#existence would be boring without the internet

[commissionsdarian]

What was it like finding out about the internet for the first time?

It wasn't that shocking. When I was growing up technology was really progressing, so it just kind of seemed like the next logical step. Plus there were a lot of new things I was seeing at the time, the internet was just another part of it

[corollaservant]

Night in the Net // Shigaraki x f! reader (18+)

Synopsis: You find yourself stranded in one hell of a sexist environment: the small town's internet café. Shigaraki's on the night shift. (3.6k)

Warnings: sex with Shiggy basically, mild degradation and misogyny from our fav incel, dom!Shiggy with a twist (no quirk obviously), use of “dollface” (i like it)

A/N: No dark themes here, peace n luv. Also.. yeah he is always linked to some gaming/electronic business ik!! but I like the trope/hc/almost canon.

You'd never imagine this was how your night would end.

Why are you there again? Right, your friends wanted to go to that after party, as if the club wasn't enough. What was supposed to be a night out ended up with you in the local internet café (the only after hours spot) while your friends decided to go to a house party with loud techno music, which definitely wasn’t your vibe. You and your friends lived close and would often call a taxi on your way home, money wasn’t enough for you to ride solo today though—you prayed in times like these that you at least had a job; you wouldn’t have to rely on anyone then. 

You knew pretty much everyone there, it’s not like the town had more than ten thousand residents and considering the age group and schools you’d all gone to, the internet café only had a few unknown members. On today’s shift was none other than Tomura of course, that guy was taking up as many shifts as his body would allow him to, apparently there was this rumor a family member was in crucial condition and they were in need. Tomura Shigaraki was one of these people you had branded as incel. Though hardworking (he kept a house of his own, cleaning and doing all chores by himself while providing for whomever he had), you still considered the guy as one. Now—you know the term is heavy, matter of fact, quite offending and serious as an allegation but it’s not like there weren’t rumors. Rumors he’d bash women and call them prostitutes, try to sleep with girls and trash them to his friends a day later, hating them for anything they did and claiming true love didn’t exist nowadays because “all women are sluts, who need money and validation.” Plus, he worked at the local internet café (should be enough reason), engaging in heated conversations with his friends and fellow streamers. God, one look in their chats and you'd get as violent as possible— (not much, you'd discovered it the hard way). Thus, it was no surprise that when you enter the place, you hear whispers and scoffs.

‘’The hell are you doing here?’’ A voice was heard from within, the café had the computer screens up front, a bar and a couch with TV in the back. Tomura was occupied in the designated bar the place had (you often wondered what kind of needs these people had—all they ever consumed was energy drinks and pre-packaged meals, takeouts were for reasons of competitive market prohibited).

‘’Just dropping by for a couple of hours, will leave soon.’’ You sigh as you take a seat on the couch, not bothering to talk to anyone, it wasn’t like they cared anyway. Loud noise and laughter can be heard all around, a couple of guys swearing and some younger boys excitedly standing above their screens. The store had a 16+ policy, but of course, no one ever checked so kids could practically stare unattended. Tomura also encouraged younger boys to play, such a piece of shit, you think, getting them to learn young. 

‘’Oh my fucking God, a slut just joined!’’ You hear some guy swear, presumably because a girl joined their online server. These guys were so disgusting, you cringe, it was no wonder they were celibate without wanting it. You stand up, you need to kill some time and you're feeling bored, you think about starting a fight with Tomura, how else could you have a little bit of fun?

You weren’t ever necessarily afraid of the guy, even though you had to admit, he looked intimidating. Quite tall with a pale complexion, ashy, dull hair and scars across his face; no one actually knew much about him and whether he was troubled, it’s not like he ever showed to work beaten up or high and usually kept a low profile. The only frightening thing this man had was his smile, it terrified you sometimes as it looked downright evil. 

‘’Getting them to learn young, huh?’’ You ask him, he’s washing up some cups from the previous round of gross gaming guys, who have now left.

‘’What?’’ He responds, not bothering to look up. 

‘’How to not get women, I mean.’’ You sigh as he huffs in annoyance.

‘’You should be grateful I let a female in my store in the first place.’’ He retorts, but doesn’t seem very angry, just ironic. Usual.

My store (you decide to skip over 'female') sounds funny but you choose not to comment on it. 

‘’So how long until you guys close?’’ You don't bother with the vocabulary—it’s routine at this point. It also never ends well and you had a great night so far, why ruin it now?

‘’Two hours.’’ 

‘’Mind if I sit on the couch? I’ll be quiet I promise’’ You ask—technically beg, as you see no other options.

‘’Ugh.. yeah I mind. There’s some guys wanting to use it, I have a group for GTA on the PS5.’’

‘’Seriously? People still play that?’’ You whine but force yourself to continue.

 ‘’Can I sit with you then?’’ It takes strength—but you say it regardless. You came to terms with the fact he was your last resort minutes ago.

‘’Sure. But you need to make yourself useful. Here, take this.’’ He hands you a wet sponge, ‘’Wash these up... carefully, while I go clean the floors.’’ He orders, as if you’re part of the staff (and new on the job apparently.)

‘’Do you actually want me to wash freaking dishes? I just came here to chill, I don’t even bother anyone!’’ You start feeling annoyed with the chores, you aren’t 16 and he isn’t your mom.

‘’You can always leave.’’ The running tap stops and he turns to you, practically shoving the wet gloves on your chest. 

‘’Or...you can stop being a brat and be of use during your stay, I have two hours left.’’ He smiles, that same smile that makes your skin crawl and blood boil as he moves away.

‘’Fuck! My dress, you asshole!’’ A wet patch now covers the too short dress as you glance at the time on your phone. 

Two hours. Two hours until your friends leave and he closes up anyway.

-

Tomura was at least true to his words. Within two insufferable hours of having to listen to appalling conversations between men (hardly to be considered as such), plate washing and the toilet being constantly occupied, the last customers get up to leave. 

You dry your hands and plop down the couch exhausted.

‘’Finally.’’ You exhale checking your phone, your friends hadn’t given you any life signs in the meantime, so you decide to patiently wait, they’d message eventually. Tomura is done sweeping the nasty floors from crumbs and dried Monster remnants, which he still has to mop (for the fourth time, you note and you've only been there some hours). You notice how restless he seems—the guy has been running the whole night after ignorant customers, who had not once shown basic respect for the order of the place yet never complained. Truly a shame he has such a misogynistic mindset, you think. He could get women, if he wanted to. 

It’s around 6:30 AM, when he presses a button to close the store's roll-up shutters halfway. Small light outside makes its way in but the place is still relatively dark, as he places the mop near the wall and takes a seat next to you.

‘’Fuuck, I’m so tired.’’ He sighs, making sure to spread his legs on the couch as much as he can, not caring (of course) about you also sitting on it. 

You always branded Tomura as an incel, that you knew about. But despite that, you now can’t help but feel for him, not knowing much about him at the same time. Sure, he technically isn’t the nicest guy but a look around would show you that he tries enough for a job kicking his ass. You find yourself sympathizing with a man, whose ideals you hate and try to brush these thoughts off.

‘’And why the fuck am I an incel anyway?’’ He asks, his head rests on the couch and his eyes are closed, he is scrunching severely—almost threatening to fall down. And he manspreads. A lot.

‘’W-well– I..’’ You never thought he’d caught on to that, stammering to stand your ground as you continue. ‘’Well, there have been rumors about you.’’ You say, but it doesn’t come off as confident as you’d hoped for. You also realize, it sounds kind of stupid.

‘’Reaaally? And you made sure to believe them, right?’’ His tone’s laced with irony but the way he talks like he whispers in a raspy voice doesn't annoy you anymore. It makes you more... uncomfortable? On the edge? Excited?...what?

‘’It’s not like you don’t claim it yourself.’’ You retort, finally finding some courage. You notice him looking at you as you awkwardly shuffle in your seat.

‘’All I’ve ever said was that I think women are good for nothing. And I still believe that, but I wouldn’t waste more of my time on that.’’ The statement makes you roll your eyes.

‘’How can you generalize a whole group of people, who are literally in no way inferior to you, you can’t tell me you’ve tried—’’ 

‘’Listen dollface, unless you want to change my mind there’s no reason to fuss that much, my opinion won’t change.’’

Unless you want to change my mind?

‘’I-I don’t.’’ You stammer, because the answer and pet name (dollface??) takes you by surprise and he laughs.

‘’Relax, you branded me an incel.’’ He jokes, ‘’don’t want the rape allegations on me too.’’ 

The more he talks, the more your mind races and you curse yourself. He seems..funny? He has a mole under his lips—fuck, it looks cute...He also looks good so (stupid as it is, yes!) you silently want his attention. Why can’t he just look you in the eyes more?

This is so wrong. He must've noticed your lost gaze as he speaks up.

‘’Wanna watch a movie?’’ He proposes and you nod, anything is better than the silence hanging in the air. Silence you caused. For thinking... things about him. 

Of course Tomura ends up choosing the most depressing film anyone can possibly watch in an internet café at 6 AM, Fallen Angels, and the dramatic cuts make it hard for you to concentrate. He at a certain point leans closer to you but you justify it, how else would he be able to see?

During this one scene, the woman pleasured herself with her legs closed, rubbing together and that’s when you feel a soft hand touch on your thigh. The dress you wore rode up, because your legs rested on the table ahead so it gave him the space he needed. The movement made you tingle and your core involuntarily contracted. The smooth fingers teasingly trailed up and down your leg, from your knees to your inner thighs. You didn’t want to look at him—he was too close and the scene seemed endless. But…he went on about it as if nothing was happening. 

Without saying a word, he carried on. A pad of his finger tip dangerously close to your now heated entrance, the images flashing before your eyes lewd, his hand tempting and threatening to reach your already soaked cunt—all this while the two of you hadn’t even shared a kiss. But he doesn't stop, looking ahead and acting like everything’s fine, until he touches your lower lips and you hiss, his finger traces the wet spot over your underwear while you try to move and speak up. 

‘’W–what are y—’’

‘’Shh..’’ is all he says. 

You want to tell him no. But no to what? You like the feeling of his two fingers against your folds. His palm moves your panties to the side and he stuffs them inside—they dampen from the fluids. How is he that quick? You can’t form a response but you’re about to ask him why—

‘’All that and I haven’t even kissed you.’’ He murmurs, gaze still fixated on the television ahead as you moan, when he slowly pumps them within your walls. Fuck, are you turned on by this?

‘’P-please..’’ You whisper, turning to look at him and for the first time, his eyes are removed from the stupid TV, a sly smile on his features as he tears away his hand.

‘’What is it? Want the incel to kiss you? Maybe even fuck you to prove a point?’’ He says and you frown.

‘’I—no, I have to go.’’ You get up, fixing (lowering) your dress—you have nowhere to go but you’ll figure it out eventually. You think staying longer only plays into his cruel intentions and whilst you can’t deny the pleasure he could give you, your pride’s in the way.

‘’You’re not going anywhere.’’ A wet hand clasps around your wrist and brings you on his lap, as he grins; you seem confused at the sensation. You are hiding the TV screen but he couldn't care less, he never paid attention to the movie.

‘’Feel the stain you left, too?’’ He says as he brings your face closer with the sticky palm grabbing you by the hair. You softly moan, noticing the small mole up close and feeling a bulge poke where your bodies meet. You sway your hips in a silent effort to have him initiate a kiss, you feel desperate and curse yourself again internally. He can only smile.

(You were so clueless, walking around in that slutty dress earlier—making him hard like that, did you even know it?)

He’s quick to kiss you, eager for more already, as mouths clash, teeth collide, the need you both have exceeds proper manners. You sloppily grind against him, the friction from a long outline beneath you makes it hard to think.

‘’I’m guessing, you’re really fucking the incel then.’’ He half smirks as he grabs you and repositions you to sit on his now fully hard cock that throbs in his pants; he lifts your dress above your ass and guides your hips sluggishly back and forth—he’s tormenting you and he enjoys it to the fullest.

‘’T-tomura..p-please.’’ You whine, the urge to have him inside you makes you blabber.

‘’Please what?’’ He slides a hand behind your waist, lowering it to find your slit from behind, his fingers pet your cunt and you moan. Loudly. He is tugging at your panties, the fabric annoys him and he wants full access and the words. The words to prove his point.

‘’P–please...fuck me already!’’ You breathe out and he groans to the sound of your voice. 

The ironic remark he prepared evaporates as he quickly pushes you back, just enough to not fall off his lap and quickly unzips his pants, thanking god for not wearing a belt. 

His pants and underwear are sloppily moved down his knees, as his cock jumps with a pop on his lower abdomen, stiff with a weeping tip. Pretty veins throb around it as your eyes widen.

Shit, he’s big, can you take him?

‘’I’d ask for a nice blowjob, dollface, but wouldn’t want the feminists after me.’’ He says as he brings you close, kissing you yet again, a string of spit runs down your jaw, as your hands roam his tangled, uncombed hair. 

He positions you on his cock, one hand snakes around your waist while the other one clings to the back of your scalp and you’re swiftly lifted by the head and pushed down on him, as you let out a scream.

‘’Shut the fuck up.’’ He hisses, quickly looking around, the sensation from almost his whole length makes you tremble, he feels too full, too painful...too good.

‘’Shit, c’mon now you got this.’’ He encourages as you hesitantly move up and down his cock, gripping his shoulders and looking at him; he seems more concentrated on the sensation than your body, staring at you while you wrap around his length.

‘’Fuck...dollface, this too much for ya?’’ He tries not to grunt and you give your best not to cry, each moment that goes by turning the initial pain to pleasure—your cunt adjusts slowly and bit by bit to his girth. 

‘’T-tomura... y-yes..it’s too much!’’ You whine, sweat forms in your forehead as his hand finds your swollen clit and circles it while your nails dig deeper in his shirt.

‘’You can take it.’’ He says, he feels you squeezing him in, you bounce with dedication on his legs, making the couch squeak as if on some sex tape—you want to bring yourself even closer. So nasty, aren't you? Acting righteous, only to fuck yourself on his cock like a desperate whore.

‘’I-ugh-p-please..’’ You try to speak but he secures his hand around your torso and sinks (lower than before) down the couch. Two strong hands force you to stay still in the air while he drills himself into you at a steady pace, kind of sloppily too. Both of you moan, the position gives equal pleasure, your clit bumps on his groin and his cock reaches your g-spot with ease.

‘’S–Shit, you’re squeezing way too much, haven’t you been fucked like this before?’’ He sounds annoyed but the stammer in his voice betrays him.

Not like this, you want to say but can’t really speak the words. Your weight falls entirely on him, he doesn’t mind one bit—he loves it actually, this skin on skin contact as he guides you on his cock, it feels surreal. He hits soft and spongy spots inside while you slowly fall apart. 

‘’T-Tomura right there..I ugh—I'm close!’’ The sensation overwhelms you, his eyes are still fixated on your face, yeah I can tell, he thinks. He gets off on your desperation, mouth parted all for him? Your eyes threaten to spill by the way he tears apart your cunt and morals bit by bit.. it’s–

‘’Tomura, aren't you closing yet?’’ Someone asks from outside, interrupting the moment. The shutters only reveal a pair of shoes. 

‘’Yeah, I’m on it.’’ Shigaraki stops composed, cockwarming you in a funny way, while a hand, his hand covers your mouth. Your eyes widen as slick trickles down his thighs in silence.

‘’Alright, see you then.’’ The man leaves and he cusses him out. (''Cunt.'')

‘’We’re not done.’’ He turns his attention back to you and seizes your face, bringing your mouth closer.

‘’Open up.’’ He orders and you do, clenching around him in anticipation.

He spits in it and closes the gap with his index finger. 

‘’Swallow or I won’t continue.’’ You quickly gulp down.

‘’So obedient all of a sudden, aren't you?’’ Sarcasm evident as he gives your ass a solid hit, before starting to get back on his pace, only more rough this time, he longs for your release on him. You’re moving up and down his length, trying to grab anything accessible really, his hair, the back of the couch, under his shirt and you feel your orgasm resurface stronger; the delay highlighted all of your senses.

‘’T-Tomura—’’ You shudder, as his cock hits your g-spot expertly–fuck, this guy wasn't some incel–and your swollen clit has to brush one last time past his groin before you feel an overwhelming orgasm take over. You clamp down his length and moan embarrassingly (Fuck Tomura! I–I'm...too good!) This time he lets you, he needs to hear this.

‘’Fuuck—agh, look at you dollface.’’ He hums, a feminist creaming herself on my cock, he wants to add but it’s too many words and you just came so he wastes no time. He brings your neck close to his mouth and bites on it, teeth sink into your flesh and hands force you all the way down. His cum spills inside and he groans, trying to stifle his moans by biting down the sensitive skin even harder. 

And fuck if that isn’t hot.

He keeps you on him, arms fasten around your waist with cum dripping onto his lowered pants but neither of you bother to care; ragged breaths and the sounds of the film still playing are audible as more light enters through the rolled shutters.

God must’ve been on your side that day because a message appears on your screen moments after you both wordlessly got up and cleaned yourselves in the bathroom. Tomura would have to clean again, you think, as the message on your phone signals your time to leave.

You turn to look at him, he has removed his shirt and small nail scratches decorate his pale back and you..smile. What the hell? Was this..? Oh no—You try to find an appropriate goodbye.

See you soon? Thanks for the mind blowing dick? You aren’t the incel I thought you were? Everything seems embarrassing at present time. 

‘’I-I’ll be seeing you soon.’’ You opt for that, stupid as it is, you still look at him in anticipation. He turns to you, hands on the mop cleaning near the couch and nods. 

Great, you think, that was a disaster. You defeatedly walk (actually stoop to get past the almost closed door) feeling like a hooker after a client, miserable and kind of used. This is always the worst part. 

You feel an arm touch your shoulder, you’ve only taken a few steps in the daylight.

‘’Take this in case you revoke your incel statement.’’

Tomura hands you a piece of paper and quickly disappears behind the store’s shadows.

[headspace-hotel]

I agree with the idea that a lot of humans nowadays have a severe lack of curiosity about the world, but I think there has to be a solution other than shame.

I think about this every day because the fate of our world hangs on curiosity: either we will rediscover the importance and wonders of the soil and bugs and flowers and water and finally with the whole natural world, or this way will be forgotten.

People raised in the great wasteland of the suburbs and roads and buildings have never seen most of the plants and creatures that are supposed to fill every field and meadow. So many humans have never seen with their own eyes more than a scant few of the most common of hundreds of wildflowers that are supposed to surround them. Some live in biomes designated forest and have never witnessed truly mature trees. They do not know what the birds sound like. When they see an ordinary deer, they are awed and amazed by it or even afraid of it. They have never eaten any of the delicious wild fruits that grow in their homeland; all birds except starlings and robins and sparrows are so strange and beautiful that they stare in wonder. They confront insects like people on an alien planet encountering an unknown life form: What is this? Will it hurt me?

I cannot even describe the grief I feel on behalf of humans that grow up and live in the wasteland of pavement and lawn. That we are expected to live in these brutal environments, that we are expected to be content without the right or ability to live alongside living creatures, to walk among wildflowers, to hear birdsong, to feel the plush softness of moss, to see even common bees and butterflies—the fact that we live, work, and raise our children in poisonous wastes where nearly everything has been wiped out, and the simplest and most abundant of natural pleasures are rare privileges—it's cruel. It's a crime against the human spirit. It makes me so angry and sad.

When I started researching plants, I had no idea that I would end up expanding my mind so much that I would be virtually a different person within the year. Before I learned, I could not have imagined the diversity and beauty that exists in the world. My mind did not have the tools to come up with it.

I lived for over twenty years believing that there was only one species of firefly. I lived for over twenty years not knowing that the Southeastern US has native bamboo. I had never tasted the indescribable flavor of a pawpaw or seen the iridescent vibrance of a red-spotted purple butterfly. I had only seen a Pileated Woodpecker out the window of a car. I had never touched true topsoil, the soft, living blanket of rich, sweet-smelling earth full of mycelium, as springy and plush as a mattress. Just one year ago, I knew nothing!

Humans, as creatures, are insatiably curious and hunger for beauty. It is so cruel to deprive a human of relationship with their natural environment.

It is no wonder that we are all addicted to the internet—we have a crucial need that is unfulfilled. Compared with a forest, the world of lawns and buildings is so ridiculously flat and unstimulating. You would expect humans in such a place to feel constantly bored, restless, frustrated, and incurably sad.

I feel that lack of curiosity can be a chosen thing, but it is also a defense mechanism against a world that will feel like sandpaper on the senses of the curious.

But we need curiosity to fix this—we need the ability to notice the living things that have crept in at the edges of the wasteland and be infected and tormented by their beauty. We need to recognize the forest reaching into our cage in the form of tiny saplings. We need to discard the word "weed," not because it is derogatory because it is fundamentally incurious—it designates a plant as needing no identity outside of its unwantedness. We must learn their names. We must wonder what their names are.

[clitorphosis]

PINK CELLPHONE

Incel Leon S. Kennedy x OnlyFans reader | 18+ MDNI. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, INCEST, smut, female reader, reader is a little bit mean, creampie, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, teasing, Leon is submissive, nipple play, tits sucking.

notes: uhm, i didnt proofread this so... i want to remind you that english isnt my first language :3 also i imagined re2 og Leon, but whatever! also reblogs and any kind of feedback is really appreciated

tags: @withonly-sweetheart

There was something fundamentally wrong with Leon in female’s gaze.

Maybe he is unlucky or those girls are blind. Really hoping it is the latter, cause it is not flattering when guys with migrated hairline can get cute girls, while he can’t. And 4chan doesn’t help either, those advices aren’t useful when he can’t even talk to a real girl.

Yes, they are blind. He is going to set on that.

So after many years of solitude, his only company has become the blue gleam which most night was the only source of light in the room, while air was full with low noises coming from the old, poor laptop. Trying to survive after years of not being turned off correctly. Multiple tabs on his laptop’s screen, he doesn’t bother to close them anymore, hoarding them like some kind of treasure - Leon doesn’t give a shit anymore.

This century is perfect for a man like Leon, internet may be the second Library of Alexandria. A real paradise, so much colorful and vibrant sites with cute girls showing their bodies if he pays for that content.

Thank god Onlyfans exists. And he is a nice guy, supporting cute and sexy girls.

Paying for limited content can be considered as supporting women, right? Even if he was motivated due to his selfish reasons - to get attention and limited content. Something special for him. It was embarrassing how long he could browse a fair share of accounts and get or even interact with some girls without being rejected and they would not know him. There are a lot of them, all cute and nice, and they acted even better when he tipped them, so they would interact more with him, calling him a ‘pretty boy’. At least it made him feel special for a while. Still, not his fault that their, too perfect, videos or photos led him to lose his interest - their content felt lifeless, without passion or love put in it. Boring. It has become a routine already, finding an account - jerking off until he loses his interest and the cycle returns to browsing the site for someone new to obsess over.

Your account was like a treasure when he found it. Leon got attracted to it like a magnet, comparable to find a needle in the haystack. Sweet thing, really sweet, if he was ever to interact with you he wouldn’t be able to hide his grimace. But that was attracting, he doesn’t know how much money he has spent on your content. Your face was always hidden or cut out by the position of your camera, but there was no need to see your face when people paid to jerk off.

It was nice while it lasted.

Pink cellphone. The little pink cellphone he got his sister, after she nagged him about wanting it, that ended up left alone and not used. You have this pink cellphone, the furniture and a lot of things were identical to his little sister’s room; posters of her favorite bands or that specific blanket she had all her life, but this was quickly brushed off at first, almost all girls like cute stuff and this could be a coincidence. Also that not the first thing a guy notices when he is ready to jerk off. Leon isn’t sure why after seeing that pink cellphone it clicked so quickly, the guilt and shame fill him to the brim, coiling around his neck like a loose invisible tie knot.

This is wrong, wrong like touching his sister’s breast. Your breast. Instead, he was jerking off to your boobs for months. Imagining how they would fill his palms nicely.

The room is the same as before, but now it hits different to be here after discovering what you have been doing here all this time. It has the same smell as always, sweet and too much like you, tightening the invisible knot around his neck. He wants to throw himself out of the window, this is sick and he doesn’t understand why his legs brought him here after work, still wearing his uniform. There are plenty of almost empty and few full bottles of perfume he had bought you during one of shopping trips, while you were nagging him and begging for them. He eyes such little and useless items that in any other situations he wouldn’t notice, avoiding to look at you. His efforts were useless, he is a weak man after all and there is nothing to do other than to stare at your frame; sitting on the bed, confused at his behavior and expecting something - a reason to explain why he is acting like that, staring at you, almost fucking you with his eyes. He doesn’t need Freud to tell him that he wants to fuck his own sister. Were you preparing to do new content for your followers? The thought made his pants tighter, wanting to pull at the fabric to ease it but this would only bring your attention, wouldn’t it? Maybe he wants it.

“You look like shit.”

“Excuse me?” Did he hear that right?

“You look like shit, Leon” you repeat before raising an eyebrow “stop staring, you are going to dig holes into my face. What do you want?”

What a bitch, he would say, but,

“Uhm…” is the only sound he was able to let out, getting closer to your bed and sitting down on the edge. You scoot closer to him as you always do. A sweet habit he always liked, sometimes you even hug him. “Not lady-like, sweetheart. I wanted to talk”

You roll your eyes. “About what?”

“A friend of mine, he sent me a link of a girl, doing porn” his lies flow so fast and easily from his mouth, trying to shift this to someone non existent. “Her face isn’t visible but… her room and she had a pink cellphone, identical to yours… so I was wondering—“

“Maybe you are imagining things. Many girls have similar room to mine” you cut him, your hand lays on his shoulder. Perhaps this is hell, hell would feel like you mock him by pretending that account isn’t you, like those moans he heard weren’t yours while a guy or a dildo was pleasing you, making Leon envious and sour - why not him? The corners of your lips tug up, something good got into your head. “So you are paying for that stuff, huh? Jerking off to a girl similar to your little sister, you are so weird”

“Huh? No, I am not” Yes, he is, that’s actually his favorite hobby.

“Cut the crap, Leon. There is no friend. You probably imagined me, yeah?” He did, he won’t deny this - it would be a lie leading to another rejection, this time by his sister - and he is man, a desperate one. Also poker has never been his strong point nor he can lie well with his hard on. “Nasty, nasty boy”

His blue eyes linger on your mouth as you spoke, watching your tongue rolled sensually and slowly. Your tongue clicks, before applying more pressure on his shoulder with your hand, pushing him down. He is like a rag doll under your touch - his back hits the softness of your bed and now all he can see is your face looking down at Leon before finally sliding on his lap. Your legs straddle his hips, so nicely pressing down on his crotch and making this much harder than it should be. His cock is already painfully hard, straining against the warmth of your pussy which can be felt through thin fabric of your shorts. God bless them. He bucks up his hips, as his hands reach to hold your hips and press them harder against his aching cock while he tries to dryhump you needy - too bad that’s not on your list, slapping away his hands like it is a disturbance which makes him frown.

“Ah-ah, big bro. Don’t touch me” you purr as your head dips lower to press hot heated kiss on the skin of his neck, leaving soft bites and wet trail behind whilst your tongue traces around those bites, like a soothing touch before it starts going up down and up in torturous motions. Until you stop on his Adam’s apple to bite it softly to leave a red spot, your hands dive under his shirt, pushing it up to expose his stomach and making it easier to reach his chest - fingertips brush against his nipples, before rolling and pinch them to force more moans from him. A grown man getting already painfully hot and bothered over little touches and kisses there and then, this causes you to chuckle under your breath - don’t want to hear him complain how you hurt his ego. Man’s ego is more fragile than soap bubbles or the glass, one poke and he would not shut up and fuck your brain instead of your pussy. That won’t do. Your eyes dart up to look into his face - to see that sweet and needy expression, begging more than just teasing caresses from you. Your hips sit so well against his, sometimes creating some friction when one of you move and it feels like he is going to die if his dick won’t be buried in your pussy any time soon.

“I don’t like dirty hands on me” you add eventually with the same purring voice. What can be better than a man being submissive and shattering over nothing?

“Can you just… oh shit!” his sentence gets cut abruptly, when your lips reach to his earlobe, nibbling playfully and it would be really humiliating if he cum here cause of how his ears are sensible. Deep inhale, before speaking again, trying to keep himself at check and not to be so meek while you keep rolling his sensitive nipples in between your fingers. His next words are breathless and voice is shaky, almost at the edge to sound pathetically. Not really manly, but still your clit throbs, only now noticing how your panties are soaked now, uncomfortably clinging to your pussy lips. “…fuck me?”

You stop your assault over the skin of his neck to look down at him better, your hips press against his hard dick forcing a breathless whimper to escape. This little plea, he begs. Your clit throbs again, so uncomfortably wet, you want to dryhump him until he cum in his jeans like a virgin. Instead, he is one. If he was any other men you wouldn’t consider this good enough to comply but the sight in front of you is too much to ignore.

“Fuck.. you?” You echo his words, feigning a confusion, your eyes widen to emphasize the act. A cheap one, cause your hand already tugged down your shorts, leaving you in panties, he has seen them so many time on those videos and photos, his hips buck to press himself to your, still, clothed pussy. His attempt isn’t really successful, your hand unzips his jeans to free his cock. And finally to look at it. “you are so weird… I dunno, to ask that from me, don’t you have any shame in this body of yours, huh?”

“I don’t give a shit, just fuck me” he groans, looking down as you palm his cock, it twitches in your hand, already leaking with pre-cum and you can even notice a little stain on his boxers.

A light urge to roll your eyes arises deep down when you looked down, but it was quickly put down. Rather disappointing as a size, if someone would have asked you, but not everyone can have porno dick or customized one. You can still fuck with that. Leon swallows hard, taking a deep breath in again as he looked at you briefly - your tits are more interesting right now. He hopes you let him to suck on them. His fingers twitch, wanting to reach for your panties and tug to the side, to fuck you, but he is a gentleman. A nice guy.

Your hand pumps his dick, smearing his pre-cum along the flesh before tugging your panties to the side, your glistening pussy is fully exposed to his gaze and Leon almost choked on his saliva when you pressed your slick cunt on his cock. It is a torturous game, feeling you rub slowly along his aching length leading to drip more of pre-cum. You are so wet and warm, your slick coats his dick with every stroke of your pussy against it. This makes his eyes widen briefly at the sensation, he isn’t sure if he would be able to last long inside you. If it ever gets to that, of course.

“Please..?” Leon groans, bucking his hips to get more and press himself tighter for more friction than it is even possible right now. His sounds only encourage you to mess with him.

“What? I don’t understand” you taunt him with a light pout, another long and slow stroke, his cock’s tip was so close to slide into you. “Use your big-big words, Leon”

Your pussy kept grinding, enjoying the way his cock head bumps against your clit and making you wetter, forcing some noises from you too. Your fingers tug on his lower lip playfully - just to tease and annoy him. But he doesn’t let you withdraw your hand by grabbing hold of it. His lips catch your finger, sucking and nipping on it.

“Use me… please” like one of yours sex toys, Leon wanted to add, but, alas his dignity was still in tact, holding barely together by the tiniest thread. And as much as you want him to cum without even a penetration, to embarrass him, your own selfish urge to fuck him is much stronger.

“What a pretty face you have, right, big bro?” Also it is hard to ignore such sight in front of you, with blushed cheeks, his chest raises heavily as he let out breathless groans. “Pretty and pathetic, you would be a perfect sex doll”

Your wet slit kept rubbing, but this time savoring with the last stroke, before finally hovering over his cock - feeling his leaky tip nudging against your slick hole, begging to sink down, before his cock finally slides into you. He watched how your pussy swallowed his cock slowly inch by inch, before Leon thrusts up to meet your downward movement, forcing yours to slam against his, quickly burying himself as deep as he can right now. You moan at the rough motion, now ignoring how his hands reach to grip tightly your waist, not really caring anymore and now nothing stops him by touching you. Your slick inner walls wrap around his cock nicely, tightly clenching and he doesn’t think twice before bucking his hips again as yours started to roll against his - driving him deeper into your soaked hole. His dick hits the g-spot so sweetly, making you gasp and moan with him. His teeth catch the fabric of your shirt, trying to tug it down and expose your boobs to him - and you are nice enough to help him by pulling it aside, a clear permission to bury his face in between them. Sloppily kissing and biting on the flesh of your tits, while you are bouncing on his dick. His lips repeat your name as a prayer, catching a hard nipple into his mouth, his tongue brushes and rolls against the sensitive nub - sucking at it, nibbling messily and leaving wet marks before darting to give attention to another nipple, causing your pussy to flutter around his dick more, tightly engulfing deeper into the slick walls as the wet sounds mix with the skin slapping ones every time your hips meet after every deep and quick stroke that his cock drag against your walls.

“I-I want to fill you with my cum, please”his voice is breathless at the edge of whine even though he tries his best to not appear so desperate, but the plea behind his words is clear. His grip gets tighter, his fingers knead your ass as he grinds his dick against your cervix to intensify the pleasure for himself while his pelvis rubs against your clit as a nice touch. He really hopes you wouldn’t try to be a bitch and let him cum, if not then he is probably going to cry. “Please, please, let me cum… I need this, sis”

“You sound so fucking ridiculous” your voice is breathless too, but seeing him so needy and desperate for his release making this even better. Your hand tugs his hair, pulling away from your tits to look at his face even better - his lips are glistening with his own saliva and parted. Your clit throbs even more, aching for attention, velvety walls clench around him when you reach down to press your fingers on your clit, rubbing rough circles. “Come on, fill your little sister if you need this so much”

He whimpers disappointedly when he was pulled away from your sensitive and abused tits, but it was quickly changed into a moan when your pussy to wrap him tighter after adding your fingers in action. Your hips roll harder to meet his thrusts and wanting to see more of his stupid faces. Leon grinds up against sweet spot at every opportunity and every time it gets messier and messier as his balls tightens. His eyes slide shut briefly, now wetly meeting yours and looking more pathetic. What a freak, not like you are better than him.

Your orgasm approaches quickly as you kept rubbing your clit in rough circle motions, making your walls wrap harder around his cock. You arch as the flowing pleasure hits your body hard, having harder time to use your fingers to prolong your orgasm. Your pussy flutters at every erratic and messy thrust he kept making as he chase his own orgasm. It didn’t last long for him either, already a wonder he didn’t cum after sliding into you.

“Fuck- fuck” he slammed in to the hilt one final time, burying it deep and rubbing against your cervix before finally erupting deep inside you. Thick ropes of cum painted your insides in white, as your dripping cunt was milking his cock. Your body fell down against his chest, breathing heavily together and shivering.

“You stink like a wet dog, get out” you complain weakly, trying to push yourself away from him but it is effortless - he buries his head in the crook of your neck, again. His soft cock is still inside you, he won’t let you go. “and unsubscribe from my OnlyFans, creep”

“Later” Leon mumbles absently.

No, he is not even going to unsubscribe. In another life.

[inkskinned]

they don't see it, because it is around them like air. to them, it would have to be through movies, through magazines. they think it happens outside of life, like it must be selected to be interacted with.

but you discovered in the fifth grade that you couldn't wear shirts with words on them, it was an excuse for someone to look at your chest. you were catcalled before you were in middle school. sometimes you look at that memory and deny it - surely that can't be right, you were young. but you were in a skirt, so maybe that was a natural byproduct. it was a skirt from that place "justice by limited too" - a store literally for kids. it was popular around then. you wore that skirt twice and then never again.

you can't wear headphones, because what if a man wants to talk to you? there's a guy on the internet who complains that women shut themselves off from being approached. at night, you often keep the headphones positioned but with the sound off, just in case you need to hear something behind you.

you learned at 12 that you can't make eye contact, don't acknowledge the aggression. just walk faster and hope he picks on somebody else. don't wear your hair like that. do not park next to that kind of car, park an entire cityblock away if you must.

you can't go to the museum, you're sitting and tying your shoe when he approaches you and mentions that nobody understands art anymore. that in the whole world, it's just you-two. you have no recourse for eating a meal (it's rabbit food if it's salad, and someone will roll their eyes, eat a sandwich. it's pick-me behavior if it's a burger, we get it you're a cool girl). if you like mushrooms you are cottagecore, which is cheesy. if you like video games you're an egirl (similar to a pick-me). boys do not get categories, but if you point out the categories are sexist, you are told okay but these girls really exist.

it is somehow developing, a little undercurrent that you've been uncomfortable with. the nickname "karen" went from being "a white woman that uses her whiteness as a weapon, particularly against people of color," to now mean "any woman raising her voice or being even a little upset." the reappropriation of a term used specifically to call out white women for their racism has set your skin on edge. now it is just another version of "bitch," one that can be said on television. recently you saw a woman get called a karen because a drunk driver sideswiped her, and she screamed when it happened. the comments on the dashcam video all say "why do women always scream about everything." "when has the world ever been bettered by women screaming." "this fucking karen. she deserved to get hit."

in the sitcom, it's a joke that the wife is furious; slamming her hands down into the sink. i do everything around here, might as well do this too. in your house, your father is always in-his-office. before you know better, your first boyfriend is the type to say it's just easier for you. you used to beg him to take you on dates. he used to make a big deal about it, about the sacrifice of effort, even if you were the one who did most of the planning.

someone on the internet makes a "POV: the most boring person you've ever met" where he puts a towel on his head and just talks like a normal person. his impression of a boring woman is just a woman that is talking about her pretty-average life without exaggeration.

you are sometimes actually sad in the reverse, because actually you did used to struggle to pay attention in conversations. you were also easily bored of normal things, your adhd pinging off of every radio tower in the vacinity. it took time and therapy and patience, and now you delight in the small things about your friends. you like having them show you their organizational systems and talk about their taylor swift tickets. you are entertained by them because you learned to be, even though your brain is structured to only be excited by novelty. you kind of hate the idea that the reason your father will never actually pay attention to you is that you're no longer interesting. eventually the shine wore off, and you were just a person, not a spaceship. he never learned how to just, like, form an actual intimate friendship. it was always at a distance, this sense - emotional closeness was too much. (and yes. he's homophobic).

you're already tired of whatever the fuck is happening with the words "divine feminine", a rancid take that is basically just a rebranding of the patriarchy in action. what the fuck do they mean "being small and delicate and needing protection" is feminine. the words they are looking for are that they want a partner, not that their desire for equivalent support is relegated to gender. the human desire for community is not actually gendered at all. also, what fucking wolves are these "divine masculine" men even battling. fuckken taxes? shouldn't their "desire to protect" also mean "protect you from emotional neglect", or are all emotions off-limits (and how sad would that be. that's a horrible bar to set.)

and they tell you it's really not bad actually, because it's just there. they suggest you get off the internet or you stop reading that book or you stop thinking so hard about the movie or you stop just-being-a-feminist because honestly it's a killjoy sort of thing and then you tilt your head to the side and there's that little siren in the back of your head. if things were actually fine, being a feminist wouldn't put a stop to anything, it would go completely unnoticed, because you wouldn't have any comment to make about any of this

but you are ruining your own life, they tell you. also, girls don't sit like that. also, all girls are catty. also, all girls are bad drivers. also, all girls just need a cute bracelet and an iced coffee.

you do like iced coffee, is the thing. when you close your eyes, the world around you has this strange note to it. and once you hear it, it never stops ringing.

[chiscribbs]

[***NOTE: Leo's design here is no longer accurate, link to the updated version.]

I know there are already a lot of "the brothers are separated at a young age and raised by different people" AUs floating around, so this isn't especially original, but- I've yet to see one with this particular parent-child arrangement, so...

Here’s some rough concept art for what I’m calling the “Grown Apart AU”  Which I've also been affectionately referring to as the "Everyone's a Disney Protagonist" AU for quite some time... you'll see why.

Here’s the gist: Basically, Splinter is only able to save Mikey and Leo from the lab explosion - Raph is immediately picked up by Huginn and Muninn and handed back over to Draxum; Donnie is lost mid-escape and later found by Big Mama's goons, who show up for Lou but bring Don back with them instead when Lou is nowhere to be found.

Details of each turtles’ upbringings (as well as how/when they meet April) below the cut:  

RAPH

Draxum raised Raph to be everything he originally intended the turtles to be: a ruthless, obedient super soldier whose sole purpose in life is to protect the Yokai by eliminating the human threat. Draxum taught him to hate humankind and trained him up to be virtually undefeatable in battle. However...because Draxum isn't the most attentive parent, most of the caretaking for Raph was actually provided by Huginn and Muninn. And the two little well-meaning gargoyles - mostly unintentionally and outside of their master's knowledge - wound up nurturing a much softer and friendlier side to their supposedly bloodthirsty warrior-in-the-making. As a result, Raph has essentially been living a double-life under Draxum’s ownership; playing the part of a perfect soldier for his father/general, who he's determined not to disappoint, and only feeling free to be himself when he's alone (or with H&M.)

Raph has always known that there were supposed to be other mutants like himself but grew up believing that he's the only one who survived the experiment, making him the only one left in existence (until Draxum’s oozesquitos create more, that is). Even though he had H&M to keep him company, being an only child could still be pretty lonely sometimes, so Raph would often imagine what having brothers - other mutants like himself that he could have grown up alongside - would have been like.

Raph is the only one of the turtles that knows his human DNA comes from Lou Jitsu - just like Draxum, though, he has no idea that Splinter is actually Lou Jitsu.

DONNIE

Donnie had a posh and cushy upbringing in Big Mama's hotel - she raised him as her own son(unaware that he’s actually Lou’s)/apprentice and uses his technological talents to aid her multiple businesses: he supplies new weapons and battlegrounds for the Battle Nexus, as well as automated assistants and security for her hotel, and even pitches in with her more off-the-record dealings that last one being without Donnie’s knowledge. Big Mama's kept him pretty much wrapped around her little finger; praising him for his intelligence and usefulness whenever he does a good job or makes her nice things. When he hasn’t, however, she’s a less-than-affectionate mother. Donnie will do absolutely anything it takes to impress and earn approval from her.

Donnie is largely sheltered and knows very little about the world outside of the hotel - especially the human world, about which most of his knowledge comes from what he finds on the internet. He doesn't even know that he's a mutant, believing himself to be just some uncommon type of yokai, since that's all he knows. He’s not allowed to fraternize freely with the hotel guests and has a somewhat contentious relationship with Big Mama’s assistant, whom he’s always viewed as competition for her affection. The closest thing he's had to a friend is S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N, whom Donnie built to have someone to talk to (besides Big Mama's boring, no-nonsense henchmen).

Don finally met April when he was about 11 yrs old; he secretly sent one of his spy bots out to explore the human city and she intercepted it. The two have been best friends and stayed in-touch with each other online ever since - April being unaware that Donnie isn't human.

Donnie knows of Lou Jitsu purely because he was Big Mama’s favorite champion in the history of the Battle Nexus - he idolizes him, having watched recordings of many of his fights, and dreams of one day fighting in the Battle Nexus himself (if Big Mama would allow that).

Leo & Mikey

Leo and Mikey were still rescued by Lou/Splinter and brought up in the NY sewers. Splinter felt extremely guilty for not managing to save the other two baby turtles and, for the first few years following the incident, spent much of his time searching for them. Once Leo was old enough, Splinter would start leaving him and Mikey in the Lair while he searched. He eventually gave up his search, presuming them both dead or lost for good, and resigned to keeping the remaining two as safe as possible - teaching them how to defend themselves and warning them never to leave the sewers unless he was with them.

Leo and Mikey were inseparable as kids - they would do everything together, refusing to even sleep in separate rooms until they were too big to fit in one bed anymore. Leo took his job as Mikey's big brother very seriously and always tried his best to protect him, even when they were simply playing games with each other. As they got older, though, the two brothers began to drift apart - Leo started to feel a little smothered; craving more freedom to do what he wanted when he wanted, without the older sibling responsibilities hanging over him 24/7. And Mikey started feeling like he couldn't go/do anything without his brother's judgement or approval, resenting the idea that he needed constant protection.

Finally, when he was about 13, Leo secretly snuck out of the lair one night to check out the city by himself and get a little taste of independence. After that one trip, it quickly became a habit and he soon began making regular “secret” trips into the city.

Somewhere along the way, his innocent quests for freedom and fun grew into opportunities to stir up some trouble - Leo eventually met and became involved with a group of yokai teens with whom he would pull pranks and play jokes on the city's human occupants (harmless ones...usually. They just enjoy causing a little mischief.)

Mikey, having to figure out other ways to keep himself occupied since his brother is usually by himself or busy with his new friends, has picked up a multitude of different skills and hobbies, trying absolutely everything he can get his hands on. His main hobby is spray-painting, which he uses to spruce any wall he can find with his own personal touch. By the time he's 13, much of underground New York has been covered by his handiwork.  Mikey eventually finds out about Leo’s secret outings and follows him when he leaves one night - the two end up meeting April, who's never seen mutants before (having only talked to Donnie online and not seen his face) and promptly freaks out before realizing they're not dangerous. The three soon become friends, too, and April starts making plans to introduce the boys to Donnie - knowing he could use more friends besides S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. and herself.

The four brothers' fates finally collide with one another when an escapee from Draxum's lab - Mayhem - shows up out of the blue and catapults Mikey and Leo to the Hidden City, where they have an unexpected reunion with their eldest brother.

[robinsegghead]

Danny's Daycare Part 6

[Master List]

"I’m going to feel really bad about all of this if he doesn’t turn out to be evil.” Duke sighed.

          Tim hummed in acknowledgement, still buried in his work and completely enthralled and enraged by what he had found. Or rather, what he had not found. “He has to be something - there’s nothing about him! Daniel Nightingale does not exist! There’s no internet presence, no pictures, videos, nothing! Nobody who comes into that kind of money is just a… a…”

          “Ghost?” Duke asked as Tim snapped his fingers to remember the word.

          Pointing at Duke, he nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! That! He’s like a ghost or something- I don’t trust it!”

          Standing up, Duke moved away from the batcomputer and towards the exit. “Have you ever considered that maybe he’s just a nice guy doing a nice thing?” He paused, no response coming from Tim. “Of course not,” he muttered. “That would require seeing the good in literally anyone.”

~~~

            Sunday was much less exciting. Danny went to the store successfully, drank his coffee without spilling it on himself, fixed his coffee maker, and notably; didn’t kill anyone or run into any vigilantes. Which, thank Ancients, honestly. Danny was not here to play hero again, but he was self-aware enough to admit that if he somehow befriended the birds and bats that he’d let himself get dragged back into it.

            So he stayed inside. 

            Monday was also quiet. Twelve kids between Mia, Ember, and Danny wasn’t too bad but he did get lunch delivered for all three of them. The parents later that day brought news of Joker’s death which had apparently reached the public. The article said nothing about murder (although it was obviously speculated at) and neither Danny’s name nor his face were in the article. 

            He didn’t sleep that night.

            Tuesday wasn’t any busier than Monday, but it felt hectic, and Danny wrote a physical note to himself to hire more help. So far he’d gotten lucky, good workers wouldn’t just keep falling into his lap, he’d need to look for it. There was more speculation about the Joker’s death (there were even more parties) but Danny kept his nose out of it. Not his circus. Not his monkey’s. 

            Except it kind of was, and he’d killed the monkey.

            Wednesday was fine, Danny learned a bit more about the Joker through the constant barrage of news. It was through this barrage that he learned more about Duke’s past and its relation to the Joker. Feeling a bit like a creep, Danny found as much information as he could on the Thomas’s, where they were, how long they’d been there, and what had happened to them. It was… distressing to say the least.

            Danny contacted Frostbite about working on a Joker venom cure.

            Thursday wasn’t special. Danny both liked and hated how slow his days had been recently. No one had tried to mug him recently (which was fine albeit boring), with help at the daycare he didn’t find himself quite as exhausted at the end of the day, and sleep continued to evade him with the exception of small bouts that came on randomly and without care if he was laying down or not. Some would call it ‘passing out’, Danny called it power napping.

            He was just waking up from another one of his power naps, this one taken only a foot away from his couch, when his phone rang. The number wasn’t one he knew, but the area code was Gotham.

            “Hello?” He answered, stretching his stiff arms, and rubbing the sore spot on his head from where it hit the edge of the coffee table at the… beginning of his power nap.

            There was a shuffling on the other end of the line, then a groan, and finally, a response. “Danny...? It’s… Miguel. Listen I… I-” There was a choking sound followed by a wet cough and Danny realized this wasn’t exactly the call he’d been expecting. Slipping on his jacket and shoes and grabbing a first aid kit, he left his apartment.

            “Where are you?”

            “25 th and Mundson… I’m…” He let out a shuddery breath and Danny thought he heard sniffling. “It’s bad man.”

            Danny had already begun his flight from the moment Miguel had answered. It only took a couple of minutes, Danny spent the entire time speaking words of encouragement, instructing him on what to do. Miguel had been stabbed in the lower stomach and was losing blood fast. Upon arrival, Danny was grateful to see the kid still kicking, putting as much pressure on the wound as he could, just like Danny had said.

            “Hey, Miguel, how we doing?” He pulled the shirt away from his stomach and checked the wound. It was deep. 

            Miguel groaned, head falling back against the brick wall behind him.

            “None of that, kid, talk to me.” Danny pulled out wads of gauze and pressed them into the open wound trying to staunch the bleeding.

            Despite his request, Miguel didn’t manage to say anything, only letting out more sounds of pain every few seconds. Once he’d gotten the gauze wrapped tightly against his wound, Danny wound his arms around the boys’ frame and pulled him into his arms. 

            “Thompkins clinic is only a couple of blocks away.” He murmured, booking it down the sidewalk. 

            Miguel made his discomfort known as he loudly groaned and cried into Danny’s shoulder. Guilt tugged at the half dead king. He’d been in tough spots, but honestly? This was a first. He’d never held someone while they bled out except himself and he was sure he would have been happier going his whole life without. 

            As the building came into sight he felt the prickle of hope just under his skin, only to been diminished by Miguel’s breathing coming to a stop.

            “Come on, kid. Please.” He grit out, shoving through the door.

            The receptionist stood up quickly, fear being replaced by resolve. She moved immediately, opening the door to the actual clinic.

            “Doctor!” She shouted, as Danny shoved past her and laid Miguel on the table. 

            “He’s been stabbed. He called me eleven minutes ago, I applied pressure and wrapped it eight minutes ago, it’s deep.” He barely breathed, forcing the words out as fast as he could.

            Doctor Thompkins and her receptionist nurse worked quickly, pushing Danny out of the room and trying to save Miguel’s life. Sitting in the waiting room was excruciating. With his advanced hearing he could tell when the doctor pulled out the paddles, when she zapped Miguel (Danny wincing at the phantom ((ha)) feeling of electricity coursing through his own body), he could hear when she demanded the nurse for more medicine, to wipe the area, to hand her a tool, and he could hear it all knowing he couldn’t help.

            He’d come to Gotham to help people. And he couldn’t. He sat in the lobby, paralyzed, unable to help one of the few people he’d specifically offered his help to.

            When the door opened almost two hours later, the nurse offered him a small smile and nodding for him to go to the back. He didn’t waste a second, breezing by her and directly to the bed Miguel laid in, covered by a blanket, vitals stable.

            “He’s going to be okay.” Doctor Thompkins starts, looking over a clipboard. “It was pretty serious, his heart stopped three times and we had to bring him back. If this were any other kind of clinic I would have had him transferred to a hospital via an ambulance the moment you brought him in.” She said pointedly, there was no real bite in her words. “I’d like to at least keep him over night, make sure he’s okay before he goes galivanting around Crime Alley again.”

            Danny nodded. “Thank you.” He paused, staring at Miguel before turning back to the doctor. “Sorry, uh, I’m Danny. Danny Nightingale.” He held his hand out to shake, blood still caked under his fingernails no matter how many times he’d tried to scrub it away.

            She offered a small smile. “I’ve heard a great deal about you Mr. Nightingale. He looks a bit old to be yours though.” She gestured to Miguel.

            “Oh, no.” He chuckled. “We’ve only met a couple of times, but I gave him my number in case he was ever in trouble. It came in handy tonight.” 

            Nodding, the doctor looked back at her clipboard. “Do you know about family? Anyone we can contact?”

            He sighed, Miguel’s phone heavy in his pocket. “I grabbed his phone but… I know it’s just him and his little brother. I don’t know where the brother is, but I don’t want him out there all alone all night. He might come looking for his brother. I’ll see if I can find any information in his phone.”

            She nodded again, hesitantly before turning away. “I have a couple of things to work on, but you’re welcome to stay here for a while.”

~~~

           Tucker had found Miguel’s little brother’s information in the phone and Danny had set out immediately. He had no idea how Tucker had done it, there was no phone number for his brother, no home address, but Tucker just gave one of his ‘you won’t understand even if I dumb it down for you’ sighs and Danny didn’t question it.

            He’d felt bad about leaving Miguel, but Doctor Thompkins assured him the boy wouldn’t wake until the morning and it would be more dangerous for Santiago (Miguel’s little brother) to be alone all night. So he’d left.

            He didn’t like what he’d found. 

            An abandoned office building on the edge of Crime Alley. Not just abandoned, caved in, likely from a bomb, half the building was missing, there was no roof, most of the second floor had crumbled away leaving the first floor open to the dangers of the night.

            “Santiago?” Danny called cautiously. “My name is Danny; I know your brother.” He hoped Santiago was here. Please don’t let him be searching the streets for his brother. Miguel had said he was only thirteen. “Miguel’s hurt, I’ve come to take you to him.” 

            His senses flared and his body moved on instinct, dodging the long piece of wood that swung at his head. Rolling forward and springing back up, he spun around to face his attacker. His attacker being a little kid. He wore a worn-down jacket, the zipper was open and broken, there were holes in the t-shirt underneath, his jeans were shredded around the ankles and his toes poked through the shoes that were holding on by the shoelaces.

            Raising both hands in a surrender motion, Danny sighed. “Santiago?” The boy’s look was guarded, but fear was clearly underneath, and he nodded once, barely. “I met your brother the other night, my name’s Danny. Your brother got hurt and I took him to Thompkins clinic, I came to bring you to him so you wouldn’t worry about him all night.”

            The two-by-four lowered slowly but not all the way. “’E may’ve mentioned ya.” His voice was so quiet, barely a whisper.

            Danny nodded encouragingly. “I want to help you- both- if you’ll let me. But that’s not what I’m here for tonight. I didn’t want you to be alone or go searching for your brother, so I came to bring you to him. And then, at least while he’s healing, I’d like to help you guys out, if you’ll let me.”

            And with the look Santiago gave him, he was optimistic that he could wear them down.

~~~

          As he’d learned in the past six months, Danny wasn’t just the king of the infinite realms. No- he was the king of hasty decisions. He already owned the apartment building he lived in and he’d been fixing up the empty apartments, but without much thought (or asking Miguel and Santiago’s opinions) he went online and purchased all of the necessary furniture to house two boys and set the delivery for the next day.

          “Mr. Nightingale-” Miguel started.

          “Danny.”

           Miguel ignored him. “Mr. Nightingale, tha’s too much. We can’t accept this. Why would you even want us to move in?” His balled his fists in the hospital blanket. Doctor Thompkins had thankfully stepped out to give them some privacy. “What do you want from us?”

           “Listen, Miguel,” Danny rubbed a hand across his forehead. “I don’t WANT anything FROM you. I want you both to be safe. I want you both to go to school. And I want you to only worry about grades and socializing and other kid things.” He raised a hand calmingly as Miguel geared up to argue. “And I know you aren’t kids- you’ve been through too much to be considered kids, but you are young, and you deserve to feel safe.”

           The brothers looked between each other and Danny.

           “I don’t want to charge rent; I don’t want anything from you.” He repeated. “I want to help you, remember? That’s what I do. That’s what people like me are made for. Helping.”

           Santiago, in a rare show of childishness, climbed onto his brother’s bed and into his lap, whispering something in his ear. The two shared a pointed look, a telepathic conversation happening between them while Danny tried not to watch. Miguel sighed.

          “So… how would this work?”

          Danny leaned back in his chair, hoping he looked less intimidating like this. “I own the apartment building I live in. I’d like to give you two one of the apartments to live in, rent free, obviously. I’d like to tutor you both so you can get into a good school before next semester, we could do that on weekends and in evenings. I would also like you to leave your gang,” Miguel opened his mouth, but Danny pressed on. “I can offer you a job that will pay much better than any gang will.” Miguel’s mouth shut.

          The three sat in silence for a moment after that, Miguel thinking it all through. “Why us man?”

          The Halfa shrugged. “Why not? I can’t help everyone, but I can help you two. You’re just as deserving as anyone else is and I have the means.”

          “This ain’t some weird sugar daddy situation, is it?”

           Danny actually laughed at that. “No, Ancients no! I already told you what I want. And it’s not anything weird or creepy or gross. I just want to help.” I just want to protect.

           “Fine.” Miguel mutters. “But no creepy shit! An’ you ain’t my dad!”

           He nodded, grinning. “Agreed.”

~~~

            Danny insisted they stay at the clinic for another twenty-four hours, both so Miguel could recover a bit more before walking around and so he could get the apartment set up before their arrival.

            First he contacted Ember and begged her to work the whole day tomorrow and be responsible about it, then he called Mia and told her he had a family emergency and would be out the following day but that she could call if she needed and to keep Ember in line. 

            After that he called Jazz because that’s what he did when he did something crazy.

            “Danny?” She answered.

            “I did something hasty again.”

            She sighed. “What is it this time? A restaurant? A hotel? Tell me it isn’t Phantom rela-”

            “What? No! No it’s- you know how I bought my apartment building before moving here? Well… I just invited a couple of kids who need a safe place to stay to live in one of the apartments and I’m kind of freaking out.” 

            She hummed, neither approving nor disapproving, just signaling that she was listening.

            He phased into his apartment and threw his bloody jacket on top of the trash can. “I’m giving them an apartment on my floor, paying for their school, and tutoring them on the weekends. They’re good kids, they just need help.”

            “Danny.” She sighed. “You can’t help everyone.”

            “I know!” He snapped.

            Neither said anything for a moment, allowing their personal frustrations to subside before continuing. They didn’t fight often anymore, but when they did… it could get pretty explosive.

            “I know, Jazz.” He started again. “I can’t help everyone. I know that. But I can help them. Isn’t that why I’m here? To help?”

            She chuckled. “I can’t believe we ever didn’t know your obsession… Remember I wasn’t particularly excited about the daycare in the first place?” He knew, she’d thought he was crazy. But she’d gotten with the program and helped out immensely. “Look, you’re an adult, and more importantly, I trust you, just be careful okay? You’re always doing these crazy last-minute things and it worries me. You’re stretching yourself so thin.”

            “I know.”

            “I’ll call in a family emergency at work tomorrow and come help you out. What do you need from me?”

            And that’s why he always called her. He felt the tension release from his shoulders as he went through a mental checklist of tomorrows to do’s. The apartment needed to be cleaned, furniture needed to be moved in, groceries, clothes, and books needed to be procured after that, and they’d need phones.

            She agreed to show up at seven in the morning to start cleaning the apartment. He could go out and buy essentials while she did that and the furniture would likely be delivered in the early afternoon so they could start moving it all in. They didn’t want to stress the boys out with too much stuff, so Danny promised to keep it to the essentials.

            “Well, I’ve got to get up bright and early to help my kid brother with another crazy scheme, so I’ll be going.” The teasing in her voice was palpable. “I love you, brother.”

            “Love you too, sis.”

            It was nearing midnight when Danny finally ended his call with his sister and looked over the furniture set to be delivered the following day. Two mattresses and bed frames, a couch, a table and chair set, two desk with chairs, and a tv stand (no tv, he was worried how the boys would feel if it was obvious how much he’d spent. He’d get them a tv soon.). For an exorbitant price, it would all be delivered the following day by two in the afternoon.

            Danny took another power nap.

            This one was longer than most and he awoke with a start as sunlight poured into the apartment. Dragging a hand down his face, he stumbled towards the kitchen. When had he last eaten? Didn’t matter, he didn’t have much. He didn’t eat much these days. Not for lack of trying, he was just so busy.

            Opening his fridge (praying there was some fresh fruit or something he could grab quickly) he was shocked to find a container of what looked to be chicken parmesan and a sticky note attached to the lid. 

             Don’t know how a twig like you took out the Joker, eat something. -RH

            There was another container next to it with some kind of stew.

             Okay, not a fan of chicken parm? Fine, but eat the stew. -RH

             There was a third container next to that, some kind of steak and potatoes.

             Do you eat? I swear they aren’t poisoned. -RH

             Danny chuckled. Only one person knew he’d killed the Joker, he hadn’t even told Jazz when she’d called after the breakout, which meant the Red Hood was breaking into his apartment and leaving him meals. Why? As a thank you? Danny stilled owed him a thank you for all he’d done for his people. 

            Reheating the chicken parmesan Danny let his thoughts turn from the Red Hood to his plans for the day. According to his phone it was nearing seven. He’d also gotten confirmation sometime in the middle of the night for the furniture he’d bought saying it’d arrive closer to two. 

            He scarfed down the food (he couldn’t remember ever eating something so delectable) and made his way down to let Jazz in. [SE7]  It had been a few weeks since they’d been able to have brunch, and he smiled when they made eye contact. Her hair was pulled back with a bandanna, her jeans were cuffed, and she wore an open jacket over a ratty old t-shirt. She looked ready to get to work.

            “All right, Mr.-fixes-everyone’s-problems-but-his-own, lead the way.” She arched an eyebrow, clearly still miffed that he hadn’t told her about buying and renovating the building.

            He brought her up to the fourth floor. “This is where they’ll be staying. It’s got two rooms so they won’t have to share, but it’s also on my floor so I can be nearby if they need an adult.”

            “Is that what you think you are?” She teased, lowering the bucket of cleaning supplies she’d brought along.

            Rolling his eyes, he opened the balcony window blinds. “I cleaned all of the open apartments when I bought the place, but it could use a thorough dusting and vacuuming. The furniture will be arriving around two, so we’ve got time. I also need to get to the grocery store to stock their cabinets and pick up some essentials, I was going to take your car. You good here while I take care of that?”

            She nodded. “You won’t even recognize it when you get back.”

            He wasn’t sure if that was meant to be reassuring. But he let her get to work anyway.

Danny didn’t drive much these days. He didn’t have a car and even if he did the likelihood of it getting stolen or broken into where he lived was high. He preferred to take buses or trains anywhere he needed to go but with how many bags of things he intended to get it just wouldn’t be convenient.

            First stop was the department store. He picked out a couple of outfits for each of the boys (he guessed at their sizes as best he could) and some packaged underwear and socks. He picked out bed sheet sets and comforters, a shower curtain, bathmat, bath towels, and kitchen towels. What else… they’d need dishes! 

Loading the essentials -cups, plates, silverware, a couple of pots and pans, knives, a cutting board, and measuring utensils- he stopped and considered getting more. Before he could go completely overboard, he cut himself off. He still needed to get groceries and toiletries and it was already nearing eleven.

            He picked out shampoo, conditioner, toothbrushes and paste, deodorant, combs, a hairbrush, and anything else he thought they might need. At twelve he made his way to the grocery store which he originally thought would be the cheapest part of the trip. Until he saw the prices of seasonings. Five dollars for a jar of garlic powder! 

            Not that Danny was terribly concerned about money, he’d basically been dared by Clockwork to find a way to use it all up without simply giving it all away, but when he thought about all of the essentials the boys would need… flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, half a million seasonings, as well as shelf stable snacks and some canned goods… the cost added up.

            Swiping his card without a second thought, Danny loaded up the car. 

            Jazz was right. When he got back the apartment looked…. Well it was the same, obviously, but it was so much cleaner, fresher, it had a lighter feel to it. Every speck of dust was gone, the carpets had been deep cleaned, the bathroom sparkled, and the kitchen was ready to be filled.

            It didn’t take the two of them long to unload everything from the car but by the time it was all put away (and they were both thoroughly exhausted) the furniture was being delivered.

            “Remind me again why we didn’t ask any of your many ghost friends to help us with this?” Jazz huffed, pulling the couch up the stairs as Danny pushed.

            He chuckled. “You were the one who said, and I quote, ‘We don’t need ghost powers, we are perfectly strong and capable humans, and we don’t want the neighbors to suspect anything’.”

            “Well that’s not even completely true, is it?” She huffed. “Just do it!” 

            Giving his best impression of a super villain’s laugh, Danny hesitated for only a minute before granting mercy, turning the couch intangible, and flying past Jazz with the furniture. She didn’t laugh, clearly exasperated, following him and muttering things under her breath while he flew back and forth bringing up the furniture. 

            Jazz began assembling the bedframes while he finished bringing up furniture. When he finally settled back into the apartment he felt like collapsing onto the couch and taking one of his power naps. The black spots in his vision went away with just a bit of blinking and he pushed away the thought. He didn’t need a nap, he needed to get this done.

            “Danny?” Jazz asked, cautiously, noting his momentary dissociation. “You okay there, brother?”

            He nodded slowly. “Tired. I’ve been pretty busy recently.”

            She eyed him skeptically but let it slide. He listened to her chatter on about work while they put together the beds ‘and it’s hard to believe he’s really dead but thank Ancients because that monster didn’t deserve to claim insanity even once!’, Danny trying to keep from wincing every time she speculated about the Joker’s murder/death.

            Just as they were finishing up Danny’s phone began to ring.

            “Hello?” He moved away from Jazz to get a bit of privacy.

            “Mr. Nightingale? It’s Dr. Thompkins. The boys are getting restless, and I’ve caught them trying to leave twice. I think it’d be best if you came down to get them.” Her voice was professional, but he could hear a hint of exasperation underneath.

            Giving a quick confirmation, he hung up. “I’ve gotta go pick up the boys, they’re getting restless. You wanna stick around? I was gonna order pizzas.”

            “How about this; you take my car to pick them up so Miguel doesn’t have to walk much, and I’ll call in pizzas which you can pick up while you’re out?” She reasoned from the floor. She’d sprawled out after they’d finished the last of the furniture and had apparently decided to become a permanent resident of the floor.

            “You got it, sis.” Swiping her keys once again he made his way out. On the short drive over he felt the anxiety begin to bubble up. What if they hated it? He didn’t know these kids that well, what if they were super overwhelmed and up and left? He wasn’t a father or guardian to anyone (except the entirety of the infinite realms but that’s beside the point)! He couldn’t take care of kids! Santiago was just thirteen! Being neglected at that age was what led to Danny dying at fourteen!

            The panic took over his senses and before he knew it he’d arrived outside of the clinic. Once inside, the nurse (the same from the night before) smiled and gestured for him to go on back. He made eye contact with Miguel and waited. Waited for something. Waited for him to change his mind about all of this. Waited for him to run. Waited. Finally, Miguel sighed. “All right. Let’s go, man.”

Prev. Next

[thedarkmistress16]

Stalker!Yandere!Tony Stark x Fem!Reader- To Steal and Dote On (Internet stalking, Collecting personal information without consent, Using personal information without consent, This billionaire has resources and he's going to use them, Breaking and entering, Theoretical threats of kidnapping and violence, Invading Reader's privacy without consent, Tony has Reader brainrot already)

Chapter 1 |

Chapter 2: Forget You (Not)

——————————————————————————————————

Only, Tony wasn’t able to shake off the thought of you at all. If anything, you took up his primary focus throughout his day.

A part of him did genuinely forget the party last night as he sat in mind-numbing meetings back-to-back, only attending them now due to his irate assistant chewing him out over it. She practically pushed the billionaire out of the kitchen before coffee even greeted his body, yapping his ear off over technicalities and investors he couldn't care less about. Even though Tony was itching to poke at her in this state, to mention his admiration for how her red hair looked like glowing fire spouting from a dragon when she got like this, he got the strong sense that she would quit if he missed another business meeting.

But he was incredibly bored and disinterested, and you kept plaguing his thoughts with more questions that got his brain desperately intrigued. He couldn’t even distract himself with anything else because none of it was as gear-turning as to the mystery of you.

Your confusion, your… disinterest? Never had he encountered someone who wasn’t there for him specifically, or seemed to have no interest in who he was.

And the fact you just… sat there. It was so out of place, like a nagging flaw in a blueprint he couldn't put his finger on.

Why were you there, if you didn’t care about Tony Stark?

Who were you?

That train of thought led to the male instructing his A.I. to scanning your facial profile from the security cameras of his tower right after he was finally free from the drudgery of business— contently settled into his lab with a fresh batch of coffee. Luckily, the feed from last night got a good look at you. It was a better view than the tipsy haze of his memory, he noted. The mostly-clear footage of your face allowed the system to swiftly correlate your likeness to other documented matches— a pool of candidates was completed in the time it took for him to take a long swig that burned his tongue and throat.

What came up was a compiled list of look-alikes that Tony had to manually rifle through in the hopes that one of them would be you and mentally grumbled to himself that you looked like too many people.

Tony grew more irked by the second up until the last result, which was your red carpet picture in front of his building. Tracking the source, he was led to a tabloids website and found that even the photographers had no idea who you were. Your picture was simply sourced as “guests attending a Stark party,” not counting the other woman with you in the image.

He realized that the whole thing was a waste of time. This is why he didn’t do the menial work himself: it was tedious and boring and he had nothing to show for it. Not even a name. You literally didn’t exist on any social media or content platform besides a useless picture just floating there on the internet.

Tony shot up from his chair to pace. He ran his hands through his hair, furiously muttering to himself.

“No social presence? No footprint— no… nothing?”

That’s…really smart, actually.

He hates it. And he hates to admit it, but…

But a small part of him respects you for it, too.

His head whipped back to the monitor glowing before him, patiently idling for a new order. Narrowing his eyes, the man marched back over to the console, furiously typing in a similar command. The process would take longer than he would like, but he was sure he would get his match.

“Who are you, sweetheart?” Tony mused distractedly to the image of your face on one of his monitors, hoping to find a sliver of treasure amidst a sea of coal.

——————————————————————————————————

Entering the lobby of your workplace was as it always is: white tile textured with marbling stains, wood paneling hugging the walls, a white and gray reception desk overlooking the room. Folks came and went from your line of vision, entering and disappearing into elevators and corridors, the leftover sounds of their jabbering following close behind them in the air. Many workers held various brews of caffeine or small breakfast items as they passed by, which had your stomach growling despite already filling it before you left your apartment.

It takes you a more than the typical few minutes to get to your work floor, the elevator being unusually popular for a Monday. You ponder over it to pass the time as you stand there, entertaining the thought of someone important stopping by. When the elevator dings for your stop, you step out and shuffling over to your desk, providing a couple “hellos” and “good mornings” to the associates that greet you along the way. Settling down into your office chair, you boot up your computer as you place and arrange the belongings you fish out from your purse.

You look around the drab space as you wait for the desktop to appear so you can clock in. Your friend and coworker doesn’t seem to be here yet. You contemplate what (Friend Name) got up into last night, if that is her reason for running late. Or rather, who she got with. You laugh to yourself as you drag your mouse over to bring up the company time clock, setting a mental reminder to ask her later when she shows up.

You click open the app used for business emails and you sigh softly at the unreads, sucking in a breath and sitting straighter.

Back to work as usual.

——————————————————————————————————

It was quite some time later before (Friend Name) bounded into the office with a pep in her step. And despite prodding her with your curiosity, she was determined to only reveal anything at lunchtime, which was a couple hours away. She also wanted to discuss it inside the building today instead of the cafe, which caused you to raise a brow. She waved you off and you had shrugged. You tried to focus back on your work, but the suspense of her answer kept eating at you until then, where you realized you didn’t get much done at all.

Now, you were both seated in one corner of the break room, had your meals and drinks pulled out, and were ready to dig in. Your brain, however, couldn’t help but bring up the topic the moment you uncapped your takeaway salad and raised your plastic fork.

“How’d your night go? Did you have fun?” You question good-naturedly before shoveling some greens into your mouth.

“Yeah,” She sighs, unwrapping a granola bar. “But I didn’t stay the night.”

You pause, utensil and speared salad pieces hovering in mid-air, as you turn your head to look at her properly. She munches on the bar of oats sprinkled with fruit and nuts for a moment, catching stray crumbs at the corners of her lips and licking them off before elaborating. “Something came up and he had to take care of it, so we called it a night.” She pauses, looking at her snack thoughtfully and clearly reminiscing. “He was sorry enough to drop me off, though.”

“Oh,” you breathe, resuming the bite of your food and chewing it on one side of your mouth. “That was nice of him.”

“Yeah, it was.” (Friend Name) trails off, releasing a dejected sigh. “So,” her mood shifts as she throws her hair over her shoulders and leans in toward you with vibrant green eyes sparkling of curiosity. “What did you get up to last night? Meet anyone interesting~?” You nervously smile at the sudden attention and shift in the topic, an awkward blush painting your face. You take a sip of your drink and clear your throat to gather your thoughts.

“No one special,” you shrug casually, collecting more lunch on your fork, “just some guy who was full of himself and calling me sweetheart.” There wasn't much to tell concerning the details, anyway.

Her nose wrinkles in distaste, responding with an “ew, gross.” You heartily laugh at her reaction as she shudders. She was never one for pet names like that— it reminds you of one person she dated, who never called her by her name and insisted on nicknames like that. Her features relax back into an easy smile, turning her attention back eating. “Well, I’m glad he didn’t get your number, then.”

As you look down at your lunch, a soft chuckle escapes you as you shake your head in agreement.

“Yeah, definitely not.”

——————————————————————————————————

Finally— finally— he struck gold.

Documented records of the institutions you attended in your life: really just schools and appointments, but it was something. Your yearbook photos helped, too. Only the newest information mattered, however, so he only took note of your most recent forms of contact to date.

It took a lot of outside the box thinking to get there, but that was what Tony Stark did best. He hopes you'll appreciate all the effort he took to go after you when you find yourself in his presence once more, enjoying his company and what his bed has to offer.

But first things first.

He rings up your number, already mouthing what he will say when he hears your voice. He’s more excited than he should be, but can’t find it in himself to care.

It keeps ringing.

He closes his eyes, imagining your expression when you find out it’s him— your lips curving into a smile as you start to say his name—

He gets the voicemail lady instead.

Confused, he sits there for a moment in silence before he tries again.

He’s greeted with a single ring before the same script plays. Did your phone die? Was it powered off? What was happening?

Furrowing his brows, Tony instructs his A.I. to deliver a message.

He compiles something short and flirty, just aiming to get your attention and to reel you in a bit. He sends it off, and almost immediately, the sophisticated, deadpan male voice of J.A.R.V.I.S. informs him that the message wasn't sent.

Okay.

You either blocked his number or your phone is off. Or it just sucks at texting for some reason.

The male purses his lips in thought. He needs to try a different approach, he supposed.

Going back to square one, Tony finds a piece of information that causes a playful smirk to slowly grow upon his face.

Well, he always did like a challenge.

——————————————————————————————————

“Something special just for you, (Name). —Your knight in rose-gold armor❤️💛”

That’s all the italicized note said.

The fancy slip of cardstock that was attached to the package on the floor wrapped in cellophane.

The gift sitting innocently in front of your apartment door when you arrived home from work.

Inspecting it as you bring it inside, the more confused and skeptical you get.

This…

You flipped the box over multiple times in the vain hope of finding a different answer or something new to go off of. It yielded nothing substantial, other than the fact that this was likely delivered to you from some kind of store that gift-wraps their products. Exactly who ordered this in the first place, however, is something you can’t determine. A sender’s address is nonexistent.

If this really was for you, then…

It was completely wrong.

Whoever sent this to you had no idea who you were because the assortment of chocolates had multiple flavors you didn’t care for, and would render the whole box a waste under your possession. There was only one specialty kind that you were willing to try, and even then it was filled with extra tastes that you didn’t really care for in your sweets.

You squinted at the packaging, trying to file through your memories, but you had never heard of this brand in your life.

Thankfully, the box did contain the reliable milk chocolate flavor, as well as darker coco and lighter milk and sugar versions as standalones. So, you figured, it would be a safe bet to sample that one first to see if their base for chocolate recipes were passable.

You hesitantly brought the confection to your lips and let it hover there, now wondering what kind of razor blades or poisonous concoctions were stuffed into this thing. But if someone wanted you dead, why would they make it this elaborate? Wouldn’t there have been some tell of any tampering before you opened it? Feeling ridiculous over your own thoughts, you bite the bullet. Pinching your eyes shut, you threw the piece of chocolate into your mouth.

You bit down, felt a more gooey substance ooze its way onto your tongue, and widened your eyes when the flavor hit you.

You immediately spat the thing out in the garbage can and raced over to your fridge for a palette cleanser. Snatching the first jug you saw, you drank directly from the container and realized too late that it was an acidic juice you picked out.

It paired worse than wine would, surely.

After most of the vile concoction was washed away from your taste buds, you smacked your lips and tried to process the lingering aftertaste.

Glaring at the offending box of chocolates, you took no time in propelling it towards the same bin where it belonged.

Forget figuring out where that came from.

You wouldn’t even give that to your worst enemy.

——————————————————————————————————

“You’ll thank me for this later, hun.” Tony mused to himself as he balanced the handle of a screwdriver in his mouth, putting the finishing touches on the camera in your studio-sized living room. As much as Tony wanted to cover the whole area of the unit itself, he knew not to overdo any more than he really needed to.

The man had no idea if the luxury chocolates he ordered went over well, and was itching to find out sooner rather than later. The very next day on a sunny mid-afternoon with a toolbox in tow, Tony visited your side of the city in his iron suit. He landed on the roof of your apartment, leaving the armor there as he climbed down the fire escape until he reached your level. He found an almost-closed window and had his A.I. scan for any lifeforms inside before he pushed the creaky wooden frame up and crawled through. And then Tony— after making sure you weren’t in another room and about to catch him— happened to glance down into your kitchen trash can. That hurt his feelings of course, but it fueled him to win your favor just the same. He only needed to get a sense of how you lived and what you liked, so he could woo you better when he revealed himself.

He hoped a woman like you enjoyed a mystery, because his work as Iron Man simply didn’t allow him to date you properly as he would’ve preferred— and he was too interested to simply forget about you. Even if he did manage to talk to you, a public relationship would be a no-go; the paparazzi alone would have you running for the hills. So, if you wouldn’t entertain digital communication with him, then virtually keeping tabs on you as your secret genius, billionaire, philanthropist, superhero admirer would have to do.

That was all.

Not because you were so elusive that it was driving him up the wall and he needed some reassurance grounding him that— yes, you did exist— and weren’t evading him on purpose or forgot him entirely.

No— he assured himself as he adjusted the device above him, not at all.

Besides, he got into your apartment too easily. The area you lived in was unruly, at best. And you needed protection. You could be snatched up out of thin air with no one the wiser as to your dissappearance. This way, even if he isn’t physically there for you or watching it happen back in his tower, he can at least use the footage from the cameras to gather the clues necessary to track you. Flying in as Iron Man, he’ll make the perpetrator sorry he even existed— break every bone of his that so much as touched you, and be your hero. And your relationship will blossom from there. Tony was doing you both a service by installing his tech in your apartment, if anything.

But what you didn’t know won’t hurt you.

While he was a genius, and was confident that his level of intelligence surpassed yours, he had no clue how perceptive you actually were. Installing too many surveillance cameras in your home would pose a risk to the subtlety of the operation he was trying to maintain, despite his desire to map every corner of your unit. Besides, more evidence of his work meant a higher probability of being discovered. Which meant a bigger chance for the devices to be knocked out of place and exposed to you later down the line. Even accidentally, Tony couldn’t have that.

Wiping his calloused hands on his jeans, the male assessed his additions to your apartment, triple-checking their installations and positioning. After making small adjustments here and there and test driving the feeds with his Stark phone, he was all set.

Tony’s troubleshooting finished with the last camera in your bedroom— and as he looked up, his eyes flitted over towards the ajar door leading out of the area he was standing in. Leaning forward with a squint to his eyes to peek through the crack yielded a wider expanse of the drab and cracked white tile, a mirror protruding from the wall, and various products cluttering the countertop of a sink directly under the hanging glass.

He sucked in a breath before spinning on his heel and marching right the fuck out of your bedroom.

No— he thought to himself. He would not be doing that.

It was one line he refused to cross.

——————————————————————————————————

[a-bright-comet]

Okay I am very happy to see more and more people call out the weirdos, namely the ones villainizing pregnancy and all that, But I wanna talk about the startling amount of people I've been seeing popping up calling Jade and Stalker's romance "cheap, boring, easy" just *because* it's woman-loving-man or "straight" as these people keep calling it.. How wild is that-? to call a romance boring because of the gender of the people involved? they're not calling it boring cause of writing but because of their damn genders? hello?? do you know how insane that would sound if said about a sapphic or achillean (mlm) couple?? imagine if someone said that about Albrecht and Loid they'd get flamed so fucking fast dude. Do these people also forget bi/pan etc. wlm relationships exist? or that straight genderqueer people and relationships exist?? that queer wlm relationships just exist as well in general??? I'm a bi woman in a relationship with a bi trans man, JUMPSCARE! we exist! while I understand being tired of wlm romances cause there's enough out there to get to hell and back, that doesn't mean they should just, not exist? or that they're inherently bad or boring? not only is that just weird period but it also erases the people and relationships mentioned above. (also goes against the whole equality thing we've all been fighting for my guy) also like, the last time we got a wlm relationship between major/important characters in warframe was god damn Ballas and Lotus and that shit was abusive, we needed a healthy one to balance it lmaaoooo. Annd to my knowledge there hasn't been any romance between two warframes before these two yet so it's not like they've done it before to warrant the groaning? you know it's odd how I almost felt this type of attitude coming, I was witnessing a concerning steady rise of hating pregnancy in fiction from one side of the internet and just general hatred of wlm relationships on the other side of the internet, such a shame it all came to a boiling point and targeted this quest that really didn't deserve it. Honestly looking at it without the stained view of people the quest is just as good as all the others before it, short, sweet and impactful. I really enjoy it and have been trigger happy with the block on anyone slightly annoying about it cause at this point it feels like we don't even play the same game lmao. anyways this will likely be the last post about people being weird as I don't wanna bring more negativity to the tag and I'm tired of people pff but posts like these are unfortunately important cause if you let the mold sit it'll contaminate and ruin everything. Jade, Stalker and their beb deserve all the love they can get, I will not tolerate slander. >:[

[centrally-unplanned]

I'ma explain the Stardew Valley fascism thing because I am bored and sometimes explaining obvious things is good for your brain. So the idea here is that "the simple country life" of farming, hanging out your small town neighbors, building an elaborate produce gift-based harem, and existing in perpetual tranquility with them is very appealing to fascist/reactionary aesthetics. Cosmopolitan urbanity is a disease, a blight upon society, sucking the spirit of the yeoman people out of their souls and blending it with degenerate races/liberals until they are too weak and dependent to fight the forces of globalism and they cope by being gay living in the pod. If the people could just return to the land, work by the sweat of their brow, they would have beautiful blond wives and their spirit/t-levels would soar to the heights God intended for us. Or whatever. So Stardew Valley is an indulgence of that fantasy by letting you reject urbanism, embrace tradition, and thus it has fascist aesthetics.

The problem here is A: what the fuck you are talking about, and also B: misunderstanding cause & effect. The appeal of farm life does not cause a fear of rootless jews queering your children outside of the most banal ways, the fears come first, the farming life is stapled on. Which you know, because everybody loves the farm life as a fantasy! Not in practice, obviously, which is why its a video game and not an agribusiness contract. But we all love the fantasy of a beautiful farm in the countryside, being one with the earth and baking rustic dinners in bronze kitchenware on hand-carved wooden tables. Since 90% of people don't take that fantasy and blame its lack of actualization in their lives on filthy immigrants, its probably not the causal factor in these things! People liking trees is not problematic because it has (virtually) no political implications without a ton of other context. Most people have more than one fantasy after all, often contradictory ones.

But if you are a political radical doing propaganda on the internet, its far more appealing to the audience (which includes yourself) if your vision is all-in, has the carrots and the sticks. For some the insane rush of a totalitarian world order wiping clean the slate of human society and re-ordering it according to your own mercurial whims is enough regardless of why, but for some (pathetic losers ofc) out there they need a little more juice, something concrete. So its married to reactionary aesthetics for the full picture, that this political order will deliver the farm life unto you. That works because, again "everybody" likes the farm life, that is way of broadening the appeal. But its neither the problem with the vision nor the cause of the political ideology. Some people who authentically like the farm life become farmers, you can just do that. Most don't, because they just wanna play a video game.

To clarify, what I am not saying is that the "reactionary aesthetics" are irrelevant and could be swapped out. My point is that instead they are universal. They are normally built out of uncontestably positive things. Those blond tradwives are hotties! Wheat is pretty and tastes good! You can't remove that from culture outside of being a fascist yourself. None of that makes fascism what it is, its all the other stuff. And when people make media out to be fascist, they are almost always bringing in from the outside 99% of the secret sauce. It is case by case of course, there is authentically authoritarian media out there. But in practice, 90%+ of these accusations are "Stardew Valley is fascist" level. Its a very silly debate to get drawn into.

[pendragonsclotpole]

I need to preface this post with the fact that I’ve been aware of Supernatural for as long as I’ve known what the terms fanfiction and fandom mean. It’s one of those pop culture moments that’s existed on the periphery of my mind as something really beloved and bemoaned about by people on the internet, but it’s never been something I really cared about outside of some iconic memes.

For the past four days, I’ve been watching Supernatural non-stop in my free time. I think I sat through eight episodes straight on one of those days, and I just have to say, the show is phenomenal.

I don’t know where to start, I could make a dozen of these posts about various points throughout the first two seasons and it still wouldn’t be enough. I’ve now taken a break at episode one of season three, because now that it’s a weekday I have work and can’t dedicate the time I could on the weekend.

First, Jared Padalecki’s acting is so beautiful and poignant and emotional. He really makes Sam Winchester into the bleeding heart of the whole show, and the entire time he’s on screen I worry about Sam. His portrayal of Sam’s heartbreak and desperation at Dean’s impending death after the car crash, as well as Sam’s horror at the reveal of what John told Dean before dying held a tragic desperation and denial that really embodied what the character represented in the first two seasons. Even as a hunter and with his special abilities, Sam felt like a quasi self-insert for the audience. I don’t mean that in a bad or overly tropey way, but in the way that he felt robbed of a proper childhood in favor of his father’s crusade. Sam is the angry, indignant younger sibling who never bore the brunt of responsibility like the older sibling did and it shows. In some ways, it makes him more entitled—I don’t mean that Sam does not have the right to be angry with John Winchester. He does. Fuck John Winchester. I mean entitled in the unintentional, coincidental way that your little brother or sister always demands the things you never had or rebels against the authority of the parent without ever dealing with the consequences you did as the older sibling. It reveals the veneer of freedom he had and the protection he received by virtue of his place in the Winchester Family. For me, it made him unbearably real, and this feeling of realness was made worse by the genuine naivety and innocence he keeps even as he continually gets screwed over by the demons. There’s a steadfast belief in the goodness of others within Sam that often conflicts with the sense of goodness he believes he lacks.

Sam trusts so easily, but he understands people in ways that should be antithetical to his upbringing. It took me forever to reconcile why he seemed so familiar, until I realized that Sam Winchester, for all that he was one of John Winchester’s son, had received the unconditional love of an older sibling for his entire childhood.

I don’t mean the perfect, kind, healthy love that often exists between fictional siblings. Too often I’ve watched media that makes me wonder how siblings like that even exist, or conversely, made me glad my siblings weren’t so fucked up.

I mean the kind of platonic love that exists between siblings living in the liminal space of love and hate thanks to the single fucked up connection that draws them back together continuously out of some sense of duty or commiseration or the need to be understood.

I mean the kind of love between siblings that would wither away when in a perfect world that does not stake their survival on their codependence of each other, but that in an imperfect and real world is equated to familiarity. Sam and Dean against the world—against John Winchester.

Out of all of the episodes I’ve watched in the last day and a half, perhaps the one that struck me most was episode 20, Season 2. What is and What Should Never Be. Not only was the title a bit of emotional whiplash—the juxtaposition of Should and Never lending a finality or a sense of wrongness that can’t be replicated by the words “Could Never—but we see Dean and Sam in a world where their one connection, hunting, has completely vanished and at a high cost to all the people they’ve saved, but mostly to Sam and Dean themselves. They’re connection as ride or die brothers is gone, replaced by an ostensibly better, healthier, more normal future liberated from the expectations of the rest of the world.

Without the death of Mary Winchester, Dean and Sam are no longer Dean and Sam. They’re just two people, connected by the two people that raised them, and likely to drift apart after that connection dies—frayed ends of a tapestry pulling apart and unraveling. Dean gains a mom and a normal life, but metaphorically loses a brother and a sense of purpose. Who is Dean Winchester if he’s not a hunter and Sam’s brother? And the sad thing is, neither of these are traits Dean ever chose. They are conditions foisted upon him, perhaps not intentionally, such as in the case of Sam, but ultimately placed on his soul until they tethered themselves to the very core of what being Dean Winchester is supposed to mean. The end of the episode, and Dean’s choice to return to the real world, regardless of Sam waking him up, is Dean fully giving up his dream in order to save Sam and be a hunter. The fallacy of the episode is in the choice Dean makes, which the more I think about it, feels less like a choice and more of an inevitability but one compounded by Dean’s readiness and willingness to go with it.

This is where I get to the crux of my surprise with these first early seasons of Supernatural: Dean Motherfucking Winchester.

I don’t know what I was expecting from early seasons of Supernatural, especially with the context of the later seasons. Maybe an overly cheesy, early 2000s ode to roadtrip Americana with a self-reverential take on the classic gun slinging frontiersman of the Wild West and bad supernatural CGI. Not to say it isn’t that (shout out to Sam’s comment on Dean’s particular brand of butch), but what surprised me was how real the connection between the characters was manifested on screen and how much good will the show built up in the audience. There came a point where I sided with Dean so much in the events of the show that I felt like I was riding shotgun in the impala. I saw it with every compliant “yes, sir” he gave to John, with every teasing comment he threw at Sam, and with every act of selflessness he exhibited by protecting other people. This isn’t to say that Dean is perfect. Sometimes he doesn’t take things seriously enough, or he’s willing to sacrifice people for some misguided greater good, or he’s obsessed with saving Sam even when he wouldn’t be if it were anyone else, but Dean has a conviction so many people lack. He has the capacity to love at a great cost to himself, either because he believes himself unworthy of being loved or because he’s not used to anything else.

Jensen Ackles does such a good job at this portrayal and with such a different technique than Jared Padalecki. Ackles embodies the desperate need for self-assuredness that Dean breathes, as well as the genuine fear he has of being seen. I love laughing with Dean as much as I love screaming at him for how stupid he’s being. If Sam is the self-insert, then Dean is the tragic hero, although that comparison feels like a poor facsimile for what Dean Winchester truly is because I don’t particularly feel an overwhelming sense of pity at his state or at his hinted downfall with that demon deal. If anything, I feel a sense of indignation mixed with understanding and frustration that Dean can’t catch a break but at the end of it all, is just how he prefers it.

It shouldn’t be a shock to admit that even without knowing what happens from seasons 3 to 15, I know how Supernatural ends. Just thinking about the ending makes me wonder if I should even continue it past season 5, but that’s a decision for another time.

For now, there’s something unbearably tragic in seeing Dean Winchester so close to a chance of a normal life and apple pie happiness (something he really seems to desire no matter how much he denies it) and then having to give it up, not just because it’s not real, but because he believes it should never be real.

Dean Winchester deserves better.

[wispforever]

Some thoughts on Itachi

So, I've seen a lot of comments circulating about my tags on this post, and I'm intrigued at the interest. I didn't expect it, as I see much more pigeonholing of Itachi's character than honest to god analysis. No hate- I'm no stranger to Kishimoto's writing. Some of his characters were unfortunately butchered or never given the chance to be developed properly, and Itachi is most certainly no exception. That said, I like to grant him a bit more nuance than I see on most blogs. I think people get a little wrapped up in the supposed "moral implications" of exploring how Itachi was also a victim of the system, as well as someone who victimized many people. But it's silly to equate character analysis and context consideration with condoning genocide.

I have a good laugh every once and a while at the metaphorical gymnastics people do in order to stay in the good graces of a bunch of internet trolls who are just Waiting for any opportunity to tell you you love murder and think it's delicious just because you made a post exploring a character's background. Media is grey; it's layered and wonderfully complex. There are many wrongs and rights in every story, and many wrongs and rights within those wrongs and rights. That's what I love about Naruto. Often times it's really too much like real life. Instead of people being black and white, right or wrong, bad or good- they're usually in a tough situation, trying their best and falling short, don't have all of the information, acting with good intentions or acting on what they believe will bring about a lesser evil, and then end up hurting others.

But it is much easier to assign blame and move on. A so-called bad person will always be the perfect scapegoat for issues bigger than them. In Itachi's case, the fascist government in the Leaf. It's easier to say Itachi could have just refused and decided not to be involved, than to recognize that like almost every other character in the narrative, he was under extreme duress, living in a military state. He was a child whose existence, along with all the other children and adults in the Leaf, was only valuable as long as he could serve as a tool for the war machine in the shinobi world's fucked up political system. And saying this is not the same as saying he was not capable of better decisions or that everything that he did thereafter or in general should not be read critically or subject to hypothetical consequences. It is the same as a saying his actions cannot be fully understood without complete context, and the themes of Naruto will never come through if every villain is just "evil" with no further nuance. And it would be boring too LOL

That said, I love to think about Itachi's situation back then. The ages in Naruto are a bit muddled, a little inconsistent, subject to change and interpretation, but Itachi was a child when he murdered everyone in the Uchiha compound. Most sources say he was 13. It should go without saying that someone so young isn't capable of the same decision-making or critical thinking as say, a 30-year-old, someone whose brain is finished developing and has much more experience on Earth.

Itachi's experience at this point in his life is informed by his age, and it's obviously informed by his childhood, as he has no other place from which to draw conclusions. Itachi grew up in a warring state. He saw people die and was subject to extreme violence in his formative years. To make matters worse, he was taught that war was inevitable and the only thing he could do to guard against it was kill others before they got the chance to kill him (threaten the village). Thusly, Itachi internalized at a very young age that what was in his power was to minimize damage (to himself, to his village, and to the world). What was not in his power was to stop this violence entirely (by adopting a critical mindset and going against fascist powers).

A part of this I think people often forget is that Itachi has absolutely nowhere to adopt this mindset FROM, as even though his father and the other members of the Uchiha clan seek equity in the Leaf, if they were to overthrow the Hokage and create a new system, it would still presumably center around the same ideals (minus, of course, the oppression of the Uchiha as a group). Fugaku is the head of the Uchiha clan at this time. As someone who imposed near impossible performance-related expectations on both of his sons, and withheld love and affection whenever they came up short (so often that it was at the cost of having any considerable emotional bond with either of them), there is absolutely no good reason to believe that Fugaku would reform the Leaf using a non-fascist ideology. And if he did, there is no good reason to believe that he would be some kind of visionary LMAO

This is important to remember because when it comes down to Itachi's decision to either kill everyone in the Uchiha compound and his family, or be part of the coup that would overthrow the Leaf, some people treat it as though it's a choice between fascism and non-fascism, which it most certainly is not. And if it was, Itachi, as a child who had grown up immersed in this ideology, would not be able to appreciate the difference. This context allows us to understand further what Itachi was really weighing in that moment. Accounting for his young age and limited worldview, the only valuable difference in this moment to Itachi was the amount of bloodshed that he would "allow" to happen. Essentially, he sees the options as follows:

Either give in to Danzo and kill everyone in the Uchiha compound, or facilitate a coup where the current government is (hopefully) overthrown and risk starting another war.

Here, Itachi pauses. He has known war. He knows how it affects children, adults, families, and whole nations. The peace he's living in currently is bought with blood, but it's the only peace he's ever known. The alternative is horrifying. And a war in this context, Itachi likely thinks, would be his fault, as he has now been put in the position to "prevent" it. Danzo and the whole shinobi system have groomed him into thinking so. Itachi, at age 13, cannot understand that there would be no war; it exists only as leverage for Danzo's argument at this point. His sensitivities are being played on.

Fugaku, though he is not the same as Danzo, offers about as much help as he does (that being none). Fugaku has no interest in avoiding war; if a war breaks out, it's justified because it will still mean his clan will no longer be living in oppression. This idea is valid, as fascist systems and discrimination can only cease to exist when we rise up against them; unfortunately, this most often calls for righteous violence, as the oppressive powers will not be moved with peaceful shows (not to mention they are willing to go to extreme lengths to avoid losing their hold on the people they have crushing power over, i.e. the Uchiha massacre). But Fugaku has no words to explain this to Itachi, who fears the worst and further fears being responsible for the worst. All he does is act as if it's a moral failing that his 13-year-old son is unwilling to stage a coup, which he believes could mark the abrupt end of a peace that's only just begun.

That said, let it be known that Itachi does appreciate this situation with SOME nuance, though it isn't of the kind that might have enabled him to see he was being manipulated. He at the very least understands that Danzo is a warmonger and oppresses those he fears (the Uchiha). He understands that the rights of his clan have been sorely disrespected, and that the issue needs correction. He understands the anger of his friends and family. This is why it takes him much deliberation before he can even come close to making a decision. He plays both sides right up until the end, listening to Danzo, as well as Fugaku and Shisui, paying attention to the current atmosphere in the Leaf as he tries to decide.

It is something he doesn't want to do. Here's where I get to the part I put in the tags of my drawing.

In this situation, it's almost worthless to write an analysis about Itachi's feelings at this time, his understanding of what was actually going on, his loyalty to his clan or his loyalty to the Leaf, because really, he could not grasp it. He was never prepared for this. He never knew he would be asked to make a decision he could only understand as "your family or the world?"

Itachi was put in a position that had no happy ending. There was no decision he could make that would not hurt. That could not result in a cataclysm that split him right down the middle. There was no version of this story that a 13-year-old could carry out thinking "I have done the right thing."

And that's the important part. Both sides asked him to make this decision, and so both sides are guilty of placing an immeasurable pressure on a child who should never have been put in such a position. Regardless of ideology, regardless of price, regardless of oppression or loyalty or devotion or any other thing- someone else should have made this decision for Itachi. Someone else should have been responsible. An adult, at the very least. Someone who COULD understand the implications of both options. Someone who COULD go forward and appreciate the evil of fascism and know that a coup was necessary. Itachi was never capable of such a thing. If he made the "wrong" decision, than every child who can't explain to you what a fascist government in a military state looks like and explain what the difference is between a hate crime and resisting a hateful power, is also wrong. Here is the nuance. These are things a 13-year-old in this universe cannot be expected to understand unless they are taught. And Itachi had no teacher. Quite the opposite. There were only forces pressing him from both sides, saying "choose."

Had his father done this for him, had Shisui been in this position, had any other adult Uchiha acting as a spy been put to this task, it would be a much different narrative. But of course, it had to be Itachi, who Danzo knew he could manipulate. It had to be a child, someone skilled enough to do the job, but inexperienced enough, afraid enough, to be willing to sacrifice everything they had to see the mission through. Someone you could whisper "greater good" to and have them hand over their well being on a plate. Someone who didn't understand they had the power and strength to destroy the system threatening them.

On a narrative level, Itachi exists to illustrate this point. How young people are systematically indoctrinated to serve a greater purpose, be it under a specific government, religion, or otherwise. We see it in real life fascism, in real life cults. There's no mistake. It isn't an accident that Itachi's story begins like this.

Which brings me to the rest of his life. The reason I drew the picture in the post referenced at the top. Itachi's character is a bit of a mystery the rest of the anime. Be that because of bad writing or an intentional omission, his motives, thoughts, and opinions are largely left ambiguous. However, there are still a few moments that interest me as far as the implications of his development.

When Itachi first comes back to the Leaf village, he faces Kakashi. On the one hand, this could simply be a narrative tool- the big bad meets the big good. He takes Kakashi out of commission! The first rogue shinobi we see who is able to defeat the pillar of the Leaf, the Copy Ninja, and without even breaking a sweat!

On the other hand, I find the brutality of Itachi's attack very intriguing. Again, it could be the tough guy act, but he's able to keep three jonin busy easily using standard genjutsu (with the help of Kisame). It wouldn't be a stretch to say that using the tsukuyomi is overkill, and at a considerable price, we learn later.

Why then would Itachi, who has been shown to have excellent battle intelligence, who is strategic to a fault, be willing to jeopardize his health among other things just to... scare the Leaf? Make sure Kakashi wouldn't be a nuisance in the future? Sure, the last one would make collecting Naruto less complicated, but they dispatched Kakashi easily enough, and surely Jiraiya, who Naruto was with at the time, would pose a bigger problem than Kakashi.

It doesn't make strategic sense, which makes me wonder if Itachi has a special animosity toward Kakashi. Being his superior in the ANBU before the Uchiha massacre, someone who was willing to conduct surveillance of the Uchiha compound without question, Kakashi could have become a symbol of the indifference of the Leaf for Itachi. He could very well have been a reminder of the inoperable position Itachi was put in when he was still a child, and Kakashi, of course, was an adult. Another adult who did nothing. Noticed nothing. Did not help Itachi.

And while I'm certain that Kakashi would have taken severe issue with the goings on in the Leaf at that time, judging by his reaction when he finds out the truth in Shippuden, Itachi knows him only by what he did then. Facilitated surveillance of the Uchiha compound, was a supportive superior, but nothing greater. A bystander whose compassion, while well meaning, was entirely unhelpful.

I don't think it's far fetched that Itachi fucking crucified Kakashi because he was so angry at what being in the Leaf did to him. At some point, as he got older, he realized how terrible it was. He realized there were people like him. Children who were "born killers". Pawns in the game of the shinobi powers.

After leaving the village, Itachi joins the Akatsuki, who are also seeking peace through war (another story). He is supposed to spy for them, but doesn't follow through in any enthusiastic way (that we're shown). He works alone for quite some time, or else with a group (briefly he was shown with Conan and Kakuzu). He is partners with Orochimaru before he's expelled from the Akatsuki. He is partners with one of the Seven Swordsmen of the Mist. He grows up and meets many people, sees lots of stories unfold. He learns that he isn't in a minority. Many shinobi are just like him.

And then, as an adult, he is partnered with Kisame, who he finds excellent camaraderie with because of their similar backgrounds. We see in this relationship that he understands what happened to him and what he did enough to acknowledge that, while neither of them are monsters, as many people say, they are human. And humans make mistakes. Humans are complicated. Wrong and right and wrong and right. They understand each other, and Itachi understands more clearly what the world puts these children up to. What it forces shinobi to become. That it isn't all his fault, but he still did it. And so he is responsible. He appears to be able to live with that.

But when he returns to the Leaf, those feelings bubble up. He hates the Leaf. He hates that system. He hates what he did. Maybe he even hates being a shinobi, how his excellence was weaponized, how being an Uchiha doomed him and his clan. And for what?

Itachi is played as a character who is only sensible, only logical, only interested in practical things, has nothing to express. But the way he behaves toward Kakashi in that moment bares all his grief and anger. I just like to think about it. We have so few moments where we get to see Itachi genuinely. The fight with Kakashi, the Sasuke/Deidara fight, his thoughtful moments with Kisame. Just makes me wonder what could've been if Itachi's story had gone a little differently.

Anyway, if anyone would like me to expand on any points or has additional thoughts, feel free to hop in my ask box or leave a comment. Thanks for the interest, I love to talk.

[storm-and-starlight]

Here, I'm bored, so have my headcanons for how much non-heroes know about the Robin situation

Most people, at this point, are Aware Batman Exists. He's a part of the Justice League, he's talked about in most hero discussions, there's a photo record of him both in Gotham and outside on League business (though the Robins have a much more extensive photo record, especially Tim).

Similarly, most people, even those who don't care about superheroes at all, are vaguely aware that there has to have been more than one Robin

Like, first of all, Robin is famously the og kid sidekick and yet there's been a Robin around for like twenty years, so even if someone has no knowledge whatsoever usually if they get asked they take a moment to think about it and then go "yeah I guess there would have to be more than one by now?"

Also the Tim -> Damian transition 1.) took place post-Batman's cryptid era, 2.) took place in the age of social media and internet communities, and 3.) was really obvious (extremely pale kid in his late teens who mostly worked solo and fought with a bo staff to non-white child who is never seen without Batman and has a sword), so it got passed around the internet for a while that "holy shit there's a new Robin? did the last one, like, die???"

(Tim eventually jumped in to be like "no I'm not dead I'm going by Red Robin now calm tf down")

So anyways the average person is aware that there's been more than one Robin, and that there's probably been like. three? if they think about the timing of it at all.

Also: considering that both Nightwing and Red Robin are established (if not well-known) adult superheroes, as are Spoiler, Orphan, and now the Signal, the general assumption is that Batman is running some kind of hero training academy? and most of the Batfam is Robin "graduates".

People who are genuinely knowledgeable about the superhero community will give you the answer of "we have good evidence that there have been five separate people in the Robin uniform, four of which were Robin for multiple years and then there was also that blonde girl who showed up for a week but no one knows what was going on there."

Robin I was Robin for like a decade-ish? and then after spending more and more time with the Titans stopped being Robin to make room for the new guy? and changed his name to Nightwing? and that's the generally accepted storyline, but there's not a lot of solid evidence because this was very firmly in Batman's Cryptid Era and he was very camera-shy.

Also, while the fact that Robin I became Nightwing isn't, like, common knowledge, that's mostly because it's not something most people think about. It's very easily Googleable.

If you type in "what happened to the first robin" you're gonna get like three different reddit posts asking the same thing and the top answer is usually something like "he probably graduated and started going by Nightwing. Evidence: Robin (black haired, just under six feet, very acrobatic, leader of the Titans) disappeared off the Titans' roster and then a week later Nightwing (black haired, just under six feet, very acrobatic, new leader of the Titans) showed up, he's known to work with the rest of the Bats in Gotham a lot, the uncertainty's just because no one's said "Yes, Nightwing was the first Robin" out loud somewhere it could be recorded"

It is confirmed that Titans Robin is the og Robin -- he's mentioned working with Batman several times in old Titans interviews and things.

The transition from Robin I to Robin II wasn't spectacularly well-known at the time unless you particularly liked Bat-spotting, but these days it's pretty well recognized that ten-ish years after Robin showed up, the old one graduated and the new one showed up much younger and a lot less flippy than the last one. Batman was still in his Cryptid Era, so there's very little photographic evidence, but what there is is is pretty clear on the fact that Robin II is much younger than the Titans Robin.

The transition from Robin II to Robin III was not really known about at all at the time it happened -- this was like... juuuust in the beginning of the social media era? and Tim and Jason look more dissimilar than Dick and Jason but no one was getting a close look at either Robin II or Robin III anyways. Mostly what people knew was that Robin disappeared for a while and Batman went... crazier than usual, and then Robin came back and things started slowly calming down again.

What's known now is that Robin II is "missing, presumed dead".

No one really knows what, exactly, happened, but at some point a post collating all the evidence went mildly viral online in superhero drama communities that Robin II and Robin III are almost definitely not the same guy.

Their accents are different, the costumes are different, Robin II was in the 15-16 range when he disappeared and the Robin that showed back up was definitely in the 11-12 range, Robin II was a lot more willing to just punch people while Robin III is more techy

and also Batman's actions post-Robin II's-disappearance make a whole lotta sense if you look at them from the perspective of "something real bad just happened to his sidekick"

Like. Robin II could have retired. But also no, he couldn't have.

Robin III to Robin IV is, as aforementioned, the most well-known of the transitions, and also the one that solidified the understanding that Robin is a temporary position -- it wasn't super widespread knowledge that there were multiple Robins until all of a sudden Sword Robin showed up, and then all of the obscure forum posts cataloguing the different transitions got spread around a lot and now "there have been five Robins" is general knowledge among people who keep tabs on superheroes.

The four "main" Robins all have rough timelines known and discussed, and then the fifth Robin is Blonde Robin/Girl Robin

People know for a fact she existed -- there's definite evidence in the form of five-ish clear photographs of a girl with long blonde hair in the official Robin suit, two of which have something that is largely agreed to be Batman in them, and a handful of reliable eyewitness accounts, but the most that anyone can say about Blonde Robin is that she existed? and was around for like. two weeks? maybe?

TL;DR average layperson knows that there has to have been like two? three? Robins by now, right? Doesn't the latest one have a sword? Average Gothamite is like "yeah, there've been like four and one of 'em definitely died and then apparently there was a blonde girl for a bit?", someone really into superhero lore could tell you rough (year/month) estimates of when each Robin switched over, how long they held the position, and what happened to them once they graduated.

[askuemki]

@vivgst new thread <3 (I have the cut so it won't be a pain to scroll lol)

I've never watched Death Note, but I guess Ill just say L is my favorite since we share a name (technically) Honestly? my answer is simple w/ what animal Id be Almost ANY cat (not the flatfaced or folded ear ones though they can have some bad health issues :( ) Like if you're a domestic cat, you have the stuff to survive both in the wild, or in someone's house. You have super scenes of smell, night vision, claws, sharp teeth, AND probably enough smarts to not get eaten by dogs or smth. On the other hand with humans, at least 70% of the population would adore you, and maybe even take you in to pamper you. It would be very easy to get them to do your bidding since you'd be just some animal, and perhaps put above your caretaker's needs. Pets? Affection? Just act all adorable and stuff and they'll give it to you, cling on to them and they'll say they're your human now. On the other hand (or paw) there's the wild cats!! Still very cute. Still very cool. Now your defenses are upped by a ton, and people still find you cute. Though with how shitty environmental conditions are, and with the bigger cats slowly going to extinction :( , I may or may not just stick to domestic cats But hypothetically.. It would be neat to be either a snow leopard, tiger, or a jaguar. I love snow leopards for their big fluffy tails, and it would be cool to be able to roam through snow and stuff, but that seems to get a little boring from time to time. Love tigers for their stripes, I don't think they can roar..?? But that doesn't change anything. Think Tigers and Jaguars are both pretty efficient in survival, but I'd pick Jaguar just for their athletics and HUGE bite force (least from my 1st search). Or maybe, maybe not because there's an outfit/skin or two of Valeria's that are based on jaguars.. (or leopards, but ill go w/ jaguars) im obsessed w/ this woman man hdwhadwjadawnk OH ALSO ON THE TOPIC OF BIRDS??? AS FUN AS IT WOULD BE TO BE A MALE BIRD AND SHAKE YOUR COLORFUL BUM AROUND, THERE WAS A WHOLE ASS WAR W/ EMUS AND AUSTRALIA Honestly who wouldn't wanna be a relative of a dinosaur, but smaller and just as fucking scary Also for vacation.... I don't like going on vacation. I just like being in my sad little room, on the internet or drawing my ass off But, Id love to visit Japan and see their Ghibli Studio museum, it's so cool... Or even just go to a few hotels or smth here and there, I love their stellar technology, I love how everything is so cute or neat there, oh and I especially LOVE the social rules there, I'm a goody-two-shoes at heart and perfectly agree with being "nice"... Like yeah sure I may not like you or the opposite, but at least we can co-exist without biting our heads off (unlike the fucking us) and japan seems open to their culture being explored by others, so I'd totally love to (respectfully) participate in some traditions here and there OR I could visit Europe. Like not even a specific country? Just Europe. Cuz the US is like really fucking big, and a country like France is apparently as big as Texas. And it would be cool to take a week trip just exploring cultures and stuff (well everything except food, I'm a terrible picky eater ugh) Vacation in the US scares me tho, I'm fine where I'm at rn Maybe id be a little open to going to canada.. but bc of how they're treating the Palestine genoside rn maybe like later in life if they redeem themselves, but like the us? Fuck them too I think crocodiles r cute, but I wouldn't wanna go near one :3 Most of my relatives are either in the Philippines or Maryland, I barely know abt them now Never thought I'd be the one to be the gay cousin, ngl

[stickthisbig]

Look it was a really fuckin rough day and internet drama is what is keeping me afloat so here's some bullshit about Watcher

I don't want to talk about creative decisions. Creators deserve to be paid and TV costs a lot of money, and whether you think a TV model makes sense and reflects the brand's appeal is ultimately a matter of taste.

I want to talk about how much this fuckin thing costs.

If you are going to make a venture like this survive, you must aim at the money. I am the money. I'm financially independent and old enough to have kids who watch the show but have no income, I am a long-time BFU/Watcher fan who's splashed out for merch and a live show, and I've subbed to multiple similar services (RIP Alpha). I am the boring adult that you must convince, because I am the one who can pay for this without a second thought. You will not make it through this on the empty promises of children.

The closest comp to Watcher is not Dropout; it's Nebula. And trust me on this- they would prefer you to compare it to Dropout, because of how much better it makes them look. Compared on full prices (because you can almost always get a discount), Nebula costs half of what Watcher does, for a much, much larger catalog. I am a huge fan of Nebula. I've watched hundreds of hours on Nebula, because there is loads of varied content from creators who have expressed exactly the same wishes for creative freedom as the Watcher team.

And honestly, if we are gonna talk about comparisons to Dropout, you're never gonna be able to watch BFU on this service, so it's apples to oranges anyway.

I am certain that they will make more money percentage-wise through this service. It's not on me to care about their yield from youtube vs a dedicated streaming service vs a partnered streaming deal. That's not my job; I'm not their accountant or their dad. It's on me to look at value for money. I am not a charity, and when you put yourself up as a commodity, I'm gonna kick the tires and leave if I don't like the price.

I'm not going to pay $60 for this, or $42, or $6/month, because it's a bad value on my end. It is less content for more money. $30 still would have been too high, but there was a price point where I, the person with the intersection of money and interest, would have said yes. That is the trade-off: you can wait around forever for somebody to spend $60 and end up with $0, or you can get three people who balked in for $20 each and end up with $60.

Look, we're all friends here, we know the Watcher crew is not so damn dumb that they didn't look into joining an existing streaming service. It's not a fuckin grand revelation that there were potentially other options, and obviously they must have thought about this for longer than ten minutes. But when your service is MUCH more expensive than its closest comparison (Nebula) and the same price as the well-established competitor you'd like to be compared to (Dropout), why on god's green earth would you think I would buy it if I was anything short of obsessed? Where is your growth plan? How is this sustainable? The absolute best plan for me is to wait until the next series of Ghost Files is over, pay $6 to watch the whole series, then cancel again.

Also you're fuckin leaving money on the table by not having delayed VOD on youtube but at this point, that's none of my business.

If it's worth $60 to you and you've got the money, you do what's right for you. But I'm out. No hard feelings! But also no $60.

(Also I do think 100% saying that the back catalog will stay on youtube is a walkback and not what he said in the video, so like, watch that)

[porcelana-r0ta]

The Curse of Sight

Summary: When Wes Weston meets Time Drake-Wayne, the dots start connecting. And those dots form a Bat. 

Word Count: 2690

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44788813

[Part 2]

When Wes Weston's parents divorced, they decided that he should stay with his dad in Amity Park. After all, small town Amity is much safer than big city Gotham, where his mother was moving in order to accept a promotion with Wayne Enterprises. Wes, in order to still see his mom, would visit her in Gotham every summer and every other holiday.

Of course, Amity soon became more dangerous than Gotham could even dream of thanks to the hell portal in the Fenton's basement that killed and bore Phantom, but whatever. No one ever listened to Wes anyway, and he learned to shut his mouth when Sam Manson shoved him against the lockers and asked him what he thought would happen to Danny Fenton if the Ghost Investigation Ward ever believed his “crazy as shit imagination.”

She was still playing the "Wes is crazy" game, even when defending her boyfriend.

Still, she was right. Danny was safer without him trying to convince Amity's negligent populace that Danny was Phantom. (Even if it absolutely drove him mad that no one but him was capable of making the connection between Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom.) So he shut up. He deleted his conspiracy theory blog and even asked Tucker Foley to wipe all remnants of its existence from the internet, a request which his classmate happily obliged. He even said, "I'm glad you're moving on from this whole Fenton-Phantom obsession, Wes."

Professional gaslighters, the lot of them.

So yes, Wes had thoroughly given up on the superhero ID evidence schemes by the time he left to visit his mom after his freshman year of high school. He had made peace with it and settled back into reading mystery novels or movies and solving the case before the protagonists in place of proving Phantom’s ID.

When he came to Gotham, he had to get a new library card so he could keep up with his mystery novel hyperfixation. He happens to take just a little too long in the library, so by the time he has a nice stack of books to check out, it's dark outside.

Great, walking back to my mother's apartment in the dark in Gotham. Seems super safe.

Well, Gotham is no Amity, right?

So he marches on and tries not to be too resigned when he's inevitably yanked into an alleyway even though the apartment is only three blocks from the library.

Classic.

It's just a man with a gun, his face obscured with a hood and a red bandana. He's literally nothing compared to Pariah Dark or Undergrowth or Dr. Spectra or even the fucking Box Ghost.

"Let me guess," he says. "You want any cash I have, right?"

"Kid, shut the hell up and fork over your money," says the man, and Wes sighs. The mugger didn't even wave around his gun or give an impassioned speech about stealing someone's pelt.

"Original," Wes intones. "But I'm fifteen. And everyone knows young people don't carry cash anymore. I guess I could give you my mom's emergency credit card that she gave me, but she did say it was for emergencies only, so."

The man just stares at him. Wes shuffles uncomfortably.

"Oh! And I could just cancel the card before you use it," Wes adds into the silence.

"You don't consider being held at gunpoint an emergency?" the mugger finally asks, looking uncertain.

"Should I?" Wes wonders aloud. Sam had been much scarier when she threatened him.

"You said you're fifteen? And you don't have a Gothamite accent?" the man offers his reasoning, as if it's any kind of logical. He'd fit in well in Amity for that trait alone.

"Gothamites always think they're so superior." He has to roll his eyes. "Guns aren't that scary. You know what is scary? Your whole town being dragged into the dimension of death for three days. This is nothing. This city is nothing." You are nothing. He knows better than to say that last part, though;

"Christ, kid, you're crazy." The man shook his head and pulled the hammer of his gun back. "Just-- give me the watch you're wearing."

Wes sighs again, "Whatever, I'm not fighting for it." It was literally just a cheap Walmart watch. But just as he goes to unlatch the watch from his wrist, a caped vigilante swings down from the rooftops and kicks the mugger straight into the pavement.

The mugger doesn't get back up.

"Thanks, Red Robin," Wes dutifully says, even though he's pretty sure the man was A) not really that much of a threat, and B) going to have serious brain trauma now.

"It's no problem," the vigilante says. "You're a little young to be out this late, though."

Well, that's rude. It's only 7:00 pm. The only reason it's dark at all is thanks to Gotham's pollution problem. (Maybe they should let Poison Ivy just go fucking feral, like Sam suggests.)

Wes doesn't say that. Instead he says: "Didn't you start crime fighting when you were, like, twelve?"

Red Robin sputters, but Wes continues, "And the first Robin couldn't have been more than nine. I have never picked a fight with hardened criminals." Do ghosts count as criminals? Surely not. What right does Wes have to dictate the morals of being from a completely different dimension? "So I think I'm doing better than you in the safety department, no offense."

Well, doing better in Gotham. But the Justice League doesn't need to know about Amity Park, so he'll leave that part out.

"I-- just--" Red Robin struggles for a second, and then clears his throat. "Why don't I escort you home?"

"I'm two blocks away, but thanks. And thanks again for the---" he waves to the unconscious mugger. Definitely brain damaged.

"Yeah, no problem." And then he grapples away.

Phantom's much cooler. Not that he'll ever say that in front of Danny, Sam, or Tucker. Or anyone from Amity.

He makes it safely home, even if he does pretend to not notice the Bat stalking him from above. And of course, once he recounts his tale to his mother, she freaks out that he'd been nearly mugged, and tries to ban him from doing anything in Gotham at all.

"Mom, I can't just stay inside the house all day. I refuse to spend my whole summer on Netflix." He wants to at least go sightseeing.

Her mouth goes into a thin line and her eyes are as fiery as her red hair.

"Fine," she says. "Then you can get a job."

His stomach drops, "What?"

"A job. My floor needs a new intern, and I found just the perfect person."

"No, Mom, you can't," he pleads. "A Wayne Enterprises job? I'll be known as a nepo-baby for life!"

"Well, too bad. You should have thought of that before being mugged."

"Almost mugged, Mom! Almost! Red Robin was there!" When he sees that this point is getting him nowhere, he switches tactics, "Mom, the Waynes are held hostage, like, every other week! Do you really want me in closer proximity to them?"

She lifts her chin and sniffs, "I'll be there to watch out for you. And an intern won't have any reason to be next to a Wayne, anyway."

He groans, "Mom, please. It's my summer vacation!"

"And you're my son. Discussion over. You start in two days."

He groans again, "Do I at least get paid? Or is Brucie Wayne like every other rich white dude out there?"

"Wes, sweetie, you're white--"

"But not rich," he grumbles.

"But yes, you'll be paid. Every position with Wayne Enterprises is paid."

He crosses his arms, "At least there's that, I guess."

His mom walks to him to hug him and kiss his forehead.

"I'll handle the paperwork tomorrow. Don't worry, you'll love it there!"

Well, spoiler alert: he doesn't.

He's basically a go-fer, fetching paper or ink or photos or files and most usually, lunch from across the street or donuts or coffee. Especially coffee. And his mom's coworkers kinda suck because hey, the Wayne's executive PR manager just hired her own kid for a coveted Wayne internship. No one likes the idea of someone being here who doesn't deserve it. So he is really sent on the most stupid, tedious errands possible for an intern.

He called it: he's the resident nepo-baby, beaten only by Brucie Wayne's very own brood of nepo-babies.

Suddenly, just letting that mugger fill him with hot lead doesn't look so bad. Maybe he would have become a ghost! Haunting Danny would have been fun. Or Ember and the others of her nature make it look fun, anyway.

The Fenton thermos part would probably be uncomfortable, though.

"This sucks," Wes mutters to himself, balancing three carrying cartons of Batbucks (Gotham's stupid parody of Starbucks since they have to be special and not like other girls in every aspect possible) coffee with just two arms, staring helplessly at the elevator call button in front of him.

"Need an assist?" calls a familiar voice, though Wes can't place from where.

"Yes, please!" Wes says gratefully, looking up at a face with blue eyes, black hair, and a familiar jawline.

Wait a second.

"Here, I'll get that for you," says the man, who is really more like a teenager, since it's goddamn Timothy Drake-Wayne, co-CEO of Wayne Enterprises at just seventeen years old. "Going up, I assume?" he gives a charming laugh as he presses the up button, the kind one practices to perfection to ace media interviews and entertain the wealthy elite at galas.

"Yes, thank you, sir," Wes says, and takes the time to really study Drake-Wayne's eyes. And sure enough, he can recognize makeup covering up purple eyebags, just like he could on Fenton.

No. Please, Lord, I'll go back to church. Just don't let it be true.

"Yeah, no problem!" Drake-Wayne says, which really just seals the deal. Wes quietly dies inside, and also curses God. "I'm glad to be of service! Interns doing coffee runs really are doing God's work. And there's no need to call me sir. Tim will do just fine."

"Right... Tim," Wes says uncertainly. He kind of wants the elevator doors to open up and reveal a pitch black hole to drop into, but when the bell rings and the doors slide open, it's just the same ol' regular elevator it's always been. Damn.

So. The boss of this whole entire company is Red Robin. Makes sense, seems legit. He figured out that Plasmius was the mayor of Amity, too, didn't he? So why shouldn't all billionaires be playing dress up and fight crime or be the crime? What's stopping them all, really, when wealth is a superpower all on its own?

Wait, fuck. So. If Tim started out as a Robin when he was twelve-ish. And apparently billionaires are playing dress up. Then doesn't that mean...?

Oh, God. Couldn't he go one season without figuring out some superpowered person's secret identity? Is that too much to ask?

And of course, after figuring Tim and goddamn Brucie Wayne out, it's not so hard to see the correlations between the introduction of every other Wayne brat to the debut of each Robin.

He shakily steps into the elevator, "And how do you normally take your coffee?"

"With the maximum amount of espresso the barista can legally give me," is Tim's immediate answer.

Just like Danny.

And even worse, Tim steps into the elevator after him.

"What floor?" he asks, and Wes feels stupid. Obviously he was going to come in: why offer help at all if he wasn't going to push the floor button for Wes?"

"Uh, 73," Wes says.

Tim nods and presses the according number, and then takes one of the cartons from Wes as the doors closed.

Hopefully, any nerves that Wes is showing can be played off as the nerves an intern would get when they somehow get stuck with the Actual Big Boss™ , and then said Boss™ tries to take the shit they're carrying.

"Uh, you don't have to do that," Wes says nervously. "I can carry them all, really!"

"Don't be silly," the literal co-CEO of his workplace says, as if Wes is in some fucked up Wattpad fic. "Again, where would any of us be without the ones who bring us coffee?"

"In bed?" Wes offers nervously. "Sleeping?"

Tim laughs, but his smile looks more like a smirk, "I guess you're right!"

"But seriously, I can carry the coffee. It's my job. And it'll look weird to everyone if they see the CEO helping me do my job."

"It's no trouble!" Tim insists, and then emphasizes his point by stealing the second carton in Wes's hands. "See? And my employees will be glad to see that I value every employee and am always willing to help out!"

Haha yeah, thought Wes. Too bad they'll never know just how much you help out, right?

Finally, the elevator dings, and Wes is released from one prison to another.

Thanks to the normal chaos of working at Wayne Enterprises, no one immediately notices that the co-CEO is carrying the bulk of the load. Instead, they all hone in on the scent of coffee, and they lunge.

"Thanks, Weston!" the few who are clear-minded enough to remember manners manage to say, even as most of them take their orders from a black haired wunderkind instead of a redheaded conspiracy theorist with the curse of Cassandra.

"Of course," Wes says nervously, and then finally some recognition starts sparking in the coffee-hungry eyes of exhausted PR employees who are always trying to handle some wacky Wayne hijinks.

"You're Weston," says his mom's assistant, Jade, pointing at Wes, and then slowly pointing to Tim, "and you're.... Oh, Mr. Drake-Wayne! Here, let me get that for you!" She yanks the empty cartons out of Tim's hands and shoved them into Wes's. Luckily, his carrying carton had been emptied, too, so he doesn’t get coffee spilled all over him and the floor.  "Here, Weston, go dispose of these! Why were you making Mr. Drake-Wayne carry them? It's your job to get coffee, not our CEO's! He has better things to do. In fact, he probably needs to speak to Ms. Rolland."

Ms. Rolland as in his mother, who went back to her maiden name after the divorce.

"Now hold on," says Tim, his eyes alight with anger. "I offered to help Weston out, and I have no need to speak with Penny. I was just helping out one of my employees."

"Oh," says Jade, taking a step back. "Of- of course, sir! Weston, here, I'll take these cartons back. And sir, it's very kind of you to help out."

"I try," Tim says dryly. Wes notices he doesn't tell Jade to not call him sir. "You should probably get back to work."

"Of course, sir." And with the cartons in her hands, she scurries off in the direction of his mom's office, where she'll probably complain about how her kid made Jade look like a fool in front of the Actual Big Boss™.

"Uh, thanks," he tells Tim. "But you really didn't have to help me. It is my job, after all." Unwilling or not.

"It's no problem!" Tim repeats, and Wes wants to bang his head into a wall. "And hey, next time you do a coffee run, forget the others and just grab my order." His words are accompanied by a wink, and Wes is pretty sure it's supposed to be weird rich people humor, so he laughs, and pretends his heart isn’t beating into his ears.

"As much espresso as possible," he plays along, and Tim grins, pressing the call button for the elevator. It hasn't been summoned to another floor, so it opens right back up.

"Have a good day, Weston."

"It's just Wes, really," he corrects, and Tim smiles again.

"Wes," he says, and the elevator doors slide shut.

Cool cool cool. So now he just has to survive two months in Gotham while knowing the entire Batclan’s secret identities.

Cool cool cool cool cool cool....