#( Sorry this got drabble like )

[hyruling]

hello 👀♥️ for prompts, free choice out of the following (can be combined too): 3, 67, 68, 70

3. “Could you be happy, here, with me?” & 67. “Don’t look at me like that.”

—

The sun hangs low in the sky, rays throwing shadows across the trees and vegetation in the field beyond the house. Buck’s beer sweats in the heat, condensation running from palm to elbow and staining the wood under his arm.

He doesn’t mind. It’s nice in the thick Texas heat, sweltering even this late in the day. Even better, Eddie is next to him, the two of them swaying on an actual porch swing that Buck helped him install only a few hours ago. He’d spent all day teasing him for being a cliche, but he can’t find it in himself to poke fun at him now. It’s nice, sitting on the porch after a hard days work, watching the sun set in shades of soft orange and brilliant pink — taking in the sounds of humming cicadas, the whoosh of cars passing by. The occasional horn blaring from the train a few miles from Eddie’s house.

And then there’s Eddie himself, lit up golden and beautiful in the sun, a contented smile curled on his face. If this were a movie, and if Buck wasn’t already painfully aware of his feelings for him, this would certainly seal his fate. The sight of Eddie at dusk is devastating, otherworldly.

Or maybe he’s just in love.

“Gotta say,” Buck says, breaking the comfortable silence at last. “I see the appeal now.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, smiling over his shoulder at Buck. He lifts his bottle to his lips, and Buck holds his breath watching him take a long pull.

“Yeah,” Buck agrees. “The splinters and bashed thumbnail were all worth it for this. Good old southern porch-sittin’.”

Eddie hums and glances down at Buck’s left hand. Buck watches him reach over and brush his own thumb over Buck’s bruised finger, and Buck has to remind himself to exhale.

“Still hurt?” Eddie asks, eyes fixed on his thumb pressing gently against Buck’s.

“Nah,” Buck says. He wonders if Eddie would keep touching him if he said yes. “Not so much anymore, the ice did the trick.”

“Don’t know why I assumed you’d be able to handle a hammer. Should’ve known after the bathroom sink incident,” Eddie teases, taking his hand away at last.

“That was a wrench, and it got the job done, didn’t it?” Buck says.

Eddie barks out a laugh. “If you say so. We’ll see how well it works when Chris brushes his teeth later.”

Buck snorts, and they share a look — of mingled relief and joy — that Chris is where he belongs, back in a familiar routine that they both helped establish.

Buck had booked a ticket almost the minute that Eddie told him he was back home — when it no longer felt like overstepping, when Chris had not-so-subtly hinted at missing him and Eddie had not-so-subtly mentioned that Southwest was having a sale. And Chris throwing himself into Buck’s arms at the airport after nearly a year apart definitely ranks among the top ten moments of his life.

“Sucks that tomorrow is my last day,” Buck says with a heavy sigh and a sip of beer. “Should’ve put this up day one. I’ll be missing out on some major porch time back home.”

“You could stay longer,” Eddie suggests with a half-smile aimed at his lap. He twirls his bottle around, presses it into the knee of his jeans until a ring of water appears in the fabric. “You’re welcome for as long as you want.”

“Yeah,” Buck says noncommittally.

He feels Eddie’s eyes on him, burning into his temple like a brand, and keeps his own trained on the horizon. He’s spent three perfect days here, full of home repairs and dinners and exploration of Eddie’s hometown; of movies and video games and a trip to the planetarium. He hasn’t wasted a moment, soaking up every second he has with Eddie and Chris while he can. The idea of having to board a plane roughly forty hours from now and leave them again makes him nauseous. Makes him want to fuse himself into the very foundations of the house so he can’t leave.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Buck says, eyes still fixed on the sky.

“Like what?” Eddie asks. Buck can feel him still looking.

Buck squints against the light of the dying sun, against the tears pricking at his eyes. “The way you’ve been looking all weekend. Like — like you want me to…”

“Want you to what?” Eddie asks, so soft he almost can’t hear him over the cicadas.

Buck drinks, to buy himself time. It isn’t enough.

“To stay.”

It stretches, the silence — taut like a rubber band ready to snap. Eddie watches him, and Buck watches the sun. He blinks and the imprint of light is still there, burning and blotting out Eddie from his peripheral, but he can still feel him.

It’s the way he’s looked at him since he arrived — he can feel it in the way his skin prickles with it. He’s felt Eddie’s eyes on him the entire weekend, and while Buck usually craves Eddie’s undivided attention, there’s something different about the way he does it now. A longing Buck recognizes from the mirror, from photos — the way he looks at Eddie reflected back at him. A curve to his smile that Buck rarely sees directed at anyone else; a warmth in his eyes that sets his blood on fire.

“I always want you to stay,” Eddie admits, hushed in the thick silence.

Buck swallows hard and doesn’t reply. He takes another sip of beer, lukewarm now and bitter on his tongue.

“Buck. Look at me?”

Buck sighs. He closes his eyes briefly, and the light sticks behind his eyelids. It’s still there when he looks at Eddie, distorting his features into something unreadable.

“Hi,” Eddie says when their eyes meet, and Buck smiles despite himself.

“Hi,” he echoes.

Eddie’s mouth twists, then relaxes. He asks, “What are you thinking?”

Buck’s eyes clear, and he can see the same smile that he has privately come to think of as his. A piece of Eddie that belonged only to him. The one that sparks a dangerous flicker of hope in his chest.

“You don’t want to know.”

“I asked, didn’t I?” Eddie says, knocking his bare shoulder against Buck’s. He keeps it there, presses their over-warm skin together. It sticks slightly in the humidity, and he has the insane urge to superglue himself to Eddie’s side.

“I’m thinking it’s hot as shit out here,” Buck says, and Eddie huffs out a laugh.

“It’s only April, this is nothing. You’ve been in Cali too long.”

“Maybe.”

“What else?”

Eddie nudges him again as he speaks and takes a swig of his beer. Buck watches his throat as he swallows, watches the droplets drip down his fingers and feels too warm. A drop of sweat trickles down his temple and Eddie’s eyes catch it, follow it down until it disappears in the neck of Buck’s tank.

“I’m thinking I don’t want to leave,” Buck admits, and Eddie’s eyes snap back up to his. “I’m thinking none of this is fucking fair, and that I must have pissed someone important off.”

Eddie smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Yeah. They’re not too happy with me either, I think.”

Eddie looks down at their laps, hand reaching out to touch Buck’s injured finger. He wraps his fingers around the digit, pushes gently at the bruise, barely enough to hurt. The throb of it ricochets up his arm and into his ribs anyway, makes him reckless.

“And I’m thinking — I’m thinking about how badly I want to kiss you.”

Eddie pauses, goes completely still. He glances up, eyes falling to Buck’s mouth for a split second before meeting his eye, and Buck knows he isn’t misreading this. His heart sits like a stone in his throat anyway.

“But I’m also thinking that I can’t lose you. Not again.”

“You won’t lose me,” Eddie is quick to say. His fingers twine with Buck’s, squeeze hard. “You haven’t lost me. I’m right here.”

“For now.”

Eddie exhales shakily, the warmth of it hitting Buck’s cheek, and he just looks at Buck — the same way he has all weekend, the same way he has for years. The same way that Buck knows he looks at him, has always looked at him. The way that they were both too scared or too deep in denial to face until separation forced their hand.

“Buck are you,” Eddie starts, stops. He lifts his chin and looks Buck square in the eye. “Could you be happy, here? With me?”

“That’s — Eddie, I can’t,” Buck says. It feels like gravel in an open wound, like razors in his throat. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why? You don’t have a monopoly on big sweeping confessions, you know.”

“Is that what this is?” Buck asks. He’s dizzy, even sitting down — lightheaded from the heat and the alcohol and Eddie, always Eddie.

In response, Eddie tilts forward and brushes his lips over Buck’s. A ghost of a kiss, the briefest taste of tangy sweat and beer and skin before Eddie pulls away, too soon for Buck’s heart to even finish skipping in his chest.

“Yeah, Buck,” Eddie says softly, still close enough Buck can almost feel the vibration of it against his mouth.

Buck drops his chin, presses forehead against Eddie’s. He tucks the empty beer bottle between his legs and cradles Eddie’s face in his hands, thumbs skating along his jaw. Eddie shivers at the shock of his cold fingertips, slants his chin up, and then Buck is kissing him properly.

He takes his time, savoring each drag of Eddie’s lips, the way he twists closer and brushes their noses together. Eddie lifts his own chilled hand to Buck’s neck, sends a cold shock into his heated skin, then trails it down to fist in Buck’s shirt. Buck nips at his lower lip, soothes over it with his tongue, and Eddie makes a soft sound that Buck knows he’ll hear in his dreams.

Buck pulls away to breathe before they end up flipping the swing over — he’s not sure he trusts his handiwork well enough to support climbing into Eddie’s lap. Eddie has a faint flush on his cheeks, eyes tracking over Buck’s face before meeting his eyes.

“Yes,” Buck answers him. Eddie furrows his brows, question long forgotten, and Buck can’t help but chuckle. “Yes, Eddie. I could be happy with you anywhere.”

Eddie smiles and tucks his hand back in Buck’s. “But.”

“But,” Buck echoes, and says nothing else. Eddie already knows.

Eddie nods and rests his head on Buck’s shoulder, a comforting weight that settles his racing heart. They watch the sun sink lower, Eddie’s thumb tracing patterns on the inside of Buck’s wrist. His hair sticks to Buck’s sweaty neck, and they listen to the music of the fading day.

“I can’t promise anything,” Eddie says when the sun has almost disappeared. “It’s — it’s delicate, right now. With Chris. I think he’s ready to come home, but until he says something…”

El Paso is beautiful in twilight; the heat starts to give way to the evening chill at last. Buck shivers and presses a kiss to Eddie’s hair. “I know. I can’t either.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

Eddie looks up, and Buck swears his heart stops at the way Eddie smiles at him — arresting even from the weird angle.

“Buck, I—”

“Don’t say it back,” Buck says. Eddie frowns and straightens up to face him properly, and then Buck is laughing at the look on his face.

“Don’t say it back yet,” Buck corrects, smoothing over a frown line with his thumb. “Not until — until this can be real.”

“But I do,” Eddie says, a bit petulant, and Buck gets honest to god butterflies about it. “And this is real. To me, anyway. You’re not just — some fling.”

“I know. It is to me too, baby, trust me,” Buck says, and Eddie visibly softens. “But I’ve wanted you for so long, I just — I can’t have you halfway. You’re forever for me, and I want — I have to do this right. And if you can’t come to me, if this place is your new forever, then — then wait for me. Please.”

Eddie stares for a long time, expression unreadable. Buck’s heart beats wildly, irregular enough that he might need Eddie’s defibrillator to shock it back into rhythm.

And then Eddie sighs and drops his forehead to Buck’s shoulder. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

Eddie squeezes his hand. “Of course. As long as it takes, I — yes.”

“Okay,” Buck says, and drops a kiss to Eddie’s brow.

“I do, though.”

Buck huffs, smiling against Eddie’s skin. “I know.”

“Don’t make me wait forever, Buckley.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Eddie lifts his head, presses a soft kiss to Buck’s mouth, and says, “We still have tomorrow.”

Eddie settles back into the crook of his neck, and Buck wraps an arm around his shoulders, tugs him close.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

—

prompts ❣️

[sugurouge]

── "𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚."

Calm. Happy. At ease. Tamed. Words Sylus would have never chosen to describe himself with. Much rather proud, striking, confident. A creature of control, always the hunter. But it all changed the first time her fingers ran through his hair after he took his helmet off, a gentle touch laden with a gravity he hadn’t realised he was orbiting. Suddenly, his favourite ritual became picking her up on his bike just to have her fix his appearance, letting her rewrite him strand by silver strand. And he would come to return the kindness tenfold. Because the sight of her rendered him defenseless: Windblown and laughing, cheeks glowing bright under the ruby moon of the N109 zone as he ran his fingers through her tousled strands. Though it were those predatory eyes that dared him into a silent game of who would fall first that Sylus grew addicted to.

He did.

He crash landed, collided into her. By now there is a weight that settles in his chest when she isn't near, followed by a strange lightness when she is. It clings to him like a pulling force, leading him to her arms, her lap, the curve of her neck, where peace hums just beneath her skin. She became the atmosphere that holds him together. With her, he doesn't feel like he's lost anymore. He just wants to land. To rest. Home, it turns out, is a place right by her side.

Maybe he's the one who walked willingly into her trap, weightless and disarmed from the beginning, eager for her to catch him. And now that he's here, floating in this quiet euphoria of being known, Sylus admits: he would give her the whole universe if she asked.

the wild and untameable make an exception for their beloved. close proximity and touch are how animals show affection. i’ve never tried to hide them from you. my gaze, my gestures, and every single step i take toward you.

happy birthday, my beloved 🖤

art: puri24a on twitter. please don't reupload or use

[nottscherry]

ok ok what about dealer!mattheo has to pick up his girl from the bar because she got too drunk and he’s all mad at first but then takes care of reader ♡

it was 3 in the morning and mattheo was already irritated that you weren’t picking up his calls or answering his texts. he knew you were out with friends but when you don’t answer your phone, he always assumes the worst. and then finally, he got a call from your friend that you were wasted and he needed to come pick you up.

great. so while he was at home worried sick about you, you were off getting shitfaced without a care in the world. mattheo grabbed his keys and headed out the door. the drive to the bar, he’s tense, his hand gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. he was not happy with you right now but he also knew in your drunken state that you were not capable of listening to a lecture from him.

arriving at the bar, mattheo bursts through the door, a big smile on your lips as you spot your handsome boyfriend. mattheo spots you immediately, your friends holding you up as it’s clear you’re too drunk to even fully stand right now. “matty!” you cheer, never been so happy to see your boyfriend. the big, goofy, drunken smile on your face and the way you said his nickname tugged at his heartstrings. fuck, you were cute when you were drunk.

once back at home, mattheo helps you into the bedroom, gently laying you on the king size bed. you moaned softly, your head lolling side to side, more drunken noises escaping your lips. mattheo begins taking off your heels, letting them clatter to the floor. his fingers work to undo your skirt next, but your hand lazily comes up to stop him. “woah. i have a boyfriend.” you slur.

mattheo laughs softly, nodding his head in amusement. “is that so, princess?” you nod your head, a drunken smile curling at your lips. “he calls me princess just like that too.” you hum. mattheo can’t help but laugh, his fingers working to tug your skirt down. “surprise baby, i’m your boyfriend.” he whispers softly, taking your tights off too before moving onto your shirt. “ohhhh.” you grin, letting mattheo sit you up to take your shirt off. “hiii baby.” you coo.

“hi sweet girl.” he smiles, leaning in to gently kiss your cheek. he was frustrated earlier and undeniably angry, but you always had a way to melt that raging fire inside him. especially being all drunk and absolutely adorable — he was wrapped around your finger. once you’re fully naked, just how you like to sleep, mattheo covers you up with the duvet, making sure you’re comfortable. “can you tell my boyfriend i wanna cuddle?”

mattheo chuckles, nodding his head as he begins undressing himself as well. “i’ll let him know right away, princess.” he crawls into bed right behind you, his strong arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you back flush against him. recognizing his scent instantly, you smile happily, snuggling into him as you slowly drift off to sleep. “i love you.” mattheo whispers in your ear, pressing a kiss to your temple before falling asleep next to the love of his life.

dealer!mattheo m.list. nav.

[ddejavvu]

Do you think you could do Sirius Black with the “I hate everyone but you.” Personality.

James is immediately alerted to your glum mood when you sit down without so much as a greeting, and he leans across the table with narrowed eyes.

"What's'a matter, Y/L/N?"

"Sirius is mad at me." You reveal drearily, wrapping your hand around the fork set at your place even if you don't feel like eating.

"Oh," James's brow scrunches, "Don't take it personal, babe. He's having a shit day, he heard from his mum. Nothing nice, I bet. Wouldn't let me see it. Just- he's grouchy with everyone today, don't let it bother you."

"But he told me to come back tomorrow," You recount, "Like he can't stand seeing me for the entire day! What am I supposed to do, James, we're set to study in the library at three. And- and I could help him! I could be there for him, but he's pushing me away instead."

James's brows raise, and a pitying smile works its way over his face, "Love. You're the kind of person that wants to be around people all the time. You seek comfort out when you're sad; Sirius doesn't. If you love him, y'gotta let him sulk for a bit. Then he'll come to you. And-" His nose scrunches, his brows wrinkled, "And all he said was 'come back tomorrow'? That's nothing. He told me to get my bespectacled arse out of the room before he shut the window on my head."

Your face contorts in horror, "James! James, that's so mean, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, darling." He snickers, "That's what I mean, that's just what Sirius does."

"Not to me he doesn't," You frown, "That's not okay, James, he should treat you better than that."

"He's having a rough time," James shrugs, "Doesn't bother me. He's all talk, he'd never do any of it. Just needs to blow off steam, y'know? And I think we both know why he tones it down for you, Y/N."

"I'm not special," You snap, reigniting the age-old argument between you and James that Sirius totally does not have feelings for you, not one bit.

"Right," James gives you an overexaggerated roll of his eyes, curls bouncing as he does so, "That's why he threatened to behead me and all he did to you was kindly shoo you away."

"Maybe you just piss him off more than me," You stick your tongue out at him, and turn to Remus for support as the boy sits down beside you.

"Morning," James takes the lead, shooting you a smirk out of the corner of his eye, "Talk to Sirius today, Moony?"

"Little shit told me if I didn't stop talking to him - which I only tried once, by the way," Remus groans, "- he'd 'mess me up' so hard my transformations felt like reprieve."

James's eyes widen and he tries tamping down a snort, tucking into his breakfast instead. Remus turns to you and your once-more incredulous gaze, scoffing lightly, "And I suppose he just told you to come back tomorrow?"

"That's exactly it!" James slams a fist on the table, a chunk of egg flying from his mouth that Remus shakes off of his hand with a grimace, "Moony, tell her she's special."

"I'm not special," You desperately try deluding yourself, shoveling your own forkful of food into your mouth as soon as you're done speaking, so that you don't have to answer to their protests, "He just hates you both."

[nyoomerr]

For ficlet prompts: Bingge being jealous of SY's pet dog.

if sy is going to call him a rotten dog all the time, then bingge should at least get all the benefits of being a dog, ah! what's with the competition being treated better than him? 😂😂

---

Generally, Luo Binghe tries to be magnanimous when it comes to The Dog. The Dog had been Shen Yuan’s before Luo Binghe had ever come to this world, after all. He knows that, at least on some level, The Dog had been responsible for making sure Shen Yuan was getting up out of bed each day and remembering to eat at the correct times before Luo Binghe took that job. If The Dog had been a retainer of Luo Binghe’s, he would have rewarded it handsomely for keeping Shen Yuan safe in Luo Binghe’s absence.

The Dog is not a retainer. It is, in fact, quite stupid, and ugly, and overall very useless now that Luo Binghe is here.

It also gets away with a truly astounding number of things that Luo Binghe himself gets scolded for. 

Luo Binghe’s bites are also playful! His licks are also meant to express affection! And when Luo Binghe tries to mark his territory, it’s far more tastefully done than with dog piss! Why does he get told no and kicked out of bed for this behavior, when all The Dog gets is a few disapproving tuts and a pat on the head?!

Why can’t Luo Binghe jump up and be caught in Shen Yuan’s arms when Shen Yuan gets home?!!

“Because you’re nearly 300 pounds of pure muscle,” Shen Yuan deadpans. “I’d be flattened into a pancake.”

“It’s not all muscle,” Luo Binghe says, suddenly quite defensive about this point. 

He’d made a point to soften up a bit for Shen Yuan specifically! There’s some plush there just for Shen Yuan’s comfort, so that Shen Yuan doesn’t complain so much when Luo Binghe very politely requests to be used as a pillow!

Shen Yuan rolls his eyes. “300 pounds is still 300 pounds. If you expected me to catch you, I’d have better luck surviving your sulking about falling and bruising yourself than I would trying to survive being squished under your weight.”

Unfortunately for Shen Yuan, The Dog is currently being cradled in his arms, so Luo Binghe refuses to hear a single word he says.

“If I just start by leaning my weight onto you -”

“I’ll definitely topple!”

“I lean on you all the time!”

“You pretend to lean on me all the time, you big octopus, but I know you’re keeping most of your weight off of me!”

Luo Binghe scowls. “Yuan-ge should start working out, then. I can cook meals with more protein, too, and -”

“Luo Binghe if you even dare to suggest that I go to the gym just to be able to hold you like a dog -!”

Luo Binghe sulks off to the kitchen. Fine, then - he’s a former emperor, he can do this the sneaky way. He’ll start fattening The Dog up with more food than it’s strictly supposed to eat, and either Shen Yuan will have to get strong enough to pick it up or he’ll stop picking it up. 

Either way, Luo Binghe will win this battle.

[mrzombielover]

real price hours tn

NSFW warning! f!reader, porn no plot

“yeah, just like that… goood girl…” price groans as you take him fully, taking a large puff from the lit cigar he dangles. you whimper at his words, making him chuckle as he exhales smoke in your face.

“oh, you like that, huh?” he laughs, free hand running down your waist and coming to grab a fistful of your ass. “dirty girl…” you squeak as he slaps your ass.

you mewl when you start to move, letting out a shaky breath as you bounce agonizingly slow on his cock, still adjusting to the stretch. you throw your head back, a soft moan slipping past your lips as you wrap your arms around his neck, letting a hand run through his hair and grip at the roots. he chuckles again, rolling his hips into you, drinking in every whine and gasp and moan that you give him. he takes another puff of his cigar, hand trailing from your ass around to your hip to rub soft circles into your clit. you keen at that, head falling forward onto his shoulder.

"captain!" you whine.

"shh, shh, baby," price shushes you gently, softly connecting his lips to yours as he breaths smoke out his nose. he swallows your moans as you let them into his mouth, and you feel dizzy against him as you roll your hips, greedily chasing the electrifying pleasure. you quiver around him, reduced to a whimpering mess as you're stretched out around his fat cock. he's all you can focus on, everything else dissolving but his length inside you and the smell of his musk and cigar.

"so perfect for me," he mumbles against your flesh, placing kisses before softly biting your neck.

"captain..." you moan again, bouncing sloppier now, more desperately.

"please!" it's almost a sob. you don't exactly know what you're begging for, but the plead leaves your lips anyway like a last prayer. Price laughs dryly, letting his eyes slip shut and head fall back against the headboard.

"you're so pretty when you whine. poor baby, you cant do it alone?" he teases, rolling his hips against yours. you moan louder now, falling forward slightly as he starts to fuck up into you. your back is arching against him, barley processing his words.

"come on, sweet girl," he says softly in your ear, his thumb on your clit making you throb and squeeze on him, hands searching for something, anything to grip on to. "thaaat's it.. just needed my help, huh?" he says soothingly as you dig your nails into his back.

"oh, god!" you squeak, letting a strangled cry into his ear.

"fuck! I'm gonna-" you cut yourself off with a loud moan, all strength leaving your body as Price thrusts up, repeatedly abusing your g-spot. His fingers dig into your hip, other hand clenching his cigar so hard it nearly crumbles in his grip, but not a single part of your brain cares about that now. The orgasm hits you in shaky waves, reducing you to a throbbing, soaking, shaking mess as it washes over you.

"yeah, good girl," He says softly, pressing a kiss to your temple as his pace slows. He takes one last puff before haphazardly dropping his cigar into the ashtray on his bedside table, not even giving you a chance to catch your breath before he's fully lifting you up and flipping you onto your back.

"can you give me one more, baby?"

[thedevilsoftruth]

Congressman Barnes who absolutely loves spoiling you with expensive gifts and all the little things you enjoy. Got your eyes on a particular dress? It's yours. See something you like in the window of a shop but put it off because it's too expensive? Don't you worry your pretty little head about it because it'll be wrapped up for you in a pretty bow on your vanity the next morning!

Congressman Barnes who maybe spoils you a bit too much because it causes you to get bratty at certain times. Bratty in the way that the smallest thing he could say could piss you off, and make you strom out of the room with your arms crossed.

But not on his watch, god no.

Because you could throw the biggest tantrum in the world and spend all his money just because he said one thing that made you upset the night before, but in the end, you would always be left with shaking legs and a limp body, begging him for forgiveness like a sinner in a church.

Because Congressman Barnes specializes in authority and in giving out orders to people. He was a sergeant in the military, and now he's a senator. He has power, and he will show you that power whenever you mouth off to him and act like a brat.

He'll let you yell at him, curse at him all you want through text messages and angry phone calls. But the second he walks through the front door, and the second he's merely within twenty feet from you, you know you have messed up in more ways than just one.

Because now he's got you bent over the edge of your bed with your hands tied behind your back, and he's fucking that apology out of you no matter how much you hate it.

" You wanna go off and throw a fit like a child? Then I'll treat you like a fucking child. "

He's fucking into you hard and fast, never letting you catch a break. He's a super solider, after all. He could go on for hours and never get tired. In this scenario, he does. In every scenario where you mouth off or throw a tantrum, he does.

Oh, and he never lets you cum. Not one bit because you don't deserve it. The second he feels you clamp down on him and squeeze him like a vice as if you're about to let loose, he's pulling out of you.

" nuh-uh. I don't think so. " He growls, pulling out of you for the third time that night. Your fingers are digging into your palm.

" Please, Bucky. " You sob, your face wet from how sweaty you are and from all your crying. " Please let me cum. I'll be good for you. " You promise with a beg, shaking your head as you look up at him from behind your shoulder with watery eyes. He laughs at you sadistically.

" oh, you will now? " His voice is laced with mockery. " Hm.. maybe you should have thought about that before you stole my credit card and went on a shopping spree completely out of spite. "

And then, his big, metal hand comes down on your ass, the sound echoing off the walls in your bedroom. You yelp and your tears start to fall down your face heavier.

" One of these days you will learn, " he pushes into you slowly, just an inch into your buzzing, drooling pussy. " that your actions have consequences. " You whine loudly, your eyes fluttering shut, your cunt begging for him to fill you completely.

You can't stop the whines.

" Bucky, please. " You cry softly as he continues to tease you by repeatedly pushing his fat cock into you by one to two inches just to pull out immediately afterwards. " Please, please, please, please. Wanna cum. "

Bucky just sighs and spanks you again.

" No, that's not how it works around here. " He tells you, bending down and whispering the words in your ear. His flesh fingers slide into your hair, and he fists it gently. " You don't get what you want just because you ask for it, you earn it. "

" But i-- "

" I don't wanna fucking hear it. " He sneers, pushing into you all the way without warning, making you squeal. " You've been a spoiled fucking brat today, so I'm putting you back into your place. Wether you like it or not, you will learn that throwing fits like that are not to be tolerated. " His fingers tug on your scalp, and you inhale sharply, closing your eyes, letting him take you.

" Do you understand me? " He asks in your ear, his voice harsh, deep, gravelly and hoarse. You bite your lip and nod your head. He huffs.

" Use your words, baby doll. " He says with a spank to your round, reddened ass. Your body is jolted forward by the impact, and you whimper.

" Yes. " You mutter in defeat, your legs shaking.

" Good girl. "

[lemonwrap]

Imagine: werewolf Ghost turning Soap to save his life.

The mission to find Makarov goes to shit. Ghost isn’t there in time to prevent Soap from being shot. He is there in time to see Makarov fire a bullet straight through Soap’s skull, to see his beloved sergeant crumple to the ground like a sack of bricks.

He’s over to Soap’s side in a flash, clutching him close and calling his name frantically as the blood pours out. Soap is quickly dying, and there’s nothing he can do.

No, there’s one thing.

He shifts faster than he ever has in his life, in less than thirty seconds. A werewolf’s bite does nothing unless they’re in their wolf form. His clothes and gear are torn to shreds, and he pays no mind to Gaz and Price nearby as he grabs Soap’s arm, and, in a fit of desperation, sinks his teeth in.

It was the one thing he vowed he would never do. He would never turn a human. But he can’t let Soap go, he can’t just not do the one thing that could save his life. With a werewolf’s superior healing, Soap might have a chance.

Soap doesn’t die, but it’s a damn near thing. They take him to a nearby hospital, get him admitted and under the care of multiple doctors.

That was three days ago. It’s common knowledge that a human bitten by a shifted werewolf would turn within three days, and Ghost hopes that Soap is still unconscious when it happens, because the first time is a terrifying, painful process. He had been turned by Roba in his twenties. All day, he watches Soap carefully, but the man shows no signs of waking up from his medically induced coma.

Soap doesn’t wake up for another two weeks. When he does, he’s confused and utterly disoriented, and doesn’t recognize Ghost or the rest of the 141. Ghost pretends it doesn’t hurt. Even so, Ghost tells him that he had bitten Soap to save him, and Soap understands, is grateful even, thanking Ghost.

Despite his initial condition, Soap’s healing is remarkable. After a week, he recognizes his comrades again, and seems to be relieved of some of the confusion he had experienced. The wound near his temple begins to close up.

Ghost spends most of his days in Soap’s room. That room is where Soap and Ghost share their first kiss, Soap’s shaking hands grasping at Ghost’s jacket as their lips meet, Ghost whispering a soft Johnny against his lips.

Soap healed extraordinarily well, but even the healing powers of a werewolf can’t fully diminish the off and on numbness in his limbs, tremors, mood swings, and brain fog.

They medically discharge him.

Soap goes home to Scotland, and Ghost follows. For a week, they settle in, but Soap shows no signs of transforming, despite his apparent possession of a werewolf’s regenerative abilities.

It’s a good day when Soap shifts for the first time. He’s bright and happy, like the sergeant Ghost knew before, and his confusion is almost entirely gone. His tremors lessen, and Soap hasn’t complained of the numbness that sometimes annoyed him.

What he does complain about is the sudden onset of a full-body ache, as if his bones themselves are throbbing. He becomes suddenly irritable, clawing at his skin and hair and pacing, snapping at Ghost and groaning in pain.

These are signs he knows. Soap’s going to transform, and he’s going to transform quick now that it’s set in.

“Ghost, w-what do I do?!” Soap stammers, looking like he’s trying not to panic, his eyes wide and filled with fear. He’s never seen Soap panic before.

“Just relax, Johnny,” Ghost says soothingly, because he knows there’s nothing he can do other than support him. Nothing can stop lycanthropy except death. “It’ll be alright.”

“It hurts!” Soap cries out sharply, and then his cry becomes a choked sound not unlike a growl. He drops to his knees and hunches over, putting his hands on his head and gripping his hair between his fingers.

And then he starts to shift.

His mouth elongates into a snarling muzzle, baring sharp white canines, his ears lengthen and migrate to the top of his head, and the hair he’s holding between his fingers turns into fur. Soap sobs and says something that sounds like Ghost’s name, but then his vocal chords change, too, and it turns into a throaty bark. His spine and bones lengthen and grow denser, his fingernails morph into sharp claws, and a tail grows out of his spine as patches of fur grow over his skin.

It’s a few harrowing moments filled with Soap’s agonized cries and whines that make up Soap’s first shift. Ghost knows the feeling, and his stomach knots with sympathy. His own first shift had been one of the most painful things he had ever experienced.

Now fully shifted, Soap is huge, easily eight feet tall when standing upright, with a brown pelt just like his hair, a stripe along his back, long limbs, sharp claws, and a fluffy tail. His wild blue eyes, alight with fear, fixate on Ghost. Ghost tenses, nearly expecting Soap to try to attack him. He knows Soap could rip him apart before he’d have the chance to shift and fight back. That’s what he did to Roba, after all.

Soap does no such thing.

Instead, Soap lets out a whimper and curls in on himself, his tail going between his legs and his claws digging scratches into the floor. He doesn’t look like an eight foot tall killing machine, he looks like a kicked puppy.

“Johnny?” Ghost says quietly.

Soap’s blue eyes glance over to him, and he lets out another pleading whimper. His eyes hold a look of betrayal, of sorrow, of why me? His jaws open and something strangled comes out, like Soap’s trying to speak, but Ghost knows that they can’t, not in this form.

“Oh, Johnny,” he murmurs, and cautiously steps forward. He knows it’s dangerous to get in another werewolf’s space like this, but it’s Soap. When it comes to Soap, all rational thoughts fly out the window.

He reaches forward and gently touches Soap’s arm. Soap stiffens, and Ghost thinks he’s fucked up big time until Soap stumbles onto his hind legs, nuzzles into the crook of Ghost’s neck, and wraps his arms around Ghost. His claws catch on Ghost’s clothing and dig in as he grips Ghost tightly, and Ghost is momentarily stunned. He had acted in no such manner the first time he had shifted.

“See, Johnny? I told you it’d be alright,” Ghost says softly when he gets over his brief moment of surprise.

Soap stays shifted for the rest of the day, and shifts back as soon as his body is able.

It’s from there that Ghost teaches Soap how to handle his werewolf form. He transforms with Soap often, and they travel through the fields near Soap’s cabin, wrestle, play, and bond.

Ghost has never felt as understood or happy in his entire life. It’s a good life, what they’ve made for themselves.

[xhollowfaerie]

silverv drabbles #5

a/n: oof, this might be my favorite one so far. after witnessing a particularly bad memory, Johnny offers to teach V how to play guitar. also yes my V is kinda seeing Judy too but idk I also ship her so hard with Johnny so interpret that however you will, I love her with either or both <3 also pre-game Samurai fan corpo V is my new roman empire

warnings: traumatic childhood, depiction of physical abuse, abusive "parenting", hopefully Johnny isn't too ooc

- Black Dog. V’s eyes watered at the sight of the electric guitar in her new apartment, bringing the back of her hand up to her mouth as she bit back a grin.

“Gettin’ all emotional on me? Sweet, but you know we’d never work” Johnny lit up a cigarette, resting against the windowsill.

“Shut up, Johnny” she laughed through her wavering emotions, kneeling down to admire the instrument. Her long nails ran over the glossy finish, hesitantly plucking a string to relish the sound. The rockerboy watched her in amusement. She looked just like a little kid getting their favorite toy on Christmas Eve.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never touched a guitar before” he said in between drags, eyes glued to her.

“No” V breathed, lowering her gaze. “Wasn’t somethin’ I was allowed to touch.”

Victoria Lovett’s slaps always stung for days after. Valerie gasped in horror as her mother snapped her vinyl in half before angrily bursting into tears.

“The fuck did you do that for?!” she roared, her rebellion earning her another painful slap across the face before feeling her hair being viciously tugged upwards. 

“Who do you think you’re speaking to, Valerie? Address me like that one more time and see what happens. This time, we’ll make sure you don’t get any medical attention.”

Valerie sobbed, attempting to free her mother’s hold of her hair to no avail. She helplessly stood face to face with the vitriol across her mother’s still-youthful features, the various implants and surgeries to keep her looking in her late twenties at most.

“Don’t try to play the victim with me. I’ve told you how many times? Stop wasting time on this drivel, it’s simply not my fault you won’t listen to your own mother. You need to focus on the Academy and the Academy only-” “I have top grades in every class! Every professor has praised me to you! What more do you want?! I’m not even allowed to listen to the music I like?! I’ve done everything, everything to appease you, it’s never enough! I’m never enough! ”

Victoria glared towards the broken Samurai record on the floor before returning her attention to her daughter. “This noise? You call this anarchistic low-class propaganda filth music? You are the heir to a royal bloodline, Valerie Lovett! There is no higher insult for us or for the future of our family for you to betray us - to disrespect The Company like this.”

Valerie’s dark makeup ran down her face in trails of black, shaking in fear in her mother’s grip. She squeezed her eyes shut and whimpered before she was abruptly dropped, falling to her knees. She tried to back away, but her mother grabbed onto her face so ferociously, she thought her fingers would crush her jaw to dust. Fear instructed her to bite down hard into her tongue, still her trembling and silence her cries. It always riled them up even worse when she couldn’t stop crying.

“Perhaps we’ve been too lenient with you - I should’ve listened to your father and scrapped you. He was right, your genetics were flawed. I was soft because I’d always wanted a daughter.”

Her unloving hands moved down to Valerie’s throat; she lowered herself onto the floor under the weight, eyes wide in horror, feeling the oxygen cut off from her lungs with a wheeze.

“M-Mom, it- hurts-”“You will address me as Mother, Valerie, and you will watch your tongue with me from this day on, unless you truly want me to go ahead and remove it. Better yet, your father suggested a faceplate; you know your facial features are… less than desirable.”

Valerie couldn’t help the tears pouring down the sides of her face, lips trembling. This was it, she thought. This time, Victoria would really go through with it and kill her, like she always said she would. She closed her eyes, trying to conjure up the smallest spark of courage inside her, to accept her death with dignity. She’d been contemplating choosing her own way out over whatever nightmare of a future her parents had planned for her for a while now, anyway. Lyrics played in her head, offering her the tiniest hope of solace as she tried - to no avail - to block her mother's words out.

“I better not see this slut makeup or clothing on you again. I’ve told you time and time again; a woman must be elegant. You’ve tarnished our reputation enough. I do not need the whole corporate world seeing my daughter parade around like a harlot.”

“Black dog in my head, guiding me into the end…” Valerie found herself humming, sitting down on the couch as she gingerly cradled the guitar in her arms. Johnny blinked in confusion for a moment before realizing they were back in the present, rubbing his temples.

“Fuck, kid. I’m- I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

V gave him a sympathetic half-smile. “...thanks. Sorry you had to see that.” She didn’t correct him on her age this time. She was barely a few years younger than him when he died, but she’d almost gotten attached to the stupid nickname.

He felt the clutches of wrath crawling up throughout his whole body. That familiar feeling. Anger, helplessness. Or maybe that was V. Maybe both.

“I know nothin I say’ll make it any better. But I’d kill ‘em for you, in a heartbeat,” Johnny tried to steady his voice from wavering with anger, taking a few steps towards the couch before lowering down onto the floor. She nodded, wiping the dampness off her face with her sleeve. “I know.”

They sat in silence for a moment; her fingers explored the ins and outs of the guitar, getting used to its weight atop her frame, humming still.

“That your favourite one? Black Dog.”

V let out a small sigh. She wrapped her arms around it, snuggling it to her chest like a teddy bear, but carefully enough to not damage it in any way, bringing her knees up.

“One of.” Johnny shook his head. “Never told me you were into Samurai.” “I did, though. Remember? Oh my gosh!!! I can’t believe it! It’s The REAL Johnny Silverhand?! I’m gonna pass out! Can I get a backstage pass? Please, I’m your biggest fan! I’ll let you see my backstage…!  Please, Daddy, I promise I’m 18! Can I at least get your autograph on my tits? Swear I’ll never wash it off!”

He let out a loud groan and quickly pushed himself up to the couch, placing one arm on either side of her to tower above.

“Christ, shut up” he barked, drinking in her joyous giggle as she playfully tried to push him away. Their eyes caught onto each other and they both stilled for a moment, brown staring into blue with a feverish intensity that made her heart pause its rhythm. Fine, maybe she'd had the most miniscule crush on him when she was a teenager, a lifetime ago.

Her hands, forgotten atop his chest, idly ran over the silver chain of his dog tags. He successfully suppressed displaying the tingle that rushed down his spine.

“I could teach ya. If you want” he spoke in a low voice, motioning towards the guitar in her arms. She widened her eyes with excitement, heart hammering rapidly inside her ribcage.

“No kiddin’?” “No kiddin’. Might even get a jump start, assumin’ your fingers inherited my muscle memory.”

The tone in his voice was very suggestive - her face flushed at his statement, reaching one of her hands up to clasp his face and shove him off her. “Ew! Do you always have to be a fuckin’ weirdo? I’m tellin’ the media that Johnny Silverhand was a degenerate sicko!” He chuckled as he moved away, reaching to wrap his fingers around her wrist and pull it off from his face with a sly grin. “Think you’re about a half a century late on that one, choomba.”

She rolled her eyes, feeling a sense of loss as his touch departed from her hand, grazing the guitar with a loving gaze perhaps meant for something, someone else.

“I’d love that” she whispered in reply to his suggestion, prompting Johnny to walk around the corner and grab his own guitar. How did that even work? Ah, whatever, she didn’t fucking care anymore.

“First off; you gotta shorten those vixen claws. I’m sure Judy will live just fine without them shreddin’ her back.”

She flung a throw pillow off the couch at him with a gasp. “Ugh! Don’t tell me you watched?!” “Nah, got better things to do, but you’re definitely a scratcher. Maybe Judy’s onto somethin’” he smirked, adding “...woman after my own heart” in a hushed voice before the unexpected pillow hit him right in the face. “You little!-” 

V let out a squeal as he threw the pillow back at her, dodging in time for it to only hit her side. “Slow reflexes, old m-ahh!” 

He pulled her to his chest with one swift motion, her guitar separating them from being flushed up too closely against each other. She gave him the faintest glare, trying to withhold the blush from returning to her cheeks. “What?”

Johnny’s eyes bore into hers. V shivered, gulping. Wow. The rockerboy smoulder really worked, huh.

As if he’d heard her thoughts (shit, he definitely did), he burst into a chuckle, shaking his head before turning them around, standing behind her and tilting his head by the side of hers. He tentatively hovered his hands above her arms, asking for permission. She gave him a small nod, freezing when his fingers made contact with her skin; oh, as if it wasn’t embarrassing enough, she was sure he could feel her heart rate climbing higher.

“Relax” his gravelly voice brushed against her ear, making her eyes widen - yeah, not helping! - the distance between them shrinking as he wrapped his arms around hers, placing his hands atop V’s. “You’re holdin’ it wrong. Here.”

Without any smartass reply, V followed his lead, letting him adjust her hold of the guitar and position her fingers atop the strings. “You ever play anythin’ ‘fore?” She was thankful for his idle chitchat, helping her relax into his instructions. “Yeah, piano.” “Hm. Suits you. Know the basics, then?” “Wouldn’t mind a refresher…” Truthfully, having him so close still unnerved her, and music theory was the last thing on her mind. “Alright. You’re gonna need a pick.”

-

The Kabuki apartment was filled with laughter and the sweet strumming of guitar strings as they passed the night away in their little corner of Night City. He was right - she did get the gist surprisingly quickly, learning the riff for Black Dog before it got high time to hit the hay. He watched her tired figure on the couch, sweetly curled around the guitar. 

He softly ruffled her hair with a chuckle. “Startin’ to look like you might just be cut out to be my prodigy. I'll admit - I'm impressed!”

“Mmm… Johnny?”

“The man, the myth, the legend. At your service.”

“Promise me somethin'?”

“Man, why do chicks always say this to me? Is it my devilishly good looks? Wasn't exactly tryin’ to inspire husband material…”

“Promise… you'll stay?”

His smile faltered, eyes idly following the curve of her thighs, all the way to the peaceful expression on her face. 

‘Course I'll stay.

“Don't got much of a choice.”

She let out a small noise, making herself comfortable as her speech slurred, breathing softly.

“‘m scared… t’… sleep alone. Been so good… know you're there. Means… they can't… hurt me.”

“No. They can't. We'll flatline ‘em before they even think it.”

She scooted closer to him on the couch, allowing her head to rest on the side of his leg. He tensed for a moment before his muscles eased into her touch, ghosting the tips of his fingers over her arm with uncharacteristic tenderness before letting out a quiet chuckle, the corner of his lips tugging upward as he looked down at her.

“‘night night, V.”

I’ll stay until I fix this. ‘Til you can be free of me.

[nyerusnova]

Glad to see that Tim being a giant Dick Grayson fanboy is finally being highlighted again, and sparking more discussion especially on their early relationship! (Please gimme more!!! I love them so much, augh!)

Probably as a result of that surge, there seems to be reciprocal chatter on the topic of how young Tim actually felt towards Jason, too. It's honestly pretty interesting, because it's more nuanced than it appears at first glance.

Which means it's very fun to dissect! ✨

There's a degree of subjectivity to keep in mind, because readers are going to have different interpretations of the same scenes, or will pull from entirely different scenes than one another to form their individual view on this topic. That's just how it is in comic book fandom, for many things! Regardless, in this case... if the scale ranges from the extreme of "Jason was Tim's Robin" to the other extreme of "Tim actually hated Jason [as Robin] or thought he was a loser that got himself killed" — the actual truth is closer to the middle, as is often the case.

At least, in my opinion.

Mainly I want to focus on those relatively early days with this post, to highlight Tim's initial(-ish) feelings towards his heroes, and touch on the point at which they really begin to change. This turned into a very long post, though. Brevity is beyond my skill, so grab snacks and water lol. Transcripts for each image will be posted at the very end under the cut.

So, the two storylines I want to cover are "Rite of Passage," which is rolls into "Identity Crisis." (NOT to be confused with the major crossover event "Identity Crisis™" which came years later, and is where Jack Drake dies.... But it sure is an interesting coincidence that Tim deals with the loss of each parent in two similarly named stories!) These take place before Tim is even Robin, and I'll be considering them as one arc for this post.

Detective Comics vol. 1 #618 (July, 1990) -- Pages 1 & 2

"When Gotham needed him, he was there. When the Batman needed him, he was there. He was a hero."

"One day, I'll be as good as Jason. One day I'll wear the suit."

To start off, we have this opening from "Rite of Passage." Tim is still in training here, mainly helping Bruce with minor stuff from the cave. His parents are off traveling, alive and well as of these next few pages. He's still bright-eyed and full of wonder. An extraordinarily weird but ultimately innocent kid.

So his view on Jason is positive and fairly simple: a hero, and someone to look up to as Robin. Clearly, Tim here doesn't think Jason was deficient in his role, either as a protector of Gotham or as Batman's trusted partner.

Moreover, Tim already held Dick in very high regard because he was amazingly skilled before he became Robin. To Tim, that's not something he'll ever be able to achieve. Meanwhile, Jason wasn't like that. He was a regular kid without crazy acrobatic training since practically birth. Yet he still went on to be a hero—which is obviously motivational for Tim who finds himself in similar shoes.

It's true that Tim only ever knew or thought of Jason as Robin, and idolized him in that regard. But that's kind of all that mattered to him at that point, because he was this kid who was utterly star-struck by his heroes. Even if he's technically aware of their shortcomings as people, it's overshadowed by the hero-worship.

It was kind of the same with Bruce as Batman at first. (Which was still enough for Tim to risk life and limb to help his beloved hero, before Bruce even knew his name.) Dick was the only one Tim had any sort of "personal" relationship with beforehand, so there is an extra level of attachment—and hence why it was the nidus for his obsession with Batman. Yet even then, it wasn't like he actually knew anything about Dick as a person until later. Until then, Tim's ideas of him were all he had, too. With Jason, Tim just didn't get to know him at any point before his return (oof), apart from what he heard over the years secondhand (also oof).

Ultimately, it's the loss of innocence—along with the ricocheting bullet that is the unresolved guilt of those around him—that begins to change Tim's perception. Not just of Jason, but of things in general.

Batman vol. 1 #455 (Oct., 1990) -- Page 13

"I know why they do it now. Why they put on the suits, and the masks, and go out into the night. They're angry, they're full of rage. They want to hit back."

Losing his mother was a major shift for Tim, obviously. This is right after the previous storyline, and Tim's had the worst week or two of his life (so far). His monologue here is a reference to what happened to both Dick and Jason. The unbearable pain of loss, the rage masking the grief underneath. And importantly, that he feels both of them were justified in their anger. (And Bruce too, indirectly.)

The major theme of the aptly named "Identity Crisis" is to mirror aspects of Dick and Jason and Tim's lives—to show how they converged onto the same tragic road. It's something that Tim notices early in the story, and was frightened by. Now, horrifically, it's become a part of him as well. His parents are gone, and he was entirely helpless to do anything about it. Dick was the same way, Jason was the same way. The cycle is repeated.

In particular, the part about him wanting to go to Haiti for revenge—for his mother—sort of struck me as being an intentional parallel to Jason and Ethiopia. It's a bit of a stretch, especially in isolation, so others may see it differently (e.g. the angry ramblings of a grieving child that does sound like something anyone might say). But it always stuck out to me because of how much Tim is compared directly to Jason in this arc. More on that below.

It's not something I can really give an accurate feel of because it's a lot of subtle things that begin to add up, so I'd encourage folks to read this arc themselves to see what I mean. (Or maybe you'll still disagree which is fine too lol.) Again, many things are in reference to both Dick and Jason in relation to Tim, but it's weighted more on Jason's side.

Batman vol. 1 #455 (Oct., 1990) -- Page 18

"You think my anger will boil over, the way Jason's did. I can assure you, it won't!"

Tim's grief has begun to pull away the veil of idealism that enshrouded his heroes in his mind. It doesn't apply only to Jason, but to the rest of them. Plus add the fact that Tim's keenly aware that he's being managed, even if the adults around him are careful to not outright say certain things. He still knows.

Bruce, Dick, and Alfred are all worried about Tim potentially turning into "another Jason." They (and mainly Bruce) caution Tim to not ignore his emotions, but they're still concerned that he may be overly eager to prove himself in order to cope, and could get hurt or killed as a result. While they aren't wrong for their caution—especially at how unsettlingly similar all the circumstances are—they aren't very subtle about the elephant in the room.

Imagine how that would affect Tim's perception of his predecessor, especially when he's in the midst of a traumatic event he hasn't had time to fully process. The negative association is pretty much inevitable.

Tim's known from day one that he's walking in Jason's shadow, and now it's become inescapable. Tim went from seeing Jason as a goal to reach, to feeling that unless he surpasses him, he wasn't going to be taken seriously by anyone. However, as of this arc, Tim doesn't even fully come to that point yet.

Batman vol. 1 #456 (Nov., 1990) -- Pages 14 & 15

"Drop-outs don't make it. And dead heroes are no use to anyone!"

It's really easy to take away "Tim totally thought Jason got himself killed" as the main thing here, but I think that's missing the forest for the trees.

First some context: Bruce has gone out on a mission to get Scarecrow, and expressly forbade Tim from doing any shenanigans. Meanwhile, Tim is grappling with wanting to prove himself and trying to help Bruce from the cave, all while trying to deal with his emotions. At some point, he falls asleep and ends up having like... exhaustion-grief hallucinations of Dick!Robin and Jason!Robin who confusingly caution yet encourage him. The main theme of this part is facing your fears.

Depending on how you want to interpret the intent of Jason's dialogue here, you could go several ways with it. Ranging from "writer's feelings towards Jason" to "a peek into Tim's mind as his fears manifest as visions of his heroes" or some mixture thereof.

Though Tim argues with Bruce that Batman needs a Robin, we're shown that Tim is understandably scared of joining Batman's "war." He's still not willing to let Bruce go it alone, though, and that's something he feels more strongly than his fear.

Meanwhile, hallucination!Jason's warnings are a lamentation of what happened to him in a way, but it actually exactly describes Tim's current situation even more so. Unlike Jason, Tim is under-trained, under-experienced, doesn't even have a suit of his own yet. But like Jason, he can't sit by and do nothing while someone he cares about is in danger. Tim knows that if he goes out there, he will probably get himself killed, and it will be his own fault. So he's about to disobey Batman's orders, and fly right into danger. If that got Jason killed, then Tim—who is in a way worse position experience-wise—has every chance of ending up the same.

Like... it's about Jason, but it's also about Tim. It's Tim's worst fears made manifest, via the representation of why he is even here in the first place (Jason's death).

That's my theory anyway, but perhaps this is an overly charitable reading of this scene on my end. (Not that I think that makes me wrong lol.) However given that Grant wrote both parts of this arc, and the beginning of which is especially favorable towards Jason, it certainly is something to ponder. I have a lot of thoughts on it I can't expand on here tbh but perhaps that'll be another post.

Anyway, returning to the point of the similarities vs differences between Tim and Jason: since this is the arc that solidified Tim as the next Robin in comic continuity, it makes sense that the writers really pushed the comparisons between the two of them, specifically. (Even though Dick was pretty similar, as going against Batman's orders is the Robin thing to do, it's not his shoes Tim is directly filling.) So making Tim's "debut" story arc mirror Jason's "swansong" is an obvious narrative choice.

To drive home the parallels, I wanted to include this panel from just a few pages prior to the "daydream":

Batman vol. 1 #456 (Nov., 1990) -- Page 9

"The suit is magic."

That so distressingly close to Jason's famous "being Robin gives me magic" line (Batman #385, page 6). Given all the previous context, it's hard for me to just dismiss it as pure coincidence. Even if it is, the point still stands. Tim is shown having the some of the same heartbreakingly naive views as Jason once did, right in front of Jason's memorial, just as he's about to go and run off into the night against orders.

I think that speaks for itself. There's a lot to take away from it, if you so choose. Especially given the context of that specific Jason arc.

Alright, back to the main course:

So in the end, Tim actually goes out in civvies and a ski mask because if he fails, then at least he wouldn't bring shame to Robin's legacy™. When he gets fear gassed saving Batman, it's once again both Dick and Jason that he hallucinates encouraging him to push past his fear. (Shout out to the fact that he's literally more afraid of tarnishing the legacy of Batman & Robin than he is of dying.... I'm sure this will not be a recurring thing for him in the future.)

Tim's ideology is shown to be similar to Jason's, and the actions Tim ultimately takes are similar to Jason's... but the outcome is different. And it really isn't just "Tim succeeded where Jason failed." At least, that's not what I took away from this. Rather, Tim had no reason to succeed any more than he had to fail, just that he did. Luck combined with caution because he knew what happened to his predecessor, and the fact that Batman was there to finish the job all made the difference.

You could say (and I know some will) that it's just classic Jason character assassination and the writers trying to implore readers that this new kid is different we promise pls don't hate us look how much better he is! But in this case, that feels like it undermines the whole point of this story. It doesn't fit with what the characters actually say.

Thus, we return to the question of how Tim felt towards his predecessor. And the answer is different from where we started, because Tim is different. Not that different though. Because even though at this point Tim—like all the adults around him—has probably attributed Jason "going off on his own" being what led to his death, Tim still thought of him as a hero to look up to. It's about Robin, first and foremost, yes. But Tim is fully aware of the people who made that suit mean what it does, because it's all intertwined.

Batman vol. 1 #457 (Dec., 1990) -- Page 20

"I mean--Dick made it into a symbol the whole world knows. Jason gave his life for it."

Even further, Tim thinks of it in terms of Jason having given his life for what he believed in, for the legacy that now falls to Tim. There's a sense of gravitas there. He's afraid of failing both the Robins who came before him.

Ultimately do I think Tim adored and loved Jason on the same level as Dick or something? No. It's not comparable. (Dick was like part of some of Tim's earliest memories and everything! They have a really unique bond ok.) Yet Tim was also far from thinking poorly of Jason so early on. Frankly, it seems that Tim thought of Jason as a noble hero and a cautionary tale. Yes he took risks and sometimes went too far, generally stuff that Tim doesn't want to repeat and all that. At the same time, Tim still saw him as someone whose legacy and memory was worth honoring.

It's complicated, which is why I like it so much—because it feels real. Having conflicting feelings towards someone is... so human. Especially someone you never got to know, yet who plays such an integral role in your life via the shadow of their death. How can you feel anything but complicated towards them?

It has to be said that, yes, Tim's views—even before Jason's return—change over the years. He becomes more jaded as a person and is surrounded by people who are even more jaded than him... and who often mention Jason as the "failed Robin." It's something that's hung over Tim's head all the damn time. The curse of the Robin mantle.

So it shouldn't come as a surprise that Tim's idea of him becomes more akin to "sounds like a skill issue" as the years go by. All bets are off after Jason's return, and the Titans Tower Incident™. At that point it's firmly "I am better than you, loser" lmao.

And... that's all without getting too into things like authorial intent and general "moods" of different DC writers towards Jason at a given point. Or retcons that played a role in his characterization and how other characters talk about him, depending on what "era" you're reading. That's way beyond the scope of this post though!

TLDR; even though young Tim Drake was obsessed with Dick Grayson as Robin, he still looked up to Jason Todd as well. He didn't think of Jason as a cringefail loser until later. :)

(image dialogue transcripts under cut ↓)

Dialogue Transcript for Image 1 (Detective Comics vol. 1 #618 -- Page 1):

Narration box (Tim): When Gotham needed him, he was there. When the Batman needed him, he was there. He was a hero.

Dialogue Transcript for Image 2 (Detective Comics vol. 1 #618 -- Page 2):

(Scene continued from previous page)

Narration box: But he was nothing special, really. Just a boy, who was taught--trained--brought to his full potential by someone who knew how. Just a boy... like me. I know I can do it. I know I can. One day I'll be as good as Jason. One day I'll wear the suit. One day I'll be a hero.

Dialogue Transcript for Image 3 (Batman vol. 1 #455 -- Page 13):

Tim: I hate him! I hate him! I know why they do it now. Why they put on the suits, and the masks, and go out into the night. They're angry. Full of rage. They want to hit back. They want to fill the hole that's burning inside them.

Bruce: There's more to it than that, son. Much more.

Tim: I know. It's just--I feel--like going to Haiti myself and strangling that creep with my bare hands!

Bruce: The Obeah Man will spend the rest of his life in a prison hospital. He's history. Forget him! But don't fight against your anger. It's natural. Accept it. Live with it. One day it'll be your friend.

Dialogue Transcript for Image 4 (Batman vol. 1 #455 -- Panels from page 18):

Tim: Because you think my mother's death has upset me too much. Well, it did. But I've taken your words to heart. I can cope. You think my anger will boil over, the way Jason's did. I can assure you, it won't. But that doesn't make any difference, does it? Why can't you have a little faith in me?

Dialogue Transcript for Image 5 (Batman vol. 1 #456 -- Page 14):

Narration box (Tim): Blast it! My head's starting to swim. I'm about ready to give up. I almost wish I'd never heard of Batman and Robin!

Vision Dick: Heroes never give up, Tim.

Vision Jason: You know that.

Tim: Dick--! Jason Todd!

Vision Dick: You're training to fight in a war, Tim. It'll last all your life. No matter what, you have to go on fighting.

Vision Jason: Drop-outs don't make it. And dead heroes are no use to anyone! I thought I knew better than Batman. I thought I could run before I could walk. I killed myself, Tim. Because I couldn't wait. Because I couldn't think it through.

Dialogue Transcript for Image 6 (Batman vol. 1 #456 -- Page 15):

(Scene continued from previous page)

Vision Dick: Think, Tim. Concentrate!

Vision Jason: You can do it.

Both: You can do it!

Tim, waking up: What--? Robin...?

Narration box (Tim): I must have been daydreaming. They're right, though. There's a solution to everything. I can find it! So here I go again... Whim. Caprice. Doing something without forethought.

Dialogue Transcript for Image 7 (Batman vol. 1 #456 -- Panel from page 9):

Narration box (Tim): The suit is magic. It gives you power. It hides your weakness. It makes you give it everything you've got. It makes you a hero. If only I could!

Dialogue Transcript for Image 8 (Batman vol. 1 #457 -- Page 20):

Bruce: Are you afraid of it?

Tim: No. It isn't fear. It's more... the suit carries so much history. I mean--Dick made it into a symbol the whole world knows. Jason gave his life for it. Failing them--what they fought so hard to build--that's what worries me!

Bruce: I appreciate that, Tim. That costume weighs a whole lot more than any symbol should... and I'd be failing you if I expected you to bear that weight. So... let me know what you think.

Narration box: A mask has a double edged, he said. It hides your own anxiety as it strikes fear into your enemy.

[amaru2020]

Have any headcannons surrounding the winged AUs?

OH BUDDY DON’T GET ME STARTED-

but fr tho, yes actually! I’m working on a new piece involving one of them right now! But I’ll break these hcs down into three categories: Glinda, Elphaba, and Gelphie (where both of them have wings!) because boy do I have a lot lol so here we go! More to come under the cut!

Winged!Glinda🩷

Glinda, at first, was terrified of her wings. They were foreign to her, and she had no clue how to fold them or sit without pressing or sitting on them, or even sleep comfortably without them popping up against her will. (If anyone knows mlp, think when twilight first became an alicorn) Morrible and the Wizard were no help, urging her to hide them. And learning to fly was out of the question. Of course they couldn’t risk her defecting like Elphaba had all those years ago.

She was used as an example. Paraded around Oz as not only the figurehead of “Glinda the Good” but also as a warning. Of the consequences of what happens when you become close with someone so evil as The Wicked Witch.

Over time, Glinda slowly built up a resentment towards Elphaba for cursing her with these things. She couldn’t see the beauty in what they were, and only saw a reminder of the woman who meant everything to her. However, when Elphie did come onto the scene, and Glinda saw how horrified and regretful and apologetic she was, any anger was gone and she broke down on the spot. Months of pent up emotions being brought to the surface at the sight of her. Elphaba held Glinda close while stroking her wings, the first time anyone dared to touch them gently. And whispered tender apologies and reassurances.

Fast forward when they’re actually able to be together. Elphaba uses the knowledge she’s gained from being with so many Animals to help Glinda, while also calling on other Birds to come show Glinda the things she can’t.

Preening is something Elphaba does for Glinda quite frequently, because once getting used to and accepting the wings as a whole, she insists on keeping them as put together as the rest of her.

They do this thing where they puff up if she’s agitated. Elphaba thinks it’s funny, Fiyero, (I love to see the three of them still portrayed as close friends in fics post Shiz, so I’ll include him if scenario warrants. Because despite my rock solid devotion and bias to gelphie, I’m still rocking with him as a character) who I like to think remains their guard captain and subsequently their friend, also thinks it’s funny when Elphaba finally shows him she’s not exaggerating. Glinda does not find it nearly as amusing as they do.

Flying isn’t something Glinda does regularly. It takes a lot of energy and quite frankly she doesn’t like what it does to her hair, so the bubble is still her preferred method of travel. But Elphaba is very insistent that she does do it occasionally so her wings don’t get stiff and cramped.

Winged!Elphaba 💚

Elphaba’s wings come from a spell she made herself, because she wasn’t sure how to keep it from getting out of hand like the last few times. When she does figure it out, it’s incredibly painful like it was for the monkeys. She’s so sore all she can do is try and sleep it off.

They’re big, and heavy, and it takes her time to become adjusted. They change the way she has to distribute her weight when she walks.

Hammocks become her best friend because for the first time in a while she can sleep on her stomach and back without having her wings at strange angles and fully stretched out for a change. The Birds and Winged Monkeys are also very helpful whenever she has a question about feathers or flying. Elphaba watches and picks up on their habits quickly.

Flying without her broom the first couple of times did result in very rough crash landings. She knew it would be different, but not that different.

Hearing her fly in the night and seeing nothing but these massive black wings is terrifying, especially for the Emerald Guards. She can fly quietly when she wants to, but sometimes she’ll use those loud wingbeats as a form of intimidation.

Now, up until the point where she and Glinda reunite on the balcony, Glinda hadn’t properly seen Elphaba. She’d heard rumors about her appearance, and even seen passing glances. But never seen her up close until that night.

Elphaba expected her to be taken aback, similarly to how she reacted when first confronted with her verdigris. When Glinda didn’t say anything, Elphaba turned away, unable to look her in the eye. But when she felt a gentle tug on her wing, Elphaba looked over her shoulder to see Glinda running her fingers through the feathers with a look filled with so much admiration, affection, and respect, along with a whispered; “You actually did it…”

When they manage to be together, Glinda of course, has a million questions. All of which are answered very patiently while they’re laying together and Elphie has her wings wrapped around Glinda like a protective cocoon.

Speaking of, Glinda loves it. They’re soft and silky, and an added warmth to the one Elphaba’s body already supplies when they cuddle.

Glinda’s also adamant of feather upkeep. Elphaba doesn’t do much besides pick out the loose feathers she can reach, or try and shake any dirt out, but Glinda’s the one who has incorporated preening into their nightly routine. It’s relaxing for both of them.

Winged!Gelphie 🩷💚

So the two of them together have very different uses for their wings. Elphaba’s are used more for flying, while Glinda very much values aesthetics. On top of the morning routine Glinda already goes through, she’s added meticulous wing care to the mix. It’s already a long process for her every day routine, but when they have public appearances together as the leaders of Oz, it’s to an entirely different level.

As stated in Glinda’s section, the girl does not like to fly. Elphaba has to practically beg to get her up in the air for a little while.

I like to think that for this particular version where they both have wings, Elphie had them first, and still gave them to Glinda unintentionally. Perhaps by trying to enchant something for Glinda to ride like she had her broom (or the bubble) and it backfiring. With this, comes the guilt and Elphaba having to teach Glinda how to cope with them.

Between the two of them, there are. Feathers. Everywhere. If they have a particularly rough night in bed and they’re both restless, or move their wings too much in their sleep, it looks like bird lost a fight with an electric fan. I’m talking black and white tufts all over. It’s especially rough during molting season, where Glinda is convinced she’s going to lose every feather she has.

Speaking of beds, they really needed time to figure that out. When it was just Elphaba with wings, it was manageable. Elphaba didn’t usually need to stretch them out at night, but on the odd chance she did, Glinda actually kind of liked it. Though when they both have them, they eventually get a much bigger bed, and are able to sleep more comfortably together.

I know I’ve mentioned in the last two, but preening. It’s is very important to them as a couple. It’s a special bonding time for the two of them just like birds irl. There are times when Elphaba comes back from a particularly rough crusade of freeing Animals and her wings are so full of dirt and leaves and twigs that Glinda spends the better part of an hour cleaning her up. Or after a party or event where Glinda’s added all sorts of glitter and/or oils to her feathers, and Elphaba takes it off for her before bed.

They will use their wings to give social cues to one another, especially when out in the public eye or amongst other figureheads in Oz. A nudge on the back without breaking posture as a go ahead for the other to speak, spread slightly outwards as a signal one wants the other close, even thrown up as a barrier of sorts when they want to have private sidebars.

While it’s definitely an adjustment, the changes and shared experiences have done nothing but strengthen their bond. It makes sense that it would given a lot of birds mate for life after all.

End note: If anyone stayed to the end, I appreciate it! This got very long I’m sorry 😭 what was meant to be just like a handful of general hcs turned into like an entire essay lmao. All these thoughts have been simmering for a LONG time and I finally had somewhere to put them.

[its-all-papaya]

For the landoscar word prompt: homesick

okay i'm sorry this one took 55 minutes and still like. doesn't rlly end. idk, i couldn't work it out, have some melancholy rambling ig....

It's snowed every winter Lando's been at university, and this is his fourth, so he really should be used to it. It's just. He'd had an exam in the morning that he'd spent all night cramming for, and it hadn't been snowing on his walk back. It had been cold - enough that he'd tugged on a hoodie before crawling back under his covers - but it hadn't been snowing when he'd set his alarm and started his nap.

It's snowing when he wakes up, though. Maybe there's something about opening his eyes and turning his face out from the pillow and seeing it first that way. The sun's about to set; maybe it's the way it glows in the last afternoon light. Whatever it is crawls under his ribs and sits there like a pill he's swallowed the wrong direction, aching every time he swallows and breathes. He's not even fully awake. The memories are half dream when he blinks out the window and sees the ghosts of his little sisters in puffy jackets and his mum calling them back to tug hats on each of them so their ears won't go too pink.

It doesn't even snow much in Bristol. It snows much more here.

The washer is running when Lando pads out into the living room and he hadn't started it himself, which means Oscar is home from his afternoon class. His bedroom door is closed, and Lando really shouldn't bother him, but his stomach is heavy like lead and it feels out-of-sorts in a way that only his mum's tea would fix. He's afraid if he crawls back into bed he might do something silly like cry about it, because it's past ten at home and his parents will be asleep and he's not even sure calling would fix it anyway.

"You can come in," Oscar calls when Lando finally does knock.

He's sat propped against his pillows in bed, paperback folded open on his knee and blinds drawn shut. Lando's fairly sure his lit class is the one Oscar's just come from, but it would be like him to do the homework immediately after.

"You okay?"

Lando realizes a minute late that he's just been standing. Just staring. He swallows around the oblong feeling and pulls his sweatshirt sleeves over his hands so Oscar won't see him worrying them.

"Yeah," he answers eventually, "Just. It's snowing."

Oscar smiles, says, "Is it?"

He can't reach the window from his bed, so Lando crosses the room for him and pulls the curtains back so he can see - so they both can.

It's snowed every winter they've been in university, and this is Oscar's fourth. He really should be used to it, but his smile is just as awed as Lando still remembers it being freshman year, when they were crowded together around their shared bedroom window, tucked in together over the weekend holiday all of their classmates had gone home for.

"Perfect reading weather, then," Oscar says, settling back against his pillows.

Lando should go. He should nurse the weird, sad feeling with a hot shower, or something, and not by bothering his roommate-and-something-more-too when he's trying to study.

"Can I sit with you?" he says instead.

Oscar smiles. His, "of course," comes out like there weren't even other answers he'd considered.

He's warm when Lando curls up at his side. He's still got the book propped open against his knee and he goes easily when Lando nudges up under his arm and props his cheek against the ball of Oscar's shoulder.

"What's your book about?" Lando asks.

"Um," Oscar lifts it to show Lando the cover like that'll help, that plonks it back down like he's realized it won't. "This orphan girl, bit of an outcast. It's like a coming-of-age thing, I think, I'm not too far into it."

His fingers trace absently along the strip of skin where Lando's hoodie has ridden up at his waist, and it makes Lando shiver.

"Will you read it to me?"

"Yeah. You might be a bit lost, though," Oscar thumbs through the pages he's already been through like an explanation.

Lando doesn't say he'd probably be lost even if he'd read those, too. That it's not about the story, really. He thinks Oscar probably knows.

"S'okay," he says.

"Okay." Oscar turns his head enough that his lips brush Lando's forehead. Lando can't tell if it's on purpose.

Oscar's got a nice voice. Lando thinks he could probably fall asleep to it, and he wonders if he'd wake up without the knot in his chest, whether the bittersweet fog over his thoughts would have lifted. Maybe the snow would have stopped by then, even, maybe it'd all be melted.

Lando yawns into Oscar's chest as he flips a page, and Oscar pauses for a second to turn his head again. This time, his lips press more firmly at outside corner of Lando's eye, where he knows he's still got a pillow crease working its way out after his nap.

"Snowy weather is a bit sleepy, innit?" Oscar says, softer than the tone he'd been using to read with, "Peaceful and stuff."

Lando looks back out the window, where it's gotten heavier - big, wet flakes that stick to the glass and leave trails when they slide slowly down towards the frame.

"I think I'll miss it if I move back home after graduation," Oscar continues, voice sounding a bit like Lando's insides feel. Lando doesn't want to think about it.

Oscar goes back to the book. His hand is warm on Lando's hip, voice warm in Lando's ears, and Lando wonders if someday, down the road, Oscar will wake up to snow showers and think of this moment.

from here

[satoblue]

a formal good morning

[good-beanswrites]

john x fuuta ?👉👈 or 090309

I love the dynamic between them all, thank you for the request! I went with an earlier meeting for them (well, one of the first times Fuuta's aware of speaking with John, at least). As much as I joke about Fuuta being starstruck by his strength in the attack, I tried to take a more serious route for the "something to rely on" vibe.

John’s eyes flicked over Fuuta, sprawled out on his bedding and looking up expectantly.

“Man, you look like shit.”

Fuuta scowled deeper. “I asked for the reason you’re here in the middle of the fucking night, not your opinion.”

“That is the reason I came.”

Somehow, amid all the other things he had to worry about given the horror of the past few days and exile that followed, Mikoto had still found the time to lose sleep over Fuuta’s condition. John had always liked the guy, but he wasn’t in the business of watching over people he didn’t truly care about. He didn’t know what Mikoto saw in him to cause such an overreaction.

Though, with the futon dragged to the bars of the cell, and bathing him in the dim light of the guard’s tower, it was becoming clear that Mikoto’s concern was indeed warranted. Fuuta appeared deathly. The fresh injuries had been bandaged, but there were stains where blood was beginning to seep through. His eye – the one that had survived the ordeal – was bloodshot and rimmed with dark bags. His hair was as tangled as the rumpled hoodie it poked out of.

Fuuta was still staring in anticipation. It took John a moment to understand why. 

“You recognize me.”

“No shit. Mikoto came in here like a fumbling idiot earlier today. He wanted to make sure I was okay or whatever. Like I’d be okay after what happened!” He paused, a clanging from someone else’s cell briefly distracting him. “But you… the way you carry yourself… it’s different.”

“Not that different. I’m here for the same reason.”

The plan was simple. Once Fuuta slept, Mikoto would relax, and everyone would be happy. If it turned out to be his injuries keeping him awake, John didn’t mind crushing Fuuta’s pride and explaining his weakness to the doctor to get more painkillers. If it was noisy neighbors, he’d teach one of those girls a lesson the following day. If the problem was just plain insomnia, well, John’s swinging arm was still completely functional...

“I just want to make sure you’re sleeping.”

“Don’t tell me you’re as disgustingly sentimental as him.”

John’s expression twitched. He didn’t appreciate the condescension. That was Mikoto’s most admirable trait, after all – offering help to others even when he was falling apart himself. He was so selfless, so self-sacrificial. It was no wonder John felt compelled to do the same for him. But Fuuta…

“Ugh, he’s always trying to be buddy-buddy with everyone around here, it makes me sick. Nice words don’t do shit. Look where his friendship with Kotoko got him, eh? That’s what these fools still don’t understand – you need to face these things head-on.”

“Oi, don’t be hard on me just for caring.” He didn’t say it as any sort of gentle encouragement; it was a command, and Fuuta understood. He snapped his attention away from where he’d been peering around the bars. “The world needs more people with that kindness. That optimistic view of life, of others, no matter what – it’s why I’ll do everything I can to save me.”

Silence stretched after the intense comment. Fuuta was looking away again, and John couldn’t read him. When he did speak, his voice came out more defeated than expected.

“Tch. Well. Not all of us have that luxury.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

His eyebrows raised.

Cheeks reddening, Fuuta hurried to add, “I mean someone to have your back like that. I wish I could be half as relaxed as that, but I can’t afford to let my guard down. I need to be strong myself, I don’t have anyone else to take care of my problems for me.”

It hit him suddenly, that everything came down to that. Relief washed over him, now that a clear, easy, (and nonviolent) solution had presented itself.

“What if you did? I could take over your little sentry duty for the night.”

“W-what do you –?”

He gestured to where Fuuta was laying. “No need to play dumb. You’ve been keeping an eye on everything, even the other side of the guard’s tower. The sounds from around cell eight have caught your attention. You’re positioned so you can see cell six, but haven’t moved all the way over, because cell ten has easiest access from the right.”

“The others would say it’s pointless, or that they’re handling it. I’m not buying it, though. I don’t care if they say it’s crazy of me to do.”

“I think…” John’s posture softened. “I think it’s very selfless of you.”

He was constantly amazed at Fuuta’s tendency to react to everything as if it were some world-shattering statement just told to him.

“So?” He prodded before Fuuta’s expression could grow any more wide-eyed. “How about it?”

 “I mean… they told me about the attacks… what you did…”

John set his jaw. No matter how many times it had happened in the past few days, it still stung to see how quickly people turned against him because of the fight. He thought they all had come to terms with each other’s capabilities for violence, but as usual, the moment he showed his true face, the world turned against him.

Of course Fuuta could never relax knowing such a violent and unpredictable person was sitting right beside him through the night. It was a miracle he hadn’t panicked immediately at the sight of yet another cold, towering figure appearing at his door in the middle of the night.

John stretched his right arm across his chest. It looked like his original solution still stood. Fuuta said problems should be faced head-on. Surely he’d understand this was for his own good.

“…Yeah, okay.” Fuuta gave a decisive nod. He beckoned with a jerk of his head. “I trust you.”

“I –” John blinked. “What?”

“You understand me. You understand what it takes to be in a place like this.” His gaze flit away momentarily. “You’re incredibly strong. You’re prepared, and have good instincts, and your confidence is –" Noticing how intently John was listening, he interrupted himself to bark, “but don’t think I couldn’t handle this on my own! It’s only because you offered, and it’s a smart move. I’ll just sleep for a bit, we can take shifts. Wake me in three hours, okay?”

“Fine by me.” A little lying was definitely better than what else he’d had in mind.

Fuuta moved his futon over a few feet so John could settle into his carefully chosen spot on the ground. Everything was all set to begin keeping watch, until a new sound rose up to drown out the other noises in the panopticon – soft snoring from beside him.

He glanced over in disbelief at the instantaneous security Fuuta had sunk into. All the tension had melted away from his face and shoulders. He lay completely at peace.

John had achieved his goal. He should be celebrating. Instead, he couldn’t help heaving a heavy sigh.

How did he end up with two self-destructive idiots to watch over?

[elliespeach]

ok but imagine one night in ellie’s garage (that’s basically yours too atp bc ur there all the time) and both of u are just chilling maybe she’s drawing and ur reading a book on her bed when u see something move out of the corner of ur eye and upon further inspection it’s a bug. like a humongous bug with wings and you start freaking the fuck out “ellie! ellie kill it!” and ellie being ellie she’s like “babe it can’t be that bad just squash it” but when she lays her eyes on it her face drops and she’s up on the bed with you and SHE WONT KILL IT and while ur both arguing about who is gonna take one for the team it starts FLYING TOWARDS U BOTH

u panic and run into the bathroom and shut the door behind u and ellie’s like right behind u but u close the door before she can get in and she’s like “don’t leave me out here with this thing” but u don’t budge bc u don’t play about bugs so ur just like “u can kill clickers but a bug is too much?? just squash it” and she’s like jiggling the doorknob and ducking her head bc the bug is still flying around and she’s like “not this one i won’t babe please open the door”

[edgyleans]

Quirkless!Izuku who has a Dynamight-themed keychain hanging off of his phone, a Dynamight-themed pop socket on the back that just partially covers a picture of Dynamight that can't be found anywhere online...

He wears Dynamight merch near-daily, the pieces are always too big for him as if they're not his own. He always has to scoop the sleeves of the hoodies or sweaters he wears up to use his hands, but it doesn't stop him from wearing the clothes.

To the average person, he just looks like an obsessed fanboy. He's known online as a stalker because he's always somewhere in Dynamight's vicinity. Paparazzi have caught him close to the hero's house before. He always seems to get lucky too, winning various giveaways and even having a few interactions with Dynamight online. Fans hated him.

One day, Dynamight finally attends a convention and of course, Izuku is spotted there with a VIP pass that includes a meet and greet.

People are obnoxiously rude to him, whispering about him in the queue for the meet and greet but it doesn't seem to phase him. One of the volunteers assisting with the meet and greet is clearly a Dynamight fan and recognises Izuku, they refuse to let him go into the room with him alone (though Dynamights security is there, so not really alone).

They're shocked to see Dynamight's attitude do a 180 when Izuku walks in. Dynamight actually approaches him, a cheesy smile on his face as he pulls him into a hug. They're ushered out by security before they can see anymore.

The story gets out, people accuse Izuku of using a quirk on Dynamight that forces him to be nice to him. He hadn't acted that way to any other fans, he'd just been as polite as he needed to be.

Dynamight's panel is suddenly cancelled and there's uproar. People are blaming Izuku, who conveniently hadn't been spotted in a while.

Then there's a tweet from Dynamight's official Twitter account, an account that's rarely used.

'Leave Izuku the fuck alone, never doing another con again for you ungrateful fucks bullying my HUSBAND. He doesn't even have a stupid quirk to quirk me with, idiots, but that's what makes him perfect. Fuck off.'

The post had pictures attached, of Izuku and Katsuki together at various points in their lives. The most notable one was recent, including a scar Katsuki had only received a month ago, it was a mirror selfie, Izuku standing in front of Katsuki with the phone partially blocking his face. Both of them were holding their hands out, showing off the rings on their fingers.

The tweet gets deleted an hour later, Dynamight's PR team were scrambling to cover it up but the damage was done. It was broadcast on the news within the hour, on the front page of various newspapers the next day.