#I never understood this panel

[gojonanami]

Jfc I just saw this panel on twt and it just sunk in to me what it means

that’s riko’s blood. dried and stained into the floor. and likely suguru’s too.

fuck

[ryanthel0ser]

So fellow eldest siblings who feel responsible over their younger ones how we feeling seeing Teru experience our worst nightmare?

Reaaally wish I could go hug my siblings right now

[jacksintention]

Automaton angel

[riddeler]

the fact that dc Very rarely ever brings up eddie's childhood/past is so annoying for me but also that means it's free real estate

[tofixtheshadows]

I've been thinking a lot lately about how Kabru deprives himself.

Kabru as a character is intertwined with the idea that sometimes we have to sacrifice the needs of the few for the good of the many. He ultimately subverts this first by sabotaging the Canaries and then by letting Laios go, but in practice he's already been living a life of self-sacrifice.

Saving people, and learning the secrets of the dungeons to seal them, are what's important. Not his own comforts. Not his own desires. He forces them down until he doesn't know they're there, until one of them has to come spilling out during the confession in chapter 76.

Specifically, I think it's very significant, in a story about food and all that it entails, that Kabru is rarely shown eating. He's the deuteragonist of Dungeon Meshi, the cooking manga, but while meals are the anchoring points of Laios's journey, given loving focus, for Kabru, they're ... not.

I'm sure he eats during dungeon expeditions, in the routine way that adventurers must when they sit down to camp. But on the surface, you get the idea that Kabru spends most of his time doing his self-assigned dungeon-related tasks: meeting with people, studying them, putting together that evidence board, researching the dungeon, god knows what else. Feeding himself is secondary.

He's introduced during a meal, eating at a restaurant, just to set up the contrast between his party and Laios's. And it's the last normal meal we see him eating until the communal ending feast (if you consider Falin's dragon parts normal).

First, we get this:

Kabru's response here is such a non-answer, it strongly implies to me that he wasn't thinking about it until Rin brought it up. That he might not even be feeling the hunger signals that he logically knew he should.

They sit down to eat, but Kabru is never drawn reaching for food or eating it like the rest of his party. He only drinks.

It's possible this means nothing, that we can just assume he's putting food in his mouth off-panel, but again, this entire manga is about food. Cooking it, eating it, appreciating it, taking pleasure in it, grounding yourself in the necessary routine of it and affirming your right to live by consuming it. It's given such a huge focus.

We don't see him eat again until the harpy egg.

What a significant question for the protagonist to ask his foil in this story about eating! Aren't you hungry? Aren't you, Kabru?

He was revived only minutes ago after a violent encounter. And then he chokes down food that causes him further harm by triggering him, all because he's so determined to stay in Laios's good graces.

In his flashback, we see Milsiril trying to spoon-feed young Kabru cake that we know he doesn't like. He doesn't want to eat: he wants to be training.

Then with Mithrun, we see him eating the least-monstery monster food he can get his hands on, for the sake of survival- walking mushroom, barometz, an egg. The barometz is his first chance to make something like an a real meal, and he actually seems excited about it because he wants to replicate a lamb dish his mother used to make him!

...but he doesn't get to enjoy it like he wanted to.

Then, when all the Canaries are eating field rations ... Kabru still isn't shown eating. He's only shown giving food to Mithrun.

And of course the next time he eats is the bavarois, which for his sake is at least plant based ... but he still has to use a coping mechanism to get through it.

I don't think Kabru does this all on purpose. I think Kui does this all on purpose. Kabru's Post Traumatic Stress Disorder should be understood as informing his character just as much as Laios's autism informs his. It's another way that Kabru and Laios act as foils: where Laios takes pleasure in meals and approaches food with the excitement of discovery, Kabru's experiences with eating are tainted by his trauma. Laios indulges; Kabru denies himself. Laios is shown enjoying food, Kabru is shown struggling with it.

And I can very easily imagine a reason why Kabru might have a subconscious aversion towards eating.

Meals are the privilege of the living.

[gutsby]

Wants and Needs

Pairing: Sugar Daddy!Joel x Reader

Summary: Bills are high; your dad’s boss wants to help. How you pay him stays between you and him—for now.

Warnings: 18+. Protected piv. Explicit power imbalance in an exchange of sex for money, so dubcon, technically. Soft dom!Joel. Sex toys. Squirting. Oral (f!receiving). Overstimulation. Daddy kink. Age gap. Praise kink.

Note: Bohanan’s is a steakhouse in San Antonio, TX.

Word count: 8.4k

You wanted a car. Joel needed to cum.

It wasn’t the arrangement a girl your age should’ve made, but what could you do? Your dad drank half of your college funds away, and your mom was long gone.

The next best thing was Mr. Miller, your father’s boss. He’d understood better than anyone what money could buy. What it might do. For him, it was pleasure. For you, it was a future—or what little remained after bills and loans and exorbitantly-priced car repairs bled you dry.

You took the job at the firm on a whim. You didn’t want to be a lawyer anymore, though your dad and Joel were. You didn’t want to be done with law school, though 3L had already long since ended, and that dreaded so-called ‘minimum competency’ test was drawing close on the horizon. In short, you couldn’t afford to pay for bar prep.

With Joel, you could.

It was true that tax law paid pretty well, but a part-time job would never really be enough when your family was treading water at all times. Your dad liked to gamble and drink, and your brothers got all of their brains from him.

You got the short end of the stick, plus the receiving end of another. Lucky for you, Joel’s felt pretty good going in.

Today you were somewhere south of Austin. Your truck wouldn’t start last week, so you’d agreed to come along on this business trip knowing full well what you planned on asking your boss as soon as you had a moment alone.

“CDP hearing at…9:45.” You checked the itinerary twice.

“Alright.” Joel nodded.

“Lunch with Javier, Ezra, and Dave at twelve.”

“Mhmm.”

“Phone call with Revenue Officer Acacius at 3:30.”

“For the…?”

“Martells.”

“Okay.”

“I finished Lucien Flores’ Form 433-F for your review and left notes—” You stopped to tap your finger on a short white pile of papers between you and Joel on the desk, “—in the margins. Still need bank statements from him.”

“Lovely.”

Joel eyed the stack at first, but his gaze strayed a little.

“You should probably plan to talk strategy with my dad before Mayor Garcia’s audit tomorrow, too. Looks like a couple non-cash contributions are being disputed now.”

For a second, your eyes flitted up to him, too. It was brief.

“Sure. When’s your daddy free?” he said.

You blinked, then scanned the schedule.

“Looks like five…or six, maybe. He’s got a consult with—”

“I wasn’t talking about your father.”

You looked back up. Joel was smirking, of course. His hand had drifted a comfortable, innocent distance past the papers and across the table, to you. The pair of you happened to be in one of the glass-paneled conference rooms nearest the hotel lobby, so he had to be discreet.

He never let his fingers stray too long on yours in public. Presently, his thumb grazed your knuckles extra slow.

Posing a question, maybe.

You didn’t have the time to be tactful now, unfortunately.

“I need $2,700.”

Joel, your boss, your daddy, whatever, had to pause at that. He didn’t move his hand immediately, but he did stare harder. Longer. He searched your face for the joke.

“$2,700?” he repeated.

“Yes sir,” you answered out of habit, wincing only a little, “My truck stopped running last week, and it’s just…a lot.”

The cost. For Joel, it wasn’t even a drop in the bucket, but in your world, it was a make-or-break, fuck-your-whole-budget-for-the-next-six-months kind of bad. Suddenly, your cheeks felt warmer than they did before, and you forced yourself to look away. Peering out across the wide and gently rolling terrain of San Antonio and trying to pretend there was something thrilling to see. You’d almost forgotten how much you hated asking this.

“I can make the deposit tonight—” Joel started.

“No,” you interrupted. You wanted to turn but couldn’t. You just shook your head and kept staring out there, “Not now, I mean…I need to earn it over time, I just…”

You stumbled over the words. It was like your lips, your tongue, and your teeth were all suffering from the same sort of embarrassment pervading the brain, and you couldn’t bring your mouth to form the sentences right.

I’m not asking for a handout. I need to earn the money.

However ‘earning’ may have been grossly misconstrued in the context, it was a labor all the same. You didn’t love it, but you didn’t hate him, either. Joel was nice, albeit old enough to be your father, and it didn’t seem that he was nearly as predatory or perverse as he could’ve been. You’d been working for him for two months now, and the idea had been your own when the cash had gotten tight.

Back in April, you’d explained to him, calmly, that you couldn’t take the bar exam unless you got some extra money quick. That you wouldn’t accept his charity, but you’d pay him back in other ways. Joel had been against it at first—you were the daughter of his best friend, after all—but eventually, his carnal needs won out over his sense, as every other man would’ve done, you guessed.

At first, you’d started slow, but that hadn’t lasted very long. You fucked him regularly now, though never had you asked for an amount of cash this big out of nowhere.

Joel blinked and put a hand on his hip, like he always did when he wasn’t sure what to say. The silver in his soft, dark locks shone more in this light. He’d lost the smirk.

“You’ve done…plenty.” Now sounding sheepish.

You tried to protest again; Joel stopped you.

“I mean it. Hey, look at me,” he said next.

You did, hesitatingly. You turned from the window, and out of instinct, folded your arms over your chest. Joel paced closer to you and then he was watching. Pausing.

Brushing your arm with his and glancing once over your shoulder to make sure no one else was around to see.

He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your temple.

When he pulled away, your skin was practically ablaze.

“Mr. Miller—”

“Joel,” he corrected, quiet, “And you’ve done enough. Let me cover the car just this once, okay? Sweetheart?”

You didn’t realize you were pivoting again. That your gut was doing somersaults and your heart was ready to climb up and out of your throat. Your neck was burning.

It wasn’t even anger you sensed was simmering under the skin until you turned back to him, and your eyes flashed with ire before the words were even spoken.

“I don’t need your pity, Mr. Miller. I said I want to pay.”

“It’s Joel. And I said you’ve done enough, so—”

Ire morphed to something more in a blink.

You didn’t mean to say it, but you did.

“Fine,” you huffed, suddenly exasperated, “If you’re so fucking opposed to me paying my way for this one simple thing, I’ll get another guy. Forget I asked.”

It was a low blow, for sure. Joel knew how badly you’d wanted this to stay between just you and him—and he would never dream of seeing you ‘earning your keep’ with anyone else. His expression said as much as soon as he’d heard your words; his whole face hardened at once.

But then you’d turned to leave. You didn’t care what he wanted to tell you, and if you did, you certainly weren’t brave enough to stick around to hear Joel say it then.

So you left. He had a full, busy day ahead of him anyway.

You woke up wet.

In an effort to avoid your boss, you’d run errands all day. Buried your nose in a sea of Civil Procedure notes as soon as you got a second alone, almost vomited seeing the Erie Doctrine, and went back to your hotel room to try and study there. Once you had, you napped instead.

Now your clothes stuck to your skin; the sheets around you were soaked. You peered over the big white duvet holding your body interred and saw smoke overhead.

Or steam.

Yes, definitely steam. It was drifting from the bathroom, where the door was thrown open. You shifted up to sit.

“Tess!” you yelled, “Shut the goddamn door, I’m boiling.”

As a law clerk, you weren’t afforded the luxury of a suite to yourself, so you shared it with the other new grads on work trips like these. Tess Servopoulos loved long, hot showers and never closed the fucking door. You groaned.

And, feeling depleted of all energy from your studies and the stress and the steam searing every inch of your skin, you flopped back in the bed. You kicked the covers off your legs. You’d just lifted a hand to wipe the sweat from your forehead, when an awful, fresh realization dawned.

You glanced at the clock—3:37.

“Fucking hell,” you hissed.

You were supposed to meet your dad at two to get some paperwork signed. You needed to have that filed with the court by four. He was probably engaged somewhere else by now, whether it be a client, a conference, or a couple white lines in the bathroom of a partners-only club downtown, and you wouldn’t have a hope of reaching him here. You rubbed your face and groaned again.

You’d set an alarm for 1:30—you knew you had.

Where the hell was your phone? Why was it so warm? What if he’d called? Aw fuck, he’s probably blown that thing up to hell and back by now. Maybe he was drunk. He had to be. Where was Tess? Where were your pants?

You’d made it up to your feet, clumsily, and faced a full-length mirror. Your bottoms were gone. You closed your eyes and screamed inside, remembering why they were.

“Glad you’re getting some use out of this.”

The second you heard it, your lids flew open. You turned.

And, standing in the warm yellow glow of the bathroom light—holding the culprit, your vibrator, like a prize—was Joel. Naked as the day he was born, save for one thin towel around his hips, and grinning. Moisture glistened on his chest and pooled about his feet, and his hair was smooth, tamed, and combed back neatly from his face.

He waved your silicone toy in the air, and immediately, you regretted giving him your room key the other day.

“I thought we agreed you’d wait for me—”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Your voice was thick with sleep. Joel’s own was slow, dulcet, and kind as it always was, even when teasing. When you grit your teeth, he just set the toy aside.

“I’m sorry. Bad timing. I saw your—”

“No.” You threw up both hands at once, suddenly out of breath and fucks to give, “You know what? I don’t care. You need to go. I have to be down at the courthouse—”

In twenty minutes. You cut yourself short and hurried off to find shoes. You could wear other pants. Ask another attorney to sign the forms if you couldn’t reach your dad. Forget that his boss and yours had just caught you with the vibrator he’d bought you last month and try not to feel too humiliated knowing he knew what you’d been doing. It didn’t matter—Joel didn’t matter. You slid on a mismatched pair of slacks and set off toward the door.

Then you had to stop. Joel beat you there, quick as ever.

“Listen. Hey.”

“Will you stop?!”

You pushed at his big and wet, stupidly broad chest. You felt the small grey hairs on his pecs tickle your palms, and for a second, you thought you heard a chuckle.

“You’re gonna make me late—”

“Hey, hey,” Joel said again. Of course it sounded fatherly, “I already signed the POA for Morales, hon, you’re good.”

You’re good.

“You what?” You stared at him in disbelief. How did he even know you needed Frankie’s power of attorney signed in the first place? You figured your dad would’ve mentioned it, but still, it wasn’t really Joel’s form to sign.

“The case is mine now,” he clarified, reading that look, “Wasn’t my first pick, but it is what it is. And your dad—”

Your dad was probably lagging wildly behind on his own caseload, so he’d pushed one off on his friend. Again.

“You can’t keep picking up his slack,” you gritted out, “One of these days it’s gonna bite you both in the ass. You know he shouldn’t be forcing these jobs on you.”

“I offered.”

“You caved.”

“He’s my best friend, what do you expect me to do?”

“Not let him use you! He’s making you feel bad for him.”

“And what if I did? What if I did pity the bastard?”

You scoffed. Then winced, inwardly.

I don’t need your pity, Mr. Miller.

From the look on Joel’s face, he seemed to be remembering the same. He shook his head.

“That’s not…” he trailed off. He rubbed his jaw with his hand and started to move from the door, deflating some.

His other arm extended to you, wordlessly, and already anticipated what was sure to follow. You swatted him off, then walked to the bed. You considered sitting but didn’t. Instead, you crossed your arms like you always did and turned away, facing the window with a cool, flat affect.

By now, Joel knew better than to take that for what it seemed. He crossed the room to you, treading softly.

His voice turned gentle again, like an apology: “Honey…”

But your gaze was already fixed outside. You frowned.

“Darlin’,” Joel continued, undeterred, “Come on.”

And you didn’t need to see his face to hear the rest: ‘Look at me, please,’ with eyes all comfort and warmth.

“Don’t you have a phone call with an R.O. or something?” Briefly, you recalled Acacius and a stream of other items from the checklist you’d covered that morning, and you had to stop yourself then from straying too far. You blinked once, just as Joel was approaching from behind.

“I cancelled,” he said.

You sighed, “Mr. Miller…”

You knew he hated doing that.

“Joel,” he pressed. Adding, “Something came up.”

You wouldn’t even ask. You shouldn’t care. You felt him standing there, fanning hot breaths across the nape of your neck, and you really couldn’t have taken that worse. You visibly tensed, hands balling into fists at your sides, and—hell, he wouldn’t quit moving now, would he?—Joel bent down. He hesitated, as if gauging your reaction in time, then descended further. He kissed your shoulder.

You cracked; it never took much from him.

For all your inane, ancillary plays at feigning indifference, one movement of Joel’s mouth and your resolve was lost. You clung to words, weakly, but all the rest fell away.

“We don’t…want your charity. Me or my dad. Alright?”

“I know.”

Joel kissed your skin again, then pulled at the strap of your blouse. It fell limply away, and his lips reattached.

Exactly when he’d walked you back to the bed, you couldn’t be sure. By the third or fourth kiss, your stomach was tight, knees weak, and your eyes drawing closed; it didn’t matter to you or to him what had passed before. Your bodies found the bed and blended together.

Tangling, in a way. Tearing blindly at clothes and not saying too much apart from Joel’s soft, sweet words:

“That’s it.”

“I know.”

“Good girl.”

Good girl when he kissed you. Good girl when he stripped you bare. Good girl when his hands roamed the broad, naked expanse of your body and let your own do the same to him. Good girl when your fingers hooked the outline of the towel and tugged it away, your vision filled with a sight you’d come to like more and more each day.

“That’s my girl,” Joel murmured. He cradled your head while you gripped his base, “‘S’yours, baby. All yours.”

Yours. Mine. You weren’t sure you had the sense or self-possession to even know what that meant, especially here. Joel wasn’t a boyfriend. He wasn’t a lover, at least not in the traditional sense. He wore dark wool suits like your father and worked from dawn until dusk every day, practicing law for longer than you’d been alive. Still, the smile above you was sweet. It coaxed you gently as you slid your hand up and down his length, like he sensed this was more like a lesson for you. Learning experience.

“Remember, spit a little first,” he instructed. Then, to demonstrate this point, he brought his fingers to his mouth and wet them quickly. He slipped his touch down to yours and met your gaze while he joined you there.

He rubbed and slicked himself up and he did it with ease. You followed his lead and watched his face contort—crow’s feet pinching even tighter at the sides of his eyes as pleasure began to pool in his gut. He looked pretty. You’d never thought to tell him this, but Joel really had an unparalleled face. It was an old and beautiful thing. For this reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to tear your gaze away, maybe to wet your own fingers. Instead, you slipped your hand between your legs, where his hips had come to rest. You worked a slow, light touch against your folds; you were drenched, and it didn’t take long for your fingers to be, too. You moved them back to Joel’s cock.

“Like this?” you ventured.

The man answered with a grunt, at first. Then a grin.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Joel nodded, quiet but emphatic. Trying not to smile too big as he let your touch take over for his, “Just like that, sweet pea. Get it nice an’ wet for daddy.”

You wanted to whimper at that. Something must’ve flashed in your eyes at the intonation of the last word, and the look must’ve suffused your whole expression, because the next thing you knew, Joel was lowering his body to yours. Petting your hair, letting you rub on his shaft as fast as your soft, lithe hands could manage.

“Feel that, baby? Feel how much daddy missed you?”

You did.

Your brow pinched, and you wanted more of that. More from him: those tender, edifying words of praise being mumbled your way while your touch worked him over. Maybe you could’ve helped it, but then again, in this state, maybe you couldn’t—you whimpered for him.

Wriggling your hips against the bed to get your warmth pressed flush with his own, and squeezing him tighter:

“In me, daddy. Please.”

You angled his cock in your trembling grip to plead as much. You knew he liked being the one to push in the first time, so you didn’t move too far with that push, but you begged him with your gaze. You felt him tense a bit.

And just when you sensed he might let you have your way, he moved off. Down. Sliding his torso away from your own, to go lower on the bed, and smirking again.

“I think she needs my tongue first, doesn’t she?”

You wanted to nod. Instead, you flinched. You crawled away from his hold before it could secure itself firmly on either one of your legs, and you had to snag your bottom lip between your teeth to contain that blossoming need. It almost spilled from your mouth in a moan before Joel’s could reach your lower half. Then you scrambled to sit up

“No,” you choked out.

This wasn’t new. While you shook your head, Joel lifted a brow and stood from the bed. He reached behind him.

The night stand.

You closed your eyes.

“This isn’t…supposed to be for me.” you sighed.

In a second, Joel was back where he started, and you didn’t have to steal a glance through your lids to know what he was holding. Slotting himself gently into place.

“Don’t,” he started, sharp, “—say that. I mean it.”

You knew he meant it, but you also knew better than to accept at face value what he said, moving down on you.

This wasn’t part of the deal. Joel’s money was meant to serve his pleasure, not yours. Letting him take you any other way seemed to blur the lines between transaction and affection, and though you’d done this before, it still didn’t feel right. You couldn’t bear having his focus here.

Evidently, though, he could. He’d snatched your vibrator from the night table and lowered his torso to your legs, lips twitching the tiniest bit. ‘Open up. Let me see her.’

Joel was on his stomach, eyes glowing with intrigue.

“Let me see how much she’s missed me, baby.”

The grey matter in your brain might’ve trickled through your ears—the whole thing went to mush at his words. You pushed at his hands, then the top of his head, but clearly, your will was weak. You wanted this. Needed it.

“That’s a good girl. Let daddy have it,” Joel drawled.

You wanted to cry. Or maybe hide. His index and middle fingers prodded at your folds, pulling them apart, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn you’d stopped breathing. Joel kissed the slope of your mound with a quiet kind of reverence. The salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin brushed your clit, and your back arched reflexively. Then, remembering why you’d come to this arrangement in the first place, you felt a wave of guilt supplant that pleasure.

You clawed at his head and shook your own, weakly.

“No. W-wanna make you feel good,” you choked out.

Not me.

Not here.

Just let it—

“Fuck,” you keened through your teeth. Joel’s lips made contact with your slick, drooling cunt and, in a second, sucked your nub in between them. He flicked his tongue.

Joel groaned, then pulled away to meet your gaze.

“Feels plenty good f’me,” he assured you in a murmur. Eyes glossy, “She’s so fuckin’ sweet, honey. So pretty.”

Then, as if to punctuate his point, he slid his tongue down the whole wet mess of your slit, and he moaned. He curled the muscle and invaded your sticky, sensitive, precious warm flesh with vigor and force—maybe a little desperation—and you whined at the feeling. Your toes curled tight. It was doubtlessly a sight to see: Joel’s old and weathered head against your young and supple skin, the wiry greys of his chin rubbing your cunt like no man’s his age should’ve been. He took you gently. Forked his fingers over your folds to hold you open for him and then, over and over and over again, just licking stripes. Squelching noises only seemed to goad him on while he buried his nose and savored your taste without reserve. Your stomach clenched with that pleasure, then swelled.

“That’s my girl—so good for me,” Joel said, as though reminding you, gently, it was okay to relish the feeling.

Once more, he suckled your clit in his mouth, rubbing the tip of his tongue in a quick back-and-forth motion, and the next sensation hit without a breath of warning.

Your belly twisted again, then flushed with hot pleasure.

“My— fuck,” you cried, shuddering with a climax you didn’t know was coming. You held his head and whined.

Joel’s tongue didn’t stop. Your vision blurred. Whatever reprieve you might’ve hoped to find came in the form of his lips drawing back, momentarily, only to sponge little kisses on your still-pulsing heat. Your body jolted back.

“I c— I’m done. I’m done,” you blurted out.

Joel nodded against you. Humming through his kisses:

“I know. Keep going.”

Keep going.

So simple.

Still, you couldn’t breathe. Your sight was inundated with stars. You felt Joel’s stubble on your slit again, only this time, the pleasure was tripled. Your legs trembled, and your hands made fists in his hair. Joel kept on kissing.

And kissed again, again, and again, until your fingers in his locks pulled taut to the roots and your hips were bucking up in his face: ‘Too much, t—oh fuckfuckfuck.’

Then came a buzz. Skirting your legs in a blink, before diving to meet Joel’s mouth on your clit. You shrieked.

“I know, I know,” Joel joined, as though soothing a wound while he maneuvered the vibrator. Lifting his head and then kissing your thigh, “I know. You’re alright.”

You wanted to sob; you felt ready to burst. You trusted Joel’s judgment but had never been subjected to this sort of pleasure. What if it was more than you could take?

“I’m here.”

Joel’s words were slow to crawl off his tongue, but their intent was clear. You writhed once more, and he was kissing your skin, rubbing your thighs, and taking the toy to your clit with a warm, devoted touch. He wasn’t cruel.

He had a glint in his gaze when you met it, like he knew you wouldn’t accept this feeling alone—but he wanted you to. He wanted the indulgence to be your own and an end in itself. There was care in his touch, tender praise with every caress, and you guessed this was intentional. Joel needed you to know this was more than only his.

You felt more naked than you’d ever been: soaking the sheets with your last release, fresh arousal trickling out, Joel’s spit mixing with your nectar and sweat and pressing you down in the bed. And nudging you, gently.

“‘S’okay, baby. You’re alright. That feels nice, doesn’t i—”

“Kiss me.”

It came out faster than you could even try and stop it. You weren’t sure why you said it. The words were acerbic on your tongue—you hated ever sounding needy—but then your mind and your mouth and your worries were all silenced at once when Joel came clambering up for you.

His lips were wet and grinning as he kissed you. He held the vibrator hostage between your legs while his body pressed tight against yours. His movements slowed.

Then, as if he’d crawled in your head and read your mind:

“It’s okay to need me, baby. It’s okay to want this.”

His hips made that assurance even clearer. Joel reached down and took the vibrator again, increasing the friction between your groin and his while he pressed the buzzing toy to your clit. You whined into his mouth at the feeling.

Your eyes rolled back, and the pleasure soared. This morning, you might’ve bristled at the words he’d just spoken, but here, in this bed, it felt okay. It felt safe.

Joel felt safe, for once, and you weren’t sure how to keep that idea from sticking—how to reconcile the notion of swapping sex for cash with a man for months on end, and then this. Your stomach churned. He held your face and kissed you more, and your clit throbbed and ached. Before you could ponder your thoughts a second longer, a white-hot pleasure washed over, and you came again.

“Good girl,” Joel cooed.

Throbbing even more this time.

“That’s a sweet girl. That’s my baby.”

All but aching with desire. Feeling it double.

“Cum for daddy, that’s it. Keep going.”

Feeling it trickle down your legs.

“She’s feelin’ real good, huh?”

You could barely breathe.

You whined. Felt something splinter between your thighs and then more of it, more of you and that slick, oozing pleasure and Joel’s groans, overjoyed—‘Making a fucking mess’a daddy, isn’t she? She feel that good?’—and by ‘that good’ you guessed it was more than normal.

This was more warmth than usual. Somewhere in the midst of your own mind-numbing pleasure, you’d let out a spurt, sticky and wet. It now coated the hairs on Joel’s tummy, and while his skin shone, his eyes were brighter. He flitted a look to you, gaze flaring, and slid down. Low.

Back to where he was before. Moving the buzzing pink bullet aside and letting his mouth assume its place.

Of course, you yelped.

“Joel!”

You winced, both from saying his name and feeling so raw. Joel grinned at the sound and suckled your clit.

It was drenched. You and Joel, too, were doused all over and practically gleaming under the rays of late afternoon sun then pouring through the window. For a second, you cast a look outside like you had before, but it was only to brace your body for the bliss at hand. You stared and felt a crude, carnal shockwave seize you head to toe. It traveled fast and made you release, again, or else just continue the same flow as before—and this time, into Joel’s waiting mouth. He lapped at you feverishly now.

He squeezed your legs and licked you dry. He worked in merciless circles, like his life might have depended on making you stay at this peak. All the while, you were tearing at his hair. Riding his face as your body fell apart.

That was alright. This pleasure was yours for now, but there was still time yet to make it worth his while, you reasoned in a half-intoxicated state. Your legs vibrated as you started to crawl—limp—back up in the bed and, numb with elation and a desperate need to please, you stretched your arm toward the night stand. You huffed.

You reached blindly but got it. The box. Weak fingers found the first plastic strip and tore yourself a square. Then, lifting it to Joel, you ignored the last stabs of pleasure between your legs. This was fun, but still his.

“Go on,” you told him, breathless, “Fuck me.”

Joel quirked a brow. He took the condom, still panting himself. He brought the latex to his tip out of habit, then:

“Yeah? Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

Your head was swimming. Somewhere entrenched in the furthest recesses of your brain you could feel it, that dizzying, self-centered pleasure. You pushed it back.

You suffocated it, and you spread your legs wide for him. You let him lay you down and tug the rubber over his cock, then nudge at your hips to situate himself in just the right way. How he liked it. He seemed to be content, and your heart swelled. In this airy, buoyant state, you felt more at ease to speak, sure that he’d understand.

“This should cover some of it, right?” you panted out.

Joel slowed.

“What?”

You sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, eager to keep going. But you steeled yourself, just barely, then.

“Sex. Now,” you said, “It’ll cover some of my car repairs.”

Instead of nodding like you’d expected, Joel only blinked. Then you opened your mouth to speak again, and his body stopped you cold. He planted a hand beside your head on the pillow and raised his hips; you felt his heat leave with it. You reached for his backside immediately, to try and pull him back into that pre-missionary position he’d held, when Joel brushed you off. His face was hard.

“Money?” he quipped.

“Yeah,” you started, then remembered how you talked outside of the bedroom, when he seemed more serious, “We’ll go again. All week. You can even put it in my—”

Joel balked, like you’d just slapped him across the face.

“No,” he said, sharp.

“No,” he repeated, more to himself this second time. Almost as though he couldn’t believe what you were suggesting—and making him guilty by association.

Joel clenched your pillow like a vice and shook his head.

“You’re not getting paid for this,” he finished, and when your gaze penetrated his, confused, he squeezed harder.

“Thought you wanted it.” Joel added, almost shamefully.

“I do! I do…I just—” you sputtered.

“What? Think you need to offer up a week and a half of fucking to make it worth my time? Is that what this is?”

Well, in a way, maybe.

You weren’t sure what to say. Former dizzying bliss was dwindling fast, and now you were facing him cold. Sober.

Increasingly irritated, again.

“I just need money, Mr. Miller—”

“It’s Joel, hon,” he bit back, for the fourth time that day. His eyes flared with something more, maybe annoyance, but then he was tempering it just as fast. He ran a hand through his damp grey hair and shook his head, pausing, “It’s Joel. I know you need the money, baby, but it’s—”

“It’s what we agreed,” you protested, “What I need—”

“Well it’s not what I want!” Joel barked.

Anger surged again, and this time, evidently, the feeling was harder to keep at bay. He was scarcely able to rein in his features, settling on a grave little scowl instead of a frown, and he sucked in shorter, shallower breaths through his nose. You felt him let your pillow go.

“Forget it—the cash.” Joel grit his teeth even tighter, “Forget these payments and the goddamn allowance I’ve had you on. I can’t do that anymore. It’s not right.”

Your heart sank.

You didn’t know what to say.

Luckily, Joel’s voice resumed on its own.

“Whatever you want, whatever you need, sweetheart…”

He stopped. Silence followed, then stretched on for one full, terrible minute. In that interim, you could see his chest rise and fall fast. He was trying to slow it down.

“Whatever you need paid off, I’ll do it. Anything. You don’t have to touch me again. It was wrong of me to allow that in the first place,” he rejoined, tone cooling.

Sounding guilty, too.

Above you, Joel didn’t seem keen on holding your gaze, so he fixed his stare someplace on the headboard instead. Then he moved off your body, slowly.

In spite of the distance he attempted to give, he was still crowding your space. Looming large and bare and weary as you’d ever seen him, knees shuffling back awkwardly through a mass of cotton sheets while his eyes shifted low. Away. The rest of him filled your lungs with a heady cologne scent and your stomach with a thousand tiny blades—you were hurt that he wasn’t sticking to his end of the bargain. You were mad that he was trying to claim the moral high ground now, after everything you’d done.

Mostly, though, you were just upset that you felt like you were losing someone close. That Joel Miller was more of a confidant, friend, and father figure than your own dad had ever been, and that got all fucked up over money. Your lips pursed, and something stung behind your eyes when you reached for him again. Your throat stung, too.

“The reason I agreed to do this,” Joel went on, and the ache in your head worsened when he winced from your touch, “was ‘cause I didn’t want you getting ‘help’ from anyone else. I was selfish. And that’s not an excuse…”

He started to move off, hand dropping from yours.

“…but it’s the truth. I’m sorry.”

At length, Joel found your gaze, and the eyes said it all over again: I’m sorry. You might’ve believed them, too.

But you were you, and you couldn’t help but press:

“Why?”

Your voice was small. Joel was trying to stand from the bed, but you grabbed at his hand again and made him meet your eyes. Confusion was painted across his own.

Kneeling in front of him, curious, you tried to clarify.

“Why’d it have to be you?”

Judging from Joel’s expression as soon as you did, you got the sense that this question made him feel dumb. He frowned, but he held your stare and answered anyway.

“Because I wanted you first,” he replied, “Before all this.”

Your stomach twisted. He did?

You didn’t need to ask twice to know what that meant. What he’d said, in words and with a look, was enough. Still, it was always in you to know more, to be sure, so you crept a little closer. You let your hands roam up and—

“No,” Joel said, as soon as your fingers reached his side.

You’d just wanted to feel him, maybe prod him further on what he’d just said through acts that didn’t require verbal articulation, but he refused. He backed up in bed.

“This isn’t about—” he started, low.

“Sex. I know,” you answered for him. Then your touch grazed his thigh, and you were dying to have more. To be told in a way you both knew and understood. To touch, “You want me to believe you really…liked me before?”

“More than you know.”

There was that blunt, open pragmatism in the Joel you’d always known. Perhaps guided by natural inclinations, or else your hand on his leg, drawing higher. Moving closer.

Showing skepticism through your eyes and the hint of a playful, disbelieving smile starting to curl at your lips.

“When you met me?” you teased.

You’d known of Joel for years, and had met him a couple times as a teenager at various firm holiday functions. You probably hadn’t exchanged more than ten words altogether before starting law school a few years back.

“Hell no,” Joel answered, fast, “When you started work.”

His gaze was timid again. It was fixed on his thigh where you’d started to slide your index up the warm, muscled expanse of his skin, and though you could tell he was more than hesitant, you wanted to know. Wanted to feel.

It wasn’t so easy convincing a man you’d been working for—and fucking, largely without feeling—to pay bills that you wanted him here and now. But you needed to try.

That maybe, somewhere along the way, you’d come to want him, too. That cash wasn’t the only thing at stake.

You crawled between his legs, then straddled his hips.

Your lips smiling still as you did: “How much?”

Joel blinked back. Dazed.

“What do you m—”

“How much did you like me? When did it start?”

Joel sighed when your heat rubbed his. He tried grabbing ahold of your hips, when you glanced down and saw he’d already discarded the last condom. You couldn’t have that if you wanted to continue this talk.

You reached back and grabbed another.

“Darlin’,” Joel said, strained, “We shouldn’t…”

“Says who?”

You’d already worked the rubber halfway down his length when his heavy-lidded gaze locked with yours. You saw lust there, mixed with worry. Curiosity. You kept going.

“Says your dad, if he ever finds out what I’ve done to his little girl,” Joel replied, closing his eyes at the feeling.

You had the latex worked down to the base of him when you smiled. Felt him seize your hips, lids fluttering open to find you in their soft, glossy stare, and you felt better. Like clockwork, you went together and joined, at last. You felt Joel squeeze your backside and groan when you first sank down to take him whole. You shuddered, too.

But you tried to steady your voice as you spoke.

“Semantics, Miller,” you told him, only faltering a little, “Things you are ‘doing’ to his little girl. Not just ‘done.’”

There, you had a point. Surely your father would have had some choice words for his business partner and best friend if he knew how far Joel’s cock was currently stuffed inside your tight, wet cunt. It might even piss him off, if he weren’t too drunk to receive the news himself.

Joel blinked hard, signaling that he knew this too, and presently watched your body swallow all eight inches at once, after you’d raised yourself up to just the tip and sank back. Your ass fell to his groin with an obscene sort of squelch, and your walls involuntarily clenched. You both let out sounds of pleasure, and held on tighter.

Your hands on his chest for stability, while one of his own held your hip and the other fumbled around for your clit, gliding through the sheen of your arousal on his front. You rocked your hips and felt how much it really was—how you’d drenched his whole abdomen with your last release. You smiled at this and stared, pleased with the pretty, sticky display you’d laid bare all over Joel’s belly.

When Joel wasn’t watching you ride, he stared there too.

“Not so ‘little’ anymore,” he mused quietly. Then he looked up to find your eyes, seeing them as glazed as his, “And I ‘like’ you, hon. Present tense. Not just…‘liked.’”

Alright.

“How much?”

You wanted to say it with some confidence. Nonchalance. Then Joel’s cock nicked a particularly sensitive ridge inside your walls, and that thought was gone as quick as it had come. You gripped the flesh of his upper chest and rolled your hips harder. Let out your breaths in little fractured whimpers while you rode him more. Another sweet feeling twisted low in your gut.

With just a glimpse of that, Joel moved his hand from your heat up past your hips and waist, to squeeze one of your breasts. His fingers were wet. You could feel them, equal parts warmth and wanton yearning as the pads pinched your nipple and gave it a firm tug. He grunted.

Clearly, there was more to it than just the touching and feeling for him—Joel’s eyes drank in the sight of your skin as it glistened with the arousal he’d just smeared. He thumbed at the wet, stiff peak and swallowed. And, just as you were about to adjust the rhythm of your hips bouncing on him, his free hand joined the first and pulled you down. You cried feeling his cock wedge deep; your hands fell to either side of his body when he yanked your face down to his. He fucked up into you from underneath

You squealed, soft, “Joel!”

He kissed your open mouth. Made you lay flat overtop him while he fucked your dripping hole. You whimpered.

“Joel—” Again.

“I like you so much, sweetheart,” he said, in answer to your last question, lips close, “Does she like me too?”

As if to save him the trouble of a swift reply in words, your body told him instead. You squeezed around his cock, and with another desperate cry, bit his shoulder. He hammered your poor, aching pussy with a groan of his own, and he held your body down to his. Grinning.

Kissing the side of your head while he pounded away. Stroking your hair, “Is that a ‘yes’? She like her daddy?”

Drool was bound to slip out of your mouth any second. Your lips were locked in a permanent ‘o’ while he drilled from under you on the bed. Still, you managed to nod.

“Uh-huh—oh, fuck, fuck, da-ddy. Yes, daddy.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as another blistering wave seared your insides. Joel was relentless with his thrusts now, driving himself in and out without stopping or slowing. He must’ve known you were close. He was too, judging by the sounds of his grunts and hushed tone.

“Let daddy take care of her then, baby. All of her. OK?”

His words trickled through your ear as sweet as honey. His cock was less kind, but that was okay—you liked it.

You loved him here. Taking care of you. Her. Everything.

And, in this half-coherent state of fuckdrunk pleasure, you were tempted to give in to whatever he begged.

It would be so easy. Joel cradled your face in his hand, practically beaming with pride while he fucked you over and over, and your legs were spread, walls were stretched, eyes practically rolling back, and you felt more secure than you’d been in ages. Joel could care for you.

He rubbed his thumb over your cheek and hummed.

“Daddy’s got you,” he said, voice all warm assurance.

Nudging you closer and closer to your peak—and perhaps some other form of surrender. Release.

Submission?

Joel wouldn’t be so bad for that.

He could fuck you well and leave you content. Make you forget what it meant to be strapped for cash and saddled with guilt and worry over bills every month. Joel could provide, for now. His eyes said as much; his fingers threaded through your hair and rubbed your scalp. He cupped your face, all fifty-six years in his own looking as handsome as they’d ever been. He felt good. He felt safe.

You were hot. Your legs trembled and ached.

“Is that something you’d want?” he pressed.

And, still holding Joel’s gaze with a heavy-lidded, fucked out look of your own, you surprised yourself by nodding, slowly. Your body was spent, but the curve on your lips, then his, was sincere; Joel nodded back as he grinned.

“Yeah? You mean it, sweetheart?”

He flipped you both over and got on top, never breaking apart. You wound your legs around his back and let him cup your cheeks again, and from this angle, you felt it. You wouldn’t try and fight it now; you just kissed him.

Then you came for a third time, walls clenching and squeezing and gushing again, smearing Joel’s front as he fucked you right through it. His groans were a little more subdued than yours, but in their timbre, you could hear his desperation. He emptied himself inside you, in the condom, and kept holding your face all the while.

You felt a low pulse between your legs. Then another. And another. And another. Joel’s hips began to still, his hefty greying belly bumping lightly against your skin while he drained what was left in his balls, and you swore that his bones might’ve creaked from the sheer force of those final thrusts. He seemed exhausted. Somehow, though, the man looked even better in this state—haggard and worn as he was, the face above your own was soft. Smiling, faintly, and kissing you constantly.

You couldn’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it; you were far too tired and fucked out of your mind to protest right now.

Joel trailed a path with his lips from your chin to your ear. He kissed the hinge of your jaw and sank himself deeper.

“Mr.—” But you caught yourself, shortly, “…Joel.”

He lifted his head, not apologetic in the least.

“Maybe just one more—” he started.

“No,” you finished for him, sharp.

Still smiling, but with your eyes on him in a thinly veiled threat. Joel accepted that and kept his dick where it was.

What followed was gradual but natural enough. A little awkward as you broached that uncharted territory of remaining in the other’s presence after the deed was done, but Joel didn’t seem like he wanted to leave the bed, and you had nowhere else to go until dinner with your dad at eight. There was a moment you wanted to separate your body from Joel’s, if only to slip off to the bathroom by yourself, but the man just held you closer.

“You think your old man will mind if I joined tonight?”

Here the fuck we go.

“He’ll kill you.”

You pushed hard against his hold without getting so much as an inch of give. Joel had to fight back a chuckle.

“Oh, yeah? Why?”

“Because,” you began in a huff. Wriggling with very little success in his arms, while you were pinned in missionary, “I smell like you. You smell like me. My dad’s a drunk, but he can sniff stuff like that out in a heartbeat. Too risky.”

You punctuated those words with a still more serious look, but before you could nudge at his chest again or say something more, you were forced to swallow a scream. Joel’s grip tightened even more, and he moved to stand up from the bed—with you still in his arms and impaled on his cock. He started to walk to the bathroom.

“Great. Shower’s got plenty of room for the two of us.”

“Joel!”

“Glad I don’t have to keep reminding you of my name.”

His voice was smug. Your gaze was hard. Joel was still hard himself, amazingly, and you almost groaned when you felt the head of his cock bump somewhere soft and sensitive inside. He toted you into the big, bright room.

“If not tonight, how ‘bout tomorrow? Just you and me.”

He would never stop this shit. He reached for the faucet.

“Still too dangerous. You know that,” you chided. Your resolve only wavered a little when you felt the hot water start to pelt at your back. Joel closed the glass door, “Besides…I need to focus on figuring my shit out right now. Work and bills and getting myself a rental car soon.”

Joel paused. He turned, still holding you.

Then, just as swiftly as he’d stepped inside, he carried you right back out of the shower. You whined in protest.

He took you over to the bed and set you down. He left to find his wallet and keys. You might’ve been tempted to voice your displeasure in some other way—namely, by marching back to the bathroom, locking the door, and bathing alone—but before you could speak a word, Joel was back. He looked down at you and held out his fist.

“What’s—”

“Your dad and me’ll be up to our eyeballs in bullshit working the Garcia audit tomorrow—and I know you don’t want him seeing us leave together anywhere—so we can meet at Bohanan’s at six. How does that sound?”

You blinked.

“I don’t…have a car.”

Joel opened his hand. Keys dropped out.

In a single glance, you could see they weren’t his.

Joel drove a garish Super Duty F-450, not an Audi. The cogs were quick to turn in your head, but clearly not fast enough, because Joel was closing your fingers over the keys before you could breathe so much as a syllable to him. When you did, it came out more like a stutter. Palpably mad but far too rattled to get much out:

“Joel, I-I can’t—”

“I’ve been meaning to buy one anyw—”

“You’re insane,” you started to push the keys back, and for some reason, your heart was thudding extra hard as you did. You went on, unblinking, “You don’t…need to.”

“I want to.”

Joel’s hands were warm when he pressed both of his palms to secure yours between them. He could probably feel the way it shook a little, but he didn’t seem to care. His gaze was too busy trying to find, and hold, your own while you swallowed and stared and racked your numb brain for any words of defiance. At length, nothing came.

All you could do was meet that look. In the soft brown irises above, you could see it all—the need to comfort, and care, and provide where he could, offer better than the hand you’d been dealt and maybe, interspersed with those feelings somewhere, a simpler need in him to give.

For once, you wanted to believe it.

Fun fact: This fic was inspired by true events‼️💯 My life 😫🤪😤😈 Like reader, my truck is also busted as SHIT and needs $2,700 in repairs!!!! Unlike reader, I will not be sucking and fucking Joel Miller to recoup my losses (not asking for donations, just wanted to give y’all a giggle at my misfortune LOL)

[silentwalrus1]

I like to think about what if the Kaminoans just, fucked all the way up and made the clones telepaths on purpose.

Kamino is in the Rishi maze, the equivalent of total buttfuck nowhere. This is like a cattle processing plant in rural Montana manufacturing an order for Shenzhen as outlined by a third party intermediary from Monaco who keeps contact with neither production nor “client” and nobody’s first language is Basic. Jedi are like, totally psychic right? Right. Psychic army for psychic clients, sounds right, checks out. There are whole ass telepathic alien species out there, some of which are also Jedi. Why would they want NON-psychic clones. Get it done, Tally Ho or Nala Says or whatever her name is. Chop chop.

Cue like seven years into production and the Kaminoan project leads are starting to get some… inklings…. that maybe some of the deliverable specs were perhaps not so much well-researched as based off cross-galactic hearsay some underpaid analysts pulled off space reddit. This is a business, okay? You’re not gonna make profit manufacturing two million units of fucking anything if you treat it like a luxury product, but especially not if the product has goddamn childhood development & socialization needs. Of fucking course some shit maybe slipped through the cracks. What are we supposed to fucking do now, Lama goddamn Sue sir, tell the Jedi or the pickled fucking Sith that oopsie woopsie, we got the specs wrong half a decade in and have to start over again?

No. No we are not. We are going to lie our fucking semi-aquatic asses off, is what we’re gonna do, and so will you clones if you know what’s good for you. NONE of you are fucking psychic, and you never were. Got that? Understood?

Fast forward to Jedi pickup D-Day and every time anyone with a lightsaber gets within aural biosystem of choice distance the clones immediately start loudly and dutifully Having Conversations.

Hello Commander Sir, It Is I, Trooper McSoldierClone, What A Weather It Is Today, Ha Ha? Over. Yes Indeed McTrooper One Two Three Four, I Am Agree, Now Here Is An Order To Follow Which I Am Vociferously Giving You, Acknowledge Orally, Over. Every clone making rock-hard sweating eye contact like don’t fuck it up as they mentally chant encouragement and script notes and jeering performance feedback at each other. Cadets trooping to fucking speech practice to learn speaking out loud with all the enthusiasm and skill of the average white suburban Floridian teenager taking their fifth mandatory Spanish 1 class. The jedi are like damn these poor asylum grown freaks are so unsocialized and uncomfortable around us, Their Owners, this is so tragic and horrid and unfortunate and meanwhile every clone standing silently in formation is mentally spectating the 400-person telepathic tetris team sport they invented with the same vibes as a football world cup back alley street party complete with official & unofficial betting pools and expert panel commentary

[casscainmainly]

Gender and Sexuality in Batgirl (2000)

While Kelley Puckett's opening run on Batgirl (2000) deals with Cass experiencing human connections and human life outside of fighting, issue 37 onwards takes a hard turn into gendered experiences. For sure there's some problematic elements (Cass gets sexualised a LOT more), but Horrocks' run does explore Cass' view on gender and romance in an interesting way. I'll be focusing on issues 37 - 57, essentially Horrocks' run but including guest writers (Gabrych, for instance, is our starting point). By the way I'm not a gender studies expert so feel free to disagree with any of these readings.

Riot Girls

Issue #38 (written by Gabrych) opens with this Batman conversation, which sets up Horrocks' run perfectly. Cass has never experienced a close female friendship (Babs is more mother/daughter) until Stephanie. Yet Bruce strikes a nerve here: she's not like you, and she never will be. He tells Cass something she already suspects - there's something she lacks that Stephanie has. (Bruce is, ironically, trying to say that Stephanie's the one lacking, but that's not what Cass hears).

This leads into the iconic Steph-Cass conversation:

Steph reveals she's had a baby, and this is Cass' reaction. She realises how much she doesn't understand about her body, romance, and gender in general. Stephanie has "finally beat [her] at something." She has experienced 'girlhood' in ways Cass can only dream of.

At the end of the issue, Stephanie asks if Cass thinks "he's right" (referring to Bruce), and Cass says yes. By siding with the male perspective (Bruce, or the he), Cass falls out with Stephanie, losing her first female friend. The whole of Horrocks' run should be understood in the context of this issue, with Cass searching for an understanding of her gender/sexuality.

The Superboy Saga

When Babs takes her on vacation, she makes Cass put on a bikini. Cass ends up meeting Superboy, getting grossed out, and delivering this excellent speech. It's Cass' first proper encounter with the male gaze, and it's especially disquieting for her because a) she knows the power of vision and b) she's brushing up against sexism and systemic injustice, something she hasn't really experienced before. She's encountering a power that can't be defeated with fists, and she is struggling to understand it.

She eventually does kiss Conner, and decides to take a trip to Metropolis. The decision occurs after this panel. Cass' desire to be with Conner stems from her desire to understand these feelings of passion, to want/need and be wanted/needed by others. The top panel here is interesting, too; she sees sexism playing out with other people ("check me out, girls!" / "Jerk."). Her anguished expression indicates she's having trouble reconciling the harmful forms of passion (top panel) with the sweeter forms of love (bottom panel).

At the end of the Superboy saga, Cass learns to distinguish between her romantic and platonic feelings. This taking place after the fallout with Stephanie (who explicitly repudiated her friendship) makes this extra intriguing - Cass calls the creature they're fighting "lonely," clearly meant to show insight into herself. Without Steph, she felt 'lonely', thus sort of falling into this relationship with Conner. Conner, however, is unable to fulfil that loneliness. Which leads us to...

Bruce Wayne Strikes Again

I noted in my other post how Bruce is super disapproving of Cass' love life. While it's hilarious, it genuinely impacts Cass' ability to express her sexuality freely. Here, Bruce pits Cass' sexuality against Batgirl; he implies that these attempts to understand herself harm her vigilante career. The way Cass responds ("I want to. I need to") is strikingly similar to the passions panel ("I want you. I need you"). Instead of being directed to another person, Cass directs her passions to Batgirl as a career. She's sliding back into her early mindset where Batgirl was all she was.

Again, another contrast between her and Stephanie: Stephanie fought for recognition in the suit, but Cass has to fight for an identity outside of it.

The Tai'Darshan Tale

But the real motivator for Cass' sexual awakening is, of course, Tai'Darshan, the semi-racist-caricature metahuman terrorist from Tarakstan. He flirts with Cass constantly, and makes a lot of gendered references ("easy, girl," "I don't understand why a woman like you," he calls her "beautiful") (#39, #40). He is the first significant character to take an interest in Cass as a girl, and without his flirting Cass probably wouldn't have kissed Conner (she kisses him after fighting Tai'Darshan twice).

Tai'Darshan does a big tornado thing and Bruce, intent on not letting him kill, knocks him aside, killing him. I'm low-key mad about this plot point, but that's okay 'cause so is Cass! In an echo of the Steph-Cass situation above, Bruce entirely disapproves of Tai'Darshan, but Cass likes him. Unlike with Stephanie, however, Cass doesn't side with Bruce. Instead, she keeps her feelings "secret" from Batman. It's the start of their relationship fracturing, as well as the start of Cass prioritising her own feelings and self-development over Bruce's perception of her.

No Soul

After all of this boy drama Cass understands romance a bit better, but is still in the dark about her gender. When a woman tells her she has "no soul," Cass goes to Barbara, who tells her the following:

Barbara connects 'soul' with Batgirl and femininity. Cass believes her, putting on Barbara's old suit (which one panel associates with "girl power!") and heading into the streets. What's interesting is that to achieve girlhood, Cass discards her suit in favour of Barbara's. Once again, there's this belief she's not 'feminine enough'; she's not like other girls, and she never will be.

But the suit obviously doesn't match Cass' fighting style, and in the end Cass returns to her old one. We get this great speech from Babs:

Cass is asleep here, but I do think she's learning that there's no 'right way' to be a girl - that she doesn't have to be Stephanie or Conner's girlfriend or Batgirl or Barbara, but just Cass.

The Dick Debacle

Cass gets hit with a drug called 'Soul' and has these hallucinations. This mostly male group sexualises her, criticises her for being sexual, calls her ugly, calls her hot; Cass is visualising the overwhelming contradictory standards applied to women everywhere, a compression of all her experiences thus far. Even Babs has fallen victim to pushing Cass towards stereotypically feminine experiences, and Cass' anguish is not so much at these people but at the patriarchy she's finally beginning to understand.

Dick, in particular, seems to represent this anger:

Finding out Dick broke Babs' heart seems to be the final straw. Here, her hallucinations paint her rage as feminine; the devil repeatedly calls her "girl," and Soul is being peddled by an all-female group who were 'tired of being girlfriends'. Then Cass kicks Dick out a window.

The Dick incident represents a culmination of her negative gendered experiences, beginning from her fallout with Steph and ending with another one of her close female companions (Babs) being hurt by a man.

Fallout

In the final issue before War Games, Cass essentially loses both Barbara and Steph (after making up with her and seeing her as Robin). I just like the parallel between Cass looking at Barbara as she leaves, and Stephanie looking at Cass - in a way, this is the most 'like' Stephanie Cass ever gets.

There isn't really a satisfactory conclusion to the explorations of gender or sexuality in Horrocks' run, or even in Gabrych's after. I think there's a lot to explore and I hope whenever Cass gets her next solo they look into all this a little further!

[faeriekit]

A brief snippet of Time/DimensionTravel!Tim (which I found as a draft in my docs)

There was a bell at the door. 

Alfred Pennyworth did nothing as dramatic as to jolt straight upwards in alarm, but he did find himself pausing. After all, there were no deliveries scheduled, and a ring at the door meant that someone had bypassed several of Wayne Manor’s many security measures. 

There was no Mister Wayne present on the premises to make decisions. There was only Alfred, in custody of the home, and the ghost of Waynes long since gone from the home itself. 

There was nothing for it. Alfred quietly retrieved a revolver from its place underneath the wood paneling in the hall and gathered himself for the long walk to the door. 

The closer he drew to the front entrance, the more factors of the situation made themselves known. There was a pounding on the roof, and on exposed windows. It was raining. The night found outside ancient window frames was black, and opaque, and determinably wet. 

Something thumped. Alfred was not entirely sure it was thunder. The revolver in his coat dragged his consciousness back to its weighted body over and over again. 

Finally Alfred made it to the front door. There was a peephole, but Alfred didn’t risk his eye to use it; if there was someone on the other side, it would become obvious that there was an observer if they had elected to peer in as well. No. Instead he reached for a mirror— and, passed on from the mirrored ornaments hung in a nearby window, Alfred could see a single body on the other side of the front door. 

Well. There was one way to determine the man’s motives. Would it were that Alfred wasn’t alone in Wayne Manor at the moment. 

The four locks came undone, a bar, a chain, and two cylinders. It took considerable strength to pry open the doors— a deterrent against possible invaders— but Alfred knew to never look as though one was struggling. The image of strength was often just as important as the ability to achieve in itself. 

Alfred pulled open the door. 

On the other side was a…teenager. Alfred would be hard-pressed to consider the figure “an adult.”

The boy was practically swimming in the rain, with nothing but a thin, black, long-sleeve shirt and soft pants to defend himself with. He was shoeless. He was soaked to the bone. 

Despite that, he was past every security measure around Wayne Manor with no evidence as to how. 

“Good evening,” Alfred greeted the lad, despite the odd hour of eleven forty-five at night. “I am afraid the master of the house isn’t home, despite your trek. I am afraid I will have to ask you to depart.” 

“Alf—” the boy started. And then his teeth clicked shut. Unusual. It was common practice to use knowledge as a weapon against one’s enemies, but rarely did that knowledge include the name of the waitstaff. “My apologies. I didn’t…mean to call on you so late. But I came here to meet with you, Alfred Pennyworth. I come with a proposal.” 

…Alfred had no appropriate response to that. One white-flecked eyebrow rose above the other.

The boy, recognizing Alfred’s disinterest, carefully bowed. His hands came together. His back bent. Depending on what this visitor knew, he may have understood that Alfred was perfectly capable of erasing problems that might arrive with the Manor’s owner’s absence. 

“Information about your,” the boy paused. “...Former ward, in exchange for sanctuary.” 

Alfred did nothing so dramatic as to gasp, but still, his breath hitched in surprise. If the boy noticed, he did not respond; his eyes stayed low, his posture exposing his neck and back. 

No one, not even Alfred, had heard from Master Bruce since his…unwelcome departure from medical school. If this boy knew where the not-quite-so-young Master had vanished…

Alfred’s grip on the door tightened. “I imagine, then, that I ought to ask you inside.”

Shivering, and subservient, the boy rose from his bow to follow him indoors. 

*

The boy looked no larger in a swathe of towels than he had in the rain outside. 

Damp, with wet black hair smeared over his face and clothes clinging to his person, the boy looked no more restored in a wrap of two fluffy guest towels than he had in soaked clothes alone. 

He did not act as though he was an urchin, used to disrespect, happy to be helped. He acted as though he was a serpent in a maze: clinging to walls and wary of windows, and still, ultimately, royal. 

The boy took a swallow of Alfred’s second-best black tea. If there were no witnesses, Alfred would put money towards the prospect that the boy would have chugged the cup down instead. The mug was carefully lowered to the table. 

“...As of three weeks ago, the date was set for Talia al Ghul to marry Bruce Wayne in the custom of her people,” the boy begins. 

Alfred’s mug nearly slipped from his fingers. He said nothing. There was nothing to say. Alfred was no longer his legal guardian— still, if there was to be a marriage, he should have expected to see some sort of notice at least—

“He doesn’t know,” the boy continued, his lips bloodless and cold, “Because no one has told him. The marriage is not legally binding without paperwork, but she will consider it so, and expect him to continue with their union as spouses. Spousal consent is not traditionally considered to be necessary for their union.” 

Alfred’s lips narrowed. “I…see.” His boy had always wanted something more akin to adventure than domestic responsibility. It appeared as though he had found it. 

“He will leave,” the boy said, blue eyes pointed to the ground, “And depending on how she responds, his would-be-wife will either attempt to follow him before she ultimately returns, or she will attempt to keep him there. One will result in a fight, and the other will not, but either way, I would expect him to return to Gotham in, perhaps…anywhere between one to three months from today.”

The aging butler resisted the urge to sigh into his mug. Would it be that his boy had come into possession of better taste in his gallivant overseas. Considering his proclivities, however, he should have expected some form of complicated drama. “How did you come by this information?”

The boy blinked. “Oh,” he said. “I was being trained as his servant. I believe I was meant to be a wedding gift.” 

Alfred’s mug paused midair. “Trained,” he repeated. The boy was…young. Too young to be legitimately employed as a servant. And considering his ill-fated arrival… “In what manner were you trained?” 

The boy fidgeted carefully. Most men might not have noticed. His hand jerked the cup, although not enough for it to spill; he raised one knee over the other, mouth twisting. He did not want to reveal this piece of information; or, he feared the repercussions of doing so.

“Oh, you know,” the boy deflects, eyes cutting across the room. “In the usual arts. Accounting. Organization. Personnel Management. First aide. Anatomy, physiology. Hacking. Infiltration. Firearms. Poisons. Lethal and nonlethal weaponry. Sabotage.” 

Alfred stared. 

The boy’s expression turned sheepish. “...To be fair, Talia really, really thinks she can convince him to join her father’s ninja cult. It won’t work, of course,” he quickly tried to reassure. “But. Um. She is rather convinced she can take his bloodline into her own and indoctrinate him into becoming assassin royalty. And have assassin babies with him.” 

…The mug was set down with a little more force than Alfred might have preferred.

[bliss-in-the-void]

No bc Satoru has this whole hallucination-dream-limbo sequence where he’s talking to Suguru about how he wanted to give Sukuna his all to get through to him and show him how he understood his loneliness only to have Suguru go “…you’re making me jealous.”

As an author, what Gege did here is genius because that is such a loaded statement to make in response to Satoru processing his fight with Sukuna. It can mean so many different things and we, the audience, are free to interpret exactly how Suguru meant it.

On one hand, you can say he said he was jealous because he wanted to be the one Satoru fought with all his might. He wanted to be as strong as Satoru, to match him in prowess, and hearing that Sukuna was the one to do it instead made him jealous.

On the other hand, you can say that he said he was jealous because Satoru recognized that Sukuna was lonely and wanted to get through to him, something that he was too late to recognize in Suguru when he was descending into madness, and that in turn made Suguru jealous because it was as if Satoru was saying “I recognized the loneliness in him and wanted to do something about it” when he failed to do that same thing with Suguru.

I personally interpret it the second way more (the first one is very valid, but I just see things the second way), because of the next lines.

He made Suguru cry. While laughing. Once again, holy shit is that such a loaded scene. What did Suguru’s tears mean? We have never seen him cry before. Not when Riko died, not at any point when he was losing his mind, not even when he died by Satoru’s hand. So why, when Satoru said he wished Suguru was there to wish him luck before he fought, did he finally get brought to such strong emotion that he cried?

Was it because he was happy to hear that Satoru still thought of him, even in his final moments?

Was it because after all these years, Satoru never thought ill of him and pictured him there beside him, and he was relieved?

Was it because he regretted making the choices he did that led to him not being there by Satoru’s side?

Or, in a very indirect way, was it an admission of love from Satoru that made Suguru happy?

I wonder that, because of these panels from Chapter 238:

Kashimo asked Sukuna, “if you’re so satisfied being alone, why did you refuse to die and turn yourself into cursed fingers?”

Sukuna’s response is, “Love is worthless. I’ve never needed anyone to satisfy me.”

Which is a directly opposing statement to the one that Satoru had just made to Suguru.

Sukuna: I only have to worry about myself and I get to do as I please. I am satisfied by myself. I don’t need love.

Satoru: I worried about everyone else my entire life and I was controlled by the society. I was not satisfied, but I would have been if you had been there with me, Suguru.

That. Is. Powerful. Those panels imply that love is what made Satoru weak. He did not feel complete because he didn’t have Suguru. He had all of the power in the world, he had status, he had students that depended on him, other friends even, and he still was not satisfied because Suguru wasn’t there.

Sukuna on the other hand recognized how detrimental love was because of what it did to people, how it made them weak, and he decided he didn’t need it.

Those panels were such an indirect-direct conversation between Satoru and Suguru.

Essentially, they were saying:

Suguru: You fought with all of your might and I wish that you recognized my loneliness so that I could have been there with you

Satoru: I was at the peak of my power and I had the weight of the world on my shoulders, and I was allowed to go all-out to fight yet I just wanted you to be there with me

It’s just. Ugh. They’re saying they want each other in the most infuriatingly roundabout way.

[needle-noggins]

(CW for SA, suicidal ideation) Here we go. My favorite and simultaneously least favorite panel of Vash and Knives.

I've seen a few interpretations of this scene and before we dive into the one that really struck me, let's start with the more... chill one. We're finally introduced to the third gun of Trigun, Vash's angel arm. And the way we're introduced to it involves Knives forcing him to pull the trigger. Of course, since no one knows anything about Knives, the people of Noman's Land blame Vash for Fifth Moon, and Vash likewise blames himself (this is kinda a spoiler but if you've been paying attention, it's just par for the course). However, he's not the one who pulled the trigger, Knives is. It brings up an interesting moral question of blame - do we blame the gun (and Vash, who is being used/objectified as a weapon here), or the person who wanted it to happen? Guns don't kill people, genocidal twins do!

Now for the awful interpretation, the one that makes me cry and wish Vash was real so I could hug him and pay for his therapy. And really highlights how awful Knives is and how far he'd go for his brother in his own, fucked-up way. I touched on this in a previous post about Legato and the Murder Cafe, and the whole time I was thinking about Fifth Moon but didn't want to say anything for the sake of spoilers.

So. Pay attention to the way Vash and Knives are standing. Knives, when he first grabbed Vash's head, was standing in front of him. He moves behind him to better control him and yeah, he's still controlling him via hand on head, and now he's got his other hand gripping Vash's chest, where feathers/wings are manifesting. Knives is assaulting him. If you wanna get crazy with it and say that the angel arm is kinda phallic, you could say... yeah. This is rape. I heard that specific interpretation once and while I accepted it I also don't know if that would be generally accepted or if I'd be called out for it, so I'm trying to tread lightly here.

It also doesn't escape me that of course the angel arm has feminine features like the plants - the plants that, again, humans are exploiting for their ability to create. There's a lot of feminist commentary to be made here but many people have said it better than me. Specifically I'm thinking of this one post I saw about gender fuckery and Tristamp Vash. Anyway.

Also, the atomic bomb/black hole/sun/whatever that is in the middle... It's just so powerful. It's terrifying. The eldritch body horror here is a punch to the gut. What the fuck, Trigun? I thought this was a funky space western!!!

Oh, and here's more commentary on the following few panels:

Vashussy shot, Knives is still right behind him. Yeah, I wasn't kidding about how bad this pose is for them. Knives, you sick fuck.

Vash shoots himself in the leg (a key difference from '98 trigun, lol), because of course he does, but it doesn't free him from the arm.

The arm's getting darker/the light inside is getting lighter! Stampede did an awesome job with their interpretation of the angel arm and I don't think I would have understood it without that. Also, on my first read I didn't notice that Vash is literally levitating, which is cool, but also terrifying because ?? he's not in control of that either??

Finally. A super painful, minimalist, double-page spread. Nightow loves 'em. Vash thinks he's dying (maybe?) and he wishes he had never existed. It's not suicidal ideation per se, but he wishes he didn't exist at all because he's already caused enough suffering. This is a low for him, because he believes so strongly in the concept of the Blank Ticket. (Come on, soupy brain bitch boy, get it together!) He's a monster, it's just how he was born, and he's not in control. Very specifically too, he says "we", and then changes it to "I"... he doesn't blame Knives at all, and that's very him. I want to shake him! Stop playing the martyr, Vash!

[dunmeshistash]

I feel silly but I've never really understood this page. Why does laios has this looks on his face?

These are the panels right before

"these people don't need to eat. But then why-"

The plates are crumbling, the dinner table has been set for god knows how long and there's unmoving people seated.

I imagine he's creeped out thinking about the implications of why this is set up this way? Only to decide to not think about it cause he has to get things ready, he probably realized somewhat how bad things must be for Thistle at this point

[petew21-blog]

Avengers surrender!

Steve Rogers has been part of the Avengers for many years now. He still fell like he was out of place after being frozen for decades. But having great friends, a heroes job that saved many people's lives and a chance to live his life gave him a sense of purpose to live for.

Once on a mission in Europe, in Germany, someone had to enter a former Nazi bases. Tony Stark gave each Avenger one base to get into and gather as much data as possible. This task couldn't be done by anyone else, because of the number of traps left in the bases.

Steve knew where to look for, Natasha and Clint knew how to deactive them and Tony, Bruce and Thor basically let the traps explode.

Steve entered his first base. The traps were sophisticated, but he manager to get into the control room to access the data. As he turned on the machine a figure appeared.

It was some kind of a hologram of Red Skull, Steve thought.

Red Skull:"Finally, thank you for setting my soul free from Vormir"

Steve:"How...?"

Red Skull:"Oh Mr. Roger. You didn't think that the stone destroyed me, did you? It banished me and gave me a task to fulfill. A task that I am now relieved from thanks to my artifact."

Steve look at the panel he touched before and noticed a bright red stone. Before he could say anything, Red Skull was getting closer

Red Skull:"This time. I win. Everything will be different"

He said as he flew through the air and sunk deep into Steve.

Steve got up and tried to fight it. But there was no use. Something inside of him was very strong and demanded control. Steve fought, but he wasn't able to fight back anymore.

Suddenly, his vision changed. He now couldn't move. He still felt everything his body had, but he couldn't move a muscle.

Steve:"What is happening?"

Steve's body opened his mouth:"Mr. Rogers, this time. You will be at the right side of history"

Steve:"Schmidt!!! Leave my body alone. Let go of me"

Red Skull:"Ehhh, you're so annoying. The more you fight, the more I will destroy your life"

In the comms:"Captain, you need to hurry. There is a situation in New York. We need you"

Red Skull:"On it"

Red Skull stood above all the Avengers who now celebrated their victory over New York against an army sent by Loki.

Natasha:"Why are you so quiet today. You don't wanna celebrate?"

Red Skull turned to face her and a creepy smile crept onto his face:"People died Natasha. Nothing to celebrate"

He left the room and entered the elevator. A group of men, handling the sceptor from Loki went with him. Red Skull enjoyed the stares his new body received. He was used to get respect, but mostly out of fear, not out of respect.

This group of men on the other hand felt off to him. There was something, tension yes, but something more. He realised what it was and went for it. Even if it wouldn't be a successfull attempt, they wouldn't pay too much attention to his words. He is in fact THE CAPTAIN AMERICA now.

He got closer to one of the men and whispered in his ear:"Hail, Hydra"

The man was shocked. But he understood. They took the new captain America to their secret base, where they explained him all their plans. Red Skull on the other hand revealed his identity to them.

Red Skull was used to be a leader, but now, he had to prove that he really was who he claimed to be

And let's say, that after sabottaging many missions and bringing down the Avengers, he eventually received a very suitable nickname along with a new suit

The new Captain Hydra enjoyed his new life. He was a leader and he was in action as well. What more could he want?

Maybe to silence the voice of Steve Rogers inside of his head whenever he disagreed with something

The worst, but also best times were whenever Red Skull used his body to intimadate others, or whenever he was masturbating or enjoying fucking someone else just to intimidate them

Yeah, Steve hated that. He also hated the Hydra tatoo, the new clothes he bought and the people he spent time with.

Steve used to be a decent man, almsot never swearing, gentleman.

Red Skull turned him into a vulgar, evil, swearing, everything-moves-fucking prick. But there was nothing Steve could do. All he could do, was watch. Watch and feel. Yeah... Steve can feel still what his body is going through. And Steve found out that screaming at Schmidt during sex made it so much better. Maybe they will find a way how to get along. Oh, here comes... What the hell. Is that Bucky?! And why is he naked?

A story request for @thunder-emperor

[robertreich]

How Trump is Following Hitler's Playbook

You’ve heard Trump’s promise:

TRUMP: I’m going to be a dictator for one day.

History shows there are no “one-day” dictatorships. When democracies fall, they typically fall completely.

In a previous video, I laid out the defining traits of fascism and how MAGA Republicans embody them. But how could Trump — or someone like him — actually turn America into a fascist state? Here’s how in five steps.

Step 1: Use threats of violence to gain power

Hitler and Mussolini relied on their vigilante militias to intimidate voters and local officials. We watched Trump try to do the same in 2020.

TRUMP: Proud Boys, stand back and stand by.

Republican election officials testified to the threats they faced when they refused Trump’s demands to falsify the election results.

RAFFENSPERGER: My email, my cell phone was doxxed.

RUSTY BOWERS: They have had video panel trucks with videos of me proclaiming me to be a pedophile.

GABRIEL STERLING: A 20-something tech in Gwinnett County today has death threats and a noose put out saying he should be hung for treason.

If the next election is close, threats to voters and election officials could be enough to sabotage it.

Step 2: Consolidate power

After taking office, a would-be fascist must turn every arm of government into a tool of the party. One of Hitler’s first steps was to take over the civil service, purging it of non-Nazis.

In October of 2020, Trump issued his own executive order that would have enabled him to fire tens of thousands of civil servants and replace them with MAGA loyalists. He never got to act on it, but he’s now promising to apply it to the entire civil service.

That’s become the centerpiece of something called Project 2025, a presidential agenda assembled by MAGA Republicans, that would, as the AP put it, “dismantle the US government and replace it with Trump’s vision.”

Step 3: Establish a police state

Hitler used the imaginary threat of “the poison of foreign races” to justify taking control of the military and police, placing both under his top general, and granting law-enforcement powers to his civilian militias.

Now Trump is using the same language to claim he needs similar powers to deal with immigrants.

Trump plans to deploy troops within the U.S. to conduct immigration raids and round up what he estimates to be 18 million people who would be placed in mass-detention camps while their fate is decided.

And even though crime is actually down across the nation, Trump is citing an imaginary crime wave to justify sending troops into blue cities and states against the will of governors and mayors.

Trump insiders say he plans to invoke the Insurrection Act to have the military crush civilian protests. We saw a glimpse of that in 2020, when Trump deployed the National Guard against peaceful protesters outside the White House.

And with promises to pardon January 6 criminals and stop prosecutions of right-wing domestic terrorists, Trump would empower groups like the Proud Boys to act as MAGA enforcers.

Step 4: Jail the opposition

In classic dictatorial fashion, Trump is now openly threatening to prosecute his opponents.

TRUMP: if I happen to be president and I see somebody who’s doing well and beating me very badly, I say, ‘Go down and indict them.’ They’d be out of business.

And he’s looking to remake the Justice Department into a tool for his personal vendettas.

TRUMP: As we completely overhaul the federal Department of Justice and FBI, we will also launch sweeping civil rights investigations into Marxist local district attorneys.

In the model of Hitler and Mussolini, Trump describes his opponents as subhuman.

TRUMP: …the radical left thugs that live like vermin within the confines of our country…

Step 5: Undermine the free press

As Hitler well understood, a fascist needs to control the flow of information. Trump has been attacking the press for years.

And he’s threatening to punish news outlets whose coverage he dislikes.

He has helped to reduce trust in the media to such a historic low that his supporters now view him as their most trusted source of information.

Within a democracy, we may often have leaders we don’t like. But we have the power to change them — at the ballot box and through public pressure. Once fascism takes hold, those freedoms are gone and can’t easily be won back.

We must recognize the threat of fascism when it appears, and do everything in our power to stop it.

[muletia]

[tfp] optimus prime x human!reader

summary: you feel insecure about your boring life. optimus is quick to make you feel better about yourself

cw: angst, fluff, yapper (reader) x listener (optimus), optimus is fucking obsessed with you, bad writing, silliness

word count: 1033

The last thing you expected to see after leaving work was a massive red-and-blue truck parked perfectly at the curb, just a few meters from the entrance. You’d recognize that color scheme and vehicle type anywhere — someone had come to visit. You didn’t even try to hide the smile that crept onto your lips.

"Is that your boyfriend?"

Your coworker’s voice pulled you out of your brief trance. You’d completely forgotten she was even there, though just moments ago, the two of you had been making small talk.

"Yup."

"You never mentioned him."

Because he’s a damn alien, you almost blurted, but you bit your tongue in time.

"He’s a long-haul truck driver, so he’s rarely in Jasper. Hey, thanks for the recipe, but I’ve gotta go. See you tomorrow!"

After a quick hug, you headed briskly toward the truck. She’d surely grill you for details tomorrow, and you’d need to have your excuses ready, but that was a problem for later. You had far better things to do now.

You opened the passenger door to avoid drawing attention to an empty driver seat and climbed inside. The familiar interior immediately put you at ease, and when the owner of the truck spoke, butterflies that had been dormant in your stomach suddenly came to life. You’d known him for years, yet his voice alone still made you feel like a giddy teenager. The perfect man, as it turned out, was actually an extraterrestrial being.

"Greetings, my dearest."

"Hi, love. To what do I owe this visit?"

Optimus started the engine and took the route toward the base. You knew it by heart, having traveled it countless times with Bumblebee or Bulkhead when you needed an escort. Yet, despite being your partner, Optimus rarely had time for dates. You didn’t hold it against him; you fully understood the duties that came with being a leader. But there were moments, many intimate moments when Optimus wished he could spend more time with you. He wanted to be there for you through every good and bad moment, but he couldn’t, and it tore at his spark.

"Front lines have been quiet for now. I wanted to take the opportunity to see you."

You reached out and caressed the panel in front of you. You didn’t miss the momentary, louder hum of the engine. Adorable.

Out of habit, you started recounting all the work and life events that had happened during your time apart. You summarized the movies that had intrigued you, bored you, or changed your brain chemistry. You talked about books and poetry, focusing mostly on those he probably would enjoy as well. Optimus then offered his thoughts, sharing his perspective and making a mental list of works to study when he has the time, so he could discuss them with you in depth later. Maybe, if he got lucky, you’d agree to analyze them together, curled up against his neck.

After catching up on the past few weeks, you naturally transitioned to today’s events, animatedly describing how a certain Cameron had gotten on your nerves.

"I asked him a few times to fix my work computer because, you know, it’s his job, but no! Every time, he came up with some stupid excuse just to avoid—"

"Optimus," Ratchet’s voice broke in over the radio, interrupting your rant. "I hate to disturb your rendezvous, but your presence would be helpful at the base. No rush, though."

Oh, right. For a moment, you’d forgotten about your partner’s responsibilities, bombarding him with stories about work that didn’t even begin to compare with Optimus’s adventures. A pang of guilt hit you. The enthusiasm drained away, replaced by a sudden self-resentment. Instantly, the story that had been the highlight of your day shrank to the size of an atom, meaning absolutely nothing in the grander scale of beings you shared a relationship with. It wasn’t the first time these thoughts had interrupted your fun, but you’d never voiced them out loud, burying them deep within. Too bad they always found their way back to the surface.

You hoped Optimus hadn’t noticed your sudden change in body language, but deep down, you knew he had. He always did. Always perceptive and caring.

Trying to mask your discomfort, you gave a small smile.

"Hi, Ratchet!" you greeted.

The medic grumbled something under his breath.

"I am on my way to the base," Optimus reported, and the connection cut off.

"[Your Name]," he began, his tone changing. From the usual military formality, it softened into a gentle warmth. He’d seen right through you, as always. "Is everything alright?"

You didn’t want to perform tough. Not today, not in such a raw and tender moment.

"No. I don’t think so? It’s just… in your life, everything is so grand and significant; there’s always some action. My workday is interesting if a bird lands on the windowsill by my desk. Sometimes, I feel like my stories bore you because, let’s be honest, they’re boring. My job is boring."

"I understand. I am sorry you feel that way. It was never my intention to belittle you."

As always, he put all the blame on himself. You wished you could hug him, to take away at least a fraction of the guilt he carried every day on his shoulders.

"I know," you sighed. "You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry for getting all worked up."

"There is no need to apologize. I am grateful that you opened up to me. Personally, I do not think your life is uninteresting. It is yours and yours alone; no one else in the world experiences it in quite the same way. To me, your stories are unique, as they differ so drastically from the realities of my life. I wish you could think of them the same way—to be proud of who you are and what you represent."

"You always give me something to think about before bed," you laughed. "Thank you, love. I’ll try to work on myself."

"There are still a few Earth minutes before we reach the base," he informed you, and you raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to finish the story about Cameron?"

[ryescapades]

maelstrom | kaiju no. 8

characters: narumi gen x gn!reader contents: angst, hurt no comfort, platoon leader!reader a/n: this is rather descriptive than anything hm 1.1k wc

this is the fifth time.

your leg continued to bounce under the table, eyes darting between the glass panel just beside the booth and the phone sitting on the table. the device’s screen remained dark, no notification coming in from a certain someone that you’ve been expecting to see.

the cafe you were at was bustling with life, waiters scurrying around with trays in their hands and customers going about their activities as they enjoyed their served orders. well, at least there were people who were enjoying their time here. sadly enough, you couldn’t say the same for yourself.

you’d been sitting at your assigned booth for almost an hour— or forty-five minutes to be exact, feeling out of your skin in the outfit that was carefully picked out for this particular day. it was supposed to be a simple outing, a simple date. one which you haven’t been on with your boyfriend for quite a while. you’d barely seen him at all the past few weeks either.

you’d fully understood what it means to date an important figure in the defense force, you really do. hell, you know how little free time you have in your hands as a platoon leader yourself, let alone a division captain.

you could never blame narumi for being busy with work but that doesn't mean it hurts any less when he misses another one of your dates or quick meetups. he’d agreed to meet up with you that day, and like a forlorn wife waiting for her dead husband to return from war, you held onto the miniscule chance that he’d arrive anytime soon.

all these times, the reason why it scrapes at your heart so painfully is not because of his absence, but rather his reasoning behind it. the lack of it, in fact. he always sounded so… dismissive whenever it happened. almost as if he didn’t give it any thought to rationalize why he decided to leave you hanging.

it has come to the point where you started to go along with his excuses, not bothering to pester him with the what and why because you know that’s not something he’d like to entertain repetitively. narumi gen is his own person, and you have no right to bind him down with your neediness.

but you were supposed to be his partner… is it such a bad thing to ask for just a fraction of his time?

a faint ping from your phone caught your attention, bringing your consciousness back to the flaking reality.

if this was a few weeks back, you would’ve lunged for the phone as soon as you’d heard the notification coming in, all excited and giddy. there would’ve been hearts in your eyes, jitters on the tip of your fingers and butterflies in your stomach.

but at that time, only dread and uncertainty settled in your mind. the voices of the customers around you rang in your ears, ice cubes clinking in the plastic cup of your drink as they started to melt and condense out at the side of the container. with slow fingers, you swiped across the screen and opened the new message you received.

a scoff (or is it a laugh? if so, it’s a self-mocking one at that) of deprecation, fraught and disappointment escaped from your mouth then. something ugly and sinister coiled deep in your gut, and you had to bite down on your lips to prevent the cry from coming out.

it was just a few words, but those few words made you feel like you’d just been slapped right across the face.

‘sorry, can’t come today. just remembered i had stuff to do with hasegawa.’ the text said.

maybe you were too ambitious, too hopeful; falling in love with a man such as narumi gen, someone so powerful and revered in the eyes of others, wishing for him to look at you the same way you do him. you couldn’t even remember when it first started, and at this point you don’t know what’s more devastating; the fact that you were spiraling down headfirst and blindly into this aphotic void, or that he was almost never there to catch you.

perhaps this had been a long time coming, and all the lonely, sorrowful nights you’ve spent pondering over the what ifs have calamitously accumulated in your brain, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to feel guilty of the way pettiness festered inside your ruptured mind.

because a few days after narumi had last stood you up, you’d unapologetically told him that you’re cutting things off. through text. and it wasn’t even a question; it was a statement. clear and straight to the point, just like how his excuses used to be.

life after that never came easy either. everything just feels exhausting, both physically and mentally. amidst the grueling tasks of training, reporting and subjugating kaiju, you’d always find yourself lost in thought, unconsciously pondering about your… ex-boyfriend.

god, how much you despise that label. especially now that he holds that very same title.

it’s funny, really; how tight of a chokehold the man has on you. ever since you broke things off, your days have been filled with this chest-hollowing pain. you haven’t been as well-rested as before, your baths haven’t felt as comforting, your meals haven’t been as fulfilling, and all the things you’d usually find joy in suddenly felt like such a hassle.

narumi's absence has been agonizingly loud.

and it hurts to see that he’s faring well without you; he oversees the division’s training as usual, he reviews your reports and talks to you like you were just acquaintances, he sends you off to missions like you were any other soldier in his troop, like nothing ever happened - like the two of you never happened.

does he not love you anymore? has he moved on already? how can he sleep at night knowing what he’d done to you? that soul-binding connection you used to have… was it not real? or was it just in your head all along?

sometimes you wonder how pitiful you would have to be for him to realize how badly he affected you, how crushing it feels to watch the world you’d built with him fall apart every time he’d neglected you.

one of japan’s pillars of defense, the country’s strongest anti-kaiju combatant. his burgeoning personage keeps drifting further away, overwhelmingly unreachable like the depth of a never-ending vortex.

you’d always been the one who loves harder, and now you’d have to live with what was left of your crumbling heart, for the rest of it has long sunken from the wreckage of his love.

once again i had a thought.

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