#trigger // gun violence

[indigoire]

You know I hate fucking talking about it but I'm literally sick, like physically ill, and I can't sleep or relax, so yeah, let's fucking talk about the hypocrisy of gun violence in America. It's no big deal if a man is shot and killed for dodging a $3 subway fare by the NYPD, but it's a HUGE fucking deal that a CEO was shot and killed for indirectly killing people and indirectly bankrupting families. AND because the CEO was shot and killed, Blue Cross Blue Shield retracted their stupid "no anesthesia after a certain time limit" policy. Talk about direct action.

Like truly, our healthcare system in the US is heartless, it kills us in a million ways. If your life is saved you might be buried in medical bills instead. We've all been subject to its millions of humiliations and degradations. But god forbid we celebrate getting some of our own back. God forbid we should project our anger onto the shooter and feel as if justice was finally, finally served. I think the closest we've come to seeing true justice done on these leeches was back when Martin Shkreli was convicted in 2017. Even then it wasn't half as satisfying as seeing...well.

Meanwhile we are subject to viewing a thousand unjust deaths and injuries, children dying of gun violence in school, innocent men shot down in broad daylight, and with bodycams on our police it doesn't stop it, just makes it so we can see how stupid and incompetent these pigs were before killing their victims.

A baby was shot in the head during a domestic dispute just one month ago. Both her and the mother were killed.

But we can't defuuuund the poliiiiiiice! Think of all the good they do! Like. Uh. Like when--uh. Hm.

So when they say they're looking for the shooter of the UHC CEO I hope they never find him. I hope he lives his best life. I hope other CEOs have at LEAST a few sleepless nights, wondering if they're next. I hope they bankrupt themselves hiring private security. It won't come close to what their insurance agencies have done to the people of this country, but it will feel a little bit like justice. It will feel a little bit like getting our own back.

For my FBI agent: I do not own a gun, I do not condone gun violence. I am not asking folks to arm themselves. I am not asking for retribution.

For everyone else: I am asking for everyone to understand the hypocrisy of these mealmouth politicians and celebrities that condemn the shooting of Brian Thompson but do not condemn the NYPD. That do not condemn police killings all over this country. That do not call for gun laws. That do not call for universal healthcare. That do not call for the dissolution of healthcare insurance agencies.

Deny. Defend. Depose.

[tani-b-art]

Megan Thee Stallion: In Her Words

[micamicster]

Everybody gon respect the shooter

Money Trees by Kendrick Lamar vs The Wire (2002-2008)

[dragongirltongue]

I'm also just gonna say, threatening a minority with law enforcement is a bigger fucking threat of violence than whatever hammer explosion cartoon bullshit in a tiny ass vent post could ever be.

As someone who's had cops breathing down my neck fucking waiting for an excuse to hurt me on multiple occassions, it's fucking violence.

[chandisappointment]

Herb min n sol

[fortress-substitution-team]

*peeks head through the TV like from horror move*

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

Can I borrow some cheese?

TW BLOOD and GUN VIOLENCE

an advice, don't scare a mercenary.

also, you're still out of cheese.

[ragnarokhound]

((you don’t have to do both if you don’t want to, you can consider this one a back up / alt))

“If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here.” 💞

From this writing prompt list i reblogged in...november lmao fljdsjfa

anyway this grew legs and sprinted away the second I picked it up yesterday - clearly it just needed some time to proof lmao. Thank you for the ask, tauria!! From *checks watch* almost 5 months ago fjdslafjsa I will be cross-posting it to Ao3 in my new oneshot collection fic :)

Warnings for: Vague allusions that Ra's Al Ghul is a creep (what else is new), threats of gun violence, canon-typical violence

15. “If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here.”

When Tim arrived in Gotham this morning, he had no way of knowing that his day would end in Jason Todd’s bed. 

Frankly, he wasn’t really sure what bed he’d end up in— because his own certainly wasn’t an option right now. But If he had to pick, Jason Todd’s was somewhere near the bottom of whatever list he’d make.

He didn’t exactly plan on this, okay? 

But, uh. Let’s back up a little.

—

Tim knew his day was going to go to shit when he got back from the airport at 7 AM.

He had his driver drop him off two blocks away from his townhouse for the sake of caffeine at the hole in the wall place he likes. Wealthy CEO he may be, but a sixteen hour flight is still a sixteen hour flight and Tim is cursed with an inability to sleep in the air. 

Don’t ask. He’s tried. It doesn’t work.

So he wants coffee, and he wants a shower, and he wants his own bed. In that order.

With the first thing on his list acquired and blessedly burning his tongue, he managed to tug his brain cells together enough to realize that the building they’d passed that had been shrouded in tents and canvas was his building.

"What's going on here?"

The worker outside his building looks up from her clipboard, her face wrinkling into apprehensive confusion.

"Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

He hasn’t slept in roughly seventy two hours. He is not awake or patient enough for this.

“My name is Tim Drake. I own this building. What’s going on here?” He repeats.

The woman raises her eyebrows and looks down at her clipboard again. “Mr. Drake?” She questions, clearly expecting him to look like a grown-ass man and not a sleep-deprived college student coming home from spring break or whatever.

“Yes. Timothy Drake-Wayne. Why are you—” he tries to gesture with the hand still holding his suitcase handle, walking towards the tarps and tents erected around his townhouse with increasing trepidation, “—here?”

“I’m sorry sir, but you can’t go in there. Not for at least forty-eight hours.”

Tim stops in his tracks.

“Forty-eight—?”

“We've been scheduled to fumigate the property today.” She says it like she’s reading it out of a handbook. “It won't be safe to enter the building for at least forty-eight hours. You should have received prior notice. Uh. Sir.”

Tim's jet-lagged brain kicks into overdrive. 

Bruce hasn't made any disappointed noises about Tim’s perfectly normal work ethic lately so it probably wasn't a misguided attempt at benching him. And besides, rendering Tim’s apartment inaccessible is counterproductive on that front. 

Dick wouldn’t. They haven’t been exactly— great, lately but he wouldn’t. Besides, if he wanted to get Tim out of the house more, he’d show up to drag Tim out into the daylight himself. This is a little too roundabout for him.

It’s too much work to be Steph. She would think it’s funny, but there’s no way she’d follow through.

Damian might, but this doesn’t quite fit his preferred methods for making Tim’s life hell. It could be some cloak and dagger maneuver to leave him vulnerable, faking a complaint to the city so he’ll—

And then Tim thinks about the call.

The call he’d brushed off at fuck o’clock in the morning somewhere over Europe, too busy with another project. The call his secretary took for him instead. He thinks about the distracted confirmation he’d given to whatever it was she’d asked him about five minutes later. 

He also thinks about the form he signed about two weeks ago, before this last minute trip to Hong Kong had consumed his entire attention. The one with “Two Weeks Notice” stamped across the top. His stomach sinks.

“Today,” he repeats.

She looks apologetic. “Today,” she confirms. “And we just started about an hour ago. I’m very sorry, Mr. Drake-Wayne but—”

"No it's—" he says through gritted teeth, "fine. I'll just. Make other arrangements."

—

He does not make other arrangements. Though not for lack of trying.

Tim has a handful of safehouses scattered throughout the city. He has options. He gets a taxi to the closest neighborhood, and nearly falls asleep in the backseat. The cabby has to knock on the glass divider to get his attention when they come to a stop. He grumbles and hauls his suitcase out of the backseat, and tips the man excessively.

Shower. Bed. Sleep. He’s so close he could cry.

Except when he finally rolls around the block, coffee half gone and trying to remember if this safehouse is the one with in-unit laundry or if he’ll have to haul his shit down to the laundry room, his building is a blackened husk with police tape all around it.

He stops on the sidewalk. He peers up at the window of his unit, squinting at the peeling black wood and shattered glass. He ponders whether two is enough data points to be considered a pattern. And whether he could get away with napping in the alley on this street or if that’ll end with him stabbed and robbed.

As he’s pondering, he catches sight of a passerby and stops him.

“‘Scuse me,” he says apologetically. “What the hell happened here?”

The guy looks up from his phone and takes in his rumpled clothes, his suitcase, and the scorched remains of his apartment.

“Oh, uh. Yeah, there was a big fire about a week back? Bad fire. Took out, like, half the block. Cops are saying it’s arson.”

“A week ago,” Tim repeats. The guy’s eyes widen.

“Oh shit, bro, did you live here?”

“I’ve been out of town,” he explains numbly.

“Dude, that sucks. And right in the middle of con’ season. Good luck finding a hotel!”

“Yeah,” Tim sighs as the guy walks away. “Thanks.”

—

The next safehouse he tries isn’t in much better shape. 

He remembers hearing about Freeze going on a rampage a few days into his trip, but he hadn’t realized another one of his places had been caught in the cross-fire. The cold burst the pipes, and now the whole place is undergoing renovation.

He hears all this from the crotchety old lady who lives in the next building over (her building needs renovation too, but will the city pay for it? Of course not, they weren’t ‘directly impacted by disaster’ so they won’t see a penny of relief funds even though their pipes are on the same line. Typical) and when he finally extricates himself from the conversation, it’s almost noon, his second cup of coffee is long-since empty and he’s at the end of his goddamn rope.

By the time he sees his next safehouse, he isn’t even surprised anymore.

“Does God hate me?” He asks the boarded up building. “Is this a punishment? What did I do? What the fuck did I do?”

He is 99% sure at this point that someone is burning his bolt holes. There’s a short list of people with the resources and the intel to do it, and while he’s not above ruling out the likes of Damian just yet, he seriously doubts anyone wearing a bat is behind this. 

Besides, Dick would have noticed by now if Damian were sinking this many resources into convoluted covert ops designed to make Tim suffer. Definitely. Probably.

Fuck it.

He goes around the back and hops on top of his suitcase to reach the clunky camera watching the back entrance. This building is on the shittier side, closer to Crime Alley than his other haunts; cameras break all the time around here. He’ll have it replaced after he’s a functional human again.

Reportedly, this building was tagged for ‘high toxicity levels’—  which is pretty typical for any building where fear toxin or Joker gas are found in any amount. They must have found a lot to condemn the whole building, but Tim is confident he’ll be fine. The airborne shit dissipates to safe levels within hours depending on the ventilation. If it was in the air, it’s long gone. Anything else needs to be injected to be effective.

Once the camera’s busted, he kicks out the boards and heads inside.

He drags his suitcase in after him, and mourns the shower he probably won’t be getting. The hall lights are out, and chances are the water’s been shut off along with the electricity. But at this point, he simply does not give a shit. All he wants are four walls and a mattress.

Leaning on the door to his floor to make it open, he stumbles out into the hallway—

And catches sight of the glistening curved dagger stabbed into the wall next to his door, the hilt gleaming green in the sinking sun.

“Nope,” Tim says, spinning on his heel and going back down the stairwell double time. “Nope, nope, nope.”

He is now 100% certain that the League of Assassins has been burning his bolt holes. Ra’s al fucking Ghul can eat his whole ass.

—

Seven blocks away, Tim sits on the sidewalk in front of a bodega and contemplates a third cup of coffee. The shittiest one yet.

See, here’s the thing.

The thing is, he has options.

He could go to the Manor. Or the penthouse. Or to Steph’s place. He’d have to answer some unnecessary questions like ‘Master Timothy, you know you can’t sleep on aircraft, why didn’t you sleep before your flight’ or ‘Tim, why didn’t you come here first, you know you can still come to me if you’re in trouble, right’ or ‘why did you agree to fumigate your fucking house, you loser, lmao’. (Stephanie is not going to let him live this down). 

He is absolutely certain that he would be welcomed in any of these places and after a completely undeserved amount of fussing, he could take a fucking nap and someone else would deal with the League bullshit for him.

And that’s the thing. There’s the rub.

No one should have to deal with the League bullshit for him. This is his problem. He’s not in a hurry to bring them down on anyone. Not even Damian.

With grim resignation, he reaches for his phone to try and find a hotel room (during a con’ weekend apparently, RIP) and maybe get a fucking handle on this whole stupid thing, when he hears:

“Hand over your wallet!”

He lifts his head slowly and finds himself looking down the barrel of a gun. A gun held by some guy wearing a ski mask in broad fucking daylight. There’s another guy next to him who’s watching the street. There’s a third guy somewhere behind him who he can’t see, but he can hear the scuff of his boots.

Sure. Why not. With the day he’s had, this might as well happen. He holds up his hands placatingly.

Tim contemplates his muggers. The guy with the gun is jittery, probably new to this, or hopped up on something. He keeps glancing between Tim and the bodega behind him, so they were probably planning a run on the till. Might have chickened out, or thought Tim was an easier target, an unexpected meal ticket plopped right in their path. Or they were already inside when Tim sat down, which wouldn’t bode well for his situational awareness seeing as he just came out of there himself.

The grinding gears of his tired brain keep getting caught on the fact that this is happening in the middle of the fucking day. Tim glances at the street corner and bites his cheek in frustration. Yeah, he’s smack dab in the middle of the Alley. Figures.

“Are you deaf or somethin’ man?” The guy with the gun is saying. “Hand over your fucking wallet!”

The other guy doesn’t seem as crazy-eyed. He’s nervous, though. He keeps looking around like he’s expecting Batman to materialize, to come whistling down the street like a beat cop.

“Dude, come on, it’s not fucking worth it,” he says, grabbing at the gunman’s shoulder. “We got the money, let’s fucking go.”

The third guy kicks over Tim’s suitcase. “Yeah, come on, Don, let’s just grab this shit and bounce.”

Tim can’t do anything. He’s not Red Robin right now. He’s Timothy Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and he’s getting mugged in front of a bodega at two in the afternoon in a rumpled suit and tie and still toting his suitcase from his early morning flight. 

His hands are trembling from unspent adrenaline, too much caffeine, and not enough sleep. His eyelids are the heaviest they’ve ever been in his godforsaken life. His ears are ringing. He could knock all three of them down in less time than it takes to tie his shoelaces. But he can’t.

“Shut up, Johnny, look at him shaking! What’s he gonna do? If he doesn’t wanna get shot, rich boy’s gonna hand over all his fucking shit!”

“Hey, let’s just—” Tim tries to say.

Stars explode across his vision as Tim takes a punch he genuinely wasn’t expecting. He stares up at the blue sky for about half a second, more confused than anything else, before the gunman grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him up to shout in his face.

“What’s it gonna be, pretty boy?!”

Caught on the exhausted edge between vigilante training and the preservation of his identity, Tim is frozen. He doesn’t know what to do. He kind of wants to cry.

“Gee, Donny, what is it gonna be?” A fourth voice says, full of false cheer.

Tim blinks. So do the muggers. 

He knows that voice.

“Who the fuck—?” The gunman drops Tim, spinning around and into a fist. He tumbles down to the ground, out cold.

Everything happens pretty quickly after that.

Jason Todd is in civvies. He’s sporting a worn out looking hoodie and a pair of jeans that have seen better days. But his heavy boots are the same ones he wears for his uniform, and the kick he delivers to Johnny’s face is all Red Hood.

Almost in a daze, Tim watches him fight with the usual mix of seething envy and raw desire that rears its ugly head any time he gets to see Jason in action. He’s fast, decisive. Efficient. Beautiful. Tim wishes he had Jason’s skill. And he wishes— 

Well. He wishes a lot of things about Jason Todd.

Tim is pretty sure he and Jason are friends. Maybe. Probably. They’ve pretty much moved past the whole “replacement”, “zombie-dickhead” part of their relationship and have graduated to occasionally providing backup on ops that overlap in each other’s sectors, ganging up on Dick when they’re all in the same room, and maintaining a surprisingly steady stream of vigilante gossip to keep each other in the loop. 

So, ok, yes, due to the aforementioned, he’s pretty sure they’re friends. And also because Jason wouldn’t have stuck his neck out for him otherwise. He would have just let him get mugged.

Watching Jason fight is one of Tim’s favorite pastimes. But right now, Tim’s usual appreciation is soured by the gut-roiling embarrassment of being caught in this position by Jason of all people. His eyes itch. His cheek throbs. He’s so fucking tired.

“Hey, little stalker,” Jason says suddenly, holding out an expectant hand in Tim’s face. The muggers are groaning on the ground around them. Tim isn’t sure when that happened. He might have zoned out. “Did you know that you had a stalker for a change?”

Tim flushes. “I resent that. I haven’t stalked anyone in years.” He takes the hand. It’s warm, and calloused, and big around his.

Jason laughs at him and yanks him to his feet. “Liar.”

Tim’s mouth twists into a scowl. He tries to glare at Jason, but he can feel himself swaying and Jason still hasn’t let go of him, and it’s ruining everything.

Also, lowkey, Jason is right. But in his defense, it is literally their job to stalk people, so.

“I haven’t stalked you in years then. Just other guys. Bad guys. Not non-bad guys. Fuck. You know what I mean. Whatever.” He pauses; recalibrates. “Had?” He asks.

Jason’s eyebrows inched higher and higher the longer Tim talked. Tim doesn’t blame him.

“Yeah. Had.” 

So much for the League, Tim muses.

Jason gives him a once over before tugging decisively on Tim’s wrist, easily grabbing the handle of his suitcase and starting to walk with both in tow, to Tim’s rising horror. 

“You’re coming with me, shortstack. What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk? You look like shit.”

Tim tries to yank his wrist out of Jason’s grip, but the asshole doesn’t budge. “I’m not drunk,” Tim snaps. “I’m fine. I’m just. I’m just… really tired.”

Jason stops abruptly, and Tim stumbles into his shoulder.

“I can see that,” he says, steadying Tim with an amused but ultimately sympathetic look. He loads Tim’s suitcase onto the back of a motorcycle that Tim literally just now noticed. 

God, he’s fucked. And not even in a fun way. 

“C’mon,” Jason says. “Don’t fall asleep on the way over— road rash sucks ass.”

—

They don’t talk on the way to— wherever Jason is taking them, but once they’re parked in a random garage and walking towards the elevators, the game of twenty questions begins.

“So why’ve you got League assassins after you, anyway? Piss in a lazarus pit? Push over the baby brat on the playground?”

“Ra’s al Ghul wants my body,” Tim says, dejected but resigned to this bizarre fact of his life. “Since I was seventeen, I’m pretty sure.”

Jason wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”

“I don’t think it’s a sex thing? But it could also be a sex thing.”

“Again. Fucking ew.”

“Yeah. Also I blew up a bunch of his shit and I think he’s still salty I got away with it.”

“Is that why you weren’t at the Manor?” Jason asks, herding Tim out of the elevator and down a long hallway. “Or anywhere but a random street in Crime Alley?”

Tim nods. “Yeah. They found all my safehouses, but— my mess. My problem.”

Jason thwacks him upside the head.

“Ow! What the fuck?”

“You’re the dumbest person on the planet.”

“Am not. B is on-planet right now.”

“Then you’re pretty fucking close,” Jason snarks, fishing out some keys and opening one of the apartment doors.

Tim scoffs at him as he’s pushed inside. “Oh, please. Don’t try to tell me you would let Dick swoop in and solve all your problems for you.”

Jason rolls his eyes, stepping into the side kitchen and popping open the freezer door of the fridge.

“Dickiebird can’t even solve his own problems,” he says as he rummages. “But maybe when I’m fucked up enough to let three nobodies robbing a fucking bodega get the jump on me, that’s a sign that, maybe, it might be time to call in the cavalry. Dick isn’t the only person who’s got your back.” He presses an ice pack to Tim’s face until he takes it himself, and keeps steering him through the apartment. “Just saying.”

Tim would protest with all of his very good reasons why Jason is definitely wrong here, but he’s too busy processing the fact that Jason has led him into a bedroom. With a bed. There’s a bed, with a mattress and pillows and blankets. Right there. Tim stares at it with lustful eyes.

Jason catches him staring. He rolls his eyes, but he’s sporting a small smile that Tim has the presence of mind to memorize. He walks over to a dresser and pulls out a big shirt and a pair of shorts that he hands to Tim.

“Look. If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here. No guarantees I’ll be always around, but, yeah. Mi casa es su casa, or whatever.”

Tim eyes him up, clutching the bundle of Jason-smelling fabric in his hands. “And you’d do that for me because…why, exactly?”

Jason flicks his forehead, a stinging reprimand. Tim hisses.

“Because, dumbass, you need help and I feel like it. And you don’t actually suck to be around, so shut up and be grateful.”

“Oh, yes,” Tim deadpans, rubbing at his forehead. “So grateful to be allowed the privilege of squatting with you.”

The thing of it is, Tim is grateful. But Jason doesn’t need to know that.

Jason squawks, and before Tim can duck, he’s snatched Tim around the neck in a headlock. His arm is thick and doesn’t budge no matter how Tim shoves and kicks. The ice pack and the clothes go flying, and Tim just about dies. Jason is warm.

“Jason—!”

“Brat!” Jason crows, not giving an inch. “I paid for this place fair and square— you’re the only squatter here!”

“Blood money doesn’t count as square!”

“Tell that to half of Gotham, kid.”

“I’m trying to, thanks for noticing,” Tim says, finally wrenching himself free of Jason’s grip, stumbling into the bed and giving into its siren song. He sits down heavily on the edge, toppling over sideways and reaching pathetically for the fallen ice pack that’s just out of his reach.

“And don’t call me kid—” he complains, muffled by the pillow. It also smells like Jason. “You’re barely two years older than me.”

The cold ice pack is pressed into his fingers. He cracks an eye open to look, but Jason is just smirking at him, like he’s giving Tim the win. Ass.

“Coulda fooled me, shortstack.”

Tim rolls his eyes, and onto his back, toeing off his shoes and letting them clatter to the floor. He can’t tell if Jason’s bed is the best bed in the world, or if he’s just deliriously inventing things.

Frankly, Jason Todd’s bed is the last place he ever thought he’d end up, this morning or otherwise, so he’s never bothered to speculate. He does not have a contingency plan for this.

“Is there a reason you keep calling me short,” he complains, “Or will I just need to fill in the blanks myself?”

“Can’t help it. You’re just so small,” Jason coos. Tim props himself up on an elbow at that, raising a disgusted eyebrow.

“You don’t hear me constantly talking about how big you are.” 

Jason grins like he just won the lottery; Tim shuts his eyes the second it’s out of his mouth.

“Baby, you don’t know how big I am.”

He does, actually. Not in a creepy stalker way, just— there was this one time. A big rogue breakout at Arkham, all-hands on deck type of situation; Tim, Cass, and Jason were covering Poison Ivy in the park. Acid-spitting pitcher plants were involved.

And look, Jason’s tactical gear is fine in the day to day, but it’s not like any of them had time to prep a neutralizing agent, so when Jason needed his pants off, stat…uh. Well. Tim was right there.

He knows, okay?

“Alright,” he rallies, trying desperately not to replay the memory of Jason adjusting himself through his boxers. All of himself. “I walked right into that one.”

“Oh, trust me. You’ll know if you’ve walked into it.”

Tim scoffs, but he can feel how red his face is.

And the thing is. He says it without really meaning to. 

But he still means it.

“You gonna put your money where your mouth is, big guy?”

The change is immediate. Jason had been halfway out the door, but now he turns to Tim, giving him his full, undivided attention. He looks at Tim, laid out in Jason's bed, giving him a very slow once over. The scrutiny is at once nerve-wracking and thrilling.

“Thought you didn’t want my money,” Jason murmurs.

The temperature in the room spikes. If it weren’t for the slow throb of his bruised cheek, Tim would think that he’s already asleep and dreaming.

But he isn’t. He’s very much aware that he’s wide awake.

Tim swallows. “Well. It’s not your money I want.”

Jason’s grin is electric. 

He stalks over to the bed, and Tim is frozen like a rabbit, waiting to see what he’ll do next. Jason settles a knee on the sheets between Tim’s legs, looming over Tim and boxing him in against the mattress. Tim’s free hand reaches up of its own accord to tangle in the collar of Jason’s hoodie, and the cotton is softer than he expected.

Jason’s eyes rove over his face, dark and heavy. He catches Tim’s face in his hand, swiping his thumb lightly across the bruising hot ache of his cheekbone. He leans in deliberate and slow and—

—and stops about an inch away from Tim’s mouth.

“Get some sleep, babybird,” Jason teases, his breath puffing gently over the skin of Tim’s lips. “You can proposition me again tomorrow.”

“It’s, like, 3:30 in the afternoon,” Tim argues, breathless.

“Yeah, and your body thinks it’s 3:30 in the morning. You’re dead on your feet. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, and go the fuck to sleep.”

Jason moves to rise. But Tim hooks a stubborn arm around his neck and pulls him down that last remaining inch. 

The kiss is— bad. At first. 

Tim basically smashed their mouths together to prove a point, and Jason muffles a surprised sound against Tim’s teeth. He lands heavily on top of Tim at an awkward angle, and he’s kind of crushing him. Tim refuses to let go, but— Jason doesn’t pull away.

Jason gentles the kiss instead, and Tim thrills. He levers himself up onto his elbow, wrapping an anchoring arm around Tim’s back. He finds a home between Tim’s legs, and he lets Tim kiss him until Tim's lips are tingling and his fingers go slack; until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore.

Somewhere between fifteen minutes and a small eternity later, Jason presses one more kiss to the corner of his mouth. He curls around Tim on his side, and Tim turns his face into Jason’s neck with a soft wondering sigh.

“I’ll keep it. Promise. Wait n’ see,” Tim mumbles. Jason snorts, but doesn’t budge, and Tim can hear his smile in his voice, lilted and lulling.

“Sure, babybird. I’ll wait. I got nowhere else to be.”

Tim is already asleep.

[fivemonsturzzzwowz]

whatre yalls fav voicelines of p1 dude :3 its a hard choice for me but im a buckwheat guy

[zyxwvutbackwards]

Comic UTC - TW: (attempted) gun violence, (attempted) murder, discrimination - read at your own risk, and please take care of yourself!!

HELLO IM BACK — AND WITH A COMIC!!! Sorry for the worsening quality as it goes along and sorry for the very poor pacing - this has been in the works for a while atp, and I realized if I didn’t finish it now I wouldn’t finish it at all 😭 hopefully it isn’t too sore on the eyes!

Anyways, when I first heard about MR Mycheal - and how good etiquette and even good intention would do nothing for him like it does for regular Mycheal - what came to mind was that the most well meaning thoughts have insults laced in them and the most polite people keep their distance. When humans do try to hurt him, he knows just how scared they are; he knows, that in their mind, they think that they’re trying to protect themselves from a monster. He’s the monster, of course he is, certainly not the one trying to kill him. No wonder he thinks all humans are evil…even the “good” ones insult him. How unlovable and alone must he feel? To be rejected by creatures like that?

Anyways, this comic is just to explorer some of the experiences MR Mycheal may have had that make him so much less trusting than the OG! It’s set in kind of a generic time frame, as I don’t know when Mycheal was “born,” and intended to be set just before he stopped making direct contact with humans overall. Hope that makes sense!

MR Mycheal/Mushroom oasis is by @deerspherestudios

[triscribe]

So y'know what is scarier than a single shooter in a school?

A group of teens deciding they're gonna work together to kill as many people as they can.

Thankfully, in this particular instance, they were reported by a third party, so the boys involved who separately brought bullets and at least one gun to the school where my mom teaches were caught and arrested over two days. But fuck, word's going around they were planning to pull the fire alarm, fill the main halls, set up on the second floor balcony and just... hnn.

I took her some lunch today, got to see the lingering police presence, and unintentionally stuck around long enough to hear her spiel to the handful of kids present in her fifth period. My mom's not the sort to sit quietly if shit's going down, that's for sure. She treated it like any other class activity, showing her students where the skinnier ones can go out a particular window to hide on the roof, and the bigger ones where she's arranged a chair and desk and bookcase by the wall so they can literally climb up into the ceiling. Make sure to close the window afterward, last person up pushes the foam tile back in place, have it look to anyone coming in like there weren't any students present at all. And she finishes this with "and see? the coat rack inside this closet comes loose. nice solid piece of metal here. worst comes to worst, I'm sending you all out, and putting myself next to the door. key rule of being in close quarters with a gunman, you go for the knees, then the head, and don't stop hitting until they stop moving."

One of her girls got overwhelmed at this point and began quietly crying. 15 or 16 years old, just. dismayed that this is something real. something they need to go over. Two thirds of that school's student body were out today, kept home by worried parents, and the ones who still came were pretty evenly split between laughing it off, and cracking under the fear.

None of them deserve being in that position. Not the kids, not the teachers, not the office staff or kitchen workers or janitorial crews. But most of all-

A grey-haired, overweight ornery woman in her fifties with a makeshift bat shouldn't be the last line of defense between teenagers and assault rifles.

[hurtcomfortguaranteed]

In L.A. Confidential, after spending most of the film as enemies, Bud and Edmund join forces to take down corrupt cops. By protecting one another during a shoot out, they come out the other side battered, but as friends.

[mysteriousubstance]

hope this means that there's new gun control laws.

And even if so, I will still be so fucking pissed that this is what it takes and not when it's literally anyone else. But I still hope so anyways

[chickenstrangers]

NOT ME (2021) || EPISODE 12

[davycoquette]

ruck rucking dies

He doesn’t deserve to die the way he does.

What the outlaw Ruck Ward deserves is to stand on a platform on a sweltering August afternoon in the deep south of Butler County and hear his sins read to him aloud. To stand powerless before God and man awaiting reconciliation. He should be spat on and scorned and his head wrapped in a hemp sack, and the last thing he should hear is the snap of his own neck before he’s suffocated by his weight and the weight of the suffering he’s caused. He should be buried in an unmarked plot and his name should never be heard again.

But there is no such thing as justice in this world. He was fond of saying that, once.

It is quick. Painless.

He doesn’t see it coming. The bullet pierces just above his eye and cavitation turns his brains to slush and the exit wound yawns at the back of his head. It tears the soul right out of him, and his body sways back drunkenly then drops out of the saddle into the infinite dust and that is the end. He is none the wiser.

The period of peace and silence and non-existence happens outside of time. As he becomes cognizant again he thinks maybe he’s been reborn, because it feels like shackles have been cut away and something evil has been dug out of his heart — but there is a sense of loss, too. Something that is dear and precious to him has been left behind in that other end, where his body lies under a circle of vultures in the squirming, arid heat.

— an excerpt of random exposition on the death & reincarnation — the reintarnation, if you will — of the outlaw Ruck Ward.

[anothersimlishtragedy]

Part 1 - The Ghost and the Stranger

With a bar of soap in one hand and a pair of trousers in the other, Magnolia sank her hands into the hot water and begin to scrub and lather the material against the textured tin of the wash board.

She plunged and scrubbed the thin cotton chemise she'd been given on her wedding day by her mother. Next was a pair of Hollis' wool socks that had so much sweat and dirt on them they could nearly stand on their own. She grimaced and chucked it into the tub.

The whinny of a horse caught her attention from the front of the house. She stood and quickly wiped her hands on the skirts of her dress, then grabbed her pistol and started around the house.

"State your name!" she shouted to the stranger from behind the mesquite tree, her pistol in hand and finger on the trigger.

"Howdy, Ms. Brannon." the stranger called out from on top of his horse. She had to squint against the afternoon sun to make out the face of a man.

She cocked the pistol and a familiar metallic click sounded as the bullet entered the chamber.

"I said state your name or I'll blow your head clean off your shoulders, mister!"

"Woh, I don't mean no harm....I- I was just looking for the man of the house."

Through the leaves of the tree, she saw him shift in the saddle and grimace, like there was something about him that was hurt. She wasn't risking moving closer to him but something made her step aside from the leaves to get a good look at his face.

"He aint' here." Magnolia said through grit teeth.

The stranger shifted again and his horse whinnied, antsy and frustrated that they were standing still.

"I apologize, ma'am. This is the Brannon homestead, ain't it?"

"You sure got a lot of questions for someone who's got a gun pointed at 'em" she snarled. " I'm going to give you to the count of 3..."

"Name's Brannon. Hollis Brannon, ma'am." the stranger sputtered.

It made sense at that moment. The jawline, the vacant hazel eyes.

"You- you're, Jake's brother?" she manage to breathe out, chest tight and squeezing with every second that passed. She felt violently ill in that moment.

"Yep, his kid brother. Ya see, I was coming to ta-." he reached down towards the revolver on his hip and she fired a shot into the bramble to his left in defense.

"Shit!"

The horse bucked at the sound of gunfire and knocked the man onto the dirt with a thud, then took off like lightning down the road that trailed down to the river nearby.

She closed the distance between them fast. And then there he was, hat in the dirt, looking just like her late husband did 10 years ago. He clutched his right side where his shirt was plastered to his skin, wet and shiny with blood.

"I didn't aim for you." Her brow furrowed.

"Got shot on the road to Brindleton Bay." he winced, trying to sit up, then flopped back onto the dust with a thud.

"Aren't you a popular feller?"

She studied him for a moment, a ghost of her past come back to haunt her in the form of her late husband's brother. After a quick assessment, she knew he'd be too weak to try anything stupid, and she looped his arm around her neck to help him stand.

"My horse." he croaked, lips dry from days riding under the sun.

"He'll be aight. There's a river just down there. I'll go find him in a second. We need to get you on the porch."

"I don't want to impose..." he groaned between heavy steps and arms sagging against her shoulders and neck.

"It's a little late for that, now, isn't it?"

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Hair Trigger

Fandom: DC Comics, Batfam, Superfam, YJ98

Summary: A junior at Gotham University, Jason finds it difficult to conceal his worsening mental health from his family and his friend, Jon Lane Kent. Family secrets are revealed and boundaries are pushed as Jason and Laney struggle to navigate through school, their romantic feelings, and their trauma. Could the reintroduction of Laney Kent be more trouble than it's worth, or is it just what Jason needed to confront the demons of his past?

I will also do trigger warnings for chapters and if there is smut I have the chapter(s) tagged so you don't have to worry about nsfw in the fic if you're just here for the story itself.

Chapters: 21/?

Characters: Jason Todd, Jonathan Lane Kent, Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Lois Lane, Cassandra Cain, Tim Drake, Conner Kent, Natalia Knight, Jonathan Samuel Kent, Cassie Sandsmark, Chris Kent, Bart Allen, Original Character(s)

Relationships: JayLaney, Clois, TimKon

Additional Tags: University AU, No Powers AU, Sharing A Bed, Romance, Angst, TW // Kidnapping , TW // Gun Violence

Chapter Twenty-One: Fight and Flight

The next day as the police and Laney's parents and brothers flooded Laney's apartment, Jason sat with Chris on the fire escape. "I've never seen Laney cry," Chris whispered, "It's not that I want to, but—. Doesn't it seem weird that he's not upset?"

Jason shrugged. "He cried, he just—. It's weird for him right now," Jason explained as best he could. Chris stood up and looked over at the alley, and Jason pulled at his sleeve.

"I think I have an idea of something we can do to cheer him up. I could use my birthday money," Chris offered. Jason shook his head and looked back to make sure Laney couldn't hear them.

"I'll pay. You don't have to do that," Jason whispered, "Just tell me what we're doing, and we'll do it." Chris whispered in Jason's ear, and Jason smiled and nodded. "Great idea. We'll take Conner's car." Jason waited for Chris to climb back in from the fire escape before following him in and taking Conner aside to ask for his car keys.

"Take Sam with you," Conner smiled as he picked Sammy up.

Sammy let out a laugh before telling Conner to put him down. "Can I go?" Sammy asked. Jason nodded.

"Try not to get on Jason's nerves," Conner teased as he hugged his brothers. They both nodded and followed Jason to the car. Chris sat in the front seat and turned around to make sure Sammy put his seatbelt on.

"Are you and Laney gonna break up?" Sammy asked. Jason turned around and looked at Sammy, his eyes wide and his mouth agape.

"Sam! You can't ask that!" Chris chastised him.

Jason turned back around. "I don't want to break up with Lane. I love him... Things will be a little difficult, but I love him so much," Jason answered. Jason turned and stared straight at the road, and he allowed silence to fall between the three of them.

Sammy stared out the window for a little while before asking, "How do you feel?"

"I'm sad that your brother isn't feeling good right now. That is why we're going to the pizza place Laney likes, and we're gonna get all Laney's favorite foods," Jason replied. Chris sent a text and looked back at Sammy.

"Dad wants garlic knots. He wants to know if we need money," Chris announced.

"Tell your dad it's okay. We don't need money. Did you tell him we were gonna surprise Lane?" Jason asked. Chris nodded.

As Jason pulled up to the restaurant, he took both boys in, and they stood in the line. "Who's older, you or Laney?" Sammy asked.

"Laney is. His birthday is in March. Mine is in August," Jason answered.

"Mom's birthday is in August too. Do you think Laney is more mature than you?" Sammy asked. Jason chuckled.

"No, I think it's equal—."

"Liar," Sammy laughed. Chris ordered the food while Sammy and Jason went back and forth, and they all sat at a table. Chris bounced his leg as Sammy and Jason spoke to each other.

Jason's phone rang, and Jason apologized before answering. "Hey—."

"Why didn't you tell me you were taking my brothers somewhere?" Laney attacked. Jason gestured for the boys to stay put while he stepped outside. "Well?"

"Lane, the boys wanted to go out for a little bit, so I offered to take them out for a little bit. We'll be back in less than twenty minutes... What's wrong?" Jason asked.

"I didn't know where they-... Jason, I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm blowing up on you. I—."

"It's forgotten. Listen, when I get back, it's you and me, okay? Whatever you wanna do," Jason reassured. Laney sighed and took a deep breath.

"Can we sleep for a little bit?" Laney asked. Jason made an affirmative noise, and Laney said his goodbyes and hung up. Jason went back inside and nearly ran into Chris and Sammy as they carried the stacks of pizza boxes and takeout bags to the car. Jason opened their doors, and Sammy got in the front.

"What did Lane say?" Chris asked.

"He's tired, and I think he was a little worried because he didn't know where you both went," Jason answered. Chris chewed his lip.

"Did he sound mad?" Sammy asked. Jason shook his head.

"He sounded like he was tired. I think he'll be happy when he sees how you guys surprised him," Jason reassured as he reached over to mess up Sammy's hair.

Once they got back to Laney's apartment, Jason carried most of the boxes up, letting Sammy and Chris walk in front of him. Laney opened the door as soon as they knocked, and he embraced them. "Laney, we got you something to eat," Chris whispered. Laney smiled.

"You guys are the best. Thank you so much," Laney beamed as they sat the food on the counter, and everyone grabbed their food.

Laney sat with Chris and Sammy, and for a moment, Laney almost seemed like his old self.

"Jason said he loves you," Sammy announced, and Jason's face went beet red.

"I'll let you in on a secret. I love Jason too," Laney chuckled, "I think you embarrassed him." Laney pointed out. Jason kissed Laney on the cheek before going to take his shower.

Once Chris and Sammy finished eating, Laney excused himself and took his shower. After he was done, he told his brothers and parents goodnight, and he went back to his room. Jason went with him, and they lay in bed while Jason listened to something on his phone. "What're you listening to?" Laney whispered.

"A poem," Jason answered. "Wanna hear?"

Laney nodded, and Jason passed him an earbud so they could both listen. They sat in silence until the poem neared its end, and Jason turned to Laney and murmured, "A lost name should be promised someone's face in sand. If this is not so cut off my arms and turn me into stone." Jason leaned in, and he and Laney kissed. Laney grabbed Jason's wrist, and Jason pulled away. "What's wrong?"

"I never want to kiss anyone else but you ever again," Laney whispered before pressing another kiss to Jason's lips. Jason parted his lips, and they exchanged another kiss. As they kissed, Jason reached over Laney, and Laney shook his head.

"Too soon?" Jason inquired.

"No, I'm scared my parents will hear us," Laney explained, "They'll be gone in a little bit, though... Jason, I'm not gonna push you away. I just don't need my parents and brothers worrying about me."

"I get that... But between you and me—."

"I'm holding it together, but I'm gonna take a few days out of school... Work on some personal projects," Laney whispered, "Jason, thanks for sticking around."

"I won't leave you unless you ask me to," Jason reassured him. Laney smiled and lay his head on Jason's shoulder. "Must be nice to see your brothers again."

"Yeah, but I know this whole thing is kind of stressful," Laney replied, "I promised Chris and Sammy I'd spend some one-on-one time with both of them this weekend. So I'm gonna take Sammy to the park, and we're gonna play frisbee or something. Then I'm gonna spend Sunday with Chris and see what he wants to do."

Jason nodded. "What are you working on?" Jason asked.

"It's a surprise. I've been working on it ever since we went to that party... So, when it's done at the end of the semester, I'll let you see it," Laney whispered. Someone knocked on the door, and Laney invited them in. Clark and Lois came in to say goodnight.

After they left, Laney held onto Jason. "Jason, if Caleb doesn't plead guilty, there are some things you should know about what happened," Laney offered to confess.

Jason pulled Laney into his lap, and he wrapped his arms and legs around Laney. "Lane, I can't judge you for any of this. I won't judge you," Jason comforted as he rolled from one side to the other. Laney let out a chuckle involuntarily.

"Stop," Laney laughed. Jason pressed kisses to Laney's neck and cheeks before letting go of Laney. "Jason, why aren't you mad at me?"

"Well, you were a teenager... And none of that was your fault," Jason explained. Jason went back to holding onto Laney, and he rocked back and forth until Laney started to doze off. Laney rolled over to the edge of the bed and put his mask on. "Lane, do you believe me?"

"Hm?" Laney asked.

"It's not your fault," Jason whispered.

"Thanks, Robin Williams," Laney joked, and Jason sighed.

"Lane, what are you thinking?" Jason asked.

Laney turned, facing the door, and closed his eyes. "Do you think he'll plead guilty?" Laney asked.

"I don't know, Lane... What I do know is, I'll be right here no matter what," Jason replied. Laney turned to Jason.

"For New Year's, we should go someplace. Just you and me," Laney whispered, tapping Jason's nose.

"I don't like to leave Gotham," Jason whispered, and Laney sighed and turned back toward the door. "Laney... Come on, don't start."

"I'm sorry I brought it up," Laney muttered. Jason reached to touch Laney's shoulder, and Laney recoiled.

"Don't be like that. Lane, I'm just being honest. I've tried the whole travel thing—."

"Was it that bad? So bad you couldn't even ask what my idea was?" Laney asked, still staring at the door.

"It was... Not that I mean your idea wasn't—. Shit, just look at me, Lane," Jason snapped. Laney sat up, and Jason followed. "You know you're not the only one who's been through a lot in the past nine years, right?"

Laney snatched his CPAP off and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Laney asked.

"It means that I'm trying to tell you that I don't want to explain my problems while you're going through shit, but I'm not going to let you get pissy with me for being honest—."

"I'm not getting pissy with you," Laney raised his voice, "I just thought you were being an asshole like—. Jason, I want to talk to you about your problems. I just don't like when you snap on me like you know what I'm thinking... I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too," Jason whispered. Laney nodded.

"Are we okay?" Laney asked. Jason nodded. "Can I have a kiss?"

Jason chuckled. "You want to kiss me?" Jason asked. Laney leaned close and touched his nose to Jason's, nipping at him playfully.

"I want to kiss you," Laney whispered, "Give me a kiss." Jason smiled and nipped at Laney's lip before pulling away playfully.

"Oh no, I'm still mad at you," Jason laughed. Laney chuckled and pretended to pout.

"Jason," Laney whined as he tried not to laugh. Jason kissed him, and Laney lay back and let Jason pin his hands over his head. "You're so hot," Laney chuckled. Jason's face grew hot, and he turned his head.

"Shut up," Jason laughed as he let go and lay next to Laney. Jason brushed his finger against Laney's knuckles. "Where would you want to go?"

"South, like a road trip. I could drive most of the way. We could go the day after Christmas and spend a week there, then drive back. Jason, who would it hurt?" Laney asked.

"No planes, no trains, no boats? Just you and me in a car?" Jason asked. "And absolutely no weird tour guide shit... Just you and me?"

"Just you and me," Laney answered as he locked his pointer finger with Jason's. "Jason... I love you. I do."

"I love you too. So much," Jason replied.