letter away from being a different word. What is that word, class? Yes, it's "dense." Will do mental gymnastics to come to conclusion he misheard, or misunderstood, or that Sole was talking about an entirely different person.

However long it takes Sole to approach him about it, will dig himself a hole full of self-loathing, loneliness, and yearning. The longer it goes, the deeper the hole. Sole really needs to just run after him screaming "COME BACK I LOVE YOU" or this is gonna be exhausting for Person C, who had to watch this play out as an outside observer.

Deacon; Flips a coin to decide his next move; run away screaming, or walk in strutting? If he walks in, will loudly start chatting up whoever Sole is talking to about how cool Sole is, and does it in a way that gives off the vibes of "I totally feel the same way but I'm pretending I don't know you feel that way at all". Person C wants to die seeing this.

Will also talk himself out of it like Cait. Deacon doesn't even know who he is, how could Sole? And things with Barbara didn't end too well, because he was an asshole who dragged her into his shit. He's still an asshole, dragging Sole into his shit. But because of who Sole has to be to get this close with Deacon, they're likely to nip this in the bud and approach him ASAP.

Deacon has maybe ten minutes of freaking out before Sole finds him alone and confesses. And he knows this. If Sole wants to confess, they better recognize him through a disguise. He wants to be swept off his feet, and nothing turns him on like Sole seeing through his shitty wigs.

Gage; HITS THE BRICKS. He sticks around for praise because shit, who doesn't like hearing how badass they are? And from the Overboss, no less! The intelligent, tough, sexy Overboss, who makes him melt with just a look. He could listen to them brag about him all day. Hell yeah, tell them how smart he is, how strong he is, how...big his muscles are...? Uh, thanks...but talk about how good his aim is, despite the one—wait, what's this about him being...charming...? ...Handsome? Boss, what are you—WHAT? WHAT? WHAT THE FUCK?! THIS WASNT THE PLAN! RETREAT, RETREAT, RETREAT.

Gage put all of those nasty little feelings into a jar and threw them into the ocean like a civilized person the moment they reared their ugly little heads. And now, Sole just...fucking said that. Not a care in the world, no hesitatation. They—they can't. They just can't do anything there. Inappropriate workplace relationship, it wouldn't be right. And with him? Dirty, old, banged up Gage, fucked up in more ways then he has teeth? When Sole is...Sole? Nah, nah, that...nah. Best not go there. Gets a bad case of the Yearning that makes him cringe.

Talks a big game to himself about how he's not going to do anything about it, fuck that, fuck love, who needs it, but to be honest? All Sole would have to do is invite him in a shower or something and he's dropping the literal and metaphorical pants. A smart raider doesn't turn his nose up at a good thing dropping right in his lap. That...might also be literal, in this case.

Hancock; Unlike Deacon or Curie, who consider barging in, Hancock does it. He's so shocked, touched, scared, etc, that he puts on the persona and follows its lead. He walks in, chats like normal, teases, makes no indication that he knows. Everything is normal. It didn't happen. If it did, they didn't mean it.

Whenever he remembers it later, immediately distracts himself. Cuts back on chems because he keeps thinking about it on them. Lets his mind wander. Sole is too good for him, Sole deserves better, and Sole can do better. In this state, Hancock's walls are so high up and reinforced, Sole is gonna need a real bulldozer of a confession to knock them down. I recommend a moonlit dinner with music. Something to let him know that they mean business.

MacCready; It takes a good, long time for him to realize what he heard. In the moment, his brain (likely in a bid for self-preservation) locks up. He shrugs and wanders off, forgets about it. It'll be, like, a week later, and he and Sole will be talking, and it'll come rushing back to him. The shutdown happens again, and this repeats until MacCready thinks about it for a moment.

When he realizes what they said, screams into the nearest pillow, mostly because he's been an idiot for...way too long. Has a crisis. What about Lucy? What about Duncan? What about Shaun? What about Sole? Much like Danse, Sole needs to come get their man quickly, before he spooks himself out of getting some. He wants to, but is it time for that? He'll come around once Sole figures themselves out and goes to him.

Nick; The only one who will go out of his way to approach Sole later and confess himself. He's an adult with functional interpersonal skills. He's not going to kick the door down and drop his pants, and he's not going to run away and fake his death just to avoid talking about it.

Nick gets his thoughts in order, waits for Sole to not be busy, and goes for it. If Sole would be embarrassed, doesn't mention that he heard. Nick probably starts real traditional, gets flowers and candy or something. A little courting gift, as is gentlemanly. Nick knows the importance of skipping the tomfoolery and getting down to business, but he's a sentimental man. And besides, Sole deserves to be pampered, and treated right, if they're going to do this.

Also, Nick is Person C with the other companions. And he fucking knows they sit there and eavesdrop, wants to die when Sole confesses their feelings when the object of them is right there. But also, kinda lives for it. His name is Valentine, of course he's a romantic.

Piper; Piper has a taste for the theatrical, and right now, she's thinking of what she would want as Person C. And She, in C's position, would lose her mind if the Person B walked in and loudly proclaimed their feelings for Sole. Also, it's the first thing she thinks to do, too shocked to stop and think. So Piper does it, God bless.

Well, kind of. She charges in, only to cough and awkwardly tell Sole they should talk, red as her coat. Person C (Nick) appreciates this greatly, even if she stumbled on the landing.

Anyway, there's no wistful wondering. They get this shit figured out ASAP. Piper is also impulsive, and thank God for that. Sole is also red as her coat and they go back and forth teasing each other relentlessly. Lots of squealing and incoherent noises.

Preston; Much like Nick, goes for it...but not for a while. He takes time to think it over. After all, Sole is his general, they have a lot going on, he himself has a lot going on...he has logistics to work through. Likely to make a corkboard planning it out. Will he be able to provide the needed emotional labor? Goes to Nick/Person C and ask their opinion. Nick takes one look at the corkboard and tells him Sole is his friend, not a damn supply route.

Heeding Nick's advice, also approaches it traditionally. He invites Sole to a personal, off-the-record meeting late at night. Sole finds their favorite dish, music, and Preston in a tux that Nick would have advised against if he knew about it. But Preston talks about his feelings, confesses, wants to try if Sole is willing. Obviously they are.

X6-88; Decides No. Simply No. He vanishes and refuses to think about it. Sole is his Director. He is a synth, a courser, a machine. He shouldn't have these feelings anyway, but to act on them? To have them reciprocated? Oh no. No, no, no, that won't do. It goes against everything he believes.

He doesn't think about it at all. If Sole brings it up, he will initially reject them out of shock, because he genuinely is not ready to even consider it, let alone agree. Forget matters of compatibility, there is so much red tape around this, and if he trips over it, he risks his life, his position, even Sole, if the other Board Members take enough umbrage.

Sole has to do so much heavy lifting to get him to feel safe enough to think about the possibility. Not even if he wants to, if its possible. After that...X6-88 is not meant for such things. He's never done it before. Sole will expect and need things he can't provide. What if they want sex? He most certainly doesn't. What if they want comfort? His brain isn't built for that. What if they want him to change, better himself? He's not supposed to change, he wouldn't be a courser if he could.

This relationship would take so many baby steps. But he won't forget that Sole, for some reason he can't parse, feels the same way. For something they shouldn't see as a person, but do. And...they like the person they see. It...Sole is going to be dealing with a crisis, down the line.

#fo4 #fallout 4 #paladin danse #preston garvey #piper wright #nick valentine #x6-88 #robert joseph maccready #companions react #hancock #GAGE STANS COME AND GET ME I TOOK NOTES ON THIS FUCKER #HE IS A COWARD MAN WHO STINKS #THE BITCH FLEES THE SCENE I KNOW I'M RIGHT I WENT THROUGH ALL OF HIS DIALOGUE #porter gage

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smittywing · 2 months

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FicBit 10: Jason Todd/Tim Drake

Previous parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

OH MY GOD THIS TOOK FOREVER. However, there is only one more part and it's already mostly done. Whew.

Red Robin was in Red Hood’s territory, and he was brandishing a greasy paper bag of Big Belly Burger.

“What are you doing on my turf?” Jason demanded, trying to ignore that he could *smell* the onions from two feet away.

“It’s been pointed out to me,” Tim said wryly, “that I may have been a shit to you.”

Jason shrugged because he fucking hated that Tim’s questions had gotten to him and he wasn’t ready to admit it.

“I hear burgers are the going rate for an apology,” Tim added, shaking the bag a little.

“And fries?” Jason asked, relenting.

“And fries,” Tim confirmed.

Jason swept the bag out of his hand and dug out the top burger. Loaded with onions. Perfection. “So let’s hear it,” he mumbled around the first bite.

Tim lifted the lenses on his domino and rolled his eyes. Jason coughed out a laugh around his double beef patties.

“I’m sorry I got all up in your business,” Tim said. “I wanted - I wanted too many things and I tried to make them all work.”

Jason lifted his own lenses to share his side eye. “What the fuck does that mean?” he asked.

Tim scratched the back of his head. “You had me pretty fucked up, with that kiss,” he admitted.”I know I shouldn’t have done it. But I guess I wanted to be part of what you were going through, like…Bernard was for me.”

“No names in the field,” Jason scolded, shoving some fries into his mouth. “And Cannon Fodder is your actual boyfriend. Were you going to be my actual boyfriend?”

“No,” Tim said immediately and blushed. “I just.”

“Help!”

Jason snapped his attention away from Tim. “Hello?” he called. “Do you need help?”

A child, a little boy, maybe seven or eight, ran out of the alley, his hands fisted in his sweatshirt. “It’s my mom,” he said. “She needs help.”

Jason flipped the lenses on his domino back down and tossed the bag to Tim. “Show me where she is,” he directed.

“This way,”the kid said and ran back down the alley. Jason followed, his long strides eating up the distance between himself and the kid, and then he saw a woman huddled over some cardboard boxes. She was protecting her stomach and Jason’s heart pounded as he assumed the worst.

“Let me see,” he said, kneeling next to her. “Help is here.”

He heard, rather than saw the taser as she fired, and he barely had time to say, “Fuck,” before everything went black.

Jason gained consciousness slowly and regretfully. For starters, he was upside down and his nose was running. (It seemed like a problem that would solve itself, but no.) Moving on, he was lashed to Tim, who was also unconscious. His head was tucked under Jason’s chin, his mouth breathing short puffs of air against Jason’s neck. At least he was breathing. Their hands were tied, Jason’s behind his back and Tim’s in front of him, which basically put them right in Jason’s groin. For fuck’s sake. As if Jason didn’t have enough problems with wanting Tim, some absolute psycho went and put Tim’s hands in Jason’s lap and was probably laughing while Jason tried to be cool about it. Finally, Jason craned his head down to see what they were dangling over. Acid? Alligators? Something that started with the letter B?

Nope. Concrete. Great. He groaned and Tim stirred against him.

“Wake up, Baby Bird,” he said because the jig was up and he might as well have company in immortal humiliation. “They got us.”

“Temporary situation,” Tim said crisply, even though his voice was muffled by Jason’s skin and his own shirt.

“Let’s not fall on our heads,” Jason suggested when he realized Tim was picking the ties on his own hands. Actually, falling on his head sounded pretty good right now, with Tim’s hands shifting and twitching *so fucking close* and his cock aching for those hands to hold it. Only Jason could get a stiffy while dangling over certain death.

“Just stay really still for a sec,” Tim said, and then he twisted around and wrapped his arms around Jason’s back. Jason tried not to die inside. Tim tucked his head into the small of Jason’s back - it was really weird to get turned on by this, right? - and rotated his body so he was facing upright, his knees hooked around Jason’s shoulders. “You need my pick before I jump?” he asked.

“I have a knife,” Jason replied, choked.

Tim pushed off and somersaulted to the floor. His landing was light, not as soundless as Dick’s, but far less noisy than Jason’s was about to be. Tim had freed Jason’s feet, which had been tied with his own, so Jason wrapped one leg in the hanging chain before he sliced apart the ropes holding his hand. He grasped the chain and swung himself down, landing beside Tim with a quiet thunk.

“I don’t know what kind of candyass bullshit that was,” he said, rubbing at his chest which still tingled from the taser. “But we need to kick some asses.”

“I got tased by a third grader.” Tim sounded salty. “I’m guessing it’s not my drug ring.”

“We weren’t even in costume when we pissed them off,” Jason pointed out. “It’s gotta be somebody else.”

“Smart enough to use decoys, dumb enough to leave us alone,” Tim added.

Jason tried to remember the woman’s face as he bent over her. “Mind control?” he asked. “Hatter’s still in Arkham, isn’t he?”

Tim tapped his earbud. “Oracle,” he asked. “Is Mad Hatter still in Arkham?” He looked at Jason and shook his head. A metal door screamed open a thousand feet away and about a dozen people marched through the opening. “Oh. That fits. Yeah, Red Hood and I will take care of it.”

“Who is it?” Jason demanded, unholstering his guns.

“Professor Pyg,” Tim said. “He escaped sometime this afternoon. He probably hasn’t had time to turn anyone into a Dollotron yet but he has some method of mind control.”

“Dammit.” Mind control meant no bullets. Not even rubber ones. “All right, let’s find this guy and put him back where he belongs. You still owe me a burger.”

“I gave you a burger,” Tim protested. “It’s not my fault you got duped into abandoning it.”

“I handed it back to you,” Jason pointed out. “It’s not my fault you got tased by an eight-year-old.”

“Ugh,” Tim said. “There are offices up there, on the catwalk. Pyg’s probably up there. Let’s skip the henchmen and go straight to the source.”

Jason didn’t often use a grapple but Tim was already on his way and there was no way Jason was letting him face Pyg without backup. He grappled up to the catwalk, ducking under the metal guardrail, and took off after Tim. They started clearing offices and had covered the east side of the warehouse when Jason heard a footstep behind him and spun around.

Pyg, brandishing a cleaver, and a syringe, had emerged from the next office down and was trying to rush Jason. Fortunately he was neither fast nor accurate and Jason managed to side-step him and take him down with a judo throw. He kicked the cleaver down the catwalk but Pyg lunged at his with the syringe. It wouldn’t have pierced his armor, but it didn’t matter. Tim was there and he cracked his bo staff across the back of Pyg’s head. Pyg went down and Jason picked up the syringe. “We’re gonna want to analyze this,” he commented.

“Later,” Tim snapped. “We’re getting him back to Arkham before he can do anymore damage.”

Sirens were already wailing. Jason zip-tied Pyg’s wrists and checked the back of his head. “You got him good, baby bird,” he said, finding a sizable goose egg. “Cops are on their way. They can give him a lift back to Arkham.”

“We need to figure out what this is and how to counteract it,” Tim said, nodding at the syringe still in Jason’s hand. “We’ll have to take it back to the Bat-Cave.”

“I’m not going there,” Jason said automatically. “Which office was he using? Are there notes?”

The notes were in the third office they checked. Tim took the notes and the syringe and slipped out of the warehouse to tell some cop he was friendly with how to synthesize an antidote.

Jason grappled to the roof of the next building and watched Tim from a distance as he spoke stridently with a detective. Then, he slipped into the shadows and went home.

#batbrats #jason todd #tim drake #jaytim #jason todd/tim drake #red hood #red hood/red robin #red robin #jason todd's potty mouth #batfam #fic actually

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