#word limits are my nemesis
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Giftee: @koco-coko
OC: Pyetrovna Ilyich Tchaikovsky
Here's my gift as part of Mayday! Heyday hosted by @olivermorningstar & @lorei-writes
Thank you both for hosting this event! It's been fun and quite a challenge.
@koco-coko Tchai is a really lovely character to work with and I hope you enjoy :)
Prompt: Oak
Fandom: Ikemen Vampire
Pairing: Tchai & Mozart (platonic)
Hurt/Comfort
1492 words
Summery:
Mozart comes to realise that perhaps he should not have underestimated Tchai. Perhaps the porcelain composer was stronger than he gave her credit for.
************
The sound flowing through her body danced the line between joyful and painful, Tchai’s tremors had finally subsided enough to allow her movement more freedom, this composition she had desperately wanted to implement into a ballet. The music echoed through the old stone walls, her body flowing in perfect synchronisation with the strings. Movement, to graceful movement guided by a sound that felt like spring itself had begun to sing, the voices of the flowers in the garden translated into a perfectly light, airy moment of sonic perfection. The flowing fabrics of her delicate dress like a gown of petals dancing around her pale form, Tchai was a dancing spring bloom personified.
So entranced by the moment, the union of her body and the music Tchai didn’t notice his quiet approach. Footsteps measured and careful, Mozart often thought that approaching Tchai was like approaching a terrified baby deer. Ready to flee at the slightest disturbance and moments like this the thought of her fleeing made his heart ache. He was here to apologise after all. He stood at a distance, simply watching as she danced and played with a grace and elegance that was simply otherworldly. But here, in all her colours and all her fragility she looked like a fairy queen singing to her flower kin, summoning the most peaceful of spring days with her beautiful music and precise movements. The light pouring in from the window behind her making her look all the more ethereal, like an illusion that would vanish the moment he got too close.
Mozart didn’t like to admit he was wrong, but he knew while watching her that he was certainly very wrong in the way that he had treated her. Tchai was like a delicate doll, but as he watched her skill, her passionate ability to draw heavenly sound from her strings and incredibly skilled movements from her body he realised that treating her only as a doll, did her quite the disservice. He thought her to be a dandelion, so easily shaken to pieces, but before him was no dandelion. The fairy queen in front of him had the fortitude and disposition of an oak. She may look weak but her roots were deep and no matter how the wind would batter her, she would never be downed by it. Her raw fingers evidence of that absolute strength that was the temper of her soul.
The fairy queen danced with a strength that he knew he would never truly possess and a talent that dazzled him. Even if she didn’t know when to stop. There was the core of his frustration, he hated seeing her in pain, but getting her to stop was so very difficult. That’s why he had snapped so furiously at her and now why she broke into tears at the sight of him. He deserved it, but it hurt, mostly because of how much he had hurt her. He slowly made his way to the piano in the room and hovered over the keys, letting himself get lost in her tune and began to play along. Time seemed to stand still in that moment, he felt the joyful interplay in their melodies. But he got too lost, only being shaken out of his trance but the sudden stop of her playing and the stillness as she seemed to realise that he was there. She stood still, like a deer in a hunter’s gaze. And like a deer, she fled at the sight of him.
A few days earlier:
“Tchai, slow down you need to rest” Mozart said as gently as he could despite the headache pounding his skull. They’d been composing for hours, lost in creative fervour. Tchai’s body had long begun to tremor legs giving out as she cradled her violin on the music room floor, her fingers raw as she kept playing and refining one particular piece of the work. Entranced by her task, she felt like she was disconnected from the pain, her soul liberated from her rebellious body as she existed in sound, trying to figure out the last piece of the complex puzzle. So close, she was so close to solving the puzzle, she could feel that she had nearly weaved it all together. Every change leading to the solution, ever delicate finger movement that caused the slightest change in tone and intonation, building a path to the perfect sonic moment, she nearly found that change that needed to be made that would bring together the music perfectly. So close, she was so close and as she moved her fingers to make that final adjustment-
“TCHAI, FOR GODS SAKE WILL YOU STOP. YOU’RE TOO WEAK TO BE DOING THIS. GIVE IT UP ALREADY” Mozart’s voice crashed into her senses with a force that made her already overloaded system collapse. The tremors were overtaking her body and she felt his voice painfully rip through her body.
All she could think of was fleeing, so much that she began to drag herself across the floor. It had all overwhelmed her so much that she passed out. She had no recollection of how she got back to the castle, only coming to as Faust was giving her some medicine but all she could feel was embarrassment. Mozart yelling at her like that had hurt deeply. So much so she avoided him every time he tried to see her. It was a cut too deep coming from him.
Present:
She had fled to the garden with Svetlana now settled on her lap, just letting the soft sounds of the rustling leaves and the scent of flowers comfort her. Tchai hated how much she cried, how emotional she was. She had spent a lifetime feeling guilty over not being able to toughen up, of being soft and sensitive. Tears welling were a familiar feeling, her eyes almost seemed to be on the verge of tears no matter what. Everything made her emotional. She was frail, pathetic, every voice that had ever told her how she needed to be tougher, meaner, thicker skinned swirled in her mind until she remembered something.
There was a poetry book in the castle, Vlad had bought it from the future and she had opened it up one day to a page that had stuck in her mind whenever the phrase ‘thin skinned’ came into her mind. Her melodic voice began to recite it
“i don't want to grow a thick skin
i want my skin to stay
as thin as it was made and
everything outside of that
to be softer…”
The words hung in the air, unbeknownst to her Mozart had heard the words too. They struck him like a gale, because as much as he struggled with her overly emotional responses…her voice interrupted his thoughts
“What is so wrong with that Svetlana, why is wanting things to be softer, kinder so very wrong? I don’t want to change, because I’m not the one that’s broken or wrong. Why should I?” She quietly confided in her feline friend, unaware of the other vampire hovering near.
“You shouldn’t” Mozart said.
He came over and sat near her. She was too tired to flee him again, and she didn’t want to. The look of contrition on his face made her heart squeeze so she stayed still and let him continue.
“Being soft, or emotional is not a bad thing. Even if I don’t understand it and sometimes lack the patience to deal with it, you’re not the one who is wrong. I should not have been so harsh with you. So condescending…” His downcast eyes hinting at the shame he’d felt over the whole thing, he was truly sorry. It was evident in his features.
“I often tend to think of you as a delicate doll, so fragile that you need to be wrapped in wool and kept safe. That you are so frail that the slightest breeze could shatter you. However, after watching you today I came to realise something. Strength comes in many forms and I have rather been ignorant to not recognise yours.”
As he took a breath Tchai felt tears begin to roll down her face, this time not of fear or sadness, but a quiet joy. A recognition from someone who she admired, respected, loved. It was a simple moment, but it meant the world to be seen. For once, she didn’t feel guilty about her tears.
“Although, I will never stop worrying about you, I don’t want to see you in pain, I will do my best not to underestimate you. Even if I am a tad blunt about it” he said, finally looking her in the eye. Mozart took his handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her so she could wipe away the rivulets flowing from her eyes and they shared a quiet moment in the flowers, her smile brighter than the sun in the sky.
---
AN: the poem is by Brianna Pastor
#OCExchange2024#ikemen vampire#ikevamp oc#ikevamp tchai#ikevamp mozart#mayday heyday#word limits are my nemesis
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I be fighting against the word count and losing
#Uni shenanigans#Biomed#i be trying to negotiate about the word count cus 300-600 is so mean especially with 13 references and 2 figures#i gotta make a 10 minute speech from this poster as well and i am cramming to the max#also fighting against space and text size limitations this poster is my nemesis atm#i think i should be allowed more words i have a lot to say
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These are the apps and links I currently have on my phone to study Chinese:
SuperChinese: my main study resource. There are currently 7 levels, level 7 (still incomplete, they are still slowly adding lessons to it) being HSK 5 stuff. Each lesson has vocabulary, grammar and a short dialogue where those are used in context (I love context). It has a few free lessons in the lower levels but after that you have to buy a subscription. There are many sales though. When I was a beginner I used HelloChinese instead, which has more free content, and switched to SuperChinese when I finished all the free content there. It also has social network features and chat rooms I don't use.
TofuLearn is like a flashcard app with many pre-made decks (you can also create your own on their website and import decks from Anki) and the option to practice writing hanzi. Anki didn't work for me, but I find Tofu very helpful. Practicing writing helps me with character recognition, and it also helps me remember the tones thanks to the audio in the pre-made HSK decks.
Dot is a reading app with new texts being added every day. It used to be completely free, which actually seemed too good to be true, and then they put practically everything behind a paywall and very strict limits for free users. After a couple of months they made it a little less restricted though - we still can't choose the articles but we can read as many as we want as long as we do the vocabulary exercises after each article (plus, during the Spring Festival, they made all articles available for free for 3 days and we could save the ones we were interested in to read later). It follows the new, not-yet-implemented (and harder) HSK levels, so you should start one or two levels below yours and if the texts are too easy move up.
Google Translator: not the best but helpful when I need to translate whole sentences, plus I can point my camera or open an image and it translates writing.
Pleco: best Chinese to English dictionary.
Stroke Order: not an app but a website, does what it says in the tin: shows stroke order for a specific character.
YouGlish: also a website, you can put a word or phrase and it shows videos where people say that word/phrase. Very cool.
Todaii is a graded news app that has only two levels: easy and hard. I'm around level HSK4 and the "easy" level is quite hard though (but I admit reading is my nemesis).
I also use YouTube and Spotify a lot.
#personal#resources#langblr#language learning#learning chinese#chinese langblr#chinese language#mandarin#中文
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summary | a new place, a new job, and new problems arise soon thereafter. javier manages to weasle his way under your skin in more ways than one. the first—stealing your designated parking spot. (7.5k+ words)
pairing | javier pena x fem!reader
content warning | 18+ content, as always: no use of y/n, subtle pining/suffering on javi's part, very little reference to narcos plot (so, readable if you've never watched), strangers to enemies to...whatever this is, fingering/oral (f receiving), sex & subtle aftercare, open ended, using my very limited knowledge of spanish (pls feel free to correct me)
author's note | translations are spread throughout. this is my first dip into any character outside of my norm so this is mostly just for fun, but to anyone reading, enjoy!
You liked to think you were as level-headed as they came, always seeing the best in people, always giving them the benefit of the doubt, even here in a place that feels foreign, fresh off the job of a position you were hired to a few weeks ago. Not even a month yet and you were already on the precipice of your first problem.
A situation, perhaps.
You extensively remember paying for the specific parking spot correlating to your apartment number. It was simple, you paid for it, so by those laws, it was yours.
Yet somehow, there’s always a car parked in your space.
The first time isn’t a problem, opting to fill the blank spot next to it that is assigned specifically for visitors anyways. How could they have known?
It’s not a big deal. Until it happens again.
Same car, same color. That Jeep Cherokee was turning into your arch-nemesis, one more day of stealing your parking spot away from your keys digging into the paint of the driver’s side door.
Well, you weren’t that evil. But, you were definitely thinking about it. And maybe part of the problem was how unexpectedly stressful your job actually was, working alongside a bunch of macho, testosterone filled DEA agents with a severe lack of manners and time-management outside of catching the bad guys.
It always left you with a mountain of paperwork to deal with, not to mention that ridiculous errands and goose chases you were sent on for a file, or a can of fucking coffee beans because no one had the sense to replace them when they ran out.
And maybe if the car stood out more you would’ve clocked it earlier, but it doesn’t.
There comes a point where you can’t take the blatant disregard any longer, poised to catch the culprit in the act as you lean against the front hood of the car, jingling your apartment keys around your finger, rehearsing your supposed speech to scare off whoever owns the car.
But, that falls dead on your tongue the moment the owner descends the stairs, appearing from the same floor your own apartment resided on, eyes widening in disbelief.
It was a miracle you both had avoided each other this long.
“Javier?” You spit out, like a bad taste in your mouth.
Javier eyes you weirdly, still speaking calmly, “Hola, hermosa—I think. You live here?”
You nod slowly, wondering why he seemed so calm, so unbothered.
Ah, right. He wasn’t the one worrying about a parking spot, rather, he was the one stealing it.
“Yeah, por un par de semanas.” (for a couple of weeks)
Not that it mattered to Javier.
He laughs under his breath, fiddling with his own keys as he reaches for the handle. You push away from his car, standing steady on your own two feet, arms crossed over your chest and rubbing against the buttons of your blouse, still dressed up from work.
“You’re parking in my spot, Javier.”
Javier eyes the surrounding area, seeing nothing amiss.
“Where’s your car?” He asks, avoiding the accusation entirely.
“Right there,” You point at the car parked beside him, eyes narrowing at his lack of reaction, “beside my parking spot. You know, el que yo pago para.” (the one I pay for)
“Cariño,” and if there was a word that could make your blood boil quicker, it was that, the same condescending tone he always used, “I’ve had this spot for weeks.”
“But it’s mine now, Peña.”
“And mine sucks,” He admits, “this is the only shaded area around the building, it’s fuckin’ hot out, my car—“
“Isn’t my problem!”
He’s never heard you shout before, feeling the frustration radiating from your frame.
It was yours, rightfully so. But, that did change the fact he’s been parking there for weeks now, stubborn as he is. Javier isn’t budging either.
“What’s wrong with that one?” He asks, motioning toward your car beside his.
“I’m not paying for that one. I’m paying for this one.” It really is that simple, but you’re starting to think he had rocks for a brain, nothing rattling around up there besides catching Escobar and cheap sex he could catch on the regular with a bit of cash.
Yes, you knew—most of those men were one in the same, bachelors with a yearning to get off but not enough game to score it for free.
“No te soporto,” It’s a soft mumble under your breath, something meant for yourself, even if it was aimed at Javier, before looking at him, “fuck this, keep it.” (I cannot stand you)
Javier stares for a while, a moment too long in fact, his eyes lingering on the stretched fabric of your shirt, pulled tight over your chest where your arms cross, quickly traversing their way back up to your face, watching his entire trail of eyesight with annoyance.
“That’s it?” Javier definitely expected more of a fight, but you rolled over and keeled so fast he almost wishes you would’ve fought harder. He’s feeling gracious today though, so extends whatever metaphoric branch he had to give.
“You clearly don’t give a shit,” He’s leaning against the side of his car’s front hood now, diagonal to you as you take a few steps back, crossed arms moving until your hands met your hips, “but I’m the one running errands for you dumbasses all day, so we’ll see how long this lasts.”
In most cases that would come off as a death threat, but to you, it just meant smuggling sugar into his coffee instead of straight black like he usually enjoyed—just enough to fuck up his morning a little, throw him off kilter and enjoy the look on his face when it turns up in disgust, amongst other things.
“Eres malvada,” Javier comments amusingly, “are you trying to start a war?” (you are evil)
You shrug, “What’s one more to the one we’re already dealing with?”
You find it as a reason to get under his skin, drive him mad. But, Javier has a different reason in mind, luckily he loves a challenge—he wasn’t giving in that easily.
The office is sticky, the scolding, dry Bogotá heat feeling like you’re sitting in the center of a fire that ignited overnight—and the AC was out, meaning the tiny, measly little fan on your desk had to do.
Somehow, Javier seems unphased aside from the line of sweat on his forehead, shirt unbuttoned enough that you can see the start of his sternum, tanned skin hidden behind the baby blue fabric. His tie was laying on his desk beside his coffee—safe from you, for the time being.
Steve is close behind, not surprising, those two chasing each other’s tails like eager puppies. But, Murphy was sweeter than Pena, that much was clear.
He wasn’t holding your parking spot hostage.
“Hermosa,” Javier nods, tapping his fingertips against the patchy spot of wood on the front desk, “good morning, I hope?”
Not in the slightest.
Your eyes flick up wordlessly, stapling the stack of papers with more force than necessary before sliding it into his other hand, his fingers moving in time to catch the stack as it slides forward.
“Trouble in paradise?” Steve jokes, smiling as the words leave his mouth. “She looks like she’s ready to gut you.”
“She is,” It’s a confirmation that has Javier’s face turning up in annoyance, “can I do anything else for you? More paperwork, more coffee—“
“Actually—” Javier starts, but it falls on deaf ears.
“Good,” You turn away, picking up the large stack of files to head toward the filing closet, “ve a atrapar a tu el malo.” (go catch your bad guy)
His eyes linger as you walk away, Steve’s muffled voice coming into focus as you fade, rounding a corner as the click of your heels become softer.
“You managed to piss of the nicest person here,” Steve comments, whistling lowly, “I’m not gonna ask how you fucked that up, because it seems pretty obvious already—“
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Javier asks, throwing his head over his shoulder as he looks at Steve.
“Either bad sex or you’re just being an asshole,” Steve suggests, wiggling two fingers out suggestively, pushing his index down to flip his partner off, “easily both but I’m guessing it’s probably the second one.”
Javier shoved his hand away, forcing the file into Steve’s chest.
“She wants me to give up a parking spot I’ve had since I got here,” He explains, “not happening.”
Steve squints slightly, eyes narrowing on Javier. There was more to the story, but Javier was conveniently leaving that out.
“I didn’t even know she lived there,” Javier adds, somehow trying to convince himself he’s in the right, “it’s a good fuckin’ spot.”
“Pissin’ her off for it?” Steve shakes his head in disapproval, “Can’t be that good, Javi.”
The week drags on, miserable in the heat and with working piling up by the day, it feels never-ending.
And somehow, Javier always manages to make it home before you, even when you both leave at the same time.
As frustrated as you are, things get a little easier when you start getting under Javier’s skin.
Steve bothers you for a cup of coffee one morning, insisting that you always make it better than him—it’s just a matter of overloading it with milk and sugar, knowing that Steve likes it sweet even when he doesn’t want to admit it.
Most of the men drank it black, out of solidarity or whatever—Javier just enjoyed the bitterness. How convenient.
So, his hesitancy when you hand him a cup is warranted.
“You fuck with it?” He asks suspiciously.
“Steve asked for a cup,” You shrugged, pressing it into his hesitant, waiting hand, “I’m just being nice.”
But, one sip from the cup ensures that you weren’t being nice at all as he quickly spits it back into the cup, much to the amusement of you and Steve, who sips happily from his own mug.
“I lied.” You grin triumphantly, sliding his unfinished paperwork in front of him, “Nos vemos, vecino.” (see you, neighbor)
Steve chuckles under his breath, watching the interaction unfold. When you finally leave, Javier is staring at his desk, cup forgotten.
“Like I said,” Steve repeats, “can’t be that fuckin’ good.”
“Shut up,” Javier replies, chair screeching in protest as he stands, “who fucks with someone’s coffee?”
“A seriously pissed off neighbor, apparently.”
And if looks could kill, Steve would be dead.
*
And Javi thinks that the coffee incident would annoy him the most, but even more, it’s the blatant disregard of his presence on most instances, holding a complete conversation with Steve in his company, not a single greeting his way.
He still greets you every morning. All the same aside from his occasional switch up of endearment.
Cariño, Hermosa, Querida when he felt particularly snarky—but just as you hoped it would get under his skin, Vecina slices like a knife. You dared to use it first, but the tone of his is nothing but feigned fondness.
That and when he opts for your name instead, sickeningly sweet as it rolls off his tongue.
Either way, he notices your effort to ignore him.
Taking out the trash and running into him in the hallway? It’s like you walk right through him.
Running into him at that market down the road from your complex? He’s practically a stranger.
And work? It was harder to ignore him, but you did your damndest to make him feel less than.
It was working great, until it couldn’t.
It’s dark out by the time you see him again that day, covered by the orange of the streetlight overhead and kicking yourself as you stare at the contents under the hood, not having a single clue what you were looking at, what the problem was or what it could be.
“Staring at it won’t fix anything,” Javier startles you, nearly jumping out of your skin as he approaches, shoulder bumping against his chest at his close proximity ,“woah, easy, vecina. Just me.”
Somehow that was worse.
“Car trouble?” Javier asks.
“Among other things.” You snark back, but your voice doesn’t hold the venom you think it does. “Don’t tell me you know shit about how to fix this.”
“I don’t,” He admits with ease, “heading out?”
You sigh, deep and tired as you finally give up and close the hood, wiping your dirty hands on your jeans.
“Not anymore,” Javier takes a quick look at your outfit, jeans and a low-cut top that shows off the curve of your breasts, soft skin of your chest and a small amount of your midsection where your shirt pulls up as you shrug your shoulders, “what, Peña? What’s that look for?”
Javier shakes his head, rubbing his thumb along the tide of a spare key, “I’m meeting Murphy for drinks.” He doesn’t know why he’s telling you this, but he is—well, he does know. He’s hoping you might tag along, put an end to this back and forth between each other. He didn’t want to be the first to cave, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t bother him to see you despise his existence every day.
“Sounds miserable.” You comment, throwing a warm smile for good measure, it’s so fake that even Javi can’t help but feel a little more offended than usual. “Tell Steve I said hi.”
Javier doesn’t get the chance to ask if you want to join before you’re sulking away, riddled with yet another inconvenience.
Javier catches you in the same position the next morning, dressed for work and shoulders slumped as you stare down blankly at the engine.
“Get in,” He orders, walking beyond your piece of junk and to his car, one hand resting on the hood, other resting on the door handle until you finally acknowledge him, “I can drive you to work.”
“Vete a la mierda,” You groan, “I don’t want your help.” (fuck off)
Javier doesn’t budge, yellow sunglasses perched on his nose, his thumb tapping against the car, “Get in the car.”
And he’s not against standing here until you were both late, but he’s already on the edge of getting his ass chewed out most of the time and he’s done with this—it, whatever game you two were still playing at.
“Think about it,” Javier jokes, “it’s almost like you’ll finally be putting that spot to good use.”
Okay, that might’ve been too much.
“Look, I’ll give you the fuckin’ spot if you stop looking at me like they and get in the damn car,” Not that it mattered now, with that hunk of metal sitting unmoving and useless beside it, "please?”
Javier’s not the type to beg, but the look on your face is soft, resembling defeat, and he wants to help.
*
“Why didn’t you just bring it up with management?” Javier asked, fist tightening around the wheel as he pulled to a stop. "If it bothers you that much."
“You mean Theresa?” You laugh to yourself, eyebrows furrowing in amusement as you cross your arms over your chest, “She’s pushing 80–don’t tell me she could actually intimidate you.”
Javier shrugs, “She’s got her moments.”
“Messing with you was more fun,” You shrug decidedly, “but it lost its momentum when you stopped being bothered by it.”
“So?”
“I’m stuck with a shitty parking spot, an even shittier neighbor, and now my car doesn’t work, so.”
The silence spoke for itself.
“I don’t mind driving you.”
“You’re missing the point,” He was just as dense as he was attractive and you hated it, “the least you could do is fuckin’ pay me.”
Javier gives you a wild look behind his shades, Jeep lurching forward as he continues the drive.
“For the spot, Javier. If you want it that bad.”
“Oh,” He nods, “Yeah, I can do that.”
That was…easier than you anticipated.
Things improve slightly after that, still giving Javier the cold shoulder on most instances, born out of your own stubbornness.
But he always greets you with a smile, one that you try to return. Plus, you were in better spirits today now that the building had working air and it wasn’t absolutely miserable trying to get work done.
“Here,” Javi pulls you from the chart on your desk, eyes connecting with the small wad of cash, “for what I owe you and then some.”
And you shouldn’t feel guilty taking the money, but you do.
He lowers his voice slightly as you pocket the cash, palms pressed against your desk as he leans in, “I need a favor.”
You sigh through your nose, threading your fingers together and resting them between his outstretched arms, challenging him with a steely look in your eyes.
He slides a small wad of paper he had hidden in his palm toward your hands, “I need those files, can you get them for me?”
You glance at the list of names, looking up at him incredulously, his face not moving an inch. It seemed serious, but it still didn’t justify the fact that he’s absolutely lost his mind.
“I could get fired for taking these out of the building,” You argue in a hushed whisper, “first you want to take my spot and now you want me to risk my job?”
His eyes soften slightly.
And then there’s that word again.
“Cariño, please?”
“How badly do you need them?”
He gives you another silent look of pleading, the tip of his tongue licking at the corner of his mouth as he nods to Murphy several feet away, looking just as desperate. If it wasn’t for Steve, you probably would’ve said no.
“You’re lucky I like Steve,” You admit, shoving the paper into the same pocket the money was stashed away in, “and that you’re down the hall from me.”
His fingers wrap around your wrist firmly when your arm resurfaces, posture instantly stiffening at that movement. His eyes are wide, staring through you almost.
“Thank you.”
And you can see that he means it.
It’s a strange look you haven’t seen before but it’s real.
“You owe me, Javi,” Under the context of what, you weren’t sure, “I mean it.”
The softness you add to his name is enough for Javier to realize that whatever anger you held toward him was slowly disappearing.
*
The last thing you’re expecting when you exit the sanctioned filing room is a solid chest to the face, and a surprisingly soft hand gripping your shoulder to steady you.
“Hey, Javi sent me,” Steve says lowly, glancing around the corner to check for an all clear—the place was mostly deserted due to the unexpected raid Javier was leading on a few of Escobar’s men, nothing huge, but enough to need backup, yet somehow Steve got shafted, “he’s caught up in something and my place is on the way.”
“Is he okay?” It feels foreign to ask, but given he’s also in a slightly disturbed state, breathing faster than normal like he’d ran here.
“Yeah, yeah. Peña’s always good. Don’t worry about him.”
“And you?” You inquire, sliding the files behind your bag, keeping them out of view, “Why aren’t you with him? I thought you two were partners.”
“My wife, she’s had this date planned out for weeks,” Steve nods toward the front, asking for you to follow, “Connie, she’d skin me alive if I tried to cancel on her, again.”
“Sounds justified.” You shrug, flashing him a polite smile.
Steve nods knowingly.
“And about Peña—he’s difficult, I know.”
“Understatement of the year, Steve.”
“I’m just trying to say that he’s really involved and sometimes that stress kinda…transfers over outside of work.”
And somehow you find yourself at a stand-off with Steve, talking through the open windows of his car.
“So he’s an asshole, but it’s okay because work is a little hard on him?”
“That’s not what I’m sayin’,” Steve scratches at his forehead in search of the right words, hoping they’ll come to him, “I don’t even know why I’m trying to defend him but he’s surrounded by this shit all day, some of us can leave it here—it’s hard even for me some days—“
“Steve,” You bring him back, urging him toward the point, “is this going somewhere?”
“Javi is this job— but you are the one thing I catch him staring at beside our desk and the gun in his drawer. I don’t know, maybe he really does hate you that much, but I’ve known him long enough to realize that if he’s gonna let anyone’s fuck with his day to day, and his coffee, it would be you.”
“If you’re trying to suggest Javi’s in love with me, I’m going to assume you’re insane.”
“No—god, no. I don’t think Peña’s capable of that shit but maybe he’d ease up on being a hard-ass if you didn’t give him as much shit over the parking spot. Also, not sayin’ he’s in the right but is it really that important to you?”
You sling your bag into the passenger seat, following suit as Steve climbed into the car, “At first, yeah. It’s my first time out on my own, dealing with my own shit, and Javi already acts like he’s above it all so seeing that it was him, it set me off.”
Steve shrugs, turning on the ignition. “I think you two have too much in common, honestly. Maybe just…level with him? Have you two ever had a normal conversation outside of work?”
A subtle shake of your head is all Steve needs, then he’s laughing to himself, pulling out of the parking lot.
“What?”
“It’s nothing—“
“Steve.”
“It’s just—I assumed you two hooked up and Javi was a bad time because you went from mildly annoyed to out for blood overnight.”
“Doesn’t seem that far-fetched.” You admit, earning an even deeper chuckle out of Steve.
“See?” Steve boasts, “Don’t give him the time if you don’t think he deserves it, but I’m tired of him sulking around all the time. It’s miserable to look at.”
“And you think I can fix that?”
“Oh, I know it.”
Two hours and a shower later and you find yourself at Javier’s door wondering if it was already too late to try and knock or if you should just stuff the files underneath his door and leave, ignoring that fluttering feeling in your gut that told you to stay.
But, he’s yanking the door open before you can lift your hand, wondering if he heard you on the other side. He’s half dressed, jeans buttoned around his hips but his chest bare, towel hung over his frame signaling that he, also, had just finished up a shower.
The circles under his eyes were a little darker, the color in his eyes a little dull, and his knuckles looked bruised—whatever he’d been pummeling and knocking away at must’ve packed a punch.
“Hermosa, hey.”
Yet somehow he seems relaxed at the sight of you and you offer him the first real smile he’s seen since you met.
“Uh, got the files.” You force them out of your hands and into his, feeling like if you held onto them any longer they would burst into flames. You weren’t sure of the validity or importance of them, but you didn’t want to hold the responsibility any longer. “Everything…okay? Steve said—“
“Yeah. Bad info.” Javier says simply, “Doesn’t really matter.”
You nod slowly, fidgeting with your fingers behind your back, “You know,” and here was your attempt, “when Steve pulled up I joked about how this has to be the first time I’ve seen that parking spot empty since I’ve been here. Too bad my car is a piece of shit and I couldn’t even move it to take it back.”
Javier opens his door wider, bare feet sticking wetly against the wood floor as he moves. He clears his throat, a small chuckle that feels like a giant victory. But, he seems eager—no, antsy, ready to flee.
“Shit, you were going out, weren’t you?” He notices the quick glance you give to his frame, never lingering for too long on one spot. “Bebidas, chicas—that’s how you guys usually celebrate, right?” (drinks, girls)
“Nothing to celebrate,” Javier replies nonchalantly, “they all went home, so.”
“Oh.”
Javier glances back inside his apartment briefly, wallet and keys resting on the countertop, shirt thrown over the barstool by the island.
You both speak at the same time, his head turning back when he hears your voice.
“Goodnight, Javi—“
“Did you want to come inside for a minute?”
You pause, watching his hard exterior melt further.
“Um, sure.”
Thus, the deafening click behind you as you step inside, watching as he tossed the files along the island, before disappearing briefly and returning without a towel, still also without a shirt.
He looks perplexed, glancing over the files briefly.
“Do I wanna know?” You ask curiously, stepping alongside him before wandering a little further, glancing around his space.
It was polished, covered in dark furniture and normal amenities, perfectly plain. It looked half lived in, blanket thrown over the couch and a pillow shoved up against one side. Yet the open door down the hall showed a perfectly made bed. You don’t pry, but Javier can feel the judgment from a mile away. He switches the subject before it arises.
“It’s just work. Do you want something to drink?” He asks casually, sifting through his fridge, “Tento agua, jugo, cerveza…” (I have water, juice, beer)
“Beer is fine.”
Javier slides the beer into your hand a moment later, “So, what did Steve tell you?”
“Huh?” You ask, startled by his straightforwardness.
“I mean how much did he tell you about the, uh—the raid?” Javier implores casually, taking a swig from the bottle.
“Oh, nothing really. I asked why he wasn’t there and he told me, but I didn’t try to pry.” You tell him honestly, “The less I know the better, right?”
“And here I am pulling you into that mess for the files,” He jokes, “thank you for that, cariño. Seriously.”
You leave out the extensive conversation you had with Steve about the man standing in front of you, and you hear the words haunting you, nagging at the back of your mind like a bad itch.
You take a long sip of the beer, half dried hair falling over your shoulders as you tip your head back. Javier watches with careful eyes, arms leaning against the island, files pushed further aside.
And suddenly, he seems normal.
In fairness, you’ve never seen him in this environment. His home, his safety, but it’s a juxtaposition to the man you see at work everyday, walking past you with a smirk glued to his face.
Maybe it was only ever really directed at you, but there was always that urge to knock him down a peg. But, not here.
Blame it on your softness, your willingness to want to see the best in people, and how Javier was somehow the end all, be all of gorgeous men in Bogota—he sees the switch too.
The first bad decision was taking the job at the DEA office.
The second? Letting Javier Pena get under your skin so easily.
And between you both, there were enough bad decisions to keep you talking for a week.
What was one more?
He says your name, a dangerous word to leave his mouth at a time like this.
“Javi.”
It’s a warning. An opportunity, his last chance to back away before you both did something stupid. He trashes his empty bottle as he makes his way to you, slipping your own from your grip and onto the nearest flat surface, some mantle or shelf, Javier isn’t sure.
“Do you still hate me?”
It feels like the most ridiculous question to ask, but he needs to hear the answer. Because if you did, he’d back off immediately, walk you back to your apartment, and apologize for ruining your life more than he already had.
But, the other part is praying, hoping that you don’t.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you always know it was me?” He asks softly.
You huff out a short laugh, “What?”
“The car—I mean, I drove it everyday. I wasn’t trying to hide it.”
Your eyes narrow slightly, letting him invade your space, a hand ghosting over your hip, under your shirt carefully, fingertips dancing along your hip.
“You’re not the only guy up there who drives that car, Javi—how was I supposed to know? Are you saying you were doing it purposefully, hoping it bothered me?”
“No,” Javier answers honestly, “but it’s a little fascinating to see you so angry.”
“You should probably elaborate on that unless you feel like seeing it up-close.” You tell him out of pure annoyance, perturbed by the game he was playing.
If he wanted to fuck you, he should just say it.
“You smile all day at those guys, even when they make comments about you in front of your face.” And you’ll hand it to Javier, he’s never been that disrespectful. He appreciates women, and he can be severely pissed off with one, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to trash her in front of anyone else, especially not in front of her. “But, I see it—that little scrunch in between your eyes when they piss you off.”
“It’s my job to be friendly.”
Javier watches the expressive lines between your brow start to form.
Javier shifts you slightly, back pressed to his bare chest as his fingertips settle against your skin, just under the ends of your shirt, and despite the ongoing conversation you can’t help but melt against him.
“I saw it that day when you were standing by my car,” Javier continues, “es linda.” (it's cute)
“Javier,” It's a sigh of discontent, of impatience, and he feels the twitch in your body as you turn your head to look at him over your shoulder, feeling like you were seeing him as a completely different person, yet still somehow the same, “we really don’t have to drag this out.”
He hums softly, pressing a slow kiss against the side of your neck, the soft thrum of your heartbeat against his lips as he stays there, lingers.
“I’m not mad anymore , I’m not upset,” It feels like rambling, but you needed to clear the air, “Just—fuck, I can’t do slow, Javi.”
Slow meant more time to overthink, to feel, and you didn’t want any of that.
“Looks like I didn’t need to leave after all,” Javier laughs against your skin, “tengo a mi chica aquí.” (I have my girl here)
And fuck if you weren’t eager to throw every rule and inhibitions out the window for him.
His bed is just as pristine and untouched as when you entered his apartment, his fingers digging into your thighs firmly, keeping you in place where you were spread out over his lap.
Javier’s thrown off kilter for a moment as you grip his chin, tasting the wide expanse of tanned skin, biting playfully at the sharp edge of his jawline, right by the spot under his ear that has him fighting to stay focus.
Game recognize game, Javier had really met his match.
“Gatita mala,” He tuts, the warmth of his palms spreading over your back, top bare as his thumbs eventually meet the underside of your breasts, rubbing gently until he sees you keen into the touch, “more?” (bad kitty)
You nod eagerly, his eyes never leaving you, not even as he leans forward, mouth at your breasts until he finally takes the leap and licks, nipple pebbling underneath his tongue, bottom lip dragging against the flesh until he can take you into his mouth fully.
The warmth spreads like a flood, twisting at your insides, begging for something more.
“Javi,” You release on a sigh, fingers drifting through the hair at the back of his head as he hums, a soft noise of acknowledgment, “I need you to fuck me.”
“You sure?” He murmurs, mouthing up the center of your chest, latching onto your neck gently before pulling away, his teeth grazing against your chin as he bites. “Tu quieres esto, bebita? (You want this, baby?)
“I don’t need you to be kind, Javier.” You tell him forthright, staring down at him through your lashes, his hands still rubbing a hot pattern into your skin, whatever remnants of your sleep shorts that were left already pushed high up your legs. “You weren’t trying this hard before.”
“What are you saying then?” He asks, following your lips as you pull back, eying you inquisitively as you find his gaze, pulling him in.
Your eyes darken under the light, the streetlight outside of his window flickering faintly, “We don’t need to act like we’re friends,” You explain, “we’re not.”
There’s a long, lingering moment of silence as your thumb rubs along his bottom lip, soothing the natural pout he always held.
“We want the same thing, right?” You ask softly, feeling his hands settle against your lower back, a soft nudge as he presses you against him, not enough contact to satisfy but it stalls you a moment, watching him calculate a response.
Everything he feels like he needs to say never comes, only a nod of confirmation, a clear switch in his eyes as you drag yourself down to his level, pushing him even further, deeper into the back of his couch.
“Good,” You speak to him, lips grazing against his own as you speak, “because getting those files was a pain in the ass and I deserve a lot more than a thank you.”
*
You soon realize that this version of Javier is hard to deny something when he works for it, pulling at the short strands of his hair as he descends down the couch, to the floor, leaving wet kisses along the way, feeling your body quiver as he reaches your inner thigh, face pinching together in conflicting frustration as you shake your head.
“Javi, you don’t need to,” You quickly assure him, yanking his head away gently, his cheek resting against your thigh as he stares up at you, big brown eyes fixated on your face, “I’m not—“
“Humor me?” Javier counters, flashing you a tired smile, barely recognizable under this light.
You sigh heavily, mostly to release the tension of your anxiety-ridden nerves, gasping as his tongue meets your clit with no preamble.
It forces out a small laugh, involuntarily, his tongue lapping through your center before pressing a kiss against the inside of your thigh, fingers replacing his mouth for a beat.
“Tan dulce,” Javier comments absently, working you up easily, moving his fingers at an angle that even you couldn’t reach with your own hands, spine curving up as you pressed your palm out flat behind you, the grip in his hair tightening as he welcome the soft sounds you made, rubbing his thumb along your clit in a slow circle, “como el azúcar.” (So sweet, like sugar)
Your response is feeble, a throaty moan that has Javi’s cock straining against his jeans, reaching down to relieve the pressure as he unbuttons them.
“Why deny this?” He asks curiously, crazy enough to try and hold a coherent conversation with you while his face was buried in your cunt. “It’s the best part.”
He spreads you wider then, thick hands coming up to force your thighs over his shoulder, supporting the lower half of your body entirely as he devours, growling against your cunt.
The sound has you fluttering around his tongue and Javier feels it, bookmarking that for later.
“Fuck me,” You gasp out in a rush when you start to feel the edges of your orgasm creeping up on you, “god, Javi—“
But, there’s something unspoken there as he pulls away, the subtle shake of your legs, not wanting to feel selfish and even a little embarrassed for coming like this, so easy and quick under his touch. Be it experience but he knew what you needed even more than yourself, everywhere to touch, squeeze, linger for just the right amount of time.
“Look at me,” He demands, eyes flicking toward his without question as he slowly pushes a finger inside, filling the loss from earlier, thumb working against your clit until he feels it, “fuck, you like that?”
And as much as you wanted to deny it, he already knew the answer.
You nod quickly, body feeling feverish as your leaned your weight into your hands, steadily pressed behind you as your hips rock up involuntarily.
“That’s right, hermosa.” Javi encourages softly, almost like a purr as the crest of your orgasm rises, flushing over you in waves as you gasp, reaching your hand forward to dig your fingers into his forearm, silently begging him to slow down.
Eventually he does, pulling out gingerly but not before slipping the finger past his own lips, covered in the sweetness of you. He doesn’t make a big show of it, but it’s a small gesture that has your heart fluttering in your chest, a pain that aches deep. He does catch your gaze after a moment though, lazily explaining himself.
“What? I don’t lie.” He shrugs, thumb grazing against your bottom lip until you jerk your head away in frustration—coming here for nothing, but somehow twisting yourself up in the sheets on his couch, his solid figure tucked between your legs, and god, he’s not even wearing anything underneath his jeans. He rises up on his knees, denim hiding everything but the short patch of trimmed hair leading to his still, unfortunately clothed cock.
“Get on your knees.” He jerks his chin upwards and you’re moving without question, breathing a quiet sigh of relief as he moves behind you, shuffling around as he digs in a drawer beside his couch, shifting his jeans down until he can kick them the rest of the way, settling his hand over your hip in a comforting gesture, if anything, as he rips the foil packet with his teeth, pumping himself languidly.
He situates himself behind you, one knee pressed into the cushion while his other leg is planted against the floor, finding that once again, his hands couldn’t stop exploring your body, admiring every curve with us fingertips as he nudges you down and into the opposite cushion, palm pressed against the flat of your back as he lines himself up, pushing inside in one fluid motion, an audible groan breaking from his chest as he finally satiates his own desperate need for pleasure.
He enjoys sex this way, prefers it, fulfilling that need to take and consume and fill his partner with pleasure, tell that it was okay to give up control. It's what Javier enjoyed the most, controlling the situation. But, even as he enters you, he feels at a disadvantage.
“Bebita, talk to me.” Javier speaks up from behind you, his gruff, gravely voice cutting through the silence. “Let me hear you.”
You gasp on a sharp thrust of his hips, the wet sound of your slick as it coats him, feeling perfectly stretched by the size of his cock, grip tightening on the cushion in front of you as you feel his hand explore higher, squeezing at the back of your neck to force you deeper into the surface, head turned enough that you catch his expression for a brief moment.
He’s admiring you with a heated, half-lidded gaze as his eyes wander the expanse of your back, settling over the point where you two meet, watching as he sinks into you again and again. But, it’s the grit of his teeth that drives you insane, fucking you with a ferocity that carries so much more than just needing a release.
“Hablas demasiado, Javi.” You groan, feeling the soft pad of his thumb as it rubs at your jaw, earning a low chuckle in response. “You always talk this much with them?” (you talk too much)
He doesn’t need to pry to understand what you’re referring to—and he could act like it hurts his ego, and maybe it does, but he bites back at you just as quickly.
Your name graces his lips in a curse, a prayer, something akin to heavenly as he grips your hips tight, “You’re not them, bebita.”
It feels like a confession, but for your own sake, you ignore it, nodding blindly at his response.
“Fuck,” He growls, dragging a hand along your body until he settle it in the curve of your shoulder, pulling you back against him until you can’t stifle the sounds anymore, moaning out his name for the first time that night, “otra vez, let me hear it.” (again)
You gasp sharply at the sudden change in position, pulled tight to Javier’s chest in a similar position to earlier when you were standing in his kitchen, ultimately more intimate this way, with his mouthing at the shoulder that isn’t currently occupied by his hand, his arm slipping under yours and around the flesh to keep you in place while his mouth sucks at the skin on the opposite side, his name falling from your lips freely as he brings you to a second orgasm with no preamble, a quiet sound leaving you as the high is a little less intense, his fingers rubbing against the small bundle of nerves until you’re begging him to let up.
His breathing is short, hurried as his own orgasm is right there, free arm wrapping around your waist as he hugs you against him, mouthing at whatever parts of you he could reach.
“Gonna cum, bebita,” He warns, tracing a soft line under your breast with his finger until he’s squeezing the mound of it in his hand, “right here, can I?”
If you weren’t so drunk on your own pleasure you would’ve questioned it, but even then you weren’t sure you could deny him. You nod jerkily, feeling him unwind himself from you and guide you around with a steady hand, tapping at your side until he’s got you where he needs, kneeling a little lower, head lolling into his outstretched hand as he supports the weight, rubbing at the soft, tender spot behind your ear as he strokes himself quickly, head thrown back as he comes, moaning brokenly as the feeling overtakes him, spilling carefully onto your chest, your own eyes threaten to shut out of exhaustion but not daring to deny yourself the sight of him, neck outstretched and straining, veins protruding on the side as he swallows hard, gasping as he finally comes back down.
He feels you move to stand but urges you back down, “Stay,” He tells you softly, “I'll be back.”
And he’s not gone more than a few moments before he’s returning with a small towel, wearing a pair of sleep pants he must’ve grabbed from his room first, taking long strides to meet you as he cleans up the mess quietly, his face a little perplexed as he does so, watching as you move to grab your discarding clothing in the process.
“Any chance this convinced you to give me my spot now?” You joke lightly, catching the grin that spreads across Javi’s face, unconstrained.
“You wish, cariño.”
The silence settles as you redress yourself, mindful of Javier’s heavy gaze as he ascends back toward the work in his kitchen, giving you the space you needed.
“Same time mañana?” Javier asks suddenly, gaze landing on you as he scratches at his cheek, examining a paper within the stack of folders. (tomorrow?)
And you’re mentally cursing yourself for the small moment of hesitation you have in answering before Javier’s grin is growing again, releasing a short laugh in amusement at your obvious confusion.
“I meant for work,” He clarifies, “do you need a ride?”
“Oh—yeah,” You shrug indifferently, “I guess.”
The stare that Javier holds is mesmerizing, the type that freezes you in place and holds you hostage.
“Good,” He nods, “—but you know the other offer still stands if you want to.”
“Goodnight, Javi.” You reply with an eye roll, an empty response that holds no hatred.
Javier steps forward in your path, a subtle smirk on his face as he presses a kiss to the side of your head, a gesture that comforts you more than you’re expecting.
“Goodnight, gatita.”
Gatita = kitten
Cariño, Hermosa = both mostly terms of endearment (ie. beautiful, sweetheart)
Please consider a reblog if you enjoyed this fic! It’s makes a huge difference. ♡
#javier pena x reader#javier pena smut#javier pena#javier pena x you#javier pena x y/n#pedro pascal characters#javier pena fic#narcos x reader#pedro pascal smut#pedro pascal x reader#my writing#pedro pascal fanfic#pedro pascal x you
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so hades 2 huh
it's fun! i am more convinced after actually playing it than i was in the runup to it. the green colour palette looked a little drab in the videos but it works better for me fullscreen in game, and I really like the second zone's design. the major aesthetic change does go a little way towards making this feel like 'new Supergiant game' instead of just a rehash of the first game.
the difficulty floor is higher than the first game. i think it's well-tuned to go into if you've beaten that one. so far i've played 6 runs, seen the first boss in 5, and and beaten her in 2 of them; yet to get more than about halfway through the second zone after that tho!
the new mana mechanic is kinda interesting, lots of tradeoffs to make. it's a bit more granular than the cast in the first game; you use it to do powered up versions of your attacks, and spending it also charges up the Call-equivalent.
i'm increasingly intrigued by the setting, and i really like some of the side characters like arachne. i think the time skip was a good decision - the story of Zagreus et al. was definitely done. the epilogue ending of the first game was way too neat.
still, starting a revenge plot in media res is curious. especially when Nemesis lampshades the lack of personal motivation. compared to Zagreus's very pressing and relatable motivation (run away from my abusive dad), Melinoë's motivation is a little more abstract - this seems to be deliberate. but it does a fair bit to sell the sort of 'desperate resistance base' setting. it definitely seems rather like they're setting up a twist down the line. but it lacks the immediate emotional hook of the overbearing patriarch in the first game. curious to see how it will work once I've seen more of the story.
as far as the new gods, I'm fascinated by the decision to make Hephaestus and Hestia both be Northern - probably Yorkshire. it's always fun hearing regional UK accents in games. they do also both feel like responses to the criticism that Jen Z never designs fat characters lmao. still, they are good designs. both have satisfying mechanics. Selene also has a really good design I think.
the other gods' mechanics have naturally been redesigned to fit the new game. still broadly the same themes, e.g. Zeus will still be lightning based, but different interpretations of what that means, so for example you have 'hitting an enemy produces a lightning blast behind them' as the primary Zeus mechanic instead of chain lightning. which definitely keeps things fresh. Melinoë's kit has a lot of directional attacks and, with the Cast now being an AOE which slows/freezes enemies, there's a lot more emphasis now on positioning enemies to set up AOE attacks which is interesting.
the witch stuff is quite fun in an admittedly slightly cheesy way. it's definitely pull on aesthetic currents which aren't at all Ancient Greek, like the pointed hats. but hey! I can get into it, it's not like the game's aesthetic has ever been all that strictly historical. even if I am still scratching my head at 'so mote it be'. apparently it's an archaic word meaning 'may', i.e. 'may it be so'.
of course the main thing is, the actual moment to moment gameplay is fun. it flows just as the first game did, and it's just as addictive with the way it spreads out story breadcrumbs. the vfx and such look great, the movement is already super tightly tuned (tbf it's basically the same as the first game with the addition of a new 'hold dash to sprint'), and there's a already good variety of enemy mechanics.
there's some obvious placeholders for some of the UI art and character portraits (notably none of the keepsakes have been drawn yet), but overall it's surprisingly polished for an early-access build. all the voice acting is already there - it's fun seeing the Supergiant voice cast return in new roles.
the meta progression element... there's some neat ideas, like an upgrade system with a limited set of slots that very much calls to mind NieR Automata's chip system. so there are some stronger tradeoffs to make; it's not as simple as 'spend resource, get better' as it was in the first game. and it's clearly possible to advance quite far even without a lot of meta resource investment. so far it definitely feels like my main limit is skill, and I'll progress further once I learn more of the enemy patterns and figure out what builds I like to play.
(though I guess the idea with this kind of game is that the power ups quietly boost you and make it feel like you're getting better a lot faster than you are just learning the game lmao)
overall, it's just really fun to have another Supergiant game to sink my teeth into haha. I still wish they'd continued their streak of coming up with new IPs each time, because they'd come up with fantastic settings, but there's plenty of interest here still.
also the more I work in game dev the more I can appreciate just what a ludicrous amount of polish there is in Supergiant's games. I can only imagine the amount of work it must have taken to tune the feel of everything this tight.
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Chapter 4 Public Update 🎉
First of all: Happy new year, everyone 🥳🎊 I wish all of you an awesome year ahead!
Now, on to the Chapter Update! Chapter 4 contains 46K words which brings the total word count to 189K words! Chapter 4 is actually the largest update yet that I've done in a month clocking at 46K words instead of the usual 20-30K words update (I really pushed myself this month, didn't I 😅)
However, this update doesn't just bring the entirety of Chapter 4, but also some new and tweaked stuff on the previous chapters. So, I would recommend playing from the beginning if you want to see what's changed for yourself. I'll list out things I changed from the previous chapter below.
Now, a lot of you are probably aware of this already, but some of the things you'll do in this chapter are:
Meet Yvette and finally have a proper conversation with her (a lot of variations and different decisions).
Choose what you feel about her now. Do the years soften your hatred for her? Or maybe they've made you resent her even more?
Meet the rising star superhero—and your mother's protégé—Skylar Moore.
Meet the black sheep of the ECPD, Detective Santana Valdez.
Have a talk with the CEO of the Constellation Agency!
What have been updated in previous chapters include:
- Added a new clothing style, which is the “All black” clothing style to match the style that Luka is wearing (popular demand 😆)
- Added flavour texts for those choosing “Beatrice” or “Virgil”/“Vergil” codename.
- The skill check limits in Chapter 3 have been lowered. To succeed in the hotel entry, you’ll need at least 50 in the corresponding skill instead of 55. And to succeed in the CQC combat, you’ll now only need (Combat + Grav) or (Combat + Umbra) at least 105 instead of the previous 115.
- Make the Police Commissioner’s unsavoury connection to the Nemesis Project more apparent.
- Tweak how MC reacts to executing the Police Commissioner. Now, it’s based more on whether you chose your MC to be ready, hesitant, or don’t want to kill him in Chapter 2 when talking to Grandpa.
Oh, and also, I'm planning to make quick and fun polls on the ROs and Yvette in my CoG Forum post, so, if you guys have an account there, consider casting your vote 😁
[DEMO] | [PATREON] | [KO-FI]
[COG FORUM] | [DISCORD]
#chapter update#chapter 4#if: vendetta#vendetta if#if game#if wip#dashingdon#choicescript#choice of games#hosted games#cyoa#interactive fiction#interactive novel#interactive story#interactive games
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GAME GEAR
Super Train Station H
• • • • • • • •
Game Gear:
keeps you busy till the train's here.
Full color screen,
8-bit graphics so vibrant they make your eyes tear.
No one cared that it's just a smaller Master System,
it had top tier games,
so we put it into commission.
Stereo sound to listen,
but only if you've got headphones:
can't squeeze two speakers on something that predates iPhones.
Playing on the ride home -
Dad's stuck in late night Brooklyn Bridge traffic,
speed's a no-go:
but I'm behind the wheel with Ayrton Senna
racing in Monaco.
The glow of the screen,
makes the back seat a party scene,
the batteries running out now would be a bad dream -
they drain faster than Sonic dying in "Sonic Spinball".
Mom's got extra Duracells,
she has it covered, so trust her.
Vanishing colored gems in "Columns" like Fruit Gushers.
"Fantasy Zone", a shooter with Lisa Frank syndrome,
space combat so cute you don't wanna quit.
"Sonic the Hedgehog", where do I start with this?
I admired Eggman's robot transformation gimmick,
but roboticizing my animal friends is beyond my limit.
Doc mocks me with Cumming's Robotnik cartoon voice,
because my head-canon for this game is multiple choice.
Sally, Antione, Bunny,and Rotor are my back-up crew,
gonna beat Robotnik, and all his Badniks too,
and solve mechanical puzzles too tough for Nancy Drew.
The Doctor's sinister,
his boss stages make my head spin,
but in the name of great justice: I gotta fight him -
powered by six double-A's
of bottled lightning.
Loved my Game Gear,
for playing in the dark; nothing came near,
but its nemesis the Game Boy was one for Sega to fear.
Nintendo's black-and-white screen made Sega get cocky,
let their guard down, but Game Boy came swinging like Rocky.
Smaller price tag - which the parents loved.
Needing less batteries fit budgets like a glove.
Barely small enough to fit into a 90's kid's pocket,
looks like a brick today,
but back then, it was some hot kit.
You know Mr. Yokoi's team was proud of it.
And the batteries lasted a lot longer too,
you could play all day
hiding it under your desk at school.
And Sega boned their own ads by dissing Game Boy fans,
instead of luring handheld gamers with an olive branch.
Wow.
What a system,
How could I not miss it?
Nostalgia soaring high like "Space Harrier" missiles.
I showcase it on Twitch to help spread the word,
sometimes it's new to even long-time Sega nerds.
I'd talk forever on Game Gear,
you know I like this.
But my batteries are low,
so it's time to split.
[My Twitch] [My VOD Channel] [My FA] [My Ko-fi]
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so teeth? really?
Anon...yeah teeth? I'm weird, I'm here for the weirdos.
I've decided recently that I'm going to be a certain actor who shall only be named in the tags arch nemesis. If there's no one out there talking about his false teeth and his stained nails and his disgusting capitalist tendencies, it means I'm dead.
So in honor of a certain someone who'll only be named in the tags 30th birthday, please enjoy the sequel to this weird RPF.
Pairing: Disgusting 30-year old capitalist B-lister who's lucking out on his career x CorporateBadass!Fem!Reader
TW: RPF, Smut, jealousy, a little angst, a little degradation, and he's gross
Tagging @courtingchaos @deathbecomesthem @dr-aculaaa and @tomtomslongdong @bettyfrommars because you liked my games last time.
18+ WEIRDOS ENJOY! NORMIES STAY OUT.
It came in an email.
It always did.
Forwarded from your work email to your personal email, then forwarded onto his with several question marks. No phone numbers, no WhatsApp. An occasional GChat if you had trouble compromising over different time zones. But generally, your interactions were limited to a familiar face in an unfamiliar place; not casual conversation during normal, every day life.
You joked once, in an Uber on the way to the airport as you were fixing your disheveled clothes after a quickie before check-out, that you might as well sync your google calendars and that…seemed pretty appealing to him, if only someone else didn’t handle his calendar for him.
“Must be nice,” you joked. “Big important star with an assistant.”
“It’s one of my manager’s assistant,” he argued. “And you have an assistant too.”
“It’s an admin for the department. And they only book the travel. They don’t manage individual calendars. Sorry I’m a peasant dragging my cadaver up the corporate ladder.”
Regardless, he woke up to your email one morning—some remnant of your personality from a former life—at the top of his inbox with the word “London???” above an itinerary for two weeks of franchise meetings and property tours around the city he called home.
His city. No coincidences, no “accidental” run-ins at LAX or JFK that the two of you bent in your favor. You were coming for to him. During a week that he otherwise had no plans.
He acted on impulse. Perhaps a little desperately. Especially considering how little he knew you.
“If you want, you can just stay here. I have plenty of room. You’ll have your space. Pretend it’s a VRBO for the week.”
Realization hit him once he hit send. Dread.
Invite you to stay at his house, a house that he was just settling in to being a home. Where all of his things were, where he had pictures of family and friends.
His house.
Where he was someone and not no one.
He hoped that you would realize the impropriety—as improper as it could be after he’d stuck his cock in you more times than he could count at this point—and be the more level-headed of the two of you, as you usually were, and decline the offer.
It took 48 hours for you to respond.
He thought that meant he was in the clear.
Until your reply blipped in his inbox between emails containing sides for self tapes and negotiations for his next potential public appearance.
“Great, thanks. I won’t take up too much space. I’ll barely be there.”
Followed by the airplane emoji and the sleep emoji.
He got irrationally angry for a moment.
How could you do this? How could you cross this boundary? Partial anonymity…that’s what you both agreed on and here you were…suddenly reneging on that agreement.
Invading his space.
Only you weren’t invading, he invited you in.
Invited you to know Joe a little more than you knew Joseph.
And he could know you too.
He missed getting to know people; he chose not to know people. He knew enough people.
Now he’d get the chance to get to know you.
You’d be here in a week.
And suddenly you were.
Not an email away. Just there.
You sent him a WhatsApp from the car—a necessity now that you’d be with him for a prolonged time—double checking his street. Then suddenly you were ringing the bell.
He went over the mental to-do list that he’d made ahead of your arrival—schedule planned so he’d be available if you wanted or needed him anything, the cleaning service came through, groceries were delivered, and he’d even got flowers for your room…just a nice little thing he thought of—and then he opened the door.
It had been awkward, the initial greeting.
It wasn’t like your typical hotel room rendezvous. It wasn’t straight to business. You both just stood there staring.
“Consider me a vampire,” you joked, slightly jet lagged and weary since you had gone to meetings straight away after you’d landed. “I need to be invited to come in.”
“Of course,” he stepped to the side to let you in. “Make yourself at home.”
You let him carry your suitcase and shoulder your backpack as he led you straight to the guest room. Then you touched his cheek fondly, thanked him…and promptly shut the door in his face so you could sleep.
Well…he at least thought he was going to get something more than that.
But he didn’t get much more than that. For almost an entire week.
At first it was fine. You were busy, and so was he.
He made (ordered) breakfast for the two of you for the first morning. You grabbed tea and a biscuit (“when in Rome…yes I know…but this was part of the Roman Empire so…No I thought it was funny Joseph ok see you later then”) and ordered an Uber to make it to your first walkthrough of the day. He had a copy of your schedule in his email, made sure to run his errands, make his appointments, and hang out with friends while you were busy so he could be there when it was time for you to return at the end of the day. Only to get another peck on the cheek and be thoroughly ignored as you trudged off to bed.
He felt a little bad. He knew those days where they just never seemed to end; come back to wherever he’d been put up only to check his phone and pass out.
Then he’d hear you around midnight, waking up from a dead sleep and tapping away at your keyboard. Sending communication to your boss or your team or whoever else back home. He didn’t know if you knew he was awake, or if you would venture out of the guest room to find him or get a drink…something. But you never did. Didn’t roam around, didn’t even chat him on WhatsApp; you just clicked away until the clicking stopped and you passed out again.
That’s when he got annoyed.
Because he’d been patient enough; he waited. Waited for something for those first few days. Some kind of sign that you were here with him. He’d sit and watch the telly, pick something from netflix or YouTube, read a book waiting for you to say more than hello to him when he opened the door for you. Have a conversation with him. Something! Sure that wasn’t really how the two of you operated, but even when he still had a roommate and they lived a very separate schedule there was at least a “hey mate, how’d the day go” and it gnawed at his insides that you couldn’t even be bothered.
Who were you? Just some no one, playing at possibly having an executive position one day.
And who was he? He was Joseph Quinn. Eddie fucking Munson, as much as he loathed it. He had people screaming for him, screaming his name. You even screamed his name from time to time.
Just not now.
Was he even going to get to fuck you at the end of this torture? Probably not. You’d be off to Heathrow to catch your flight back home with a simple peck on the cheek and a pat on the head.
“Good boy Joseph, letting me stay in your guest room, thank you for the red carpet treatment.”
So after three days of radio silence, he stopped playing such a gracious host. You insisted that you weren’t even there? He would act like you weren’t.
He stopped living his life around your schedule, left you a spare key so he wouldn’t have to make a fool of himself and open the door for you. Got dinner with his friends, drinks with some people his manager wanted him to meet, all on his own time.
He did exactly what did, he ignored you.
And that’s what got your attention, or so it seemed.
He saw you “in the wild” a bit more. You and your American lean against the bar at the pub he frequented, wine glass in hand as you chatted with someone in a suit; he decided he’d rather get a beer somewhere else that night. Came home late from a friend’s party on Friday to find you in the kitchen, with a sandwich, going over some contract. You waved at him, maybe a hello or to get him to join you, but he just walked away. Woke up late the next morning to find you actually sitting on his couch with coffee in one hand and phone in another. Your eyes brightened a little when you saw him.
“Morning! I have an appointment at 1, but…dinner?” You asked. “I’m getting so sick of cateri—“
“M’busy,” he cut you off. He didn’t like the way you just nodded, just pressed your lips together accepted it. The way his plans meant nothing. Still, you were out here. Instead of in your room…or just gone.
“Maybe tomorrow night?” He offered, a little more gently.
“Sounds good.” He smiled. “I’ll put it on my calendar.” And the smile went away again, and so did he.
You put him on your calendar like another business appointment; he shouldn’t have felt bad about it, it’s what you always did when you met up in one city or another…but he did. Because this wasn’t “make a run-in happen” this was a meal with the person whose house you were living in for two weeks.
He probably should have asked someone if he was overreacting—probably should have asked you to be honest—but who could he ask? His friends didn’t know about you; they gave him enough shit about his current situation as it was, let alone some American airport fling. Couldn’t exactly tell his manager, they’d have you in to sign an NDA or something; all of the times he planned his travel around “running into you,” he just said it was meeting up with a friend.
So let the feeling stew in his head all day. He came home late again Saturday night to avoid you, and stayed out the entire day Sunday, missing the time you’d made for him on your calendar. Good riddance.
Until he rolled in at 1am, well on his way back to sober after a night out, to find you sitting on his couch, some YouTube chef on the telly, Diet Coke in hand, and his takeaway box of leftovers from dinner the night before on the coffee table.
“That was mine,” he accused. No greeting, just fire as he walked over and looked at the remnants of his gnocchi carbonara.
“It was really tasty,” you nodded.
“I know, because it was mine.” He scoffed and crossed his arm over his chest. “You know if you were really hungry, there’s plenty of other food in the kitchen. Or you could’ve gotten a sausage roll or something. Ever heard of Uber Eats?”
“No I ate your pasta because you told me once that you don’t eat leftovers but you always felt bad that they’d just go in the garbage at the restaurant,” you explained calmly. A little too calmly. “Instead they’d just go in the garbage here. So I enjoyed your scraps, cold, like a peasant, oh King Joseph, most conceited and decadent of all. Because you forgot we had plans for dinner.”
“S’that what we had? Plans?”
“Yeah, I blocked off time for you and everything.”
“Talk about most conceited,” he grabbed the takeaway box and started walking towards the kitchen to dispose of it and this conversation, but you were hot on his heels.
“Excuse me what was that?”
“You heard me, conceited,” he threw the box in the bin and then turned back towards you. “Lemme pencil you in on my calendar, Joe. Dinner, Sunday, 8 o’clock does that work?” He mimed holding a notebook and jotting down the appointment.
“Have you lost your mind? That’s what I need to do if I want ten minutes to myself, let alone a whole dinner. You know I didn’t even put sleep on my calendar for this trip?”
“Lemme not even say good morning because I have a call I need to get on Joe, thanks for the biscuits.”
“Did you miss the entire point of me being in London when I sent you my itinerary? Or did you think this was just me coming to fuck you for two weeks?”
“Maybe not the whole two weeks,” he sneered at you. “But even a how was your day would have been nicer than being treated like the hotel manager.”
“At least the hotel staff cleans shit up,” you scoffed at him. “You know I went out for drinks the other night, went to that pub you told me about, because we finally figured out a contract and I spilled wine on myself. Came back here to throw it in the wash only to find the machine full of dirty clothes. That was really fun to see your stained and faded tighty whiteys at the top of the load. Were you just waiting for the maid service to come back to start the wash for you? You’re so famous now that can’t even hit the damn button yourself?”
The next scathing remark stopped dead on his tongue at that, and then he felt the shame build up.
But only for a moment, because before he knew it, you were crossing the distance and smashing your mouth to his. It was a quick play for control as usual, neither of you caring that you’d just butt heads because the real winner would be whoever could succeed at your little game first; he was in such a mood, such a state, that he actually tried to put up a fight, wanting to get you to cry out for him like he’d been wanting all week. Wanting to be wanted, needed.
He pulled away to remove the bridge from his mouth, mindful of the complaint you’d made about kissing him last time you’d met up, and you did something unexpectedly delicious.
“You rich rat,” you growled at him as you tugged his shirt free of his waistband with one hand and started working his belt loose with the other. “You better be wearing clean underwear right now so help me god.”
And damn if he didn’t get hard just from your words alone.
The aggressive snap of his belt hitting the tile floor also helped.
“They should be,” he grinned cheekily and pulled your sleep shirt over your head. “Agnetha did a load before you got here.”
“You’re pathetic.” You worked the buttons of his shirt as quickly as you could. “How much is this shirt? ’S it dry-clean only? Does she take your dry cleaning in too? Bring it back and make sure it’s folded nicely only for you to shove everything in the drawer anyway. Like the useless boy you are.”
Yeah that was doing it for him.
“She washes the sheets too.” He dropped to his knees before you now as you leant against the counter, fully intent on pleasing you right here in the kitchen. “Changed them right before you got here. Shouldn’t be any more questionable stains.”
“Useless,” you hissed at him but ran a hand softly through his curls as he kissed along your abdomen and peeled your leggings down your legs. “Utterly useless.”
The thing about you though was your self-restraint, your discipline. You didn’t like to lose; you’d deprive yourself of things to get some advantage over your adversaries—usually corporate adversaries—and come out on top. And you made that very well known in the bedroom too when this little game got started. You’d gotten him to cum easily the first time you slept together and then used him to chase your own pleasure, commanding his mouth and tongue here and fingers there.
Just like you were doing now. No moans, just little hitches in your breathing as you steered his head and used the leg you’d thrown over his shoulder to bring him deeper into your center.
When you got close to completion, you used the upper hand again to push him away and you both descended together. His trousers and pants shoved down to his knees with his shirt bunched up under his head so he wouldn’t be sore from smacking it against the tile when you sunk down onto him. And when he felt the delicious squeeze of your cunt, he couldn’t help himself from throwing his head back; good for you to have the foresight.
He had the foresight too though. He knew your moves, they made him see the light of God, seductress that you were. You told him your secret once as you basked in the afterglow when you’d rendered him particularly speechless.
“Spell the word coconut.”
“C-o-c--“
“No, I spell the word coconut. As I’m on top. Read it in a magazine or something during my last layover.”
And he could feel it now, predict it. Feel the motion of your hips, around and around and up and down and squeeze.
He couldn’t tell just by looking at your face, he had to feel it; close his eyes and feel the tempestuous slide of you over him, bringing him higher.
Maybe he would win the game tonight?
He wasn’t one to lose either; he could be competitive just like you. In fact, he was excellent at manipulating a situation in his favor. School, money, life. And with you he’d won enough times to know it could be done. You’d made him feel so…meaningless over the past week—even if he’d misunderstood and overreacted—that a win would be even better than the pleasure itself.
You pried one of his hands off your hip where it was clinging for dear life and directed him to play with your clit so you didn’t have to. For a moment, he lifted his head and watched his own nicotine-stained nails and your prettily manicured ones mingle against the engorged and glistening junction of your sex, and where any other time it would have him groaning at the sight, he couldn’t help but notice how disgusting his hands looked in comparison to your own. For a moment the confidence faltered.
When had he last washed them? Maybe you were right, he was gross and pathetic…
But then you moaned, and from his point of view It looked like it even surprised you even. You stuttered in your pace and your eyes went a little wide.
He felt all the doubt leave him.
He would win tonight…
He took advantage, used his leverage, to turn the tables. To sit upright and guide you to take his spot; you couldn’t even protest before he pistoned into you, before his fingered took an unrelenting pace on your clit.
He could spell coconut too, and he did. He would tell you all about it after his victory. Boast over using your own tricks against you.
You watched him with unblinking eyes as your nails dug into his bicep and shoulder, as you bit your lip so hard he was sure you’d bite right through it, and you kept the little whine that emanated from your throat as soft as you possibly could. Still, he could hear it through the desperate, wet sounds of your fucking.
He closed his eyes and focused on the finish line, focused on keeping the tension of his mounting pleasure back as he could feel you grip tighter and begin to spasm around him. He needed to win, it would be glorious.
“Joe,” you moaned, and he thought it was over. But there, underneath the neediness, lay the condescension, the obvious upper hand. “Can you hurry up? I have a call at 7am”
He came, seconds before you did. Collapsed against you and spilled inside of you before you found your own release.
On his kitchen floor, spent, laughing together, basking in the ridiculous pleasure found in the presence of one another, another game came to an end.
And he might have lost, but in the end, did he really lose?
Happy Birthday asshole. I'm following you into 30 in 10 months with a vengeance.
No love lost,
The better Jo(e) </3
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#80
(part 1) (part 2)
tw: alcohol mention
A long day on the job usually finds the hero in the nearest bar.
Can you blame him? He spends his day punching people. He usually gets punched in return. The least he deserves is an evening to relax and think about something other than how much of a nuisance his nemesis is.
So here he is once again, ordering a pint of beer from the bartender and draping himself over a bar stool in a comfortably familiar routine. He watches idly as a band sets up on the humble stage at the front—someone fiddles with the mic stand, another with a drum kit at the back.
Other patrons are watching too, for lack of anything better to do. Some sip at their drinks like it’s part of the show. Another band member hops onto the stage to plug a guitar into the amp.
The hero’s eyes drag lazily as the person leans back upright, shaking his hair out of his face as he does and glancing out over the crowd. The hero’s heart leaps nauseatingly into his throat as he’s met with the face of the villain.
Seemingly satisfied with the congregation, the villain gets to twinging the strings on the guitar, the sound humming through the floorboards under the hero’s feet. The vibration is snaking up his legs and straight into his already anxiously clenched muscles. His knuckles are turning white on the beer glass. He’s going to shatter it if he’s not careful.
But what can he do? He’s out of uniform, off the job. The villain’s on a goddamn stage in front of a giant group of onlookers. His options are limited. His best bet is to wait it out to the end and jump on the villain when he inevitably makes his escape backstage somewhere.
The band nods to each other—guitar, drums, vocals. The singer steps up to the mic, and it shrieks in protest as she taps it testily.
“Good evening, y’all,” she opens with a drawl akin to that of an uninterested teenager. “We’re Knights of the Black Realm. This is our original song: Revenge Means Chaos.”
The guitar kicks in first. The sound is soft at first, subdued, sweet. The drum adds a rough tang to it, and by the time the singer is sweeping through the first verse the song is in full swing.
The villain’s fingers move smoothly over the strings, mischievous delight woven into his grin. The sound from his guitar is incredible, for lack of a better word—the gruff twang hovers over the fragility of the vocals, the sharp edge provided by the drums. It’s beautiful, and the hero hates it.
The song flickers into a second song like there isn’t a moment to waste. Then a third, and a fourth, and a sixth and a tenth and a fifteenth. The other patrons clearly love it, cheering and bobbing up and down to the tune. All the hero can do is sit in perfect stillness and glare hatefully.
The villain’s gaze flits over the crowd again. He scans the darkened corners near the bar this time, and his eyes lock with the hero’s from across the room.
It would’ve been romantic if the hero hadn’t been watching with barely contained disdain.
The villain looks surprised for a moment, caught off guard, before his face splits into another grin. Knowing, cocky. I’d like to see you try, it mocks. The hero scowls back—you know damn well I will.
The twentieth-something song ends with a single sinking note. The villain steps forward to whisper something to the singer, and she laughs heartily at whatever he said.
“Special request!” she announces with a giggle. The villain steps back into place with a smile. “This one’s for all the hardworkin’ heroes out there tonight, defendin’ our beautiful city. This is My Eyes Are Only On You.”
Oh, the irony. That piece of shit.
The villain’s stare is unmoving from the hero now. Another grin is slowly working its way onto his face; proud. Arrogant. Annoying.
The song is smooth, like a tune made of silk. It’s slow, unneedy, unbothered. The guitar is as effortless as ever, the villain’s rhythm no more than a gentle rock within the river of the song.
The song thankfully reaches its end, and all three members of the band are smiling—though, the hero guesses, for very different reasons.
“Thanks, y’all!” The singer seems in higher spirits than she started. “We’ll be playin’ again next week at the Lousy Farmer, and then we’ll be back here for…”
The hero tunes her out. He’s on his feet, watching the villain hastily pull cables from amps. The hero’s almost in front of the band when his nemesis cuts his losses and hops down the back of the stage, trailing wires from his guitar like confetti.
The hero positively startles. He has to go the long way, naturally—he skirts the stage, barrelling for the door leading to the bar’s back alley he knows the villain will be aiming for. The door clatters loudly off the brick wall outside, but the alley is empty. The city’s big; the moment the villain left the bar he could’ve gone anywhere.
The hero wears another scowl now as he turns back inside. Looks like he’s just found a new favourite band. Next week and the Lousy Farmer it is.
#creative writing#writblr#writers on tumblr#writing#writing community#heroes and villains#hero x villain#tw alchohol mention#guess who went to his first big boy concert#ashnikko my beloved........#told my boss and she was like nice who're you seeing!!!#and when i told her. she played ashnikko. to the entire office. and i wasnt there to stop her#now. if you know ashnikko. it is not professional music lets say
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Can i request some swerve Strickland smut? Maybe he’s being cocky after winning against hangman or something like that? 🤤❤️
Swerve when I ride
Swerve Strickland X fem reader 18+
Main Masterlist (Word Count: 1400)
Tonight would be the third time Swerve and Hangman would meet in the ring, the third time they would go to war and according to Swerve the third time he would beat the Cowboy. Now this fight would be different than the other times they had met, this time the AEW world championship was at stake. Swerve would be one step closer to capturing his first singles title in AEW. “How are you feeling about tonight?” I asked the man who was currently pacing around the room like a madman. “Scared cuz you won’t have Prince Nana or me ringside?” I asked him “No, no offence but I don’t need either of you to win” Swerve responded, almost offended by my words. “Okay, well I will be in the gorilla for the whole thing, I’ll be waiting to celebrate,” I told him before giving him a quick kiss before Swerve got ready to go out.
I watched the men go to war on the backstage monitor. The tension from this match could be felt throughout the arena. Every time you thought it was over you were sadly mistaken. Just then as Swerve went for the count the bell rang. “Ladies and Gentleman, the thirty-minute time limit has been reached, therefore this match results in a draw” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Justin Roberts just called for this match to be a draw. I could tell Swerve was mad, I mean I would be too. But it was smart for Hangman not to give into five more minutes, he made his point clear, “You can’t beat me without your goons” and with that, it was over.
Once Swerve returned from the ring I noticed his attitude switched like the flip of a dime. He was acting very cocky for a man who just had a draw with his arch-nemesis. “You see I told you I would beat that Cowboy’s ass” Swerve yelled once we entered the Moguel embassy locker room. “You technically didn’t win, It was a draw,” I told him. “Nah, you see I had him beat, I was seconds away from getting the three count, If I had just five more-” *Knock knock*
I opened the door and noticed none other than Brian Cage and the gates of agony standing at the door. “Can I help you?” I asked “We need to speak with the boss” “He’s busy” “It will only take a second” “Bye” and with that, I slammed the door in their faces. “Who was that?” Swerve asked. “No one,” I responded. “Anyways as I was saying, I had him beat! I did beat him, three times in a row I beat a former world champion, I guess that makes me championship material then” “You know I love you, and you know that I think you are championship material but you never beat Hangman, it was a draw” I told him as I slowly made my way back to Swerve, the two of us now stood chest to chest. “What is it that you are trying to prove here?” He asked curiously, not quite getting what I was trying to say. “I’m saying that as much as I love you, I don’t think you are as tough as you claim to be” “What?” “You heard me, I don’t think you can beat everyone like you say you can.” I could see the gears moving in Swerve's head, he was mad but not as mad as you would think. He was more intrigued by my comments. “So who do I need to beat in order to prove I’m the best?” “Me” “Excuse me” “I said me, I don’t think you could beat me in a fight. You walk around the place talking the talk but can you walk the walk-” “You know I can” “Then prove it”
Swerve knew my games, he knew the kinda fight I was looking for. Not one of violence but dominance, who could remain victorious in this battle of lust and love. I was all over Swerve, proving my dominance, I had him pinned underneath me as I placed rough kisses all over him. I thought I had won, I made the mistake of letting my guard down just the slightest amount which caused Swerve to counter. I was now face down on the ground as he hovered over me. “I think I won,” Swerve said, sounding overconfident that he won. I was able to sneak out from under him and ran to the other side of the room to make sure the door was locked. The two of us continued to play fight for a while before I was able to regain my dominance, pinning Swerve's hands above his head as he surrendered. “Alright you got me there,” he said laughing, I however was not laughing. “What?” “You know what,” I told him, “Are you sure you want to do this right here right now?” Swerve asked, the slightest of concern in his eyes. “Yes I’m sure”
I remained on top of Swerve trying to prove my point that he could not beat me. I continued to pin his shoulders underneath me. “1..2…3…. I won you lost” I told him “Ha ha very funny Y/n” Swerve said as he began to toy with the zipper of my jeans. I stopped his movements and he said “I thought you wanted this?” to which I responded “I do want this but first you have to admit that you can’t beat me. That I’m better than you” “You know I can’t do that” Swerve told me as I slowly started to grind on him, the two of us fully clothed. I knew I would make him say it but first I would need to mess with him a bit. I continued to grind on him painfully slow as I removed my top. Swerve tried to remove my bra but I was quick to swat his hand away. “Admit that I’m better than you” “Never” Fine he wanted to play games then I'll play games.
He needed to beg for it. I placed delicate kisses from his neck to his navel. I toyed with his belt before looking up at Swerve to give him one more chance. “Say it” “Never” I removed his dick from his pants and began to place delicate kisses and kitten licks from base to tip. I could tell this was annoying Swerve but all he had to do was say five simple words, he brought this onto himself. I took him in my mouth all at once and began to slowly bop my head up and down, sucking him off at an extremely slow pace. I increased my pace before going back to taking my sweet time with him. It didn't matter how Swerve tried to touch me or make me go faster it wouldn't work. Despite trying to draw out his orgasm I felt it approaching quicker than I expected. I let him get so very close before I stopped. “Why would you do that,” Swerve said breathlessly “I was so close” “Say it” “I-” “Say it, I know you can do it”
“You won, you’re better than me. Please, please Y/n. I need you. I need you so bad” “See, was that so hard?” I said playfully before I stripped us both. I aligned myself with him as I slowly began to sink down on Swerve. I gave myself a second to breathe before I began to ride him. As my pace increased I could feel Swerve thrusting into me, adding to the growing pleasure we were both feeling. I could feel he was close but I wouldn't dare let him cum before me. “Don’t even think about it” I told him through gritted teeth. “I don’t know if I can hold it baby” “You better hold it” I told him as I increased my pace. I felt Swerve move us in a way that led us to go deeper. I brought a hand down to my clit and started to trace circles around it which started to send me over the edge. “Cum for me baby” I told him as I felt his orgasm spill over, triggering my own. The two of us rode out our orgasms before I collapsed on his chest.
"Now was that so hard?"
#bullet clubs bitch#all elite wrestling#aew smut#aew#aew fanfiction#swerve when i drive#swerve strickland imagine#swerve strickland smut#swerve strickland x reader#swerve strickland#swerve x reader#swerve strickland fic#swerve strickland oneshot#swerve strickland aew#swerve strickland fanfic#mogul embassy
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Your One True Nemesis
Chapter 34: also on AO3
Masterlist Here
Arkham!Riddler x Female!Reader, word count: 1.8k
chapter 34 and we're getting a first date? well done me 💚
request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist
minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: oh it's more fluff!! oops!!
You’d grown used to sleeping in Eddie’s bed. It was impossible for him to get rid of you once he’d opened it up to you, not that he was trying to remove you from his personal space, something you found odd. What you couldn’t get used to, however, was how quickly he had gone from stoic and cold, displaying limited vulnerabilities to you, to whatever this was now. Even the idea of it made you smile, as you brushed your teeth, watching him plod into the bathroom and shifting down his underwear at the front to pee.
“Eddie! Really? This is how you advance to the next step in our weird relationship? Complete disregard for personal space and any boundaries based in decency?”
You were smiling, stifling a laugh. You wanted to be annoyed at him, but you were pathetically grateful for his sudden, and baffling, shift in what you considered to be the right direction, even if he was taking an awkward path to it.
“You sleep in my bed, and have seen me at my worst which I feel the need to remind you is still leagues above you at your best. But you can’t share the bathroom with me?”
“I’m… not even going to argue with you.”
“Wise.”
He punctuated his smug response with a flush of the toilet, shuffling past you back into the bedroom where he picked up yesterday’s clothes from their heap, and put them back on without changing his vest, his underwear, or his socks. He was an odd specimen. On paper, you mused, you would be repulsed. His lack of self-care, his self-satisfied arrogance, his resilience to any emotion until after the anguish you’d gone through together. And yet there you were, staring at him, with the disgustingly dreamy desire to press your face into his chest and inhale deeply, taking in the scent of his sweat on his unwashed clothes.
“Weird. In what way?”
Eddie’s words took you by surprise, pulling you from the daydream, the wishful thinking about breathing in his odd musk, and the way he phrased it only confused you further.
“What? What in… what way? Weird?”
“Hm, a simple question is still enough to baffle you to the point of incomprehension. Have you learned nothing from our time together?”
You stared, eyes closed over slightly, unimpressed expression as you waited for him to change his tone, which he did shortly after.
“You said our relationship was weird. First of all, it was rather bold of you to place the term ‘relationship’ in connection to us, but I concede to that…”
He conceded. And you were beyond giddy at that notion, but you kept the excitement under control while you listened to him finish.
“… but if that is what we have, and the dictionary definition might suggest you are correct, then in what way is it ‘weird’?”
“Well… maybe unconventional is a better term for it.”
Eddie raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth following in a small hint of a smile.
“Unconventional in what way?”
“I suppose I mean that we’ve not really followed the usual steps.”
“Like chaperoned courting?”
You smiled at his sarcasm, knowing it would only encourage him.
“No, but we haven’t even been on a date. We lived together first. And then we… we were… uh…”
“Intimate?”
“Intimate, yes. And now, we sort of share a room, and a bed, and a bathroom. But we’ve never had a date. Unconventional. Weird. But not bad.”
You had been following Eddie as you spoke, and now, as he sat down at the breakfast table, you joined him.
“Ah, my favourite part of the day. The first time I correct you. I would disagree with that statement, my dear. We have had a date together. We’ve eaten meals together a lot, actually.”
“Eddie. Eating together isn’t a date.”
“What makes it one then?”
“I suppose the intent?”
“Interesting…”
As he sipped his coffee, you could tell that the gears of his mind were turning over, adding this new information to the miniscule folder he kept in there titled ‘social conventions’.
“So, have I convinced you, Eddie? Hurts to be wrong, doesn’t it?”
“Well, my dear. What a smart little thing you have the potential to become. I will say, my one mistake is always that I slightly overestimate just how stupid you are. Yes, you have convinced me. And your reward?”
You sat silently, awaiting his next words, not willing to put yourself out there at the risk of embarrassment just yet.
“I would like to formally ask you on a date. The intent is there.”
As funny as you imagined it might be to say no, just briefly, to offer him a taste of his own medicine, you were already nodding and blushing.
“Of course, there will be stipulations. Naturally.”
“Naturally.”
You nodded your head in agreement, a hint of mischief that Eddie either didn’t notice, or chose to ignore before he continued.
“First of all, the location of this date will be here. I will not be caught in the awkward act of learning how to correctly socialise in public. Nor will I let things up to chance. I would like it to be here, where I have control.”
“Understandable. I mean, not much of a date, but I guess-”
“I’ll thank you to remain at least retain a modicum of optimism. I may surprise you yet.”
“Sorry, Eddie. I’m sure it’ll be… I’m sure it’ll be a date.”
He seemed disheartened by your tone, but you couldn’t bring yourself to lie to him outright. Of course you’d have a nice time, and you were sure he could surprise you, but after spending all of your time down in the sewers, you couldn’t imagine it would be an exciting change of pace for your slowly, very slowly, growing relationship. And it seemed you were proven correct at the end of the long working day, when Eddie left the work room and headed to his room without any further conversation or indication that he had even remembered his promise of a date. So back to your room you sulked, changing into cleaner clothes and picking up your book. Laying back on your bed, you took in a deep sigh and opened the pages, resigning yourself to an evening of solitary reading and quiet disappointment.
Your souring mood was interrupted though by a sudden knock on your door. Eddie must have remembered, and was now scrambling to apologise or make it up to you. And even that gesture alone made you smile. But when you opened the door, you were shocked into a stunned expression of disbelief, spluttering over the word ‘hello’. He hadn’t forgotten. He’d rushed to his room to get himself ready for your date. And there he stood. Hair combed back, shirt buttoned up, hands clean of grease and dirt, and fresh band aids on any cuts.
“Eddie!”
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
“Eddie…”
“No, it’s fine, you, uh… you look wonderful.”
He was trying. More than he seemed entirely comfortable with, as he bent his arm and offered it to you awkwardly, guiding you to the living area when you looped your own arm around his. But his mood shifted when you took in a deep breath at the sight that waited for you, encouraged by your surprise, pleasant and gleeful.
“Eddie! You made dinner?”
There were two bowls of a simple pasta dish on the table, and a candle hastily melted to the bottom of a drinking glass between them. He’d really gone to a lot of effort. All of his boisterous and smug claims about eating perfectly balanced and nutritious meals were a lie saved for Batman. Eddie didn’t cook. Eddie couldn’t cook. Eddie survived on coffee and microwavable garbage until you had arrived in his life. But he’d gone even further out of his comfort zone for you.
“Indeed I did. As usual, it was something I was inherently good at. No surprises there.”
He pulled your seat out and offered a cheeky bow as you sat down.
“My dear, your napkin.”
A hastily washed dish cloth was placed across your lap, and you giggled at the gesture, but you blushed all the same. In fact, you didn’t stop blushing the entire meal. Eddie was listening to you, asking you about your day and, visibly struggling, yes, but forcing himself not to interrupt you with information about himself. And while you talked, you ate, surprisingly enjoying his attempt at cooking, and feeling bound to lie and tell him it was the greatest thing you had ever tasted, even though both of you knew that was an exaggeration.
And when it was over, he offered you his arm as you stood up from the table and looped his around it tight, walking you to your room.
“Eddie… my room? Not yours?”
“I’m walking you to your door with no ulterior motives. I won’t even ask for a kiss goodnight, since this is our first date, after all.”
“Hm… and what are we doing for the second?”
“I thought, perhaps some dancing might be appropriate? Or a movie together?”
“That sounds delightful.”
He smiled as you opened your bedroom door and stepped inside, awkwardly. With a giggle you smiled back.
“Well, this is me! Give me a call sometime, I’d love to see you again.”
“I certainly will.”
There was a moment of strange silence as you wondered if you should really go inside, but Edward turned from you, signalling that the moment, that the date, was over, so you closed the door and backed further into your room. It worried you, that you might have cut him off from the comfort you both shared now, that he thought maybe he had to build back up to sleeping with you. It was difficult not to smile though, not to feel your heart warming at the sweet, first date you had just experienced. If giving up sleeping in the same bed as him might lead to more of them, then you could go without for a while. But there was another knock on your door just as you resigned yourself to this fate, and when you opened up, you were knocked back by Eddie stumbling into you, his arms running up and down your back as his lips met yours. And when he finally stopped for breath, he smiled, smirking more accurately.
“Well, are you coming to bed? The date is over, and I fully intend on returning to the routine I have become comfortable with.”
With a giggle that was more of a squeal, you picked up your pyjamas and followed him through to his bedroom, pleased that he was capable of becoming more to you, dedicated to it actually.
#finnie writes#arkham riddler#arkham edward nigma#riddler x reader#arkhamverse riddler#the riddler#arkhamverse#riddler#the riddler imagine#riddler smut#the riddler fanfic#riddler fanfic#riddler x you#edward nigma x reader#edward nigma#arkham!riddler#the riddler fanfiction#arkham!verse#finnie yotn
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If you still want funny nessian can you please do nesta hates her overly friendly neighbor cassian because no one can be that nice and one day her vibrator accidentally gets shipped to his address I can’t decide if it’s funnier if she freaks out trying to get the package back and makes him realize the package must be embarrassing or if he opens it thinking it’s his
I saw this prompt and I was immediately called to respond. I couldn't get it all finished in time, but happy day 7 of @nessianweek everyone <3 next part coming ???
Word Count: 1,835
Read on AO3 here!
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Nesta
When Nesta finally made it back home from her study session, she was more than ready to grab the package she’d been looking forward to for the last several days. She’d fallen down the rabbit hole on TikTok last week and had decided to order a new vibrator, and she was very much looking forward to messing around with it this weekend while her roommates were busy. Emerie would be spending her weekend at Cresseida’s place since her girlfriend didn’t have roommates, and Gwyn would be stuck at the campus library grading exams all weekend.
It was the perfect time, and Nesta planned on taking full advantage of it. Law school was stressful, okay? She deserved a nice, quick orgasm or two. Or three; who was she to limit herself when she’d have a basically empty place?
Once Nesta had gotten the notification that her package had been delivered, she’d been in a good mood for the rest of the day, and that good mood continued as she found street parking right outside her townhouse. She quickly grabbed her backpack and made her way toward her front door, more than ready to grab her package and get it inside as quickly as possible—
Only to see an empty stoop.
Nesta frowned and looked around, hoping that the little black box would magically appear. When her stoop remained empty as ever, she wondered if maybe one of her roommates had taken the package inside for her. Gwyn usually got out early from the class she was TAing for on Fridays, and as a business student, Emerie didn’t have class on Fridays. The odds were high that one or both of them were home already, so Nesta hoped one of them had grabbed her package.
“Hey,” Nesta greeted her roommates as she got inside, locking the door behind her before dumping her backpack to the ground. Gwyn was sorting through a mess of papers on one end of the couch while Emerie was folding her laundry on the other. “You two look cozy.”
“Someone’s got to be,” Gwyn replied with a smile. “How was your study group?”
“Boring,” Nesta answered. Eris had needled her into coming so he wouldn’t be by himself, and they’d spent most of it furtively rolling their eyes at one another instead of actually learning the Federal Rules of Evidence. “How was class?”
Gwyn shuddered. “All that undergrad anxiety is driving me crazy. I can’t wait until midterms are done.”
“I don’t know how you stand it,” Emerie chimed in as she folded a pair of leggings. “I’m going crazy just hearing about it.”
The three of them went back and forth for a while as they complained about the undergrads. Nesta hadn’t forgotten about her package, though, and she waited for a lull in the conversation before she asked about it.
“Random question, but did either of you see a package outside?” Nesta finally asked from where she’d settled onto the empty armchair.
“There wasn’t anything here when I got home,” Gwyn told her before turning to Emerie. “Maybe Em brought it in? She usually gets the mail.”
“I was running some errands earlier, but I didn’t see any packages when I got back,” Emerie answered. She got through the last of her laundry pile and folded the last shirt with a flourish. “There was a note from your nemesis, however.”
“He’s not my nemesis,” Nesta grumbled, momentarily distracted. She’d circle back to her missing package in a moment; she had a position to defend. “He’s just — ugh.”
Nesta’s so-called nemesis was just their extremely overeager neighbor, Cassian. He was always waving hello and doing nice things like bringing in their packages if they were outside for too long or mowing their shared strip of grass.
It also didn’t help that he was very easy on the eyes. He was tall, muscular, and had an eyebrow scar that only made him even cuter. For whatever reason, the grouchier she got, the nicer he became, and she couldn’t tell if he was fucking with her or if he was genuinely that good of a person.
“He’s just so nice,” Gwyn said, pitching her voice to mimic Nesta’s. “Something’s got to be wrong with him.”
“Like you can talk,” Nesta fired back without missing a beat. Gwyn’s face went as red as her hair as she realized where Nesta was going with this. “All that drooling you do over his roommate? Throwing stones from glass houses isn’t a good look for you.”
Cassian shared the townhouse next door with Azriel, his much broodier but just as gorgeous roommate. He was much quieter than Cassian, but he was always polite whenever Nesta ran into him. That hadn’t deterred Gwyn in the slightest from launching a one-woman campaign to befriend him, though Nesta and Emerie knew it wasn’t exactly friendship she was after.
“She’s got you there, Gwyn,” Emerie replied with a chuckle. “Maybe when both of you get your heads out of your asses, I can live in peace.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Nesta responded, rolling her eyes. She wanted to circle back to her package, though, and she really hoped Cassian hadn’t done the neighborly thing even more than she usually did. “What did the note say?”
“Cresseida called me and I got distracted,” Emerie admitted sheepishly. Nesta couldn’t blame her, though; Cresseida was a knockout, and the two of them were clearly head over heels for each other. If Nesta had a girlfriend like that, she’d get distracted, too. “It’s on the table with the rest of the mail, though.”
Nesta sprung out of her seat and raced to their small dining room to look for the note. There were a few letters on the table where they normally left their mail, and she quickly pushed them aside to find the giant pink post-it Cassian had used to write his note.
Hey Nes, Cassian had written in neater handwriting than Nesta had been expecting. It didn’t stop her from scowling at his use of what he’d deemed her nickname, though. She’d told him many times that her name was Nesta, two syllables, but that hadn’t stopped him yet. Sighing, she mentally set it aside and continued reading the rest of his note.
Your package got delivered to my house, so I’m holding onto it until you get home. Feel free to come knock anytime and I’ll hand it over!
Your favorite neighbor,
Cassian
God fucking dammit. Nesta couldn’t decide whether she was thankful her package hadn’t been stolen or furious that of all people, it had to be him.
“Just my luck,” Nesta muttered.
“Does he have your package?” Emerie called from the couch.
“Yep,” Nesta called back through gritted teeth. She walked back to the living room with a grimace on her face. “He sure does.”
“Uh oh,” Gwyn replied, teasing. “You’re going to have to actually be nice to him.”
“You don’t understand,” Nesta told her. She was trying her best not to short-circuit, but it was a more difficult task than she’d been prepared for. “I — he — of all the packages he could’ve gotten by accident—”
“Oh my God,” Gwyn said, laughing at how red Nesta’s face was. “Did you order something embarrassing?”
“It’s not embarrassing,” Nesta tried to say back over the sound of Gwyn’s cackles. “It’s just private!”
“How bad could it be?” Emerie responded, attempting to behave like a reasonable adult. “I mean, it’s not like whatever you ordered says what it is on the outside, right?”
“Just tell us,” Gwyn encouraged. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.”
“I got a new vibrator,” Nesta managed to get out. Gwyn let out a loud giggle that she quickly stifled once Emerie gave her a stern look. “And I have no clue what the packaging looks like other than it allegedly being… discreet.”
“Oh, this is too good,” Gwyn replied, practically wiping tears out of her eyes from how hard she’d been laughing. “Sorry, sorry, I’m done. It’s not like he’s gonna open it or anything, right?”
“Right,” Nesta tentatively agreed.
“So you just have to go over there and ask for it back like a normal person,” Gwyn continued. “Just don’t freak out. It’ll be fine!”
“Just don’t freak out,” Nesta repeated dryly. “If only I’d thought of that one before.”
Gwyn rolled her eyes. “You know what I meant, Nesta.”
“Some therapist you’ll be,” Nesta teased. Still, she knew what her friend meant, and she tried to take some deep breaths even though the idea of Cassian having her package made her want to run and hide and never make eye contact with him again. “Should I just… go over there and ask for it back?”
“That is what the note said,” Emerie said. “Do you want us to come with you?”
Nesta knew her friends were trying to help, but she didn’t need any more witnesses to what was bound to be an excruciatingly embarrassing conversation. “No. It’s fine.”
“Okay,” Emerie answered, shrugging. She neatly stacked her folded laundry and managed to balance it all between her hands as she stood. “I have to finish packing for Cresseida’s, so… good luck.”
“I should probably finish getting through all this,” Gwyn said, motioning to the mountain of paper surrounding her on the couch with a heavy sigh. “But I’ve got your back! From right here.”
“You spend way too much time on TikTok,” Nesta grumbled even though she wanted to laugh.
Gwyn just grinned up at her. “Pot? Kettle?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Nesta replied. She sighed and tried to steel herself, knowing she should just march over there now and get her package back before she lost all her nerve. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Good luck, Nesta,” Emerie said as she started walking upstairs where the bedrooms were. “You can do this.”
“And if not,” Gwyn added with a laugh, “you can always just order another vibrator!”
Nesta flipped Gwyn off before sliding back into her shoes and heading outside. Her friends were supportive in their own way, and she had to admit that Gwyn’s good-natured teasing had helped take the edge off.
Now that Nesta was actually walking next door, though, things were getting a little real. She had no reason to think Cassian would’ve opened her package once he’d seen her name on it, but that didn’t stop her brain from running through several worst case scenarios. What if Cassian had opened her package? What if he hadn’t seen her name on it before he’d opened it and now he knew what was in there? Worse, what if he made fun of her for it?
Logically, Nesta knew Cassian was a normal guy who probably wouldn’t do any of those things, but it didn’t stop her brain from spiraling. But still — what if?
As she raised her hand to ring the doorbell, her heart beating like a drum in her chest, she supposed there was only one way to find out.
tag list: @perseusannabeth | @bookstantrash | @charming-butt-insane | @oversizedbats | @melphss | @sv0430 | @podemechamardek | @autumnbabylon | @live-the-fangirl-life | @julemmaes | @that-little-red-head | @jmoonjones | @sayosdreams | @thewayshedreamed | @hiimheresworld | @brieq | @pearlfortears | @swankii-art-teacher | @nerdperson524 | @snickerdoodlechittybangbang | @imsointobooks | @nesquik-arccheron | @sweet-pea1 | @champanheandluxxury | @dustjacketmusings | @mrs-shadowsinger04 | @unlikelypersonalknight1 | @goddess-aelin | @arinbelle | @talkfantasytome | @simpingfornestaarcheron | @duskandstarlight | @letstakethedawn | @vidalinav | @c-e-d-dreamer | @dealfea | @katekatpattywack | @burningsnowleopard | @thatsowlmazing | @avidromancereader | @a-little-disguised
#nessianweek2023#nessian#nesta archeron#cassian acotar#acotar#acomaf#acowar#acofas#acosf#moodymelanistwrites#nessian prompts#anon asks#pro nessian#pro cassian#pro cassian acotar#pro nesta archeron
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Been wanting to do this poll for a while. It took me a while to figure out which options I wanted to include and how, as I was limited to 12 options max. I did the best I could to include and differentiate between as many of her canon ships and Elseworld ships, as well as her more popular and/or fairly recent fanon ships as possible. I know I didn't get everyone. I'm sorry if I missed someone you felt should've been a gimme.
Since the true number of possibilities far exceeded the number I was able to include on a poll, some "Other" options were necessary to include. Given issues with "Other" options on past surveys, please comment, tag or message me who your “Other” vote was cast for, so I can get a more accurate assessment of the results.
And yeah, a little bit of personal bias influenced how I phrased the last two options. They felt necessary to include but it’s still my survey and if they had to be included, I’m gonna word it how I want lol.
#polls#Wonder Woman#Diana prince#ditemis#diana x Audrey#dianerva#Wondercheetah#Diana x Kara#Diana x Zala#wondercroft#Wondermera#wonderhawk#Diana x Kate#Wondermagic#wonderivy#wonderquinn#wonderlois#wondertrev#WonderBat#superwonderbat#Steve Trevor#artemis of bana mighdall#supergirl#Lara Croft#Mera#barbara minerva#cheetah#Hawkgirl#Batman#Superman
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Okokok this one may be a little specific sorry about that. I decided to pull an all nighter do yk.
Anyways, i had this scenario in my mind that I'd love to see in your style. Basically, hero is just very sick because of some injury getting an infection or something and villain took notice of that and brings them in to help them. They find it weird that hero keeps clinging to them and chalks it up the the delirium. Then hero starts making small comments Abt how soft villain's touch is, and how long it's been since they've been comforted, and it's just villain slowly realizing that hero is very touchstarved for affection and attention bc they don't have any family back at home or something
Don't hafta write this, and if you wanna change up things that's aye-okay! No pressure
Alright genius, I’ll do my best 🫡
Pinning the Blame
Not normally did Villain call in for extra days off, usually they only took a week a year and left it at that. They’d show up to fights no matter what was going on if they were out of vacation to spare. Which is why it made sense that they had to convince the Supervillain with a breezy lie that the situation was life or death.
Yet the situation wasn’t life or death at all. It was Hero.
Villains fingers on their left hand tapped rapidly against the leather sofa, it wasn’t very comfortable—made for show not sitting—and squeaked every time you moved, but their guest didn’t seem to mind. Hero was thoroughly lapping up the comfort, soaking in the care they were receiving through the bundle of blankets Villain had wrapped them in.
One of their hands were free and they easily managed to snatch Villain’s and interlock their fingers. Keeping the criminal close, Hero feared they might lose everything to a feverish dream if they let go; they couldn’t risk that.
“Any better than yesterday?” The villain’s leg was bouncing now, abnormally fast for what anyone could consider calm. “How you’re feeling, I meant…”
Gods, they sounded so stupid. They tried so hard to sound unfazed, but with the hero’s increasing touchiness and neediness, they were beginning to worry. It was melting their frozen heart and they were getting softer by the minute.
Hero hummed, eyes fluttering shut every few seconds as they attempted to keep their focus on the television screen. The movie wasn’t interesting, Villain had mainly put it on as a distraction for themselves, but when Hero insisted on holding hands… Their plan hadn’t worked any longer.
Every second the hero’s thumb was rubbing the back of Villain’s hand, every minute they were moving closer to the criminal’s lap and every moment they made eye contact they blushed on the spot. At first it was suspicious, now it was intriguing.
Villain wanted to push the limits, see just how much the hero wanted, how much they would take from their own nemesis. How much comfort they would find in their enemy. And most of all, how much the villain could get for themselves.
It wasn’t a secret that these jobs were lonely, in fact it got so bad that the villain had honestly been craving their fights, just to feel their touch. Maybe Hero felt the same way, maybe they could comfort each other and maybe—
“What’re you thinkin’ about?” The crime-stopper slurred, sleep mixing into their words and cheeky grin. They clawed themselves even closer to the villain, to the point where they were draped over their lap and looking up at them with exhausted bags under their eyes.
It was too late to try and contain all of the emotions pounding through their heart and thoughts running through their head. Villain knew every last one was scrawled onto their face and the hero was much too gifted when it came to reading others.
In spite of that, they lied anyways.
“Nothing, don’t worry about it.” If the hero hadn’t known something was up prior, they definitely did when the villain’s voice cracked sombrely as they spoke.
They raised their tired questioning look, one Villain had seen before during countless interrogations and interviews, but never before at this angle. Then they released Villains hand and pressed their palm to the villain’s heart. It beat mercilessly against the hero’s freezing skin, only racing faster now that they knew they had been caught.
“Don’t lie t’me, sweet.”
Not the nickname, anything but the nickname. Villain could handle threats and violence and beatings, but soft nicknames were damned to be the death of them.
They gulped, trying hard to avoid eye contact and ignore the hero’s lingering touch. “…You’re touchy… Ever since you got sick you’ve just been very… clingy?” Was that the right word?
At the mention of their behaviour Hero shot up, startling the villain. They looked ashamed, but the soft pink colouring their cheeks said embarrassed.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. If it’s making you uncomfortable I can stop, I didn’t mean any harm, I didn’t even notice really. I’m so sorry, I’ll stop—”
“Don’t.” Hero paused, somewhat shocked at the villain’s interruption. “Don’t stop. Please. Just tell me why.”
Hero was blushing even harder now, caught in the eyes of the villain and too drained from their illness to come up with a believable lie. They despised how easily Villain could flip the cards on them and they’d end up floundering for an answer.
Time passed faster than the crime-stopper willed it to, they needed time for a cover story, but their resources were limited and their brain was too fried to think. So they spun the blame on the most obvious thing, “my fever. It must make me delirious or something, I’m sorry.”
They didn’t blame the villain for not believing them, they could hardly even stand behind their own lie, but it was the best they could do in the spur of the moment. They weren’t that sick, sure they were delirious and sweaty for the first few days, but now it was a case of the chills and exhaustion at worst.
Both of them knew that.
However, Villain didn’t look distrustful at all after being told a boldfaced lie. They didn’t look betrayed or hurt, they looked sad. Not overshadowed by any other emotion, they simply looked sad.
“Oh alright.”
Had the villain been hoping for a different answer? Was telling the truth actually what they needed to hear right now? If Hero told them that the real reason was because they hadn’t been cared for or comforted like this in years, would the villain be happy?
All of these questions ran through their mind as they stared at their nemesis, Villain’s eyes had returned to the movie, but they were numb and suddenly the hero felt guilty for even trying to lie in the first place.
Hero cleared their throat, trying and failing to get the villain’s attention back. “But, I… I guess I don’t get this luxury a lot, so maybe that plays a part too…”
“How so?” Villains eyes flicked to the hero’s for a split second, something hopeful in them that pressed for more.
“I just don’t have anyone,” Hero was partially glad now that the villain’s attention wasn’t on them. “I don’t— It just gets lonely, sometimes. I don’t know, I’m sorry.”
Idly Hero twirled their thumbs against each other, trying to distract from the stinging in their heart and eyes. They had been taught that any crying was a weakness, but in front of their greatest enemy? That was worse.
Villains arms caved in and their warmth overwhelmed the shivering hero, they pulled them tight to their chest in what must’ve been the first real hug the hero had had in years. That was enough to open the flood gates and push Hero into spilling tears all over the villain’s shirt. They clung to the other as tightly as possible, relishing in the comfort of the moment and Villain didn’t let go.
“Don’t apologize, I know. Stay and we can take care of each other, promise.” A soothing hand rubbed circles into Hero’s back at the kind words, instituting a horrible peaceful moment through all the chaos in their head and for the first time in their entire life, Hero was safe.
#SORRY THIS ASK IS SO OLD#I JUST NEVER GOT AROUND#PLS ENJOY#writing#hero#villain#hero x villain#villain x hero#heroes#villains#hero and villain#villain and hero#drabbles#fantasy#fluff#hurt comfort#hurt/comfort#h/c#heroes and villains#villains and heroes#heroes x villains#villains x heroes#touchstarved#touch starved hero#touchy hero#touch starved villain#touch starved
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To Palamedes Sextus, Scholar of the Library
I won't deny being surprised to receive your letter. It was very kind of you to send me the essay you wrote on the unique type of blood cancer that is prevalent on Rhodes. Since you're interested in the curative sciences, I've included with my reply a selection of texts on the matter that you may not have come across in your studies. I had not seen the text you referenced on the particular dangers of recycled air to those with chronic lung conditions. I personally have not developed that particular symptom since my diagnosis, but I will be certain to keep your notes in mind if it becomes a concern.
Rhodes is a beautiful city, and I personally find the incredibly views from the city itself to be quite worth the inconveniences afforded by living in the orbital installation rather than on the surface itself. If you would like I can send along some lithographs both from Rhodes and from the planet below. Another advantage of the city is that it makes it easy for me to get around on my own despite my limited stamina. Floors are level, there's a robust shuttle service, and there's no need for stairs, my absolute NEMESIS from what time I've spent visiting the planet.
All that being said, it does seem a shame that you don't have access to surface to visit on the Sixth. If you're afforded an opportunity to visit the us here on the Seventh, or one of the terraformed moons of the Third or Fifth houses, I would certainly recommend the trip. There is something unique about the experience that I do not fully know how to put into words. Fully natural gravity takes more than a little getting used to, but the motion sickness wears off after just a few hours in my experience.
I've never had a regular pen pal before, and I think it would be a lot of fun to continue writing if you don't think my reply is too dry for your taste. I look forward to hearing from you again dear, so please write again soon.
From Dulcinea Septimus, Countess of Rhodes.
#dulcie's letters#the locked tomb#dulcinea septimus#palamedes sextus#tlt meta#headcanons of the seventh
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untitled lil fic #1 (jason todd and gotham war)
here's some gotham war rewrites i needed to get out of my head, the brainrot was killing me omg
warnings for violence, cursing, whatever the hell Bruce is doing (just Bruce as a full warning tag, the man is more unhinged than Joker in this)
---
“Oh Jason. How I’ve missed you, my sweet boy.”
The words are sickeningly sweet, poison-saturated words falling from bloody red lips. Delivered with a crooked smile, Joker looks up at him, uncaring at his position. His fingers curl in the clown’s suit collar, lips curling with a snarl.
Jason punches him again, the clown’s jaw cracking and his body straining against the ferry railing. Joker merely giggles, head lolling around through the air before his mismatched eyes meet his mask.
“Shut the fuck up!” He snaps, unholstering his gun and digging the muzzle into Joker’s cheek.
His murderer raises his hands, waggling his fingers in surrender, grinning and smirking and smiling.
He hates it, he hates it, he hates it.
“I want you to think about this real carefully,” He digs his gun into his skin. “This could be the last joke you ever make, you understand? That’s what you want to go with?”
“You know,” His nightmare giggles, chuckles like a wind-up toy before he wipes the amusement off his face. The clown looks up at him, head tilted, pleased and patient and thoughtful. There’s not a single sliver of hate and destructive menace, or anger or disappointment or suspicion.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, he thinks. There’s something wrong here. There’s something wrong with Joker—and not in the usual way.
“The best jokes deliver a difficult truth, but hide it with a fun fiction,” Joker explains, smushed but coherent words strung together despite the gun halfway in his mouth. “Without humor all we have left is being mean and lying.”
“What?” He can’t stop the words before they stumble out of his mouth. He doesn’t let the gun go lax in his hand despite the way the clown’s words throw him off guard.
Off-kilter is a genuine feeling that digs into him, shocking him to the core. The clown does this, he knows it. He knows this is how he does things, how he worms his way out of every situation and every attempted manslaughter, he knows how the clown operates, intimately.
Jason knows him.
Joker, historically, has been so many things. But he’s always been a psychotic, impulsive mass-murderer. Someone without restraint, without limitation.
It’s why he’s always been Batman’s true nemesis. Bruce, he needs a fine-tuned control of everything and everyone. He is someone who has limits and restraint.
Controlled, focused, and without limitations—Jason is almost the happy medium to both of them.
Almost.
The three of them are similar, different, opposites and identical. It’s like walking in one of those mirror mazes where you can’t tell who the real you is.
Who is the real Bruce Wayne? The man who cherishes his children or the one who maims them?
Who is the real Joker? The cold, purposeful mass murderer or the dumped-in-acid man who can’t tell the difference?
Who is the real Jason Todd? The bloody crime lord or the declawed crowbar wielding vigilante?
Joker simply smiles and pats his arm, as if Jason’s not trying to kill him.
He slams the clown against the railing again, snarling.
“Enough games!” He growls and flips the safety off. The noise doesn’t even phase Joker, if anything he grins harder. His mismatched eyes—one red-brown, one green—flick above them before returning to his.
“Are you really going to use that big bad gun of yours with Daddy watching? He’ll be so mad at you.” His murderer grins, letting his head hang limply in his grasp.
“What? Batman-!” He jerks back, head snapping up to the ferry roof cover.
Empty. No looming monster demanding a painful compromise is here.
Joker’s hands push him back, and he grunts, stumbling into the ferry wall. The clown tumbles over the railing, disappearing from view. His laughter haunting the air.
“No!” He shouts, dashing to the railing.
The clown is gone under the waves and ice, sinking into the dark of Gotham Harbor.
He’s not dead. He can’t be dead, Jason thinks, gripping the ice-cold railing, I haven’t killed him yet.
He’s not dead.
But that was mean.
--
The last words Jason hears remind him of his grave.
No, not the one he was buried in. Six feet of dirt above him and smothered in satin, watched over by that stupid weeping angel.
There’s a memorial in the cave with his name. ‘Good soldier’ and nothing else but his name. Both of them: Jason Todd and Robin.
A monument to Bruce’s failure, his greatest mistake, a grave to his complicated teenage years, his love.
“You’ve always been a good soldier. Rest now.” Bruce told him, jabbing him in the neck with the needle.
A grave, a memorial, a monument. It makes him sick. The reminder that he will always be the dead Robin, the sad Robin, the angry Robin.
Dead, dead, dead.
The violence done to him, inflicted and imprinted into his skin and bones was more important. The guilt and the lesson were more important than his cries for justice, for his life’s blood.
The monument and altar, raised after his murder, were never for him, but for Bruce.
He was dead, why would he care?
The story Bruce will tell would never be the truth, just excuses and wrong-doings. He would take accountability after the fact, but not before.
Bruce would let his murderer walk and let him rot.
Maybe that was why he buried Jason six feet under, so he wouldn’t have to face the decay and decomposition. That he could keep this golden, blurry image of him as Robin, as the straight A student, the good son. And not a weightless body splinted a thousand different ways to look human.
But now that he’s resurrected—not in Bruce’s image, but as something broken and jagged, something lost and filled with dirt and green-green-green—Bruce refuses to acknowledge him. Refuses to believe this is who he is.
Refuses to believe that he remade (destroyed) himself from the ruins, from the broken bones and empty veins and black thread that mended his corpse back into the image of Jason Todd. Refuse to think that if a girl can come back as a soothsayer, that a boy can come back as a gun.
“Hnnng…Bruce,” Jason groans softly, heaving himself off the couch.
Batman turns to him, looming with his face mask in his hands. The fluorescent lights, a nauseous lime-yellow, cut over his figure, his face, his mask. Almost a green-green-green, almost a pool of rage, almost a pit of madness.
His mask crackles alive in Bruce’s hands, Selina’s voice wavering between annoyance and worry.
“Red Hood? Hood, please check in and let me kno-” Batman clicks his comm off.
The resounding silence smothers him.
His exhale comes out shaky, his heart beating too fast behind his bruised ribs, a chill crawling over his exposed skin.
Something’s wrong. Something is very wrong.
“...Batman? You…” He swallows roughly, mouth filled with dirt and blood and thread. “Wha…What did you do?”
“Nothing I’m proud of, Jason.”
His heart sinks and skips a beat at the same time, stomach twisting with anxiety and fingers trembling against the ugly brown couch cushions.
Inhale.
He pushed too much.
Taking Selina’s side?
He went too far.
Hood didn’t kill anyone?
Exhale.
“Hh! Ho…” Jason croaks, getting his boots on the ground. “Y-you…you..”
“Take deep breaths, Jason.” Batman turns back to the computer hub glowing behind him, ignoring his attempts to speak, to demand answers.
His arms shake as he holds himself upright, but when he tries to stand instead he chokes, falling to his knees in front of the couch. Gasping for air, he lays his palms flat against the cool tiles. His legs are quivering, heavy and unable to hold his weight.
His whole body trembles with it, this feeling unfolding through his blood and bones, engulfing his head and voice.
Fear, fear, fear.
“Years ago I created my backup personality, Zur, using techniques I learned from an old mentor and this machine that I built,” Batman starts, monitoring the screens in front of him with one hand on the keyboard and the other on his belt.
Bruce doesn’t turn to look at him, to face him, someone he calls son, someone he considers family, and explain what he’s done to Jason.
He never has.
“I can’t change your personality with it, Jason…” Batman sighs, low and quiet. “But I can add to it. A small thing: your failsafe.”
Failsafe. He slams the heel of his palm on the floor, cheeks tingling with his telltale sign of tears. A failsafe?!
Because Red Hood needs a failsafe instead of justice.
“What?!” He tries to snarl, to hiss and yell and scream his rage. But his voice fails him, anxiety chewing at his throat and tongue, voice tilting too high, too unsteady, too weak.
“Now when you have heightened adrenaline, when you’re about to do something dangerous, your fear kicks in,” Batman continues explaining. “It…I’m sorry Jason. But it’s the only way.”
He clenches his eyes shut—inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale—and tries to ignore his rabbit heart battering against its cage, pounding to the frantic rhythm of fear, fear, fear.
“I love you.”
The words feel like gunshots, the knuckle prints on his skin after the two of them fought over Penguin, the smack of Selina’s whip against his fingers, the crowbar on his skull, his legs, his ribs, over and over and over.
“I love you, but you are a murderer,” Bruce condemns him, over and over again. “You’re a bull in a china shop and I go round after round with you, trying to figure out how to help make you a better man, to heal you.”
“H-heal me?” He whispers, rage cut off at the roots. “This isn’t…this isn’t you, Bruce.”
Batman, finally, turns to Jason. He looms, tall and foreboding, darkness dripping around him, drenching him in fear, fear, fear.
Batman takes a step forward and he crashes back against the couch, spine digging into the wooden frame painfully.
He can’t breathe. Batman moves and he knows it in his bones, knows it down to the scars Gotham and its guardian have left on him, that he’s not here to save him, to help him.
“I got you a new identity. A place in Metropolis.” Batman keeps walking forward, despite Jason’s growing hyperventilation, despite the way his blunted nails scratch at the floor. Despite the way he shakes, black stitches snapping apart, the pieces of him falling to the floor of this slaughterhouse, at the feet of his butcher.
“B-bat…Batman,” He whimpers, hand twisting into the fabric of his suit.
“You can live a normal life. Fall in love, do meaningful work. This isn’t punishment, Jason,” Batman kneels in front of him and removes the cowl. “I love you.”
Jason shrinks back, shoulders back and legs curled to his chest. Bruce’s face is sharp and pale, with bags under his eyes and days old stubble on his jaw.
His eyes are dark with absolute rage.
Batman is going to hurt him. Batman is going to hurt him.
Bruce is going to hurt him again.
“This is a gift. Any way you look at it, you should be in prison for all the people you’ve killed,” He chokes at Bruce’s words, barely smothering the terrified cry in his throat. “This is me saving you from that. Save you from yourself.”
Jason can only stare at the man before him—the man who took him in, who raised and trained him, who loved him—does his best to bury him.
fear, fear, fear.
--
“Please..don’t…please,” Jason pleads, covering the girl with his frame, caging her in with his bruised and burnt arms.
“Let’s begin.” Scarecrow’s voice reverberates, it shakes through air to match his erratic breathing.
“P-please, I’ll do anything you want, anything,” He begs, fear, fear, fear burning in his veins. “Please. Just stay…stay away.”
Scarecrow closes the gap between them, rocking back and forth on his crooked, long legs. His mask distorts and mutates, a familiar green-green-green splashing over the darkened void of his gas mask.
“You’re going to die tonight. I know you know this,” Crane looms over him, green-green-green trickling out his eyes, gushing out like an open wound. “But we can still have fun, can’t we.”
The girl trembles underneath his chest and Jason tries to smother the whimper begging to pour out his lips. It’s gnawing at him—rabbit heart frantic in his chest, hands trembling from the burning pain and anxiety, smoke and ash gathering in his lungs—fear, fear, fear.
He can’t think of anything else.
“Those fools were right. Your terror…it’s real and it isn’t mine,” Scarecrow sneers, kneeling in front of him. “There is no thrill in driving terror into the heart of a baby bird.”
Scarecrow takes his jaw in his hand, needles tickling at his exposed skin, forcing Jason to look at him. He can’t help but jerk his head at Crane’s touch, needles pricking into his cheek when Crane holds him tighter, another inescapable cage around him.
His chest heaves with every shaky inhale-exhale, his anxious fear fanning over the rogue’s mask. Scarecrow leans in closer, the glass over his eyes gleaming, reflecting the fire roaring around them. Jason can hear the screams in them, watching the shadows morph around them and the straw on Crane’s shoulders wiggle.
“This is my moment of triumph, and it is snatched away from me by..by him?!” Scarecrow shakes Jason’s head in his hand, needles scratching into his skin but still not drawing blood.
Scarecrow lets his head drop, needles disappearing from his sight before they’re clawing at his throat, wet and cold against his clammy skin. Jason whimpers and clenches his eyes shut, unable to do anything but beg.
He knows praying for someone to help him is futile.
No one is coming to save him.
“Never let it be said Scarecrow has no pity,” Crane says, voice cutting in and out his head like radio static. “I will quickly finish what your daddy started.”
“Doesn’t mommy get a say?”
A voice slices through the flames licking at his skin and the fear smothering him. And when Jason’s gaze finds him, he can’t help the tears.
“Step away from the vigilante, pervert.” Joker grins, dark red lips stretched too wide, too thin. Ash rains down on his green-green-green umbrella, rolling down the crooked dark patches and shamrock-colored nylon.
“You’ve already killed him once. It’s time you learned to share, Clown.” Scarecrows speaks with thin, razor-sharp disdain, glaring over his shoulder at the newcomer.
“You should know this by now, Doc. I don’t play well with others.” The clown throws aside the umbrella, knife materializing from thin air as he descends upon Scarecrow.
“You’re not even really him, are you? Do you think I don’t know about you? Delusions and megalomania with-” Scarecrow baits and taunts the clown, before the two of them are ducking and weaving and slicing at each other with barely concealed rage and annoyance.
“Blah, blah, blah. Do you know why you’re always going to be a C-List villain, Johnny?” Joker jokes and Jason can imagine the sharp grin on his face. “Because doctors aren’t scary. They’re annoying.”
He ducks his head down and curls tighter around the girl. She cries underneath him, hiccups soft under the roar of flames closing in on them, the screech of metal on metal and creaking of deteriorating wood.
He can’t move. He can’t do anything but try to breathe. But all he tastes is smoke, choking him, billowing down his throat and in his lungs. His heartbeat is so loud, jumping under its bone-cage, a heady, heavy thing—badump-badump-badump-badump. It’s too fast, erratic, out of control.
“You’re a bull in a china shop and I go round after round with you, trying to figure out how to help make you a better man, to heal you-”
Always out of control. Jason whines, hands scrambling against the wood below him. It burns, seering through his fingertips. It hurts-it hurts-it hurts, he can’t do this. He can’t.
He can’t breathe.
“Ahhhh! Ack! Achhhhh!” Scarecrow screams, guttural and wobbly and when he looks up, Jason can only watch as Crane crashes through the fifth story window.
Tears continue to stream down his face, his heart trembling in his chest and the realization strikes him then, cracking down on his skull like a crowbar, over and over and over.
Joker saved him. Joker saved him. Joker saved him.
His murderer saved him.
“A-are you real?!” Jason cries out, fingers curling into the withering floorboards. “Is this real?!”
“Oh, don’t worry about him. I didn’t even give him a real dose of Joker Gas. I ran out. Heh!” Joker laughs, rubbing at his jaw. Blood and green-green-green stain the edges of his mouth, smeared down his chin and throat before disappearing under the orange sweatshirt he’s wearing.
“But now, it’s just you and me. And…your daughter? Did you have a daughter and not tell me?” The clown tilts his head in question, tucking away the green-green-green gun in his hand. He steps closer, uncaring of the flames licking over his pale skin.
Jason can’t tell if it's real or an illusion, can’t tell if his murderer is here and saving? rescuing? tricking? him. He can’t tell if this is just another nightmare he’s trapped himself in, or if this is the real punishment Bruce promised him.
“She’s just a kid. Please…don’t,” He pleads, the tears searing down his ash-stained cheeks.
Joker leans down, bringing his face close to Jason’s. His mismatched eyes—one green, one red-brown—bore into his and the clown smiles, too wide, too cracked and broken, too bloody and green-green-green.
He sobs, cracking under everything. He can’t do this, he can’t.
“My, my. Even like this you still think you’re the hero. Batman would be proud if he didn’t hate you,” His murderer says, before his bony hand is cupping Jason’s face, calloused fingers dancing over his skin.
Jason clenches his jaw when it threatens to wobble and tremble, but knows the fear is shining in his eyes. Knows the clown can see it, knows he recognizes it in his baby-blues. He’s been here before.
They’ve been here before, together.
“But don’t worry my sweet boy, I’ll find a way to fix you. Nobody is going to hurt you. I won’t let them. Because I need you.” His voice is honeyed and threatening, curling and clawing and cloying into his head like a sickness. Joker pets his hair, gentle and caring, and Jason knows he means it.
He’s going to fix him. He’s going to heal him.
He’s going to save Jason.
“Don’t worry, sweet boy. We’ll see each other soon,” Joker pats his cheek with a crooked green-green-green smile. “I promise.”
His heart beats frantic to the words—fear, fear, fear—eyes unable to look away from Joker.
Jason believes him.
#unholy screeching and too much caffeine#my writing#the brainrot was literally killing me i wish i was joking#havent been able to FOCUS on anything else#i just cant get over divorced batjokes playing tug-of-war with their murderous and highly traumatized kid (jason)#im not entirely sure if i like this? it feels very rough draft to me#but i really just needed to get it down and out of my head so i can focus on my other wips T-T#would also love to hear anyone's thoughts if they have any<3#might have missed some grammar stuff and yadda yadda but im kind of tired of looking at this:))))#i do think i want to add to it thou--maybe a scene with selina another with the batkids#ill probably come back to this after the final issue for the actual event (which comes out next week!) and joker's comic#i just really wanted to write how jason was dealing with all this; how he might take the fact that joker is saving his ass rather than bruc#but im not sure if it came across the way i wanted it to??#jason todd#jason todd and bruce wayne#jason todd and joker#writing
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