#So just keep that in mind. never more than one black senator at a time until 2013

[loveerran]

2013 was the first year 2 black Senators were serving in the Senate at the same time. Ever. And they were both appointed by governors and not elected. Now we have 5 elected:

Raphael Warnock, Tim Scott, Cory Booker and (newly elected) Lisa Blunt Rochester (left) and Angela Alsobrooks (right)! This will be the first time two black women serve in the Senate together:

Special shout-out to outgoing senator Laphonza Butler, appointed to replace Kamala Harris and the first openly LGBT black Senator:

[7thedisasterdyke]

Kamala has already supported KOSA (Project 2025). She has told us she is going to continue to murder babies and families. She wants to turn Gaza into real estate for white supremacists. She invited right wing goons to speak at the DNC. The Biden admin just funded alt-right chuds in Venezuela to riot because Biden thinks the socialist cheated and thinks Venezuelan Trump won instead. As a queer, indigenous person, I know Kamala will be just as bad as Trump for my rights if not worse because she wants conservatives to vote for her. The Democratic party and AIPAC has ousted progressive dems in their primaries and replaced them with obedient right wing Dems. The Biden admin sends weapons to nazis in Ukraine who killed 14,000 Ukrainians who protested against the Right wing coup that Obama supported a decade ago. Obama is responsible for many innocent deaths (but y'all treat him like a celebrity saint). Obama and Hillary had Gaddafi killed. Libyan had it all. Obama ordered a drone strike on paramedics rescuing people from the wedding he just bombed (they call it the Obama two tap). Anyway, you can keep defending the Dems moving 3 clicks right because it's better than 10 clicks right with Republicans, and saying it's an evil system, but you're helping to enable it. If we get Trump, it's nobody's fault but the Dems. I actually thought Kamala would be better than Biden. I was wrong. I'm not gonna vote for anyone who is responsible for murdering children and selling the rights of marginalized people (including myself) to Republicans. You can say "Oh but she said 'trans rights'" all you want but this is my 4th election and Dems keep supporting transphobic dems and anti-abortion dems and they parade them around like the good guys. The marginalized people you claim to support are all screaming at you to not support these right wing Dems and join them on the left. You don't get to sell them out for your own comfort. Your rights aren't more important than mine and vice versa. We've been asking you to move left with us since at least Obama turned out to have lied about codifying Roe and decided bailing out his bank buddies was more important. But we're watching you move right. We will survive either way but the dems want you to use scare tactics because they want to be the ones at the wheel of the fascist machine. So if you don't like it then don't participate. Don't play their game. They both play for the same team. They want your consent for nuclear war against made up enemies. It's sick. Stop believing their lies and supporting them. Supporting Kamala is the same as supporting Trump. You're just voting for aesthetics. Lots of liberals have already lost their way anyway and say they'd rather be fascists than socialists. Human rights begin on the left and the dems have never been left of center. Ffs liberals pulled out of a pride fest because of Palestinian inclusion. Lots of them already are self admitted zionists. Do you want to belong to a political party that openly supports white Christian supremacy cosplaying as judaism to avoid criticism? The two party system is white supremacy and they are using a black woman to play identity politics with people who only see her as color and refuse to see that she's a tool to them. Anyway there's room at the leftist table. Or you can keep going to the right until you no longer remember what you stood for.

I'm not gonna lie, sending one big chunk of text with no space for me to breathe between paragraphs is tough for me to read, but I'm going to anyway, because I foresee I'm gonna get quite a few of these.

So I'm going to go through this one point at a time:

Support of KOSA: sadly true, but that's an easy thing to change minds on. Not like she's the only one in the senate who wants it passed on either side.

Continue to murder babies and families: I can't tell if you mean the border or Gaza, but in either case, Trump will do many times worse.

Gaza into WS real estate: no she doesn't. She's been more outspoken in favor of an end to the genocide than any other presidential candidate in modern history.

Invited right-wingers into the DNC: first, I don't think she personally invited them. Second, even if she did, she still needs to pull Trump supporters and marginally right-wing independents to vote for her. We want a better society for everyone, after all.

Venezuela: the "socialist" has a proven track record of human rights abuses, and other than that, I don't know enough about the country to speak further on the subject.

Just as bad for queer/indigenous as Trump because she wants the right to vote for her: seriously, this is just point 4 worded differently. The purpose of an election (in the US) is to make yourself palatable to as many people as possible so you can beat the massive core of voters each party has. Also, again, we're trying to make a better society for everyone, right?

Dems/AIPAC ousting progressives in primaries: sure, AIPAC has a large amount of money to outspend progressives, and even still, the only actual "ousting" I've heard of was Cory Bush.

Biden sending weapons to Nazis in Ukraine: ok look, I'm sick of leftists parroting Russian propaganda. The government of Russia is authoritarian and right-wing, Trump idolizes Putin, and Putin has allied himself with Kim Jong-Un, who Trump also loves. Also, a few far-right nationalist groups fighting to maintain their nation (alongside non-far-right troops) is to be expected. And respectfully, I don't care how Obama was involved, because that's irrelevant to Russia literally invading.

Obama having innocents killed: yeah, duh, he was a US president in the US Empire's Military Age. That doesn't mean anything, and Harris was never even part of his administration, so your point is just a complete non sequitur to begin with.

"Defending Dems moving 3 clicks right when it's better than 10 clicks with Repubs": would you rather have the 10 clicks? Like, actually. Democrats are already right-wing. Harris's policies would work to move the country left, actually.

"If we get Trump, it's nobody's fault but the dems": actually, no, it's the fault of people who try to persuade the minority of far-left democrats to not vote for the best possible option.

Dems keep supporting transphobic/anti-abortion dems: yeah, sure, I'll give you that one, because guess what? They're more easily convinced to vote in their trans constituents' best interests regardless. They're more likely to vote to maintain abortion rights because they're more likely to listen to those constituents.

Marginalized people screaming at me to join them on the left: I am on the left. Incredibly far left, in fact. I'm just not stupid enough to think that we have enough people to change things. Want me to vote third party? I think I'd rather go with the safer option for marginalized people and pick someone with any chance of beating Trump.

I'm a sellout: no, I'm really not. I just understand that the system is overwhelmingly rigged against the non-establishment picks.

Dems want to be at the wheel of the fascist machine: better the one who has a chance at turning it around than the one who'll turn up the throttle.

Don't like it, don't participate: this isn't like a boycott. If every left-winger decided not to participate, Trump would almost certainly win by default. We "play their game" because without the game's existence, Trump's devoted followers would have already had every minority expunged from the country.

They both play for the same team: they're not even playing the same game! Trump and his Republican lackeys want to eliminate the concept of voting entirely, wants to end freedoms for all minorities, and wants to establish theocracy. Democrats want to maintain the democratic system, establish more rights for minorities, and make life better for Americans. This is also my answer to "Supporting Kamala is the same as supporting Trump": it's just not true.

Lots of liberals are self-admitted Zionists: believing Jewish people have a right to the chunk of land the Jewish ethnoreligion originated from, in this world with borders, where they can be unequivocally safe from the historic oppression they have faced for the last several thousand years in... is a fairly common sentiment. That is Zionism. There is a difference between believing that, and believing that they should be the only ones living in that specific region that was inhabited when they got there, which is Kahanism. In order to figure out, in a way that makes as many people happy as possible with the outcome, what to do with Israel, we need someone at the helm of the US who is not Kahanist. Trump notably supports Kahanists. Harris, notably, does not. At least not publicly. Do you know how hard it is to keep a secret as a presidential nominee?

The two-party system is WS: YES! It is! But we're not going to beat it from the outside because, and this is important, they have the power to silence us if we get too loud, and they will absolutely use it. The US has the third largest military in the world by active personnel, at 1.3 million. Do you think we would be able to train enough people to beat that? Think we can afford enough fighter planes to defeat 4 of the top 5 air forces in the world? Until the answer to that is yes, I'm going to keep voting in US elections for the lesser of two evils, because I'd rather fight them, than the trigger-happier alternatives.

"You can keep going to the right until you no longer remember what you stood for": also known as "doing anything a different flavor of leftist doesn't like".

I'd like to end this with a series of open questions:

Did you know that, of the third-party candidates for president, only Jill Stein has any chance of winning enough states?

Did you know that she's only ever won Massachusetts?

Did you know that the Claudia de la Cruz can only win by write-in?

Did you know that Cornel West isn't even on enough ballots to win?

I've seen leftists calling for votes for all three.

Final question to everyone voting "third-party or not at all":

Which one of them will beat Harris in every state?

Have a good night, and stay whelmed.

[thatshadowgastwhore]

Tim Drake x PJO Aphrodite kid AU drabble

Tim was never more in his element than when he was at a gala. A party. A soirée. A fundraiser rubbing shoulders with the heights of society, or the dregs, depending on one’s perspective. 

He was built for it, afterall. 

Five feet and seven inches of lean muscle and a shockingly defined figure, he had the shiny, healthy, onyx dark hair, perfectly clear skin, and defined cheekbones to make anyone swoon. People said he inherited all his mother’s looks, which was entirely too accurate, a private joke for him alone. 

He did look an awful lot like Janet Drake. He just also inherited quite a few of Aphrodite’s characteristics as well. 

It was all in his voice. Where Janet was sharp and hawkish, her remarks biting in a way you could feel, but couldn’t quite counter, Tim’s voice was melodic. It lulled anyone within earshot into a sense of trust and security. Your secrets were safe with him. Look at him - would he do you any harm? Why don’t you tell him all the details of the deal you’re brokering with Mr. Luthor?

He could glide across the floor in a dance, leading or following depending on who his partner was, charm the pants off anyone he wanted to, or quickly disengage from anyone he didn’t. He was everything Janet could have hoped for in a magical baby delivered to her by Eros himself following an affair with the most stunning woman in all of Paris. At least it was a plausible explanation for why he could speak French fluently. 

Yes, Tim was the pride of both of his mother’s when he put away his pretenses and just let his godly side flex for a moment. Sure, being half god helped him heal faster, keep the superhero physique, and have the reflexes one needed to excel as Red Robin. But getting to be his mother’s son on these nights….it felt good.

Which was why he maybe forgot the directive for the night. Which was to make a briefer than normal appearance before departing for patrol. He was filing away the information Mrs. Tipton was telling him about her husband, the senator’s, exquisite time in the Iceberg Lounge for the case he was working, when he felt Bruce and Damian’s eyes on him across the room. 

He elected to ignore them. If they wanted him to patrol that badly tonight, they could tell him themselves. Have Steph do it, she’d been adamant she not have to attend the gala. He continued to circle the party, sauntering around, moving his hips more than he justifiably needed to to walk, but sue him for knowing his ass looked really good in this suit. It only helped his charmspeak; people wanted to believe they were still attractive and young, and if an attractive young person complimented them and accepted them as one of their own, it only made his words more potent. Whoever said that sex sold wasn’t a liar. 

He allowed the young son of some board member or the other to lead him onto the dance floor, quickly beguiling him and tracing the right threads to tug in an embezzlement investigation. The other man (Rufus, Tim learned, a family name apparently) wouldn’t even remember the contents of their conversation, Tim’s words were so potent, just that it had ended with a good-bye kiss to the cheek. 

Bruce did care, it turned out. He approached Tim at the edge of the party near the refreshment table. 

“You were supposed to be patrolling tonight. Jason requested your help with the trafficking investigation.”

“Steph can do it,” Tim said, “I’m more useful here.”

“Tim, you know that route better than anyone-”

“Bruce,” Tim looked him straight in the eyes, “you want me at this gala. This is where I shine. Stephanie can work that patrol. I’ll find more information now to generate leads for more cases than just Black Mask.”

The charmspeak wrapped around his words, causing Bruce to pause, clearly struggling against the magic. He had a strong mind, Tim could give him that. 

“You want this, Bruce. I’m helping people.” Tim pushed. 

He knew that wasn’t really how charmspeak was supposed to work. Forcing his will onto other people wasn’t how it was most effective, he should be more subtle about it. But Tim took great pride in being the only one to lie to Batman, and he didn’t need magic to do it. He could be convincing all on his own. Afterall, Aphrodite might have made his tongue silver, but Janet was the one who made it sharp. He was his mothers’ son, and he could convince anyone of anything. 

“Yes, of course,” Bruce succumbed, “I’ll ask Steph to meet up with Jason.”

Tim’s face morphed into the perfect breezy, carefree smile. “Yes, you will.” He made eye contact across the room with his next mark, a known pawn of Scarecrow, the daughter of some uppercrust Bristol couple, and current chemistry student at Gotham University. He wasn’t wrong. He could help more people here. 

It was also way more fun. 

[varpusvaras]

The mission had been going well. Very well, in fact. Quinlan had been rather proud of himself for how well it had been going.

Of course it had been a rather simple mission to begin with, but hey, these days, you never knew when everything would start to go awry. It had happened way too many times already during what had been described as simple missions. More often than not simple missions had started to mean unexpected trouble.

He had infiltrated the mansion headquarters, he had planted the device that would allow him to disturb the shield waves later, and he had been on his way out, when he had heard something interesting.

One of the owners of the mining operation currently supplying the Separatists was stabbbing his operating partner in the back. While trying to make it look like the partner had tried to take out the Ambassador arriving to the planet shortly from the Republic.

That had been new information. When was this Ambassador arriving?

Right now, apparently.

Just his luck.

So Quinlan had found himself a faster way out and ran.

He had managed to take out some of the droids planted above the platform before the Ambassador had arrived, which he hoped would've at least lessened the directions the attack would arrive from. It was just a shame that the suprise visit had disturbed his workflow greatly, leaving him to everything with a lot less finesse than he normally did. It was all rather frustratingly messy.

At least the Ambassador had Clones with him. Members of the Coruscant Guard, those red armors were more than easy to recognise. Quinlan had had a few run-ins with them so far, and from his experience, they were a bunch of rather...uptight people. Well, Quinlan couldn't really fault them for that. Working on Coruscant and with it's problems all the while having to deal with the Senators would've made anyone constantly annoyed.

Because Quinlan knew this, and knew what a rotting mess Coruscant truly was, he did not underestimate the Guard. He had seen them in action before. They were just as much soldiers as their brothers in the GAR. Still, he kept an eye out on them as he moved around the platform, the bright red of their armors making it rather easy.

It was also rather easy to spot the Commander among his men.

He was a rather imposing figure, standing tall at the front, his shoulders wide and his stance steady, like he was a one-man wall between the droids and his men. The black kama contrasted starkly with the rest of his armor, giving his figure a rather nice edge. He did have a rather nice figure anyway, with his broad chest and arms and legs that looked like they had been recently fitted into a new set entirely.

Then he picked up the rotary cannon on the ground next to him like it was nothing, and without moving an inch, started to fire on the advancing droids, the rows of them dropping on the ground like stick figures made out flimsi.

Okay, that was- Quinlan had eyes, alright? He had eyes and a mind for appreciation.

Then the B2's started to storm the platform. Quinlan watched as the Commander moved to meet them, his men moving in tandem to take care of the rest of the droids, like a well-timed machine.

But then there were more B2's, and Quinlan decided that this was it. It was probably going to compromise some of his previous mission, but hey, everything was already going kind of up in flames.

The troopers were doing an admirable job of keeping their Commander's back, but the B2's were taking too much of their attention, giving the rest of the droids an opportunity to advance and split the group in half. So Quinlan took a few running steps, jumped over the railing and landed right behind the Commander.

It came as a surprise for the B2's as well, as Quinlan managed to slice through the blasters of the two of them, before sending them flying towards the platform wall.

"Don't you worry, Commander", Quinlan said, turning towards the man. "The help has arrived!"

The Commander turned as a blur of red, white and dark metal, and Quinlan ducked just at the right moment, letting the barrel of the cannon swing over his head and crash right into the head of a droid just behind Quinlan's right shoulder, where it had been readying its weapon.

The Commander turned his head towards Quinlan as the droid crumpled to the ground. Quinlan couldn't see his face, but he could more than clearly feel his eyes on him.

"What made you think we were the one's needing help?" He asked. He hoisted his cannon up like it weighed no more than a twig, and Quinlan saw how the muscles on his arms and thighs that were visible from the gaps in the armor moved, and it was definitely not just the armor giving his frame extra bulk.

Quinlan's eyes were definitely watching, and his mind was definitely appreciating.

"I didn't say whose help had arrived, now did I?" He asked. The Commander let out a laugh, low and raspy through his vocoder, and he swung around and shot the next row of droids full of holes in one simple movement.

Oh, he definitely was in rather unexpected trouble now.

[kyberrebel]

Things that went through my mind during The Acolyte episode 7

I’m already happy that the final is more than half an hour.

Osha being inside the Darth Teeth helmet is going to give me a panic attack just watching her.

Considering Sol never took Pip away from Mae, he was kind of just asking for her to escape, honestly.

I hope somewhere starts selling plushies of Bazil! I’d pay so much money for one.

There’s been so much foreshadowing to Anakin’s eventual fall to the dark side in this show. This senator’s talk about a Jedi snapping one day is just one of many. I get why they want to foreshadow it, but it being so on the nose is getting old really quickly.

WAIT Who was that in that cave??? There’s no way that’s Darth Plagueis, right? It kind of looks like him.

If Qimir ends up killing Sol I am going to be so mad. 

But also if Sol ends up killing Qimir I am going to be so mad.

I’m honestly surprised more people don’t use lightsabers as boomerangs in Star Wars. 

Man, whoever edited this episode really loved slow-motion shots.

Osha and Mae fighting hand to hand is so cool. Especially with the way they mirror each other’s moves at times.

I feel bad for Qimir while Sol and Mae are talking. This poor dude’s just awkwardly standing there, bummed that Mae isn’t finally Sol.

NO! I I love Sol’s and Osha’s relationship. I’m sad that it’s getting ruined!

Right now I’m guessing that Mae represents the light side and Osha represents the dark, instead of the other way around. That’s why Mae failed at being Qimir’s apprentice, and Osha failed at being a Jedi. It also makes sense because of their current outfit choices, with Mae wearing white and Osha wearing black.

^I wrote that seconds before Osha started Force choking Sol. Damn, I’m good.

SHE’S BLEEDING THE KYBER CRYSTAL!?!? THAT IS SO COOL!

BUT AT THE SAME TIME I REALLY DON’T WANT SOL TO DIE!

NO

NO! 

Sol giving her permission to kill him is literally so sad. All my favorite characters on this show keep dying, though!

Okay, if Qimir or Bazil die, I have no more favorite characters on this show. So they better live.

The lightsaber blade turning red is so perfect. 

Oh yay, more disposable background Jedi to kill.

I guess Vernestra was Qimir’s Jedi master. Interesting.

I like Osha and Mae finally working together!

With Mae’s memory wiped, this show is going to end where they were as kids post-incident, except in reverse. With Mae with the Jedi and Osha with Qimir.

Osha crying has me crying now.

I knew Vernestra was going to be the one who ended up concealing that fact that there are Sith out there!

Does it stink that Osha is now training with a Sith? In theory, yes. But at the same time, I love the dynamic she has with Qimir. So I’m cool with it.

YODA!!!!!!!!!!

I think this was a good ending for season one, AS LONG AS WE GET A SEASON TWO.

I’ll post my final thoughts on the show as a whole soon!

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

The hits just keep on coming with the Harris campaign. It’s almost hard to keep up with the good news.

With that, here we go:

Barack and Michelle Obama issued the following statement this morning:

“Earlier this week, we got a chance to catch up with a friend who we’ve known for more than 20 years. She’d had a pretty busy couple of days, to say the least. But we couldn’t be more excited for her -- or more thrilled to endorse Kamala Harris as the Democratic nominee for President of the United States.

“We agree with President Biden -- choosing Kamala was one of the best decisions he’s made. She has the resume to prove it: As a prosecutor, she defended the Constitution and fought for folks who deserve a fair shake. As California’s Attorney General, she worked hard to ensure everyone was treated fairly, no matter who they are or who they love. As a Senator, she was one of the strongest voices holding the Trump administration accountable. And, as Vice President, she helped lead the charge on expanding the Affordable Care Act, combating climate change, fighting for reproductive freedom, equality, and the rule of law.

“But Kamala has more than a resume. She has the vision, the character, and the strength that this critical moment demands. There is no doubt in our mind that Kamala Harris has exactly what it takes to win this election and deliver for the American people. At a time when the stakes have never been higher, she gives us all reason to hope.

“We know over the next few months, Kamala will continue to make her case directly to the American people -- Democrats, Republicans, and independents alike. As she does, she will have our full support -- and we look forward to watching her unite our party and our country around a vision for a brighter, fairer, more prosperous future.

“We’re going to do everything we can to elect Kamala Harris the next President of the United States. And we hope you’ll join us.”

Harris campaign “Breaks Zoom”:

From the HollywoodReporter - Hundreds of thousands of Kamala Harris supporters have rallied behind the presumptive Democratic nominee this week, with Zoom calls breaking records with six-digit attendance numbers.

The events started Sunday following President Joe Biden’s announcement he would not seek re-election. More than 44,000 Black women joined a call to galvanize supporters for the vice president’s historic run for president, drawing celebrity names — including Yvette Nicole Brown and Jenifer Lewis — and raising an estimated $1.5 million.

The trend continued with thousands of Black men on a call earlier this week (they raised $1.3 million), followed by Zooms for white women, LGBTQ supporters, South Asian supporters and more.

At the white women call Thursday night, there were more than 100,000 participants (officially now 150,000), a number so staggering it caused significant technical glitches that sent many to watch the livestream on YouTube, where more than 25,000 also joined the call. ($10 million was raised)

Hollywood was represented across the interest groups. Mindy Kaling joined the South Asian call, with George Takei, Zachary Quinto, Raven Simone, Sophia Bush, Ashlyn Harris, Brian Michael Smith and Justin Tranter attending the LGBTQ call. (Tranter, the co-writer of Chappell Roan’s “Good Luck Babe,” announced he would donate $20,000 to the cause.)

Katie McGrath, Connie Britton, Pink and more signed on to the white women’s call, with Pink reportedly joining right after leaving the stage of a performance in Sweden.

Another Zoom call, women for Harris, is scheduled for this weekend.

Grace outperforms ignorance:

JoeBiden’s farewell address drew 29 million viewers - nearly triple the number that watch Mushroom Donnie’s acceptsance speech.

Harris points to a different direction regarding Israel and Gaza:

After meetiongwith Netanyahu, Kamal Harris said the following:

"I have met with the families of these American hostages multiple times now, and I've told them each time they are not alone, and I stand with them. And President Biden and I are working every day to bring them home.

"With over 2 million people facing high levels of food insecurity, and half a million people facing catastrophic levels of acute food insecurity. What has happened in Gaza over the past nine months is devastating; the images of dead children and desperate, hungry people fleeing for safety, sometimes displaced for the second, third or fourth time.

"Let us all condemn terrorism and violence. Let us all do what we can to prevent the suffering of innocent civilians. And let us condemn antisemitism, Islamophobia and hate of any kind. And let us work to unite our country."

President Biden has made Val Demmings a Governor of the Postal Service. Can we now finally fire Louis De(no)Joy and restore thePost Office?

We knew Trump was rattled by Kamala’s arrival in the campaign, but we didn’t think he would actually wimp out of the debate. But that’s exactly what the orange chickenshit did yesterday. Making up some silly bullcrap about “Barack Hussein Obama” and flailing like the hopeless loser that he is, Trump has officially backed out of the scheduled debate in September. Vice President Harris is already calling him out and making sure the media knows she is ready to go.

All seven battleground states - AZ, GA, MI, NC, NV, PA, WI - are clearly competitive now and in play. New battleground state polls this week also showed Harris gaining and in a competitive position in all seven states. Polls of Maine and New Hampshire found Harris at Biden 2020 numbers, an election Biden won by 4.5 pts. Simon Rosenberg: “To be honest the movement we are seeing towards Harris this week has been a bit surprising to me. It usually takes a while for big events to work their way through the electorate. So that we are seeing meaningful movement this early is a good sign.”

I’ll end for now with across-post from Kareem Abdul Jabar. I think this has significance for all of us here:

Life is a long lesson in humility.

—James M. Barrie, author of Peter Pan

“Barrie should have added, “If we’re lucky.” By that I mean we’re lucky if our lives last long enough for it to be a “long lesson.” But I also mean we’re lucky to have constant reminders on how to be humble because that makes us empathetic to others and lays a foundation for being able to love and be worthy of being loved. In other words, humility breeds happiness.

“Arrogance is the enemy of humility. That need to feel like we matter beyond the confines of our little world means we can only feel important when validated by others—not by ourselves. Unfortunately, the need for that validation often leads to unhappiness. For many, the only way to feel significant is to chase after some sort of fame or popularity. This can be done through gathering “likes” on social media or by accumulating wealth to flaunt. The idea is that if others are envious, the person has proven they are more significant than those who envy them. This is the math of madness.

“For a happy few, fame is merely a by-product of pursuing personal greatness—not to flaunt but just out of curiosity about how far they can go. This is true of the athlete and the artist, the inventor and the innovator. Their joy comes from their reach exceeding their grasp. It comes from the trying more than the succeeding. This path is littered with failure and humility, which only makes them strive harder. The joy is in the striving, not in the accolades of others. Or as Janis Joplin said, “On stage, I make love to 25,000 different people, then I go home alone.”

For me, being a speck of dust is not an existential burden but a profound relief. It is the great equalizer that reminds us we all face the same challenges of wanting to feel useful, needed, and worthy. Humility teaches us that those challenges are overcome through compassion, kindness, and love for others rather than seeking power over others.

“There is nothing that teaches humility more than aging. The increasing frailties of the body remind me daily just how insignificant so much of what I once thought was important really is. I also am acutely aware of how many opinions I had in my youth and even later that embarrass me today. That humility taught me to form my opinions carefully using facts, experts, and research rather than my biased gut or peer pressure.

“The closing door of life just inspires me to make a positive difference in others’ lives while that door is still open, even if just a crack and I can see light. Humility lights the way.”

You can’t go wrong taking advice from Kareem.

Robert Hubbell has been ending his daily posts with astronomical photos he’s taken. To me, they’re humbling to think a small being on a small planet orbiting a small sun at the edge of a small galaxy can look out at creation and comprehend it. So of course the following is a perfect ending. (Thanks Kareem)

+

[haven-is-happy]

How Battle Changes: Jesse

Chapter 6

Pairing: Dogma x Jedi!reader, platonic Wolfpack,

Chapter description: Jesse reaches a boiling point with you

Warnings: unhealthy eating habits, reader has very little mental health stability, big emotions, angst

Wordcount: 1,3 k (it keeps fucking happening, most of the chapters are this long)

Masterlist

There are times when you just wish to be left alone. You lock yourself in your room, soundproofing it with technology and force as much as possible. Meditation is hard below the surface of Coruscant, but you suppose imagining the temple gardens will have to do.

It's been weeks since Fives left for Kamino. He volunteered to infiltrate it as a standard guard stationed there, as he felt useless just sitting in your apartment all day.

"At least this way I can get you any information about the living conditions there," he justified, when he pitched the idea to you.

Guard duty for politicians never really fit him, and now that you are a public figure, almost all he has to guard you against is poisons that he can't see.

It took only two sessions of laser tattoo-removal and shaving for him to lose all his outward individuality, a process that hurt to carry out and look at.

And Jesse, ever the leader, wanted to refuse him, even if he can't command him like an ARC anymore.

You never asked if it was because he wanted his brother to stay, or because he had been the one itching for action, even if the "mission" was stealth.

You rarely talk to him. He's grown cold in the months since the trial and his official exit from the GAR, mostly towards you.

Dogma relays him messages from you now.

Which leads to countless fights, as most of your orders are for them to guard you during speeches and senate meetings and dinners.

All things Jesse finds entirely useless, something he never fails to point out to Dogma in private.

“How are you alright with this? They can expose Krell and you can get your honour back! We could go back to the GAR! All they do is give grand monologues and chat with representatives!” Jesse points out. The conversation has been increasing in intensity, now visibly becoming a fight.

Dogma sucks in a trembling breath. That topic weighs more to him than the black hole at the centre of the Galaxy. His love for you never seems to end and he understands more than anyone why your path is the only viable option.

However, the ugly resentment doesn’t disappear on its own, and like a hydra, comes back no matter how many heads you cut off. He could have it all back, be a soldier again, follow orders, all three of them. Fives and Jesse could be back, be ARC troopers again.

This time, he isn’t explaining the situation only to himself. 

“For this to succeed, they need to have the bargaining chip against the Council and Senate.”

“WE’RE BECOMING THE CORRIE GUARD!” Jesse roars back in rapid fire.

He isn’t stupid. He knows that politicians face a different kind of danger. One not immediately clear to sight, something concealed with plots within plots within plots.

But those plots were aimed at bad people, no? Scum who live off profits and spoils of war, invest in machines made to destroy en masse.

“(Y/N) has put themselves into an early grave to save our asses! There would have been no official trial, once the verdict has been given, we’d have ceased to exist! They saved our lives and continue to do so by protecting us with their own body! Their shield only exists because they hold that information…” he yells it out for the world to hear, as if anything could get out of the bustling lower levels of the Coruscant streets.

—

The yelling match between Dogma and Jesse lasted until early morning. You emerged from your meditation room to try to dispel the tension.

Their auras were so loud they pierced your mind even through the walls and your own eyelids.

Just the door being thrown open is enough to make them both stop dead. Jesse with an open mouth, mid-retort, and Dogma with his hands up (which gradually fall).

"Dogma, please go to the meditation chamber and turn on the soundproofing system," you say softly. It isn't a command, more like a request poised like one.

He looks at you to plead his (or Jesse's) case, but the determination and subtle twitch in your eyebrow tell him that this is a conversation between four eyes.

You lock eyes with Jesse and stare. His mouth slowly closes and you don't look away, even when you hear the door click into place and the soft whirr of the soundproofing system booting up.

"I want to tell you something, and I want you to listen. I know you are angry because I took you from the only semblance of a home you had, and I want to tell you my perspective."

Jesse clenches his jaw and shifts his posture. A gesture with his arm, a sort of "by all means, go ahead" signal, tells you to sit down on the couch, while he sits on the small sofa angled towards you.

You sit and take a deep breath.

From the bottom of your heart, a string pulls.

One of sorrow, anger, longing and distress that has been tangling itself around your Force presence ever since the start of the war. 

"I was taken into the order as a child. I was three years old. I don't know who my parents were, or if they're alive. You've heard this speech multiple times when I gave it in front of the court, then the senate, and then in public who knows how many times."

"But that's not all I know. The best information I tracked down is a system under the separatist rule used as a slave world. The master who found me died on Geonosis at the start of the war. I was actively discouraged from finding my biological family."

"The Order, the one place where I felt safe when the colours of the world got too much, is no longer an option for me. My master, the closest thing I had to a father, cannot interact with me, unless we meet in secret. My friends, my pack, have strict orders to not interact with me, and I have only seen a handful of them since the trial."

"None of us have a support system currently. I know you have come to terms with what happened in the courtroom, but there is more. You may never go back to the GAR as is, maybe ever."

"They do not value an individual clone as human life. The Vode likes to joke and say they are replaceable, but the harsh reality is worse."

You exhale. Jesse is still listening, jaw set, unmoving.

"Jesse, the Vode calls me "brothers' vengeance", praise me and tell me of their stories, not knowing I can't keep solid food down if I have a speech in the same week."

His eyes finally leave yours as they look down at his feet.

He heard about your nickname and found it amusing, if a little ironic at the start. He flinches when he hears you repeat his name.

"I am fighting for my life to give you a chance, give all of your brothers a chance at life if this war ever decides to end."

"I have been in love with Dogma for two years. I know that if the clones got human rights tomorrow, I would marry him, Jedi code be damned. It feels like we are wasting the precious time we have left by fighting a losing battle," you feel like you're saying word vomit at this point. The thread unravelled so fast it snapped beneath the force of the pull.

"I know you want it all back. So do I. But by charging in, neither of us will live to see tomorrow."

You don't remember much after that. At some point, Jesse starts crying and you join.

When Dogma leaves the meditation room, he comes out to see the love of his life and his brother embracing and crying, finally setting aside their differences.

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

[bigbadbatch]

In My Mind - Chapter Four

Chapter Four - Snow on the Beach

Warnings: Smut, sweet sweet smut. oral F receiving. Sadness. And a creepy guy. Impending Doom.

Word Count: 3.6k

Listening Recc's - Snow on the Beach, Illicit Affairs by T. Swift

I’m nervous.

I don’t normally feel this way, but today I do.

I admire myself in the floor-length mirror propped against the wall of my elegant embassy room in the Senate hall where all guests of the Peace Ball are staying. One of Padme’s handmaidens had been kind enough to come and help with my hair and makeup,as well as helping me to slip on this delicate, intricate dress. My hair is half up, soft ringlets framing my face, the rest cascading down my back. A thin necklace of diamonds sent by Manx graces my throat. It's worth at least several hundred credits, but its cost is nothing compared to the dress.

A light sky blue, the bodice is corseted and covered in the smallest of gems. The floor-length ballgown’s glittering skit swishes as I twirl for myself in the mirror, the layers upon layer of gauzy fabrics, all different shades of blue, seem to dance and shine and create the effect of an aurora in the low light of the room. Never in my life have I felt so lovely, so beautiful. A glimmering star in the sky.

A knock at my door shakes me from my wonderment. I open the door and Fives stands there, in a dashing black suit, his hands working on tying the tie at his throat.

“Keira, I need help I can’t get this damn thing to…. Wow.” He whistles and looks me up and down, earning him a batting on the arm. He chuckles softly.

“Wait til Rex sees you like this.” He smirks at me.

“Keep your voice down.” I say and join him in the hallway, hands at his throat, tying the tie for him.

“Manx will be here any minute and Anakin is coming for Padme sometime soon.” I finish his tie and straighten it for him, only then noticing the dark circles under his eyes.

“Are you still not sleeping?” I ask.

He shakes his head slightly. I give him a sad smile.

“I’m sorry the trinket didn’t work. Do you want to talk about the nightmare?”

He pauses for a moment, then says. “I’m on the field. We’ve just won a battle. An order comes through. It’s hazy, but I… we…” he trails off, a distant look on his face.

I hear heavy footsteps coming up the hall. Manx is strutting towards me, in a ghastly dark green suit. Fives turns and sees him and has to stifle a laugh. I elbow him hard.

“I see you’ve kept her safe for me. You look ravishing tonight, Keira.” Manx says and takes my arm in his rather than offering me his hand or any other gentlemanly gesture. He begins to walk me away and I cast a soft smile at Fives.

“See you in there.” I call and he nods.

The ballroom is much more grand than the one in Naboo. The ceiling is painted to resemble the night sky, with lights twinkling as stars. Dim warm lights are cast about the room, and the glittering ballgowns filling the room seem even more brilliant in this atmosphere. A quartet plays music in a corner, upbeat and classical. The floor is whirring with twirling, dancing bodies. Others stand along the edges, talking and sipping wine and champagne. I can’t help myself, I scan the crowd for Rex.

I see no shock of close-cropped blonde hair, no familiar face or smile. I deflate just a little. He isn’t here yet. Suddenly, I’m thrust into conversation with a Senator from Alderaan, and thus my night begins. I dance with strangers, I converse with Separatists, I drink with Republic members, and I gather intel. I have much to report on tomorrow evening when we return to Coruscant. So far I’ve successfully been able to ditch Manx, instead filling my time with reconnaissance efforts. Still, I have yet to see Rex. I’m starting to get worried.

A tap on my shoulder and I’m overjoyed, he must finally be here, I turn grinning, only to see the one person I’d been trying to avoid all night smiling at me.

“A dance?” He asks and holds out his hand. Knowing Chandrillan customs and that those around me heard him ask, I must oblige. I follow him out to the floor. A lilting, melodic tune plays, and we begin a classic dance.

“I see you received my gift.” He states, eyes lingering on my throat then creeping down to my breasts, sleazily. I clear my throat to draw his eyes back to mine.

“Yes. It is very appreciated. If you’d like, I can return it to you after the Ball.”

He laughs. “No, no, it was a true gift. But I wonder if you might want to thank me for it?”

Interally I groan but give him a saccharine smile.

“Thank you, Sir Manx.” His grin is blinding and turns my stomach. His hand tightens around my waist.

“I wonder if there is another way you might show your appreciation to me. It was no small price, you see.”

Is he serious?

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” I whisper to him harshly, and he is taken aback. His grip on me tightens.

“Watch your tone, girl.” He snaps through gritted teeth and spins me sharply.

The song ends and I go to leave.

“Another dance.” He demands, pulling me back to him.

Just then, a voice cuts through our tension.

“I believe it is my turn for a dance.” My heart finally picks up pace.

Manx, obeying etiquette, bows and leaves in a huff. Then he’s here, and his arms are around me at last.

“You’re here.” I breathe. He smiles at me brilliantly and holds me at arm's length. He looks me up and down, his face glowing, then pulls me back close. “You look… so beautiful.” He whispers to me, and sends me for a small spin. I’m drawn back close to his chest, this dance a slower, more romantic pace than previous ones. Rex wears a dark blue suit, complimenting his tan skin and golden hair. His tie seems to be made of the same material as my skirt, glinting and glimmering in the light. It’s hard to take my eyes off him but I know I must. This is a mission. I gaze around the room, at the other couples dancing the same way we are. I see Anakin dancing with a Chandrillan woman, Padme with a Separatist man. Then a thought occurs to me.

“Rex, will you get in trouble? For dancing with me?” I expect to see worry in his eyes but I only see a radiance I wish I could bottle.

“I’m only debriefing with my General about some important conversations I’ve heard tonight.”

I smile, it’s a decent cover. “And what have you heard?” I ask as we flit about the room.

“I’ve heard, from more than one, that you are the most breathtaking person here tonight.” I blush and look away.

“Hey.” He says softly, drawing my eyes back to his. “Truly, mesh’la. You are stunning. I am so lucky to be with you here tonight.”

My heart skips a beat. His hand is so warm in mine, and the one on my lower back is a comforting guide around the room. I try not to lean my head too close to his as he dips me, fearing I’ll kiss him out of want and habit.

The song slows and so do we, our bodies even closer, our faces cheek to cheek. “I want to remember this night forever, cyarika.” He whispers to me and I all but melt in his arms. We spin about the room and for just a moment, no one else exists. It's just me and Rex and the music. A smile never leaves my face.

The song ends, far too soon, and we step away, our eyes locking. I flick mine to his lips. I want nothing more than to kiss him, right here, right now. He hesitates and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.

“May I interrupt?” A soft, sweet voice divides us, and a lovely young lady looks expectantly at Rex. He nods and offers his arm to her for a dance, as is custom. I leave the floor, reeling.

Throughout the rest of the night, I catch glimpses of him, our eyes meeting at every turn and every brief moment between conversations and dances. Soon enough, The music dies down, and the dancing ends. I’m still aglow from my dance with Rex, but the flame is short-lived as Manx approaches me.

“Shall I walk you to your room?” He asks, innuendo in his voice. I flick my gaze around for Rex, and find him conversing with a few of the other guests security details.

“I.. uh…” I say. “Need to speak with my Captain. About the mission.” I say and excuse myself from him. I think that’s the last I’ll have to deal with him, that he will finally give up, but instead he stands there as I leave and seems to wait for my return.

Get a clue. I think. I approach Rex and he breaks from his little crew to speak with me.

“Everything okay?” He asks. I lean close and speak softly.

“Rex could you… ah.. escort me to my room? My chaperone would like to, but I don’t feel… safe should that happen.”

Storms flicker in his eyes and he gives a terse nod. “Ofcourse.” And I take his arm as we leave the ballroom and make our way towards the guest rooms. Once out of the ballroom I feel like I can finally breathe. “Thanks, I owe you one.” I whisper and grip his arm tight. He smiles and plants a quick kiss atop my head in the isolation of the hallway.

Soon, too soon, we are at my door. We stop and stand outside of it. “Tonight was… amazing.” I say and he smiles in agreement. There’s a pause, the air thick with unspoken intention and growing need. Looking in his eyes, I can’t take it anymore, and lean into his arms and kiss him. Without hesitation he kisses me back, our lips moving, dancing their own dance of the evening. The kiss is deep and it stirs in my soul the need for more and more of him. “Will you come in?” I ask. He says nothing, he can’t because his lips are on mine again, he only nods furiously into the kiss. His hands cup my face and I place mine on his chest as the kiss deepens even further.

Tonight, I decide, I will have him. This will mean something. Tonight. 

We didn’t hear him coming.

“Rex.” The angry voice calls. We break apart in shock, and are met with a seething Anakin.

No. No. No.

Anakin had suspected but he didn’t know, hadn’t had proof until now.

“Walk with me.” 

“Anakin please-“ I call but he holds up a hand.

“Rex. Now.”

Rex gives me a look, one of sadness and apology, and I want him to stay, I want him to fight back, but he takes his hand off my face and looks at Anakin.

“Yes, General.”

The two walk into the darkness of the hall and disappear into the night.

I slip into my room slamming the door behind me. In a daze, I try to make my way to the bed, but the skirt of my dress is too much, and the corset too tight, and I suddenly can’t breathe. Everything is colliding around me, the objects of the room swirling in the air. I fall to the ground and the room falls with me.

How could I be so reckless? Why wasn’t I thinking?

The force within me rains icicles, slicing down into my soul. I am so, so afraid. What will happen now? To Rex, to us? My body is wracked with sobs. I must find calm in this. I must find peace. I hear a darkness singing hymns in my ears, and I have to keep my wits about me.

In my pool of glimmering blue on the floor I ground myself and breathe. It’s easily an hour before I can set my heart to a normal pace, breathe as I should.

With this newfound calmness comes a determination. Fuck Anakin and his hypocrisy. He doesn’t control me, he isn’t my Master. I stand, muscles tensing. I’m going to go find them, and reason with Anakin. Force him to make this make sense, whatever issue he has with Rex and I. I gather my skirts and march to the door, flinging it open, 

And there’s Rex, arm upraised as if to knock. I’m taken aback, not expecting this. His breathing is ragged, as if he’s just run a mile. His tie is undone and hangs around his shoulders and neck, and he’s lost his suit jacket, left only in his button-up shirt and slacks.

“Rex what are…” I go to ask but suddenly he’s in my room, closing the door behind him, and his hands and mouth are on me. He is trembling, from passion or what emotion I can’t tell, but he is hungry as a man starved.

“Just kiss me.” He says, needy, and I do. I kiss him back, hard. Our mouths open, and tongues explore each other's lips and mouths. He groans into my kiss and bunches his hands into my hair. He pulls from my lips and kisses the corners of my mouth, my cheeks, my chin and down my neck, suckling on my collarbone.

This will leave a mark, crucial evidence I didn’t imagine this whole thing up. I go to unbutton his shirt, but my fingers are fumbling and he has to help me. Once his chest is bare, I bring my mouth back to his and my hands explore every ridge and valley of his tanned skin and muscles. Every scar sends shivers up my spine as it passes beneath my fingertips.

“I want you, Cyare.” He moans into my mouth, “I need you, right now.”

I nod into his kiss unable to speak, and he growls reaching for the back of my dress. He is dismayed to feel the hundred jeweled buttons trailing down my back, trapping me in. I try to help him start unbuttoning me but before I can, his fingers are digging into the fabric and there is a terrific ripping sound as hundreds of jewels and gemstones scatter to the floor and the dress pools around my feet.

I am bare before him, having forgone any underclothes to hopefully tease him about it later but now, now I am for the first time fully undressed in front of him. He seems to hold his breath as he looks at me, his eyes burning into every inch of my skin as he scans me.

“You…” he breathes then kisses me. “You’re perfect. So beautiful.”

I struggle to breathe as my hands fly to his belt trying desperately to free him, but he catches my wrists and his arm is under my legs, scooping me up.

“I told you the next time we did something like this I wanted to taste you, and I meant it."

He sets me on the bed on my back, knees upwards. He climbs up on the bed, head between my knees, and gently parts them. He kisses a line from my knee all the way down my thighs until he’s nipping and marking up my inner thighs.

“Please, mesh’la, can I taste you?” 

“Yes.” is all I can manage and he dives in. His mouth is hot on me, and immediately he drags his tongue from my core up to my clit, ending the motion by taking it into his mouth and sucking gently. I throw my head back and moan.

“Taste so fucking good, cyarika.” He says and continues, his tongue making soft circles around the sensitive bud, then lapping at the rest of me. I’m so wet for him, he must be drinking me at this point. As his mouth and tongue continue pushing me to the edge, I feel his fingers at my entrance. They slip into me and I clench around them, the sensation of both his mouth and his fingers almost too much.

“Rex…” I moan and writhe on the bed. He pulls up his other arm and drapes it across my hips, pinning me down. As I draw nearer and nearer to release, my hips attempt to buck and grind, but he holds me right in place.

“That’s it, beautiful.” He pants, “Come on my tongue. Want to taste you cumming.”

And I oblige him right there. The tension within me explodes and I feel like I do along with it. He withdraws his lips and hands from me as I come down, and I notice he is still clothed from the waist down. I sit up in a bolt, and reach for him.

“Patience, mesh’la.” He says. “Lay there and let me look at you. Please.” He nearly begs. I do. I lay there and watch as he so slowly, eyes on me, unbuckles his belt, then undoes his pants, slipping them and his boxers off and casts them aside. I expect him to start palming himself, to pounce on me, anything, but he just slowly moves up between my legs and sits back on his knees. I’ve been expecting voracious, hungry sex from him based on our past experiences, and this being the first time we have come this far. But he’s just looking at me, and then he’s leaning over me, and gives me the most gentle of kisses on the lips.

“Rex?” I ask, worry in my eyes.

“I want to take this slow. I want to take in every moment of this with you. Can we do that?” He whispers to me.

A hand on his chest and I nod, kissing him. He lingers in the kiss, then pulls away, positioning himself between my thighs.

“Oh, Keira.” He croons, and rubs the head of him between my folds, into my wetness. He’s right at my entrance.

“Ready, cyare?” He asks in a whisper.

“I’ve been ready for you.”

Slowly, he sheaths himself to the hilt inside me, and my back arches, my breath catches. He’s stretching me so beautifully, like I was made for him. Then he, well he isn’t fucking me, he’s intimate with me. He is slow, and thoughtful, and my body is filled with warm light. I’ve never had anything like this before. He’s moving in deep thrusts that reach the depth of my soul it feels. “Rex.” I breathe and he’s hunched, practically laying over me as he drives deeper and deeper with every thrust. My arms are gripping his back, his face buried in my shoulder.

This is bliss. This is prayer. This is meditation.

He’s calling my name, breathless, over and over, and I pull his face up to meet mine. Emotional, I’m kissing him, and something in this feels… off. Like the last sentence in a chapter. 

He’s moaning now, and I’m echoing it. He’s picked up speed, and he’s really nearly pounding into me. Suddenly, his hands are wrapping around my back, and he’s picking me up, still staying deep in my core the whole time. I’m straddling his lap now, and he’s picking me up and slamming me down onto him. I grind my hips into his on the downstrokes. Our lips don’t leave each other until we both feel ourselves coiling, colliding, reaching up and up and up.

“Can I…” he asks. “Where can I come, baby?”

I’m enraptured, and there’s only one thing I want. It’s safe but it always puts this sort of thing on an edge.

“Inside me.” I breathe and it must be what he wanted to hear because his strokes are hard and his voice and breath ragged in my ear. We both spiral out of control until we reach the stars. I feel him tense beneath me, and I’m spasming around him in response as we both reach climax together. The walls of the room glitter in my vision.

So gently, he sets us both down to lie in the bed, pulling himself from me in the process. We lay there for a few moments, my head on his chest with his hand in my hair. He places the sweetest of kisses on my brow and I look up at him.

“Rex?” A tone of fear in my voice.

“Not tonight, sweet girl.” He says. “I just want to be with you tonight.”

My heart hurts. I cuddle into him as closely as I can. I don’t realize when I fall asleep in his arms. 

---

The sun filters into the lush room, warming the far corners of the bed. I blink slowly awake. Rex isn’t here. I sit straight up in bed and call out, in case he’s in the fresher. Nothing. His clothing is gone. No trace of him ever having been here besides a small holoscreen on the table near the bed. I jump up and play the message stored on it. Rex’s hologram flickers to life. He sits on the edge of the bed, my sleeping form visible in the background.

“I’m sorry mesh’la.”

He says and already I start to panic, tears springing to my eyes. 

“By the time you wake up, General Skywalker and I will be gone. We will be on extended missions for the foreseeable future.”

No. 

“Fives will be with us as well.”

I’m falling apart. Both my boys? Gone, leaving me alone?

“The General feels this is for the good of the team. That we have lost sight of the war efforts. Keira, I never lost sight of what was important.”

Its hard to see in the blue glow of the holo, but there are tears in his eyes. 

“Tonight meant something to me. I hope it meant the same for you. “

I’m crying.

“Please Rex, no.”

But in the holo he looks back at my sleeping body and kisses my crown. 

“Goodbye mesh’la.”

And the holo cuts out.

[thevindicativevordan]

If you were in charge of the new Ultimate line and had to assign creative teams to five books, which books would you make and who would you put on them?

Obviously Hickman needs a book but generally I would like to see:

Ultimates - Written by Jonathan Hickman and drawn by Bryan Hitch. The flagship title that drives the line. Whatever Hickman wants to do with them works for me, I doubt I could come up with a better pitch than he can.

Ultimate X-Men - Written by James Tynion IV and drawn by Alvaro Martinez Bueno. Look Tynion would never do it, he's making bank with his creator owned work, and I'd rather have him do a DC cape book, but he's who I would pick to write this. Mutants coming together in a world that hates and fears them, but with a twist: they're not out to win over humanity. This version of the X-Men is primarily focused on protecting mutants from humans, and part of the change is because who is on the founding team this go around. My choices, restricting it to five like the original X-Men team, would be Cyclops, Wolverine, Storm, Forge, and Emma Frost. Emma taking the position you would usually see Jean in helps justify this team being more militant. She's pushing Cyclops and the rest towards going on the offense. Senator Kelly wants to pass an act aimed at forcing humans to register and build Sentinels to kill those who won't? The X-Men frame him in a way that destroys his political and personal life. Hellfire Club is trying to assert control over mutants? Blackmail them into backing off. It's an X-Men team that is more morally gray than we're used to seeing, and is primarily focusing on countering human bigotry at first. Later we would see Magneto show up and the X-Men react to him.

Ultimate Fantastic Four - Written by Christopher Cantwell and drawn by Federico Vicentini. Cantwell has written both Doom and Reed before, and I think he would kill it on a F4 with a villainous Reed and a Doom that could be heroic. Two pitches come to mind like I mentioned in my previous Ultimate Universe post. Either this team is a traditional Fantastic Four with Maker back in the role of "Mr. Fantastic", but concealing that he remembers the old timeline and is biding his time while he studies this new universe, or it's Dr. Doom taking Reed's position as leader of the F4 while Maker serves as their primary antagonist. Reed back with the FF would make for great tension, you have this guy that everyone thinks of as a great hero - which Reed deliberately goes along with - all the while the other three don't yet realize that he's a monster. Maybe Reed is aiming to kill off Ben and Johnny (Ben for "betraying" him when Reed first turned and "stealing" Sue, Johnny for burning his face and being annoying in general), but keep Sue this time. So the tension is that Reed wants to get Ben and Johnny killed off but doesn't want Sue to blame him, so he's trying to maneuver the two into getting killed by one of their villains in a way Sue won't blame him for, all the while he's also wooing Sue to embrace his outlook on life. Alternatively you go with Doom as leader of the F4, with the new Ultimate Universe being a timeline where Reed is the one who gets fucked up by the events that give them their powers this time. Maker still remembers the old timeline and is pissed that he somehow has ended up even worse off this time around, with Sue, Johnny, and Ben pitying him and chafing under the leadership of Doom who is just barely a hero.

Ultimate Spider-Man - Written by Donny Cates and drawn by Ryan Stegman. This is who I would put on a Peter book. Would be a standard Spider-Man book just like the Bendis one was, only I would have it set in Peter's college years because I'm sick of high school Peter.

Ultimate Black Panther - Written by Geoffrey Thorne and drawn by Sanford Greene. Thorne has wanted the gig for ages, and I liked his post Hickman Secret Wars pitch for the character, from what I remember it was T'Challa patrolling economic zones Wakanda had established internationally to share some of their tech and improve life on Earth elsewhere. Doing that with a "Year 2" T'Challa is my pitch. He's established himself at home and is trying to turn Wakanda into a superpower via sharing it's tech with the world through certain economic zones. He's allowed ordinary Wakandans to leave the country and travel abroad. Wakandan conservatives are pissed at him for doing that, while the liberals are angry T'Challa still has left the strict immigration laws for outsiders intact. Other global powers are eyeing this new player warily, particularly the United States and China. T'Challa has plenty of enemies at home and abroad who are aiming to bring him down, and he has to use his brains, tech, and the power of the heart-shaped herb to stay on top.

[your-good-pal-chevy]

Swordtember : 11 : Bellow

The siege encampment was a buzz of activity. The teeming hordes of men and women crowded around, all eager for a look at what was about to take place.

One of the Imperials had wandered out from their high walls. A strange man with his arm in a sling, but a sword with a golden snake for a hilt on his waist. None had seen his like before.

Dorus Nigellus cast his gaze about, his eyes roving from each of the barbarians to the next. He wore a smug expression, looking down upon the people around him despite the difference in stature. They were cleaner than he expected, many of them with meticulously braided hair or beard, but that was the only thing that surprised him.

They were precisely the sort of fur-wearing knuckle-dragging foreigners he had envisioned the moment he heard that they were on the warpath. They may have been giant by Imperial standards, but they were uncivilized and lacking in both technology and magic.

How, he wondered, could such a people burn a city like Atadoccia?

For their part, the so called barbarians wondered how Dorus could have so little sense as to simply walk into the war camp of sixteen clans.

Dorus spoke a few times in a few of the northern languages he knew, unsure of which one these foreigners would be familiar with. Culteran, Kolakh, and Ferandic all seemed to go over their heads. Finally, though, he settled on Valat when he saw the light of recognition in the assembled warriors' eyes.

"Hello, hello, I'm sure you're all wondering why I'm here. I'm glad you didn't decide to just kill me on my way in, or else things would have been awkward. Since you seem willing to pretend at civility, allow me to extend an offer to you. On behalf of the Senate."

At his words, a murmur went through the crowd. Frideger, an old but respected warrior of the Gulthmarhs Clan, walked forward with spear in hand. He raised his hands and in a moment the people fell silent to allow him to speak.

Frideger spoke in the Imperial trade tongue, his accent thick but his words clear. "We have received your Senate's offers before, Southron. Why should we bother to heed your words when your kind never listens to ours?"

The crowd murmured again, agreeing with Frideger's assessment. The whole reason for this protracted campaign of destruction was vengeance upon the Senate for deals upon which the Empire had reneged.

Dorus put up his left hand in a plaintive gesture, still keeping his Black Hand within its sling. "Patience, Northman," he said, "The Senate acknowledges that your clans feel as though they have been... Cheated. By the Empire, no less, and we do have a certain reputation to uphold." He gestured around at the crowd. "And I'm sure you all would like nothing more than to pay us back for that perception you have."

There came another angry murmur. It was not lost on the people of the sixteen clans that Dorus would not admit that the Empire had done any wrong.

"Typical," Hathus, a young warrior of the Eisarbere Clan, whispered to his friend Ediulf. "Look at that pompous cockerel of a man. He comes here and insults us to our faces, without even the courtesy of speaking it plainly. I ought to twist that grinning little head of his off his shoulders."

Hathus was, in many ways, the very image of the Northmen in the minds of the whole of the south. He stood head and shoulders above even his own kinsmen, and he wore nothing beyond a pair of roughspun trousers and a bearskin cloak. He was powerfully built, broad shouldered and thickly muscled, and his gleaming green eyes were often held in an angry squint as he stared up at the high walls of the Imperial capital.

He ran a hand through his blazing red hair, sighing with frustration as he tried to keep his temper under control.

"Patience, my friend." Ediulf patted Hathus' bare shoulder, clapping down on it hard so that Hathus might even notice the gesture. "The Senate must be getting desperate if they're sending out a messenger to offer us a deal. I doubt it'll be anything worth taking, but it's a good sign. Perhaps we won't have to burn their great city down after all. You know, after a few more months of siege."

Dorus gestured again around the crowd, pointing at the strongest looking men assembled. "Yes, I'm sure many of you would like nothing so much as to slake your thirst for blood upon the proud people of the Empire. Well, this is an opportunity for you. The Senate wishes to put on an exhibition match of sorts. Tomorrow, right outside the city's front gates, I will face all comers in a duel to the death. If even one of you barbarians can draw but a drop of my blood, the Senate is prepared to offer you three times my weight in gold."

The crowd fell into an uproar. Frideger raised his hand to quiet the crowd, but they were having none of it. They had expected nothing, but this was less than nothing.

"An exhibition," one man said, stepping forward with axe in hand, "Why wait? I can take your head off right now, Southron!"

"By all means," said Dorus, "You are welcome to try."

The man charged forward. He let out a mighty bellow, and then he fell silent. And then the axe fell from his hand. And then the head from his shoulders.

Only a handful in the crowd had seen what took place. Hathus watched with horror as, in what seemed to be less than the space of a breath, Dorus withdrew his right hand from its sling. The coiling black tattoos on his hand seemed to writhe like a pit of serpents as that hand flew to the golden hilt of his sword.

Dorus drew his sword and cut off the man's head in a single fluid motion. With a flick of his wrist, the blood on his blade was cast onto the ground and the sword returned to its scabbard.

"Please make no mistake," Dorus said, returning his right hand to its embroidered sling. "I am Dorus Nigellus. The Swordsman of the Black Hand. The Slayer of Men. I am death itself, northern swine. Tomorrow, let any of you who believes he can defeat me come and try his luck." He gestured at the corpse of the man who had charged him. "Perhaps you'll fare better than this whoever-he-was."

Hathus growled, and Ediulf immediately moved between him and the Imperial. "Not now, my friend," he urged Hathus, "You saw what just happened!"

"Of course I did," Hathus said, "I saw yet another of our kin, cut down by the Empire."

Hathus stepped forward, despite Ediulf's objections, calling out to Dorus as he approached. "You come into our camp and give us a challenge like that? Fine." He stepped closer, looming high above the Dorus' head, his eyes burning with anger. "You insult us, Imperial, but that is all we ever expect from you. Tomorrow, I alone will face you. Tomorrow, I will tear off that black hand and feed it to you."

Dorus chuckled, far from intimidated. "And who might you be, then? I should know the name of my foe if I'm killing only one man on the morrow."

"I am Hathus. The Iron Bear. The Fire Blooded." Hathus jabbed a finger hard into Dorus' chest, nearly knocking the Imperial over. "And I am the man who will kill you."

Dorus rubbed his chest, caught off guard by the sheer immensity of Hathus' strength. "Very well, Hathus. I'll remember your name. That's more than most of my victims can say."

The two of them locked eyes, testing each other's mettle. For a moment, it seemed to Dorus as though he was staring at the edge of a sword, but then it passed.

Then Ediulf appeared beside Hathus, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him away from the Imperial. Their staring contest had no clear victor.

With that, Dorus turned and began walking away. None dared to bar his path, so frightened were they by his display of lethality.

Ildefons, the man who had been slain, was given to the pyre before nightfall, as was the custom of the sixteen clans. Hathus would remember his name.

And Hathus would avenge him.

[emptymanuscript]

Ah, there it is!

This video mentions one of the things I really feel is missing from a lot of Star Wars media.

The quote, from "Wedge's Gamble (Star Wars: X-Wing Series, Book 2)" by Michael A. Stackpole, reads

After the resolution of the clone wars, the Jedi began to move toward an open grab for power, Senator Palpatine circumvented them and deposed their puppet in over overthrowing the corrupt Old Republic, The Emperor stripped from the Jedi their political power and laid bare their evil for all to see. The Jedi denied the truth he revealed, all except one of their number. His fellows tried to murder him, but he survived their treachery and rose to assist the Emperor in rooting out the evil that had ruined the Knighthood. He was Darth Vader and, said the display, never had there been a greater champion for the high ideals of the Empire than he.

While I think we get plenty of idealization from the Clones and the 501st, I feel like we rarely get the impression that Vader is one of the great HEROs of the Empire. There are some clues scattered around but I wanna see statues of this guy. I feel like Vader should be the Robert E. Lee of the Star Wars universe.

Yeah, he's all terrifying in his black mechanical life preserving uniform

But keep in mind that Star Wars is told mostly from the rebellion's point of view and, more importantly for the Imperial point of view, what the imperial pilots look like.

Vader is like Phasma, a fancified leader version of the same uniform everyone else is wearing.

Same basic idea but with more OOMPH ever level you go up.

Vader is an elite flying ace. Hero of the war. THEN a Hero of the Empire. A veteran wounded by his traitorous allies so he has to live in a specialized suit for the rest of his life.

The thing that gets me, is that it really kind of IS there in the costuming.

Look at it not black with red glowing off it

I bet that's a collector credit you could get in the empire's version of the Franklin Mint's remembering the Clone Wars collection. "Vader reclaiming the sacred temple" or something like that. Or "Vader Defending the Emperor."

I would actually love to know exactly when the switch over between General Darth Vader (as in his rank is General, his first name is Darth, and family name is Vader) and Darth Vader (as in his rank is Darth, and his specific titulary epithet as holder of the title is Vader, while his actual first name is still Anakin and his family name is still Skywalker - which I think would still be better as an honorific, awesome pilot, yeah, you call that guy Skywalker, but whatever) occurred. I'm certain it wasn't before filming of New Hope finished as Obi Wan's use of "Darth" in their face off is pretty clearly a name, like, "Hey, Darth, how you been? How's the burn? Get enough ointment? Hope not." But I also feel like the costume designer got it with how many similarities there are.

But anyway. Yeah, it's one of my tiny little things. I want to SEE that Vader is just a kind of Hero in general to people. Yeah, anyone who knows him and has to work with him is terrified of him because he is merciless but that's upper command. Average storm trooper is staying up into lights out to polish their armor an extra time because it's Rex Manning day tomorrow Darth Vader is coming to inspect tomorrow and there are stars in their eyes.

And I will shut up now.

[depressed-sock]

Started on part 2 of strays and it’s going well so far lol:

Thorn feels like this is some kind of cosmic payback. It has to be because there are currently two Zabrak sitting in the Guard Commanders combined office and he’s the only one currently here to deal with them. Because Fox is meeting a contact with Slick and Thire is on Senate duty and Stone is sleeping for the next two hours. And there are two Zabrak now staring at Thorn expectantly in shades of orange-yellow with black markings that Thorn doesn’t want to think about.

Because the worst part is that these might just be consequences of his own actions.

He figured that Maul would have just fucked off permanently. It’s not like the Guard could just keep him in the warehouse. Eventually someone would have come sniffing around. Besides what the fuck would they do with him? They got some extra protection for their minds but ended up floundering with what else they could get out of Maul.

So Fox got him a pair of cybernetic legs and let him fuck off to who knows where. Figuring the Zabrak would find a way to remove the force suppressor on his own and far away from the Guard. Thorn feels like that particular decision was because Fox still thinks Maul kind of losing his mind had something to do with Palpatine and the dark side of the force. It’s why he never offered to fully remove it.

And now there are two Zabrak in Thorn’s shared office and they’re staring at him.

“Hello?” He asks weakly as he stares right back at them from behind the protection of his helmet. Maybe these two very obviously related to Maul Zabrak aren’t actually related to him. Maybe Thorn’s finally hitting Fox’s level of sleep deprivation where he starts seeing hallucinations.

Maybe the big fucker who’s standing up and towering over Thorn won’t fucking snap him in half and suck out his insides.

Or maybe he will and Thorn can finally fucking sleep for more than a few hours at a time.

Maker, he should piss off one of those Senators who likes to send them to Isolation. He could use a fucking break.

[jangofctts]

A Burning Hill (Batman/Bruce Wayne x fem!reader)

PART ONE  PART TWO PART THREE

Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: !!spoilers!!, some fluff!!, smut, explicit language, unprotected sex, oral (m&f receiving), cum eating, vaginal fingering, face sitting, slight praise kink, mentions of violence/death, (lmk if I missed anything please!!)

a/n: not too proud abt this one but oh well hope you enjoy!!! thank you for your patience!

The funeral is drab, and the weather even worse. The crowd is a swath of black—solemn faces of the mayor’s colleagues and bitter contempt of the public who emerged to pay homage, or to spit on the mayor’s casket. You can’t blame them for that. You’d rather mingle with the crowd than be standing on the smooth steps of the town hall—scrutinized for whatever the public assumes you’ve done wrong. 

Your mother is a tipping point—you love her, you really do, but Christ she’s overwhelming. Swarmed by cameras, gaudy public statements and hounded by media is not your cup of tea. Senator Nahdi thrives in it. It’s a good thing your parents all but scrubbed away your existence—different last name, no sight of you on campaigns or honorable mentions—a ghost. If anything, you’re mistaken as her assistant and not as her daughter. 

It’s for the best.

The one sprig of happiness you can find in this situation is Bruce. He doesn’t want to be here, brushing elbows with elitists and media alike—you know that. But he’s come anyway. For you.  

Though, being a reclusive billionaire does have it’s drawbacks. The second he steps out of his vintage car and hands the valet his keys, the media is upon him like piranhas. It’s impressive the poise he keeps—you flinch after every shutter of the lens and bright flash. You’re too used to being behind the scenes. 

To keep the media and their grubby, little hands out of your business, you wait for Bruce to find you through the crowd. You’re tucked behind one of the great, big columns upholding the overhanging ceiling, right by the double doors. Your mother stands a couple paces away, preaching to the choir of cameras. You watch Bruce spot her through the crowd and wander through the sea of bodies. Upon seeing him, your mother sweeps him into a spine-crushing hug. 

“Tch,” you hear her scoff as she pulls away. She pinches his sunken cheek. “So pale—and skinny. Does Alfred not feed you, Bruce?”  

Bruce shrugs. Whatever he says is too quiet for you to hear. 

You mother waves her hand and proceeds to straighten the lapels on his overcoat. “Bah—at least you look decent,” she says, manicured hand reaching higher to adjust a strand of hair that falls over his forehead. She purses her mauve-painted lips, an uncharacteristic trace of sadness pooling in her eyes. “You look just like your father.” 

Bruce looks away, drawing into himself. “Is Blue here?” 

Senator Nahdi casts an imprudent stare over her shoulder. “Yes, yes—go find your little shadow—she’s embarrassed to be seen with me.”

You roll your eyes. 

Bruce lifts his chin, keen eyes easily fining your little hiding spot. You offer him a short wave. 

“Excuse me,” he mumbles to your mother, but she pays hardly any mind, more concerned with the reporter that jams a microphone into her space bubble.

Bruce reaches the pillar, a tiny smile ghosting over his lips. You look him up and down, and blurt the first thing that comes to mind. After all, you’re bound too be nervous. Last time you saw him, he was knuckle deep inside of you. “You look nice—I never see you in clothes.” 

He lifts a brow. You wince and slap a hand over your forehead. “Fuck—that sounded weird, didn’t it?”         

“A little bit,” he snorts, cupping your arm and drawing you further away from the crowd. Tucked around the corner where prying eyes would have trouble seeing you. He pins his back to the wall and invites you into his space, cold hand reaching for yours. You give it to him. “But I know what you mean.” 

You roll your tongue over your lips. His eyes drop to the motion, then back up, slowly and without care for your fragile state of normalcy. “That—that’s good.” 

His thumb rubs an easy line over your knuckles, dry from the weather and your excessive use of latex gloves on the job. Bruce cups your hand between his palms and brings it to his lips. They’re searing against your flesh. “Your hands are freezing—where are your gloves?”

“You’re not wearing any, either,” you point out. “If you can stand the cold, so can I.” 

Bruce laughs at that. He cups your face with his other hand and pulls your bottom lip down with his thumb. As the flesh bounces back, his thumb comes to rest on your chin. “Alfred said I should invite you for tea again.” 

You grin. “Are you going to?” 

“Maybe,” he says, craning his neck down while lifting your chin up. “Would you say yes?” 

There’s hesitancy in those solemn, blue eyes. Bruce still tiptoes around you and you don’t blame him. This is new territory—the feelings were always there—but acting upon them is a whole new beast. “Maybe.” 

Bruce huffs through his nose, and dips his head lower. His lips skim yours and your heart bursts with a myriad of spectral colors and the pang of childhood. You bridge the gap and kiss him with such ardency, the very stars ache in want. But your mind always finds the sadness in situations that involve Bruce Wayne. He doesn’t pretend that he’s whole, and if he were laid upon a train track, you’re not sure he would move. If a knife were buried into his spine, nestled the fragile vertebrae, he’d say it can’t hurt worse than he already does. He’d bleed out into the streets before he asks for help or reveals the inner workings of his tumultuous heart. 

You could never stomach heartbreak, though, could you? So what exactly is this, that you’re doing to yourself? What would you call this? You blister at the sight and feel of anything less than ideal—but here, balancing between Bruce and Vengeance, you call agony sacrosanct.  

You break away, the humidity of your breathing mixing harshly with the frosty air. His cologne drowns your nostrils as you bury your face into his chest. “Blue, I—”    

Someone, somewhere in the nearby crowd utters a name that causes Bruce to stiffen—you don’t recognize the name Falcone. His face falls into a stony mask. Bruce untangles himself from you, parts his lips as if to explain himself, then falls back to a shitty; “I gotta go.” 

“Wait!” You call, snatching his coat sleeve. “Bruce—hang on.”  

He doubles back and unlatches your fingers from his sleeve. He presses a kiss to your chilled knuckles. “I’ll see you later, Blue. I promise.” 

You face twists as Bruce slips around the corner and gets lost in the crowd. 

You don’t see him later. 

In fact—the whole fucking funeral turns to shit. You can’t even begin to explain what happened—another attack—a bomb collar and a catalogue of riddles only the Batman is allowed to answer. You don’t get to see the end of it—you’re ushered outside by SWAT, corralled into questioning and emergency management outside.    

The worst of it happens in the blink of an eye. The bomb explodes. 

SWAT rushes in and there’s some kind. Of sick kneading in your belly that pushes up your throat. You’re trying to shove the panic back down—swallowing and choking on air as though you were never able to make your body do anything but shake. 

For all you know, Bats is blown to bits. Bruce is missing and you can’t find your mother in the sea of chaos. You cannot let yourself spiral and so the rest of the day is spent in a stupor—fumbling for any scrap of news as the paramedics move through the crowd that they managed to keep under their care. You’re able to escape once you flash your badge—fighting your will to search the streets looking for a piece of those you care for. 

Miraculously, you find your way home. And while you’re stuck in a position of forced immobility, you still have a phone. Your mother is first—it goes straight to voicemail yet your father assures you over text that her phone is simply dead. No need to worry. You’ll believe it when you see it, but for now it’s enough.    

Bruce comes next. You call the tower, cursing the fact that Bruce lives like a fucking haunted Victorian child when it comes to technology. On the second call, your nails chewed to the quick, Alfred picks up the landline. “Alfred—thank god. It’s Blue.” 

“Miss Blue,” Alfred greets, “I heard the news. Are you alright, darling?”

“Peachy,” you sniff, fighting back the way your throat cinches up tight. “Is Bruce home?”

You cross your fingers. 

“I’m afraid not, dear,” Alfred relays. “I wouldn’t worry yourself. Master Wayne has a habit of disappearing in the worst of times.”

“Oh,” you say, voice wobbling. 

“Would you like to leave a message, love?”   

“Will you tell him I called?” 

“Of course,” Alfred assures. “Take care of yourself, Miss Blue.” 

Alfred hangs up. Your chest sinks as tears flood your eyes, scrambling for another solution—if only to keep your mind occupied. It’s a long shot, but you’re determined—you’ll call every damned hospital in Gotham if that’s what it takes. 

You get halfway through the list with no results, and just as you’re about to dial the seventh hospital’s number, another caller intercepts the call. “Gordon—” You answer midway through the first ring. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Gordon responds. “How’re you holding up?”

“Fine, fine,” you say. “What happened? Is he ok?”

Gordon doesn’t have to guess as to who this “he” you’re referencing is. He sighs through the phone. “Yeah—guy is like a fuckin’ tank. Hits like one too.” 

Your heart jumps—at least Vengeance is ok. You sigh and rub at your tired eyes. “That’s a relief.” 

“Mhm,” Gordon hums. “He told me to give you a call, y’know.” 

You chest seizes. 

Your tongue rolls over your teeth. You try to play it cool. “He did?”

“I’m not stupid, Blue,” Gordon pokes. “I’m old, but I know when someone’s keeping secrets.” 

You clench your jaw as an icy wash trickles down your spine. You clam up. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck— 

The other end crackles as Gordon sighs. “Just be careful, kid. People like him hide their face for a reason.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I got it.” 

“Right. And just to make it clear—don’t sacrifice your career for whatever is going on between you and him.” 

Never in your life had you wanted a phone call to end so desperately. You hastily agree, say your curt goodbyes and smash the hangup icon. Jesus Fucking Christ. Were you really that obvious? Fuck, you can’t thin about that right now—that’s a shit show for later.  

You’re not really sure how many hours pass after that—enough that you fall into a hazy sleep on the couch, plagued by stress dreams. You jolt awake as something pounds against your living room window, a black mass of armor and lanky limbs crawling through the space like an unwanted shadow. Your fear dissipates the moment you see the pointed ears. You should be a little concerned or pissed that Bats is breaking in, but all you can manage is a relief upon seeing him wedge himself through the frame. It’s a little funny—less so when a pained curse echos through the room.   

Brain still muddled with sleep, you don’t think to help him. Bats stumbles to his feet, takes two strides towards you and and drops heavily to his knees. A grunt follows, punched out and wheezy that scrapes against his diaphragm. You’re hanging halfway off your couch as you catch his head, guiding him to rest on your lap instead of knocking his forehead into the coffee table. Fuck. 

It’s a miracle Bats is alive, let alone standing.    

Well, not really standing—he’s sorta crumpled into a ball, using your thighs as a headrest. He takes quick, shallow breaths as light tremors wrack through his frame. “I got you—don’t worry.” 

And so you hold him like this. Wondering if you both are still just friends, or coworkers, acquaintances, shadows, or less than a spark. Even if it’s his breathe on you neck late at night or if it’s your laced fingers in the dark. How tightly do you need to be pressed against each other before you admit that you aren’t doing this for warmth? How many times does his thumb need to brush your lips before you both realize that you’ve gone too far?  

“You—you need to lock your windows.”

Not really what you were expecting him to say, but then again, he’s not the predictable sort. “But then I’ll never get helpless, dark and mysterious visitors in the night,” you smile, teasing your thumbs over the sharp points of his cowl.    

He makes a noise low in his throat. “Exactly—you’re too nice.” 

You puff out your bottom lip. “Aw—scared of me finding another vigilante to mess around with?”  

Bats shifts closer, gloved fingers crawling up your exposed thighs and settling on the swell of your hips. “You could get robbed.” 

He doesn’t answer your question, but the way Bat’s hands tighten around your hips are more than enough evidence to draw a conclusion. You roll your eyes and gesture to the room. “I don’t think this place screams decadence—what would they even take? My Danny DeVito pillow?”

“Carelessness is an open door for disaster,” he mutters. “Don’t invite it.” 

Your face scrunches. “You sound like my grandpa.”   

Bats says nothing in response, content to simply lay here like this. You’d let him too if you were kinder—but you have hardwood floors and the kneepads he wears can only negate so much pressure. Your ass is slipping off the cushions too, but you know once you adjust he’ll bail. So you stay, fighting gravity and the weight of his upper body leaning onto you.  

You stroke a finger down his stubbled jawline and his eyes flutter—still hyper aware but driving to sleep. The black greasepaint hides the skin around his eyes, but you know if you wiped it away, you’d find dark circles beneath. He’s adopted the night and all it brings, but humans are not nocturnal, and the life he chooses is taxing.      

“Batsy,” you say, “let’s go hangout in my bed, yeah?”

His eye cracks open, the sliver of his blue iris, stark against the black paint. His throat bobs as he swallows. “I’m fine here.” 

It’s not a refusal, but his way of telling you that he can bear the discomfort. He should know that he doesn’t have to—never with you. “C’mon. I have a memory foam topper.”

“I’ll ruin the sheets—armor is dirty,” Batsy asserts softly. Each time he speaks, his stubble scrapes the soft flesh of your thighs—you suppress a shiver. 

“I don’t care,” you retort. Your hands drop to his arms, fingers finding the straps of his vambraces. You chew he inside of your cheek and study the black mass of armor. It rests heavy on his shoulders and can’t be that comfortable. Not after being blown up, that’s for fucking sure. You take a breathe and leap into unknown territory. “Besides…you can take all this off. I’ll help you.” 

The muscles in his jaw work as Bats considers your offer. His will tonight is no doubt whittled to the bone—making this gargantuan dip into vulnerability a tad easier. If you caught Bats at a earlier time he’d probably say no and leave.  

His pink tongue rolls over his cracked, bottom lip. “Can’t…my face—”

“You can leave your helmet on,” you quickly interject, desperate to keep him on the hook.  

Bat’s fingers furl into the waistband of your shorts. “Risky.” 

“Why?” You question. “Don’t you trust me?” 

“Too much,” Bats sighs. Your heart skips into an uneven rhythm. “You’re a liability.” 

Your mouth drops into a frown. “Wow, thank you. I’ll make sure to jot that down right next to distrac—”         

“Blue,” Vengeance scolds. “I didn’t mean it like that.” 

You quirk a brow and pinch his cheek. “What did you mean, then?”  

He grumbles under his breath and closes his eyes, mulling over his words three times over before he even thinks to say anything. It’s a familiar quirk—you know someone who does the same thing, but the name is lost on you…not that it really matters right now. Bats’ shoulders lift as he takes a deep breath, deflating as he exhales. “The funeral—you could’ve been hurt.”

“But I wasn’t,” you sniff, “and you can’t blame me for going. I was there as a courtesy for my mom.”   

Bats sighs deeply. “I’m saying, what happened there, was my fault.” 

“Oh.” 

That’s not really fair, you think. No one can control a situation like that. Sure, maybe Vengeance is a catalyst to these events, but that doesn’t mean what follows solely rests on his shoulders. 

“I can’t let you get hurt because of me,” he adds, brokenly. 

“Good thing I’m smart enough to stay away from the wrong people,” you say. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I’m here,” Bats presses, as if the very presence of him is sinful in nature. 

You roll your eyes and ruin your fingers along a deep scratch in his helmet. “You’re the right sort of wrong.”

He doesn’t point out your hypocrisy.  

“Let’s go to my room,” you suggest again. “We’ll turn the lights off.”     

He’s on the precipice of listening. 

“Let me take care of you.” 

He cracks—gives way like fine china against stone. 

You gather him Ito your arms, allowing him to rest his weight on you as you usher him to your room. The first part is easy as he strips off the first layer of compact armor like second nature, his boots and heavy tactical pants. You rest them over your dresser and when you return you close the blinds and reach for the light switch. 

Your room plummets into darkness. Once you find your way to the bed, you’re happily surprised to find that Bats has stripped to nakedness—including his helmet. You buzz with excitement as your hands reach for him. He lays on his back as you scoot beside him, as you toss your pajamas to the floor. Just as naked as he is. “See? Not so bad.”

“No,” he agrees, running his hands up your arms and urging you closer. 

You don’t care, that as you press your lips to his, it screams urgency. Breathlessly tattooing your relief onto his tongue and the hollow of his throat. By now, he doesn’t need to press his hand to your chest to hear your heart’s truth. He can feel the honesty in your fingertips trailing down his face. Bats opens his mouth, voice raspy with need, as he runs his nails down your spine. “I’m ok, Blue. I’m ok.”    

You’ll take his word for it, even if you can hear the way his breath stutters each time your hands come across a mottled bruise. It’s for the best you can’t see him right now—you’d be throwing a fit over his health. And so, to distract yourself from your fretful mind, your ideas drift to more pleasurable things. 

You use the line of his body as a guide in the darkness. Carefully shuffling back and coming to rest between his legs that part for you. You lay onto your stomach, and rest your head on his upper thigh. Your hand slides over his opposite leg and inward. His leg jumps as you traverse from his inner thigh up to the crease of his hip. 

“What are you doing?” He croaks. 

“Sucking you off,” you say, nonchalant and cool. Not like you’ve been thinking about this on the daily since the first time. Definitely not. “Can I?” 

Bats’ inhale shakes as your thumb rubs innocent circles over the sharp protrusion of his hipbone. He shifts and cups your face. You lean into his calloused palm. “You don’t have to.” 

“I want to,” you plead. Your hand drifts from his hip to his cock, pleasantly surprised that he’s already half hard. Bats grunts as your fingers wrap around the base of him, coaxing him to his full length as you roll your palm up and down his cock. “Please?”

The bedsheets rustle as they’re clenched tightly between Bats’ fist. His fingers twitch against your cheek. You can hear him sigh in the dark. “You convinced me.”

You huff through your nose. “You’re right, you know. I do always get what I want.”   

“Spoiled,” he specifies. He pauses and then quietly adds, “you deserve it.” 

You smile and press a kiss into his hipbone. “So do you.”

Before he can disagree with you, you cut him off by dragging your hot tongue from his groin and all the way up his cock. You finish by suckling the tip into the soft warmth of your mouth. You’re working with touch alone, a bit disappointed you don’t get to see all of him, but oh well. Touch will do.

Bats’ murmur of your name devolves into a rough groan as your tongue swirls around the underside of his tip and over the leaking slit. Bats takes a deep, shaky breath through his nose and threads his bruised fingers through your hair. You readjust and open your jaw wider, letting him fill your mouth and take him deeper. Not far enough he reaches the back of your throat, but enough to satisfy. 

“Fuck,” he gasps, and you hum softly. You slide your tongue down his shaft and take him a bit deeper. His body stiffens under you as you begin to slowly bob up and down his cock and hollow your cheeks. You move your hand down to cup his balls, wetted by your saliva that’s dripped down, gently kneading them as your mouth works his cock. Batsy’s fingers tighten in your hair, hips rolling up to meet your lips each time they swallow down his length. 

“Blue—” his voice is hoarse, fighting the urge to buck his hips and force you to take all of him into your mouth. You would if you could, but shit—your jaw aches and in no way is he small. His cock jumps on the flat of your tongue as you moan around him, your pace unhurried and sweet.  

You slowly pull off him for a breath of air, kissing the tip of his cock and mouthing at the beads of precum that dribble down the tip. “Feel good?”

The moment he responds, it becomes a strangled whimper as you take him as deep as you can. Your nose briefly touches his heated skin and the sparse hair over his groin before you pull up, wrap your hands around his cock and slowly jerk him off into you mouth.

“I’m getting close—fuck,” he whispers, opening and closing his fingers around your hair, on the precipice of deciding how roughly he should grab it. Or not at all. You tighten your grip as he tenses under you, cock hard and pulsing. You twist your wrist and lave your tongue over the underside of him. “Wait—wait—” Bats grunts, tugging at the strands of your hair to get you to ease off. 

You lift away, still close enough that when you talk, your lips brush his throbbing head. His cock twitches, abdominal muscles tensing under your touch, fighting his impeding orgasm. “It’s ok—you can cum in my mouth.” 

He swears. “No I…I don’t want…fuck—”  

Amused at his indecision, you sit up and lean over him, hands still working his cock. You miss his lips the first time and catch his chin. You adjust and kiss him open-mouthed and searing. Bats cups your jaw, allowing your tongue to slide into his mouth and suck on his lower lip.

“Blue,” Batsy moans, reaching for you when you pull back to sit on your haunches. “I wanna have you like this.” 

Your hand leaves his cock as you find his lips once more in the dark. “What, naked?”

His silent laugh puffs against your cheek as he sweeps a palm up your bare back. “The armor—I can’t feel how soft you are.”

You catch his hands and tug them to your breasts, gasping as his cold fingers roll over your hardened nipples. “You can have me like this anytime you want.” 

His inhale is choppy, as Bats helps you to straddle his waist. There’s a little fumbling around but eventually you settle, sinking into him like the missing piece of a puzzle, arms curling like second nature around his neck. You grasp at his hair, combing through the short strands, and wondering what color hair he has. A dark brown or black based on his stubble, you think. Blond doesn’t sit right with you.  

You lips meet, wet and lustful as you languidly grind your cunt against his cock. Bats tugs your hips down against his, the two of you reveling in the sensation of your soaking pussy dragging up and down his cock, rock hard and searing.

“You’re always so wet for me,” he rasps. “I haven’t even touched you yet.” 

Heart rushes to your cheeks. You kiss him again. “It’s because I like you, dummy.” 

You don’t care that he doesn’t say it back. At least not with words. Bats plants a sweet kiss onto your forehead. “I know.”

Christ—you want him. With maddening intensity that tears you apart from the inside out. You can feel your desire, hot and dripping down his cock as you rub yourself wantonly against him. You can only imagine the sight of him like this, splayed out on your bed, just as depraved and desperate like you. Your chest stings. Maybe one day you’ll get to see him in his entirety, instead of the pieces he throws at you. Mercy and torture rolled into one. 

You bite down on your bottom lip and place your hands on Bats’ toned hips, slowly rocking back and forth against the length of his cock, trapped between your soaking cunt and his stomach. Your eyes roll back as the simulation brushes perfectly over your clit. Bats seizes your hip and leans forward to lave the flat of his tongue over your nipple. You shudder as his calloused fingers find your other nipple, rolling the peaked bud between them. His mouth leaves you and the quickly cooling saliva makes you shiver. 

“I want you inside me,” you whisper against his lips. 

You push yourself upwards, legs splayed on either side of Bat’s lap, and reach down to take his cock into your hand. Fuck, he’s harder than steel. Bat’s hisses sharply through his teeth, murmuring gentle praise as you tease your clit with the wet head of his cock. You guide the tip down your slit and slot it against your aching hole. You push the slightest bit of him inside of you—choked groans and relived sighs are what follows. You moan as you both bask in that exquisite stretch of the first upwards roll of his hips. You’ll never get enough of this, you think, as your cunt envelopes the entirety of him. It’s an addiction you’ll gladly admit to. You reach for him, clutching at his shoulders and kissing him reverently. He swallows your heavy moans and cups your face between his large palms. Bats’ thumbs fondly skate over your cheekbones and you heart swells with hazy tenderness.   

“Take what you want—there you go,” Batsy huffs out as you roll your hips. His hands drop to your waist and coax you into an easy pace. You take the hint and roll your hips back against his as he steadily arches into you. Like this, Bats has unrestricted access to toy with your breasts. He lavishes them in attention as you control the pace of his cock, fucking you slowly and languidly into your heat. You fold over him and let your head fall to the side as Bats peppers kisses along your jaw and behind your ear, murmuring sweet words to you between each gentle press of his lips on your skin.

“I wish I could see you ride me,” he states, lifting his hips to meet yours and nibbling your bottom lip between his teeth.

“You wanted—wanted the lights off,” you reply coyly, voice breathy and slightly uneven as you began to bounce on Bat’s cock. “Could’ve just blindfolded me.” 

“It’s hard to think around you.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

You don’t take his banter for granted. It’s true he and you are far too comfortable together, and for fuck’s sake—you don’t even know who he is. It should worry you but all you can dream about is him. Of heat—of his ivory teeth piercing through your flesh, all you golden soaked fantasies and pleasures dripping into his hungry mouth. He’s ripped you from orbit and now the only guiding glow in a world full of night and terror. It’s odd how quickly he’s become a staple in your life—a mutual mess of tangled heartstrings.   

Ever the try hard, Bats stutters out a curse, and digs his heels into the mattress, bringing his knees up, under and behind you. The abrupt shift is enough to throw you off-guard. Your legs turn to jello as his hips thrust up. You squeak as you at the roughness and prop you hands onto his chest, somehow his cock spears even deeper. Tighter too, a sharper angle, what with the way your pussy clamps down around him. A rush of blazing heat envelops your lower half, dancing along the precipice of ecstasy. Bats’ lithe fingers snake between your splayed legs to toy with your clit, rubbing quick circles with three fingers as he murmurs sweet praise. His words are brittle kindling to a matchstick, and every inch of you burns for him. 

“Sh-shit,” you warble. “I’m gonna cum—” 

“I know. I can feel you.” Batts hisses in affirmation. His fingers over your clit doubles their efforts. You seize and whimper as he bypasses the hood and zeros in on the raw nerves. “Let go.”

No sooner had the words left Batsy's lips, you’re spiraling down into a whirlpool of an orgasm that consumes you entirely. Your back arches, brilliant colors bursting behind your tightly closed eyes. Or maybe they’re open—you can’t fucking tell, it’s dark as shit. Your hips snap voraciously against his to achieve the final bite of friction, and at this angle, the taught skin of Bats’ lower abdomen grazes sinfully against your clit with every buck of your hips. You jolt forward, ball your fists into his hair and whine against his mouth, shaking in his lap like you’ve touched a live wire. 

Bats’ arms twist over your back, trapping you into his chest as he drives his cock into you, searching for his own end. You bleat his name and bury your teeth into his collarbone. A bruise will show up later on his pale flesh—a token reminder that he’s yours if only for a little while. One hand reaches down to grab a handful of your ass, kneading the pliable muscle and helping your hips shove down onto his upward thrusts. Fucking hell—you’re the one supposed to be doing all the work—

You nibble a line up to his jaw, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. You drag your slick, hot tongue over the sharp line of his jaw up to his ear. His hair tickles your cheek. “Cum in me—yeah, that’s it. Good—so good.”    

It’s the same trick he pulls on you—makes sense that it’s equally devastating when used on him. Batsy’s broken cry is nearly enough to send you into a second orgasm as he lurching against you. He tilts his head, catches your lips and licks deep into your mouth. He cums, wild and deep inside you. Fuck, you wail at the sensation, tight cunt milking the throbbing length of him with endlessly wet, hot contractions as he grinds you both through the aching bliss. He kisses you in the way only a bleeding heart can—a tragedy stricken hero who feels undeserving of such tenderness. 

His heart beats wildly beneath his breastbone, you can feel it’s thumping as you lay your shaky palm over his chest. He’s so…human like this. Bats’ legs flatten as his body unwinds, sharing in the post haze—there’s no rush this time. You two are allowed to just be. You laying atop him while his softening cock is still buried inside of you—a perfect situation, you think. 

You nuzzle your nose into the crook of his neck and inhale deeply. Rain and the faint scent of sweat remain on his skin…and something sweeter. A little like cologne—you take another sniff—yup, definitely cologne. At least the remnant base nodes, either way it sparks dejavú. Fuzzy recollections come up short—it’s hard to place a memory with a scent if you don’t know what you’re looking for, or a comparison. 

Bats weaves his hands into your hair and lightly scratches your scalp. You melt into him with a purr. “Why are you sniffing me?” 

You snicker and nip at his jaw. “You smell nice,” you can’t contain your mischievous smile, “I like your cologne, by the way.” 

The way his body stiffens is nigh imperceptible, but considering you’re using him as a body pillow at the moment, you’re clued in to his reactions. Bats’ throat bobs as your teasing nips morph into sloppy kisses that you plant down the column of his throat. “I’m not wearing any.”

“Liar,” you whisper, feeling his pulse jump. You grunt as his hips shift, sore cunt clenching at the loss of his cock as it slips out. A gush of liquid, a mix of his cum and yours, spill onto his abdomen. 

He says nothing—a tactic to neither dig a bigger grave nor save his skin. A purgatory of secrets he’s not willing to share. You can respect that—you’re not really sure you’re ready to bear the burden of his secret identity and all it’s potential consequences just yet—neither is he. You roll your eyes at yourself—you need to stop poking your nose into trouble and expecting it not to bite back.          

You jolt as two curious fingers dip into your sensitive slit. He smears the added wetness, up to your clit that stings from abuse, and down to your weeping entrance. You whine and dig your nails into his chest—Bats makes no move to increase his speed, he’s simply enjoying the easy glide between your swollen lips and the nosies it rakes out of you. He unabashedly stokes the embers of your arousal to life and you know it’s a distraction. You don’t really care.   

Batsy nudges his nose into your forehead. “Blue.”

“Hm.”

“Sit on my face.”

You startle at the request, breath seizing in your lungs. Holy fuck—

He plants a kiss onto your hairline, as his finger targets your clit. He rubs tight, targeted circles around the bundle of nerves, reveling in the way your thighs shake for him. You nod before your voice catches up with you—that and the realization he can’t see you nod. 

“Y-yeah, ok,” you stutter, anticipation and unrefined desire lacerating through your cunt. Batboy slides down the mattress and helps you paw your way through the dark until his mouth is situated right under your cunt. 

You twitch as his hands find your thighs, hot breath fanning over the sensitive skin. “Grab the headboard,” he instructs. Your fingers reach out and slide over the top of the smooth wood, gripping it tightly in anticipation. 

“Little crybaby—so good for me,” he praises, and fuck you want to take him again right here and now. You whine as his breath fans hot on your core, just hovering. Waiting for who knows what. You release a shuddering breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. 

“God, Batty, please…” You beg, your voice breathy and soft like golden-spun honey. “Please,” you hear yourself gasp again, shifting in his grasp and unraveling into a debase state of lust.

“Patience,” he replies evenly, moving one hand from your hip to the apex of your legs. His muscular arm curls around your calf, his hand steady, thumb and forefinger gently parting delicate, slick folds. With that, you are utterly exposed to him as he slips the hood back from the sensitive pactch of nerves at the top of your slit. Your pussy clenches involuntarily and harshly, making everything from your toes to your hips tense. Bats hums in delight. 

“You’re dripping,” his rasp is dark, wrecked. “Do you want my mouth?”

“Yes,” you cry, dropping one hand to twist into his hair. Tears prick at your eyes—you can’t handle anymore teasing. “S’all yours—please. I need you.” 

Not keen on keeping you waiting for too long, Bats surges forward to suck the swollen folds of your pussy into his heated mouth. He rolls your sensitive, fevered flesh between his blunt teeth, then flicks his tongue wetly against your entrance—you can hear it too.

The lapping sound of his tongue devouring your wetness and his spend hungrily is vulgar. Your hoarse cry for him and your tight grip on his hair is all the encouragement Bats needs to offer more of himself for your pleasure. He slides the flat of his tongue up to circle your clit until the air is robbed from your lungs. You think you might quit breathing for eternity. It’s certainly a possibility—

Then, all too soon, his mouth disappears. No. “Breathe. You’re working yourself up.” 

No shit, you want to bite back. Your fingers tug on his hair—he grunts as his thumb and forefinger squeeze the plump lips of your pussy closed and rub gently up and down. “I’ll cry,” you halfheartedly threaten. “I’ll…I’ll cry if you don’t—”  

“Then cry,” he challenges, opening you back up and thumbing your clit. Your thighs shake as your teeth tear into your bottom lip.

You open you mouth to snip back, but just as you do , Bats opens you up again. He takes a long lick up the length of your slit and then another. Swirling his tongue deeper, his mouth slides over your pussy in a soft, velveteen kiss that makes your entire body shake. You can feel just how wet he’s making you, and you know he could spend a whole night with his face buried between your thighs if he could. You’d certainly let him if he asked.

“You taste perfect,” Vengeance growls into you, licking a long line up the seam of you. You whimper pathetically—a feeble sound you’d almost be embarrassed of if you were actually cognizant. 

“Oh, shit!” You cry out, chest heaving and knuckles white against the headboard that you grip onto like it’s your only tether to the world. “Fuck, you’re—fuck, you feel good,”

Bats spreads his saliva over your sopping pussy with two fingers and then lets his his jaw go lax—devouring you like a starved man—lathing every inch of your pussy with his tongue.  His hands holding your thighs apart are the only things keeping you upright, and through the haze of lust you feel the centre of your weight pressing down directly onto his face. Concern breaks through the fog of your mind. Fuck—you’re gonna break his nose. You try to lift your hips up slightly, but as you do so, Bats simply growls and immediately tugs your hips right back to where they were. 

His nose bumps against your clit, your wetness smeared over his cheeks and down his chin as he pushed the very tip of his tongue into your entrance—just enough to stretch your sensitive entrance—swollen and aching as Batty coaxes every single one of your nerves to burst into flames. He refuses to pull back, not until your hips buck involuntarily against his face, wantonly fucking his tongue as the hot muscle of his tongue curls deliriously inside of you.

Your orgasm sneaks up on you—one more pass of his tongue and you’re done for. You cry out, a choked, breathy yelp of his name boarders a sob. Bats retracts from your cunt with an erotic wet sound, and closes his lips around your aching clit. He hums from deep in his chest, sending blistering hot vibrations zipping through your core—it’s too much. Hissing, your back arches into a sharp bend, as your hand shoots to his hair, clawing at the strands in attempt to steer his relentless mouth away. The nerves he’s toying with are too raw—and overload of pleasure. Soon, the burning ache of your orgasm dissolves, melting into a plateau of the lingering grazes of Bats’ lips that just barely against you. 

Your shaking hand untangles from his hair. You tongue rolls over your bottom lip. “Shit—why are you so good at that?” 

With some ability to move restored to your limbs, you shift back and manage to slide off his body and slump by his side. Bats is quick to turn and wrap you into his arms, but instead of tucking your head under his chin, he shuffles down the bed and nestles his head onto your chest. “I like you, dummy.” 

You smile and find his cheek. You tilt his head up, craving his mouth and the sweetness of his tongue. You giggle as pushes himself up slightly to reach for your lips. You feel his smile against you as you kiss him—albeit a little sloppy, but neither of you care.

Bats breaks away and hugs you closer, ear pressed against your sternum. Your hands fall to his head like second nature, toying with the short strands of his hair and stroking your fingers down the slopes of his face. You skim your other hand down his muscled back, lightly dragging your nails down his back. Scars litter his skin here, a map of past battles and old griefs that make your chest sting. You know he’ll sneer at the idea, but you still look upon him with wonder and pity. Maybe, somewhere in the deep recesses of your mind, you know that the future is not very pretty for his kind. But then again—he probably thinks the same of you. Always running into burning houses and wondering why you get signed each time. 

A fate of permanent loneliness for the both of you.    

You twitch as his his large palm cups your breast. “What are you thinking about, Blue?”

“Wondering how to ask you to spend the night,” you say, fingers memorizing the jagged bump of a scar in the middle of his back. Shrapnel, most likely. Left unstitched too—you frown. 

He shift his weight and rubs his cheek against your chest. You feel him swallow, and force out his words as if they were sharpened glass. “I can’t.” 

“How about until I fall asleep?” You propose, not keen on letting go just yet. But then again, each time you’re with him, it becomes harder and harder to leave. “Don’t make me beg.” 

He sighs deeply. “Alright.” 

A smile splits across your face, joy filling up your ribcage and bubbling up through the cracks. You squeeze him tight as he grapples with the top sheet and flings it over your exposed bodies. You promise yourself to say awake, at least for a couple more hours, but you’re weak against his warmth and the weight of him. Each time you brush the fuzzy line of sleep, you jerk awake and fight the temptation. Bats catches onto your ploy. 

He gently rolls your body onto your side and slots himself to your back, trapping your arms abasing your chest as he wraps his arms around you. He kisses your neck and interlaces his fingers with yours. “Go to sleep, Blue.”

And you fall into it—like a daydream, or a fever. The hours become rainfall, dreamy minutes and pools of starlight gathering between your heart and lungs. Somewhere between these moments, outside of your unconsciousness, the bed dips and the air turns cold. The soft comforter lifts and is placed over your body and before you stir, your worries are silenced with a fragile kiss to your temple. 

When you awake, you are alone. Watery-grey sunlight sieves through the moth-eaten curtains. All you have to remember Vengeance by is the black paint that dots your sheets and fingertips like smeared ash—like you’ve invited a shadow into your bed instead of a man. 

You rub the sleep from your eyes and reach for you phone laying atop the nightstand. A voicemail notification from the Wayne tower takes up your lockscreen. Fingers still clumsy with sleep, you press the phone to your ear, expecting the easy voice of Alfred updating you on Bruce’s whereabouts. Instead, Bruce’s embittered voice crackles through the receiver. It’s nothing memorable, just a quick apology about the funeral and an ask to call him back.

The thorn-laced fear unravels from your heart—you’re glad he’s ok. Yet, in the same span of second, you’re pissed. Yes, people mistake your forgiving nature for naivety, you just never thought that Bruce would be one those people. His odd disappearance and Alfred’s cover up—he’s hiding something. You’re not one who dips their toes into paranoia, but fuck—what else are you supposed to feel when your friend goes missing after a domestic terrorism attack?  

You sigh. 

You hope Bruce isn’t involved with anything that makes him a target. 

Or better yet, involved with the case.  

[dailyreverie]

Masquerade

A/N: This one was requested by @chromium-siren, thank you so much!! I know the prompt is "costumes" but I didn't wanted it to be that cliché since I made that last year so we're going for a masquerade. This is an idea that I had for my Poe series Aftermath and never found how to include it lol but basically Poe is dragged to attend a masquerade. Also, I'm going for Phantom of the Opera vibes for the masquerade let's all have that in mind.

Fall prompts 🍂 10. Costumes

Pairing: Poe Dameron x reader (reader is a Senator, no gender specified but reader wears a dress - also: General Poe)

Word count: 1.2k words

Warnings: Party ambience, sxual innuendos (nothing graphic its just flirty Poe)

Everything had felt foreign to Poe since he entered the planet's orbit: The chilly, humid air hitting his face, the fact that he had to wear a formal suit, the way they all greeted him with fake amiability and even more fanfare than it was needed for a war General arriving to a Council event - a council even that lasted all night, according to the invitation. It all felt outlandish for him, but the second he got into his assigned room and saw his bed, he reached the breaking point: a mask. 

The suit and the massive event were not enough for these people, now also a black, silky mask stared at him from the bed next to a note with very precise indications for him to wear it through the whole night; mystery and thrilling being the chosen words to describe the evening, but Poe could only think of it as a costume. 

Poe cursed at the graying skies of the far away planet, regretting the day the told Finn he could attend this one as long as he went to the next one, because now how was he supposed to find you, the only reason he was there, if you were now one of the thousands in a sea of elegant masks?

The ballroom feels cold even with all the people that are arriving. Dark lighting gave the room a mysterious aura, which seemed to be provided by the candles placed in the enormous chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, with string music filling the room, dragging couples to spin together on the dance floor as they tried to discover who was the person they were dancing with, hidden by a mask and covered by candlelight.

As minutes dragged by it felt as if it was all because of you and him. Maybe you were too obvious to the rest of the governors, so much, that they had to force everyone to hide in plain sight hoping that maybe just this one time you two won’t find each other.

“As much as they make you wear a mask, I could recognize that hair anywhere.” Poe turns around at the sound of your voice reaching his ears. A mask just like his covers half of your face, with delicate details adorning it, somehow combining perfectly with the details of your dress.

“Senator. I was starting to think I was not going to find you.” He greets, your position a tease coming from his sultry voice. The relief is evident in his tone, and as you meet eye to eye, Poe is once again reminded of why he keeps looking forward to all these council meetings.

“I would make sure you find me, don’t worry about that General.” You take a step closer to him, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek.

“You look gorgeous.” Poe beams, looking you up and down, his hand lingering on your waist as you step back from his space.

“Even in this…” you hesitate with your words, trying to find the correct ones. “...in this costume?” It takes him aback a little, the way you repeat his thoughts so precisely. Still, you whisper your last words hoping no one would hear, making Poe chuckle maybe a little more than he should.

“Especially with it.” He clarifies, taking a step beside you and wrapping your hand around his forearms, ready to escort you to your preferred destination. Poe laughs, relieved that someone else sees the over-the-top atmosphere as absurd as he did. “What even is going on?” He lets you guide him to the dance floor, where he expertly places his hand on your lower waist as yours parks between his broad shoulders, his other hand holding yours close to your bodies. He presses your body to his chest, swaying lightly to the music.

“It's a tradition on some systems to make parties and dress up this time of the year. They are supposed to be scary and mysterious, and apparently, we all are embracing that tradition now.” Poe remains quiet, taking in the misty atmosphere of the party, looking around at all the guests seemingly enjoying the evening. “I guess this is also their way of making us socialize with people we don’t know, add a little bit to that mystery.”

“Are you saying we were too quick to find each other?” His quirked eyebrow pops from the top of the mask, and you have to remain yourself to touch it. “They’re gonna put on full masks on us the next time then.”

“I’m not saying that at all.” You squeeze his arm playfully, giggling even, catching up to his joke. “For all they know, I could’ve just been charmed by the handsome stranger looking around like a lost Porg.”

Poe smirks. “Handsome, huh?”

“I also said lost Porg, Dameron, don’t get too excited.” He’s already smiling at you when you look up to meet his eyes, and if you hooped the mask would cover your blushing face, you couldn’t have been more wrong.

No more than two songs go by when his lips meet yours in a tender kiss, as they always do when you see each other, fooling everyone who thought you were charmed by a stranger. Poe stops dancing to drag you to a nearby balcony, his calloused fingers quick to undo the silk ribbon that holds the mask to your face, anxious to see your face. He traces your cheekbones instead, sighing almost as he finally is able to see you as he first intended to.

“I was starting to hate this mask.” You confirm, thankful for his actions.

“I’m starting to hate this whole costume.” Poe’s sultry voice tingles at your neck as he places a kiss there. “I was not made for fancy events.”

“Hmm, you’re right. Finn is always much more well behaved.” You laugh at your own teasing, interrupted only by Poe poking your waist before his lips shut up your giggling with yet another kiss, this time hungrier, making you gasp against his mouth as you taste each other.

Breathless, you pull apart and press your foreheads together. Your fingers lace with one another and you both blink away the haze, the chill autumn air reminding you both that you are outside when a shiver makes goosebumps appear on your arms.

“Let’s ditch these party, yeah?” Poe whispers, tired of pretending he doesn’t want to unbutton your gown slowly and have you all for himself. His hands move up and down your arms, warming you up and convincing you to join him. “Forget about these costumes and just… let’s just enjoy the night.”

With an airy laugh you peck his lips, sneaking your hand to the pocket of his suit to grab your mask. “Are you finally taking me to your quarters, General?” You tease him, whispering in his ear and kissing his earlobe. He manages to say something that sounds like a yes, but Poe is speechless, finally, for once, and he can only watch you take a step back from him as you put your mask on again. “Only if you find me.” You wink over your shoulder, disappearing into the party and becoming one more of the candlelit shadows.

He smirks, accepting the challenge, knowing damn well that masked or not, he could find you anywhere.

🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂

Thanks for reading! Please reblog and comment if you enjoyed it!

[cd-head]

Heavy in your arms.

Me? Hurting a comfort character? More likely than you think!

Commander Fox angst time <3

Tw// Themes of depression, hinted at abuse, canonical death and violence, hitting someone (rex may of slapped fox), negative self thinking

Fox needs a hug man

Wake up, work, eat, sleep.

That was what Fox lived with, a cycle. One thing that he's been using since he got assigned to the Corrie. He didn’t think he had dreams back then, but if he did. They were long dead. Just like most of the Corrie, he supposed.

Marshal Commander, protector. Cursed, ruined. People despised him. His own batch mates had fallen away, talking constantly in the commander group chat he barely typed in, for if he did. They always just said ‘oh fox is still in here’, ‘what's it like just signing papers?’. He put the group chat on silent not too long ago.

Wake up, work, sleep.

He barely noticed when ‘eat’ fell away from his cycle. Barely noticed how sometimes it was harder to blink than before, how exhaustion trinkled into his veins. How his hands shook, how he grew pale under his helmet.

It was fine. He was fine.

He had to be. His brothers needed him to be. The senators needed him.

Wake up, work, pace.

Bag hung under his eyes, exhaustion filled him. Stone would throw him worried glances, all of them to keep up in their work to do anything. They couldn't risk anything more than a gentle arm nudge, a hand flicking to rest on his shoulder before quickly moving on. A quick smile before a helmet was pulled on.

They couldn't risk anything. Not with more and more decommisons that Fox had to sign. Had to send his brothers to death.

He never had a word in it. Never could stop the shinies that fell. The brothers that were so bright when they arrived, crushed and broken.

Decommisons of so many dumb reasons - an accent, ruined paint, said something a senator didnt like, didnt have their paint yet, wasnt standing fully right. So many reasons. Just because his brothers aren't the droids the senate wanted them to be.

Threats of his own decommissioning were thrown around like it was a mere joke to the senators. They wouldn't dare do it, a Marshal Commander decommissioning was too much paperwork. To long for the long necks to get another one out there.

He didn't pay mind to how sometimes black dots spotted his vision, his body shivering, how exhausted he constantly felt. How the click of his feet hitting the floor around him was normal. Hands in his hair at the desk, twirl, grip, pull. Twirl, grip, pull. Repeat.

Gray hair was growing around his temples.

He paid no mind.

Work.

His hands moved, yet the datapad laid blurred in his hands. His head was pounding - but when wasnt it? The memory gaps had gotten worse, his hair graying more. His eyes were dull. Hands shaking.

The chancellor wanted to see him again but when didn't he at this point? He always stared at his reflection, and the man stared back at him. Cold dead brown eyes that looked right back, the sunken in cheeks and the grayed hair that laid just past his shoulders in tight curls and knots - when did he last brush it? Bags hung just to the curve of his cheeks and were dark against his skin.

Fox just looked away. There was no point in looking at a dead man anyway.

As that's what he was.

A dead man. A husk.

He doesn't remember shooting Fives, he remembers his shoulders being grabbed. How he was shoved back, a face in his screaming. A corrie who goes by the name of Lazer who defended him.

A slap rang out, Fox barely felt the sting of his cheek. He didn't notice how he fell to the ground, his armor scratching the ground. How Rex was breathing over him before he spat on the floor next to Fox as he laid on the floor. Cursed him out, declaring that Fox was no longer a vod.

He doesn't remember most of that week. Mostly remembers how Thorns arms felt around as he sobbed, as his body trembled in his brother's arms. How a hand ran through his hair and his breathing was short and it was so hard to just suck in a breath.

He has avoided his batchmates and Rex since that point.

Then Thorn died - for a senator. And no one seemed to care, the days went on and he felt like he was left behind.

The panic attacks got more common.

He stopped sleeping - eating - honestly doing anything but, he ignored the looks Hound, Stone, or Thire shot him. How theyd try to talk to him.

No one really talked to him anymore.

He was so alone.

Bodies weren't supposed to be hard to lift out of a chair, bones were not supposed to feel like they were filled with stones. That his eyes felt too hard to keep open.

His body burned from the pain of a hug. No one hugged him since Thorn.

He was in a meeting, he thinks. His vision was spotting. He couldn't hear what the senators were saying.

The woman Thorn had died kept giving him glances. He couldn't bare to look at her. It wasn't Padme's fault.

He was just weak.

And so alone. So.

Lonely.

He didn't notice that he was swaying until Padme had asked if he was alright. He just nodded, his lips felt like they were sewed closed, and they might as well have been. He hasn't spoken in so long.

He couldn't die, his vod’ike still needed him. He was still good for something, just taking the blame. Not letting them die, once more. They won't kill him, not yet. Not when he's still in his mind.

Fox collapsed. And half of him wished he never would open his eyes again.

It was so… bright. Like the sun was raging down at him for being so weak, for failing. For letting his brothers be alone without him there. For making Padme worry.

His lips burned when he opened them to let out a pained exhale. Everything hurt, so badly.

There was someone else in the room, but honestly he couldn't bring himself to care. Chains had looked around his body even if they were not actually there. A hand to forehead was what pulled his eyes open to his or ori’vod- Cody. He wasn't their brother anymore, they had all made it clear. A aruetii. A vod kyramud for the shot that went through Five's lungs.

He wouldn't lie that he missed them, even if it felt selfish. Even if they didn't love him anymore, he didn't think he'd ever stop loving them. Missing how their arms would feel around him as he cried, he was always too small. Too weak.

Cody was looking at him with a look of.. Worry. Maybe? Why was he worried about him? He wasn't a vod anymore. He killed a vod. The fingers running through his hair felt nice though and his throat hurt to much to speak. He tiredly connected the dots that he was in the Jed medical ward.

He was too tired to put together why. All he could really think about was how Cody was running a hand through his hair. He couldnt sleep though, he didnt know he had let out a whine of pain from the pure agony he was in.

Fox’s vision was blurred but he opened his eyes anyway, he vaguely made out another figure in the background before he reached up and tugged on Codys arm.

He felt like a cadet again, the one that used to climb into one of his ori’vods pods and curl into their sides and sleep there. Letting himself be held. But honestly he couldnt bring himself to care. Its been months since someones touched him without meaning harm.

The all cold, aloof, and terrifying Marshal Commander Fox was just a hurt child.

The bed creaked behind him a bit and arms covered in the rough fabric of blacks wrapped around him and he curled as close as he could.

Cody just pulled him closer, he didnt laugh. He didnt shove him away. He didnt throw him. He just held him there, carefully. Like a mother bird cradling her chick under her wing. His hand slid up to Foxs hair and he perched his head ontop of Foxs, and only then did he speak.

“Sleep Fox’ika, you need it.” Fox was to tired to fight against the tug of sleep anyway.

[my-tin-can-mans]

Gone Too Far, Crosshair x Reader

Soooo I'm thinking about writing another part to this let me know what you think, this idea had been festering in my brain for awhile now and I finally had the patience to sit down and write it. Also I got an idea to a Rex x reader one shot so be prepared for that soon if I get the motive.

Pairings: Crosshair x Reader

Warnings: None? Kinda Angst? I'm not sure.

It was late, incredibly late. And as the pilot of the Havoc Marauder, you had to be up early to take the ship out of hyperspace and land it. That meant you needed sleep, enough to at least fly a ship, but that was sounding impossible at this hour.

Wrecker and Crosshair were still up, bouncing a ball on a wall back and forth. You knew this because on the other side of the wall happened to be your room. Granted you shared it with Echo, but this noise didn’t seem to be a bother for him as you could hear his soft snores from the bunk beneath you. Unfortunately, as the two newest members to the bad batch, you both got to share the room closest to everything. Which meant when someone was up and moving around in the hull, you two were the first to know.

You huffed, raking your hand down your face, and throwing your GAR issued blanket off yourself. You climbed down the ladder trying to make as little noise as possible as to not wake Echo, but you were sure nothing would if he couldn’t hear the loud bounce against the wall ever thirty seconds. You quietly opened the door and walked into the hull. Wrecker was laying with his back against the floor and his feet propped up on the seat in front of him while Crosshair was sitting up in the seat beside his feet, infamous toothpick wedged between his lips and ball in hand.

The look on your face was not a nice one, and the two men knew that. “What’s got your panties in a twist?” Crosshair spoke as he went to bounce the ball again against the wall in front of him.

But as it started to bounce back you swiftly came in and grabbed it. “Hey” wrecker whined, “we were having fun.”

“Well too bad” you grumbled, “I've got to land this ship in less than four hours and if I don’t get any sleep, we’ll all be crash landing.”

“What does our ball having anything to do with your sleep?” Crosshair spoke up with a rather knowing look on his face.

“Considering the fact that it's bouncing up against the room I sleep in, a lot.” You cocked you hip and put your hand on it, threating him to fight back.

But it was crosshair you were talking to, of course he was going to argue. “it's just a ball princess, ignore it. You’ll find you sleep a lot better that way.”

“Damnit Crosshair can’t you for once think about anyone other than yourself?” you raised your voice, officially becoming a little more than frustrated.

“I still don’t see how you ever made it as a slave once, all you ever do is whine.” This hit hard. It wasn’t the usual back and forth banter between you two. It was way more personal than that. You’d grown up a slave and had eventually escaped with the help of the republic, specifically Senator Amidala. You two had grown close and you felt you had a debt to pay off the republic for saving you, but it wasn’t in the same sense as before, you were gracious for this, and she took you under her wing gave you a job in the GAR and you had a place to sleep and eat and free will. You were a great pilot; you’d like to think. You spent much of your time and a slave being forced to run spice. You knew how to get out of tricky situations. So, when commander Cody had seen you in action one day, he knew just the new position for you, pilot of clone force 99 because, with all due respect, Tech was great at many things, but your specialty was flying. And they needed a good flyer with all the close calls they had.

You hadn’t thought about that part of your past in a while. You were leading a good life now and had been trying to forget. As you stood there stunned by Crosshair’s words you could feel the tears welling up in your eyes. You didn’t want him or Wrecker to see you cry, you weren’t that close with the bad batch to let down your guard that much, so dropped the ball that was still in your hand, and you swiftly turned to retreat to your room.

You managed to keep the tears in long enough to climb back on the top bunk above Echo and get situated. The ball had stopped bother you and it was dead silent for once, but you were never getting sleep now.

_____________________________________________________________

Your alarm went off, but it was useless. You hadn’t slept at all. You heard Echo starting to stir as well. You let out a sigh. Throwing the blanket off yourself again and climbing down the ladder. Echo was sitting up of the edge of his bed, rubbing the sleep from his face. “Morning” he whispered.

“Morning,” you said back just as quietly, “Echo I need to change real quick do you mind?” you and Echo had gotten pretty close, but you still felt a little uncomfortable changing in front of him. It was the one thing that sucked about having to share a room, but he was always a gentleman about it, always giving you the privacy you needed.

“Of course not,” he responded laying back down and covering his face with his arm.

You switched from the old, battered shirt and shorts you owned to your flight suit uniform. “Okay,” was all you had to say to let Echo know you were decent. He lifted his head up and began placing his own amour over his blacks while you fastened you harness and put your blaster and a couple of other necessities back into their rightful place. The whole while Crosshair’s words from just a few hours ago played on repeat in your mind damping your mood for the day before it had even begun.

You were tired. You hadn’t gotten a drop of sleep last night and now needed to prepare the ship to drop out of hyperspace and land it. Although it wasn’t a hard task, very mundane for being a pilot, it still took a lot of focus, which was something you weren’t good at doing without sleep.

You walked to the cockpit with Echo. Tech was already in the co-pilots seat and Hunter was sitting in the seat behind him. You took yours as the pilot and Echo sat behind you. “We’ll be dropping out of hyperspace in 6 minutes.” Tech turned to you to say.

You grunted, beginning the routine of checking the hyperdrive and stabilizers. About a minute into doing this a mug of caf was harshly placed in front of you on the dashboard. You looked up to see who had done this and were unpleasantly surprised by Crosshair standing beside you looking down at you with a scowl to his face. “What’s this?” you asked like you didn’t know what a cup of caf looked like.

“Caf” he responded, sliding it closer on the dashboard to meet your face better.

“No thanks.” You said back, sliding it away from you and trying to focus on the blinking buttons ahead of you.

“Three minutes till drop,” Tech and interjected, popping his head around crosshair to give you a questioning look, “you ready?”

“Yeah.” You sighed, trying to get back to work with Crosshair still standing there.

You were hoping he would take the hint that you were still pissed at him and just leave you be, but of course that wasn’t the case. The mug of caf was slid back in front of you and you looked up again to see an even more pissed off crosshair than before. What was his problem? He insulted you and took it too far and now he was mad you were declining his caf? It was starting to make your blood boil too; you were the one that deserved to be angry not him.

“Look,” he said, “I made it just how you like it, two sugars one cream. I even put it in your favorite mug. Just take the kriffing caf.”

If this was some sort of pathetic excuse for an apology it wasn’t going to work, you were truly upset and a cup of caf wasn’t going to fix that.

“And I said no thank you.” You told him harshly and forcefully pushed the cup back in his direction.

You could go for a cup of caf right now, but you weren’t going to let him get away with this. He was always pushing your buttons, making snarky remarks at you and this time he had gone to far.

He huffed, grabbed the cup, and walked out of the cockpit.

Right on time, Tech and began to start the countdown to drop out of hyperspace and you now need to focus the most.

_____________________________________________________________

After you had landed you stayed behind in the cockpit, while everyone else around you had started to get up. You closed your eyes, leaning back in your seat and taking a deep breath. The day had just started, and it was already going horribly.

You felt a hand on your shoulder and you jumped, turning to give the perpetrator a dirty look expecting it to be Crosshair again not taking the hint that you were still very clearly upset but softening when you saw Hunter instead. The sergeant of the bad batch and you had grown close, mostly because he could read you like an open book, whereas the others tended to not pick up and any hints that your moods had changed. “Mind telling me what that all was about back there?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow at you.

You signed and he went to sit in the seat across from you while you began to tell him about the incident last night.

“So he was trying to apologize to you this morning.” Hunter stated.

“Hunter, you know my past and the pain that comes along with it better than anyone else on this ship. I've reluctantly shared bits and pieces with all of you out of trust, for him to use that against me in a petty argument really hurts. A cup of caf isn’t going to make me forgive him, especially when I know he isn’t truly sorry.”

He sighed leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees to place his head in his hands. “(Y/N), I know you and Crosshair haven’t ever really gotten along but he’s not good at talking about things, I'm sure he truly is sorry, but him giving you a cup of caf is the biggest apology I've ever seen him give anyone.”

This whole situation was really one you just wanted to forget. But at this point you also just wanted an actual apology.

“Well he’s going to have to bite his tongue and do better than that.”