#he wants to be topped so bad it's become part of his identity

[my-drama-heart2406]

Why is no one talking about how In-ha is such a textbook sub:

Bratty✅

Attention Seeking✅

Daddy Issues✅✅✅

Constantly looks at his dom Tae-oh with horny eyes✅☑️✔️✅☑️✔️✅

[thevoidstaredback]

Danny smiled from his place on the clocktower roof. He'd been in Gotham for a while now, two years to the day exactly, but he'd never get tired of the view. Sure, he hated not being able to see the stars at night, but there were worse things. He did make sure to leave the city every night to see them, though.

He liked being up high. It reminded him of, not simpler times, but times when he wasn't as alone. Jazz had made her way to Harvard, Tucker was MIT, and Sam was at Pomona. Danny was nowhere.

They say after he turned fourteen, he died. It, to say the least, wasn't a pleasant or painless death, though it didn't hurt past the initial shock and revival. When he was sixteen, he realized he wasn't aging. Sure, Danny Fenton aged until he was sixteen, but Danny Phantom stopped at fourteen. Good for keeping a secret identity, but horrible for wanting to half live normally.

The day after he turned eighteen, exactly four years after he died, Danny disappeared. He left everything behind and hid out in the one place he'd always said he'd avoid. It was the one place no one would look for him. The one place where he was just another face in the crowd.

Gotham City allowed Danny the anonymity that normally came with death. Instead of just another headstone in the graveyard or a body in the harbor, though, he was just another kid on the streets in a busted hoodie and jeans. No one looked twice and no one asked questions.

In the two years he's spent on the streets of Gotham, he's learned a lot. Survival was something all humans are born with, but growing up with neglectful parents amplified that instinct. Dying and becoming an unwilling hero honed those instincts. Living in Gotham gave him a chance to learn more.

Learning the lay of the land was another thing he learned very quickly. Batman is over all of Gotham except for Crime Alley. That's Red Hood's haunt. Gotham Proper was split into blurry lines and shared between Batman and Robin, Red Robin, Orphan, and Spoiler. Nightwing is over Gotham's sister city, Bludhaven. Signal is the only day shift, so he had the most ground to cover in the least amount of time.

Of course, the Rouge's all had their own territories drawn with hard, barely flexible, lines. Black Mask was really the only one to breach those lines by trying to take Crime Alley, but Red Hood had been keeping him in check.

Learning the rules for each territory and how to interact with each person, Rouge or Vigilante, took time, but he managed. His own experiences had probably helped with that.

The next thing Danny had mapped out was where the neutral stations were. Every territory had them. They were places no one attacked because the important ones have standards. In Crime Alley, it's The Club. In Penguin's area, it's the Iceberg Lounge. Ivy marked off Robinson Park. Etcetera. The Joker is really the only major Rouge without a neutral mark on his map, but that's because he's more of an asshole than the rest. An asshole with standards, but an asshole nonetheless.

Very few of those neutral areas were available to spend the night in. Even fewer we're hiring. So, the homeless population of Gotham City stuck to the streets and back alleys.

However, there were two places Danny knew he could go where he'd be safe from scrutiny if someone looked too close at him. The Club in Crime Alley where all the working girls and boys checked in and reported any Bad Johns or Bad Janes, and The Iceberg Lounge in the richer parts of Gotham.

The clocktower was where Danny liked to spend his nights when the streets were too loud and the lights too bright and the fights too close for comfort. Oracle, who was Batman's eye in the sky and ear to the ground, worked from the clocktower, but he made sure to avoid her. It wasn't easy with what's basically super hearing that he can't turn off, but he found a spot near the very top where he could block out all Bat Business. Plausible deniability and all that.

Danny misses the stars. He misses being able to peek his head out of his bedroom window and name of each constellation he could see. He can't do that in Gotham because of the light pollution that clung to the sky like black mold. It was part of the reason he'd sworn to never go to Gotham.

There are Shades in Gotham. Shadows of people who have died but aren't quite ready to move on. He helps them as best he can, but there's so many that he sometimes feels like he's cutting off a Hydra's head. He gets to see results, though. Some days the parks are more colourful, the clouds have drifted enough to let natural sunlight through, and the graveyards are buzzing with thankful energy.

Danny forwent the thought of trying to get a job a while ago. As far as the world is concerned, Danny Fenton is missing, likely dead. Being dead, in case it wasn't well known, is a legal barrier. Sure, most jobs in Gotham didn't do background checks, but Danny didn't really want to join the Goonion. He's just fine living on the streets.

Ectoplasm is scarce compared to Amity Park, but that's to be expected. Besides, the miasma crushing the city like a weighted blanket was enough to sustain his basic abilities. Food was a bit harder to come by, but, like sleep, he could survive longer without it than a living being can. If anyone were to ever ask - though the likelihood of anyone even finding out - how he was alive, his answer was "Photosynthesis, but for ghosts."

Danny liked being just Danny. No name, no responsibilities outside of keeping himself alive.

Danny Fenton, the loser nerd who fell to the bottom of all his classes, who's obsessed with space and everything in it, who could tell you exactly how long it would take to get from Earth to Betelgeuse and back, is dead. He died the day after he turned fourteen.

Danny Phantom, the hatefully loved vigilante who appeared with the throngs of ghosts, who grew more powerful with every fight, who won more fights than he thought he could because there was no other option, is gone. He disappeared after exactly four years.

Danny just exists. He lives on the streets of Gotham City, staying away from trouble because he learned how to recognize it as soon as he could walk. He loves space and finds every opportunity he can to get out and watch the stars and moon and planets. He likes heights because being up that high reminds him of when he was living and not just surviving. Was there really a difference anymore? He hangs out in graveyards and the docks because the dead are so much more tolerable than the living.

Danny liked being just Danny because Danny doesn't have the world of Infinite Realms and Possabilities on his shoulder.

Danny likes to be able to just be for once.

Storyboard Part 2

[ephemerensis]

Cologne // Tim Drake x GN! Reader

hay guys! where Tim Drake and Red Robin (ur bodyguard for the time being) smell suspiciously the same— it’s like you can’t even tell the difference! no angst, this took me so long oh my goodness i’m gonna stick to writing what i know. stay tuned for hurt/angst i have a lot of grievances to spit out! not proofread.

Part 2

—

Gotham was the last place you’d expected to be sent off to, but it’s where you found yourself now. Despite being disgustingly crime ridden, it was the center of trade, commerce, business, and more importantly— information. Which is precisely what you’d been sent to offer.

Your family’s company recently made a ground breaking discovery in pharmaceuticals, creating a drug that could limit the spread of cancer cells without traditional side effects; YB-V they called it. However, the by-product of production was much more severe, resulting in a chemical compound capable of mutating all the cells in a person completely to become something other as if they belonged to a different entity. Given the right motivations and means, the cells could be manipulated by a third party, turning them into fully conscious puppets of some sort.

With data leaks and security concerns, and the serious nature of the consequences if your drug had fallen into the wrong hands, you were sent to deliver the research and development to the production team personally; placed in charge of overseeing production until launch.

Which all sounded good in theory, but as you found yourself twiddling your thumbs in a blacked out office space, getting briefed on the gravity of the situation by a police task force with some vigilante character hanging around behind you, you began to question what it was all worth.

“So let me get this straight, an email between Wayne Corp and ourselves was leaked and now a couple big shot villains want to steal it? What kind of bad guy reads emails?”

A burly officer with a thick white mustache and a pair of square set glasses cleared his throat awkwardly, “That’s correct.”

“Some tech team,” you scoffed. “I’m the only one that can access any of the files, it’s all biometrically locked. While this certainly puts a damper on my day, we should be able to proceed normally.”

“They have your identity too,” the figure in the back voiced. Red Robin, you’d been informed, one of Gotham’s crime fighters in spandex (allegedly.) Up until now he hadn’t spoken a word, loitering while the police explained everything to you.

“Which is why we brought you here,” the commissioner pipped, reaching for his coffee mug as he spoke. “Red Robin has agreed to watch over your activities for the duration of your time in Gotham. For your safety, and ours.”

Have this guy tail you? As if. You were occupied enough without having a stranger watch your every move. A vigilante at that, it’s not like you could look at his resume and review his history.

“While that is a gracious offer, I have my own bodyguards. They’re well trained and—“

“Not for Gotham, you don’t.” Red Robin stepped out from the corner he’d situated himself in, arms crossed and a frown plastered on his face. “And unless you want to stay in a bunker for three months, I’m your best bet.”

Silence fell as you stared at the masked man, contemplating your options. The underground bunker was out of the question. On top of running production, you had a company to run and a reputation to upkeep; meetings, galas, charity events to attend. And as much as you hated to admit it, they had to be right. Gotham knows Gotham, and with the crises you’d witnessed on screen it was clear their criminals were on a polarly different level.

Pressing your hands to the table, you stood up and turned around, “I see. And you being around won’t make me more of a target?”

“Not even you would know I’m there.”

Closing the distance between the two of you in a few paces, you stuck your hand out to him, “In that case, I look forward to working with you Red Robin.”

Standing near him, the faint smell of lavender was imminent and something deeper lingered under it, an amber of some sort. It was pleasant; Red Robin had good taste in cologne. And that is all you needed to trust him.

It took a second for him to shake your outstretched hand. In your palm, his grip was firm, rough gloves pressing into your satin skin. Secure, you’d decided, secure and reliable.

And just as he’d promised, you hardly noticed him. On the contrary, you were also never attacked; not in the days following the abrupt meeting, nor the week after that, nor the month after that. There was the occasional mention of trouble, or something that went bump in the night— but whether it concerned you or not it didn’t matter. Nothing ever happened.

When he was tucked away it felt like he was really gone, not even the eerie feeling that followed being watched lingered. The only thing that drew you back into the reality was when you’d catch the scent of lavender lingering or in the few cases where he’d appear before you. In his absence you felt almost lonely, despite your work occupying it all. So you soon found yourself leaving notes.

“Bought coffee for the office.”

And he began to write back.

“Just black next time, thanks.”

…

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Cornflower blue.”

“That’s a dumb name. Your costume is red, I think you got out branded by Nightwing.”

“In my defense, I didn’t design it.”

…

He didn’t say much in them, nothing that you could glean in depth anyway. But you found yourself oddly pleased with his nothing. It’s not like you cared so desperately for his identity, that was his to keep of course. You did care for his presence. Something about it was magnetizing, and because he hardly appeared before you, these were the tidbits you found yourself drawn to.

Not that you’d kept them, he would see. Despite knowing the situation you were in, it still felt like a strange game— where he knew every detail about you, and you knew nothing of him. Your feelings, at the least, these you could keep on your own.

“Do you need lab access? I know you follow me in, but if there’s an emergency or something…” Production and distribution for YB-V was run by Wayne Corp and like all things related to your project it was kept secure in an underground bunker while you worked to transfer the information your company developed.

While the scientists and developers were mainly in charge of carrying out the project, none of it could move forward without you. The security system had been meticulously set up so that you, and only you, could access the files with the research and instructions. And beyond even your capabilities, every stage written into the plan had to be completed before the next could be unlocked. So you had to be there, supervise and guide them during the entirety of the process.

Archaic, you’d decided. But necessary according to the rest of the world.

Red Robin accompanied you on these trips. Being underground and all, it was one of the few moments he went with you rather than watching from afar.

“No, I’ll find a way in if I need a way in.”

You looked back at him questioningly. You didn’t doubt his capabilities of course, but he said it with such ease, “Is it that easy to break into? I should increase security.”

He scoffed, crossing his arms. “It’s secure. I’m the issue.”

You turned back around shaking your head with a snort. He was growing on you, sass and all. Stopping by a display of notes and charts, you looked them over to ensure they aligned with protocol.

“I have to attend a gala next week, by the way.”

He hummed in response, a couple steps behind you like he usually was when you visited the lab.

“It’s at Wayne Manor… and I can get you an invite. Security is stricter than it is here, I’ve been told. It’d be troublesome to sneak around.” Ruffling through the papers, you extracted the one you needed, holding it up to your face.

“And I don’t have a date,” you added.

“…are you asking me out?” You could hear a hint of a smile in his voice, making your face burn red at the accusation.

You set the paper down, abruptly whipping around with the most serious expression you could muster, “Strictly for my safety! I don’t know how credible everyone attending is and—“

The smile on his face shut you up. Embarrassed and slightly dejected you looked around the room for something else to lock eyes on, clearing your throat.

“I would’ve loved to, but I won’t be there. Something came up that I need to take care of. But like you said, security is strict, you’ll be safe,” he interjected before you could say anymore. Honestly you couldn’t even be mad, he let you down so sincerely you had to believe it. The small smile plastered on his face and the gentle tone he used in opposition to his usual curt one melted you down far more than you would’ve liked it to.

“Right.” It took you a second to cough anything out, like you were thirteen and starstruck again by any character that tossed you a bone, “so much for you or the bunker, I could’ve hired the Waynes’ security.”

But you were disappointed, and his answer did surprise you. Busy? He hadn’t left your side your entire stay as far as you were aware, granted you couldn’t see him 95% of the time, but in principle.

He must’ve picked up on your downtrodden state because he leaned in teasingly, that familiar lavender scent washing over you, “You have your own bodyguards though, right? They’re well trained.”

You wondered what color his eyes were behind the mask, a warm brown or a melancholy blue. Either way you’d decided you were done for, his were the type of eyes you could drown in; “Not for Gotham, I don’t.”

The night of the gala you didn’t expect much. You were supposed to represent your company of course, as their Gotham socialite, and you were to meet with your business partner. Up until now everything had been transactional, taken care of on invisible ends. Which was fine, but to maintain business relations you had to show up to these things.

And so it was about as dry as you’d thought it to be. Most of everyone was twice your age, many were so stuck in their desire for affluence it radiated off of them like maggots in a burn pile. Supposedly it was a charity gala, in reality it was an egoistic echo chamber and you were in no position to defy it.

Flitting around you sipped your champagne and made conversation and promises that didn’t matter until a hand graced your shoulder with the lightest touch, it felt almost invisible. Turning around you saw a boy with raven hair and the tamest of blue eyes. And he looked to be around your age, a moment of respite at last.

“Hi,” he breathed the word into a smile that was dazzlingly honest and strikingly warm in juxtaposition with the mood of the room.

“Hi,” you shook the hand he offered to you. His hands were rougher than you’d imagine an aristocrat’s to be, littered with callouses you attributed with a dedication to some sport, “I’m Y/N, I don’t think we’ve met before?”

“Sort of, I’m Tim.” In your correspondence with Wayne Corp, Tim had been your main contact; at least for big ticket decisions. In other words, he was your collaborator and your business’ partner. In your head you recalled all the times you poked fun at the archaic way he wrote his emails, like he was 52 and balding— in reality he was just the opposite.

“Oh! It’s nice to finally meet you! Thank you for working with us, we couldn’t have progressed this far without Wayne Corp.”

“On the contrary, thank you for trusting us. This project’s been a huge safety concern for you I’ve heard.”

You laughed, shaking your head, “Not at all! I have one of the best vigilantes in the city.” But this, he should’ve already known. Red Robin had to be cleared for access to certain things, and you’d corresponded as much through your emails. “I must say though, I was disappointed it wasn’t Nightwing at first, he used to be my favorite.”

Tim blinked at you for a spell and you couldn’t read his expression. Pleasant and cordial with some twinge of underlying distaste was the best way to describe it, something in the way his eyes glinted with a malice behind his smile. “Has that changed?”

He must love Red Robin.

“I suppose,” growing on you was an understatement. It was a strange ordeal because he wasn’t real. No name or title you could address, but everything you learned about Red Robin made you want to know more about Red Robin. He was magnetizing. “Have you met them? Is it a normal Gotham thing?”

“No,”his response came swiftly, “they’re usually in other parts of the city and I’m never out at night. Married to the office.”

“I see.” That would explain the emails.

“Do you… want to dance?” He extended his hand to you graciously, but with a gentle hesitance that made him seem softer than he was. In a way you felt like you were betraying your vigilante delusionship, but he hadn’t agreed to go with you and Tim was charming enough. Besides, business relations.

“Of course.” Placing your flute of champagne on a nearby table, you took his arm as he led you to the floor. He smiled in a demure sort of way that made your heart flutter like the excitement you’d felt interacting with Red Robin. Maybe you just liked the attention that much, that must be the correlation between the two.

“Do you know how to waltz?” Typically galas didn’t have much dancing at all, let alone organized ballroom dancing, but leave it to the Waynes to find a way to stun the crowd with their class and extravagance.

“Sort of, I’ve taken rudimentary classes.” Like when you were five.

“Perfect,” he grinned. He placed his hand faintly on the small of your waist while the other found purchase in your opposing palm, “I’ll lead. Just follow along, you’ll be fine.”

Miraculously you were fine. You started out with your eyes glued to the floor, following after him and avoiding his toes. But once you’d gotten into a rhythm, it all felt like floating.

“You haven’t stepped on my toes once,” he joked. Up close and under the mesmerizing ballroom light he looked angelic, the way the light caught in his lashes and the reflected off the blue of his eyes—like little golden flecks glimmering under supple flowing rivers.

“I’ve been trying not to!” you laughed.

“You look beautiful,” as if his eyes could get any more mesmerizing, they softened somehow with his words, “outfit and all.”

“Thank you,” at this you averted your gaze, and prayed the lighting didn’t highlight the flush of your cheeks. Out of being flustered or embarrassment, you didn’t know. On the one hand, a rich, beautiful, respectful man was complimenting you. On the other, you were wearing cornflower blue because it was someone else’s favorite color. Like you were twelve again and going to some middle school dance where you wanted to impress your hallway crush.

“Your Getty pictures don’t do you justice,” he continued. “Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t seen one bad photo, but you always look so serious and intimidating.”

It never occurred to you he’d Googled you before, it made sense now how he was able to single you out in the crowd. Maybe the thought was so foreign because you’d never paid him any mind, but now you were thinking you should’ve. At the very least because it’s polite and helpful to know the bare minimum, but if you were honest with yourself it’s because he struck a curiosity in you that needed to be sated—too breathtaking to be real and all you’d known was his face and arresting demeanor.

“Because I am serious and intimidating, I’m very good at my job you know. You’re not the only one married to an office,” you boasted. In reality you hated work, but worse still was posing for pictures. Especially at crowded social functions your parents ushered you to where you didn’t know a soul, you simply didn’t know what to do with yourself in front of a camera—that was your excuse anyway.

“That explains the dancing,” he quipped with a sideward smile.

Your eyes widened slightly in shock as your mouth fell open to scoff. “Hey! I thought I was doing pretty good!”

He burst into a contagious laughter that hypnotically made you follow suit. But you wouldn’t settle for that after all your efforts to keep up. With a look to the wayside, you pretended to lose touch of the tandem between your steps and lurch forward, consequently stepping on his polished brown loafers. And then it was his turn to be shocked.

“Woah! So much for trying,”Tim teased. Not that he lost his footing, he was as stable as ever. In his eyes you swore there was a glint of mockery, as if he knew and anticipated it.

“Oh did I hurt you,” you feigned concern before slipping into the most innocent smile you could muster. “I’m a terrible dancer, I can’t help it.”

“Aren’t you petty?”

“You have no idea.”

“Petty and pretty, how dangerous.”

Before you could fire some witty retort you noticed your steps slowing to a halt with the swoon of the music. He’d brought his hand above you to spin you once, slowly. The other on your waist moved to your lower back to support you as he pulled you into a dip and all you could do was follow. Something about the atmosphere had your heart palpitating. Or maybe it was the way he was looking at you, like you were an art piece on display, overhead light illuminating behind him as he stared down at you like an angel emerging from the heavens.

Sundering you to the earth, you couldn’t fixate your eyes on anything else, and though it was only for a moment it felt like eternity. You were close enough now for the scent of his cologne to waft over you faintly amongst the throng of strongly powdered people in the room. Lavender. A familiar lavender with all the base notes that’d been lingering around you for the past few weeks. Your look of awe faded to confusion.

Red Robin’s.

“Is that—“

But he wasn’t looking at you. Instead you followed his gaze down to your chest, eyes widening as you saw the little red laser mark hovering over your heart. Before you could react, you felt the air get knocked out of your lungs as Tim shoved you away. The sound of the gun firing pierced cleanly through the noise of the glitz and glamour, and something burned across the skin of the side of your arm.

You couldn’t tell if it was broken glass that cut you or something else, you couldn’t feel much of anything with the adrenaline flooding your body. Scared and discombobulated, you scrambled backwards as panic set into the crowd.

In the midst of the onset of gunshots and people scattering towards exits, Tim had rushed over to you. Kneeling beside you, he gave you a quick look over and gently pulled you up by your uninjured arm. As soon as you were up he rushedly dragged you away from it all, winding through the hallways of the manor wordlessly. Though it was probably for the better, because you didn’t have an ounce of air left in your lungs trying to keep up with his pace or a thought in your head after what you’d just witnessed.

The further you trudged along, the heavier your limbs felt and the harder it was to pry your eyes open after blinking. Which was strange, you hadn’t lost so much blood, but it must’ve been the confusion of it all or something you ate. A couple halls and turns later you arrived at a room. He ushered you inside, seating you on the bed before rummaging through the drawers.

“Are you alright? Does it hurt badly?” from the drawer he procured a bandage. He sat himself next to you, promptly wrapping the cloth tightly around your arm.

“No, it’s not bad,” truthfully it felt numb, which you couldn’t decide was a good or bad thing. You couldn’t think much of anything, focused on keeping your eyes from fluttering shut.

“I should’ve known they’d do something,” he’d muttered. As he finished, pushing himself off the bed, your head suddenly felt too heavy to hold up and your eyes too tired to function.

“Hey… are you okay? You don’t look so good.” He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, feeling nothing abnormal and deepening his concern. But you couldn’t process what he was saying. With a lilt, you fell to your side, feeling the injunctive relief of not having to hold yourself upright.

He undid your bandages to look at the wound again before scowling as it dawned on him, “Tranquilizers.”

After rewrapping your arm, he hurriedly stalked towards the door, “You’ll be safe here, I’ll send someone.”

With whatever consciousness you had left you managed to slur a sentence, “Where are you going?”

“To find my brother.”

If he said anything after you didn’t hear it, because the moment your eyes fluttered shut, they stayed shut.

You didn’t know how long you were out. Not terribly so. When you’d awoken, it was still dark out. Tim must’ve flicked the light off when he’d left too, the only light that flooded in was from the streetlamp out the window. The drugs hadn’t cleared your system yet if the pounding in your head and brain fog you were experiencing was any indicator. And they didn’t even hit you directly, who knows where you’d be if they did.

In the streets you could hear the panic of people and the wail of police sirens, which would’ve settled your stomach if not for the fact that it clearly wasn’t over and the police weren’t entering.

You jerked your head towards the door as a loud thud sounded just outside of it. Looking around the room for a place to hide, there was none. And if there was one, you couldn’t see it with the lights out. Some commotion followed before what sounded like a body hit the floor.

Not knowing what else to do, you wrapped yourself in the bedding, pulling it to the floor behind the bed and huddling there. At the very least, no one knew you were in there but Tim, and surely he’d locked the door.

Nope.

The sound of the knob turning made your blood run cold. You drew the blankets tightly around yourself, hoping you’d amalgamate into the cloths if you’d clutched them tightly enough.

With the bed obscuring your view, you couldn’t see the perpetrator and you didn’t want to. You screwed your eyes shut as footsteps creaked on the wood pacing towards you. Against your will, you hands couldn’t cease trembling and you wondered if the other person in the room could hear your heart beating out of your chest.

This was it. If someone wanted to swoop in, now would be great.

The footsteps halted on the opposite side of the bed. You considered jumping out at them, throwing the blanket and bolting for it, but your limbs felt like they were filled with lead. And in any case, if they were armed you were done for anyway. So you held your breath and willed them away instead.

To your horror they’d started again in your direction. Silence. And then a hand touched the blanket and you couldn’t help it, you shrieked and covered your head with your arms.

But instead of force or a bludgeoning, they’d knelt in front of you, gently grabbing your arms as you thrashed. A familiar voice called your name out a couple times before you recognized it and opened your eyes.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s me! You’re okay,” in the dark you couldn’t really see his face but it was Tim’s voice that called to you. Delirious and reeling, the relief flooded your body so intensely, the tears didn’t even have time to well before they were streaming down your cheeks.

Throwing your arms around him, you sobbed for all you were worth, “I was so scared, why’d you just leave me!”

You felt him stiffen beneath you at the sudden intrusion before softening and patting the back of your head with a gloved hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

And it felt so safe there, in his arms, secure but soft all at once. The familiar lavender mixed with the champagney smell from the gala soothed you in a way you’d never thought you’d needed.

“I thought they were gonna get me,” you choked out between sobs. This was in no way attractive, “and then I’d get kidnapped, and everyone would turn into puppets!”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. Not mocking or laughing at you like your more awake self would’ve expected, he was mellow about the whole thing. Sorry and really sorry for it—and it wasn’t even his fault.

When you calmed down enough to sound coherent, he pulled back to wipe the tears from your cheeks.

“Let me see that,” he nodded towards your bandaged arm. You stretched it out for him and he undid the gauze, “This doesn’t look too bad. Shouldn’t scar.”

Procuring new dressings, he took his time with it this time, applying a salve before wrapping it around you again.

“Tim?” you said his name just to say his name, because you liked the way it felt to say and you wanted to hear him speak. Instead he paused before resuming his work, “I’m Red Robin.”

“Oh.” That’s embarrassing. You were so certain of it too, but he did say he would send someone and he was probably with his family or waiting outside for things to settle. So instead you got the infinitely intangible Red Robin, “I thought you were busy.”

“Plans changed.” He was never this curt with you, not after knowing you anyway. He had to maintain secrecy, you knew this, but he’d find ways to say more anyway.

You flinched as he constricted your arm with the bandage, “You’re pulling it a little tight.”

This made him pause again, letting go of the wrap altogether this time as the circulation breathed back into your marrow.

Exhaling, he ran a hand through his raven hair, “I’m sorry.”

You blinked at him, still fighting to keep your eyelids open but worried nonetheless. This was unlike him, “Red?”

“Sorry, I’m just on edge. I should’ve known, I could’ve prevented this,” shaking his head, it was if he made up his mind, “Everything is transferred now, the project can wrap up without you. We’ll get you on the next flight back tomorrow.”

Somewhere in you an inkling of anger stirred, as if you were an object that could be sent as needed. But the strain in his voice was evident, how could hold a grudge against that? “I don’t want to leave yet.”

“You’re going.”

You huffed, “I’m not. And you don’t have to watch me anymore if it’s too much, I never expected that from you! You’re here now, you didn’t have to be, but you are— that’s more than my useless bodyguards or Wayne security have done and they’re paid for it. You put up with me and nothing has happened to me. I’m sorry for being so vulnerable, that’s my fault. Don’t you dare berate yourself, you haven’t done one wrong thing!”

He said nothing, just stared at you with something like curiosity. Under the pale moonlight and with his face obstructed you could only speculate.

You stuck out your injured arm to him again, urging him to take it, “Hurry and finish, I’m still sleepy.”

Wordlessly he finished binding your arm. As soon as he was done you fell on his shoulder, closing your eyes.

“Tim—“

“I’m not Tim,” he reiterated. There was something in his tone that you couldn’t quite place; annoyance?

“Oh,” you mumbled, feeling sleep creep up on you again, “you smell the same... I think I like him.” Surely it’s fine to confess this much, or that’s what you told yourself as you started to drift off, words slurring and thoughts blurring, “you should meet him, he’s a big fan.”

—

i have a final in 5 hours please with me luck (it’s 2am)

[the-marshals-wife]

New Horizons (Arthur Curry x Reader)

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⋅☆⋅ 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

A/N: Requested by @dantes-devil-huntress. I can't believe this is my first Aquaman fic! This was so much fun to write, I hope you enjoy!

Premise: Trying to figure out his place in the world as the newly crowned king of Atlantis, Arthur meets someone who may just help him find the answers he looking for.

Description: Arthur Curry/Aquaman x Fem!Reader (Human), meet-cute fluff! | Warnings: alcohol, mild language | Setting: AU w/o Mera endgame, before The Lost Kingdom | Word count: 3,468

Edit: here's my Orm Marius x Reader fic for my fellow Orm girlies ;)

Gif credit: user jasonmomoaonline

Imagine Arthur giving you shelter when you're stranded in a storm, and discovering his true identity

Getting stood up for your date had been the worst part of the night, until the moment you got into your car. Instead of the engine turning over and sputtering to half-life like usual, it only stalled.

"You have got to be kidding me," you say, gripping the steering wheel and turning the key until you thought it might snap, "Come on, come on, come ON!"

Throwing open your door, you pop the hood and stumble back out into the chilled night. You mutter curses under your breath as you survey the labyrinth of steel and hoses before you.

"At least nothing's on fire this time," you mutter, rolling your eyes.

You step back and stare at the bucket of bolts the salesman had called "like new." Besides coming to this bar, buying this car was quite possibly your biggest regret. It wasn't quite a lemon, but it wasn't a Rolls either. And most of all, it was all you could afford.

You exhale, glaring up at the flickering light of the bar's neon sign. The last thing you wanted to do after waiting nearly two hours alone like a fool was show your face inside again. You retrieve your phone from your back pocket, just to see the blinking bars in the top corner. No service.

"Wonderful," you groan.

Like a bad joke, thunder rolls in the distance. You look up to see the lightning flashing on the horizon across the bay. The brisk, salt air rises up from the water and cuts right through you.

"Could this night get any better?!" you lament, an angry shriek escaping your lips as you kick the front tire.

"Excuse me, Miss?" a voice from behind interjected.

You jump and turn to see a man approaching, nervous smile on his bearded face. You appraise him wearily: tall, dark, and not at all lacking in style, clad in both leather and jewelry. He looked a sight better than the drunken fishermen you'd observed stumble about the bar, which you concluded was about ninety-percent of the clientele. Even from where he stood, he certainly seemed to smell better.

"Uh, I don't mean to interrupt, but you sound like you might need some help," he offers hesitantly.

Despite your initial scare, something about him puts you at ease.

"Oh, um...yeah, actually" you smile embarrassed, tucking your hair behind your ear, "My stupid car won't start. Again."

"Mind if I take a look?" he asks, pointing.

"Would you? That would be great, honestly," you say, folding your arms against the cold, "I just had it in the shop last week. I have no idea what's wrong now."

He pats the fender as he circles around to the front, "Let's see what's got you all clammed up here, buddy."

"Your guess is as good as mine," you say exasperated, stepping to stand behind him a ways.

He chuckles and pushes up his sleeves, ducking underneath the hood. You take note of the intricate tattoos, realizing this friendly stranger was becoming more interesting by the minute.

"Hmm, nope. Not that," he says, craning his neck, "Not that either."

You bite your lip and sway on your feet, silently praying he could find the source of the problem. Any easy fix was probably too much to hope for, but your fingers stayed mentally crossed nonetheless.

"Ooh, maybe- no, definitely not," he says, followed by a clinking sound, "That should not be there."

"I really appreciate this," you say after a moment, peering over his shoulder, "I can change the wipers and put on a spare if I have to, but that's about the extent of my car expertise."

"No shame in that," he grunts, his voice strained, "Oof, now that might be a problem."

"Did you find something?" you dare to ask.

"These spark plugs are kaput. Like, 'not even a necromancer can bring them back' kind of kaput."

"The guy said they were fine!" you exclaim, "I knew I shouldn't have gone back to that place. Probably just took my money and laughed."

The man finally stands up and winces.

"And your alternator is on its last leg," he says with a grimace, "Even if you could get it to start, I wouldn't go more than five miles in this thing."

"Great. That's just wonderful," you sigh, shaking your head, "Well, thank you for looking. It'd have taken me forever to figure that out. Google only goes so far."

"No problem, wish I had better news for ya," he says, wiping his grease-tinged hands on his jeans before extending one towards you, "I'm Arthur, by the way."

"I'm Y/N. Nice to meet you, Arthur."

"Nice to meet you too."

Despite your frustration, you couldn't help but grin. As Good Samaritans go, he was quite a handsome one. Something in the back of your mind whispered that you had seen his face before, but you couldn't place when or where.

Before you could speak again, a bolt of lightning strikes just across the harbor, followed swiftly by a crash of thunder.

Arthur looks off to the darkened horizon, his expression souring with concern.

"Storm's coming in fast," he observes, the sea breeze blowing through his long, sun-kissed hair, "Do you have someone you can call to come pick you up?"

He turn back to you, and only now do you notice just how rich and golden eyes his eyes are. For a few dizzied seconds, you forget to answer.

"Uh, not really. I'm pretty new to the area. I don't know very many people," you reply, feeling shy all of a sudden, "I can just call a Uber or something. If my service ever picks up."

"Yeah, definitely," he nods, clearing his throat, "They have a phone inside."

"Thank you again for helping me, Arthur," you say, starting to walk towards the door.

"I didn't really help, though..." he trails off, disappointment in his voice as you step past him.

Your hand is almost on the handle when he pipes up.

"Uh, look I know you don't know me, but my dad's place is just down the road from here. He's the lighthouse keeper. Him and my mom are actually away on little retreat, and I'm watching the place for them," he explains, "It's dry, warm, and definitely has a lot less drunk guys. You could wait there while the storm passes, if you wanted."

You turn back to him, trying to conceal your renewed hope, "I couldn't impose on you like that."

"Oh you wouldn't be. It's just me and the dog. He's probably getting sick of me at this point. He could use a visitor," he chuckles, "But I understand if you'd rather stay here. Strange guy at a bar invites you to a lighthouse on a dark and stormy night. Sounds like a horror movie, I know."

You laugh, and so does he, bringing some much needed levity.

"I'll bring you right back if you change your mind, just say the word," he adds, sounding truly sincere.

Almost everything in you was saying not to trust a man you'd just met, but your gut was telling you otherwise. There was more to the warmth in his eyes than just the color.

"Well, it does sound like the dog could use some company," you say thoughtfully.

Arthur smirks. "Oh yeah. There's been a Hell's Kitchen marathon on for days, and I'm pretty sure he's sick of listening to my Gordon Ramsay impression. I can't resist, love that guy."

"I might have to hear that for myself."

"Let's get you out of this weather, and we'll see what I can do about that, then," he says with a wink, "My ride is just over here."

Not even the chilled wind could overcome the warmth of your cheeks. The excitement in your chest grows with every step as you follow him across the sandy lot. The ride in question, however, soon comes into view, and the knot in your stomach tightens all the more.

"Oh boy," you say, staring at the motorcycle.

"You're not scared of bikes are you?" he questions, stepping alongside it and reaching into the black saddlebag.

"Not exactly," you hesitate, "I've just never been on one before."

He pulls out a red, half helmet and offers it to you.

"Don't worry, I won't let you fall off," he replies, amused.

You look between him and the headgear a moment before taking it.

"Besides," he says, swinging his leg over the seat, "All you have to do is hang on."

With no argument to make, and rain drops beginning to sprinkle down, you pull your hair back and fasten the helmet on. You nearly lose your balance trying to throw your leg over, having to grab his shoulder to steady yourself. He didn't seem to mind; you could have sworn you heard him snicker. You settle into the seat, heart racing from being so close to him. More anxious than ever, you lightly place your hands on his back.

"All good back there?" Arthur asks, a smile in his voice.

"All good," you repeat, unconvincingly.

"Alright then," he says, turning the key.

Seconds later, the motorcycle roars to life as he revs the engine. Arthur eases the bike back slowly, pivots out of the lot, and eases it up to the main road. The instant he accelerates, the force kicks you backward. You throw your arms around his torso, pulling yourself against him. Over the noise of the machine, you weren't sure if the rumbling in your ear that followed was thunder or laughter, but you figured was the latter.

With the bar now behind you, and the rain coming down harder with the increasing speed, you bury your face into his back and hold on tightly.

♆

The lighthouse comes into view just as the skies open up. Arthur maneuvers the bike up the slippery, sand driveway and quickly shuts it off. He gives you his hand as you climb off and leads you toward the house.

The helmet offers some protection from the downpour, but the wind blows the spray into your face as you squint to see. Lightning above illuminates the world like daylight as you scramble up onto the porch.

Arthur throws the front door open and lets you in first as you stumble inside the dark house. You take a few blind steps forward as he slams it shut behind him, thunder making the windows rattle.

"Man, someone must have really pissed off Thor," he laughs. His relief, however, is turned to exasperation as you hear a clicking sound followed by a sigh.

"Power's out. Awesome."

Still trying to catch your breath, you pull out your phone, struggling with wet fingers to use touchscreen. Finally the flashlight turns on, and Arthur throws his hand up over his eyes as you accidentally shine it right at his face.

"Sorry," you pant, pointing it down.

"No worries. That's a good idea, actually. I always forget about this thing," he remarks, grabbing his own phone and doing the same, "One second, I think Pops has some candles in the kitchen."

You nod as he disappears into the next room. Now remembering the dripping helmet on your head, you release the strap with your free hand and set it down on the mat beside the door. A shiver goes through you from your soaked clothes. You point your phone about the shadowy room to get your bearings, admiring the otherwise cozy living area. As you sweep the light downward, something large and metallic glints on the coffee table in front of the sofa and catches your eye. You move closer to get a better look, and then your heart drops to your feet. Lying beside a bag of jerky and the TV remote is a massive, gleaming trident of gold. A memory flashes through your mind of an article you'd seen weeks ago, with a fuzzy photo of an alleged aquatic hero holding a weapon just like it. The pieces come together all at once as you realize the identity of your host.

The very next second, you hear Arthur's approach. He returns with a lit candle in each hand and a blanket under his arm, only to find your expression of complete and utter shock.

"You...you're..." you stammer.

"Oof, I knew I forgot to put something away," he cringes, "My bad."

"You're the Aquaman," you gape, finding the words.

"Surprise," he says in a sing-song voice, flashing a nervous smile, "Yeah, I never really know how to bring that up.

You stare at him dumbfounded as he places the candles on the coffee table. "I can't believe it. Aren't you supposed to be like...well, in Atlantis or something?"

"I was, earlier this morning. Just about died of boredom in council meetings," he says matter-of-factly, proceeding to talk as if he had a desk job, "I'm kinda part-timing right now, between land and sea. It's complicated. I'm still new to the whole 'king' thing. Don't have all the kinks worked out yet."

"I'd imagine," you breathe, your mind still reeling.

"Here, figured you need this." He holds out the blanket, completely unphased by the previous subject, "Do you drink tea? I can make some for you."

You take the blanket and chuckle in bewilderment. "Um, sure. That would be great," you answer, "Thank you."

"One tea coming up," he smiles, "Uh, just make yourself comfortable, I'll get the fire going here a minute, after I find the dog. Pretty sure he's hiding under Pops' bed upstairs. He's terrified of storms. Ironic right? Lighthouse keeper's dog afraid of a little water."

"I don't blame him this time," you say, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders, "I think you were right about Thor."

As if on cue, another boom of thunder shakes the walls. You both burst out laughing.

♆

A few minutes later, you find yourself sitting on the floor in front of a roaring fire with a warm mug in your hands, finally beginning to feel dry. Having been unsuccessful in coaxing the dog into joining him downstairs, Arthur settles down beside you crossed-legged, damp hair tied up, trading the tea for a can of Guinness. Your thoughts rage like the storm outside as you stare into the flames, agonizing about what you should say.

Arthur speaks a moment later, saving you the trouble.

"Sorry about the power. I'll call you that cab as soon as it comes back."

"That's okay, I'm not in a hurry," you reply.

You look over at him hopefully, meeting his piercing gaze for as long as you can. Mere seconds pass before you bow your head, heart racing while you repress a smile.

"I'm uh, sure you've got some questions about all this," he ventures, rubbing the back of his head.

"Honestly, with the night I've had, meeting 'Aquaman' is par for the course," you smirk.

"I didn't mean to spring it on you like that. I guess you can understand why I don't lead with the whole King of Atlantis thing. Kinda makes it hard to keep a conversation going once people know you 'can talk to fish.' They don't really see you the same after that."

"Yeah, I think I'd probably keep that to myself too," you agree, the awe returning full-force, "Still, it must be amazing. I mean, you're basically ruler of the ocean, right? Or is it just Atlantis?"

"Eh, I mean there's the other kingdoms-"

"There's more?!" you blurt out, wide-eyed.

"Oh yeah. Xebel, the Fishermen, the Brine, a couple of defunct ones no one wants talks about. We got a few."

"And you're the ruler over all of them?"

He shrugs. "More or less. I mean, they each have their own ruler. But then I'm also over them? Kinda? I'm still figuring crap out, they didn't exactly give me a rule book on my first day. Plus I have to answer to this royal council and they've got sticks up their butts about everything I do and say," he groans, rolling his eyes, "I like to consider myself more of a 'protector of the deep' than a ruler. Sounds more cool, and less like an old fart with a crown."

You giggle, hanging on every his every word.

"And with this bad boy right here," he says, reaching behind him and patting the trident, "I command all life in the sea. The animals anyway. Between you and me, that's the best part."

"You definitely have a cooler job than me," you beam.

"It definitely has its perks. But most of the time, I'd rather be here," he sighs, punctuated by a swig of his beer.

A visible sadness washes over him as he looks into the fire.

"You aren't from Atlantis?" you question.

"No, I was raised by my father. My parents met on accident. My mother was queen of Atlantis, and she ran away from her not-so-nice guy fiancé. She got lost in a storm, and my father rescued her. They've always said it was..."

Arthur stops and turns his gaze towards you, realization in his eyes.

Your heart skips as you understand. "Fate?"

He nods thoughtfully. "Something like that."

You blink, letting him go on.

"Anyway, I know I have a calling to the sea, but the land is always going to be a part of me, you know?" His expression softens. "Here, I've always found everything I need."

His words linger in the air between you. You look down at your hands, your chest pounding.

He clears his throat. "Sorry, I know that was a lot of info."

"Just a little bit," you reply teasingly, "But your secret's safe with me, Arthur. I promise. I've got no one to tell anyway."

"Don't worry, I trust you," he says, waving his hand, "It's actually nice to have someone else to share it with."

"I'm honored that you did. I know it's not the same, but I do understand what it's like to feel that you don't belong," you confess, "I didn't fit in my 'kind' either. Moved out here to start over. I guess you could say I'm still trying to figure some crap out too."

He pauses in thought second before responding, "Do you mind if I ask you something, Y/N?"

"After everything I've asked you? I'd say it's definitely your turn," you chuckle, taking a sip of your forgotten tea.

"I saw you at the bar before you went outside. I couldn't help but notice that you were there by yourself..."

"You noticed correctly. I was supposed to meet someone for a date, but after saying he was on his way, he never showed. I tried to text him, but he blocked me. I don't even know why."

"Nothing like being stood up at some backwater bar," he concludes, frowning, "Well, screw that guy. He's a bum."

"Yeah, I figured that out too late," you agree, then give him a knowing look, "The evening wasn't a total loss. I did meet you, after all."

"That's true," he concedes, playfully stroking his beard, "I may be a half-breed rookie king, but I'm not a bum."

You snort and gesture to the television set on your right, "So much for your marathon though, huh?"

"Ah, that's alright. They were all re-runs anyway."

You raise your eyebrow. "Think I could still hear that impression?"

He holds a finger to his chin in mock deliberation, "Hmmm, have I had enough to drink for that?

"I don't know, have you?" You lean in with anticipation.

He flashes a sly grin. "Of course I bloody have," he declares in the most hackneyed attempt at a British accent you'd ever heard, "And you better listen up, because I'm about to tell you everything there is to know about how to cook a bloody good flounder."

Your sides ache with laughter as he continues to go on a tangent about how to properly sauté shallots and season the perfect demi-glace. The voice sounded nothing like the infamously tempermental chef, of course, but you still thought his attempt was cute. By the time he was yelling at his invisible staff for serving him raw fish, the storm outside had passed, and neither of you noticed.

As Arthur went to light the stove to warm up some "gourmet" SpaghettiOs, still boisterously carrying on as Chef Ramsay, your excited thoughts returned to the story about his parents. You couldn't help but wonder about your own stormy night, the man you had met, and how much of a hand fate had played in it. The horizon seemed so much brighter than before, and for the first time ever, you were grateful to have bought that car.

[drbased]

It's interesting to me how patriarchial ideology generates all these specific paranoias

dominance is about proving who is best -> men dominate women -> women are fundamentally masochistic -> women seek out the most dominant male -> but what if that dominant male isn't me?

I was listening to a thing about satanism just now and it was mentioned that one of the beliefs about witches is that they lust after demons, and my immediate thought was how men are so desperate to entirely fabricate a view of female sexuality for their own ends and then get terrified of the natural conclusion of that. Because if women are fundamentally masochistic, and demons exist, then of course women are going to want to submit to them, right?

It's built into the psychology of racism as well - black men are more bestial and violent, but also violence is a way of gaining dominance, and regardless women are bestial and masochistic, so then a paranoia is formed where white women secretly desire to submit to black men - to debase themselves in the most obvious way, the veneer of the purity of whiteness stripped back to reveal the inherent whore nature of the female underneath. and of course there's overlap with the fundamentals of incel ideology - these men are obsessed with women's degeneracy and masochism causing them to submit to the 'wrong' men causing some spiritual downfall of society. and the three examples all blur and mix together, associating blackness with bestiality, satanism/occult practices with bestiality, and said bestiality with moral degeneracy and disruption of some natural healthy order where the men who do dominance 'properly' should be on top.

and it's all entirely made up. the fact that there is no true definition of 'healthy dominance' is entirely what fuels this paranoia. in reality, dominance is just harm and abuse, but men have to try to find a way to invent some righteous and healthy form of said harm and abuse - it has to be codified and controlled. that way there are always scapegoats: the men who do masculinity 'wrong' onto which women's fears can be directed, so that men as a class never get to be held accountable. men will hold onto these paranoias so they never have to engage with the underlying ideology. the benefits of dominance are too potent. this is the classic 'patriarchy hurts men too' - the ideology of patriarchy is exactly the same as that of self-harm; the harm becomes a closed feedback loop, a sunk-cost fallacy whereby the self's personhood becomes reliant on a destructive lie. men will literally kill themselves because they lose their ability to recognise the value of human life, instead seeing their identity as part of a collective narrative, and so murder-suicide becomes a form of martyring to send a message to other men and women that men will dominate at all costs, and that said domination is righteous is a pseudo-spiritual sense.

so much of our societal energy has been wasted on this. and now as we're on the cusp of recognising that dominance isn't righteous, we turn our attentions to how bad it is for men that they're hurt by the psychological impact of this ideology. in doing so our attentions are redirected, away from the benefits of why this ideology exists in the first place, and therefore accidentally reinforcing it. the psychology of the abuser is always that his narrative is of greater importance than anyone else, and the moment attention is taken away from those he hurts is the moment we capitulate to his ever-consuming demands. we give him an inch, he will take a mile. because for all the focus on getting men to be softer, more open etc. without also holding them accountable, we're simply adding to their narrative through giving them a superficial redemption arc. said softened male will still implicitly believe in his dominance over women even whilst he explicitly claims to be against dominance as a concept. that's how we end up with pro-porn and pro-bdsm 'leftists' - those who seek to reject the pseudo-spiritual righteousness of dominance but loop right back around into believing it can be codified and controlled, whilst utilising that to scapegoat the right-wing, who in turn scapegoat the leftwing as their dominance is codified and controlled in the form of traditional gender roles. the patriarchal system then resumes as usual, a bit shaken in confidence perhaps, generating much more powerful paranoias (e.g. incels) that then also get folded back into the fix in the form of further scapegoats, rinse and repeat.

[hero-israel]

I think there needs to be a reckoning about how so many white (passing) American secular/nonpracticing antiZionist Jews can say "Not in my name, Israel doesn't speak for us!" and then think they can speak for Israel. How so many of them can have a limited familial connection to Israel, have such a disdain for Israelis, Israeli culture and society, and Israel as a concept, and then have the gall to act like their opinions matter?

I see their attitudes be described as fear, but to me it strikes me as more than just fear. A lot of them, I suspect, have incorporated antiZionism as a fundamental part of their Jewish identity. It's not just a disagreement, they're not just saving face. Take away the Goyim and talk to them privately and they still believe what they believe, and express it in the same way. They hate Israeli Jews.

And Israel is only going to become less Ashkenazi (aka less "white") as time marches forward. The bad faith hysterical Israel bashing and condescension is only going to look more and more like Orientalism, and frankly, racism.

I think it's very possible that calling something antisemitic can't just be a catchall term when this chicken comes home to roost. I think if there aren't already, there will be distinct forms of antisemitism, some that only Diaspora Jews face and some that only Israeli Jews face. And if this is true or will end up being true, it's pretty important that we not speak over each other's experiences. To do that we have to recognize these experiences and respect them. Do some Israeli Jews disrespect the Diaspora experience? Yes, from what I've seen. Is it nearly as vitriolic and is it growing nearly as quickly as the disrespect for the Israeli experience among antiZionist American Jews? Not even close.

All this divisive language to say: sometimes when Israelis say "so and so is antisemitic!" in the context of antiZionism, they're talking about themselves, their experiences, the stakes for them, and not Americans. So maybe we should all learn to stay in our lanes sometimes.

A lot of Israeli Jews disrespect, or at least are unable to grasp, diaspora existence, particularly when it comes to Americans. I can't even count the number of times I read Israelis say "Why are you American Jews so upset about Trump? Don't you see how good he's been for Israel?" Which is the worst damn argument a person could possibly use - it feeds into both left-wing and right-wing antisemitism, while ignoring that American Jews live HERE and are at risk from Trump's fascist cult and general lawlessness. And it is bad FOR EVERYBODY to have "pro-Israel" become the position of stroke-babbling grotesque racist criminals, and also for America to be too focused on anarchic decomposition and Yugoslav-style street warfare to be able to support Israel like it traditionally has.

And because turds of a feather flush together, Netanyahu wants ALAN DERSHOWITZ to be Israel's advocate if the ICJ case proceeds. I knew Netanyahu was a senile failure undermining all the strengths he had ever built for the country and this is just the shit cherry on top of the shit sundae. Alan Dershowitz is the ultimate stereotype of a Boomer who was kind of useful in the 1980s-90s and became awful and embarrassing now, Trump is surrounded by them (i.e. Rudy Giuliani). Your grandma in Florida remembers Alan Dershowitz for writing "Chutzpah" and being tough and quick-witted, and everybody under 40 knows Dershowitz as a Trump cultist and Epstein fuckbuddy. Big "Vladek Spiegelman can only compare his artist son to Walt Disney" energy. There are surely thousands of lawyers better-suited for the role, just off the top of my head I'd prefer Eugene Kontorovich and so should anyone who is more aware of the world as it actually is than how it was in 1994.

I say all that to parallel your original point, not to contradict it. Yes, the American Jews who performatively loathe Israel are by and large just an Extremely Online phenomenon of the most college-town bubble-protected, least observant, least affiliated, and least aware of non-Ashkenazim. It is not so hard for American Ashkenazim to stay protected from antisemitism as long as they totally unplug from their Jewish identity and any public-facing aspects of it. Can't be killed in a synagogue or JCC or kosher store if you never go in, head tap.

[hypnoneghoul]

university ghoul dynamics part 2 of 2. I blame @skele-bunny and @everybodyshusband /aff this is about a student teacher relationship but they are both consenting adults and the age gap isn't drastic (think like 25&30)

non-binary, disabled young uni teacher rain with a fresh phd & audhd student aeon that picked a random degree so his parents would fuck off

aeon with parent issues, completely disinterested in all his classes, but smart, so he passes it all anyways. barely, but he does—he'd be a top student if he gave it more than the bare minimum

there's one class that he pays attention to, since the first meeting. a non-binary teacher 30 years younger than the rest of his professors and not much older than aeon himself. someone actually just...cool, with a gentle yet commanding voice that's just captivating and makes even the stubborn students just want to listen. rain seems passionate about their class, too, which makes it even more pleasant to listen because it’s obvious they actually want to be there and teach, and it’s not just a job they have to make a living

rain's class is the only one aeon attends regularly and actually listens to a little bit, but he's still aeon and he’s still on the spectrum. it's not like he's suddenly a passionate academic just because one of his teachers is cool. rain notices, ofc, and they also consider themself cool and approachable so they decide to talk to aeon about it. maybe he has some problems, maybe he has a learning disability, etc. rain intends to help, if they can

something something it turns out aeon never had anyone caring for him or his needs in any capacity and it's not long before he becomes strangely attached to rain. they're aware and they know they should stop it and definitely not let it go any further but...but there's something about helping aeon that kinda. fulfills them

when they were a student they had a lot of problems because of their gender identity and disability and they didn't have any teachers that would care and it made them hate university despite being so passionate. they took a gap year or two before their masters and phd and ended up loving it all over again but they still remember how it felt not being taken seriously and they don't want that for aeon

a few months and they totally fall in love. it's awkward and neither of them knows what to do about it and neither of them is even sure that the other feels the same and the simple fact that they're a teacher and a student, even if they're both adults with a not-so-big age difference

I think aeon always packs slowly at the end of the classes, lingers so he can be the last one to leave and maybe exchange a few words with rain. next semester aeon signs up for additional classes the moment he sees some of them are rain's

I think there would be a moment when like. aeon is slow as usual in getting out of the class. rain has a bad pain day and struggles with carrying some of their stuff and they end up dropping it. aeon is on his knees picking it up in a second and rain will not admit what aeon on his knees before him and looking up at them with a sweet smile and puppy eyes did to them

maybe rain invites him for coffee one time. to discuss his academic future, of course. nothing else. right?

they both feel it's so wrong but it reaches a point where they just. can't not be together

aeon not telling rain how far from university he actually lives and getting up at like. 5am to come pick rain up when they're in a flareup and can't get to uni themself but have to come teach

aeon throwing a tantrum when the elevator isn't working even though rain insist it's fine

(stolen from felix) rain emailing aeon telling him to come to office hours to talk, and when aeon gets there it turns out rain just wanted to say that they're...look, they're not disappointed, but they can see that aeon's not living up to his full potential, and they'd really like to see him working a bit harder in class if he's able to. they're more than willing to help him out with certain concepts and accommodate his needs to allow this to happen etc etc. and aeon doesn't really know why (we do though, it's the parental issues) but something about rain at their desk, peering over their round wire-rimmed glasses and telling him to work harder is doing something for him and he doesn't know how to feel about it. something about how gentle they are about it too, like they're not angry, they just want to see him work harder and be true to his abilities and they're genuinely willing to help him achieve that

[coyoteprince]

Some thoughts on the masculine side of my gender experience and how it ties into vulnerability

I am nonbinary, I believe some flavor of fluid, but I just read as a goth cis woman to the layperson. That's fine and good, there is a safety and privilege in being stealth even with the alternative way I dress, but there also feels like a safe with something precious I keep locked away in me.

I take comfort in referring to myself as a "woman with a man's personality" and likening myself to a kelpie or nymph: beautiful, soft, but merely a vision of a woman: in reality underneath the gossamer, a beast that fails man's words.

Occasionally, something stirs to life in me, similar but different: those feelings of masculinity. I am naturally positioned by my genes (I can grow a shitty sparse beard) and temperament to have some secondary features- but thats it.

And yet, when the pangs of longing ache, they come on suddenly and harsh and I feel trapped.

There is nothing I can truly do to feel comfortable with the swing of identity. Only shapeshifiting back and forth could satisfy me which is impossible. Yes, I could seek hormones or surgery, but I have decided for now to not for a variety of reasons. As part of that, I've always been rather... defensive and secretive about the masculine part of my identity. I have a secondary masculine name I only allow people I trust to call me, and this dumb tumblr post is the first time I'm admitting some rather personal things to the public eye.

I'm well aware today many won't respect the nature of my gender just because I am a ~nonbinary girl~ and not seeking permanent transition, but even before that the thought of being trans was too much for me.

The first time I realized I was trans I wasn't older than 15 and noticed the thoughts I was experiencing about wanting to feel like a boy. It frightened me so bad that I vowed to never give it attention again specifically because I already knew I was queer, mentally different, being abused, and "didn't need another target on my back". Haha. Hahaha

Ignoring those thoughts hasn't been too hard except when I see the ghost of my identity. Then it is overwhelming, like a wave crashing over me and threatening to sweep me into the tide. Painful and exhilarating all at once. Before I know it, it's gone again.

I read and watched The Outsiders in middleschool, as did many. I latched onto Johnny, a greaser kid with an abusive family who tried to play tough but was really just an incredibly scared, sweet runt. I couldn't for the life of me figure out why I identified so hard with him but hindsight is 20/20. Despite the hamminess of Outsiders, I continue to hold a fondness.

Later, when I became comfortable with my nonbinary ID (something that was quite difficult for me) and an adult, I saw another ghost. A theme now set: soft hearted greasers. The first time I heard this I curled up and couldn't stop replaying it even though it made my chest ache.

Finally, the last ghost I've seen and what really made it all click for me was Izzy.

I was neutral of Izzy for the first season (sorry my old man fucker peers), but seeing him become disabled and starting to soften made me intrigued. Then, the drag scene and him singing: I yelped in excitement, bewilderment, and bawled like never before. It was the most intense gender euphoria I've ever felt. Izzy shot to the top of my favorite characters ever in an instant with all he grew to embody.

I guess I identify with boys clad in leather, forced to become rugged in all the wrong ways. Underneath, a natural softness terrified but desperate to show itself.

You can see this in Waite, too: A handsome, dark man who is oh so soft underneath. It's no secret that in my story over time he accepts his nonbinary identity and allows his truth to be seen framed by carnations and frill. Perhaps he is what I wish I was.

On the other hand, Degare is somewhat closer to my reality. A gender all his own, effeminant masculine mannerisms, fairly feminine dress, breasts and vagina and all- though he is still often more masculine than how I present. In contrast to Waite's uneasy fear of judgement, he tries to guard his natural softness rather aggressively out of fear of being taken advantage of.

I'm sure to many reading this I sound like a transmasc "egg" that hasn't cracked yet. To others, very mentally ill. Maybe to some who are fluid, they know the wish-washy feelings.

Either way, I'm a proud freak and I've worked hard to not allow others to hold power over how I view myself anymore. These past 4 years through a cocktail of treatments (though meditation and practice have been the biggest game changers) I've diligently learned how to balance being openly loving to all and authentic- yet protecting my energy and staying sure of my identity no matter another's opinion. Misery loves company and bitter, paranoid gossips and I no longer get along.

Softness, kindness, vulnerability for others and yourself are all difficult, at times seemingly impossible things to achieve when you come from a harsh upbringing and live in a world bombarded by bad news. Change in your view and behavior is excrusiating. But I believe striving for authenticity and love is the most important thing we can do as humans in this life.

Whether I end up transitioning down the line or staying as I am, I've learned to cherish these flashes of masculine desire and be empowered by vulnerability- and I don't regret it.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Imagine Being Loved By Me

Pairing: Billy Washington (Trigger Point) x f!reader Warnings: Self deprecation, alcohol, mild angst, semi public smut, oral sex (m receiving) Word count: ~3.2k

Summary: Loose lips sink ships - a drunken night at the pub proves catastrophic for the secret fling she's been having with her best mate's brother. Based on this request.

Author's note: I don't have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

She lays cocooned on the sofa, enveloped in the soft warmth of fluffy throw blankets. The sounds of an episode of Eastenders playing on the TV fill the small space of her living room, yet her attention is focused solely on her phone, cradled in her palm as her thumb hovers over the screen.

“Come to the pub, not seen you for ages.” Reads the text message from her best mate, Lana.

It’s true, she has seen less of Lana over the last couple of months, the sole cause of that is due to Lana’s younger brother, Billy. She had never meant for it to happen. 

After Billy had been pulled from his car in Cranstead Gardens, only for it to blow up mere moments later - a bomb planted by a right wing group called The Crusaders, attempting to frame Billy for an attack on anti-fascist protestors, Billy had been in a bad way. Already plagued by struggles of self worth and identity, he was now traumatised on top of it.

Supporting Billy through all of it had taken a toll on Lana. She’d taken time off work to care for her younger brother, making sure he went to his therapy sessions, sitting up with him when his night terrors got too much for him to bear, making sure he ate and took care of himself.

She’d seen how tired Lana was becoming, the dark circles under her eyes growing more prominent every time she saw her. Spending so much time looking after Billy, she was forgetting to look after herself. Stepping in, she’d lended her own support, wanting to ease the burden on her best friend.

Countless cups of tea were made by her, she’d cooked massive pasta bakes and pots of chilli, ensuring that both Lana and Billy had dinner every day. In her bid to support her friend, she’d unwittingly become part of her brother’s life too.

It was an afternoon a week after Lana had gone back to work, she’d continued to pop round to Billy’s each day as a favour to her, just to check in on him and make sure he wasn’t letting the flat get in too much of a state.

They had been standing side by side in the kitchen, her rolling a cigarette for both of them, while Billy made tea. Their fingers had brushed as he’d passed her mug with one hand, while taking his rollie from her with the other, and for the briefest of moments their eyes had locked.

She felt as though time had stood still as she stared into his big blue eyes, and suddenly tea and cigarettes were forgotten as their lips met in a frenzied rush of passion. He’d pushed her back against the kitchen side and she’d giggled against his lips as they’d sent empty beer cans and dirty cutlery clattering to the floor.

In response, he’d lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist as he’d carried her to the bedroom. His breath had been heavy against her neck as he’d rutted hard into her against the rumpled bed sheets, while she’d stroked her fingers through his tousled sandy hair and whispered to him how good he was making her feel.

They’d laid there breathlessly afterwards and he’d made her swear not to tell Lana. It had made sense to her at the time, she’d thought it was a one off, and Lana would probably find it weird that her best friend and her younger brother had slept together.

But then it kept happening, and as time went on it felt more like a relationship than casual hooking up. Yet Billy continued to insist they kept it quiet, so she had, despite it seeming odd to her that they’d make a secret of something that clearly both made them happy.

And Billy did make her happy - most of the time. When things were good, they were really good; they’d spoon on his threadbare sofa, his laughter ruffling her hair as they watched reruns of The Simpsons. His large hand would always find its way up her top, wrapping around the dip in her waist, anchoring her to him.

When things were bad, they were awful. It would often happen after Billy’s weekly visits to the JobCentre to sign on, he’d come back petulant, closed off, in a place that was so far into his own mind that she couldn’t reach him. He’d lash out with angry words, filled with spite and vitriol if she tried to push him to open up, so she’d learned to retreat, to let him come to her.

Usually a day later, he’d reach back out and apologise, and things would be good again. Yet this time, a week had passed since she’d left Billy to his own devices and he hadn’t spoken to her at all.

She clicks away from Lana’s text, and onto her thread with her younger brother, faced with a stream of her own unanswered messages. 

Fuck him.

If he doesn’t want to talk to her then perhaps her Friday night is better spent at the pub. She fires off a quick message to Lana, telling her she’ll be there in an hour before showering and getting herself ready.

The pavement is slick underfoot as she walks from her flat. It’s rained recently, and the smell of it hangs thick in the air, along with a brisk chill that causes her to pull her leather jacket tighter around herself, wishing she’d put on something warmer.

She pushes through the heavy barrier of the pub door, leaving behind the cold air, the smell of rain and the steady hum of traffic, for stifling warmth, the cloying scent of beer and raucous laughter.

Smiling when she spots Lana at a table in the corner, flanked by her mate and fellow EXPO, John, she heads over, taking a seat next to Lana and shrugs out of her jacket.

“Alright, stranger?” Lana looks warmly at her, eyes filled with familiar affection, “Mick’s just getting a round in.”

Her smile falters, stomach churning with disgust at the mention of Mick. He’s ex-military, a mutual friend of Joel and Lana. Since Joel had passed away in the Westhaven Estate bombing, he had latched onto Lana, and it made her skin crawl. She hated his arrogance and the way he always leered at her, he took cheap shots at Billy’s expense whenever he was around, despite repeatedly being told to stop.

“Great,” she says, the dullness of her tone not matching the enthusiasm of the word.

Before Lana can respond, Mick makes his way back over, four full pint glasses clutched tightly in his hands. He sets them down on the table, the motion sending lager foam dripping over the edges and onto the wood beneath.

“Lana mentioned you’d be dropping in,” Mick says, sliding a glass across to her, a trail of moisture spreading across the tabletop in its wake, “so I got you a pint.”

“Thanks,” she says with a tight smile, lifting the glass to her lips and taking a deep sip, focusing on how the bitter bubbles fizz against her tongue.

“Any time, gorgeous,” he fires back with a wink, and she grimaces, feeling as though she’ll bring the beer back up that she’s just swallowed.

She’s grateful when he takes a seat next to John and the two fall into conversation, leaving her and Lana to catch up. They talk about work and Lana’s excitement over Thom finally asking her to move in with him. It’s nice to be around her best friend again, how easily they slot back into place as though no time has passed. She feels guilty for not having made more time for Lana, being secretly kept preoccupied by Billy.

As if on cue, her phone buzzes and she pulls it out of her bag, seeing a text from him flash up on the screen. “were r u??”

She sighs, realising he’s likely turned up at her flat and seen she’s not home. It’s tempting to ignore him, considering he’s left her hanging for the last week, but she knows Billy, knows what he’s like, he’ll spiral if he doesn’t hear from her.

“At the pub.” She replies, then sends “With your sister.” as an afterthought, hoping it will deter him from turning up.

Putting her phone away, she continues drinking her pint and chatting with Lana, until Lana’s eyes move towards the door, brows raising in surprise.

“Here comes trouble,” she says, before taking a drink.

She turns, heart sinking as she sees Billy making his way unsteadily towards their table. His eyes are glazed, a pinkish hue is dusted across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones, the telltale signs he’s been drinking.

Mick looks up, raising his pint in greeting. “Billy! I’d offer you a drink, but I’ve not long gotten a round in. You can afford to get your own, right?”

“Mick, leave it,” Lana grits out, eyes narrowed.

“Sit down, Billy,” she says gently, pulling out the seat next to hers, “I’ll get you one.”

“I don’t need you!” He snaps, nostrils flaring and brow furrowing.

She flinches back, feeling her throat tighten, lowering her gaze to hide the hurt she feels.

Billy softens, shoulders sagging with shame, averting his own eyes. “Don’t need you to get me a drink,” he says quietly, “can get my own.”

She watches him weave through the crowded pub towards the bar, anxiety forming a pit within her stomach.

“Fuck’s sake,” she hears Lana mutter under her breath, turning to her. “I’m so sorry, had no idea he’d turn up.”

I did, she thinks to herself, but offers her friend a reassuring smile. “It’s alright, I don’t mind.”

Billy’s pint is already half drunk by the time he makes his way back to their table. He sets the glass heavily down on its surface, before slumping in the seat next to hers, fingers fidgeting with a beer mat.

“Still not working then, Billy?” Mick asks and she has to fight the urge to tell him to shut up, her grip tightening around the condensation coated outside of her pint glass.

“Starting an apprenticeship in two weeks, actually,” he says, shooting him a sideways glance, fingers continuing to spin the beer mat.

What? Why hadn’t he told her?

Her eyes widen in surprise, mouth opening to ask about it, closing it again upon realising it’s not her place, not publicly anyway. Thankfully, Lana is quick to step in.

“That’s brilliant news! Doing what?”

“Car mechanics,” Billy says. “Bloke at the JobCentre sorted me out with it, I start in two weeks.”

“Wow,” Lana says with a genuine smile, “I’m dead pleased for you, mate, know how much you enjoyed doing up your old Vauxhall.”

Billy nods, tapping the edge of the beer mat against the table, not looking directly at anyone. “Yeah, should hopefully have a job by the end of it.”

She takes a mouthful of lager, swirling it over her tongue, trying to distract herself from the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She’s pleased for Billy, it would be cruel not to be, but she can’t deny the hurt she feels that this isn’t something he felt was worth sharing with her.

“Let’s hope this sticks, eh, mate?” Mick says with a smirk.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Billy asks with a scowl.

Mick shrugs casually. “Seems like a good opportunity, would hate to see it go the same way as all your attempts to join the army.”

“Let’s keep it friendly, shall we?” John says uncomfortably, but is ignored by Mick.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, “hope another group of terrorists doesn’t come along and distract him. They teach you how to look for bombs while you’re fixing up the cars at this apprenticeship?”

“I said enough!” Lana shouts, slamming her pint glass down, eyes wide with fury.

The pub goes eerily silent, the Oasis song that’s playing on the jukebox and the scrape of Billy’s chair legs on the flagstone flooring are the only audible sounds as he stands abruptly, tossing the beer mat he’d been fiddling with onto the table.

“Going out for a fag,” he says sullenly, the chatter of surrounding tables gradually becoming louder as the shock of the sudden outburst wears of.

Billy walks out of the pub, head bowed, and she watches him go, her heart aching for him.

“Erm…think I’ll join him, actually,” she tells Lana, turning towards her, “could do with a smoke anyway. I’ll see if he’s alright.”

“Appreciate that, thank you,” Lana says, giving her hand a squeeze. “Think Mick and I need to have a little chat anyway,” her tone is suddenly stern, her gaze dark as she turns to face the man opposite her.

She nods, slipping her jacket back on and heads outside.

The shock of the cold night air hitting her skin causes her to draw in a sharp breath. It’s still damp outside and she worries that Billy might have gone home when she can’t immediately see him. It’s not until she walks along the road a short distance that she spots the glow of the end of a lit cigarette down an alleyway, the reddish hue dully illuminating Billy’s sharp features.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she walks towards him. “You should ignore Mick,” she says softly, standing in front of him, “he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Billy exhales a plume of smoke, a hint of a sneer on his face as he draws his head back, staring at her through narrowed eyes. “Seems like he had the right of it to me. I’m a fuck up and almost got myself killed because of it.”

“You’re not, Billy,” she reassures him, “you were in a bad place. Those scumbags took advantage. Mick only takes the piss because he knows if he was in your position he wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

He sniffs, scowling slightly as he takes another drag, and she shifts from foot to foot, anxiously waiting for him to say something, anything.

She sighs when it becomes apparent he won’t, silently exhaling smoke, his brooding silence too much for her to bear. “Why didn’t you tell me about the apprenticeship?” 

Billy swallows thickly, staring down at his trainers. “I was gonna, but then…then Becky text me.”

“Oh,” is all she’s able to get out, her skin growing heated despite how cold it is, as her heart lurches with painful jealousy.

She takes an involuntary step back, but Billy is quick to advance towards her, his free hand reaching for her. “No, not like that!” He says hastily. “I dunno what she wanted, actually. Messaged to ask how I was and I told her I was with you and not to contact me again.”

Her stomach flutters at his words.

Told her I was with you.

She can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth. “And then what?”

“Then she said it wouldn’t last, she couldn’t imagine why someone like you would wanna be with someone like me.”

“And you believed her?”

He chucks his cigarette butt on the ground, crushing it underfoot. “I followed my therapist’s advice; cut ties with people who force you to question your self worth - blocked her number.”

Pride swells in her chest at his words and she reaches for his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“But it got me thinking,” he continues, “you deserve better than a few secret shags with your best mate’s waster brother.”

Her brow furrows, sadness making her feel heavy. “Is that why you’ve avoided me all week?”

Billy nods. “Yeah, just sorta wondered what the point of it all is, we have to keep it a secret anyway, and I’m just gonna fuck it up, same as I’ll do with this apprenticeship.”

She reaches up, cupping his face, fingers stroking over the scruff of his jawline, which is in desperate need of a shave. “Billy, it was your decision to keep us a secret. I’d tell everyone, given the choice. I’m not ashamed to be with you.”

His hands grasp her wrists, thumbs stroking the soft skin on the undersides. “Really?” He asks, his voice barely a whisper as he looks at her hopefully.

Leaning up, she kisses his lips, quick and chaste. “Really. Billy, you’re so good,” she leans up again, pressing her mouth to his more firmly, for longer, savouring the feeling of him kissing her back.

“So good to me,” she whispers, trailing her lips along his jaw and over his neck, smiling as she feels him shudder, his long fingers threading themselves into her hair.

“I’m so proud to be with you,” she tells him, sucking at his pulsepoint, earning a groan, which she feels the rumble of through his chest.

She reaches down, palming him through his jogging bottoms, feeling the rapid hardening of his cock through the cotton. “You’re gonna do so well at your apprenticeship, show everyone else just how good you are.”

His jaw goes slack, his grip on her hair tightening as he pulls her in for another kiss. It’s deep and heated, his breathing rapid as he tongue works against hers. He tastes of tobacco and Carling, yet to her there has never been anything more addictive.

Pulling away, his hands slip from her hair as she drops to her knees in front of him, not caring how the dampness of the concrete soaks into the material of her jeans.

“What are you doing?” Billy asks, lips parted in shock as he watches her tug at the waistband of his joggers and boxers, pulling them down just enough to free his erection. “Someone could see!”

“Then let them see, Billy,” she whispers huskily, eyes flitting up momentarily to meet the ocean blue wideness of his. “I told you I’m not ashamed to be with you.”

She licks the flushed pink tip of him, humming appreciatively at the sharp taste, grinning to herself as Billy hisses through his teeth, eyes screwed shut.

“Tastes so good,” she coos up at him, reveling in the sigh of the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the way he twitches against her palm.

Opening her mouth, she envelopes the length of him in its wet warmth, hollowing her cheeks as she bobs her head back and forth.

“Oh…fuck!” Billy all but chokes out, and she moans around him, speeding up her movements, pulling back each time the head of him knocks the back of her throat, stroking her hand up and down the base in tandem.

It is risky to do this so publicly, and yet it adds to the thrill; on her knees in a darkened alleyway for her man, showing him exactly what he’s worth, what he means to her. 

Her core throbs with arousal, her movements becoming sloppy as Billy cups the back of her head, muscles tensing and his breathing becoming ragged. She can feel the tang of pre-cum against her tongue and knows he won’t last much longer.

She whines when he grips her hair, pulling her off of him and dragging his trousers back up.

“Why’d you do that? You were about to cum,” she huffs, rising to her feet.

“Exactly,” he says with a shrug, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and guiding her out of the alley. “Wanna be inside you when I do that though, and I’d much rather be back at my girlfriend’s place to do that than down a fucking alley.”

She grins, wrapping an arm around his waist as they walk home.

Girlfriend.

She likes the sound of that.

[badbatch-badfics]

Padawan (TBB x Male Reader) Part 1

Part 2

Characters: The Bad Batch - Crosshair. Not much of Wrecker, mainly just meeting them.

Relationship: All platonic

POV: Mixture between 2nd (you/yours) and 3rd (he/him)

Pronouns: He/him, but referred to as they/them when identity is unknown to the Batch

Species: Unspecified, should be pretty neutral

Content: Angst?? Panic?? Introductions?? Beginning of found family??

Warnings: Panic attacks, minor injury description, thinking about your death (non-suicide), anything that would be in TBB normally. Possibly some lore inaccuracies. Cringe

Word count: 4,777

Notes: If you’re willing, please let me know if you think 2nd person or 3rd person POV is better, or if the combo is readable.

You balanced yourself on the beam, steadily walking across with eyes darting back and forth for anything that seemed of use.  Or, at least, a new pathway, or bridge, or anything that could lead you somewhere new, where there was the possibility of supplies.  Or food, or some type of communication device, or, quite literally, anything.  You weren’t picky, given the circumstances- couldn’t afford to be.  But in truth, there was little to no chance of finding anything new.  You’d scavenged through the ship countless times, and for the past…however long, there’d been nothing new.  You hadn’t missed anything from the previous ventures, no small creature had drug in anything from outside or from a part with limited access, nothing fell to reveal a hidden treasure of some sort.  Absolutely nothing.  But yet, each day you once again went out with a glimmer of hope- or denial- that there would be something.  Or maybe it was just a feeble attempt to focus your mind away from the events.  Not that it worked.

As the beam came across a body of water, you peered down to the pool, loathing at what was reflecting back- raggy, dirty, and bloody.  Kriffing Hell, I could be mistaken for a Tusken Raider with this shit-job of a covering.  Your normal Padawan robes, as well as ones from your Master, had been torn into several chunks, and wrapped around different limbs, as well as pieces of fabric from any corpses you’d stumble upon.  Layered on top of those was a poncho-cloak, barely holding on by a thread.  An oxygen mask hung limply around your neck, and was covered with a fine coating of dirt and grime, with splattered blood on top.  Bandages, cloth, and even animal pelts wound loosely around your head, leaving only small holes and strips for the mouth, nose, and eyes.  Your waist was adorned with a make-shift gear belt, holding a multitude of different bones- sharpened and shaped to become tools and methods of protection.  Your Lightsaber bumped lightly with each step, an eternal reminder to what happened- and as many bad thoughts as it brought, it would be an absolutely idiotic move to ditch the weapon.  Not wanting to look any longer, you pulled back your head and took a deep breath, continuing on.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rex led the squad of modified clones through the dirty, deserted and desolate hallways, shining a light so nobody fell to their demise.  The group talked about the war, inhibitor chips, and the like until they came across a large canyon, so to speak.  Rex, Omega, Tech, Hunter, and Echo all shimmied their way across, leaving Wrecker to go last.  “You can do it!  Just keep your eyes on the table,” Omega yelled encouragingly.  With a few grunts and a shake of his head, Wrecker began climbing the cable upside down.  Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, it couldn’t hold his weight, plummeting him down to the murky water.

The collective panic from all six clones shot out an incredibly large Force ‘wave’ to the padawan, of which felt as though he was being hit by a speeder bike head-on and then ricocheted into a Bantha.  The shock of realizing that someone- scratch that, multiple someones- were here, on the ship with him, at this exact moment was more than enough to cause (Y/N) to stumble backwards from where he was standing and trip over some debris, falling flat on his ass.  Once (Y/N) could gather that he and the strangers had a decent amount of space in between them, his breathing calmed- but not enough to be normal.

(Y/N) carefully got up, watching his foot placement, before turning to where he had been sleeping and recouping for the past few months.  His legs felt both stiff and shaky, his vision was blurry, and his breathing was ragged.  Once (Y/N) was finally in the small space that contained his very few belongings, he fell to the floor, backed into the wall, and curled up into a tiny, and rather pathetic, ball.  People were here.  (Y/N) didn’t know if they were good, or bad- or if they weren't much of either.  Didn’t know their motives, didn’t know anything.  When (Y/N) had prayed to the Force to find new things, this is not what he meant.  At all.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Soon enough, and with several general or head-based injuries, all four men had their inhibitor chips removed.  Omega and Hunter were walking around, exploring this and that and whatnot.  Mainly because Omega would have done so anyway, but she most definitely needs supervision on the death-trap that is so humbly called a ship.  Unfortunately for you, the pair was getting awfully close to his “hide-out.”  Even worse, it seemed Hunter was aware of that as well.

“Omega…I think there’s someone here with us.  Stay close,” he whispered, pulling out his blaster.  Your breathing grew faster and more shaggy, and your vision clouded.  What could I do?  They’re in front of the only exit, and I haven't fought a person, or even touched my lightsaber in Force knows how long!  Considering the only way out, other than direct confrontation, seemed to be a 100+ foot drop- the choice was more or less clear.  You shakily stood up, grabbed the lightsaber which had been doing nothing else than collecting dust (and bad memories), and began to sprint as fast as possible, shoulder aimed at the door.  Dank Farrik, please- don’t let me die like this.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Hunter jumped back, quickly grabbing Omega’s arm and pulling her out of the way with him.  And lucky he did, otherwise she may have been crushed by the metal plate that went flying as the cloaked figure stumbled and bolted.  Immediately, Hunter reached up to his comm and reported, “There’s somebody else on the ship!  His motive is unclear- just blasted through a door and ran- looks like he’s going for an escape.”

On the other end, Wrecker almost jumped out of his skin in excitement- “Finally!  Some action!”  Tech couldn’t help but roll his eyes at Wrecker’s interest in beating someone to hell and back.  After some more information was passed through, Wrecker and Tech had an approximate idea of where they needed to head in order to intercept the stowaway.  Since Hunter had said that the mystery person appeared to be running away, stealth was not an objective for the pair- running through loudly was acceptable.

(Y/N) was solely focused on getting out- not where the others could be.  Which was a terrible mistake- if you’re running away from somebody, it’d generally be wise to know where they are.  Tech could guess as much, and used it to his advantage.  Although he hadn’t gotten a full map of the ship, based on Hunter’s location report, the mystery person’s motive, and the ship being heavily damaged, he could make a reasonable estimate as to where the person would be.

To no one’s surprise, Tech was absolutely correct.  After instructing Wrecker where to go, they had each blocked the end of a hallway.  Wrecker had cut in front and faced the mystery person head on, grinning as cracking his neck, while Tech had stealthily followed from a ways behind.  By the time Tech caught up, the mystery person had already slammed to a stop and immediately turned around to exit the other end, but to no avail.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You ran as fast as you could, and you really did try paying attention to your surroundings, but it was all utterly useless.  The intruders had pinned you.  One giant guy to the front, and one smart guy to the back.  Brains and brawn.  Your heart beat far too fast, feeling the thump thump in your head, being far too hot, and your vision was rapidly becoming smaller and more tunneled.

It didn’t help when the big guy spoke, and you realized they were clones.  Odd clones, granted, but clones, who, as far as you knew, executed Order 66, executed your Master, friends, your entire sense of familiarity and comfort.

You weren’t prepared for this- you hadn’t trained in months, or even used your lightsaber.  There was no means of escape, considering the second either of them saw you reach for a weapon, it would be over.  Running would do you no good, and if they had followed Order 66, talking wouldn’t do any good either.  It seemed you’d join the other jedi in whatever afterlife awaited.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The figure fell flat on their ass and scrambled half-way backwards and half-way to the nearest wall after hearing Wrecker’s voice- they were shaking, sweat drenching their clothes all the way through, and, all in all, resembling a caged animal who knew it was done for.  A loud echo ran out as the figure roughly contacted the metal wall, and pulled their legs up, semi-resembling the fetal position, as their hands were still on the ground.

Wrecker and Tech slowly approached the figure, blasters balanced on their arms.  Both took notice of the shaky and rapid breathing, the occasional twitching, and how the figure seemed to be ever-so-slightly rocking.  This person was a very good actor, or nothing more than someone scared, who was in the very wrong place at the wrong time.  They both assumed the latter.

As Tech walked forward, he used his scanner to find the general age and species of the subject, brows furrowing as results came forward.  The figure was somewhere in between 15 and 18, was (chosen species), and, as more data was collected, Tech discovered that the figure was a Jedi.  Or, at the very least, someone with a high midichlorian count.  He stopped walking, lowered his blaster- not a lot, but just enough, and gestured to Wrecker to copy.  Wrecker made a grunt in confusion, not understanding.  Tech sighed and replied, “I do not believe they intend to harm us.  If my data is correct, they are a teenager, and most likely a padawan.  And it would seem they do not wish to engage through a fight, anyway.  Put your weapons down.”

(Y/N)’s head darted back and forth between the two, confused- was he safe?  They were clones- were they not going to execute Order 66, or at the very least, kill him as a simple intruder?  Just then, a third clone appeared- one with half the helmet white, the other black, with a few more details and some large red stripes.  He had a vibro-knife in one hand, extended outward with a curve, and his other hand, holding a blaster, rested on top of it.  “Hunter, I do not think they are a threat- at least, at this moment.  There has been no attempt to harm us as of yet, and they appear to be force sensitive, which would most certainly warrant an attempt to flee from a group of clones,” Tech informed.  (Y/N) slowly reached his hand towards the lightsaber on his makeshift belt, but didn’t quite grab it- not yet.  Hunter slowly put his weapons away and set down his helmet, a small hiss ringing out when he took it off.

He crouched just enough to seem smaller and slightly less intimidating, without looking like he was getting ready to spring up.  He extended his hands, walking slowly towards (Y/N).  “We’re not here to hurt you- we're not like the other clones– we’ve had our inhibitor chips removed.  You’re safe,” he spoke slowly and clearly.  Tech jumped in, “The inhibitor chips are what programmed the regs– the other clones– to execute Order 66.  So we don’t want to hurt you.”  Wrecker grunted something in agreement.

“Now, we have a functioning ship with us, and we can get you out of here- somewhere safe, or at least, more safe than here, okay?  We have food, water, medical care, and we have a place to stay where the Empire won’t bother us.  Let us help you.”  By the time Hunter had finished his little speech, he was only a few feet away from (Y/N), crouching down, now eye-level with him.  (Y/N)’s hand slowly came away from his saber.  This felt safe- he could sense it, more or less.  There wasn’t actually any danger, and the clone, who (Y/N) assumed was Hnuter, felt safe and honest– reminding him of the warmth and comfort the Jedi Temple, his fellow Padawans, his Master, all brought him.

(Y/N) tried to say something, but his voice caught and cracked horribly- a mixture of the panic, and having not talked to anyone in months.  He felt his eyes water behind the terribly dirty rags, which stung more than it should have.  “Let's start by getting those rags off you, okay?  Tech, bring over some bacta-spray and clean bandages,” Hunter instructed.  Tech did as he was told, fishing out some spray and bandages from one of his several pouches that lined his waist.  

Tech passed the supplies to Hunter, who indicated for him and Wrecker to go report to the rest what was happening.  He directed his attention back to (Y/N), calmly asking, “I’m gonna take off your face wrappings, alright?”  (Y/N) mumbling what Hunter assumed was an ‘okay,’ and felt his body go heavy and almost limp.  Hunter reached up, tenderly brushing against the Padawan’s face, swiftly untying the bounds of cloth.  He quickly used his other hand to bring the rest of it down, now draped around (Y/N)’s neck.  His face was dirty, caked in dirt, grime, and what appeared to be blood.  The mixture of paste, so to speak, was cracked and chipping, looking like a desert’s mud-crack.

Whether or not he meant to, Hunter grimaced at the sorry state of the Padawan.  He took his gloved hands to try and brush and scrape off the majority of the paste off, which was primarily successful.  After the layer of muck was removed, Hunter found one long gash, following the curvature of (Y/N)’s jawline, from just below the eye to just above his mouth.  It was inflamed and oozing, and was most certainly going to need stitches.  He held up the bacta-spray, and lightly spritzed it onto the wound.  A sharp hiss sounded out from (Y/N), who was now squinting his eyes.  Hunter mumbled some sort of apology before taking out the bandage and delicately, yet firmly at the same time, placed it on the gash.

“Are there any more major injuries we should worry about?  We can take care of the smaller ones on the ship, but still.  Better safe than sorry.”  (Y/N) shook his head no.  Hunter slowly stood up, and extended a hand, but (Y/N) just seemed to stare at it.  Slowly, though, the Padawan extended his own hand out, flinching and hesitating once his arm was half-way extended.  After a few seconds, though, he fully reached out and tightly grabbed the man’s hand.  Using the wall behind him, (Y/N) pushed himself up, legs shaky.  As soon as he was steady, (Y/N) ripped his hand away, bringing it close and pinning it tightly against his own chest.

Hunter commed Tech, instructing him to get everyone on-board the Marauder, and to try and use any spare pieces of clothing or blanket to form some type of clean cover that would fit the Padawan.  After what seemed to last forever, Hunter broke the silence- “So, what's' your name, kid?”

“(Y/N)...” he mumbled, quiet enough that only Hunter’s enhanced ears could make it out clearly.  The pair continued their walk through the broken up ship, eventually coming up to the ramp that led out to the Marauder.  (Y/N) brought his arm to his eyes, squinting at the sun- being far too bright, seeing as he hadn’t gone out of the ship in Maker knows how long.  Hunter took notice and briefly stopped, turning his head back to the teenager.

“You alright?  I’m sure I have something if you want to block out the sun for the walk,” he gently offered.  (Y/N) silently shook his head no, while slowly taking his arm down, bringing it back down to his chest, head and eyes solidly trained on the ground.  Hunter stared for a few seconds more, just to be sure, before continuing on towards the Marauder.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Your head was woozy, your heart beating out of your chest, and you were simultaneously shaking, yet felt numb.  All in all, it felt terrible.  And perhaps even worse, you knew there was no real reason to feel this way.  You were finally safe.  And there was no possible way that the clones would turn and execute you.  They would have done so already, without a doubt!  Why would anyone go against direct orders, and pure convenience, just to make someone suffer more?  That would be beyond inadequate. And it just made you feel terrible for not trusting them, or at the very least, for being suspicious of them.  And now your head hurt more than before.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, but was no more than a five minute walk, the pair came up on the Havoc Marauder, in all its battle worn glory.  Echo was leaning on the frame to the entry ramp, draping a clean, albeit worn and torn, wool poncho over his scomp.  From the time Echo had spent with them, he gathered that the Jedi seemed to really like their ponchos.

As you and Hunter finally came up to the ramp, you froze.  Your heart got significantly louder, palms sweater, which, by the way, was never pleasant under the dirty rags, and your eyes began darting around.  There was only one way out, it seemed.  If the group did have ill intent, you’d be done for as soon as you set a single toe in the ship.  That was not a comforting thought.  Hunter could hear your heartbeat and smell your sweat (or rather, the reaction it has with your skin) from a mile away.

Alerted by this change in demeanor, he turned back to look at you- who was completely frozen stiff, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape and pulled downwards.  He may have been prepared for any mission the Republic gave him, but there certainly wasn’t any briefing on traumatized teenagers- let alone force sensitive teens.  Kriff, he barely knew how to socialize with the Regs, and it was a miracle he could bond as much as he did with Omega.

Echo, even with his lack of enhanced senses, could easily see Hunter’s predicament.  “How about you get the rest of the squad together, keep it calm for the kid.  I’ll go take care of this.”  Hunter silently nodded in thanks, brushing past his brother to head inside and start giving orders.  That he was good at, no matter the topic.

Echo slowly, but not too slowly, as that would seem like a predator circling its prey, walked down the ramp and stood just in arm’s reach of the Padawan.  You seemed to stare at each other for an eternity before he slowly handed you the poncho.  “Here… seems you Jedi like ponchos, and we had one lying about.  Hope it works.  Got some more fabrics up on the ship, if you need any.  And better med-kits, stuff to find infections or fevers.  In case.”  He spoke both in a calm and precise manner, and continued on, “Name’s Echo, by the way.  Yours?  If you don’t mind, anyway.”

You didn’t respond for a few more seconds, taking it all in.  Finally, you mustered up a small response, “(Y/N)... and thank you.”  Echo smiled lightly, extending the poncho out a  bit further.  Quickly, you threw off the old poncho, which wouldn't have lasted another week, and put on the fresh new one.  “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up, at least around the arms and face, yeah?  We’ll be on another planet soon, and then you can get some proper fitting clothes.”

Echo turned and walked back up the ramp, making sure he could hear your footsteps following him.  A few steps after you had gotten in, and the ramp seemed to slam shut.  Realstickly, it was probably shutting for a while, but you hadn’t noticed it until it registered that there was no way out now.  And everything seemed so tight.  Sure, you had just been in a wrecked ship for Maker knows how long, but it was a big one.  Now, you were stuck on a much smaller ship, with however many clones.  Before the claustrophobia and feeling of complete despair could kick in, a small blond girl tugged at your burnt, calloused, and wrapped up hands, attempting to pull you somewhere.  Of course, given your larger mass, as well as training, you didn’t budge, not one bit.  You stared down at the young girl, eyes wide, yet blank.  To say it disturbed her would be an understatement.

“Omega!  I’m Omega, and this is Lula- Wrecker’s tooka doll!” she exclaimed, bringing your attention to a large stuffed…rabbit?  Or… loth cat?  It was hard to say.  It had a black body, with red sock paws, similar to the red tips on its ears.  The tooka doll sported some pattern of white, clearly resembling a face, with two red dots for eyes.  Distracted by the stuffed creature, she could successfully pull you, where she then disposed of you in someone's bunk.  She all but slammed Lula into your chest before running off, what, or who she was looking for, a complete mystery.

She came back with a collection of blankets, pillows, and snacks, and most certainly more than she could carry. Immediately, Omega got to work, bundling you like a baby in a blizzard.  You were too stunned to do anything, really.  What could you do, anyway?  After about two or so minutes of her layering, she paused, and frowned.  “How are you going to eat if your hands and arms are covered! Agh!”

She quickly began undoing her work, until your arms could be brought out, and then resumed the stacking of blankets.  All you could do was blink repeatedly, ever confused.  After another five or so minutes, she smiled triumphantly at her work.  “Perfect!  Here, have some mantell mix!” she said as she shoved a fist full of some clunky substance into your palm.  Looking down at it, mouth watering, you slowly reached down and plucked one of the misshapen balls, and popped it into your mouth.  And by the Maker, was it delicious.  Your eyes widened, and without a second thought, your hand flew to your mouth, sending the entire pile of mantell mix down your throat.  After eating random rodents, insects, and food that was quite possibly expired from the ship, this mantell mix was a blessing to your senses.

As you continued chewing and swallowing the treat, you leaned back against the hard wall of the ship, a quiet, content sigh escaping.  While it certainly wasn’t the most comfortable, it was ten thousand times better than anywhere you had slept on the Venator.  Lula was still resting across your chest, and Omega smiled proudly at your comfort before running off again.  Although it was muffled, you could hear her talking to one of the clones, before grabbing something and running back towards you.

“I was training with Nala Se and the medical equipment at the Kaminoan facilities, so I can fix you up!  Now, where does it hurt the most?”  She was a bit too excited about her ‘patient’ needing help, you thought.  It was cute, though.  The younglings and other Padawan at the Jedi Temple were like that, too– always eager to be the first to help, even in situations where most would never be joyous.  You supposed there wouldn’t be any harm in humoring the girl, even if she was, by all means, a possible threat, with everyone else on the ship.  I mean, if they did plan to harm or kill you, there’d be no chance of survival, so you might as well play along with the little girl.  Either your last moments wouldn’t be too bad, or you’d start bonding with your saviors.  Either version was a win, in one way or another.

Cocking one eyebrow, you raised a question– “How are you supposed to take care of me if I can’t move under all these layers?  That seems rather counter-productive, no?”  Her face molded into one of thought and consideration, nodding her head in agreement.  Before you could register her next move, she essentially lunged, quickly stripping you of the layers for the second time within the hour.  Now, the blankets all strewn around you resembled a porg’s nest, without the sticks and twigs, anyway.  Omega yanked your arm forward, a tad too eager, considering you should always be gentle with your patients.  Your eyes squinted, brows furrowed in a smidge of pain- Omega immediately noticed, and gave you a sheepish smile before apologizing and bringing it towards her more gently.

She carefully wrapped the bandages off of your arm, eyes widening at the…state of it.  Burn spots, blisters, scratches, bruises, and more littered the entirety of it, looking like it came out of a horror holo-film.  You stared at it rather intensely.  You had no clue it was this bad.  I mean, it hurt, obviously- you were in a crashed ship and had no proper care for however long.  Of course it was going to hurt.  But seeing it, that was still a shock.

“Umm… I should probably get Tech.  I’m not this good, I don’t think…” Omega whispered, frowning.  She scurried off, but you just kept staring.  How could you have let it get this bad?  Was all the training useless?  Or was it you?

Tech, the one with goggles and a plethora of gear, came over, holding what Omega had given him, and more.  His armor was still on, but the helmet had been discarded.  He bent down on one knee, and scanned over your body, checking for any and all injuries.  And, oh boy, did he have his work cut out for him.  Tech carefully took your arm in his gloved hands, and stared for a little bit before spraying a lot of bacta on.  You lurched forward, bringing your other hand to your side, in a feeble attempt to focus the pain elsewhere.  Your brows scrunched, and cheeks pulled down, biting your tongue in every attempt to not bother him any more.

“Let me know when it stops stinging.  Most of the bacteria should be gone, then.  We’ll still clean it out routinely, as they’ve been untreated for so long,” he spoke precisely.  After what felt like eternity, he was finally finished applying the spray.  “Hold your arm out.  Make it as level and steady as you can,” Tech instructed.  Fingertips barely brushing your skin, he brought the clean cloth around, wrap after wrap, from your palm to your elbow.  He took some smaller bandages and wrapped them around each of your fingers, leaving your entire arm covered.

You lifted up your other arm, and you both repeated the process.  Bacta, wrap, done.  He gestured at your legs, silently asking to both take off your shoes and life up your pants, to at least the knee.  There was a much larger and deeper gash on your left shin, courtesy of a falling metal plate as you finally managed to get some sleep.  “That…will need stitches.  Wait here.”  Not like you were going anywhere.

After what felt like hours upon hours, everything that was physically wrong with you had been fixed- or, at the very least, temporarily fixed.  Obviously, there weren't the best medical supplies on a smaller ship that had long left the army, and thus left behind the blessing that was gift-wrapped med-kits.  Finally, he gave you some type of liquid- not a lot, just a shot.  He could see the quizzical look on your face, and quickly explained– “It’ll help you go to sleep, for quite a while, and it’ll help reduce the pain.  By the time you wake up, we should be at Orl Mantell, where we’ve been staying.  Or, at least, close to it.”

In a fraction of a heartbeat, you downed the small glass and handed it back to Tech.  He ran one more scan on you, just to be sure, before getting up and heading to the cock-pit with his brothers and little older sister.  Your heart slowed, and your eyelids grew heavy.  That serum worked fast.  Half involuntarily, you fell face first onto the bed and drifted into the best sleep you’d had in countless rotations.

[moralesmilesanhour]

so, 'the spider within' has me thinking.

Because the new short that just released is so...well, short, I feel like technically there isn't much to say about it because it's pretty concise and has very few if any areas that would warrant critique or super deep analysis. BUT, I think one of the most interesting (albeit obvious) things about the 'monster' in 'The Spider Within' that forms as a manifestation of Miles' anxieties is that the monster is...himself.

Spiderverse tends to focus more on Miles struggling to take on the role of Spider-Man because balancing a secret identity that requires you to fight bad guys every day and personal commitments like school and family is difficult. What I haven't seen the franchise do up until now is address the idea of Spider-Man as monstrous. This is addressed somewhat in what I believe is Miles' original (?) comic book run, where he first gets powers and almost immediately wants them gone. Why?

Because he's afraid that he might be a 'mutant'. A monster. A 'freak'.

Now, I don't think that TSW necessarily intended for this to be the main theme of the short because their primary focus here is mental health and the psychological impact of having a million responsibilities on top of unresolved trauma from one of said responsibilities. However, I still think that the subtext of 'becoming a monster' is there because the Spiderverse team chose to use the image of a shadowy version of Miles that then morphs into a spider, when they could've done something that more directly references some of Spider-Man's usual foes; why not have it be Kingpin, Green Goblin, or even The Prowler?

Because, again, the thing Miles is most afraid of is himself.

Speaking of The Prowler, I think TSW provides an interesting parallel to what we see in ATSV with the whole 'evil doppelganger' motif (I know Miles G. is not really evil, but that is what the writers initially want us to believe by the end of the film so that they can subvert that expectation). Unlike most Spiderverse fans by now, our version of Miles is not aware yet that his Earth-42 counterpart isn't evil. As far as he's concerned, he is staring right into the eyes of the personification of one of his worst fears, which is that he's not really a hero. That he's not meant to be Spider-Man. That he's not as intrinsically 'good' as he thought he was.

(Note: I think the Miles 42 reveal would've hit way harder and felt more full-circle if the writers had emphasized the idea that both Miles and his family are terrified that he may become his Uncle, instead of just leaving it up to subtle bits dialogue and visual cues, But that's a different conversation altogether.)

All that being said, I think part of what makes Spiderverse such an interesting and unique take on Miles' story is that the supervillains feel de-emphasized and like more of a backdrop to the story at times compared to most superhero media that I've seen. His most important conflicts aren't necessarily about whether or not he can defeat the Big Bad (his tactical skills and intelligence are never really much of an issue post-itsv), it's about whether his fears and insecurities are going to destroy him from the inside out before he ever gets the chance to.

[so-long-soldier-writes]

Survivors

theo raeken x reader

summary: people are being kidnapped and tested, and one day, you wake up with the startling realization that you're next. luckily, your captor releases you after something about you reminds him a little too much of himself.

tags: kidnapping, implied s3lf h4rm, implied child abuse, non-graphic

word count: 1.1k

a/n: i apologize in advance

also, i wrote this a month ago and haven't been able to title it! i've also had to rewatch parts of s5 bc i was so confused the first time around. this takes place before the chimeras start dying / when they're still being tested on and all that.

A dark cloth is pulled tightly around your head, and your hands are bound in rope. A metal pole supports your back, though it is uncomfortable between your shoulder blades. Two of your senses are rendered useless, forcing you to rely on the other three for support. Unfortunately, they aren't much help in a situation like this.

You sigh. There's no telling how long you've been here. You know you've faded in and out of consciousness three times now. This is the first time you've fully woken up and realized how endangered you actually are.

Even with the blindfold, you know you're in the dark. The hard and cold ground suggests a garage, storage building, or maybe even down in the tunnels, is where you're being kept. Who knows? A pill was forced down your throat the minute you were grabbed, your kidnapper rendering you completely unable to fight.

Speaking of which... Your kidnapper...

You wonder who they are. It's probably the doctors; they've been damning people for weeks now. Turning humans into creatures and throwing them back out into the world. Killing them if they're failures, but doing more tests if they seem to succeed.

Fear shoots down your spine as you realize you're next. You're captured, you must be their next test. You struggle against the ropes, but there's no give.

A heavy door is pushed to the side, and footsteps make their way towards you. You stop fighting immediately and prepare for the worst.

Someone crouches in front of you close enough that you can hear their breathing. They're calm in a way that horrifies you. They're not here to save you. No, no one knows you're here. No one is coming to save you.

You're startled by a gentle touch as two hands meet the sides of your head. Your blindfold is pulled down slowly, finally revealing the person on the other side. Their identity shocks you; a chill ices your body.

"You."

He sighs, glancing at the floor. "Sorry about this, Y/N. You're the one they wanted most."

"Really? And when'd you become their little errand boy, Theo? I thought you wanted Scott to trust you. Thought you wanted to be a part of his pack."

"it's all about survival, Y/N. There is a war, and I am loyal to whom I think will come out on top."

"You're wrong. The bad guys always lose, even if not in ways you'd expect. You will lose."

"Have that much faith in Scott, now do you? I don't see him coming to save you. You're all alone here. There's no getting out." You gulp visibly before you can stop yourself. "How's that for being the loser?"

"You're sick."

"Maybe. But at least I'm a realist."

You roll your eyes, looking away from him. Right now, his face is pissing you off just to see it. Two days ago, you'd admit you thought the little fucker was hot, but now, he's just a pain in your ass.

"Whatever," you snap, "have it your way. Just make it fast if you're going to kill me."

"Baby, if you've been following along, I'm not killing anyone. And the doctors aren't yet either. They're testing you all."

"For what? And don't 'baby' me."

He smiles. "To make the perfect monster. The best one for the cause."

"Which is?"

"Can't say."

"You're insufferable."

"And you're adorable when you're mad."

"Ugh!"

Theo takes a deep breath, then unties the cloth that was once around your eyes. He reaches around the side to undo the ropes, working at them for a good thirty seconds before unraveling the strongly-made knot.

"I do mean it when I say I'm sorry. Wish they picked anyone else, but they said you were special."

"I don't care, Theo. I already know this is the end for me. You're just drawing it out."

He slouches his shoulders before taking your wrists in his hands. He sits up on his knees, prepared to pull you up with him, but stops suddenly. Even in the darkness, the chimera can see the scars. Thin, white lines decorating the skin on your wrists. Some are more faded than others, but others look more recent. He stares at them for a moment, while you remain none the wiser, avoiding his gaze.

For a second, he's transported back to his childhood - kidnapped by the doctors at an early age, forced to undergo tests and experiments, and to live under their care. Forgotten by his family and haunted by his sister. The doctors didn't know how to raise a child, but they clearly didn't care. The torment he suffered still hurts every passing day, and even now, in Beacon Hills again, the pain hasn't ceased.

Theo bears plenty of scars of his own. Some are made by the doctors, some he brought on himself. It took him years to learn to not hate his body, to see the scars as a reminder that he's a survivor, not a failure.

His are littered around his body in places not well seen. The first time one of the doctors discovered them, he was punished accordingly. It's as if they're the only ones allowed to abuse him; how dare he bring it upon himself.

Theo looks at your scars and wonders what trauma is buried beneath them. What are you hiding? What emotional pain lies under the physical? Who knows your secrets, if anyone? It's none of his business, so he doesn't ask, but he closes his hands over your wrists and gulps.

"Run."

You look back at him, then at your clasped hands. "What?"

"Run. Run far from here and don't look back. Follow the pipes on the left side of the wall, and let them take you back above ground. Don't tell Scott anything I told you, it will only get you hurt. Just run, and don't let the doctors find you."

"Wait, why? I don't understand."

Theo pushes your hands into your chest and finally releases them. Fear floods through you as realization hits. He's seen you, seen your wrists, and your scars, and he's taking pity on you. But... he's letting you go.

"Just go, Y/N!" He yells in a whisper. "Go, before they come back. Any minute now, they're expecting you."

You scramble to your feet and look towards the pipes. The pipes on the left lead out, he said.

"But what about you?" You don't know why you ask. You don't know why you care. But, something deep inside you does.

"I'll be fine, I'll make up a lie. Just go!"

And so finally, you take off in the direction he points, still a little confused, but incredibly grateful.

Maybe there is some good in him. Maybe he's just as manipulated by the doctors as the rest of the chimeras. Maybe there's hope for him after all.

[vegitoswife]

SFW Alphabet with Vegito because I felt like it. GN!Reader taken into consideration wherever applicable.

Didn't do much proofreading because this is long so y'all have to accept this how it is, typos and all!

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

It depends on the current point in the relationship. Early on, Vegito isn't too affectionate. He's still at an awkward stage where he doesn't fully know how to display affection, at least not without growing flustered or uncharacteristically clamming up. Sweet words, slow caresses, gentle touches...all of it is foreign territory to him. Complete and utter contrasts to the brutality of a battle. He'll express his feelings in his own ways, but with time and your patience, he'll slowly grow more comfortable with more open displays.

After that comes to pass, you might end up thrown for a loop with how readily he shows affection. He probably would even initiate it more often than you! It's like he's transformed into a devoted puppy, with how eager he is to be around you or stick closely to your side.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Vegito would be the kind of best friend who likes pushing at your buttons and poking fun at your flaws, but he's undeniably loyal to and caring of you at the end of the day. A friendship with him wouldn't be the easiest thing to start up, since he is rather introverted and often keeps up walls.

The circumstances surrounding his permanence as a fusion has a heavy influence with how prickly he can get, because he's dealing with figuring out his identity on top of having to bear the reality of he not truly being what Goku and Vegeta were to their families. Chi Chi and Bulma aren't warm to him, and the children have an assortment of mixed feelings. It's a stressful situation to be in all around.

If you were to show Vegito that you do think of him as his own person and you don't try to shove him into the Goku box or Vegeta box, he will become more receptive of you and your company. He'll eventually start almost clinging to you, in a way. He really does need a friend in this depressing world.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Once he becomes open to it, he would like cuddling. He'd even love it. Getting to hold you close, nuzzle you, bathe in your ki signature...it'd swiftly become something that brings him comfort. Surely you wouldn't complain. Who would, about getting cuddled by such a sweet, handsome, muscular man? You'll feel so snug too.

Vegito would default to having you sit on his lap or wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you into his side, but he'd engage in whichever way you want if you request it of him.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Though he would (try to) casually brush it off and have difficulty in admitting it, he really would want to settle down. Deep down, Vegito craves the concept of having a home for himself, and it would be even better if you were a part of that home. He can't imagine settling down with anyone else, nor does he want to.

When it comes to cooking, he's actually not bad at it. You can thank pre-existing knowledge bestowed upon him through Goku, as he learned how to cook at an acceptable level from his wife Chi Chi. Vegito would only try to improve his cooking skills, both for his sake (he has a massive appetite) and yours since he wants to take good care of you. He finds cleaning quite simple to do, and would do his best to keep things neat & tidy. It'd be very unbecoming for someone of his grandeur to live like a slob after all, and you also deserve better.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Oh...breaking up with you would be very painful for Vegito, but if he deemed it best, he'll do it. He's not one to back down from anything, even if it's with you. He'll be very blunt, laying down that he thinks the two of you should end things and give his reasons as to why. Whether you believe them or not, understand them or not, he'll walk away literally or figuratively (via Instant Transmision).

If it's all rooted to a big misunderstanding, or maybe he got an idea in his head that took hold of his inner insecurity problems, you could try to at least talk to him more. See if there's any way your relationship could get a second chance.

But if you made the grave mistake of betraying his trust...you're out of luck. He would never lay his hands on you outside of a sparring scenario, but he'd make his hurt and anger very apparent. Vegito is not one to forgive and forget, especially for someone he gave his heart to. You're never getting it back.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Contrary to how long it would take him to adapt to the concept of loving someone and especially being loved himself, commitment comes easy to him. Vegito's already attached to you and wants to dedicate himself to you, so why wouldn't he want to be committed? It's a no brainer to him.

He would be content enough with how the relationship manifests as long as you're content though, so he wouldn't voice any desire to get married himself. He wouldn't mind it if you wanted to get married, and if a fair amount of time has passed since the two of you started dating, he'd have little to no concerns. The only thing that would be changing in his eyes is that he'd get to call you his spouse, and it be accurate.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Vegito can be very gentle physically if he wants to be. You know his hands are capable of bending thick steel like it's paper or smashing massive boulders to pieces, but with you? Unearthly power is absent from his hands when they grab your own. When they rest on your waist or leg. When they brush against your cheek or arm. He treats you so carefully that it's almost surreal.

Emotionally? Hm. Vegito cares for you immensely, but when it counts, he's honest if nothing else. He'll tell you something harsh if he thinks you need to hear it. On some days, he has moments of indifference or callousness - it's just who he is. Overall, he's not as gentle emotionally as he can be physically.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Hugs are some of his most favorite things in the world. Again, once the affection barrier has been breached, you will find yourself being scooped into his arms at semi-regular intervals - especially if he's in a rather cheerful mood. His hugs are tight, but not too tight, and very warm since it's like his body is constantly giving off heat like a radiator.

You giving him hugs would tickle him pink, though you may have to be somewhat careful. Some days, some moods, he's not really up for heavy physical contact like that. When in doubt, you can always just ask him if you can hug him.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

It takes a long time before Vegito gets to the stage where a "I love you" is even possible to form. Even then, you'll have to understand that he processes and feels love a different way from most. You could even say that he doesn't experience romantic attraction (or sexual for that matter) the "standard" way. What "love" means to him will be probably different from what it means to you. So, while the actual "I love you" statement won't make a fast appearance, it will likely have manifested in some other fashion prior to that point.

Vegito will show his love for you in many ways, through actions or how he speaks to you (even with his sassiness or snark), that you should probably at least have a knack for recognizing if you've been dating him for a while. Before he ever says it outright, if you've been paying attention to him for all this time, you'll have a strong understanding that he's loved you for a good while already and it shouldn't come as a surprise.

When he does say it, he'll be meek with a red face. His voice will be so low that you might have to ask him to repeat himself. Understand that for him to feel comfortable enough saying "I love you", shows that he utterly adores you.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Vegito frankly isn't the jealous type. He trusts you and dislikes obnoxious coddling, so he'll believe that you can handle yourself in most situations. The closest he'll get to being jealous is more so when he gets protective, if he thinks someone is stepping to you the wrong way or is getting to you too closely.

While he has problems with his sense of self, he's ironically brimming with pride and confidence at the same time, so he'll very rarely believe there's a chance someone could "steal" you from him.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

What Vegito's kisses are like varies based on his mood in the moment. If he's just feeling affectionate, they'll be light and brief. If he's needy or in more of a "romantic" mood, his lips will be pressed to you more firmly and will linger. If he's amped up for whatever reason, irritated or mad or desperate, they'll be strong and rapid fire.

He likes kissing you in many places around your face. You'd think your own lips would be a common target, but he goes for your forehead, nose, cheeks, ears, and jawline more often in general. Your neck also won't be spared, especially if he's feeling spicy or playful. Most of the times where he guns for your lips right away is to try and quiet you while you're talking, just to be cheeky.

Vegito likes to be kissed no where in particular; he'll just be thrilled that you're kissing him at all. You could aim for his neck or collarbones if you want to get an...amusing reaction out of him. If you really want to show your affection, kiss his tail. The color of his skin will rival a red rose.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Children are a funny subject with Vegito. He has his own already and from what you've seen, he interacts with them just fine. With as old as Gohan is he treats him like a fellow adult, though he's more playful with Goten and Trunks, even somewhat bullying the latter. But as a whole, you can see that he does genuinely love them.

When it comes to other children that aren't his own? Well. If they're well behaved and have decent manners, he doesn't mind them. Don't ask him to stay around a kid or more that are whining or running around and making a ruckus though; he'll become increasingly annoyed.

If you ever want to have kids with him? He'll be initially surprised and will need some time to think about it, but chances are, he would like to have at least one with you. For your baby, he'll do his utmost best to be attentive and nurturing, though he'll be sure to teach them how to fight when they're old enough!

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Aside from unpredictable circumstances, mornings will Vegito will follow the relatively same routine on weekdays. He usually gets up before dawn - doing his best to not wake you up - to go out and exercise for hours. When he's done, he'll return home if he can sense you still in the house.

If you're still in bed or currently up, he'll shower and join you in whatever it is that you're doing or start up breakfast if you haven't. If you're out working or running an errand, he'll skip going home to move forward with his near daily routine of checking in on his families and helping Chi Chi with the Son family farm.

On weekends, assuming you can sleep in and stay home, he'll still go out to exercise & train but will come home to shower before rejoining you in bed. He loves spending mornings with you when he's able to, so whatever you're feeling up to doing, you can count him in.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Nights are almost always chill. Vegito usually won't have anything else to tend to for the rest of the day, so he'll be eager to just relax with you - watching TV, movies, or playing games if you want. Or, you could spend a little time sparring with him if you can. In his eyes, there's nothing like a good workout before a nice hot bath with you to end the night off with.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Vegito will be slow at opening up. You have to spend time on chipping away at his walls to receive glimpses of what's standing behind them. Eventually, he'll feel close enough to you to share more about himself. The fact that he's a fusion will be the most glaring thing he'll want to confess since hiding it will only cause problems down the line, so he'll need to be absolutely sure that he can trust you before he'll disclose such personal information. Once that's off his chest, other things will come more easily.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

It really depends, but in general Vegito isn't the most patient. If he cares enough about something, if he feels committing time to his current focus is worth it, or if he's not really taking something seriously & just going with the flow, he can be very patient. If he starts thinking his time or energy is being wasted however, then a switch will flip and his temper will flare.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Vegito doesn't have a perfect photographic memory, but he'll be damned if he doesn't put in effort to learn & remember things about you! Your likes, dislikes, hobbies, etc - he'll take it all in and even create little notes if he doesn't want to risk forgetting a detail. And hey, when he's focused enough, he has moments of recalling minor things you mention in passing.

For example: if the two of you are walking out in the city and you appear to like some kind of item on display in a shop's window, he'll soon go back there and buy it as a gift for you.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

When he took you to a gathering of his families and few associates. He admittedly was nervous, only because he wasn't sure if someone would start drama with you or not. While they're on fine terms, he isn't terribly close to Chi Chi, and he gets into arguments with Bulma almost every time they talk. Not to mention, he still feels out of place with everyone and is reminded of the fact that Goku is no longer around. Krillin especially has been...very tense territory ever since Vegito was first created.

Above all else, he just hoped you had a good time. And, you did! Much to his relief. Chi Chi, Bulma, and Krillin were polite with you, and you hit it off well with Yamcha. You and Gohan had a pleasant conversation. Goten had manners, and Trunks thankfully chose to behave. When it was time to leave, you had a big smile and he felt the stress flee his body.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

When he thinks it's warranted, Vegito can be extremely protective. He's capable of horrible violence and you know it, but you also know that he has a lot of restraint and knows he shouldn't be causing harm to others just because they bothered you a bit. If you ever get attacked though and you end up getting injured, may the gods have mercy on the assailant. Vegito's fury is something to be terrified of, but don't worry. All he needs to know is that you're fine and you'll recover. He'll calm down quickly then cling to you a bit.

Protecting him? There's really no need, but you actually growing protective of him would honestly make him pretty happy. It would be more proof that you care about him, and he'd eat the attention up. Might tease you a bit afterwards once the situation has been dispelled.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

As much effort as he can! He's not the most imaginative outside of combat-related scenarios, but he'll stick to things and variants of them that he knows you'll always like. As long as you're smiling, he won't feel like his effort is all for naught. He'll be especially pumped to do more for you if you respond in kind and put in effort on your end. He's fairly easy to please.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

For all of Vegito's merits, he no doubt has flaws. He's arrogant and gets a kick out of putting others down, can be callous and shrug off someone's emotional plight, has a volatile temperament, and can overall say pretty rude or cold things.

He is who he is, and people can take it or leave it. With those who show genuine care towards him though, he'll try to be more considerate. He truly isn't as bad as he can come across sometimes, but not everyone will know that. Or care, if he upsets them.

Apologies from the warrior are uncommon, but he'll give one if he actually does feel regretful.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Vegito is devoted to his appearance. He knows he's handsome, pretty, gorgeous, sexy, all of the positive descriptors. He takes much pride in his looks, so he'll always attempt to keep up good hygiene and look his best. He does like to praise himself on his appearance and brag about it too, but it's mostly in a semi-joking manner.

He's more modest than most know, but again, he does genuinely think he's good looking.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

He will always believe in independence. Vegito can live and get by on his own. He doesn't need anyone for anything. That being said...his life without you would feel far more empty.

He doesn't need you. But he wants you. He wants you to be in his life. He didn't grow attached to you because he was lonely or lost, he did because he realized how great of a person you are, and he wants to make you a permanent part of his world.

His world without you is one with less warmth, less passion, and less optimism to face the future. It's not one he would live in, if he could help it.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Vegito loves domestic cats. Dr. Brief's cat Scratch is what first endeared him to the species, and ever since, he's thought they're very cute and funny. If you wouldn't mind a pet and didn't hate cats, he might ask you if the two of you could adopt one.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

He's surprisingly carefree enough to mix well with an assortment of people, though Vegito of course still has his preferences. For one, he has no interest in getting involved with anyone who he'd group in with the "bastards" of the universe, like the Frieza Force. On a more realistic standpoint, he detests those who are malicious and delight in spreading suffering - on a small or large scale. Needless indifference or heartlessness also rubs him the wrong way.

He's not fond of the dishonest sort who will lie or trick other people to take advantage of them either. Vegito definitely would not ever entertain a relationship with someone who's shown that they can't be trusted.

This is minor, but he is turned off from people who don't clean up their living spaces and have poor hygiene if they're actually able to take care of themselves. Especially if they have bad body odor. His sense of smell, as a Saiyan, is sensitive you know.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

If Vegito goes to bed not feeling all that tired, he more so naps rather than fall into deep slumber, and thus wakes up easily from a sound that's just slightly louder than the room's ambiance. If he is tired, then he'll crash and sleep soundly. He won't wake up if you stir next to him or get up, but he will if you shake him. He doesn't snore, though if he's in deep enough sleep and his mouth is open, he can drool.

When it comes to positions, he likes cuddling you or pressing his body against yours, so they'll depend on you. One the two of you take up often is he laying on his back and you resting your head on his chest. Another is either one of you being the big or little spoon and snuggling your face into the crook of one another's neck.

Something funny you noticed after a couple of nights of sleeping in the same bed, is that even if Vegito falls asleep on the other side of the bed, he'll often find his way over to you - just to be closer or to drape an arm or his tail over you. It's cute.

(3 sleep habits here because wynaut.)

[dairy-farmer]

That ask about public incest being normalized has gotten me thinking: an AU where the pecking order is instinctually determined via sex. Who can mount who.

-

Try as he might, Tim just can’t seem to move up the ranks.

Bruce fucks him almost clinically. Mostly to reaffirm his place at the top, to remind Tim that he’s in charge when he thinks Tim is getting out of line, picking unnecessary fights with his brothers, or not obeying their “reasonable” orders. (He’s above you in rank, Timothy. If you don’t want to have to listen to him, then maybe you should mount him.) He’s thorough and deliberate, but almost impersonal about it in a way. It’s his duty as the head of the family.

Dick fucks Tim slowly and lovingly, though firmly, to remind Tim that he’s part of the family, that he belongs to them. He takes Tim whenever he catches Tim hiding an injury or not taking care of himself. To keep Tim from withdrawing. A reminder and an order. Often times it’s fun and playful, which Tim enjoys most.

Jason mounts him roughly and often. Whenever he needs to let off steam. To keep the Replacement in his place, not that he ever gives Tim time to forget it. Whenever Jason even imagines that Tim is challenging him, or thinks he’s mouthing off. If he even catches sight of Tim on his really bad days. If he’s annoyed at Bruce. He makes Tim kneel under the table at his feet every time he comes to family dinner. When he’s frustrated with a case. If he’s just plain bored. And without fail, every time Bruce takes Jason, Jason makes a beeline to Tim and bends him over and mounts him hard and fast. Sometimes he toys with Tim, letting him think he might actually win, but it always ends the same way. Tim thinks he might spend as much time under Jason as he does talking to him.

Damian takes him fast and quick, almost as aggressively as Jason. He ambushed Tim the first few times, pinning and mounting him before Tim even realized he was there. He really shot up in size during puberty, and now that he’s outgrown Tim, he’s difficult to pin in return. Damian also takes his frustration out on Tim, and likes to remind Tim of his status. Growing up in the League left him with certain expectations.

Tim has never tried challenging Cass, but luckily she doesn’t take him often, preferring to watch. Sometimes she’ll ride his face when she needs control in her life, but at least that’s a nice change from getting fucked by his brothers.

It even extends to costumes, though not as much as it’s dangerous to get too distracted.

Batman will only ever fuck his throat and has him swallow it all down (to not leave DNA evidence). He mostly leaves Red alone unless he catches him doing something stupidly risky or disobeying his orders.

Nightwing is much the same, preferring to take him in the cave where he can stretch Red out on the mats or have fun on the ropes course. Nightwing prefers keeping it light and fun when he’s in costume, and mainly leaves Red alone in the field.

Robin follows in both his mentors’ footsteps. He will not allow himself to become distracted in the field by the likes of Drake. (Only at home)

Hood, though, is a bit closer to his civilian identity than the others. He’ll hunt him down on patrol if he really wants him. He’ll happily bend him over a skylight on slow nights. If he catches Red close enough to his territory, he’s been known to actually drag him in and fuck him where his people can see. Tim says it undermines Red Robin, but Jason insists it helps keep crime down; his people seeing him mount a Bat. (Tim has run the numbers. Jason is right. Jason has no idea that’s true-he just said it so Bruce would stop bitching about him distracting Red).

(Spoiler sometimes ambushes him on slow nights too.)

-

Tim (and Red Robin) has never really been able to rise in the ranks. Once, Tim was seconds away from taking Damian, but Jason came by and pulled Tim off and mounted him then and there, while Damian then took his mouth. Jason thought it was funny, laughing while Damian gloated as they used Tim. Dick, with his soft spot for Damian, also helped him sometimes, especially at first. Letting Damian pin Tim right after Dick was finished with him without giving him a chance to get up, and giving Damian a thorough demonstration on how to get Tim down.

It’s not fair. Dick and Jason have both fucked each other, and he’s even caught Dick letting Damian take him on occasion (how else is he going to learn, baby bird? He needs to have more experience than just you!), but nobody ever goes easy on him. Anytime he gets close to winning someone else seems to come by and step in and then he’s suddenly under both at once.

The rest of them have a slightly more fluid pecking order, but Tim is just so fun to fuck (and fuck with). They have an unspoken agreement to step in if it ever seems like he might actually win. Everyone feels more secure knowing they will never be at the bottom, knowing that at least one person in their life has to listen to them. They all know Tim’s proper place and they will keep him there.

yessss!!!!!!!!!yesssss!! this is so good!!!! an established pecking order that is maintained and determined by who is mounted and poor tim being at the very bottom of that order because of sabotage from his family that never lets him rise up because they all find a comfort in knowing that THEY will never be at the bottom and that THEY all at least have some power and control in their lives because they know that at least, at any time of day, they can fuck tim to remind themselves of the control they have even with a control freak like bruce for a father.

i LOVE that bruce would be the most clinical about it. he does it more as procedure, making sure to work in a weekly mounting with tim no matter how busy he is because bruce has learned his lesson about allowing people in the family to go too long without being mounted. if only he'd been as diligent with jason and dick as he had with tim then maybe things wouldn't have turned out the way they did with them. so when bruce has tim and sees tim beginning to try and stretch his wings out and test his limits as robin- well bruce makes sure to mount him. sure, tim was a little young but maybe if bruce had started mounting dick and jason when they were younger they would still be alive or talking to him. for the longest time tim was the only family member around and whenever things got slightly unstable or bruce was scrambling for control because his personal life and professional life was out of whack he'd mount tim. being robin initially had been made harder because of that because it seemed like bruce's struggle with reining in violence also translated to him roughly mounting tim. eventually he calmed down. he got less...mean about mounting tim and pretty soon it tapered off to only weakly or occasional mountings from him.

with dick too. as nice as he became with tim and was gentle when mounting him, he still also had his phase of waking tim up from a deep slumber to press into him and whisper about how its okay and tim could go back to sleep, dick just needed to do this. those times almost always coincided with bruce and dick having another fight which involved bruce storming off to patrol early and returning when dick had already left. unluckily for tim though it would mean bruce mounting him and shoving his cock into tim's tender hole and grunting at the thick spurt of dick's cum that would get pushed out.

jason hardly waiting for the family the open their arms in welcome before he was mounting tim. often he and tim would get into arguments that would end with jason grunting and fucking tim harshly into the floor, stairs, or roof of wherever their spat was all while tim just huffed, irritated, and swearing he'd get jason the next time.

damian is arguably tim's hardest pill to swallow because he was cheating!!! he was getting help from dick and jason who would gang up on tim and hold him open, allowing for damian to press his baby cock all the way inside and hastily mount tim. it would barely be longer than a minute or two because damian was young and he came fast but tim would still be stuck with the indignity and shame of having damian's cum drip down his inner thigh. but then damian gets a growth spurt, grows bigger and now he doesn't need jason or dick's help to mount tim. once he realizes he can mount tim whenever he wants to, he makes it his mission to try and mount tim as often as he can....though that might just be damian working off sexual frustration brought on by puberty by using tim.

tim!!!! just being placed at the bottom of the pecking order by his brothers who would greatly prefer to not be in his place and because they love the ease of being able to fuck him and knowing he will always be there ready to take a cock.

[peachy-hk]

Late.

Wordcount: 1.1K

Read part one or part two here!

Choosing your best friend (and the person you've had feelings for practically your entire life) over your brother is a troubling thing. But, Miya Atsumu feels little to no regret.

Sure, he feels a little bad when he thinks back to Osamu's defeated face when he left the cafe, and the way it was so evident that Osamu hadn't been sleeping well when he went to go pick up the rest of your things. But, (in his mind at least) this was not nearly enough of a punishment for what Osamu did to you.

Maybe, he's a little biased because he likes you more than a brother-in-law should, but it's only normal when you've been friends for that long...right?

Atsumu is having a dilemma.

The cards have been dealt in an odd way. A way that has never been dealt to him before. Should he fold, and back away from this opportunity? Or should he go all in, and take a chance, while betraying his brother?

How do you tell your best friend of years -who just so happened to break up with your identical brother- that you've been in love with them since you were children?

How, in the nicest way possible, do you tell them that you made a mistake in not confessing sooner and that you believe (know) that they chose the wrong brother?

Now shouldn't be the time for Atsumu to be thinking these things, but as he watches you an Suna play Mario cart together on the couch, legs over each others, throwing playful punches at each other whenever a banana peel or shell is thrown, he can't help but feel like he's going to mess up and miss his chance for a second time.

How is he going to do that though? Standing in the kitchen watching, he wonders if he should even try. Sure, you and him have gotten closer recently but it is most likely because you just sent divorce papers to his brother, and Atsumu is acting as the middleman.

Even if you've been friends for years, at some point, deep down, it has to bother you right? How could you see Atsumu's face and not think of Osamu?

All of these thoughts race through Atsumu's mind, constantly, it feels like he's been thinking about these things for years, but in reality, it's only been a couple months since you've moved in with him and Suna.

Sometime in the future, he'll muster up the courage to ask you to become more than friends, he thinks, as he walks back to his room to pack his bags for an upcoming volleyball trip. He's going to be out of town for the next week, at training camps, press conferences, and friendly games between clubs.

Maybe he'll take you to a nice dinner, or a late-night park trip after getting your favourite convenience store snacks, or perhaps he'll take you to a place you've always wanted to visit around the world.

-

After Atsumu's week-long trip, he feels like he's finally come to a conclusion, a solid way to confess how he's felt about you for the past 2 or so years of your lives.

He thinks, optimistically, that 'today is the day'. The day that fate will play out in his hands, you'll reciprocate how he feels, like it should have been from the start.

Today, however, is not that day. Atsumu comes to a harsh realization that fate will not always be on his side and that some things just really aren't meant to be.

Today is the day that Atsumu thought he would stop stressing about how he feels about you and his brother for the first time in months, finally tell you how he felt, and everything would play out nicely.

Today, Atsumu Miya entered his shared apartment to find Suna Rintarou planting a soft kiss on the top of your head as you fell asleep in his arms.

He feels his heart shatter in his chest, as he watches Suna rub your back, looking down at the way you lay on his chest.

Atsumu feels the same heartbreak that ripped his heart to shreds back when he was 15 and Osamu had just told him that he was taking you on a date.

He feels like time has stopped, as he just stands in the entryway of the apartment, watching, feeling his heart shatter into more and more pieces as the two of you continue to cuddle in the blissful unawareness that Atsumu is facing the second worst heartbreak of his life.

A vibration in his pocket shifts his focus back to reality, distracting him from the aching feeling in his chest. He reaches into his pocket and pulls his phone out, reading the text that was just sent to him.

"Hope you got home safe, rest up and make sure to stretch! Next practice is in two days, at 7 AM. :)" - Captian Meian

With a heavy heart, and a seemingly now even heavier body, Atsumu picks up his bags and begins walking towards his room, exchanging a quick 'hey' with Suna as he walks by.

He lets his eyes fill with tears the second his bedroom door shuts behind him. In the confines of his bedroom, he lets his tears roll down his face, staining his cheeks.

Unpacking his bags, he begins taking out all the gear from his bags and putting clothes he didn't end up wearing back into his closet. He does this mindlessly, feeling numb because of the ache in his chest.

When his hand bumps a white box that was tucked into the side of his bag. The numbness in his body fades, and the overwhelming feeling of heartbreak comes rushing back to him.

He picks up the box and feels over the ribbon that it's wrapped with to keep it closed. He picked your favourite colour to wrap it with when the clerks asked him if he had a preference in which ribbon they used,

He opens the box to reveal a necklace, one with a single simple charm, one that you had been talking about buying for yourself for months now.

With a defeated sigh, he closes the box, pulls open a drawer in his bedside table, and places it inside.

The box sits in his bedside table for months, collecting dust over time, the pristine white box becomes a dull grey. In all honesty, Atsumu had forgotten the box was even there.

That was, until he saw you wearing the same necklace that occupied said box months later.

"You finally got the necklace for yourself?" He asks, leaning against the kitchen wall as you grab glasses to place at the dinner table.

You smile up at him, with the same smile that he fell in love with back when you guys were kids.

"Suna got it for me."

-

taglist! bolded names were unable to be tagged :(

@ly17 , @pluviophilefangirl , @wolffmaiden , @bitchotine , @bunnyperi , @sakusuna , @momoinot , @natriae , @aelrinv , @garousmonster , @karasunoya , @introverbatim , @katsunarii , @iluv-ace , @justsomeonewhoyoudontknow , @carmendanny2, @nsojbbkkm , @dododododooosworld , @bluelesbiann , @sassycheesecake

p.s. I'm sorry for breaking Atsumu's heart too <3

[seratopia]

hobie brown x reader (fluff) - uninvited → she/her pronouns!

hobie likes visiting you through your window

He likes to climb through your window unannounced; a very spiderman-esque entrance. Sometimes you keep that window locked, but after you found out that Hobie can just pick at it, you just decided to leave it open. A wordless invitation for him.

It happens too often, whether it'd be for you to patch him up, maybe to show you a song he's been working on, or just to cuddle up to you, Hobie enjoys your company. You scold him for it, but at the end of the day, he just kisses the top of your head, knowing you aren't actually mad.

As far as you know, Hobie's only revealed his true identity to you. Sometimes you see him sling through the city, guitar glued to his back and his iconic spikes on full display. Too many times he's sent you a wink, or he blows you a kiss midair.

Tumbling through your window, again, he yanks off this spider-mask, shaking his head back and forth to let his hair air out. You see the scratches on this favorite vest, the barely-visible bruise against his cheekbone. His posture's the slightest bit hunched over, a representative of his exhaustion.

His face says it all, purple eye bags and a disgruntled expression.

"I'll go get the stuff." You automatically say, rising from your squeaky swivel chair.

"No, no, stay with me, hun." Hobie begs, already reaching to stroke at your fingers.

"You sure?"

He nods once, gingerly guiding you towards him by your wrist, his heart rate's still up, part of him still panting a little from what you assume to be a fight.

"What do you want, then?" You ask, letting him touch you for the time being.

Hobie shrugs, his various spikes and pins clinking as he does. "I'm not allowed t'spend time with my babe?" He half asks, raising an eyebrow.

Hobie slings his guitar over his head, somewhat gently tossing onto the floor of your bedroom. Slyly, he stakes a few steps backwards, landing into your bed with a 'thump.' He slots his palms behind his head, shutting his eyes.

Awkwardly, you just stand in the middle of your room, confusedly gazing at him. There's an awkward silences before Hobie raises his head a little, peering back at you.

The teen blooms open arms to you, beckoning you closer with grabby hands.

"C'mere. Right on top." He mutters.

"Aren't you hurt, though?"

"S'fine, just want you here."

Reluctantly, you slot your knee onto the mattress of your bed, gingerly climbing onto him to the best of your ability. His hands press you down into his chest, snaking down to the small of your back.

You hear the tiniest pained groan from him, and you immediately recoil back, supporting some of your body weight with an arm on the bed. The boy adjusts his decorated vest away from his chest, so what's left is just the smooth fabric of his over-shirt.

Wordlessly, Hobie brings a ringed hand to the back of your head, pushing your cheek down onto his chest.

"Am I too heavy?" You mumble, and he tucks his chin onto the crown of your head. You can hear his heartbeat, now a little slower.

"No." He replies, indulgently rubbing circles into your back. Slightly, you feel the studs of his heavy belt over your hips, the dulled spikes of his cuffs across your back.

You've almost become accustomed to it, memorizing the layout of his various accessories on your body.

A moment of silences passes, where Hobie just rubs your back, and you can smell the city on him.

"Who was it this time?" You ask, gently adjusting your head up a bit. You rest your forearms across his chest, just so that you can take a good look at his structured face. Hobie sees the dull pain in your eyes when you gently run your fingers across his bruised cheekbone, raising an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

"It was a bad guy, right?"

A smile suddenly breaks into Hobie's face, and now you're confused.

"No, sweets. Had a concert today." He chuckles, petting your hair back.

"Then how'd you get those?" You ask, slotting your head back down onto his heartbeat.

"Did a stage dive."

"Oh."

Hobie chuckles, reminiscing the wild events of the concert; a stage dive, some screaming, even a bra being thrown at him. It was loud, but exhilarating, sent adrenaline through his body.

You've only heard word about Hobie's shows; he'd tell you about the people he'd meet, who he hates and loves, and occasionally his political motivations.

"Y'should come sometime... I'll introduce you to the rest of the crew" He mumbles, and your heart flutters just a little.

The idea of it swirls in your head like a burst of pixie dust; it'd be so sweet to watch him up on that stage. He'd drag you up there just to kiss you silly, lights flashing and punk rock falling to a blur as his hands divot into your lower back.

It makes you giddy just thinking about it, and Hobie can tell.

"You like that? Hm?" Hobie smirks. "How 'bout tomorrow? Wales?" He asks, a small smile on his face. He stares at you expectantly, and you trace small shapes onto his shirt.

"Sure. What's the dress code?"

"That cute top and those jeans, hm?" Hobie suggests into your hair and you playfully roll your eyes.

"I know you rolled your eyes just now." He says, pinching at your side.

You slap his hand away, yelping. "No I didn't."

"Yes y'did."

...to be continued

© 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒑𝒊𝒂.