#like they're just so undefinable

[dirtytransmasc]

Hi! SoC fan here, I think you nailed the Kaz/Wylan dynamic beautifully. I haven't read the book in a while and I need to read it again but their dynamic is one of my favourites, and it totally has that father/son or older sibling/younger sibling vibes to it. I always liked how Kaz is the person that Wylan confides in, and how Kaz reassures him because he sees so much of himself in Wylan. He's not infantilized at all. He's the youngest in the group and he comes from a very, very different background to the crows, so he's naturally just very awkward and naive but the more time he spends with the Crows, he becomes a lot more badass and assertive, especially in the King of Scars duology.

I think the reason I love them so much is because they're a mess. like the blend between father figure, big brother, and mentor is just so satisfying, cause they just make it work which makes it 10x sweeter in my opinion. I'll be honest in saying I just started listening to the audio books very recently, and I typically have to listen to it a few times over to fully comprehend it (cause my attention span is hot grabage), so I know I have so much more waiting for me in terms of watching their dynamic grow, but I thought their general vibe was quite obvious, but I tend to look way to closely at characters I like right from the get-go, so that's not saying much.

(I'm gonna repeat myself a bit from my last post, cause I wrote that while tired and I feel much more confident in my explanation now)

like, kaz is just a nuturing character (in his own *special* way lol), he naturally takes a stereotypical "man of the house" role within the crows, and we see that this effects each of his relationships differently; with wylan it puts him in a caretaker position. wylan is the youngest of the group, has likely never been truly supported or loved, he never had a big brother to shield him from the world, or a father to aspire to be like, to learn from, to be loved by. kaz, wanting to 'protect his investments' aka, wants to take care of the people he loves, fills those voids, while also finally getting to be the big brother he needed after losing jordie, and helping wylan be what he never got the chance to be. he actively plays both roles, plus the role of mentor, and you can see the distinct edges; the 'dad' makes sure he eats, is safe on the streets, going out of his way to give wylan every opportunity he can. the mentor pushes wylan to be better, stronger, more independent, even if he comes off as brash at times. the brother not only protects, but stands like a shield, like a guide, a light in the dark that is the barrels. its everything wylan needs and more (cause its that relationship that allows wylan to find a home within the other crows and to find his confidence in himself that his piece of shit father attempted to squash) and its healing for kaz himself.

its nice seeing kaz have a bond with someone that outright forces him to loosen up, it looks nice on him, he serves those pockets of vulnerability and happiness. I nearly choked when he went to see wylan in the first episode and asked the last time he had eaten cause it just felt so... odd, and then to watch kaz really step out of his typical cold persona to make sure other's respected wylan. I was floored, it was everything to me. he really takes care of wylan like he needed someone to do for him and it hurts in such a sweet way. he makes sure wylan never has to break himself, to fight and bit and scratch to make a name for himself, because he just wants him to succeed.

then there's wylan himself. he takes after kaz so much (he's basically just kaz with a weaponized baby face/innocence and speck of mercy, fight with the wall), growing more and more confident with his guidance, finding his footing in the barrels, surpassing every demeaning expectation his father set for him, having this soft bond with one of the scariest men of the barrel wylan proves himself to himself, stops seeing himself as weak or broken or shameful and embraces his skills. there's also no bigger ego boost then being the unofficial 'kid' of the big and scary kaz brekker, especially when he's got that baby face to use to his advantage. kaz is someone he can trust, to confide in, to be protected by, to be able to fall back on, to understand when no one else does. kaz stepped up for his shitty dad and lack of big brother, stepped up when wylan was alone, stepped up and was the closest thing to family wylan would have until he got accepted into the crows, and even then, their bond runs so much deeper beneath the surface that it outweighs the other crows (besides maybe jesper). kaz made sure he was safe when he was unprepared for the barrel, allowing him to be come our bomb loving, baby face having, downright terrifying when he wants to be, baby girl, that we know and love.

[shitpostingkats]

What ships do you have for Yu-Gi-Oh! male leads and the Yu-Gi-Oh! series you have seen?

For most of the main characters, I don't really have any ships! Not opposed to an idea of any of them in relationships, but one of the reasons I got into yugioh was the lack of romantic subplots. This being said, I am an utter fiend for starshipping (Jaden x Yusei)

They're two of the most ace aro idiots of all time how are they dating no one knows it doesn't even look like a relationship to most people, but they know each others demons they are foils they are soulmates.... I will yell about this to my dying day. I have an entire aspec romance novel sitting uncompleted in my drafts about this. They just get eachother despite being completely different breeds of people.

Also Jesse having a crush on Jaden and having to get over it and settle into this completely anormative chaos relationship where they're soulmates who aren't dating but are each others' Most Important Person.... Yubel accepting and loving Jaden just the way they are now regardless of promises made in the past.... I see a queerplatonic ship and I go "Mh yes delicious."

[hiraganasakura]

Has anyone else ever considered queerplatonic Jailbirds (Qrow/Robyn) or is that just me??

[synthaphone]

The Pokemon HOME app limiting random features and information to either the mobile or console versions is SO clunky and annoying.

My goal: to check which of my favorite Pokemon and shinies stored in HOME don't have the Paldea Champion Ribbon yet, so I can bring those into Scarlet and get it for them. But! You can only view what ribbons a Pokemon has on the mobile version of the software! And you can't move Pokemon to your switch games from mobile!!! So you have to:

quit out of the console app, if you opened it already because you thought this would be a relatively simple task

open the app on mobile

manually document which Pokemon don't have the ribbon- like, on a piece of paper or something

close the mobile app (you can't have both versions of the app open simultaneously)

open the app on console

move them from HOME into Scarlet, referring to aforementioned list

Now you might say "There is a custom tag feature in Pokemon HOME! You could apply a tag to the Pokemon you plan to move instead of making a physical note on a piece of paper!" But unfortunately, the only aspect of the tag you can see on the console version is the color- the name of the tag isn't visible. and I'm already using every color of tag available

(also: you can only make and apply tags on mobile. other mobile exclusive things: wonder trade and gts, viewing 90% of achievements, viewing models, switching between a pokemon's stats for different games it can go in without switching what game you're planning on moving things between)

[brilliantfantasticgeronimo]

tiers for s1 + s2 on my rewatch

[here-there-were-dragons]

that’s just a tundra fae veilspun

[trainsinanime]

I wonder: Do Americans know about american school buses? Not their existence in general, but how they're seen overseas.

Over here, they're one of the symbols of America, on par with the Statue of Liberty, the flag, the Eagle, and well ahead of any chain restaurant you can name. People won't know any US states, but they will know these vehicles.

The thing is, here in Germany, we don't have dedicated school buses. The general idea is that kids go to school on their own. When that's not practical, they're expected to use (and given free tickets for) public transit. Public transit is designed around this requirement; there are many places where there is a bus, and anyone can get on it, but the route and timetable really only makes sense for school children. In case a dedicated school bus is really needed, that's generally subcontracted out, and the lines either use something like a Sprinter Van for smaller routes, or a normal city or interurban bus (often a used one that's a bit older). School trips are normal public transit, or a rented bus, typically a coach or regional bus.

It's not a perfect system, in the past couple of years there's been an epidemic of people bringing their kids to school in their cars instead of letting them walk, which is less than ideal. It is what it is. But building a dedicated network of public transit lines only for students, and building dedicated vehicles only for that, has never occurred to anyone here.

Of course we know about these buses, from movies and such, but they're as foreign here as cacti or pick-up trucks (actually we're seeing more and more of these here) or yellow cabs (all europeans will assume all cabs in the US are yellow until they actually visit).

You do see these buses here at times, because people still generally like the idea of the US, even if they have a lot of issues with a lot of details, and so folks bring them over, along with stretch limos and stuff (also not really a thing here). And of course, if someone goes to all that trouble, they don't do it to haul school kids, they rent it out for city tours or as a party bus or whatever.

So you see these yellow things as a symbol of faraway places, scenic vistas, some vague undefined idea of freedom that doesn't necessarily hold up to any contact with reality, and it's just a huge part of the whole US aesthetic.

And then you go to a student exchange with the US, and you finally get the chance: You yourself get to ride in one of these iconic chrome yellow buses! It looks just like in the movies! You get in, you drive in them a little…

…and you realise they're shit. Just the worst buses in the western world. Terrible suspension. Uncomfortable seats with weirdly high backs (so they don't have to put seatbelts in, they just restrict how far kids can fly in an accident). Everything made out of the cheapest materials. Turns out the reason why the US uses school buses like that instead of normal modern city buses, which the US has, is to save money and because they just hate kids.

And then it hits you why US Americans say "as American as apple pie", a dish that is made and enjoyed literally anywhere in the world, instead of "as American as yellow school buses". Of course the Americans already knew all this. They got tortured by these things forever. It would never occur to them to see this as a symbol of America, it's just a normal part of life for them. It's a symbol of school and school life and sometimes normalcy, and tells us that these actors getting out of it are supposed to be teenagers, nothing more.

But most people in Europe have, of course, never ridden on these buses. So when they see them in movies and TV, that's a giant big yellow signifier that we're not in Hessen or Wallonia or wherever anymore. A symbol of a different world, one that may be at most a once-in-a-lifetime-experience for most people, just like a picture of a tropical beach, Mayan Pyramids, the Great Wall of China, or Hildesheim (there's no reason to go there twice). And I think Americans don't know that, and that's fascinating.

[rigberts]

I can't be like "men are awful" bc I have to let go of needlessly divisive and cynical statements like that if we are to ever truly move past this gender based culture war that drives us into hateful movements like trans exclusionary radical feminism and right wing incel communities but also there are so many men out there that are awful.

[thriftedtchotchkes]

how do you sleep?

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel's always there to comfort you with his words and a warm bed after a nightmare, but tonight, you need a little more

warnings: 18+ MDNI, jackson era, soft!joel, comfort, undefined relationship, getting together, mentions of nightmares & insomnia, smut, unprotected piv, slow/intimate sex, creampie

word count: 3.3k

“Whas’wrong?”

You didn't mean to end up here again. It's the third night this week you swiped Joel's key from under the doormat and found yourself standing in his bedroom doorway.

"Can't sleep," you reply, barely above a whisper. Exhaustion seeps into your voice, permeating your limbs the longer you remain standing.

He already knows why you're here. Ever since you, Joel, and Ellie arrived in Jackson and were offered homes of your own, rest evades you more than it ever did on the road. It's too quiet here, and your racing mind fills the silence with the horrors of a life lived in constant fear.

You know you're safe now. You know that, but it's not enough to convince your body or quell the ever-present tightness in your chest telling you to run, to hide. Your fears are more potent in the dark, and the shadows creeping from wall to wall have sharper edges. Teeth that threaten to tear you apart and rip away everything and everyone you've fought so hard to protect.

The walls and floorboards creak with life that shouldn't be present in an empty, two-story home—too big for a single person, and yet still yours—and quickly begin to sound like impending death.

Nowadays, more often than not, you seek out a different kind of shelter. The familiar, comforting embrace of the man who kept you warm and protected through harsh winters and from monsters prowling in the night. That's where you belong.

Crisp bedsheets rustle in the dark and then you hear Joel pat the mattress twice—an invitation to occupy the space beside him, the one he always leaves empty just in case.

"Well, c'mon then. Hurry up," he grumbles, still half-asleep. But he isn’t frustrated. He's tired, just like you, and he'll probably sleep a lot better knowing both of his girls are resting soundly under his roof.

You trudge over and waste no time burying your face in his bare chest, breathing in pine and cedar wood shavings before exhaling a heavy sigh of relief. Throwing a leg over his thighs, you mold into him, rubbing your cheek into coarse curls and marveling at the calm, steady rhythm beneath you.

It feels good to be home. You're not sure why you let Maria give you an entire house to yourself when everything you could ever want or need was right across the street. Every time you end up back here, you wonder. And every time you leave, you wish you'd stayed.

He wraps you up in his arms and tugs you into his side, murmuring your name with soft lips that tenderly caress your forehead. They're so warm, just like the rest of him, and you find yourself aching to feel them on yours. It's a line neither of you have ever crossed, but tonight's been rough.

For what felt like days, you were forced to watch as your worst nightmares came to bloody fruition. You were dragged through the most brutal outcomes of events you already survived and could do nothing more than pray you'd wake up soon. When you finally came to and checked the clock, it had only been an hour and a half since you'd passed out. The moon was still high in the sky, taunting you with the promise of more. More dread, endless brutality.

Joel can make all of that go away, if only for a few hours. He always does, but tonight...you don't want to talk about it tonight. You don't want to think about it, about anything at all. You just want him.

You'd feel selfish asking for more if there wasn't already something between you. Something nurtured and gradual that's been building for months, beginning on your travels across the country and coming to an unignorable head here in Jackson.

Back then, it was stolen glances while you bathed together in streams and fleeting touches in your shared sleeping bag under star-filled skies. It's more intimate these days. He holds your hand when you're anxious, and you kiss away the frown lines and frustrated wrinkles that mar his skin.

Every day, you skirt the line between platonic companionship and whatever's starting to simmer below the surface. You're scared to hope he feels it too, but the thought of remaining in this undefined middle ground scares you even more.

The furnace drifting in and out of consciousness next to you radiates with an addictive heat you've told yourself to ignore for a long time, but it's quickly becoming an impossible feat. Pressed into his side, you're trying and failing not to writhe against him. But he's starting to notice.

His hips jerk every time your core drags against his bare thigh, a slow, repetitive grind you really shouldn't continue, but feels so fucking good combined with the slick pooling between your legs. You should stop—really, you should—but his breathing's changing and hitching, catching in his throat every time the growing tent in his boxers meets the friction of your inner thigh.

Then, he gasps something cognizant and urgent, and you know you've been caught. His hand snakes down to your ass and traps you against his side with a grip so firm, plush skin spills between his fingers.

“Woah, hold on there," he breathes out heavily, and his gaze drops to yours curiously. His eyes are wide open and alert, shining with the faint reflection of moonlight streaming through an adjacent window. Bright and yet pitch black as his sleep-addled brain struggles to catch up with his body. "What's goin' on with you tonight?"

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, debating whether or not to ask for his help. His expression is gentle but otherwise unreadable, and there's a chance this could go very, very badly. Maybe you'd be better off apologizing, but you don't want to. You're not sorry for needing him.

And the longer he waits for an answer, the more his body convinces you that he wants the same things you do. His hand is still on your ass, kneading as he urges you to rock into him, but he doesn't seem to realize he's doing it. Then, his thigh flexes and a rush of wetness coats your already soaked underwear. His expression falters, and you know he can feel it.

His voice is tighter when he speaks again, but that tinge of concern is still there. He wants to make it all better, but he can't unless you tell him how. Your hand tenses where it lies on his chest, and he covers it with his own.

"What can I do? Just tell me how to help you��whatever it is, I'll do it," he murmurs, brushing his thumb reassuringly across your skin. You tilt your chin up and suddenly you're close enough to breathe his air. Closer than you've ever been and yet still not close enough.

"I need you to...," Fuck me. But it sounds too crude. A quick fuck isn't what you need right now. You need to be full of him, to hold him deep inside you and keep him there for as long as this night will allow. "...make me feel safe again."

"Tell me how," he repeats as you struggle to bite back a moan. He's working you against him intentionally now, encouraging you up and down his leg, and it's making your brain go a little haywire. "What do you need, baby?"

"Joel," you whine at the endearment, an intense heat building at the apex of your thighs. That's new. You want to hear him say it again, to devour every word as he buries himself inside you over and over. You will him to understand. "I need you."

He sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth, steeling himself before nosing into the hairs at your temple. The gesture is so tender and affectionate even as he bucks into your thigh, and it's painfully obvious how hard you're making him. He nods slowly and plants a soft kiss on your forehead, his chest rising and falling more rapidly than before.

"Okay, baby. I got you," he murmurs, his lips trailing down to your eyelids, then the apple of your cheek. "I'll make it all go away, alright? M'gonna take care of you."

And you believe him. He rolls you onto your back and you gasp as his entire weight presses you into the mattress. It's more than just comforting. You feel protected. He's shielding you from this horrible, broken world, somehow managing to prove that there's still goodness to be found. And it's on top of you, broad and strong, and wanting you just as badly as you want him.

Big hands cup your cheeks and his lips meet yours, so much different than the familiar press against your forehead or the top of your head. You're in unknown territory, but he guides you carefully and moves slowly, taking the time to explore and savor. The taste of spearmint begins to overwhelm your senses as the kiss deepens, and you lick into his mouth impatiently, already craving more.

But after years of quiet observation, Joel knows better than anyone how to temper you. Ducking down to bury his face in your neck, he kisses along the underside of your jaw, regaining control of the pace with a sharp, halting suck. And while he refuses to let your urgency rush him, he still allows your hands to roam his skin and tug at his boxers, letting you take what you want—like his only goal is to make sure this lasts long enough for him to fulfill his promise.

A disgruntled groan bubbles in your throat, and you feel him chuckle. "Y'know, patience is supposed to be a virtue," he mumbles, amused, his beard scratchy and grounding against your skin. You huff in response.

Tonight doesn't feel like a night for virtues. Not when things are finally changing in your favor. After so much time, so much running, you actually have somewhere to go—and stay. You're not running away anymore. You're moving towards something that feels real, and dependable, and safe, and you're doing it together. And now that you're so close you can taste it, you're done waiting.

"You're really gonna start caring about virtues now?" you ask skeptically, slipping your hands past the waistband of his boxers to grab his ass.

He hesitates, then huffs out a quiet laugh. "Fair enough."

And with that, you both know the time for talking is over. Something shifts and you're on the same page, ready to take as much as the other is willing to give.

Joel begins to drag your shirt up to reveal more, but suddenly feeling stifled, you take over and remove it completely. The look on his face makes it more than worth it. It's not the first time he's seen you naked, but as his eyes rake over your bare curves, it feels like it could be. Reverently, he returns his lips to yours, kissing you deeply before charting a path lower.

His mouth feels hot as he laves and nips across your collarbone, and he shimmies further down the bed until he's just barely ghosting the swell of your breasts. You gasp, burying your fingers in his hair as he sucks a bruise below your nipple and soothes the sting with his tongue. Licking a wide stripe past the darkening mark, he captures the bud between his teeth, another hand sliding up your stomach to cup your other breast while he alternates between swirling and sucking.

Your entire body feels like it's on fire. The ache between your thighs worsens the longer he continues, but instead of squeezing them together for relief, you wrap your legs around his waist and tug him onto you. By now, you're so wet, there's no way you're not soaking right through your underwear and into his boxers, and you hope he can feel it. If your increasing volume isn't enough of an indication that you need him inside you, then maybe this will be.

He lets out a pained groan into your chest, and you clench in satisfaction. He immediately grinds down, thrusting into you like he's forgotten about the layers of clothing still separating you. You don't bother to remind him.

Bucking him off, you quickly wrench down your underwear then reach for his, yanking them off while he sheds his t-shirt. Your fingers close around his cock before his shirt hits the floor and he startles before melting into your grip, eyes fluttering shut and lips parting around a cross between a sigh and the neediest whine you've ever heard.

You feel that telltale whoosh between your legs again, and after pumping him a few times, you guide him toward your entrance. In the back of your mind, you know you're taking a risk without a condom. You should be safer, more responsible. But it's Joel. It's always been Joel.

His eyes shoot open once he realizes where you're leading him, but you only bite your lip and nod, your expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. An unspoken agreement passes between you, a quiet understanding cultivated through years of friendship and now something more. Then, he presses inside and your mind goes blissfully blank.

No more horrors, no more fear. Just Joel keeping his promise and doing exactly what you trusted him to do. He encompasses you entirely, pressing the length of his body flush against yours as he works himself into you. The stretch was nothing you ever could've anticipated, but it grounds you in the present moment. It's everything you told yourself not to hope for when you showed up on his doorstep tonight.

His movements are slow but powerful, and he rests his forehead on yours, eyes alert and acutely aware of every change in expression. The intensity of his gaze and the slick sound of him burying himself to the hilt should make you self-conscious—it's all you can see and hear, but that's the point, isn't it? To get lost in the way he drags so perfectly against your walls and grinds his hips into yours on every thrust, slow and steady.

He's attentive, cataloging whenever he makes you moan a little louder or your eyes roll, and repeats it again and again until you're writhing underneath him. Your nails rake down his back and scratch at his scalp, and he jerks forward whenever you're a little too rough, hitting so deep, it feels like he's grazing your cervix. But the longer he continues to give you everything you want, the more his body trembles with the effort of holding himself back.

You know Joel, and you can tell when he's resisting an urge. His biceps tense where he's propped on his forearms, bracketing your head, and there's so little space between you, you can feel his abs flexing every time he plunges back inside you. He needs more and you want to give it to him.

Lifting your head, you bridge the tiny gap to meet his lips. "Joel, c'mon. You can fuck me harder than that, I'm not gonna break," you mumble between open-mouthed kisses. That catches him off guard.

He accidentally lets himself go for a thrust or two, and you're cut off by a moan, your walls squeezing him so hard, it's painful. Somehow, you manage to recover just long enough to gasp out the rest. "It's okay if you need something from me, too. Just take it. I trust you."

For an agonizing moment, Joel pauses to observe you, waiting for something in your eyes to contradict the permission you just gave him. But when he doesn't find it, he shakily exhales the breath he'd been holding and his head drops to your shoulder. The groan that follows rumbles so deeply in his chest, it makes your stomach drop. Then, without warning, his hands are gripping your thighs and he's rutting into you like a caged animal finally set free.

There he is. The man who never hesitated to gun down anyone who threatened the safety of his loved ones and did whatever it took to bring his girls home.

Recognition washes over you and fills you with a familiar feeling of security. It's something only Joel has ever been able to give you. You wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face into his hair, hoping to return even a fraction of that feeling.

As he gives into his body, he starts to ramble, his words muffled and lost to your delicate skin. But you don't need to hear him to know what he's saying. With every thrust, the bed frame rattles and gets the message across loud and clear. Your heels dig into his back, encouraging him forward, begging him to keep going, and he obliges, quickly reduced to helpless grunts and curses.

The room gets increasingly hotter and more humid, and the cool air flowing through the window isn't nearly enough to provide relief, but neither of you seems to care. You're a little in love with the way your bodies slip together, sweat and slick intermingling seamlessly.

Everything is so wet, and it feels incredible—your skin against his, your walls pulsing around his cock. He's molding into you, so close that you can't do much more than swivel your hips into his, and it's sending you hurtling toward the edge faster than you can fully process. The coarse hair at the base of his cock rubs your clit just right, and when he adjusts the angle to fuck you deeper than before, you hit your peak.

You dissolve into a whimpering mess beneath him, desperately riding out your orgasm as he groans and abruptly bites down on your shoulder. Releasing your legs to grab your waist, he forces himself impossibly further inside you and grinds into your spasming walls until he's coming with you. He gasps his way through it, stilling while he lets you milk him dry, then collapses on top of you and gathers you in his arms.

For a while, you both struggle to catch your breath. The mattress is bare save for the fitted sheet, your clothes, pillows, and blankets having been kicked or tossed onto the floor. It feels nice like this—to savor the winter air cooling your bodies and to just be held. Without letting you go, Joel lifts his head to kiss the teeth marks he left on your shoulder apologetically and then shifts higher to press his lips against the underside of your jaw.

"You alright?" he asks gently, his voice a little gruffer than usual from the exertion.

"Mhm," you hum, nosing into his temple. "More than." He sighs and almost sounds relieved.

The thought makes your heart ache. If he's worried he crossed a line, well. He did. You both did, but it was a long time coming and you don't regret a thing. You squeeze him a little tighter as if to tell him, and he allows himself to melt into you briefly. Then, he draws back to cup your cheek and guide your lips to his.

He kisses you slowly, taking the time to appreciate the sensation of your mouth against his without any urgency. "Feel better?" he murmurs after reluctantly parting from you. You keep him close.

"I don't think we have to worry about any more nightmares tonight," you reply with a small smile. He returns it, eyes crinkling fondly, then rolls you onto your sides to settle in for a good night's sleep.

As you start to drift off, you hear him chuckle and mutter something under his breath that you don't quite catch. But it sounds a lot like, "Might be time for you to finally move in."

thanks for reading!

[jaewritesfic]

Melon!AU

Actual writing now, based on this post:

“What,” Tim breathes out faintly, “the fuck is that?”

Language, Bruce thinks faintly, though he doesn't manage to get it past his lips.

He is a man who prides himself on being ready for anything, but he most certainly didn't expect something like this when responding to the Batsignal tonight.

“That is a Pit Demon,” Damian's voice asserts through comms, grave in a way that betrays his collected mask. He's unnerved. “There is nothing else that could be.”

Bruce is unnerved too, though he refuses to show it.

Gordon had half the block cordoned off so no civilians would come through by the time Bruce and Tim - the closest at the time - had arrived on scene. The alley itself is blocked in by police cruisers, though the officers are staying very firmly behind the line and not approaching.

It's no wonder why.

The…thing backed into a dead end alley looks like it's made of smoke and shadow, all long sinuous lines and dangerous angles.

It's vaguely Humanoid in the sense that it has a long torso, arms and a head. The arms are too long, the fingers curved and wickedly sharp. The face is a well of deep shadow, a smooth slate broken only when it opens its jagged mouth to show off a full arsenal of fangs.

The only other facial features are the solid, glowing Lazarus green eyes. Wide and lamp-like, they give the distinct feeling that the creature's sights will not miss anything.

There are no legs. Just the sinuous curves and overlaps of a long smokey tail. It whips about with agitation.

Floating like mist on the water is a head of white hair, edges fuzzy and undefined like it can't decide whether it's a solid or a gas.

The creature lays with its chest nearly flat to the ground, propped up only by those horrifically sharp hands and poised like a predator ready to push off into a sprint.

Glowing Lazarus water seems to pool slowly beneath it, streaked here and there as evidence of past movement.

Bruce finally finds his tongue to question Damian. He can see his youngest standing on the opposite roof of he and Tim, the two buildings that form the alley their perch.

“You've seen something like this before?”

Damian hesitates. “...no. But there are stories of things coming out of the Pits. I doubt I need to explain why this seems to be one of them.”

With that color green shining out of its face and streaked across the alley? No. No, he doesn't.

“Do your stories have any clues on what to do when one shows up?” Tim asks, unable to tear his eyes away from the creature.

Damian scoffs. “Close your eyes and hope your end is quick.”

“Lovely,” Tim bites out, voice a little higher pitched than normal.

“We won't be doing that,” Bruce responds dryly, two taps coming through the comms notifying them of Black Bat's arrival.

Bruce looks up and has to search for her for a few seconds before he can make her out in the shadows of Damian's rooftop.

“I'm still five minutes out,” Dick comms in. “What exactly are we looking at here? Can Oracle give a visual with any cams?”

“I wish,” Oracle chimes in. “Even through the mask footage I have no idea what they're seeing. The feed is corrupted to hell and back whenever it's in frame.”

“Really? In person it looks like-”

Tim is cut off when the officers below make some kind of movement the monster clearly takes issue with, the snarl that almost physically ricochets off the brick walls making everyone wince.

It's like TV static and the crackle of lightning striking a tree, like glaciers cracking and shifting underwater all rolled into one.

The hair on the back of Bruce's neck stands on end.

“Fuck. It's like a living shadow, but all sharp and wrong and angry-”

“No,” Cass cuts in quietly, silencing everyone.

“...Black Bat?” Bruce questions lowly.

“Not angry,” she responds, as sure as ever when assessing a target - no matter what kind of target.

“Scared, hurt. Guarding chest, trying to hide it. Wants to scare us away, but making no move to attack. Posturing.”

The thing about Cass is that they trust her reads implicitly - her reads of people.

She wouldn't speak up if she wasn't certain, and she wouldn't be certain if she didn't see something painfully human in the creature below.

“...what do you suggest?” Bruce asks after a moment of tense silence, trying to reassess the creature and see what she sees.

He at the very least wants her opinion, so they can weigh it in formulating a plan here.

Cass keeps looking for a long moment, before she looks across the gap at him. “Needs help. Reach out - at least try.”

Masterpost

[skecherss]

Maybe it's the eternally distrustful loveless child in me but idk something about the way DC has been writing familial relationships in recent years rings so false to me. There's no room for the complex, nuanced, unnamed relationships Batman and Nightwing used to have, nothing like the warped mother-daughter-sister thing Barbara Gordon and Cass Cain had, nothing like Superboy's weird obsessive hero worship/bone-deep dread of his clone fathers or Max Mercury's weary undefined protectiveness of Bart or Wonder Woman's dogged loyalty to her little "sisters". Cause — for me, at least, I know I actively seek little moments of connection in stories; when I write or when I read it is to seek comfort. I think that's why DC has made this shift. Readers like me gravitated to those little warm moments, and DC noticed that we did without stopping to think about why.

But there's a point at which I notice diminishing returns of comfort from fluffy writing — it ceases to register as real. It's too good, too saccharine, too empty of any of the pain and frustration it takes to express genuine love for the other person. It's all hand-holding and no sweaty palms. It's so easy for someone to say they love you. It's so easy to see when it's all just words. And part of this is, yeah, bad writing; all that stuff about show not tell. They're trying to tell us these characters care about each other without giving us any real proof. but. idk. I need my love to be real. I need to feel the bones behind each embrace. I can't accept affection without struggling my way into it. Honestly I'd rather get a grim gritty Batman who forgets he HAS kids until they throw themselves into the line of fire than a milquetoast helicopter Batdad who tells his kids exactly what they mean to him without actively being in a state of bleeding out.

[stevieschrodinger]

So this is one of those things I'll write one day when I have time. Maybe once I'm retired.

So what if Steve's parents aren't actually his parents? What if they're scientists from the lab who got a kid foisted on them?

What if the kids always start to show their abilities but like, three or four years old? And the moment they do, they get their number tattoo?

What if Steve was their first 'failure'?

What if they couldn't let him go completely...just in case.

What if Steve's parents aren't even a couple? What if they're from the labs and they're playing a role they've been pushed into?

What if the reason they lose more and more interest is because, the older Steve gets, the less and less likely it becomes that he's ever going to present powers?

But what if they were wrong? What if Steve can be in the right place at the right time? What if he instinctively knows who needs him most? What if he can feel where to swing the bat?

What if Steve's powers are nebulous and undefined enough to fly under the radar..

I don't know, still percolating on this one. Obviously I'd make it Steddie somehow.

[livinginadumpster]

The way Dead Boy Detectives handles queerness and labeling of sexuality is honestly so refreshing. The way it's handled makes is very obvious that it's not the kind of media in which characters are assumed straight until proven otherwise; the characters' sexualities are left undefined because the focus isn't on specific labels, it's on the relationships between characters.

As the show goes on, it becomes abundantly clear that the characters' sexualities are a non-factor. Sure, Jenny dates women, but a label is never put on that. Same with Edwin - he is clearly interested in men, but not once in the show is he labeled as gay. It's not necessary in either case; labeling these characters wouldn't add anything to their stories or character arcs. The show is completely relaxed about labels because they're almost never a part of or even relevant to the plot.

And so, in a show that is so utterly unconcerned with labels, it would also be exceeding strange to impose the label of "straight" on any character. Characters like Charles and Crystal, who clearly demonstrate attraction to the opposite gender, don't come across as strictly heterosexual, they come across as people experiencing human emotions. And a character like Niko, who never expresses romantic attraction to anyone, really can't be assumed heterosexual either, because it simply wouldn't be in line with what we know about her.

Heterosexuality never comes across as the default in this universe. It never seemed as if the writers automatically assumed any character, no matter how background, to be straight. Queerness is explored not as a defiance of the norm but as just another way of loving someone. In a world where being queer is always viewed as alternate or deviant, and where coming out is a lifelong process that begins again every time you meet someone new because you're always assumed cishet, this kind of complete abolishment of heteronormativity is a breath of fresh air. Seeing queerness handled in such a casual way onscreen honestly feels a little bit revolutionary.

[yazmarina]

toothbrush

for hit play, a drabble event.

—"if you stay with me again, would you mind closing the bedroom door? " (toothbrush by dnce)

max verstappen (f1) x afab!reader

warnings/notes: smut, unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, undefined relationship

a/n: i liked this one quite a lot. enjoy some domestic maxie <3

The feeling is disorienting at first.

You're warm, but not uncomfortably so. It's more of a hug, the sensation that wraps around you now. You move to shift on your side when you realize you're quite literally being hugged. Arms tighten around you and this is when your eyes fly open.

You let out a breath when you realize where you are, gentle sunlight streaming through the cracks between the curtains.

A faint purring catches your attention and you crane your neck toward the end of the bed to see the curled up figure of Jimmy, burrowing himself against your leg beneath the sheets.

A groan from above startles you and you turn to see Max peeking one eye open at you.

"Morning," he mumbles, cradling you closer against his frame.

"Hi," you whisper back, breathing in the scent of his laundry detergent and the faint traces of his perfume.

Max blinks his eyes fully open, brushing some of your hair over your shoulder. He chuckles at the sight of your neck and chest, lightly tracing the splotches of red and purple on your skin.

"Sorry, schatje," Max says, rubbing your arm as if to soothe you. "For last night."

You laugh, pulling away from his embrace to stretch. You catch your reflection in the mirror across from the bed. You practically roll off the mattress, a dull ache in your thighs as you stumble closer to the mirror.

Your thin camisole leaves little to the imagination, one strap hanging down, baring even more skin. A faint gasp escapes you as you take in just how much damage Max had done last night.

"Can't remember if I packed a turtleneck," you muse out loud, catching Max's eye in the mirror. He merely grins, leaning against the headboard as his gaze trails down your body.

"Anyways, I need to go," you declare, swiftly turning around to rummage through your travel bag sitting on the table in the corner of the room. You hear Max get off the bed behind you and you feel him stepping closer and closer.

Warm hands find their way on your hips, sliding around your midsection until Max is fully leaning into you, his chin resting on your shoulder.

"What's the rush? You said you didn't have any work," Max reminds, lips pressing against the skin of your neck.

You sigh, pulling out a pair of pants and a plain shirt that you packed. Not the most fashion-forward but with Max Verstappen waiting by your apartment door, itching to take you back to his place, there wasn't much smart packing choices you could have made.

"Yeah, but I don't want to overstay my welcome," you point out, hands pausing at what they're doing. You lay your palms over Max's firm arms, leaning back against him.

"What?" Max sounds genuinely confused. He gently turns you to face him, his head tilted to the side as he looks at you questioningly.

"Overstay your welcome? Baby, did I not tell you that you could stay here for as long as you want?" Max says almost imploringly, hands cradling the sides of your face.

You chew on your bottom lip, avoiding his eyes.

A part of you screams that you shouldn't have gotten involved with him in the first place. You're a reporter and an analyst, for crying out loud. You're meant to be impartial, non-partisan to any agenda, detached from any of the drivers.

It turns out that all it takes is a slightly awkward, more than friendly Dutch driver to break your resolve.

And in record time, too. This time last month, you barely gave Max a second thought. You were new and he was the top dog at this thing. Nothing to indicate that it would turn into more than a professional relationship.

"Really? You'd want me to move in that fast?" You ask, half-joking.

Max shrugs. "Monaco has a housing problem. You could free up your apartment for whichever next tax evader wants to move here."

You burst out in giggles, punching Max lightly in the chest.

"Big words from one of the biggest tax evaders, then," you quip, relishing in the grin that spreads on Max's face.

He leans in to kiss you, lips slotting perfectly against yours. You sigh, quickly wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him flush against you.

"Enough about taxes," Max says against your lips.

"Stay."

Max kisses you again, maneuvering you back toward the bed. You fall against the plush bedding with a gasp, barely having enough time to scoot further up as Max reclaims your lips, tongue licking into your mouth. Your whole body seems to erupt in flames, his fingers already tugging your underwear down your thighs.

"Max," you breathe out as you watch him rid himself of his own boxers. Memories of last night flood back as you catch sight of his length, already half-hard.

He looks at you expectantly but you've forgotten what you wanted to say. A protest maybe, hesitance at continuing whatever it is you have with him. But the light blush on his cheeks, his eyes boring into yours so eagerly—it puts a stop to every interjection you've come up with.

You press your mouth against his instead, reaching over to stroke at his already leaking cock. Max groans into the kiss, fingers tangling in your hair as he tugs, eliciting a wanton moan from you.

"I want you. Everyday."

Max admits this, kissing down the column of your neck. You let go of him in favor of digging both your hands into his side, clutching onto him as if letting go would end in him leaving. His fingers swipe harshly between your folds, finding your arousal already pooling and dripping onto the sheets.

"Stay, please," Max says once more, withdrawing his hand from between your thighs, angling himself at your entrance.

You nod, pulling him in so you can kiss yet again. Max pushes in at the same time, neither of you stopping the sounds that come out of both of you as he sheaths himself within your walls.

It's needy, the way you two move. But none of it is rushed, with Max's hands smoothing down your sides languidly, stroking at your skin in a way that has goosebumps rising all over your arms. He grunts into your neck and you lock your legs around him, keeping him close.

Max feels as if he belongs exactly where he is right now. Pleasure shoots through your entire body like it has never before, each thrust of his hips sending your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

"I-I'll stay," you manage to choke out, fingers carding through Max's hair. He pulls back to look at you, eyes glazed over as if in a trance. Spellbound by you.

"I'll stay as long as you want," you say, angling your hips closer to his, both of you groaning at the change. He goes in even deeper, stilling for a moment to press his length further up. You clench around him and Max gasps, resuming his pace.

It doesn't take long for both of you to reach it, euphoria washing over as you finish in each other's arms. Max spills himself inside you and the sheets are further ruined as your own climax splashes everywhere.

Max eases himself on top of you, careful not to let his full weight crush you. Neither of you two moves for a solid minute, Max still fully inside you.

"How very domestic," you comment with a laugh, kissing the side of Max's head.

He merely groans in reply, finally leaning away and plopping down at your side. You practically hop onto your feet as you look for your underwear, pulling it up to stop any leakage.

"Guess I'm not going anywhere now seeing that you...well...yeah."

The two of you burst out laughing.

"Breakfast?" Max asks, jerking his head toward the door.

You nod. The clothes still splayed out on the table catch your eye.

Maybe you'll wear them tomorrow.

[logosbot-tm]

* continues to lie on the floor *

Okay, but the way that Grumbo genuinely just...is like that about each other? Isn't that wild? They're just so weird and overly attached, and they've been friends for several years now. Like so many of their videos are "Buy one Get one free". Hell, sometimes it even ends up like that when the other isn't even IN the video (I am looking at you "all I care about is in this room" and "This is my diary").

In Tommyinnit's words "You (Grian) and Mumbo come as a pair." And they do. They do come as a pair. Somehow they've got matching colour schemes as well.

And they share a soul? Which gave them matching haircuts?

And they can't stand being on the Hermitcraft server without the other, so both end up creating summoning circles.

To Grian, it's important that He's Mumbo's Best Friend, and to Mumbo, it's important that he's Grian's only friend.

Also, some of their tasks matching in Secret Life? By pure coincidence? So wild.

The fact that the other Hermits also know that Grian and Mumbo are a duo, a pair, and therefore it's important to give Grian Mumbo stamps, whilst Scar keeps trying to push the two of them into a corner together?

And they have literal robot children? Where the ones that can talk call them dads?

The fact that their bases are always next to each other or close by, the fact that they've had messaging systems directly linked to each other, the fact that when there's some war they most often end up on the same side?

And you can't watch Grian's s6 without him talking about Mumbo aaaalll the time.

And now they both have a figure of the other at their base, whilst Mumbo has a Grian outside of his shop.

Also, Grian just really likes Mumbo's appearance and he's said so multiple times.

In s10, Mumbo's title cards directly reference Grian and Grumbot, and he matched a title card to Grian's sweater???

I can go on and on and on about how attached the two of them are and how it can be either viewed as a really close friendship, a relationship, or a qpr, or something undefinable.

The important part is just,,, they're a pair, do not separate.

Because it will end up with them being anxious, sad, and lonely.

They need to be kept together.

I just... *gestures vaguely * them? You know?

[mintmatcha]

happy birthday aizawa i know he can't wait to come home and cream you

You're already washed up and under the covers by the time Shouta makes it back to his house. The keys rattle as he places them in the bowl by the door, his groans as he peels off his shoes, then he whistles low, calling the cats.

A birthday cake is waiting for him in the kitchen, but instead, he goes to the stairs. They creak under his weight, twelve steps in total- a sound you miss when you're at your apartment. Shouta comes into the bedroom, already halfway through unbuttoning his shirt. His eyes crinkle with delight when he sees you, nestled among his blankets as if you belong here.

"Hi, birthday boy," you say. "You should go have some dinner."

There's a flutter of an eyeroll, diluted by his smirk. "Where are Sushi and Sesame?"

You point to the two lumps under the covers, one at your feet, the other at your side. "You know where."

How quickly things become normal with him. There's still no label for what between you - no 'girlfriend', no 'partner', just the two of you, together- but there's the stability of a routine. His spare key is looped on to your keychain, a drawer by the bed is reversed just for you. Even the cats have become comfortable around you.

The shirt gets discarded on the ground. Before you can complain, he scoops down and picks it up, tossing it into the laundry basket. You've already trained him well.

"Can you kick them out?" he asks.

"Say please."

"Please."

You don't move. Instead, you pout your lips together and bat your eyes. Shouta leans against the door frame, brow raised skeptically.

"But they're so cozy, Shou." You giggle your toes and Sushi beeps in protest. "And warm."

He trudges over and pinches at your feet through the covers. The movement is enough to awake the beast; a paw hits back through the comforter and Shouta chuckles.

"There's no space for me," he points out. "It's my birthday."

"You should really have dinner before you go to bed." you say. Aizawa's hand is walking up your leg, fumbling through the blanket. "You're too skinny."

There's a squeeze when he reaches your knee.

"I'm trying to have dessert first." Shouta's voice has dipped down low. "I bet you're just wearing panties under there, aren't you?"

He's right. You're in his favorite pair, the one that pishes to the side easily, but you'll never admit it. Instead, you hook your finger in the 'come here' motion.

"Mm, come and find out."

"Kick the cats out of the bed."

"Can't you?"

He squeezes your knee again, but this time, it's playful. "I don't want to be the bad guy."

"Neither do I!" You throw a hand over your heart indignantly. "I'm just their stepmom!"

Aizawa sits up a bit. His expression goes a bit wider, a bit softer.

"Stepmom?" He says it like it holds weight, like it means something. Maybe it does. Maybe the undefined terms of your relationship are becoming a bit more salient, maybe you're cementing yourself by his side.

"Well," Shouta rolls a shoulder, trying to stay casual as he speaks. "They love their step mom very much."

Neither have you have said that word before. The L One. The one that changes this causal thing into a real relationship. You have to look away for a moment, process what you should say next.

"Well," you say, hand over Sesame's lump of a form. "I love them too."