#fuck with my muse prompts
Note
not a prompt necessarily but I’m always down for planymphia angst 🙏🙏🙏
in response to multiple asks i’ve received for planymphia angst… here is this <3
i know baby, no attachment
None of this had been in the plan.
It was the first thing they’d talked about that first night in Jane’s apartment; Neither of them were looking for anything serious. They were both unavailable, incapable of making any promises. Not now. Not yet. It would be clean, simple, no strings attached. Just two people using each other. Innocently, admittedly using each other, but using each other nonetheless.
They’d been on the couch in Jane’s dimly lit apartment. Jane was an obvious sort of gorgeous. It was the first thing Nymphia had noticed about her, what drew her in on that first night they’d met: she’d been wearing something meant to lure you in, hypnotized by the clinging of her clothes to her body, the wave of her hair, her eyes tightlined and sharpened like knives. Jane was almost lethal to look at, all done up and primed to kill; the most magnetic friend-of-a-friend Nymphia had ever been introduced to. She was somehow even more gorgeous now, sitting on the couch in her casual clothes, her face aglow in the light of the television, her auburn hair pulled up into a messy top knot. She was painfully, effortlessly attractive, and, much to Nymphia’s surprise, only so much of a smooth talker. She came off suave at first, all punchlines and quick remarks, but after a while Nymphia could start to see her thinking. Jane would be in the middle of a sentence, flying through it, hurtling towards some revelation, and then she’d catch herself. She’d pause, freeze on a word and scoff at it, like she was considering whether whatever she was about to say would be worth the sentiment. And then she’d go a bit shy, averting her eyes and playing with the pilling on the upholstery, giving away just how carefully considered she was. And just when Nymphia was starting to think that Jane was completely nervous to her core, that Nymphia might actually have the upper hand in this situation, Jane would bring it back. She’d pick her head up and let the words go, say something so stunningly direct and devastating. It left Nymphia a little breathless, a little too endeared, a little too eager to kiss her.
They could have guessed at the chemistry, but it didn’t come close to the real thing.
What happened when Jane’s skin hit Nymphia was the sort of collision that produced suns and planets and supernovas, flinging particles off into space with enough pressure to form entire worlds. Nymphia could practically see the stars behind her eyes, fluttering shut when Jane was hovering above her, hand between her legs, finding some undiscovered place that Nymphia didn’t know had been there all along, waiting to be found. Jane turned Nymphia’s body into something more than it was before, transforming her irrevocably. Jane was a comet crashing through her atmosphere, and Nymphia was awe-struck, staring at the sky and watching the sparks shower. You can’t be prepared for such life-altering things, it's what makes them so devastating.
What neither of them could have predicted was the ease of what came after - the lying in bed, talking about it. The debrief. Nymphia was a bit too happily fucked, and unwilling to share the extent of her satisfaction. She was worried she would come off easy, inexperienced somehow. Jane, however, was endlessly attentive. She wanted Nymphia’s experience of the encounter, all the details - what she liked, what satisfied her the most, what she wanted more of. Her sheer desire to please was enough to pull the details out of Nymphia. She was rewarded when Jane allowed her to relive it, this time through Jane’s eyes. Jane’s gaze was far off with remembering, a smile playing at her lips as she recounted her experience of Nymphia in such erotic detail, every telling arch and shudder, and the whole thing was so overwhelmingly flattering that it sort of made Nymphia want to do it all over again.
Nymphia had known better than to pack an overnight bag. She thought she had, anyway.
Her eyes were closed and she was nearly asleep when she’d mumbled, ‘I should be going soon.”
Jane just chuckled. “You’re half asleep already.” Her fingers trailed up the curve of Nymphia’s thigh. “Just spend the night. If you want to.”
Nymphia's eyes were suddenly open, “Yeah?” Jane traced stars onto her hip.
“Mhm,” Jane hummed, eyes flickering up, then back to the curve of Nymphia’s waist.
Nymphia closed her eyes, savored in the feeling of Jane on her skin. A long moment passed.
“D’you cuddle? Or is that against the rules.”
Jane’s hum was an amused look at you asking so soon. She was already pulling Nymphia to her chest.
That first night turned into a three-day sleepover, because of course it did. Nymphia and Jane stretched themselves over the long arc of the weekend, sharing the sort of welcome, unexpected ease that you can’t put down, the kind that you’ll happily destroy your routine over and resign yourself to picking up the pieces after the fact. One weekend became another, and then occasional nights at Nymphia’s apartment with the door shut and her duvet crumpled at the end of the bed. And then they added the weekday rendezvous: Nymphia meeting Jane at her place after work on Thursday evenings, promising not to keep her up late and failing miserably, leaning her head on Jane’s shoulder in the morning as she locked the door on her way out. And then Nymphia was bleeding into Jane’s week, her Tuesdays and Wednesdays, her breakfasts and dinners, her late-night ice cream cravings and subsequent walks to 7-11. And then it was all too regular: Nymphia and Jane, Jane and Nymphia.
It's been a few months now, and there are so many things Nymphia loves about Jane.
She loves how Jane drives with one hand on her thigh, or with her fingers in her mouth. How she looks over to the passenger seat with that special look that's reserved just for Nymphia, and makes her feel like the only person she's ever wanted. She loves how she listens to her music loud, sings along when she’s drunk and tossing her hair, or when it's Sunday morning and she’s at the stove and there’s a record spinning in the living room. Nymphia loves how unabashed Jane is, how bold. How she never hesitates when it comes to the people in her life, how to be loved by Jane is to be fiercely defended by her. Nymphia loves how Jane kisses her in the middle of her sentences, especially when she's talking too much. She loves that Jane is so rough. How she can fuck her like she hates her. She loves how Jane can be so tender. How she can fuck her soft and slow, as reverent as religion. How Jane can make a mess of her, then put her back together again.
There are so many things Nymphia hates.
She hates that Jane is so impulsive, how she strikes so thoughtlessly, how she has to return to the wounds later to draw the venom out of them. How Jane is so stubborn, so set in her ways, so inflexible. How there’s two Janes - the one she’s with now, the one she is around her friends. The one who doesn’t kiss her, hardly touches her aside from a possessive arm around her shoulder or a tap on her knee. How the real Jane, Nymphia’s Jane, emerges as soon as they’re alone together, the one who will see her downturned gaze on the way home and coo what can I do, princess? Hmm? What can I do to see that pretty smile? Nymphia hates that she forgives Jane so easily, that she crumbles every time, that she loves Jane completely and entirely and beyond any measure of hurt that she could unknowingly inflict upon her.
She hates that she’s still sitting at this party, long after Jane promised they’d leave. She hates that Jane’s friends clearly like her; they laugh at Nymphia’s jokes, compliment her shoes, send knowing glances and winks across the room every time Jane so much as mentions her name. She hates how, when they ask what they are, Jane is all too quick to brush them off.
It's obvious that Nymphia’s upset by the way she pounds up the stairs, by the way she wordlessly digs through her purse for her keys, by the way the anger and the hurt and the disappointment emanate from her like poison.
“I just can’t believe they asked that,” Jane scoffs. Nymphia says nothing, gritting her teeth as she turns the key in the lock.
It should be obvious, but Jane is a bit too self-absorbed to notice.
“Like, we don’t even know what we are,” Jane says, and Nymphia feels sick, because she thought she did. “Why would she put me on the spot like that? In front of everyone?”
Nymphia pushes into the apartment, beelining for the kitchen.
“I mean, it was weird, right?” Jane continues, relentless. “Why do they need to know so bad?”
“Yeah,” Nymphia’s voice is hard, laced with venom. She chucks her keys onto the counter with a little too much force. “Why would they?”
“Right,” Jane doesn’t notice. “It would be nice if they could just let us-“
“I don’t know why they could possibly be so confused.” Nymphia interrupts, working off her thigh-highs.
Jane misses a beat. “Wait. Are you-“
“I can’t fucking imagine why they’d think that we’re together.” Nymphia lets her boots drop to the floor, one gut-wrenching smack after the other.
Jane blinks, brows knit together. Nymphia straightens up, fumbles with things on the counter that don’t need to be fumbled with. “Are you upset about this?”
“Why would I be upset?” Nymphia picks up a stray mug, sets it down again. “You just told all of your friends that we’re nothing serious. Why would I ever be upset about that, Jane?”
“I didn’t say that, Nymph,” Jane starts, already on the defense. “I said that we’re something.”
“Oh, right. My bad.” Nymphia scoffs. “We’re something. Let me know when you’re ready to illuminate me on whatever the fuck that means, Jane.”
Jane recoils at Nymphia’s profanity, unfamiliar with her frustration. She’s never seen her like this- so hurt, so ready to retaliate.
It's not funny. Jane shouldn’t laugh. She really shouldn’t, but she’s viscerally uncomfortable and horrifically unprepared for this situation, so she does anyways. “Are you really angry about this?”
The whole thing is white hot and embarrassing, and Nymphia has tears in her eyes when she turns and whips her purse to the floor.
Jane jumps. “What the fuck?” She’s wide-eyed, both hands held up in shock. “Nymphia. Are you serious right now?”
“I don’t know Jane,” Nymphia bites. “Are you serious?”
“What?”
“I kinda thought you might be,” Nymphia steps over her bag. “Y’know, because you cut me a key to your fucking apartment. I thought maybe that constituted we were more than,” she curls her fingers in the air, “something”.
Jane shakes her head, jaw tight and temple pulsing. When she speaks, it's in a lower voice, almost ashamed. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”
“You never want to talk about it!” Nymphia’s voice cracks, a desperate wail. Jane’s mouth opens, already halfway towards defending herself until she looks at Nymphia and sees her bottom lip quivering, the spilling over of her tears. Jane looked back with a concerned, almost panicked expression, lips frozen and slightly parted.
“Do you love me, Jane? Do you even fucking like me?”
Nymphia surprises herself with the question. She’s so amped up, so high on adrenaline that she lets it all out- the culmination of weeks of words she’d bitten back, suddenly pouring forth from where they’d been collecting in a lump in her throat.
“No, seriously, do you? Because I can’t fucking tell. I think you do, because- because you say all these beautiful things, and you spend so much time with me, and you take such good fucking care of me. So you must fucking love me, right? But when your friends ask, I have to sit there and listen to you tell them that we’re something. Like it’s so fucking confusing to you. Like it's a goddamn secret. Do you know what that feels like?”
Nymphia is fully pacing now, walking the length of the kitchen over and over again. Jane follows her with wincing, pained eyes.
What Nymphia hates, more than anything, is that she doesn’t hate Jane at all. Not for any of it.
“I’m fucking in love with you, Jane, alright?” Nymphia whines, hands whipping through the air with frustration. “I’m so in love with you, and everybody fucking knows it. Your friends, my friends, my mom, everyone! But no one seems to have any goddamn clue if you love me too. And you know what? I’m not sure if I do, either.”
When she finally expels the last of the words from the hole in her heart, Nymphia looks up through her tears. She can barely stomach the sight of Jane, lips parted and wordless, unsure of what to do with the outpouring of Nymphia’s heart. She stares at her, eyes twisted in pain, then looks to the ground, like Nymphia’s words have slid off her and collected in a puddle at her feet. Nymphia just cries, a pained and exhausted whimper on her lips as she pushes past Jane and into the living room. She collapses on one end of the couch, pulling her knees to her chest and hiding her face behind one hand, hot tears sliding down her cheeks and into her mouth.
Jane stands in the center of the room with her back turned, still facing the phantom of Nymphia’s words that may very well haunt her kitchen forever. Her head is spinning, because how the fuck did this happen. Nymphia is openly sobbing behind her, and the sound is so gut-wrenching that Jane is nauseated.
Nymphia makes a horrible, shuddering gasp for air and Jane finally breaks, crossing the room and dropping to her knees on the floor where Nymphia sits. She doesn’t even look at her, just sobs, and Jane can physically feel her heart fucking breaking.
“Nymphia,” she says, placing her palm on Nymphia’s knee. “Nymph. Hey.”
Nymphia shakes her head, face contorted with tears. She flinches at Jane’s hand like it fucking hurts, and Jane winces as the guilt slices through her. She exhales a sharp puff of defeat and drops her head in hurt.
Nymphia just cries and cries, and the reality of the situation sinks in Jane’s stomach with every sob. She’s sick to her stomach with concern, worried that Nymphia might actually fucking hyperventilate, and then she’s gently begging the girl to breathe. She goes to reach for Nymphia again and pauses, scared to reach out, scared to hurt Nymphia, scared that she’ll recoil from her again. It’s then that Jane knows, for the first time in all of her life, what she wants. She knows, right as it threatens to slip out of her hands.
“I’ve never done this before.”
Jane hears her own voice. Her words hang in the air for a moment, floating like smoke between Nymphia’s shaky, shattered breaths. Jane looks up.
“This,” she says, a tentative hand on Nymphia’s knee. “What you and I have. I’ve never-”
The words are hard for Jane to stomach. They don’t pour out like Nymphia’s do. They catch in her throat, feel wrong in her mouth. She’s not sure they’ll be enough.
“I’ve never had this with anyone,” she says. “I’ve never wanted to. Not until now.”
Nymphia wipes at her eyes, shudders a bit as her breathing quiets.
“I, um,” Jane glances down, scared to look. “I don’t know how.”
Nymphia finally looks at Jane, so small and nervous and crumbling at her feet. She wants to take her hand, to show her, to be endlessly patient even if it kills her. The desire is so enormous, even now. She almost hates herself for it.
“I know I’m fucking it up,” Jane says to the floor, her voice tiny and wavering. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.”
“I just need to know,” Nymphia whispers.
Nymphia swallows hard, and then Jane looks up and its so fucking harrowing, so moving, because Nymphia can see the guilt in her eyes, the desire, the glimmer of words she can’t figure out how to say. She watches as she considers, catches herself, lets it go.
“I do.” Jane says. Nymphia’s heart plummets, because she knows what she means.
“I don’t want to say it now,” Jane says. “I don’t want it to be an apology. I want you to know I mean it. Is that okay?”
Nymphia nods and Jane mutters over and over I do, I do, you know I do.
It's beautiful and tragic and overwhelming, and Nymphia wants to crash into Jane, to merge together and surpass the need for words entirely. It's too soon to know yet if it's for better or for worse, only that she does it - that she reaches out and takes Jane’s hand.
“I don’t know if I’ll be any good at it.” There’s a hint of a smile on her lips, a bit of Jane laughing at herself. “But I want to try.”
Nymphia just nods and feels more tears streaming down her cheeks, and Jane’s crying too, and then they’re crashing into each other. Nymphia is leaning down and throwing her arms around Jane, who is sitting forward and clinging to her like she’s scared to let her go. Like she caught a shooting star in her bare fucking hands.
It's a whisper against her hair, but Nymphia hears it. “Can I try again?”
Nymphia could hate herself for it for all of forever. She’s prepared to. Jane doesn’t know what she’s doing, and she doesn't either. Nymphia nods anyway.
It's a new world, one of their own making. It's unexplored, uncharted, and they’re venturing into it together, hand in shaking hand. It's dangerous. She’s doing it anyway. She might hate herself for it. It might be the bravest thing she’s ever done.
#take a shot every time jane says something 3 times in a row in one of my fics#also. too many commas. AND WHAT ABOUT IT#i just want you to know i’ve had this one in mind for literal weeks#and i had it in my drafts on AO3 AND I FUCKING LET IT EXPIRE#AND THE WAY I HAD TO WRITE THIS FROM MEMORY…#i love u guys. u better be grateful <3#WOOOO ANGSTY#with a hopeful ending#because i am sooooo nice ::)#prompt#she writes#planymphia#chappell roan inspired OFC#shoutout 2 my muse also. u inspire me#but not with angst. just with ur brilliance#OK BYE
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((you don’t have to do both if you don’t want to, you can consider this one a back up / alt))
“If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here.” 💞
From this writing prompt list i reblogged in...november lmao fljdsjfa
anyway this grew legs and sprinted away the second I picked it up yesterday - clearly it just needed some time to proof lmao. Thank you for the ask, tauria!! From *checks watch* almost 5 months ago fjdslafjsa I will be cross-posting it to Ao3 in my new oneshot collection fic :)
Warnings for: Vague allusions that Ra's Al Ghul is a creep (what else is new), threats of gun violence, canon-typical violence
15. “If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here.”
When Tim arrived in Gotham this morning, he had no way of knowing that his day would end in Jason Todd’s bed.
Frankly, he wasn’t really sure what bed he’d end up in— because his own certainly wasn’t an option right now. But If he had to pick, Jason Todd’s was somewhere near the bottom of whatever list he’d make.
He didn’t exactly plan on this, okay?
But, uh. Let’s back up a little.
—
Tim knew his day was going to go to shit when he got back from the airport at 7 AM.
He had his driver drop him off two blocks away from his townhouse for the sake of caffeine at the hole in the wall place he likes. Wealthy CEO he may be, but a sixteen hour flight is still a sixteen hour flight and Tim is cursed with an inability to sleep in the air.
Don’t ask. He’s tried. It doesn’t work.
So he wants coffee, and he wants a shower, and he wants his own bed. In that order.
With the first thing on his list acquired and blessedly burning his tongue, he managed to tug his brain cells together enough to realize that the building they’d passed that had been shrouded in tents and canvas was his building.
"What's going on here?"
The worker outside his building looks up from her clipboard, her face wrinkling into apprehensive confusion.
"Hello, sir. Can I help you?”
He hasn’t slept in roughly seventy two hours. He is not awake or patient enough for this.
“My name is Tim Drake. I own this building. What’s going on here?” He repeats.
The woman raises her eyebrows and looks down at her clipboard again. “Mr. Drake?” She questions, clearly expecting him to look like a grown-ass man and not a sleep-deprived college student coming home from spring break or whatever.
“Yes. Timothy Drake-Wayne. Why are you—” he tries to gesture with the hand still holding his suitcase handle, walking towards the tarps and tents erected around his townhouse with increasing trepidation, “—here?”
“I’m sorry sir, but you can’t go in there. Not for at least forty-eight hours.”
Tim stops in his tracks.
“Forty-eight—?”
“We've been scheduled to fumigate the property today.” She says it like she’s reading it out of a handbook. “It won't be safe to enter the building for at least forty-eight hours. You should have received prior notice. Uh. Sir.”
Tim's jet-lagged brain kicks into overdrive.
Bruce hasn't made any disappointed noises about Tim’s perfectly normal work ethic lately so it probably wasn't a misguided attempt at benching him. And besides, rendering Tim’s apartment inaccessible is counterproductive on that front.
Dick wouldn’t. They haven’t been exactly— great, lately but he wouldn’t. Besides, if he wanted to get Tim out of the house more, he’d show up to drag Tim out into the daylight himself. This is a little too roundabout for him.
It’s too much work to be Steph. She would think it’s funny, but there’s no way she’d follow through.
Damian might, but this doesn’t quite fit his preferred methods for making Tim’s life hell. It could be some cloak and dagger maneuver to leave him vulnerable, faking a complaint to the city so he’ll—
And then Tim thinks about the call.
The call he’d brushed off at fuck o’clock in the morning somewhere over Europe, too busy with another project. The call his secretary took for him instead. He thinks about the distracted confirmation he’d given to whatever it was she’d asked him about five minutes later.
He also thinks about the form he signed about two weeks ago, before this last minute trip to Hong Kong had consumed his entire attention. The one with “Two Weeks Notice” stamped across the top. His stomach sinks.
“Today,” he repeats.
She looks apologetic. “Today,” she confirms. “And we just started about an hour ago. I’m very sorry, Mr. Drake-Wayne but—”
"No it's—" he says through gritted teeth, "fine. I'll just. Make other arrangements."
—
He does not make other arrangements. Though not for lack of trying.
Tim has a handful of safehouses scattered throughout the city. He has options. He gets a taxi to the closest neighborhood, and nearly falls asleep in the backseat. The cabby has to knock on the glass divider to get his attention when they come to a stop. He grumbles and hauls his suitcase out of the backseat, and tips the man excessively.
Shower. Bed. Sleep. He’s so close he could cry.
Except when he finally rolls around the block, coffee half gone and trying to remember if this safehouse is the one with in-unit laundry or if he’ll have to haul his shit down to the laundry room, his building is a blackened husk with police tape all around it.
He stops on the sidewalk. He peers up at the window of his unit, squinting at the peeling black wood and shattered glass. He ponders whether two is enough data points to be considered a pattern. And whether he could get away with napping in the alley on this street or if that’ll end with him stabbed and robbed.
As he’s pondering, he catches sight of a passerby and stops him.
“‘Scuse me,” he says apologetically. “What the hell happened here?”
The guy looks up from his phone and takes in his rumpled clothes, his suitcase, and the scorched remains of his apartment.
“Oh, uh. Yeah, there was a big fire about a week back? Bad fire. Took out, like, half the block. Cops are saying it’s arson.”
“A week ago,” Tim repeats. The guy’s eyes widen.
“Oh shit, bro, did you live here?”
“I’ve been out of town,” he explains numbly.
“Dude, that sucks. And right in the middle of con’ season. Good luck finding a hotel!”
“Yeah,” Tim sighs as the guy walks away. “Thanks.”
—
The next safehouse he tries isn’t in much better shape.
He remembers hearing about Freeze going on a rampage a few days into his trip, but he hadn’t realized another one of his places had been caught in the cross-fire. The cold burst the pipes, and now the whole place is undergoing renovation.
He hears all this from the crotchety old lady who lives in the next building over (her building needs renovation too, but will the city pay for it? Of course not, they weren’t ‘directly impacted by disaster’ so they won’t see a penny of relief funds even though their pipes are on the same line. Typical) and when he finally extricates himself from the conversation, it’s almost noon, his second cup of coffee is long-since empty and he’s at the end of his goddamn rope.
By the time he sees his next safehouse, he isn’t even surprised anymore.
“Does God hate me?” He asks the boarded up building. “Is this a punishment? What did I do? What the fuck did I do?”
He is 99% sure at this point that someone is burning his bolt holes. There’s a short list of people with the resources and the intel to do it, and while he’s not above ruling out the likes of Damian just yet, he seriously doubts anyone wearing a bat is behind this.
Besides, Dick would have noticed by now if Damian were sinking this many resources into convoluted covert ops designed to make Tim suffer. Definitely. Probably.
Fuck it.
He goes around the back and hops on top of his suitcase to reach the clunky camera watching the back entrance. This building is on the shittier side, closer to Crime Alley than his other haunts; cameras break all the time around here. He’ll have it replaced after he’s a functional human again.
Reportedly, this building was tagged for ‘high toxicity levels’— which is pretty typical for any building where fear toxin or Joker gas are found in any amount. They must have found a lot to condemn the whole building, but Tim is confident he’ll be fine. The airborne shit dissipates to safe levels within hours depending on the ventilation. If it was in the air, it’s long gone. Anything else needs to be injected to be effective.
Once the camera’s busted, he kicks out the boards and heads inside.
He drags his suitcase in after him, and mourns the shower he probably won’t be getting. The hall lights are out, and chances are the water’s been shut off along with the electricity. But at this point, he simply does not give a shit. All he wants are four walls and a mattress.
Leaning on the door to his floor to make it open, he stumbles out into the hallway—
And catches sight of the glistening curved dagger stabbed into the wall next to his door, the hilt gleaming green in the sinking sun.
“Nope,” Tim says, spinning on his heel and going back down the stairwell double time. “Nope, nope, nope.”
He is now 100% certain that the League of Assassins has been burning his bolt holes. Ra’s al fucking Ghul can eat his whole ass.
—
Seven blocks away, Tim sits on the sidewalk in front of a bodega and contemplates a third cup of coffee. The shittiest one yet.
See, here’s the thing.
The thing is, he has options.
He could go to the Manor. Or the penthouse. Or to Steph’s place. He’d have to answer some unnecessary questions like ‘Master Timothy, you know you can’t sleep on aircraft, why didn’t you sleep before your flight’ or ‘Tim, why didn’t you come here first, you know you can still come to me if you’re in trouble, right’ or ‘why did you agree to fumigate your fucking house, you loser, lmao’. (Stephanie is not going to let him live this down).
He is absolutely certain that he would be welcomed in any of these places and after a completely undeserved amount of fussing, he could take a fucking nap and someone else would deal with the League bullshit for him.
And that’s the thing. There’s the rub.
No one should have to deal with the League bullshit for him. This is his problem. He’s not in a hurry to bring them down on anyone. Not even Damian.
With grim resignation, he reaches for his phone to try and find a hotel room (during a con’ weekend apparently, RIP) and maybe get a fucking handle on this whole stupid thing, when he hears:
“Hand over your wallet!”
He lifts his head slowly and finds himself looking down the barrel of a gun. A gun held by some guy wearing a ski mask in broad fucking daylight. There’s another guy next to him who’s watching the street. There’s a third guy somewhere behind him who he can’t see, but he can hear the scuff of his boots.
Sure. Why not. With the day he’s had, this might as well happen. He holds up his hands placatingly.
Tim contemplates his muggers. The guy with the gun is jittery, probably new to this, or hopped up on something. He keeps glancing between Tim and the bodega behind him, so they were probably planning a run on the till. Might have chickened out, or thought Tim was an easier target, an unexpected meal ticket plopped right in their path. Or they were already inside when Tim sat down, which wouldn’t bode well for his situational awareness seeing as he just came out of there himself.
The grinding gears of his tired brain keep getting caught on the fact that this is happening in the middle of the fucking day. Tim glances at the street corner and bites his cheek in frustration. Yeah, he’s smack dab in the middle of the Alley. Figures.
“Are you deaf or somethin’ man?” The guy with the gun is saying. “Hand over your fucking wallet!”
The other guy doesn’t seem as crazy-eyed. He’s nervous, though. He keeps looking around like he’s expecting Batman to materialize, to come whistling down the street like a beat cop.
“Dude, come on, it’s not fucking worth it,” he says, grabbing at the gunman’s shoulder. “We got the money, let’s fucking go.”
The third guy kicks over Tim’s suitcase. “Yeah, come on, Don, let’s just grab this shit and bounce.”
Tim can’t do anything. He’s not Red Robin right now. He’s Timothy Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and he’s getting mugged in front of a bodega at two in the afternoon in a rumpled suit and tie and still toting his suitcase from his early morning flight.
His hands are trembling from unspent adrenaline, too much caffeine, and not enough sleep. His eyelids are the heaviest they’ve ever been in his godforsaken life. His ears are ringing. He could knock all three of them down in less time than it takes to tie his shoelaces. But he can’t.
“Shut up, Johnny, look at him shaking! What’s he gonna do? If he doesn’t wanna get shot, rich boy’s gonna hand over all his fucking shit!”
“Hey, let’s just—” Tim tries to say.
Stars explode across his vision as Tim takes a punch he genuinely wasn’t expecting. He stares up at the blue sky for about half a second, more confused than anything else, before the gunman grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him up to shout in his face.
“What’s it gonna be, pretty boy?!”
Caught on the exhausted edge between vigilante training and the preservation of his identity, Tim is frozen. He doesn’t know what to do. He kind of wants to cry.
“Gee, Donny, what is it gonna be?” A fourth voice says, full of false cheer.
Tim blinks. So do the muggers.
He knows that voice.
“Who the fuck—?” The gunman drops Tim, spinning around and into a fist. He tumbles down to the ground, out cold.
Everything happens pretty quickly after that.
Jason Todd is in civvies. He’s sporting a worn out looking hoodie and a pair of jeans that have seen better days. But his heavy boots are the same ones he wears for his uniform, and the kick he delivers to Johnny’s face is all Red Hood.
Almost in a daze, Tim watches him fight with the usual mix of seething envy and raw desire that rears its ugly head any time he gets to see Jason in action. He’s fast, decisive. Efficient. Beautiful. Tim wishes he had Jason’s skill. And he wishes—
Well. He wishes a lot of things about Jason Todd.
Tim is pretty sure he and Jason are friends. Maybe. Probably. They’ve pretty much moved past the whole “replacement”, “zombie-dickhead” part of their relationship and have graduated to occasionally providing backup on ops that overlap in each other’s sectors, ganging up on Dick when they’re all in the same room, and maintaining a surprisingly steady stream of vigilante gossip to keep each other in the loop.
So, ok, yes, due to the aforementioned, he’s pretty sure they’re friends. And also because Jason wouldn’t have stuck his neck out for him otherwise. He would have just let him get mugged.
Watching Jason fight is one of Tim’s favorite pastimes. But right now, Tim’s usual appreciation is soured by the gut-roiling embarrassment of being caught in this position by Jason of all people. His eyes itch. His cheek throbs. He’s so fucking tired.
“Hey, little stalker,” Jason says suddenly, holding out an expectant hand in Tim’s face. The muggers are groaning on the ground around them. Tim isn’t sure when that happened. He might have zoned out. “Did you know that you had a stalker for a change?”
Tim flushes. “I resent that. I haven’t stalked anyone in years.” He takes the hand. It’s warm, and calloused, and big around his.
Jason laughs at him and yanks him to his feet. “Liar.”
Tim’s mouth twists into a scowl. He tries to glare at Jason, but he can feel himself swaying and Jason still hasn’t let go of him, and it’s ruining everything.
Also, lowkey, Jason is right. But in his defense, it is literally their job to stalk people, so.
“I haven’t stalked you in years then. Just other guys. Bad guys. Not non-bad guys. Fuck. You know what I mean. Whatever.” He pauses; recalibrates. “Had?” He asks.
Jason’s eyebrows inched higher and higher the longer Tim talked. Tim doesn’t blame him.
“Yeah. Had.”
So much for the League, Tim muses.
Jason gives him a once over before tugging decisively on Tim’s wrist, easily grabbing the handle of his suitcase and starting to walk with both in tow, to Tim’s rising horror.
“You’re coming with me, shortstack. What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk? You look like shit.”
Tim tries to yank his wrist out of Jason’s grip, but the asshole doesn’t budge. “I’m not drunk,” Tim snaps. “I’m fine. I’m just. I’m just… really tired.”
Jason stops abruptly, and Tim stumbles into his shoulder.
“I can see that,” he says, steadying Tim with an amused but ultimately sympathetic look. He loads Tim’s suitcase onto the back of a motorcycle that Tim literally just now noticed.
God, he’s fucked. And not even in a fun way.
“C’mon,” Jason says. “Don’t fall asleep on the way over— road rash sucks ass.”
—
They don’t talk on the way to— wherever Jason is taking them, but once they’re parked in a random garage and walking towards the elevators, the game of twenty questions begins.
“So why’ve you got League assassins after you, anyway? Piss in a lazarus pit? Push over the baby brat on the playground?”
“Ra’s al Ghul wants my body,” Tim says, dejected but resigned to this bizarre fact of his life. “Since I was seventeen, I’m pretty sure.”
Jason wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”
“I don’t think it’s a sex thing? But it could also be a sex thing.”
“Again. Fucking ew.”
“Yeah. Also I blew up a bunch of his shit and I think he’s still salty I got away with it.”
“Is that why you weren’t at the Manor?” Jason asks, herding Tim out of the elevator and down a long hallway. “Or anywhere but a random street in Crime Alley?”
Tim nods. “Yeah. They found all my safehouses, but— my mess. My problem.”
Jason thwacks him upside the head.
“Ow! What the fuck?”
“You’re the dumbest person on the planet.”
“Am not. B is on-planet right now.”
“Then you’re pretty fucking close,” Jason snarks, fishing out some keys and opening one of the apartment doors.
Tim scoffs at him as he’s pushed inside. “Oh, please. Don’t try to tell me you would let Dick swoop in and solve all your problems for you.”
Jason rolls his eyes, stepping into the side kitchen and popping open the freezer door of the fridge.
“Dickiebird can’t even solve his own problems,” he says as he rummages. “But maybe when I’m fucked up enough to let three nobodies robbing a fucking bodega get the jump on me, that’s a sign that, maybe, it might be time to call in the cavalry. Dick isn’t the only person who’s got your back.” He presses an ice pack to Tim’s face until he takes it himself, and keeps steering him through the apartment. “Just saying.”
Tim would protest with all of his very good reasons why Jason is definitely wrong here, but he’s too busy processing the fact that Jason has led him into a bedroom. With a bed. There’s a bed, with a mattress and pillows and blankets. Right there. Tim stares at it with lustful eyes.
Jason catches him staring. He rolls his eyes, but he’s sporting a small smile that Tim has the presence of mind to memorize. He walks over to a dresser and pulls out a big shirt and a pair of shorts that he hands to Tim.
“Look. If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here. No guarantees I’ll be always around, but, yeah. Mi casa es su casa, or whatever.”
Tim eyes him up, clutching the bundle of Jason-smelling fabric in his hands. “And you’d do that for me because…why, exactly?”
Jason flicks his forehead, a stinging reprimand. Tim hisses.
“Because, dumbass, you need help and I feel like it. And you don’t actually suck to be around, so shut up and be grateful.”
“Oh, yes,” Tim deadpans, rubbing at his forehead. “So grateful to be allowed the privilege of squatting with you.”
The thing of it is, Tim is grateful. But Jason doesn’t need to know that.
Jason squawks, and before Tim can duck, he’s snatched Tim around the neck in a headlock. His arm is thick and doesn’t budge no matter how Tim shoves and kicks. The ice pack and the clothes go flying, and Tim just about dies. Jason is warm.
“Jason—!”
“Brat!” Jason crows, not giving an inch. “I paid for this place fair and square— you’re the only squatter here!”
“Blood money doesn’t count as square!”
“Tell that to half of Gotham, kid.”
“I’m trying to, thanks for noticing,” Tim says, finally wrenching himself free of Jason’s grip, stumbling into the bed and giving into its siren song. He sits down heavily on the edge, toppling over sideways and reaching pathetically for the fallen ice pack that’s just out of his reach.
“And don’t call me kid—” he complains, muffled by the pillow. It also smells like Jason. “You’re barely two years older than me.”
The cold ice pack is pressed into his fingers. He cracks an eye open to look, but Jason is just smirking at him, like he’s giving Tim the win. Ass.
“Coulda fooled me, shortstack.”
Tim rolls his eyes, and onto his back, toeing off his shoes and letting them clatter to the floor. He can’t tell if Jason’s bed is the best bed in the world, or if he’s just deliriously inventing things.
Frankly, Jason Todd’s bed is the last place he ever thought he’d end up, this morning or otherwise, so he’s never bothered to speculate. He does not have a contingency plan for this.
“Is there a reason you keep calling me short,” he complains, “Or will I just need to fill in the blanks myself?”
“Can’t help it. You’re just so small,” Jason coos. Tim props himself up on an elbow at that, raising a disgusted eyebrow.
“You don’t hear me constantly talking about how big you are.”
Jason grins like he just won the lottery; Tim shuts his eyes the second it’s out of his mouth.
“Baby, you don’t know how big I am.”
He does, actually. Not in a creepy stalker way, just— there was this one time. A big rogue breakout at Arkham, all-hands on deck type of situation; Tim, Cass, and Jason were covering Poison Ivy in the park. Acid-spitting pitcher plants were involved.
And look, Jason’s tactical gear is fine in the day to day, but it’s not like any of them had time to prep a neutralizing agent, so when Jason needed his pants off, stat…uh. Well. Tim was right there.
He knows, okay?
“Alright,” he rallies, trying desperately not to replay the memory of Jason adjusting himself through his boxers. All of himself. “I walked right into that one.”
“Oh, trust me. You’ll know if you’ve walked into it.”
Tim scoffs, but he can feel how red his face is.
And the thing is. He says it without really meaning to.
But he still means it.
“You gonna put your money where your mouth is, big guy?”
The change is immediate. Jason had been halfway out the door, but now he turns to Tim, giving him his full, undivided attention. He looks at Tim, laid out in Jason's bed, giving him a very slow once over. The scrutiny is at once nerve-wracking and thrilling.
“Thought you didn’t want my money,” Jason murmurs.
The temperature in the room spikes. If it weren’t for the slow throb of his bruised cheek, Tim would think that he’s already asleep and dreaming.
But he isn’t. He’s very much aware that he’s wide awake.
Tim swallows. “Well. It’s not your money I want.”
Jason’s grin is electric.
He stalks over to the bed, and Tim is frozen like a rabbit, waiting to see what he’ll do next. Jason settles a knee on the sheets between Tim’s legs, looming over Tim and boxing him in against the mattress. Tim’s free hand reaches up of its own accord to tangle in the collar of Jason’s hoodie, and the cotton is softer than he expected.
Jason’s eyes rove over his face, dark and heavy. He catches Tim’s face in his hand, swiping his thumb lightly across the bruising hot ache of his cheekbone. He leans in deliberate and slow and—
—and stops about an inch away from Tim’s mouth.
“Get some sleep, babybird,” Jason teases, his breath puffing gently over the skin of Tim’s lips. “You can proposition me again tomorrow.”
“It’s, like, 3:30 in the afternoon,” Tim argues, breathless.
“Yeah, and your body thinks it’s 3:30 in the morning. You’re dead on your feet. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, and go the fuck to sleep.”
Jason moves to rise. But Tim hooks a stubborn arm around his neck and pulls him down that last remaining inch.
The kiss is— bad. At first.
Tim basically smashed their mouths together to prove a point, and Jason muffles a surprised sound against Tim’s teeth. He lands heavily on top of Tim at an awkward angle, and he’s kind of crushing him. Tim refuses to let go, but— Jason doesn’t pull away.
Jason gentles the kiss instead, and Tim thrills. He levers himself up onto his elbow, wrapping an anchoring arm around Tim’s back. He finds a home between Tim’s legs, and he lets Tim kiss him until Tim's lips are tingling and his fingers go slack; until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore.
Somewhere between fifteen minutes and a small eternity later, Jason presses one more kiss to the corner of his mouth. He curls around Tim on his side, and Tim turns his face into Jason’s neck with a soft wondering sigh.
“I’ll keep it. Promise. Wait n’ see,” Tim mumbles. Jason snorts, but doesn’t budge, and Tim can hear his smile in his voice, lilted and lulling.
“Sure, babybird. I’ll wait. I got nowhere else to be.”
Tim is already asleep.
#one hundred thousand years have passed#i creak up out of the soil gasping and hacking and coughing#'i lived bitch'#'have some jaytim that grew legs on me'#my writing#asked and answered#jaytim#ladytauria#hurt/comfort#this one is sillier and more light-hearted than the other ones#the hurt is more like 'near tears travel exhaustion' than your typical aftermath of violence lol but it so definitely counts#i held a gun to the head of the muse that said 'this is way too short' and pulled the fucking trigger#i KNOW it's a very fast get together but i did Not want this to become my next 5 digit wordcount fic okay. okay. oka#the bones of a long 'tim and jason vs the league of assassins' fic is hiding here#and if i actually wrote that this would have ended much differently#but i am Not Writing That okay I am Writing Cowboys and also Werewolves Right Now. I Do Not Have Time For This!!!!!!#prompt fill
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What happened to asking him to dinner and having such vulgar topics over some candlelight? Actually, you know what? This works fine.
#LULA??????#hi. the name's helvetica.#lovely to meet you#── ♡ ❝ love game. ( dashboard prompts )#ozzie's so desensitized even the vulgar bold things has him laughing after some surprise#as in wow u really had the balls to tell me that to my face! okay i can respect that#just ask to fuck next time#trailer gave me SO much muse im trying to funnel all of the energy into my hands to get coherent sentences#and accurate portrayal ON TEXT
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Micah wakes up in the Awaken World seeing Warlock at Lovelake . Yet , they can not tell if it is an alter or a separate entity , real as a visitor or fake in a mental fragment . They haven't contacted it for almost three weeks , not even in the Dream Realm , so part of Micah sees it is impossible it would reach out to them now . In a slow pace , careful , Micah moves closer to Warlock , missing it most dearly . Even when Micah notices the lake beside them both becoming sanguine , reminded of Warlock killing Cosmochoice before his fleeing blood turned the lake red , they still try to reach out to another , hoping that it won't leave them once more . Their left hand shakes still , holding a raw fear that Warlock will bite them again , tear them apart ─ ❝ I forgive you , ❞ Micah whispers , reaching their hand to hold on its cheek .
Warlock's gaze never moves , remaining perfectly still before Micah realizes it has always been staring at the bite wound it gave to them one month ago . The circle of punctures around their shoulder still hasn't fully healed , wet scabs have formed from the wound edges as their damaged skin appears from purple to black . Soreness lingers with the burning still deep through their body from the bitten area . This sickening wound is the unholiest sun that the lunaris monster made into them . Yet , despite its ugliness , Micah takes a step forward ⅋ gently rests their forehead against its own , trying to comfort Warlock . ❝ I forgive you , ❞ they repeat ⅋ they will until it can finally believe in their warm infinite forgiveness . Warlock is their moon . They love every little aspect ⅋ particle of it , even its lunar cursed horrors .
Micah cries , hoping it will see it is forgiven , even beyond this dream . ❝ I - I - I forgive you , Lovelock , ❞ their thumb moves over to the corner of its eye . A weak sob falls when they feel its tear , sensing that it is crying with them . ❝ Please come back to me , I missed you s- so much . ❞ They don't let go of it , even as more tears roll over their cheeks , the extra snots being produced from their unbroken weeping . Even when the burning in their shaky body worsens . They don't want Warlock to live in the darkness . Not ever again . ❝ I love you , ❞ Micah's voice comes sharp ⅋ high pitched , desperate , their teeth baring , clenched to keep holding onto every love they have for Warlock regardless of the pain they feel . It never means any agony , Micah thinks ─ knows ─ ❝ I believe you . ❞
Warlock places its hands on Micah to rest on the surface with it . Confusion spreads within Micah as they wonder what will do it to them , though , seeing the infinite stars behind it , a sense of warm serenity soon builds in them , admiring the moon . Micah watches while Warlock lean closer to their bite wound . Their breath hitches sharply , although their anticipation fade when its mouth meet a tooth hole , lightly kissing it . Then Warlock licks their puncture before it nuzzles the comforted area with its nose . There is love in its canine acts that Micah can see . Accept . After Warlock is done , it leans back , sharp gaze away from the wound . They kiss Warlock from their head to neck to collarbone , blessing it with star kisses . Warlock accepts their love back , gently kissing them on the lips for the first time .
❝ I'll return to you ─ ❞ Micah wakes up in the guest room , Warlock's words echoing , a promise . A choked wheeze rips through Micah at the intense pain running through them . Sensations of stab-like live in their right shoulder ⅋ they pull the blanket to see their bite wound , remembering the kisses Warlock had placed on them in their dream . Micah gasps , seeing their punctures are holding . . . a flower . Gently , carefully , their hand touches them , feeling stems ⅋ petals . . . These are real flowers growing out of their wound . Micah stares in bewilderment , thinking they are responsible for them . They know from their emotions ⅋ thoughts , when experiencing them most deeply , wondrous changes or occurrences will occur . Flowers grew behind them ⅋ light injuries on them healed , all out of Love itself .
This part of their doing as well . It must be . Micah leaves the bed , hissing from the pain in the plants taking space of their tender flesh . They hope Father Lucas wouldn't wake up to see them at this state . Micah turns on the light before heading to the mirror , analyzing these flowers out of their tooth punctures . Micah's gaze softens when they can recognize the meanings in the plants on them . They look at what holds Daffodils , Bluebells , Asters , Mallows , ⅋ Clovers . Within them , they see forgiveness , loyalty , trust , loving consuming , ⅋ I promise . . . Can it be Micah grew these , yet the messages were given from Warlock as their connection was made in their dream ? Micah gently touches their flowers more , cherish them closely . I'll return to you . Nothing burns now . They bloom . LIVE .
#BODY HORROR CW#DEVEILS#///#//#/#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ WARLOCK . ›#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ DEVEILS . ›#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ IC . ›#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ ANSWERS . ›#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ V : MAIN / ACT I.III. . ›#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ MICAH . ›#[ took the ' a kiss on an injury my muse gave to yours ' prompt to a whole fucking level I am so .. . . . . . .. . ]
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.
#ooc: [ off shore ]#[ i wanna do that tarot prompt except w/ my actual deck. ]#[ the only downside is 1: my deck is cute as fuck and 2: my deck is mean as fuck. ]#[ ive tried it before on another platform and it was just. tearing into each muse i felt so bad. ]
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I won't lie, because I like thinking about it, I often sit here and wonder... What makes fighting Sonic so dangerous?
Is it because of his powers and abilities? Well, it sure doesn't make fighting him any less easy. He's infinitely fast with infinite stamina, his own friction against his body causes a static charge to build up that he has to release or else it'll continue to build until it explodes off of him, and he uses it for combat when he can.
Is it because of his physical body? Also possible. He's incredibly durable and able to withstand just about anything. He fell from space multiple times in his life and once hit the ground hard, and he came out the other end just fine. He was thrown by Giganto into towers and against a mountain, and he was fine.
But, honestly, the thing that makes him truly dangerous, is the fact that he
Just.
Doesn't.
Stop.
No matter what, he'll always get back up, through sheer force of will and determination. He will never let anything defeat him, no matter what.
The corruptive power of Dark Gaia was directly pumped into him, the first victim of the dark god after centuries of slumber, and all it did was physically change him because he's simply too good and determined to be corrupted.
If he believes in what he is fighting for, he won't stop fighting. No matter what. He is unstoppable.
He is undefeatable.
#𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘 [ General | OOC ]#𝗜𝗡 𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗟𝗗 𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗜𝗦 𝗔𝗟𝗟 [ Sonic | Headcanon ]#(can you tell who my favorite blorbo is??)#(uuuuuuuuuuh. nothing prompted this beyond like)#(winter talking about how bad the evil girl gang was)#(and so it got me thinking and well. here we are lmao)#(but anyways all of this? yeah. that's all without taking into account super fucking sonic)#(talk about making the person he's fighting doomed-)#(NOT TO MENTION IF HE WENT ALL OUT)#(i love writing overpowered muses that just don't DO anything overpowered cuz they just don't wanna lmao)
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“ you can’t or you won’t? ”
❝ —— Oh. Hm. ❞
( Uh-oh. )
Lawless Lucky talked a big game around the bonfire last night. She wasn't too oblivious to pick up on the fact that her being scandalized and upset by the boys' violent sides was beginning to grate on them. So, when all of the boys were talking about the gruesome things they'd like to do to the people who made their lives hard in The Other Place, she forced herself to laugh along, and even took the opening to spin a tale about how she was planning to poison her old employer's food. And, oh, those rotten pirates? Well, she would do the same to them if she had a chance.
So busy seizing on the moment, she didn't consider that she would actually have to put her money where her mouth was.
It would shatter the illusion of Neverland as her luxurious, peaceful, happily-ever-after paradise if she had to see any real carnage with her own two eyes, much less deal any of it herself. But here was dear Peter, ever the altruist, granter of all her wishes, suggesting she come along to their next raid of the Jolly Roger. Lucky's pretty sure he knows this is out of her comfort zone, if he's paid any attention to her — and he does, of course he does. Why else would he go through the trouble of bringing all of these troubled souls to the island if he didn't empathize and care about all of them, right? She can't imagine any motive but love and sympathy. — It's funny, considering how anxiously, meticulously sensitive she tries to be to his boundaries. There was something maybe endearingly boyish about his disregard for hers.
She reasons that she should be grateful for his investment in keeping things fresh and interesting. This is what a sensible, healthy relationship looked like, right? Balancing energies was a major tenet of Celtic magic— it was the key to harmony and prosperity. A passive, supportive person worked best with a person who was a little more... challenging. It would be too stagnant or too chaotic any other way. She gives a fond half-smile to her love, her true love, convinced he's only looking out for her best interests. She would find a way to explain to him that this doesn't really interest her... another time.
❝ Well, I suppose I would... ❞
Lucky? Morally opposed to it? No sir, you've got the wrong lassie. You must be thinking of that prude from Chicago, Fiona Comisky, who used to dote and cry and sermonize Nate Larsen any time he got injured in a fight with some low-class brute he should've run away from. She had no qualms with clodhopping bullies who started barbaric fights. Didn't find it tasteless in the slightest.
She was opposed to tagging along for much more modest, supportive, team-playering reasons, to be certain. The same reasons why she declined Nate's offer to teach her how to use a bow and arrow: why would the Princess of Neverland get her dainty, dignified, not-at-all-labor-calloused hands dirty learning how to hunt when her boys got such a thrill out of slaying those innocent animals?
❝ But why bring a girl along to steal all of the attention?
I'm not as strong or as sneaky as you. I may ruin the...
Element of surprise. Or... distract everyone when they
have to keep me out of harm's way. And there’s really—
there's so much I could do back here. I thought I should
make some sort of victory banquet for the boys to come
back to. ......Besides... ❞
Lucky's fingers sidled over to his, tips brushing over his knuckles, as if timidly asking permission to show tenderness before making any sudden moves. Peter was a bit strange about physical touch. She could never tell if he was enjoying it, or if she maybe wasn't doing it right. When he didn't immediately swat her away, she gingerly placed her palms in his, intuitively careful not to scare him away like a baby deer too shy for human touch, or startle him like a scorpion ready to plunge a stinger into her at any moment. She has experience with his type. She has nothing if not patience and willpower to break through to them. She has hope that one day she'll be able to fully embrace him. If she's really as lucky as everybody says, maybe she'd be able to fully-fully "embrace" him.
❝ I love when you tell me all about your thrilling adventures.
You get such this 𝓅𝓊𝒸𝓀𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝓉𝓌𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓁𝑒 in your eye...
It's the same one you had when you first found me— the
one that I saw and thought, 'Oh, there it is: my 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫.
At last, I can see it!' ❞
She boldly ventures to show a little more affection while she pleads, but not enough to push him too far, just enough to remind him that he can touch her back any time he's ready. (If he's rallying her to come out of her comfort zone, maybe this is a good time to encourage him to be a little more adventurous, too.) Her fingers, ever-so-lightly cupped over his hands, gently lace themselves into the spaces between his. She's not naïve enough to believe she's going to get out of raids forever. She just wants to experience feeling truly loved and close to him, just one time, before she has to see him at his absolute nastiest.
❝ Oh, Peter, won't you please let me see
my 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 again when you fill me in later? ❞
( Won't you please let her be so lucky as to skip out on this? )
╳ — 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 ! // ACCEPTING.
#(set when she was still peter's latest model Wendy-bot 2000)#i like the gifs from this movie cus she has a Visible irish accent in them and i love that for fiona :')#if u look real close and havent gotten any in a while you'll notice there's like three different subliminal message double entendres in her#jus know that every time u think a line in a post abt peter sounds like an innuendo it 100% is because lucky is thinking it too#｢ ʟᴜᴄᴋʏ ▓ 🐞 — the lost girl. ｣#｢ ʟᴜᴄᴋʏ ▓ 🐞 — ❛ ft. peter pan. ｣#｢ ɪɴʙᴏx ᴄᴀʟʟ ▓ 🕯️ — answered. ｣#the nature of drabbly askmeme prompts is that you want to write a complete vignette based on the one line someone sends you so you end up#writin like 99 words of dialogue in response to the 5 syllables someone sends u and it makes it look like ur muse Does Not Shut The Fuck Up#so. ignore that. i wanna say fiona would've picked up on the fact that he doesn't like to listen to broads rambling for too long#this is also kinda my first ic post tho (baffling that it took me this long i am sorry) so! wanted to write a good intro scene#and rly set up what fiona's mentality was like in this time cus it's gonna make a lot of her present day chocies make more sense#also sorry that you all have to find out this late but i Am a broad who rambles for 5 paragraphs in the tags of everything i post Sorry!!
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Maybe 14 with Kaz and gundham? I feel like that would be funny lol -drabble anon
“Well, this is awkward…” (X) 14. Throwing an object across the room out of frustration.
With a resounding clang through the garage, Kazuichi threw his wrench as hard as he could at the adjacent wall by the door, a loud curse sounding out from his lips as it flew through the air. Of course it would be just his luck that someone would come traipsing through the door as the tool hit, and of course it would be Gundham, someone who the mechanic had been getting on better terms with after a long conversation and a series of apologies to him and Sonia, someone who he almost just brained with a wrench.
"Fuck! Shit, I'm sorry dude! Bad timing on that one." He tried to say with a laugh after watching the breeder full body duck away, a look of fear on his face that maybe at one point in time, Kazuichi would have bragged about putting there, but now it just made him feel like shit.
One hand coming up to remove his hat, the other ran through his hair with a frustrated sigh, the overburdened mechanic turning to kick at the tires of the car he had been working on, the knowledge of all the rest parked outside that he still had to fix only serving to grind his gears all the more.
"Sometimes it fucking sucks being the ultimate mechanic. Does nobody at this fucking school know how to change a tire? O-Or check their oil?" He turned to the breeder suddenly, the other man having slowly made his way across the room, not because he was afraid of Kazuichi's temper, but because of all the stuff laying about the workshop floor. Project after project half finished, some close to completion and others in nothing but pieces upon tarps to keep everything together.
"Gundham, quick, do you know how to check the oil in that creepy ass hearse you drive?" He pleaded as the breeder came to a stop beside him, the man eyeing the the inner workings of the car Kaz had previously been working on with trepidation.
"...I...take it this is not a good time to ask you to assess the wellbeing at my metal steed?" The question pulled a long, drawn out groan from the mechanic, his hat now being thrown across the room, only for the cap to land in a small puddle of oil.
"Fuck it! I give up! Someone else can be the ultimate mechanic, I quit!" He shouted to the ceiling before plopping down to the ground with a frustrated huff, his head being propped up by a fist as the fingers of his other hand picked idly at a thread on his coveralls.
Gundham watched the display with a blank expression, the gears turning about in his head as he crouched down next to Kaz. "...I believe that you are in need of a break, Tamer of Automatons."
"Gee, you fucking think?" Was the mechanic's huffed reply, fingers wrapping about the thread to pull it off with a small snap. "I got too much shit to do. All these cars gotta be good to go by the end of the day. It's a bunch of little shit, but it's just-" He finished the statement with another groan, the palms of his hands pressing into his eyes in exasperation.
Gundham stayed silent for a moment, looking about the shop and all the projects Kazuichi had pilled onto his plate, perhaps seeing a bit of himself in the overabundant workload.
"If you allow yourself to take a short respite, perhaps by assisting me with a few of my beasts, I will attempt to make myself of use with the more mundane tasks you have been assigned." Kaz slowly looked at Gundham, searching his face for any hint of a lie.
"...What kind of beasts?" He asked cautiously, still bearing the scar around his wrist from Gundham's, well...bear.
"A small litter of what you mortals call puppies. Their mother requires a break every few hours to avoid stress, so I take that time to socialize the small creatures to prepare them for their future masters."
"Okay...do you know how to check oil?" Kaz asked, already standing from the floor with a small smile at the idea of getting to spend time with Gundham pet a bunch of puppies.
"...I...am afraid such a spell remains out of my skillset." The breeder reluctantly admitted as he stood from his crouch, brushing off dirt from the end of his coat for the sole advantage of not having to make eyes contact. Kaz just laughed, clapping a friendly hand to Gundham's shoulder as he lead them to the shop door.
"It's easy, you just gotta check the dipstick."
"Is...that not what the devil dancer called you earlier in the week?" Gundham asked with brows knit, a genuine question that had Kaz laughing again.
"Well, yeah, but this one's different. It's this stick thing with a yellow handle that you dip into the oil tank and see where the oil goes up to on stick, so you know how much is in there."
"...Dip...stick..."
"Yeah, exactly! So, ideally you want it to be in between the two lines, but..." He rambles on, previous frustrations forgotten as he walked across campus with Gundham. And if his hand lingered on his shoulder well after what was considered "normal?" Well...Gundham wasn't about to say anything, too afraid that he'd pull it away.
#hell yeah brother now youre speaking my language fsdjhk#i love them <3#and dont worry i still plan on writing those other drabble prompts you sent me#just gotta wait for the brain to fucking Let Me lmao#the joys of adhd i dont decide when i write the Brain does hfjdsk#drabbles#drabble anon#muse: kazuichi soda#muse: gundham tanaka#soudam#oh also i put you in my thread tracker under the characters youve requested stuff for#but that ive yet to write#if you ever wanna check to make sure i got what you sent and all uwu
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TAG DUMP.
tag dump.
tag dump.
tag dump.
#[ Teacher... how do I investigate something that doesnt exist? | ask answered . ]#[ Who do you think the enemy is? | anonymous . ]#[ They want to know what became of the hearts they gave | prompts . ]#[ I believe in those who believe in themselves | open starter . ]#[ If we fail here; we will never get another chance | ic / in character . ]#[ So many times i thought death would be so much easier | ooc / out of character . ]#[ Cleaning Duty | dash comm / games . ]#[ Key to the Basement | crossover . ]#[ FUCK YOU AND YOUR EYEBROWS!! | crack . ]#[ Report to the Commander | reblog . ]#[ MY SOLDIERS SCREAM OUT! MY SOLDIERS RAGE! | promo . ]#[ I was astounded. | headcanons / musings / aesthetics . ]
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uh.
#tw death#I want to address something because given this muse of course I have several prompts in my ask box about grief#Which I used to love writing about#This kinda angst used to be my lifeline#But last summer the closest human being to me left us for good and I still don't know how to function without her#Part of me really wants to channel that into my writing and one day I will and it will be healing#But I'm still trying to survive this world without the warmth that she was#Without the first and only person who'd shown me what unconditional love means#And it's fucking hard to even think about writing it out#So I'm sorry I'm not gonna be able to jump into these topics just yet#It's not like I get triggered or anything of the sorts no it's mostly just hard to try to write these things myself#Yeah#I guess that's that.... Gonna go stare at the ceiling lmao#grief tw#death tw#bleh im emoting...#OK bye
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bologna is just hot dog pancakes.
#controversial discussion#ooc.#no but anyway on sunday i’m gonna do some writing 😵💫 even tho the only people i have to reply to is kenny and… macy’s old ass prompts HAHSH#im so fucking tired from work i need a nap#actually my reply to kenny isn’t even a type out a reply it’s just a copy and paste HAHSHDHF WELL#im tired i just need a Nap#so ANYWAYYYYYY#if anyone sees this post that is#does anyone wanna plot… doesn’t have to be with marshall#but preferably someone i have muse for like mouse from pllos#or tyler cai also from tvd#or marshall :eyes: but doesn’t have to be like i said#or wylan … wylan my son holds him so gentle#i also muse kaz and inej and jesper but like . i dont havé blogs for them…. so they’d just be like. multimuse blog stuff and i just#want to avoid my multi because i feel like if i don’t see how cluttered it is it won’t make me feel like i’m suffocating and make me have#THE INTENSE URGE#to purge clean it.#anyway i’m done rambling#someone plot with me#i need new rp friends cmon *shakes baggie of celery decorated in lint*
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tag dump ;
#円 ❛ man of few words ; ( ooc. )#円 ❛ safekeeper of the tojo ; ( ic. )#円 ❛ return on investment ; ( prompts. )#円 ❛ kirin-ji ; ( about. )#円 ❛ a life driven by money ; ( musings. )#円 ❛ pinstripe and gold ; ( aesthetics. )#円 ❛ fuck them kids ; ( crack. )#円 ❛ prodigy entrepreneur ; ( char: Mine )#円 ❛ so I'm prepared to put everything on the line if it's for you. ; ( char: Daigo )#円 ❛ I wish we could have met sooner. I really do. ; ( char: Kiryu )#円 ❛ I intend on moving forward in the way I see most fit. ; ( v: Yakuza 3 )#円 ❛ maybe in my next life... I'll have what it takes to earn your respect. ; ( v: Survival )
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i’m so glad the collective braincell got infected by royalty au it’s superior (.❛ ᴗ ❛.)
#( ooc. )#listen it's GREAT.#that being said my knight of the hour neal is turning his fucking nose up at every prompt#bc if he has to be respectful ??? if he can't sass someone ??? he'll die.#oh he can't be shitty & sarcastic ??? time 2 die.#also surprisingly enough like yeah the jason muse is there#but hello ?? court oracle rachel ??#perhaps a bit of a cassandra route y feel me
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I desire romantically doing makeup with somebody
#thoughts#oni talks#Oni yearns#like the intimacy of holding their face to readjust and getting close and also the closeness of like making each other over#but also like the mutual service aspect of doing a fun thing for each other where you just take care of each other and also like the pride#like look at my partner and how beautiful they are and also look at how pretty I am that was her work!!#and also like the shared creativity of it like there’s fucking endless options yall can make each other look like anything!#also maybe it’s in part the struggle for me coz I can’t fucking see doing my makeup coz glasses and like the vulnerability of that trust!#In knowing no matter what they do it will be beautiful and also back to the creativity thing#imagine the fucking prompts! like making each other over based on the colors you associate with them or the things they love about you#and sharing that together and like seeing yourself reflected as they see themselves reflected and just!! seeing yourself through their eyes#and also the reverse in the intimacy of showing your partner all the stuff you love and notice about them#and it’s also so like versatile y’all can have stuff on the background yall can just do this as the lead up to like most dates#also the intimacy of taking each others makeup off at the end of the day too! and the looking forward to the next day and like#also the concept of learning the stuff your partner enjoys and being able to look forward to doing that for them!!#also I’m just a sucker for like couple aesthetics! and also maybe I watched too many lesbians couple channels but idk I always wanted to do#those like cute lil challenges that people do with their partner it just seems so fun#also if anyone remembers those images back in the day of like the one where the girl was just on top of the other one doing her makeup or#the one with the girl in her lap! and also I’m a sucker for like photography and just being able to save those moments and highlight them#also you don’t have to just do like face or anything like that date idea a while back where ppl would paint a picture on their partner!!#I’m also a sucker for art prompts and like the concept of the mutual muse where you inspire each other and create together and just aahhh#also you can like sneak kisses and hand holding and stuff during! or have like a comfort show in the back#like there’s OPTIONS! and it just feels so cute! I don’t see makeup ones as much but I have seen like doing your gfs hair and that’s also#just so top tier to me idk. I love designing shit and mutual designing just feels like it would be so much fun#like those craft dates I love but this is like more physical#date ideas#coz like you could just make a whole show of it like you could have a theme night where you watch shows related and just have fun together#idk man I’ve just been in hardcore sapphic yearning mode recently idk why 😭🫠
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TAG DUMP.
#ONE DAY THE CURTAIN FALLS ╲ writer › ooc.#MAMA HERE COMES LIBERTY ╲ self › visuals.#A METAL SOUL OF RAGE AND FEAR ╲ self › visage.#BLACK DOG RUNS AT MY SIDE ╲ self › musings.#ANOTHER PROMISE ANOTHER SCENE ╲ general › answered.#THE MUSIC'LL FIND YOU ╲ general › prompts.#MAYHEM FLOWS ╲ general › dash games.#NEVER STOP FIGHTING ╲ general › starter calls.#TIME TO PARTY LIKE IT'S 2023 ╲ interactions › crack.#WE WILL BE VICTORIOUS ╲ interactions › threads.#WON'T SPARE WHAT I'M HUNTING FOR ╲ interactions › starters.#FREEDOM THROUGH THE STEREO ╲ interactions › dash commentary.#WE'LL HAVE A RIOT RIGHT HERE ╲ interactions › banter.#SINS OF YOUR BROTHERS ╲ verses › pre death.#EMBED THE CODE ╲ verses › cyberpunk canon.#GHOST IN THE MACHINE ╲ verses › cyberspace.#MECHANICAL HEART ╲ verses › android ( main ).#WRONG CITY ; WRONG PEOPLE ╲ verses › v's body.#WAKE THE FUCK UP SAMURAI ╲ general › promos.#LET'S BRING THIS CITY TO LIFE ╲ general › self promos.
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I would fuck the shit out of Sylvia's dad if I'm being honest
#mel's musings#little songbird#roger goldwood#<-that's his name. he's a twink music nerd who has no rizz except the Autism Rizz (much like his daughter)#he's shy as fuck & can't flirt for shit but he WILL talk your ear off about the intricacies of pianos for 5 hours if prompted#and this is precisely how he won over syl's mom. with his swagless demeanor and neurodivergent charm#she stopped paying attention not even 2 minutes into his spiel bc she's too busy thinking about how she wants him carnally (ME TOO GIRL)#he's so dreamy. you'll never guess what i did to him (SPOILERS it ends with him no longer being alive)#BUT BEFORE THEN. i need to make that man whimper#he also calls sylvia his “little songbird” which is where her tag name comes from!!!#unfortunately in my main timeline he dies when she's only a baby so she does not remember this ;_;#but in my writing i make a point to emphasize how SIMILAR they are despite her never having met him. and try not to get emotional about it#sylvia my love sylvia my everything sylvia my little songbird :'))) she means the world to me <3
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