#THIS WAS JUST SITTING IN MY DRAFTS FOR A WHILE

[melanchoire]

hi! can i request a top student karina who helps y/n to get a good grades and became obsessed with her (friendly rivalry plot 🤩). y/n realized she couldn't survive school without her and starts doing what karina wants (to please her 💗), that eventually lead to her bedroom.. can you also add up that the y/n loves boobs like yk she would beg karina to let her suck her and please also add that karina is into face sitting mwehehe.

this seems a lot sorry... THANK YOU ANYWAY!!

i missed writing for rina so much 💔 anyway i still have a couple of aespa stuff in my drafts (aeri stans get ready 🎇🎉🎊)

cw: cunnilingus, face–sitting, thigh riding, titsucking.

karina being a senior at your school who becomes your tutor due to your less than ideal grades 💔 having to meet her every school day at the library starts to make you realize that slacking off in class and taking lazy and messy notes for the sake of joking around and talking with your friends was a very bad idea

you knew something about her, not too much, but you had seen her a couple of times in the school hallways or among the crowds of people at school events. you thought she would be a bit stuck up like some of the other girls in her class given the looks they tend to give younger students, but she wasn’t completely giving off that vibe, and you could tell when she looked up from her phone upon entering the library and dropped the straw of her milkshake from between her lips. “oh hey! you made it. i thought you weren’t coming.” and she approaches you smiling, greeting you with a kiss on the cheek and maintaining a charismatic and friendly attitude

“it’s good to see you here. your teacher told me about your low grades and asked me to help you study and prepare for the upcoming exams so you can pass her subject. i hope you’re okay with that." but you can’t pay much attention to her words because your eyes are on her because she is so much more beautiful up close 😵‍💫 this was definitely the motivation you needed to finally pay attention to your studies

her sharp and pronounced features, the way her silky hair waves gracefully when she walks and a small breeze hits her face, how her uniform accentuates her body, the slight movement of her hips and her confidence when she walks makes you stare at her like an idiot every time you see her. karina even greets you when she sees you in the hallways, no matter if you are with your friends or she is with her group, when she passes by you, she gives you a small nod and a smile, but if she sees you from afar, it’s a wink and a wave of her hand 🫠 you don’t know how she would react if she knew that sometimes you wander around the school on purpose just to find her or memorizing the route she takes to her classroom or during break time

but karina is just as obsessed as you are! of course she notices the look that your eyes have when you see her, but she always maintains a relaxed attitude, holding back a smirk as she sees how you think you’re being subtle with your gaze when it’s traveling all over her body…

and thanks to karina’s help you manage to go from being the lazy student who is always talking in class to the student who participates in class and does all their homework so they can use the extra class time to complete some other assignment in another subject or study for the exams they got

little by little, the study dates begin to become more… intimate. karina always used to sit next to you while she explained the exercises, placing the notebook between the two of you and looking at you every time she explained a new concept to make sure you were following her lead and understood what he was talking about. now, she was more… closer. continuing to sit next to you but much closer to you, her chest practically at your side and always remembering to make sure to press her breasts against your shoulder, enjoying when you turn your face to the side to look at her as she explains, getting nervous about having her face so close to yours and noticing how your gaze falls directly to her lips

a hand resting on your knee as she explains the formulas and different ways to solve an equation, climbing dangerously up your thigh until it reaches under your skirt. “now we will do a little practice. i’ve already written the results of the equations. you just have to do the math, and if you get the same result as me, it means it’s correct.” as if she wasn’t currently caressing your clit through your panties with her fingertips 🥰 “if you do this well, we can stop studying here and do something more… fun.” and you’ve never been so motivated to do a task before!

karina pushing your panties aside so her fingers could caress your folds… you were thankful that there was no one in the library at this hour, because otherwise, you wouldn’t be having this! or that’s what you think, because if it were up to karina, she would fuck you on the table even with the library full of people 😊

and when you finally finish completing the exercises, you think that she will give you what you want so much, but no! she focuses on correcting the exercises you solved, taking all her time and taking extra time to provoke you ☹️

but a promise is a promise, so karina drags you to her bedroom!

although karina won’t give it to you easily 😣 making you kneel in front of her and beg her to touch you, but not before confessing how much you want to fuck her for a long time and tell her all the twisted ideas that are in that silly little head of yours :( karina enjoys being mean because it’s very easy to break you and make you act like a dumb

making you sit on her lap and ride her thigh while she lets you play with her tits 😵‍💫 pushing your face into her chest with a grip on your hair, grinning as you watch as the more you suck on her tits the more desperate your hips move against her thigh

“so that was it... do you always put effort into your studies when it comes to me because you want to fuck me, (y/n)? all you do is think about me playing with this body when you study?”

“riding my thigh like a dog humping a leg… you're pathetic, (y/n).”

letting karina ride your face because it’s your way of thanking her for helping you improve your grades and be a better student 🫶🏻 she loves to see your vulnerable expression and your eyes looking at her from between her thighs, enjoying it more when you whine against her pussy as she pushes her hips harder against your face just to tease you 🥴 and she is so sweet that she also allows you to touch yourself while you devour her, letting you sneak a hand under your skirt and play with your throbbing clit while she uses you for her own pleasure

[semisolidmind]

Ok how bout' this

What if Reader had a villager boyfriend who sadly had to travel to another place for buisiness but promised to Marry her after he comes back, juste imagine how devastated he is when he Sees what the Monkey King and His general did to His village, and how determined he is to dare set foot in his palace to save Reader after learning what they did with HER

(NOT writing for lmk right now, but this has been sitting in my drafts for a while and it's already pretty long, so it'd be a waste to just delete it.)

deepest apologies to this hypothetical man, but there's really no way he's ever gonna see reader again.

however, let's entertain the idea that this guy is so dang devoted to reader that, after traveling for a bit and figuring out who's responsible for his entire town's dissapearance, he's determined to get her back.

let's say this guy manages to not only find a magical island (that most folks aren't even sure really exists), get onto the island and past the lower level of defenses (tough terrain and wild animals), sneak past the sentries, and get close enough to the water curtain cave to find reader; all without being spotted. perhaps she's sitting beneath a tree, reading, minding her own business, not expecting him at ALL,

and then there he is. he tugs at her hands, pulling her up and with him. he tells her in a rush that he's come to free her and that they should leave right now, c'mon we gotta go—!

but reader pulls back. her heart is pounding a mile a minute, fear for her once-partner striking her nerves. if her husbands find him here, trying to pull her away...she doesn't want to imagine what they'll do to him. he'll never see the light of day again, that's for certain. reader doesn't want to see another blameless mortal die because of her.

despite the pain in her heart, reader pushes the man away. she tells him he has to leave without her, that attempting to take her back will only get him killed.

but he insists that because he's come this far, she must go with him. he's braved so many dangers, all for her and their promise. the man is practically begging reader to go, still tugging her in the direction of the beach.

reader shakes her head, tears gathering in her eyes. she implores him, please, to just go, forget about her and leave this place before—!

reader gasps.

speak of the devil.

the imposing figure of sun wukong lands heavily behind her former love (who at least has the common sense to look scared out of his mind). the demon makes quite the chilling image; the deadly angles of his paldrons and the imperious, quiet sway of his cape and headress all lending themselves to the visage of a cruel warlord.

the monkey king's eyes burn with rage. he comes home, ready to see his beloved wife, only to find this...unkempt, filthy, desperate mortal man putting his hands on her. he can see that his wife has been upset by this vagrant.

wukong begins to pull his staff from behind his ear, planning to remedy the situation immediately.

reader can only hope that her begging will be enough to save the hapless human man before her. so, she gets right to it.

reader throws herself into a kowtow at her husbands' feet. she pleads with the seething demon, attempting to get him to see reason. this act stuns wukong long enough for him to catch some of what she's saying; he vaguely remembers her speaking of this "fiance" during he and his brothers' time as her little companions, and they rarely saw him. they never liked him, obviously. he stole their peaches' attention from where it ought to be. wukong wants to just kill him, but...

he looks to the woman still kneeling at his feet. he sighs. he can deny her nothing.

his poor, sweet, tender-hearted peach.

wukong pulls reader up. in hushed tones he tells her to never, never kowtow to him like that again; especially on behalf of someone so undeserving. she is his queen. he doesn't want to see her lower herself in that way.

he gathers reader to him, angling her away from her past suitor. then, he turns to the fool who somehow made it to his carefully-hidden island home unscathed. looking the bedraggled human up and down apprasingly, wukong gets an awful idea. he smirks.

the monkey king, so impressed by the man's bravery and devotion, will allow him to live at his queen's request...on one condition.

he must either leave immediately, never to return...or, should his devotion run so deep...

he must beat one of reader's husbands in a fight, fair and square.

so, what will reader's doomed former fiancé do?

ending a: the man foolishly takes the bet.

reader panics and begs him to reconsider: doesn't he know who he just accepted a challenge from? how little his chances of success are?!

the man ignores her, confidently (or as confidently as he can given the circumstances) staring the monkey king down. the simian ruler states that if the man can beat either him or his brother in a fight, no powers, just brute strength and skill, then they'll let reader return with him to the mainland.

now, the man did his research before coming to the island. he knows who's in charge of this island, knows his legends, his strength; he leveled the man's entire town for gods' sake.

but the man feels as though he must fight. at least for his own honor and pride, if not reader's as well. and, in perhaps his most idiotic decision yet, he comes up with an idea he believes will make the fight easier.

he agrees, not to fight the monkey king, but his brother instead.

reader smacks a hand to her forehead (the action drawing a laugh from her husband). she can't believe her former fiance's stupidity. it stands to reason anyone associated with, let alone related to the monkey king would be impossibly strong (or, at the very least, much stronger than a normal human).

although, she supposes she can't fault the man entirely. macaque is discreet in all his dealings (his "shadow general" moniker comes from more than just his powers). she figures the foolish oaf must not know who the darker-furred monkey demon is, and what he's capable of.

the six-eared macaque is summoned, already aware of the situation, and the combatants, the king and queen, and a few (many) spectators make their way to the arena.

to his credit, the human man is doing a very good job at hiding the tremble in his hands. having been offered a fine selection of weapons, the man holds a sword. reader tries once more to convince the man to give up, citing that a few years of weapons training with a local retired military general when he was a teenager does not equate to magically enhanced strength and thousands of years worth of experience in every weapon imaginable.

but the man doesn't listen. he's got something to prove now, and nothing reader says will sway him.

with a sigh, reader resigns herself to the fate the man has chosen for himself. she can't help but remember that he was like this when they were still in the village, too; never listening, always assuming the way that things were was simply how they had to be. she cannot help him now, and so she makes her way back to her kingly husband's side. he grins at her when she sits down, and she shoots him an admonishing glare in response. he laughs fondly at the look.

the duel goes the way one could expect.

though the man is clearly trying his best, he could never have hoped to make even a dent in the shadow generals' defense. the difference in skill is laughable. macaque chose a simple staff as his weapon, and though the man's sword is sharp and quick, it's nothing in the face of the monkey demon's expertise.

macaque is clearly playing, allowing the human to get just close enough before dodging nimbly out of the way. he doesn't even have to use his powers. this is nothing more than a silly game.

and eventually, the shadowy simian grows tired of his playmate. after a short time landing a few blows (purposefully feather-light so as not to kill, just bruise), macaque lands a hit so hard it throws the man across the arena. the battered human hits the wall with a noise that makes reader wince, and falls to the dirt.

the crowd starts to get rowdy as their second in command stalks towards his exhausted, near-dead prey. the poor fool can barely lift his head, and his arms quake from exhaustion.

macaque is more than happy to dispatch this interloper before the gathered spectators, and throws a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure reader is watching. he won't say it, but he can't help but think that if he had found the man before wukong, none of this would've been necessary. the human would already be dead for the crime of attempting to steal his wife away.

but, macaque supposes, a little show couldn't hurt, could it?

he raises his staff, and in a move almost too quick to see, swipes it under the comatose human to toss him into the air. the demon jumps after him, then smacks him to the dirt below.

the human that was once reader's fiance is little more than a bloody pile of broken bones and torn flesh on the ground.

macaque lands gracefully beside it, stands, then bows to the crowd.

the applause drowns out reader's little sob, though both her husbands hear it clearly. there are no tears that they can see, however, and they know it's more their darling peach's aversion to violence that makes her cry than any real attachment to the corpse before her.

she did her best to convince him to leave peacefully, wukong coos to her, holding her hand and nuzzling the side of her face.

it's not her fault that he foolishly chose his pride over his life.

macaque jumps up to where reader and wukong sit, grabbing reader's attention and her hand.

he reaffirms wukongs point, telling her that the man decided his own fate, which is more than what he deserved given the circumstances.

the dark-furred demon presses a gentle kiss to reader's hand, and she can feel his satisfied smirk against her skin.

ending b: the man, in perhaps his smartest move so far, mournfully flees for the beach.

reader sighs in relief. at least he was wise enough to take the out that was handed to him, she thinks. she looks to wukong and quietly thanks him for letting the man go.

wukong smiles gently at his wife. he laughs the situation off with a joke and urges her to banish it from her mind. with a kiss, he sends her back into the stone palace.

the monkey king's smile fades when his wife is out of sight. he looks out to the unending sea beyond the islands' sands. if he leaves it alone, that same sea will likely kill the interloper with no added effort on his part.

he's not content with that idea. so, wukong stands there for a long while, and watches as the boat and its treacherous passenger get further and further away.

the man's boat floats to the horizon before the monkey king whispers a command only his ever-listening brother can hear.

kill him.

the king sees the far-off speck dissapear beneath the waves into a dark, swirling portal.

with a grin, he banishes the whole affair from his mind, turning with a flourish to join his wife in their palace.

[unholyhelbig]

Can we please please PLEASE have part two of Brackish?

Title: Brackish [Part Two] | Read Part One Here

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanov/Romanoff

Word Count: 3454

Warnings: Mentions of torture, mentions of mind control, mentions of ice baths, cannon typical violence, nightmares, physical testing, murder, KGB conditioning, Horrible grammar I don't proofread!

Summary: Agent Romanoff is sent into an interrogation room to break the only prisoner they pull from a Hydra compound, but things don't go exactly as planned.

[A/n: Totally wasn't expecting the response the first part got, thank you so much! Truthfully this ask and the draft was sitting in my inbox for months. This is just a bunch of fluff. I don't know where to take it from here. Hopefully you enjoy!]

You’d woken up screaming, something that never bothered Daniel Whitehall. There were stretching corridors that were damp from broken pipes and water buildup. It smelled thickly of metal and never offered any kind of warmth. It carried your agony like a music box, or a greeting card. It had amused him- his men. So, you did your best to swallow your distress. But sometimes it was impossible to tamp things down in the bridge between sleep and alertness.

It had been three days and you still expected to be jerked back into the reality. A frigid tub of ice and metal under Whitehall’s hand. You must have lost your grip on reality and the Avengers Tower, Agent Romanoff and her rigid kindness, was all a mental tactic, to account for the trauma. You’d finally been broken.

But no: Right now, as you woke up screaming as the hours rolled into the fourth day, she was there. The bed was too soft. You’d learned, and sleep did not come easy. But you drifted off in spurts and woke with air caught in your throat. Never yelling. Never in such a panic.

You didn’t remember what had startled you, but there was a cool hand against your cheek and another one splayed against your chest and worried green eyes peering into yours. You moved to fight back, wanted to push the limbs away until you realized who they belonged to. Until you breathed in that polished scent.

“Sorry, I’m sorry” You whispered, your fingers ghosting over her wrists.

She was a busy woman. You’d realized that over the past 72 hours. Agent Romanoff was in high demand, her signature was required on countless documents and many with downturned eyes stalked up to her with a nervousness that you didn’t quite understand but, you were beginning to.

After some persistent pushing from Natasha on the second day, you’d agreed to blood tests, to EKG’s and other medical trials to make sure you were relatively healthy after years of captivity. She’d promised to stay, and she did. While a certain heat and embarrassment colored your cheeks at the unspoken request, she saved your dignity that morning by not brining it up.

Natasha frowned, didn’t say anything but applied a short pressure to your jaw with her thumb before guiding a glass of water to your hand as she lowered herself to the bed. “Sip this, all of it until it’s gone. Don’t gulp, it’ll hurt your stomach.”

You nodded, doing as you were told. She watched you carefully until you finished the glass. You wanted to cower under her scrutiny, but your heartrate had slowed by the time you’d drained the water and she’d taken it the moment it was empty, her hand on your knee as a grounding source. She was like that, you’d learned, attentive and able to read what you needed though you’d not found your voice to ask.

There wasn’t a clock in the guest room. You didn’t know what time it was, but no morning light seeped through the crack in the door and sleep still clung to you like a heavy blanket. You let out a deep breath and pressed your head against the wall behind you, tempted to let your eyes droop shut, but stopped from the fear of another scream ripping through you.

“The nightmares won’t go away. They’ll come less and less, but they’ll always be there.” She swallowed audibly, ran her fingers over a raised pink scar from a blade, or a bullet, or some type of metal that could easily tear skin against her exposed muscle. “What you went through isn’t easily forgotten. You can manage the symptoms, push it to the back of your mind during your waking hours but it’s hard to fight that kind of thing when you’re asleep. You’re guard can’t always be up.”

You nodded, working your hand through your damp hair. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

“You didn’t” Natasha assured “Would you like me to stay?”

More than anything. It felt like crossing a line. There wasn’t a chair in the guest room. It was fairly sparce. A bed and a nightstand and lamp that had bathed you both in a soft golden glow. It would be easier to tell her no, to ask her to leave. But your chest wouldn’t forgive you for that.

So, you scooted over, looked at her expectantly, going as far to peel back the duvet. Natasha huffed out something akin to a laugh and laid in the spot that you had just vacated. You could feel the heat of her skin, the closeness of her as you lowered yourself down next to her. She paid you a mercy by turning the lamp off.

The two of you lay, shoulder to shoulder, breath synchronized. You couldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t. Your entire body was wound up. While Agent Romanoff’s presence was a balm, it also wound you up like a spring. You were conscious of every movement. Every twitch of your finger and tense of a muscle.   

“It scares me that I can’t remember things.”

You could hear Natasha turn her head in the dark, the shift against the pillow. Her breath was warm against the side of your face. Your fingers curled against the fabric of your shirt, a stone on the center of your chest. You couldn’t remember feeling this comfortable- this at ease- in a long time.

“Do things come back when you sleep?”

It was her job, you knew, to pull things from you. In exchange for a bed and warm meal, you’d give her anything. She had quiet eyes and a quietness to her that gave away the fact that she was examining you methodically. But there was something else there that you couldn’t pinpoint. Something caring.

You turned onto your side, facing her, curling up more for your own comfort. “More of a feeling than a memory. Being there, I recall everything. Whitehall, his brainwashing, his tests and his tortures. His why’s and his motives are foggy. It was like he just wanted to inflict pain. But at his core. At Hydra’s core, I know that’s not true.”

Natasha adjusted on the bed, turned to face you. Inches apart. Her nose was close enough in the dark to bump against your own. Neither of you spoke for a moment, hands brushing closely like a bridge uncrossed.

“I worry that they changed me in way’s that can’t be unchanged, but can’t recall who I was before they’ve changed me. That they kept me alive because they were… succeeding in something that they hadn’t before.” You let out a heavy breath, it splayed hotly against Natasha’s chest, warmed her. “That deep down inside, something uncontrollable is there.”

Natasha made a small noise in the back of her throat that could only be described as a whimper. Tentatively, she’d shifted in the quiet, had found the edge of your jaw in the darkness and traced the sharpness of it with her touch. You let your eyes flutter shut, leaned into it.

Soon, her palm was against your cheek, warm from the prospect of sleep. Her hold soft as she pulled you forward, the initial shock of the swift movement replaced by that detergent scent and the instant comfort. An undignified grunt escaped you when you slotted so perfectly against Natasha’s front.

You’d learned rather quickly that she liked to show her protection.

When your blood had been drawn, the tech on the medical floor insisted of her credentials but quickly blanched with a glare from the Black Widow herself and the assured hand at the base of your spine. You’d shown your strength during the physical trials as they monitored your heartrate during a mile run, and Natasha had watched with a warning stare as another tech adjusted the censors.

And now, she wrapped her arms around your center and hooked her leg over your own. She was tense until she felt the coolness of your nose against her pulse point, the way you nuzzled against her, sighed into her comfort instead of tensed, as if she feared of rejection.

“We’ll figure it out.” Her voice was a rumble, your ear this close to her chest. “Get some sleep. I’ve got you.”  

There was a sensor under your collarbone, one on either side of your chest, and another directly under your ribs. Two more that had been stuck to your abdomen. The adhesive was unbearably itchy, and you had half the mind to tear them away. A huff pulled uncomfortably at you. Another huff earned you a sharp glare from the woman wrapping your hands.

Natasha was on her knees for you. Not for you, but certainly in front of you. Either way it made you blush profusely. She worked with intention, making sure that the next trial they were putting you through was safe enough for you to participate in. A tech had offered to do this for her. For you. But she’d refused.

“Stop pouting, sweetheart. This is the last one and then they’ll leave you alone for at least the weekend.”

“Promise?”

Natasha sighed and her exhale was hot against the skin on your chest, forming a valley of goosebumps. You swallowed back a shiver. “No. Now sit back.”

You did as you were told, all the while, another SHIELD tech kept a keen eye on the both of you. Nameless, faceless, dressed in black. You almost preferred them this way. Whitehall was a constant for you, a villain that always signified a form of hurt and anguish. The constant revolving door of men and women made it impossible to link a test with a face.

Natasha was almost the opposite. You were starting to associate that piney, vanilla bergamot scent of hers with safety. It scared you. Her hands were assured and so were her movements. You were very aware that she had been with you nearly all hours of the day since you’d been pulled from the wreckage of all you’d known for possible years. Stockholm syndrome, some would call it.

You approached it with reckless abandon. You didn’t care. She was warmth. She was opposite of ice baths and frigid water that you choked on until you blacked out. She was lean muscle and healed scars and tender green eyes. She made it easier to think. She gave orders that were easy to follow: To sit back. To Stop Pouting. To Get some Sleep. You could do those things. Those things were easy.

“We’ll start at a weight of fifty and steadily increase until you cannot support the bar any further.” The nameless, dark-eyed man said, not looking up from his tablet. “If at any point, you feel uncomfortable during the test, please alert me or Agent Romanoff. Do you have any questions?”

You shook your head, laid back on the cool bench and adjusted yourself until you stared up at the metal ceiling. It looked taller from this angle, impossible to reach. Black weights were saddled on either side. Agent Romanoff’s presence was at your six the entire time. Lingering, watching with careful and apt attention.

“Alright. You may begin. Make sure not to lock your arms.”

The bar was nothing in your hands, a slight nuisance, if anything. Ever-so-slowly the weight was increased: Fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty. All the way to 700 before another huff left your lungs, chin tipping towards Natasha as you stared up at her. Pouting. You were absolutely pouting.

They were being methodical about this, and that also meant it was taking ages. One of Natasha’s brows was quirked and she worried the nail of her thumb between her teeth as they upped the weight to a solid 1,000. You adjusted your hold on the bar. Nothing more, nothing less. There was no strain, no sweat. No spike in heartrate.  

“Okay. I think we know enough.” Natasha finally barked. “Right?”

“But I-“

“Right?”

Sure, it had only been a few days, but you knew that tone and it was enough for the SHIELD agent to snap his jaw shut and for you to replace the bar before sitting back up. The test, you were sure, was far from over. But there was such a finality in the demand.

You knew you had some strength to you, sure. Daniel Whitehall wouldn’t keep you locked up the way he did, in a steel-enforced cell, if that weren’t the case. The binds you’d sometimes recall were much too thick for anyone that had the normal stamina, someone who could survive his trials. You don’t remember being tested like this before, your limits pushed.

The SHIELD agent tapped at his screen, letting out a non-committal noise “Well, your strength is remarkable. You say you don’t remember a thing? I think you could benefit from some memory recovery sensory therapy.”

Natasha rumbled in the back of her throat, snatching the tablet from the man before shoving him roughly from the room. You watched the display with raised brows, the protective edge to her that you knew was there, but hadn’t been privy to at this degree. He protested, but didn’t’ overtly stop her. Not even when she slammed and locked the door with the waggle of her fingers and the lowering of the blinds.

“The know at all’s from logistics get on my nerves.”

She wouldn’t look at you, instead clicking off the screen and throwing the tablet onto the counter. There was a light blush to her cheeks. You peeled off your shirt, almost in habit now, leaving you in nothing but one of the agencies issued sports bras. The adhesive was getting too irritating.

Your eyes lingered on her. “Uh-huh, is that all?”  

“Yes, that’s all.”

But when those deep green eyes snapped up to yours, the way her breath hitched betrayed her. You’d effectively flustered the Black Widow herself and it brought a sort of heady confidence to you that you quite enjoyed. You ripped the sensor from below your ribcage away, the stickiness making an odd noise as it pulled away.

“I don’t know what you’re smirking about, what he was suggesting is out of the question. They’ve run enough tests on you to determine that Hydra didn’t place any type of chip in your brain. They didn’t change your bone density or alter your blood chemistry. With your added strength, your speed.” She closed the distance between you, ripping another sensor off with little abandon, her hands cold against your skin. “We’re looking at an infinity stone.”

You grunted under her touch, fingers soothing over the spot she’d just torn, a silent apology. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Wanda Maximoff, do you know her?”

You shook your head, remaining still as she moved to the next sensor. Agent Romanoff pulled with the same quickness as before, but was softer with her hands, instantly using the coolness of her palm to quiet the sting that soon followed. You’d given up peeling them away yourself. Instead, you peered up with her with watery eyes, blinking and doe-like. They’d melt her if you weren’t careful, and it seemed like you never were.

“Hydra conducted experiments on Wanda and her twin brother Pietro using something called the Mind Stone. A very powerful mineral that ultimately should have killed them, but it didn’t. It changed their DNA and gave them abilities. Pietro super-speed and Wanda the ability to manipulate the world around her.” Natasha’s voice was smooth as she spoke, the final sensor ripped away, you watched her do it, frowning at the red mark it left behind.

After a few moments of labored silence, she dragged her touch feather-light against your jaw and guided your attention back to her own. “They think Whitehall got ahold of the power stone, and they think it was used to torture you for years to replicate the success achieved with the Maximoff’s.”

“I don’t think he was very successful,”

Natasha’s grip tightened on your chin, not enough to wound, never enough, but a soft warning. “Nonsense. You’re more capable than you think.” Her thumb ran over the blush that was suddenly running across the bridge of your nose and your cheek. “Let’s take a break from all these boring trials. I want to show you something.”

There was a basement that resided below the cacophony of spruced up cells in the Avengers tower. You’d stood shoulder to shoulder with Agent Romanoff and watched as the numbers descended. Her scent had soothed you, even as the cold infiltrated the elevator and reminded you too much of a metal tub, safe for the water.

It jolted to a stop before the anxiety swirling in your lower belly could solidify. Natasha led you into another corridor that looked like all the other corridor’s in the tower. She walked with no urgency and you followed with the same pace. Finally, you reached another non-descript door, only accessed by the card on Agent Romanoff’s belt.

You were hit by the sharp scent of decaying paper, quiet leather and dust. There was a coolness here. A dull light that Natasha flicked on. A heaviness that reminded you of a library. There was a history here that told you it hadn’t been accessed in a long time.

Copy boxes lined bookshelves bracketed to the walls, a single table with a few chairs sat pushed in the corner. Natasha seemed to know exactly where she was going, exactly the files she was looking for. “We’re a multi-trillion-dollar organization, yet, all of the incriminating evidence about the Avengers exists in this singular room.”

You flinched, eyes meeting Natasha after she hauled the off-white box to the center of the table. You watched her carefully, not moving from your rooted spot at the edge of the doorway. You blinked at her, mouth slightly agape. She was trusting you with this. She was trusting you with this?

“Natasha you can’t… you don’t have to…”

“I want to. Come, sit.”

The chair was frigid against your skin, the whole room kept tepid to preserve the documents. Natasha sat adjacent to you, your knees brushing in a surge of warmth. Neither of you moved to pull away. She pushed the box to the far end and pulled out the first file, edging her fingers against the manila.

Before she could pry the cover back, you gripped her hand, squeezed it with fervor. “Wait, you can’t do this. Agent Romanoff, if you… if you tell me this, and I’m- if Whitehall did something that fundamentally changed me and I turn around and betray you, then I’d never be able to forgive myself.”

“Mm” She hummed, frowning down at the file. “There’s more to you than that.”

“And if there’s not? I don’t even have a name, and you’re about to trust me with everything from your past, everything you’ve worked so hard to scrub. I can’t let you do that.”

“You’re not letting me do anything, darling. I didn’t scrub anything, I embraced it.”

Her other hand engulfed the one that had covered the one that had grasped her own. You hadn’t realized that you were squeezing so hard for purchase. Goosebumps covered your entire body, and you were trying not to tremble. It felt as if your bones were trying to claw their way from your skin. You ground your teeth together to keep them from clacking.

Natasha’s hand left yours for only a moment, peeling the cover of the file back, moving it in between the both of you. “I was born in Stalingrad Russia, indoctrinated into the Red Room by a man named General Dreykov. The Red Room was a program designed to create sleeper agents utilized by the KGB. Young girls were taken against their wills and molded into perfect killing machines.”

Your thumb moved over her knuckles, scarred from years of strain. She grasped back, grounding herself.  

“For years, I was just that. Ruthless. Cruel. I spilled an impossible amount of blood because that’s what I was trained to do. It was a cycle. Wake up, kill, sleep. Wake up, kill, sleep. Sometimes they’d throw a little torture in there just to spice things up.”

You knit your eyebrows together, a small whimper escaping you.

 “Tough room.” Natasha gave you a sad smile “milaya devochka, eventually, someone saw through the dripping ledger and what Dreykov had done. They saw me. That made a world of difference when the programming I had was all I’d ever known.”

You swallowed thickly, fingers tracing a raised pink scar at the edge of her palm. You let out a shaky breath. “And you… can be that person for me?”

“I’d like to be.”

[Dt: @ima-gi--na-tion, @l0nelyish, @taliiiaasteria, @ahintofchaos, @redhoodte]

[fixyourwritinghabits]

Hello. I realize this might be overly personal for this blog but I was wondering if you had any advice for my situation. I'm trying to get back into creative hobbies like drawing and writing and while I made some progress with drawing I've really struggled with writing. It's been about ten years. I struggled with my mental health a lot when I was younger and essentially let my depression/anxiety and ADHD destroy all my creative ability. Logically I know the answer is to just write and write badly, but I'm preemptively disappointed and upset that what I write will be. Well. Shit. Or that I'll never improve. Or that I have no idea what to write. And when I do have an idea what to write it's all just gone from my head the second I sit down to write. So. Er. I guess I'm wondering if you have any advice or resources for people like me? Thank you :)

When you're juggling various different Back-Stabbing Brain issues, various pieces of writing advice - getting up at 5pm, forcing yourself to do it, etc - just doesn't work. For me, it's been a struggle to figure out even in optimal situations, so you're not alone. For me, the following is what worked.

Figure out your peak writing time.

Unfortunately, in our capitalist hellscape, you may not be able to use that time to your advantage. My peak time is from 2pm-5pm, right in the middle of work and fades right when I get home. Not ideal. But I can use that knowledge to take advantage of that time on my free days, and I can strategically time my breaks to do some writing. Or just write while pretending to work. Not that I would ever confess to doing that.

Taking the time to figure out when your brain is most willing to work with you is also very helpful. My brain will not work for writing after 8pm. It can, however, still do the dishes. Forcing myself to put off chores so that I can write is super hard thanks to my ADHD (which hates chores until I need to do something else), but I can combat that by making goal lists, scheduling my writing time (with set alarms on my phone!) helps me manage that.

Change location.

I can't get a lot of work done at home. I've tried. I've moved my desk around, I've locked down my internet browsers when writing, I have ignored the way my cat stares holes into my back to try to write. My brain, though, knows that the bed is right over there, we've got that pile of books to read, and oh hey, Tasting History has a new video. Also my cat wants to steal my computer chair and then get constant pets while in said chair because she is a princess baby. It's a losing battle.

What does work for me? Dragging my work to the library. Finding a cafe with enough space and quiet music to get some stuff done. Breaking out a foldable desk on the porch so that there is a closeable barrier between me and my distractions (the cats hate this option).

Changing location is something that works for me. If you have limited options, build barriers between yourself and distractions. Pile stuff on the bed so that it's not easy to give in and lie down for "just a minute." Close doors. Bribe your cats (or your kids). Use a standing desk - shifting your position can help lock down some of the ansty need to be doing something (my chair-stealing cat is more than happy to help with this).

I know of one writer who only gets work done by locking herself in her bathroom, because it's just enough change of scene to get her thoughts to settle. I know another writer who can only get editing done sitting in his parked car. However wacky, trying different scenarios to get something to work can really help.

Find the right tools.

The only way I can draft is by hand. It sucks and I have carpal tunnel, but my brain cannot type words into a blank screen. I need a pile of messy papers that no one else can read to work from.

I'm also very particular about what I write with. I use Uni Power Tank pens from Japan (because they're the only damn pen I've found that doesn't smear my left-handed writing), and I cycle through different types of paper I exclusively work with. Right now it's Five Star Reinforced Filler Paper with the triangle holes, not the round ones.

I don't know why this works, it just does. I've changed up what I've used over time, but as long as I'm consistent and not trying to write a chapter using differently-sized paper (insert scream here), I can get it done. Test out different tools and find what fits for you.

Organization isn't helping? Embrace chaos.

Jeff VanderMeer wrote an entire series on post-it notes, napkins, and on the backs of old bills. I wouldn't recommend that, but if a little chaos gets the job done, then do it. Spread a story across several half-filled notebooks. Map dialogue using only flashcards. Instead of waiting to sit down to get work done, scribble away while on a bus or on the move (safely, of course). Use a speech-to-text app to talk out your writing. Sometimes the more tactile you can make writing, the more you can break up those barriers keeping you from writing.

Try out different things! You'll eventually find what works for you

[thecircularsystem]

Something that’s made me particularly uncomfortable in the system community recently (moreso on tumblr than any syscord I’m in) has been the mentality around recovery.

I’ve never felt more isolated from other systems since I’ve started a recovery process. I don’t consider myself “recovered” in any sense of the term, but I’m doing particularly well with my systemhood. I can communicate with my parts, I don’t experience as much amnesia anymore, and stress doesn’t lead to full meltdowns… most of the time.

But in this community, it seems like people around me are constantly demonizing recovery while simultaneously putting it on some sort of pedestal? And meanwhile, I’m sitting here in the, “This is a very mundane part of my life, Minecraft is genuinely more interesting” stage, feeling… really awkward and alone.

By one token: there’s all the recent posting about fakers, and even posts about resenting those who have “reached recovery.” They call out all sort of things they hate about other systems, often labeling it as a sign of faking, such as:

They can tell you everything about new splits

They have perfect communication

They celebrate splitting

They talk about exotrauma/source trauma

They talk about all being people

They treat their DID like an identity instead of a diagnosis

They don’t have visible dissociation/aren’t dissociative enough

They focus on the alters instead of the disorder

They have a constant certainty of who they are, no blurriness

They’ve got a vivid innerworld with shenanigans happening

And they speak in such a negative way about “those” systems, like:

“I definitely don’t have the fun alter DID like those systems do.”

“Why do you get the helpful DID and I get suicidal DID?”

“I wish I had the perfect version of this instead of the miserable version”

And by the other token, there’s when people do talk about recovery, and they talk about it like it’s a cure. Like my DID will go away.

“Oh if you catch it younger, kids with DID can go through a full recovery and fully fuse so much sooner.”

“I hope everyone fully fuses.”

“I wish I could just get rid of my parts. #recovery.”

Is no one else feeling uncomfortable?

The list of things that show fakers, and the constant misery and hatred of systems, followed by the constant flow of “can’t wait to no longer deal with this misery, can’t wait for final fusion” is…

Its isolating. I’m a diagnosed system who experiences every single thing on that list of “signs of faking,” and even while many of them were on that list before recovery, they only got more pronounced as I worked on integration. I feel so alone in the system community when everyone says that being me (a system in recovery) means I don’t have DID.

It’s distressing. Seeing these posts constantly makes that little worm of self doubt I’ve spent years quelling start to wiggle again. “They’re right, you need to show how miserable you really are.” “You should trauma dump, that’ll really show them.” (The first draft of this post was entirely just my life story, showing my recovery process, until I realized the brain worm won that day)

It’s misinformation. Final fusion doesn’t cure DID. DID is a lifelong disorder. It doesn’t mean you’re no longer a system of parts; you’ll always have parts. But recovery makes that look different for everyone. Recovery is different for everyone.

It’s posts like those I’ve seen lately that remind me of when I was 19 or 20 or so and first seeing system spaces. Fusion was death, because everything I saw about fusion was that it would “make you a singlet, not a system.” Everything I saw was that fusion was the cure.

Now I know better. I really hope others realize soon that recovery can only come if you work hard, and stop hating a major aspect of who you are.

It might feel a bit less lonely.

[shiftingtravel]

🪻What my WR looks like and what is inside of it 🪻

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

🦄My WR bed, I love the fairy lights and pinks/purples within the room of it. Kinda dreamed this reality’s bedroom looked like this🦄

🌸A massive bookcase but much more pink and each book will have my DR. It’s an ever expanding bookcase and I can always find whatever DR I want to go to on the shelf. None of the books can be damaged either btw🌸

🌸The books are mostly info and stuff for my DRs just so I have a heads up sometimes even if I know it over there🌸

🦄A pile of every single one of my stuffed animals are also in my WR. Just for the comfort of it (can’t show the real pile cuz that’s private)🦄

🌸And finally just a tv (and phone) to catch up certain media cuz I’m terrible at keeping up. But in my WR I’d have all the time in the world to catch up on shows, mangas/manhwa and novels🌸

This is a old draft that’s been sitting here for a long while but might as well share it now I guess

[ollypopwrites]

Weekly WIP Preview

Got tagged by the wonderful @razildor to share some WIP goodness.

This is a (very rough first draft) bit from a fic I’m working on called Grace and Fervor, which highlights Emmrich’s perspective on falling in love with Mourn Watcher Rook. I’m undecided if it’s going to be explicitly about Vanya Ingellvar.

It features some fun head canons i have about magic and mourn watch stuff!!!

As usual, pls forgive how rough this is. I’m a firm believer in First Drafts just being about getting the words on the screen.

no pressure tagging @flightlessangelwings @bankabb (ART WIPS IFYOU FEEL UP TO ITTTT) and @aldisobey

“Got a bit sidetracked there,” Rook said as they made their way back towards the Veil Jumper camp and the eluvian. “Sorry, Bel.”

“No,” the elf said quickly. “No, that was good! I think I get it now, the Mourn Watch stuff.” She smiled genuinely but sadly, “thanks for doing all of that, I’ll let Irelin know where to find the bodies.” Then she jumped as if she had been shocked by her own electrical magic, “oh! I did want to grab something from the artifact vault, I completely forgot! Damn, and we were just there!” She groaned, “I’m sorry. Can we go back? It’ll be quick!”

“Of course we can,” Rook said easily.

Bellara hurried forward, leading the way back towards the vault. Emmrich stayed a few steps behind with Rook, hands behind his back.

“You did wonderfully with that spirit, Rook,” he complimented. “It pleases me that we can enlighten others on how to prevent Spirits from getting into those knots that make them lash out.”

Rook smiled, genuinely this time. “Me too. There are a lot of spirits here in Arlathan that I think could be set back on their course. The business with the Gods and the Veil, it doesn’t just affect us.”

“Very true.” He agreed. “You know, you would have done well in my Spirit Calling course.”

“I thought about taking Spirit Calling,” she said, “but I didn’t really think I needed to be taught how to do it. And it interfered with a course on Bone-Throwing.”

“I had no idea you dabbled in the divinatory!”

“I haven’t done a good divination ritual in a while. There’s a lot I’ve had to put on the back burner, recently,” she sighed. “Y’know Varric and Harding still think I majored in fortune telling.”

He paused, not wanting to put too much emphasis on her slip up with Master Tethras. The grieving mind sometimes did mix up the semantics, not used to adjusting to the absence.

“Divining is as widely a misunderstood subject as Necromancy,” he said with a sigh. “Yet it is so easily explained, it’s not the future we seek, but traces of messages in the unknown of the Fade. What is your preferred method of throwing?”

“I use my own baby teeth.” Rook grinned. “And any little bits and pieces I find. Arlathan has so many animal bones, I’ve had to restrict myself to one keepsake a trip.” Digging into the bag at her hip, she procured a mesh bag, dozens of little teeth and small bones inside as she shook them.

“Delightful!” Emmrich grinned. “You must show me some time, I admit, I was only ever very talented in scrying.”

“I could never sit still long enough for scrying,” she said, tucking her collection back in her bag.

“You do have a natural way with the Spirits, though, Rook. You ought to hone it. Spirit Calling does not always need to be taught to a mage, but there is something to be said about nurturing natural talent.” He said.

“Right.” She smiled, another tight lipped one that was more out of politeness than anything else. “But… they’re your specialty. That’s what we have you here for, isn’t it?”

He had done something wrong. Yet, he couldn’t figure out what. But he felt it as she pushed ahead, the ease of conversation abruptly ruined as she avoided looking back at him or engaging in any further discussion.

It was no wonder the others found his presence unsettling, when Rook herself seemed to be unable to decide whether she was comfortable with him being there or not. She flipped wildly from eagerly discussing home with him to seeming as if she couldn’t be as far away as possible. A brick in the wall would wiggle, slip out of place so he could peer through and then she would swiftly turn tail and run.

He had hoped her presence and influence would be a comfort to him, another Watcher so far from home when most never wandered too far. That had not been the case, thus far.

[j0kers-light]

Trust is for Fools

Still can’t get over how I quoted Azula from ATLA for this chapter title 🥹

“Ah yes.. that night." Joker continued telling his story to the audience.

Back to the story! Isn’t J such a good storyteller? 🥳

“Joker! What are you doing in here!?" You placed a hand over your beating heart. His eyes trailed down to watch it heave with every startled breath.

Is he? Is Joker checking us out on the low?!

He snagged a cooked shrimp from a platter sitting on the counter and bit into it. "I decided to eat dinner out-sidee of my room today."

Seems familiar huh?

“And you'll sit there and behave?" You asked. "Mhm yes ma'am." Joker purred.

Your honor he’s a slut I fear. His knife kink is showing and he does not care. 😳

Another thing you were slowly teaching him; patience.

Love is patient, love is kind. Y/n is teaching Joker a lot. Patience, empathy, table manners, you name it! He’s becoming a better person for us!

“Duhh. You have to be more careful playing with fire." Joker's green eyes snapped up to meet your own e/c. His words held a double meaning and you both knew it.

The man was fiddling with his chopsticks trying to hold them properly. Key word, trying. This was the person you were slowly catching feelings for. God you were so desperate.

Hey hey!!! That’s your man now stick beside him! 🤣🤣

“Good." He squeezed your hands tighter and you whined feeling the sharp knife bite into your hands. "Now you know how it feels."

This is how Joker feels whenever we’re around. Like a sharp stinging pain that won’t go away. And instead of talking about it, Joker decided to hurt us back because that’s all he knows how to do.

He hurt you and he had no idea how to apologize. "I uh. Y/n... give me your.. um let me seeeee."

J is trying yall he really is. 😭😭

He wanted you to fear him since the moment he met you. At last you treated him with the respect and fear that he deserved, so why did his victory taste so bitter?

Sucks don’t it? Don’t always like the outcome of what you want.

How you managed to survive this long without him killing you was a miracle. You yelled at him, talked back, scolded, and belittled him numerous times over the past week.

It’s because he likes you Y/n. Trust me. Earlier drafts had the two of them fighting left and right. Throwing things, to Joker leaving pranks and boobytraps. A true, enemies to lovers if you will.

You almost forgot she asked you a question, you were wondering if you were being pranked. Did all medical personnel act like this?

Nope! This is just Dr. Sarai an oc of mine based loosely off of a friend ☺️ she’s quite the character.

Sebastian surprised you though and smiled, "You're Y/n Y/L/n that YA author my son won't stop talking about!"

Again I would dissolve if I met a fan in real life.

“Oh no.. I hope I haven't created an ax murder of your son!" You knew firsthand how the more mentally ill citizens of Gotham twisted your literature.

Okay Harvey Dent? 👀🙄😒 let my girl breathe!

“I am." The lady standing next to Sebastian spoke up and in that moment the posh names made sense.

I remember receiving a lot of compliments about how much I flesh out side characters. I give them names, character, and a moment to shine. 🥹 all my babies deserve it!

“But how? I know I was gone for a while but I mean.. do you even know how to wash dishes? No offense." None taken judging by his head tilt.

For the life of me I could not write Joker washing dishes. I’m sorry, it’s not something I ever see him doing.

“I did this." Joker stroked your hands over the gauze and you nodded slowly. "And I can do it again, far.. far worse. I wanted to hurt you more but.." He stared off to the side, missing the panic flash across your face.

He found his resolve and squeezed your wrist where the gauze ended and began. "I can do far worse to you Y/n but I won't. Never again." He vowed.

Oh my GOSH he’s down bad!!! He promised never to hurt us. Never again!!

A soft pressure, so gentle you thought you imagined it settled on the crown of your head before disappearing. Did he just kiss your hair? Were you dreaming?

NO YOU ARE NOT DREAMING! Joker kissed our head! But at the cost of him pulling away to “protect us.”

His Lighthouse Re-Read Thread

Hey hi my loves!!! I've read my own story 14 million times but I never did an official reread thread so thank @jaysmentalspace for what's about to happen! 🖤✨

This will be an interactive thread. Yes, you can join in with your own comments, reblogs, whatever! I will start from chapter one and I guess, review/commentate my own story! I hope you enjoy the ride. There's gonna be fun facts, behind the scenes commentary, who knows. 🤷🏾‍♀️

His Lighthouse masterlist let's get started.

[astraeajackson]

*apollo hosting an intimate heart-to-heart session with his demigod children*

the security guard, slightly unsettled: sir, i'm gonna have to see some identification

nico: i have a note from my doctor

nico: *slips him a rather crumpled piece of paper*

the security guard: *squints* xoxo... will

nico:

the security guard:

the security guard:

the security guard: seems legit come on in

[ricky-mortis]

They're the best of each other!

[blorbosinmyheadcentral]

take this silly thing while I struggle with animation

[glass-noodle]

tfw you fall in love with your computer

(I imagine Connor transfers his program into a body at some point after androids are invented because I need them to have a happy ending lol)

[teapetal44]

TW: ABUSE, CHILD ABUSE

“He wants to air this dirty laundry to the world does he…? Dabi, you fiend…you’ve been waiting for this moment…when they couldn’t prevent mass destruction…and faith in heroes is wavering.” - chapter 292

I truly, wholeheartedly, believe that MHA as a story upholds the myth of the perfect victim. I do not want to discuss if Horikoshi did that on purpose, or subconsciously because of inner bias – I find no meaning in doing so. For me the execution of an idea, in the grand scheme of the narrative, holds more value than the intention of the author. I’ve also had my fair share of people infantilizing Asian authors in the anime community for their poor writing decisions for one lifetime. It’s patronizing to both the author and the people reading it. Whether or not Horikoshi intended for his themes of abuse to paint the picture they did does not matter, because that’s how it reads as.

MHA puts victims of abuse in narrow boxes and softly dictates what’s an acceptable reaction to said abuse. Victims are continuously walking a tightrope between being deserving of compassion and sympathy and being unredeemable monsters who are too far gone and are only good for martyrdom after being put down.  

Eri fits the clean cut depiction of abuse victims that media usually gears towards. She is untouched by the cruelty around her - she preserves her innocence and kindness. She isn't assertive, but rather meek and passive. She doesn't fight back with force. And when offered help, she is receptive to it. That is not to say that Eri's depiction doesn't have a place in fiction, or that her portrayal can't be representative of the experiences of some - as we all deal with trauma and the inhumanity people throw at us differently. We see the same thing in the portrayal of Fuyumi, who shares many of the qualities discussed above. The same thing applies to her - i personally love the idea of all the siblings having different reaction to their childhood trauma and abuse. It shows that victims are not some type of monolith.

But the narrative treats the "forgiving" or "receptive to help/support" victims of abuse with more grace and with much more kindness. if you are willing to forgive, or the very least be quietly tolerant, the story grants you a happy ending. Forgiveness isn't a bad thing, it is an individual choice - but an abuse victim shouldn't have to do it for them to have a happy ending.

In a vacuum Eri and Fuyumi's character arcs and depictions of abuse are good but it becomes a problem when that's the only experience and type of victim we ever hold in high value or recognize as valid and deserving of compassion. Which the story reinforces.

Touya and Tenko's backstories aren't pretty nor comfortable or easy to sit through. Their responses to abuse aren't either. Reactive abuse is very much real.

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

Arctic Monkeys on Absolute Radio, 2011 ☆

[spatort]

No more mortifying ordeal of being known. What about the great privilege of being known. What about the indescribable beauty of another human being wanting to understand who you are at your core. What about that

[thevoidstaredback]

Hey! So, it's been a while, but I finally remembered to come back to this! But, it's not gonna go the way you'd think.

If Danny had it his way, he'd be at his Aunt Alicia's house for the summer instead of New Jersey. This place is gloomy, grimy, and soaked through with so much crime that it's a Problem(TM). Like, seriously? New Jersey hasn't allowed the death penalty since he was seven, but can't they make, like, one exception? Get rid of The Joker and half of Gotham's problems are solved.

Unfortunately, he's only here as a guest, so he can't really do anything. Which, for the record, is a shit rule. Call a goose and goose, and that's exactly what Gotham City, New Jersey is.

It isn't all that bad, he supposes. Sure, the pollution blocks out the entire sky at all times, the buildings that aren't condemned are only feeding the rich while stealing from the poor, an entire twenty-four block are has been given up on by mostly everyone, the local vigilantes won't kill the recurring problems like the cockroaches they are- There was a good point to all this.

Oh! He has family here. That's it. That's the only silver lining, and it's bronze.

But, hey, it can't be that bad. From what he understands, his half-brother and company don't actually live in Gotham. Bristol, according to Talia is technically outside of Gotham City Limits, but is still considered as part of the city. Makes sense, aside from the fact that there's no bridge between Bristol and Gotham. Weird design, but he's not rich so he's not really inclined to care or understand.

Half brother, right.

Danny doesn't like Damian much, but that's because he's a clone...of Damian. Danny's a clone of Damian, not the other way around. Ra's makes that very clear

The only reason Talia wants him with Damian is because she's upset with Bruce Wayne. What is it with divorced parents and putting their kids on the middle of their fights? Or maybe that's just Talia?

Anyway.

Gotham, New Jersey is a dismal place. Danny's not germophobic by any means, he can't really afford to be, but even he's having a hard time being in the city.

It was so much easier hiding out with the Fentons.

Well, 'hiding' is a subjective term. Ra's and Talia knew where he was, so did Deathstroke, probably, but that was it.

Essentially, everyone he should be hiding from knows where he's been hiding, which means he's just been on some kind of twisted, extended vacation.

As far as Danny knew, Bruce Wayne had no idea he was coming. Damian knew because Talia had wanted him to pick Danny up from the airport. Weird because while Damian is technically older, Danny is still legally two years older.

Well, 'legally' is a stretch. He doesn't technically exist, outside of the LoA and Amity Park.

The point is that Damian is waiting for him at the end of the terminal, looking as much like an excited puppy as he can, with an older gentleman. Talia had given him nothing to work with, but Danny didn't really care who this guy was as long as he didn't try to make him do anything he didn't want to.

...living in the Midwest was doing wonders for his mental stability, but Ancients was it making him soft!

"'Danny', I presume?" the old man asked, his accent heavy.

Good, so Talia did give Damian his actual name. "Yep. You are?" He may not want to be here, but he still knows his manners. Even if he's only going to use the bare minimum of them. Malicious Compliance and all that.

"Alfred Pennyworth, the family butler." He didn't extend his hand to shake. Danny didn't mind. In fact, he actually preferred that.

Okay, so maybe he's a little bit haphephobic. Leave him alone!

"Danny," Damian greeted, a smile of excitement in his voice but not his face, "It's good to have you here. How did Mother convince you to come?"

"Bribery." Mostly.

Damian seemed to deflate a bit. "Father and the others don't know you're here."

"Do they even know about me at all?"

"No."

"Perfect! Then I can stay at a hotel-"

"For the entire summer?" Alfred raised his eyebrow, "I must insist that you stay at Wayne Manor while in Gotham. Master Bruce will most pleased to meet you."

"Why?" Danny scoffed, "I'm not his kid, nor do I want to be."

Damian slouched a little bit more. "Come, we must get back before the others send out a search party for us."

"Dramatic much?" Danny scoffed.

"Not at all," Alfred took both of Danny's bags before leading the way out to the car, "It' happened before in less time."

"I don't doubt it for a second. I'm calling Bruce a dramatic bitch."

Alfred smirked ever so slightly. "Quite right, Master Danny."

"Don't call me that."

"Alright then, what should I call you?"

"'Danny'. No honorifics, no add ons, no trying to fullname me, nothing else."

"And when you go out with the rest of the family?"

He scoffed again. "You really think they'd let me go out with them? I'm an assassin. In fact, the first thing I'll do the second I'm let out of the house is kill the clown bastard."

Damian rested his hand on Danny's arm. "They let me out with them and I tried to kill Drake. As long as you uphold a promise not to kill anyone, you'll be allowed to patrol with us."

They reached the car, Damian sat behind the driver while Danny sat behind the passenger. Alfred put the bags in the trunk. "So? What will you be called on patrol?"

Danny rolled his eyes, popping his headphones in and not looking away from the window. "Respawn."

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