#Goggles™

[im-no-jedi]

I have Crosshair on the brain today for literally no reason and was really struck thinking about that moment with Wrecker and Tech in Kamino Lost. mainly how, yet again, Tech perfectly sums up what it's like being someone with a mental disability.

Wrecker breaks character a bit and gets angry at Crosshair for being such an ass, and especially for not putting an effort into leaving the Empire once his chip was removed. an understandable and valid reaction.

Crosshair doesn't have time to respond before Tech steps in though.

Tech straight up tells Wrecker to let it go. he doesn't need Crosshair to say anything because he already knows what Crosshair might say. despite not agreeing with him (as he later stated), Tech understands why Crosshair is behaving the way that he is. this indicates that Crosshair has behaved similarly in the past and therefore is no surprise to someone like Tech, who has the same problem. and he tries to explain that to Wrecker.

Tech outright states two of Crosshair's major character traits. two traits that can be seen both as positive and negative. neurodiverse people often have traits like this that manifest outside of their control, causing them to behave in ways that come across unnatural. it often takes an outside source, like Tech is doing here, for the person to even realize that those behaviors can be a bad thing. Tech even confirms the fact that it's simply a part of who Crosshair is.

but he doesn't stop there. because this goes beyond simple character traits, which can often be changed or altered in some way.

Tech starts by telling Wrecker that he can't change how Crosshair is. this is honestly good advice in general, but it especially applies to mental disability. no amount of work or effort can fully change how a neurodivergent person behaves. it's literally wired into their brain. sure, things like therapy and medication can help. but like a stubborn stain or a deep scar, those traits will never fully go away.

and Tech confirms this with one final statement.

Crosshair himself can't even do anything about it. and this to me is the real attribute of mental disability. it's simply something that's out of everyone's hands. it's also interesting to note Crosshair's expression here. he seems genuinely intrigued by Tech's statement, like he's just heard something he wasn't expecting to hear. Crosshair ends up asking why Tech "stood up" for him, but I think it goes beyond that. I think Crosshair hadn't considered that fact that things were out of his control. which we end up seeing in season two with his eventual strained relationship with the Empire.

now, this isn't me saying that we should excuse neurodivergent people for their behaviors. everyone, regardless of circumstance, should take responsibility for their own actions. and it's moments like this that are actually helpful in understanding how to deal with mental issues. I say this as a mentally disabled person myself. having that outside source to point out those behaviors, regardless of whether or not they were intentional, still have consequences. clearly, the consequence for TBB was the separation of Crosshair from the rest of the squad. he made that choice, but it was due to natural traits that were out of his control (among other things). hopefully he'll eventually realize this, but that remains to be seen.

it's no secret that I personally headcanon the entire Bad Batch as being neurodiverse. Tech may be the most obvious example, but the signs are there for the others as well. and this moment just further validates it for me. at the very least, it's an excellent comparison to mental disability, whether intentional or not, just like Tech's line in The Crossing. and I'll be forever grateful for a show like this giving us that representation 💙

[im-no-jedi]

Tech and Crosshair are two halves of a Tumblr Sexyman send post

[cartoonybus]

i feel like part of the reason dwampy didn't want to make dakavendish a thing is because they're two characters they put a bit of themselves into (tho not the extent doof has a lot of aspects of dan's personality) and thus felt weird about making them a romantic couple. which i get!

but maybe they shouldn't have written them so gayly then

[cosmicsproutcake]

i once had an anti tell me to stop sexualizing their trauma on a story i wrote that was a word for word retelling of my own actual trauma but with names changed and its been 2 years and i still cant stop thinking about that

Ah, yeah... Unfortunately a non-insignificant number of antishippers seem to genuinely believe they own the concept of trauma, so any story they read that they believe to be portrayed in a romanticized or sexualized light therefore must be romanticizing/sexualizing their trauma specifically.

I couldn't tell you the amount of times I've gotten the "stop sexualizing my trauma!!!!!!" or adjacent comments from antishippers that universally garner a response that basically boils down to

Like, bitch! I'm talking about my trauma! I literally did not even know you existed until you fucking commented!

[maryasmorevna]

why are you, as an adult in 2024, still hung up on reylo. why are you still mocking the shippers. why do you believe yourself to be superior only because you dislike a stupid ship from a fucking space fairytale. girl (gnc) get a grip

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

Okay so I've recently been dealing with the fact that at some point I will take after my mother and lose most if not all of my hearing. HOWEVER distracting myself has led to many pleasant thoughts of deaf mages to make me feel better about it. Like imagine how many different ways there are to lose your hearing in some capacity from various types of magic. And how would they primarily deal with it? Winterhold must have a mandatory sign language class because there's definitely at least one deaf student at any given moment at the college. But also ooooh if there was a deaf professor who would it be?????? I can totally see Faralda having a significant level of destruction magic-based hearing loss?? Like a lifetime of fireballs whizzing past her face can't be good for her right

I DO THINK ABOUT THIS SOMETIMES... disability that coexists with magic is very near and dear to my heart! given the dangerous nature of messing with more explosive spells I imagine there's a fair bit of magical PPE that's required before casting in a classroom environment (there's a reason Tolfdir teaches you to ward first, after all) - you don't want anyone accidentally putting out an eye or anything!

you get less time to prepare all that however in an actual emergency setting, such as something blowing up unexpectedly or an opposing ship blasting at you... I could definitely see Faralda having a side she favors more than the other 🤔 Arniel isn't a professor but is almost certainly also prone to pretty bad tinnitus + at least a little hard of hearing as a result!

as far as what's done about it, I think you're spot-on about the necessity of a common sign language; in a place where you're getting people from many different backgrounds where there's already going to be multiple languages spoken, I'd love to see a kind of pidgin sign language develop too, possibly that can be easily understandable even with a single hand to keep one free for spellcasting. however this DOES make monitoring written exams somewhat more difficult as that also means, hypothetically, you could keep writing your answers while also (silently!) checking in with your friend in a way that wouldn't set off any anti-magic-cheating measures in place. oops

[gogglesloveblog]

this is fucking evil of me what the fuck

[sirfrogsworth]

Woke Goggles™ strike again.

Also, he really set himself up with that movie list. Hoo boy.

Like, I knew the trap I created was not going to work out for him. And it was extra fun how confident he was with "I dunno" and "need more?" All while setting me up for the spike with an oversized beach ball.

[vinnyvamppp]

Hello! I remembered this trend on TikTok where gfs would pick their bfs up and sit them on the counter. I was wondering how Mark and his variants would react to their normal civilian gf doing that to them (or attempting to—). It doesn’t have to be anything long! It can just be short descriptions (if you end up taking this request). 🙏

“Sit. Stay. Counter.��

Note: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. This is the cutest, thirstiest, most deranged and adorable request you could’ve given me after the symphony of smut I've published.

Warnings: Possible, but minor war crime... Oh, and some sexual tension. (Everybody's a freak-bob cause I couldn't resist.) Special request at the end.

Synopsis: In which you, a mere civilian with either questionable upper body strength or pure audacity, attempt to lift various overpowered Viltrumite men and sit them on the kitchen counter like they’re your pretty little trophy husbands.

Mainstream Mark/Variants x Fem!Reader (could be GN, “she” is only mentioned in monologue moments.) WC: 2,585

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Mainstream Mark You try to play it cool and act like you’re just walking into the kitchen to kiss him, but your hands suddenly slide to his hips. Mark’s mid-sentence when he freezes, eyes narrowing with mild confusion and a flush creeping up his neck. He chokes on air. Like, actually makes a startled noise because he doesn’t expect it—you lifting him?! “Wait—woah—are you trying to lift me right now?? Babe??” He ends up doing a little hop to help you, laughing nervously, and then sitting there grinning while you kiss his nose like you just won a prize. And you do it! You actually manage to get him up there with a grunt and a full-body lift. That’s enough to make him freeze in awe, stammer a protest, and then immediately try to take over. He's bashful but secretly really into it. His legs swinging like a kicked puppy who just found out he’s got a hot girlfriend with strong arms and intentions. He keeps glancing down at you, smiling like he’s trying not to make it a Thing™… but he’s definitely thinking about it during sex later. Internal Monologue: She’s… trying to lift me? She’s actually—wait, she’s serious. Okay. Okay, don’t make a sound. Don’t ruin it. Act casual. Act like this isn’t the hottest thing that’s ever happened to you. Is it weird if I help? No, don’t help, she might stop. Holy shit—she’s strong. I’m marrying her. We’re already married. Is it weird if I say thank you? I’m gonna say thank you. Oh my god, I’m hard—how am I already hard?! FOCUS.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

Mark immediately tries to help you. Like, sweet-boy trying to do a little hop into your arms. When it doesn’t work, he laughs, wraps his arms around you, and says, “You trying to carry me or climb me?” And then he picks YOU up, kisses you stupid, and places you on the counter instead like the princess you are. You’re upset, but this is less embarrassing than the way your knees knocked when you tried.

You two doom-scroll until you’re caught up on the latest trends, his camera roll is FILLED with videos.

｡𖦹°‧ No Goggles Mark You don’t even get a chance to lift him. The moment your hands settle at his hips and you square your stance, his head tilts slowly, lips curled into a "what the fuck are you doing?" grin. He stands there like a little shit, just barely helping, making himself heavy on purpose so you struggle. When you get him halfway and grunt in frustration, he’s already giggling. “Oh no, my weak little arms, I’m too precious to be carried—” BUT he lets you do it ABSOLUTELY. And sits up there all relaxed, legs dangling, eyes wide like you’ve just unlocked a new level of hotness he wasn’t prepared for. He’s biting his lip, watching you like you just grew a second head.  “Dude… that was so hot, I think my dick twitched. No, wait, it definitely twitched.

”You finally get him up there and he melts. Full on spreads his thighs, hands braced behind him, eyes half-lidded like he’s beckoning you to challenge him. He leans in all cocky, asks if you’re manhandling can be a daily occurrence, he strives to irritate and entice. Internal Monologue: Oh my god. Oh my god, she’s doing it. She’s gonna lift me. This is it. This is the moment I fall in love again. God, I love this woman. Look at her face—so determined. So serious. She’s feral. She’s hot. I should say something gross. No, worse. Feral. Say something feral. Should I ask her to grip me while she’s at it? No, wait—what if I fake being heavier so she gets mad? Yeah. Yeah, this is peak romance.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

He laughs, obnoxiously loud, and then says, “Okay, wait, no no—do it again. I swear I’ll behave. Kind of.” When you give up through bated breaths, he leans down, “You know what happens now, right?” Then he just drops to his knees, palms on your hips, mouth already moving toward your inner thigh. Failure means nothing. He's thriving.

凸( •̀_•́ )凸 Mohawk Mark You don’t ask or warn, more or less appearing like an apparition to try. The second you do, he plants his feet and makes it difficult on purpose. “The hell are you doing?” he mutters, brow arched, not moving an inch. He’s gonna make you work for it. Full smirk, arms crossed, with an amused gleam in his eyes. He wants to see if you’re serious. “You think you can move me? C’mon, then. Show me.”  If you get him even halfway up? He’s shocked—but laughs.

The second you groan, he grins and not in a mocking way, but like he’s daring you to earn it. Eventually, you throw your full weight into it and manage to boost him up, and he lets out a sharp exhale like he wasn’t ready to be dominated like that. But now? His eyes are locked.

“You trying to flip the script on me, babe?” he mutters, grinning. “That’s cute.” He doesn’t move. Just pulls you between his legs, forearms on your shoulders, already hard from the show of strength. He loves when you challenge him. His chin nuzzles within the splayed hairs of your mohawk, utterly plotting. Internal Monologue: Ain’t no way she’s trying this. There’s no way. She knows I weigh like 180, right? All muscle? What is she—wait, is she gritting her teeth? Oh shit, she’s serious. Okay, hold on—do I let her? Nah, make her work for it. Just a little. Play it cool. Act smug. Maybe flex a little. She likes the fight. And when she gets me up there? Game on. She’s gonna regret this—in the best possible way.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

He stares down at you with an amused smirk and doesn’t budge. “Oh, babe. You're adorable.” Then he scoops you up like you’re nothing, walks you over to the counter, and spanks your ass as he sets you down. A genuine cackle crawls from his throat as he watches you squirm. Somehow in that amount of time you produced a bucket of sweat.

This is now free rein for you two to begin mischievous plots together. ദ്ദി/ᐠ｡‸｡ᐟ\ Omni Mark 

He blinks… slowly, then squints. He knows what you’re doing the second you square your stance. And he lets you try with a silent but palpable curiosity, his expression unreadable. “Are you lifting me?”

Your hands slide to his hips. You push and grunt once before he finally eases up just enough for you to get him seated. He lets you do it, but there’s a heavy pause—like he’s trying to figure out why it’s affecting him so much. He’s used to being the strongest, but this? This little moment of tenderness?

He ends up gripping your waist. Staring at you for a few long seconds with that haunted, love-struck look. Then says, very softly: “Again. Do it again.” He almost uses this as a form of training, his quiet ego making him believe you shouldn’t be able to lift him even an inch, but you’ve made him grow soft… so much so, that he’s willing to give into you. Internal Monologue: Is this a power play? She's reaching for my hips—intentionally. No hesitation. That’s bold. I like bold. Is she trying to prove something to me? Or to herself? It doesn’t matter. She's close now. She's warm. Her heartbeat’s fast—excited. Not afraid. That’s… rare. God, she doesn’t know what this is doing to me. I haven’t felt this way in decades. Don’t moan. Don’t grab her. Don’t break the counter. If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

He watches you try and fail with an unreadable expression. Then he slowly smiles. “You tried,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face. Just what did you expect? He's almost pure muscle and you quiet after a few seconds. “Let me show you what that earns you.” And then he lifts you onto the counter as if you weigh nothing but touches you like you’re everything.

ूाीू Sinister Mark There’s two possibilities: He sits himself up there the second you try, smirking the whole time and watching you like prey. Or… your lucky latter where you catch him off guard. You make your move when he’s lounging, of course. And of course, he lets you. Because Sinister Mark? He wants to be put on the counter. Not because he’s submissive, but because it means he gets to lean back, legs spread, hands behind him, smirking down at you like you just set a trap for yourself. “Go on, then,” his expression says. “You touched me first. Let’s see how far you take it.” “Make it worth it,” He says with a cocky drawl. He’s already hard before he sits. And the moment your fingers wrap around his waist, the moment your breath hitches, he’s watching you unravel with strain and loving every second.

And once he’s up there? He stares at you like you just became his favorite obsession all over again. He taps his thigh like it’s an invitation. Come kneel, sweetheart. You started this. Internal Monologue: Ohhh. Look who wants to play alpha. That’s adorable. She really thinks she can lift me? She doesn’t even know what this is gonna awaken in me. Look at her go. Little grunts. All that effort. Shit, it’s hot. Alright, I’ll help her just enough. Give her the win. Let her think she’s got the power for a minute. And then? I’ll spread my legs and watch her come undone trying to handle it.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up: He’s smirking the whole time. He won’t help AT ALL. Just watches you strain with a low, lazy look like “You’re adorable when you try.” Your teeth grind together and just as you’re about to blow the lid, your hands droop to your sides.

And when you give up? He instantly grabs your neck, walks you back three steps, and lifts you to the counter with one smooth motion. “See? That’s how you take control.” Then he spreads your legs. Your plan just backfired beautifully.

♛ Viltrum Mark You’re subtle about it... or so you think.

But before your fingers even graze his hips, Viltrum Mark’s gaze locks on you. He doesn’t move, not even the quirk of his facial expression. Just tilts his head like he’s already dissected your plan six moves ahead. It's usually unnerving, but somehow endearing during displays of affection. He lets you try, but every motion is being filed away with every tug.

You lift, push, and egregiously strain. And finally, he helps, just barely, so you can get him onto the counter. He sits there, legs open, gaze cool, and an imperceptive smirk. Like he’s letting you play at control while deciding how long he’ll indulge you.

But there’s something in the way his knees tighten around your hips… the way his fingers graze your wrist just a little too slow. He’s not mocking you, he’s considering you… and that's somehow scarier. You walked in thinking this was a game. Now you’re between his thighs while he decides whether to devour you or play the long game. Internal Monologue: ...She’s making contact. Hands on my hips. Interesting. Is this an attempt at dominance? Or flirtation? Or both? She knows she’s mine, right? She knows touching me like that wont work, right? And she’s still doing it. God, I want to ruin her. She’s lifting me. She’s lifting me? I should snap her in half. I should worship her. I should bend her over the counter instead. No—I’ll let her have this. It’s killing me.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

He watches you strain and your muscles flex as your arms tremble with visible veins. And when you fail, he just steps closer—silent—gripping your jaw like a warning, leaning in until his lips barely brush yours. “Try again,” he’d whisper if he ever needed to speak. But he doesn’t, he’ll wait and let you squirm. Then push you back against the nearest surface and remind you who the apex predator is.

He’ll indulge in these silly trends just to see your reactions.

ᕙ( •̀ ᗜ •́ )ᕗ Shiesty / Hooded Mark

Lets you with a raised brow, hands relaxed at his sides, like he’s judging your form but not stopping you. He wants to see how worthy you are, after all, you’re dating him. The second your hands touch his hips, he knows. He doesn’t help you either, just stares, obviously amused. His eyes showing faintly beneath that veil, teeth flashing beneath the smirk he’s not bothering to hide.

Once you do it, he leans forward, forearms on his knees, staring right into your eyes. “You always this bold?” He rasps, “Mmh. You wanna show off, huh?” he’d say if he were feeling generous. But instead, he just stares until you squirm under the weight of his limp body.

You get him up there—eventually, with him purposefully being deadweight. And now he’s fully manspread, head tilted, fingers tugging on the hem of your shirt with teasing violence. “You wanna be in charge?” his body language says. “Then do it. Impress me.” Internal Monologue: Is this foreplay? It feels like foreplay. It feels like she’s trying to do something reckless and pretend it’s casual. Mm. She’s touching me like she thinks I’ll just let her. Should I let her? Nah. Not yet. Gotta make her work for it. Look at her muscles flex. Look at her face. God, she’s hot like this. If she gets me up there? I’m flipping this whole kitchen upside down. She wants dangerous? I’ll show her dangerous.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

You’re frowning before you know it, staring up at him as if this is his fault for instigating. He absolutely lets you fail. Then he chuckles before grabbing the back of your neck and dragging you flush against him, whispering against your jaw like a threat and a promise. “What a shame. You started this, too.”  He loves that you think you have control. He’s about to take it back too.

He totally endorses testing out strength related trends, this starts a series of public embarrassment of him carrying you.

(╥‸╥) Masked Mark 

He lets you and he actually melts. He tries not to show it, but the moment your arms wrap around him and you lift, even just a little— His cheeks flush. You don’t even make it to his hips before he starts getting nervous. Not scared, just flustered, like his brain short-circuited the moment he realized what you were trying to do.

He says nothing but sits there, blushing, fists clenched on the counter beside his thighs. Like if he says one word, he’ll start whimpering. He’s obsessed with being handled like that, or even, the idea that you want him, even like this? It wrecks him in the softest way possible. His fingers grip the edge of the counter as he stares down at you with a pleased and light chuckle. He watches you like you’ve become something dangerous and perfect.

Internal Monologue: She’s… she’s touching me? Oh my god. She’s trying to lift me. That’s—it’s cute. It’s hot. I don’t know what to do. Should I help? Should I just melt? I don’t want to mess it up. Her hands are so warm. She’s so confident. She’s going to break me. This is embarrassing... I think I’m in love again. I want her to ruin me. I want her to carry me into the sun. Oh god—I’m gonna lose my mind if she grips me again.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

He sees you try and panics—“Wait, no no, don’t hurt yourself—” He laughs. He looks down, ashamed. But when you kiss him? Tell him it’s okay? He drops to his knees, hands shaky, mouth open, ready to serve. “I can’t be lifted,” his body says, “but I can worship you just fine.”

A/N: let's be real... everyone's a freakzoid with how much Mark and Eve get it on in the show.

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚ SCRIPT FLIP - What if the reader doesn't struggle at all?

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Mainstream Mark 

You wait until he’s brushing his teeth, humming some tune, and mumbling to you. You're mid-convo while he's rambling about something innocent, maybe a new spare costume from Art, maybe breakfast—and you just… scoop him. You sidle up behind him, say nothing, and just lift him, legs tucked under your arm, shift your hips, shoulder to his waist, like a perfect Olympic carry. Before he knows it, you’ve hoisted him over your shoulder like a sack of sex-starved potatoes.

“Wha—babe?? I—I can fly???” He’s flailing a little, holding onto your shoulder like “why is this working???”  He can’t believe this is happening. He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t know how. “You can’t just—! I mean, you can, obviously, but—holy shit."

You set him on the counter like you just bought him for sale at a warehouse, and his jaw drops. His face is beet red. His muscular thighs press together instinctively; shocked, SOMEHOW fully hard and ashamed but proud. His fingers run over his eyes, sighing to himself before staring at you through his lashes.

“...Okay. That was kind of hot. Are we gonna talk about it, or…?”

He’s not okay, no, he’s better. You’ve just revealed a strength kink he didn’t know he had. You lean in, hands on the counter beside his hips, and smirk. He’s speechless, eyes wide, trying not to let you see how turned on he is. He fails as his head turns at lightning speed to rinse his mouth in the sink, he returns to his place on the counter like a good boy before his hands roughly reel you in, his minty fresh tongue prodding your lips without hesitation.

His Inner Monologue: Okay, okay, don’t panic. She’s strong. She’s insanely strong. I didn’t know that was possible. I mean, I guess I always suspected but like—DAMN. Is it weird that I’m into this? No? It’s fine. Totally normal. Don’t get a boner. Don’t—oh god. Okay. Smile. Play it cool. Act like you didn’t just get bench pressed like a cheerleader. CONTROL YOURSELF. Everything about her is so… Sweet boy is on his phone the second it’s over, scrolling TikTok with you, stammering the entire time. “I mean, I guess… I didn’t know that was a thing? But yeah, yeah—it’s kinda cool. Cool-cute. Cute-cool. Shut up.”  He’s red in the face. Can’t stop thinking about it.  Absolutely let's you do it again. He now peers over your shoulder whenever you scroll social media. He isn’t sure whether he should prepare himself mentally or physically…or even at all for the charades you might pull. He’s playfully terrified, but oh so enthralled.

｡𖦹°‧ No Goggles Mark

He clocks it instantly, and his head tilts, mouth quirking into a suspicious grin—like a cat who knows he’s pretty. Of course, he would. It's lensless Mark, and let's be honest… he's definitely pulled pranks and made memes out of your reaction to send you during arguments.

You just walk up like you’re on a mission. He doesn’t move when you grab him, in fact, he makes it harder—just to be a shit with no assistance. Just a dry, "this oughta be good" look on his face. But then… his grin falters. “Wait—what are you—Dude. Babe. Babe. You’re not gonna—OH MY GOD—”

You lift him like ITS NOTHING, one arm under his knees, one across his back, like some twisted bridal carry—but halfway through, you grab him by the waist and shoulder, and in one powerful motion, you toss him over your shoulder instead. You sling him easily like you’re about to carry a sack of bricks to hell. He loses his mind. “Oh my god. Okay. This is real now. You’re actually carrying me. I—I think this is working??? I might be in love.” “THIS IS A CORE MEMORY.” “Dude. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I need you to do that again. Take me.”

He’s laughing and moaning and definitely trying to grind against your back simultaneously. Even spitting out things he KNOWS will irritate you. It's like he’s short-circuiting, fighting the urge to beg you to spar with him and wanting to grind himself into a puddle. You drop him on the counter, and he just stares at you—eyes wide, hair tousled, pupils blown.

Inner Monologue: Holy shit. Dude. DUDE. I’m being carried, like, full hoist. I should be fighting this. Or saying something hot. But I’m close to whimpering. Is this what being prey feels like? I like it. I hate it. No, I love it. This is love. This is lust. This is spiritual. Am I about to propose? God, I’m so gone. She’s gonna use this against me forever. ...I hope she does.

You give him a smug once-over, hands on your hips like you just completed a flawless routine. He’s already panting, fingers twitching against the counter, legs spread instinctively. You lean forward, close enough to feel his breath hitch. “Still think I’m too soft to handle you?”

He groans really loud “Okay, wow. That was weirdly hot. That’s it. You’re coming home with me.” He goes full gremlin, and I mean more than usual. He teases you relentlessly about it for a week and starts fake-limping like you injured him. But secretly? He’s watching his back. “Dude, next time just say you wanna dom me. I’ll throw myself into your arms, easy.” He’ll search “dominant girlfriend lifting boyfriend trope” on Tumblr at 2am.

凸( •̀_•́ )凸 Mohawk Mark 

He’s posturing, arms crossed, smirk heavy. You wait until he’s talking shit. He’s leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, mouth mid-rant about something some other variant did wrong. Probably threatening violence or about to call you a smartass.

Something about how you couldn’t handle him and about your “cute little arms,” and how he’d break you before you got the chance to try anything bold. That’s when you step in close, hands sliding around his waist, a dangerous little smirk on your lips.

“You gonna try to lift me again?” he asks, almost with an amused gleam but something that encourages you regardless. 

You don’t give him time to finish. You grab him by the thighs, shoulder into his stomach, and he’s airborne before he can blink. He hits your shoulder with a grunt, eyes wide, palms on your back. He was hauled as if you’d done this a dozen times before.

“The fuck—HEY—what the hell?!”

He yelps, yes, Mohawk Mark yelps. The way his hands grab at your back says he hates how much he likes it. You walk him across the room and drop him on the kitchen counter like he’s not 180+ pounds of alien muscle and attitude. His ass hits the granite with a thud, and he stares at you with a raised brow.

And then he grins, obviously impressed. You were always his favorite version of you. “You really gonna manhandle me like that?” He snorts, licking his lips. “You better fuck me after this, or I swear—”

Inner Monologue: No way. No fucking way she just did that. You let one woman pick you up and suddenly your dick’s got a mind of its own. Nah. Hell no. That’s hot though. Shit. Look at her face—like she didn’t even break a sweat. Damn. Okay. This is happening. Don’t get soft. You are not the prey. You’re the damn predator. You’re just letting her win. For now.

You stared down at him as if granting yourself a tribute. You lean forward, slide your fingers under his chin, and tilt his face toward you. His pupils blow wide. His smirk twitches, more like slants, very obviously. “And if you don’t… I’m gonna rail the shit outta you for that,” he mutters, already half-hard.  “...And I’m still gonna let you do it again.” Acts like he’s over it, but you catch him doing push-ups in the middle of the night. He keeps testing you: “Bet you can’t do it again.” Immediately gets hard when you can. He doesn’t need to search trends when he already knows you unlocked something for both of you.

♛ Viltrum Mark

He’s mid-mission debrief, completely in control, arms crossed, expression unreadable, per usual. You step into his space like you’re going to kiss him. He’s used to your usual distractions, you’ve grown awfully bold recently. As much as he decline to admit, intimate gestures made by you have grown more meaningful.

And then you hoist his royal Viltrumite ass over your shoulder. He freezes and you can feel every muscle in his body go tense. The carry was truly your best efforts. Your hands locked, body braced, hefted over your shoulder before he realizes what’s happening. He’s fully rigid against you.

He doesn’t say a word, but his cock twitches with a jolt . Its sudden, so much that he’s internally disappointed in himself. His hands tighten on your back, his jaw tensing in silence. You’ve just short-circuited centuries of dominant, imperial Viltrumite wiring in one motion.

You sit him down, but still, he stays silent. Watching you and almost… burning? She lifted me. She LIFTED me? You set him on the counter, slow and casual, and step back like it was nothing.

Oh, man. You don’t know what you’ve just awakened in him. “You touched me. You lifted me,” his stare says. “And now I’m going to touch you back—and not gently.”

He says nothing. But he’s hard. Breathing slower. Eyes darker. You’ve just violated the natural order and he wants more.

Inner Monologue: This is impossible. This is unacceptable. This is the most erotic thing that’s ever happened to me. She has no idea what she’s done. She touched me like I was hers. She moved me like I didn’t weigh more than her car. I should punish her. I should worship her. I should bend her over the counter she dropped me on and rut until I forget my name.

You lean in to speak—but he grabs your throat, lips hovering just an inch away. He hust stares, his eyebrow jumping slightly as he scrutinizes you under his gaze. His lips suction to yours as his strong hand keep you tucked away against his chest. And claims you an hour later. He doesn’t talk about it. He doesn’t acknowledge it. But from now on, anytime you walk behind him he tenses. Like you might strike again. He lets it happen once… maybe twice. By the third time, you’re the one on the counter.

Don’t push the boy too far, okay?

ദ്ദി/ᐠ｡‸｡ᐟ\ Omni Mark

You lift him without warning. Not because he didn’t expect it, but because you did it so easily. One moment he was standing, the next he was over your shoulder, dead silent. He doesn’t resist, but rather watches you as if anticipating your shenanigans. You approach and grab his hips. You lift him over your shoulder, and his eyes flicker, barely, before going wide behind you.

You carry him like a queen dragging her knight back to the throne. Set him on the counter, legs spread, hands braced behind him. 

“...Impressive.” “You know that wasn’t necessary.” His voice drops an octave. Something seductive, maybe even dangerous. “...Do it again.”

It’s not just desire, it's a curiosity, like he’s testing what else you’ll do. More like, what else he’ll let you do. What it means to let go. He killed his father, he continued his mission, and yet you test his patience daily with the full confidence he won't harm you. And he knows… he could never bring himself to. Every day you prove another reason to be useful, even in smaller ways like now. You set him down, and he doesn’t speak. His face simply quirks into something more lighthearted, an amused huff leaving his nose as his arms cross over his broad chest. Rather, he just stares for a long moment.

Inner Monologue: She lifted me. Effortless. Like I wasn’t the most dangerous thing on this planet. I’ve never allowed this. Never wanted this. But with her… I crave it. Her hands on me. Her strength. Her boldness. It makes me feel something primal and unfamiliar. Something terrifying. Something I don’t want to end.

You don’t say anything. You just rest your hands on his thighs causing his muscles to twitch and his breathing to stutter. His voice drops an octave and his eyes are blown wide. He’s calm, so calm its scary. And the way his hand settles on your hip as you walk away? He’s basically obsessed.

He reaches for your wrist and pulls you in. And finally lets go of his inhibitions. He now sits in chairs you can’t reach from behind. He’s not afraid, but every so often, he says—dead serious— “You’re going to do it again. Aren’t you?”

ूाीू Sinister Mark

He knows, you haven’t even touched him yet and he’s knows. That twitch in your fingers, the way your eyes narrow with a plan, or the barely-concealed grin trying to ruin your face.

“You’re thinking about something dangerous,” he hums, not even looking up as he leans back against the counter. “That little face you make when you’re frustrated? Precious. I love that look.” Your funny prank suddenly became something to prove. His eyes followed the line of your jaw, watching as it tensed. “Look at you. All attitude and no plan. It’s honestly impressive how consistent you are.” You don’t answer. You just step forward, plant your hands on his thighs, and hoist him up—full shoulder carry, deliberate, not asking for permission. He doesn’t flinch when you grab him and doesn’t blink when you lift him like a plaything. He lets you as his arms relax, cock already hard against your shoulder.

He doesn’t struggle, albeit he’s surprised, but his all-masking smile is like a customer service blanket from him raging internally. And when you drop him onto the counter like you’re mounting a prize, he stays still for a second. Just looking at you. Grinning slow. “Ohh… oh, sweetheart. That’s dangerous.”

He chuckles in your ear. Voice low. Teeth sharp. “I hope you know what you’ve just done.”

“You lift me. I break you. That’s the new arrangement.” His eyes read, are you trying to start something or finish it? You don’t respond, only smirking, which is worse.

His hands slide behind him on the countertop. Legs part, slow and lazy, welcoming but a trap nontheless. He tilts his head, studying you like you’re a riddle he already solved—but wants to hear you tell it wrong.

“C’mon then. You had all that confidence when you picked me up—let’s see what you do with me now,” he murmurs, gaze growing heavier. Then, smiling, “I like my toys begging and breathless.” You really thought he’d let you get away without consequences? You start, and he finishes; that’s usually how this goes. You were so pretty when you pouted at his light jeers. He was afraid you’d grown boring, yet every interaction pulled something new, something worth taking. He finds this all adorable, but is honestly... kind of a chatty brat during the whole ordeal. Not for long anyway.

Inner Monologue: Oh, she’s bold today. I like it. She wants to flip the script? Let her. Let her think she’s got control. I wanna see how far she takes it before she starts shaking. God, her hands feel good. Confident. Dangerous. Maybe I’ll let her think she won. She didn’t… did she? No. ...Then I’ll pin her down and make her beg to lose again. He lets you lift him again. Why? Because he knows where it ends. If you ever approach him with another trend, expect it to end covered in sweat and tears. It seems you’ve gotten the roles confused on who’s dominant... or did you? (PEG THAT MAN)

ᕙ( •̀ ᗜ •́ )ᕗ Hooded Mark

You wait for the exact moment when he’s halfway into a smug line, something like “You always act brave before you break”—and then you grab him mid-smirk. You two are constantly at odds over who’s stronger without the use of powers. The obvious answer is him, sure, but your ego doesn’t allow you to submit. He doesn’t flinch, but you can feel the slight hitch in his breath as you hoist him over your shoulder, one arm under his thighs, the other bracing his back.

“You’re not—” whoop “Shit—okay.”

He lands on your shoulder upside down and utterly speechless. He respects and resents you currently. Yet, he’s amused. “Oh, this is new. You better start prayin’ once you put me down.”

You drop him onto the counter, and he stays seated, head tilting, smirk twitching. “Fuckin’ hell. You strong now, huh? Pick me up once and suddenly you run shit?” His hand proceeds to keep down your lower back. You nod in response, proud of yourself. “Yeah? That supposed to scare me, babe? ‘Cause all it did was make my dick twitch.”

He doesn’t stop you, nor does he stop the raunchy gestures. Just grinds against you the entire time with lazy amusement. Your perseverance is something he never shies away from, even in the bedroom when you’re determined to match him. Something about it awakens something feral within him. 

When you set him down and he was already scheming. Already licking his lips. There’s a glint behind the lenses of his mask—something hot, wild, and very aware. “Alright. You win this round.”

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw.

“But just wait ‘til I’m on top next time.”

Inner Monologue: Okay. Interesting play. Sudden. Clean form. Surprising core strength. I respect it. She's trying to flip the power dynamic? Bold. Noted. But how far will she go? Is this a one-time power move or a recurring kink? …Is it mine now? I might make it mine. She doesn’t know what she’s started. She’s so hot when she doesn’t ask for permission. He’s acting normal, cocky and unbothered. But the next day, he’s straight petty. He’s watching his back… but he’ll never admit he kinda liked it. (He absolutely jerked off thinking about it.) After a while he accidentally conditioned this as a form of foreplay. Your bedframe is in danger.

(╥‸╥) Masked Mark

He’s mumbling something under his breath. Sitting on the edge of the bed, unarmored, quiet, vulnerable. Which makes it the perfect time to strike. You lift him without warning. You bend down, arms around his thighs, and hoist upwards. His breath catches, and he yelps, a soft and shocked sound, arms flailing for a second like he forgot what stability was. His body locks. “Wait—wait—you’re not really—oh my god.”

He melts physically, emotional… maybe even spiritually. You shoulder him effortlessly and strut toward the counter. He says nothing else. Just goes completely limp in your hold, like a captured princess with bloodlust.

You set him down gently. His fists clench against his thighs, his chest rises and falls like he’s panicking, but also… vibrating. You’re not even halfway done teasing, but he’s almost certain he’s pitching a tent. Sure, he loves you and all the qualities that come with but his body and mind can’t seem to communicate properly. He sighs, this isn't something to be hard about.

He looks up at you like you just saved his life before dropping his head in his hands. “No one’s ever done that before,” he whispers in his head. “Please do it again. Please do anything. I’ll let you. It doesn’t just have to be because of a trend. Deal?”

He doesn’t look up. But if you do, you’ll see the most pathetically hard, desperate expression he’s ever worn.

Inner Monologue: She touched me. She lifted me. I was off the ground. I didn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe. She just manhandled me like I wasn’t dangerous. Like I was safe to touch. Like I was hers. Holy shit I’m gonna cry. I’m gonna cry AND cum. Can you do both? What if I sob into her shirt? Is that hot? Please do it again. Please do worse. Please never leave.

You lean forward, kiss the corner of his mouth, and feel him shiver like a wire about to snap. “You liked that?” He nods, tense and oddly quiet and still hard, but he hasn’t said a word. He’s never forgetting this. And he’s never forgetting the horrors your phone allows you to exploit from his sensitivity. He starts flinching every time you get too close from behind. “Wait—are you gonna do it again?” But lowkey? He wants you to. He wants to be your strong little passenger princess on the low. Googles “can strength be sexy” like 6 times. Starts sleeping with one leg over you like he’s afraid you’ll float away or pick him up again.

[julesarago]

On this week's episode of @thebatchpod I made a Very Good Joke™!

Canon in-universe search engine is called Goggle, right?

[im-no-jedi]

✨part 3 of my TBB modern AU✨

it's the nerds turn!! 🤓 these outfits are 100% copied from Sims 4 LOL. I realized after I'd finished Tech that I actually drew him in his work clothes, not his typical casual wear 😅 and Echo of course is super comfy and warm all the time 😊

I'm not sure who to draw next (I'm leaning Phee and Rex maybe??). we'll see what strikes my fancy, I guess 😁

part 1 - Hunter & Crosshair | part 2 - Wrecker & Omega

[shorthaltsjester]

last ep really reignited (not that it was ever really unignited) my love for fjorester man. a girl who grows up learning only to mediate her life through tropes from romance novels and a boy who grows up literally chiseling off the parts of himself that he thinks stain him and hiding the parts he can’t literally shed himself of. and like. the way that jester becoming aquatinted with reality doesn’t completely undo her Romance Goggles™ but instead inverts it and has her take on the handsome hero role to fjord’s damsel in distress. like. in practice they switch who’s the damsel and who’s the hero but in terms of overall arc. jester is the handsome roguish figure on the run from the law who runs into the uncertain and floundering figure trying to figure out who he actually is. (and obviously they’re both these things in different ways. what makes fjorester so delicious is that their arcs have such similar shapes but with different focuses) but like. jester who starts out flirting trying to play at being like her mother and like the characters from the romances she’s read only to end up romancing fjord in the moments when she subverts that. when she’s crying in front of jellyfish and carefully asking him about a past only she’s been privy to and confiding to him that she’ll give up her life if it stops the evil that’s coming. meanwhile fjord is courting danger and dying in front of her and blushing when her advances are mort overt and like. the way they both romance each other in ways that suit each other. jester checking in with him in quiet moments (always thinking about jester’s hesitant ‘how are you?’ in ep 117 that makes fjord break out into the sweetest surprised and endeared smile) and fjord doing big romantic gestures in response. the way that’s encapsulated in the ways they tell each other they love each other for the first time, jester quietly snuggled up against him in the middle of the night and fjord after conjuring rain that they can kiss in. jester giving ashton romance advice that assumes ashton’s role as the masculine pursuer and then doing exactly what she recommended he do to fearne to fjord. her little addendum after the silliness of “and then you just tell her how you feel” (i can’t recall the exact line). and just. fjord and jester as these people with so much bravado and masks that they have both because they find enjoyment in putting them on but also because of burdens they’ve taken on but both of them also having a person they can unbuckle in front of without sacrificing the like. playfulness a mask grants, they’re just also allowed the safety of being seen. do you get it? do you get it? they make me lose my mind.

[sxcretricciardo]

not the end - DR3

•

The headlines came and went in the blink of an eye.

“Daniel Ricciardo dropped from F1 lineup.”

“End of an era?”

“What’s next for the Honey Badger?”

For everyone else, it was just another news cycle. For Daniel, it felt like the end of everything he had built his life around. The silence after the official statement was deafening. No more debriefs, no more grid walks, no more hearing his name on team radios. Just… quiet.

He stayed in his apartment for weeks, only leaving when someone dragged him out or when his own thoughts got too loud. He smiled for the cameras when he had to, gave vague answers in interviews, told people he was “figuring things out.” But the truth was, he didn’t know who he was without a race weekend. Without speed. Without purpose.

It was Jack, one of his old mates from Perth, who gave him the push.

“Mate,” Jack had said over the phone one day, “come out to the track this weekend. Not a race, just dirt bikes, the crew, fresh air. You need it.”

Daniel had hesitated. “I haven’t ridden my dirt bike in forever.”

“All the more reason.”

So, Saturday morning, long before the sun had burned off the morning chill, Daniel found himself loading up his bike, gear bag tossed in the back of Jack’s truck. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he figured it had to be better than wallowing in his own disappointment.

The motocross park was tucked away in the hills, about an hour outside the city. It wasn’t huge, but it had enough twists, jumps, and loose dirt to wake something in his chest that had been dormant for too long. Riders were already out on the track, kicking up clouds of dust under the pale morning sun. The air buzzed with engine growls and laughter.

That’s when he saw you.

At first, it was just the way you moved—like the track bent to your will. You weren’t riding to impress anyone, you weren’t flashy, you weren’t reckless. You were just… in it. The jumps, the turns, the throttle control—it was all instinctual. Effortless. Beautiful.

Daniel stood at the fence, helmet in hand, just watching for a few minutes, completely unaware he was staring.

“Hey, Ricciardo, you riding or just making heart eyes at someone?” Jack teased, nudging him with an elbow.

Daniel smirked, pulling his helmet on. “Maybe both.”

Later, after his first couple laps, he caught up to you at the far end of the pit area. You were checking your bike, wiping mud off your goggles when he approached, half-smiling beneath his helmet.

“You ride like you’ve got something to prove,” he said.

You looked up, curious but calm. “I don’t. I ride because it’s the only place the world shuts up.”

That made him pause. “Yeah,” he said softly, “I know that feeling.”

There was a beat of silence. Then a smirk tugged at your lips. “You keep up okay out there.”

He chuckled, arms crossed. “Keep up? I wasn’t even trying.”

“Sure you weren’t.”

You spent the rest of the day weaving around each other—racing, bantering, meeting at the water cooler between rounds. It was the first time in months that Daniel felt… alive. Not distracted. Alive. That ride turned into a habit.

Every weekend, without fail, you’d both show up—sometimes with friends, sometimes just the two of you. He’d joke about your lap times. You’d tease him about how long it took him to stop babying the throttle. And slowly, the sessions turned into late breakfasts, which turned into lingering coffee shop stops, and then evening rides through the backwoods trails.

Daniel found himself waking up excited again, looking forward to dusty afternoons and tired smiles. You didn’t ask him about F1. You didn’t treat him like Daniel Ricciardo™. You treated him like a guy who loved bikes, who had good jokes and bad days, and who was slowly stitching himself back together.

One evening, after a long ride, the sun started to dip behind the hills, casting the track in golden light. You were both sitting on the tailgate of his truck, helmets off, skin still glowing with sweat and dust. A peaceful kind of tired settled between you.

He was quiet for a while. Too quiet.

You nudged him gently with your elbow. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Daniel looked at the dirt, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Do you ever feel like… your whole identity was built on something that’s just gone?”

You didn’t answer right away. You let him have the space to keep going.

“I gave everything to racing,” he continued. “My childhood, my time, my body. Every decision I made was about being better. Going faster. And now it’s over, and I don’t know who I am outside of it. The world moved on like I didn’t even matter. I felt… worthless.”

You turned to face him, your expression soft but strong.

“You’re not worthless, Daniel. You’re just not only an F1 driver. You’re a person. A damn good one. And you’re still moving. Still chasing adrenaline. You just needed to change lanes.”

He looked at you, something breaking loose in his chest. “Yeah, well… you helped with that. More than you know.”

You offered a small smile. “You helped yourself. I just kept showing up.”

There was something in the air between you—warm, fragile, heavy.

Daniel reached out, brushing a bit of dried mud from your cheek. “Can I take you out sometime? Like, not in gear. No helmets. Real food. Table. Chairs. Maybe even candles.”

You laughed, leaning into his touch slightly. “Only if you promise to stop trying to race me on foot to the snack stand.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

-

Daniel texted you the next day.

Dan:

“So… this restaurant doesn’t allow helmets or full riding gear. Still interested?”

You:

“Only if you wear shoes without dirt on them.”

He sent back a picture of his sneakers—freshly cleaned—and a thumbs-up emoji.

You didn’t know what to expect. The two of you had spent weeks covered in mud and adrenaline, sweat-soaked and competitive, trading smirks over handlebars. But this—this was different. No helmets. No engines. Just you, him, and a quiet table between you.

He picked you up just before sunset. You were standing on the curb when you saw his car pull in—clean, for once—and he stepped out, looking… well, unfairly good. Black jeans, white t-shirt, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, curls just slightly tamed. That smile—the one that usually followed a snarky joke after a jump—was softer now. Nervous, even.

“You clean up nice,” you said, stepping forward.

He let out a breathy laugh. “Thanks. You’re not too bad yourself. Didn’t even recognize you without your helmet trying to kill me in a corner.”

You gave him a playful shove. “That’s called racing.”

“And this,” he said, opening the car door for you, “is called a date.”

The restaurant was small, tucked between buildings like a secret. Dim lighting, old wooden tables, and the warm hum of conversations wrapped in clinking glasses and soft jazz. It was intimate in a way that felt strangely unfamiliar to both of you.

You sat by the window, the city’s glow flickering behind him. Menus in hand, but neither of you looked at them much.

He leaned back, resting one arm on the back of the booth. “So. You. What do you do when you’re not making me eat your dust?”

You smirked. “Fix my bike. Clean my gear. Try to keep my elbows from bruising permanently.”

He tilted his head. “You ever think of going pro?”

You shrugged. “I almost did. But that’s a story for another time. And there’s something about riding just for myself. No sponsors, no media. Just the ride.”

Daniel grew quiet for a moment, and you saw it—that flicker in his eyes. The part of him that missed the roar of fans, the intensity of the paddock. But there was admiration there too. Maybe even a little envy.

“I think that’s what I lost along the way,” he admitted softly. “The joy. It became about survival. About keeping my seat. I forgot what it felt like to just… ride.”

You didn’t reach for his hand or tell him it would be okay. Instead, you met his gaze and said, “Well, you’re finding it again. One lap at a time.”

He smiled, but this one wasn’t for show. It was real. Deep. “Thanks to you.”

The night stretched on. Dinner turned into dessert. Then into coffee, then a long walk down quiet streets, the buzz of the city fading as you wandered into more peaceful corners.

Somewhere between laughter and silence, he reached for your hand. It wasn’t forced or overly smooth—just instinct. Like it had been waiting to happen.

“You know,” he said, glancing sideways, “I don’t remember the last time I was nervous for a first date.”

You arched a brow. “And now?”

“I’m nervous in a good way.”

You stopped, turning to him as the streetlamp cast a soft glow over his face. “Why’s that?”

“Because this feels different,” he said. “Real. I’m not thinking about what comes next. I’m just… here.”

A beat passed. Your hand tightened around his.

“Then stay here,” you said. “Just for a little while.”

And so he did.

He leaned in, slowly, carefully—waiting for any sign that you weren’t ready. But you were. His lips met yours in a kiss that was warm and grounding, nothing rushed, nothing showy. Just two people, letting the dust settle around them, and finally seeing each other clearly.

-

The next morning, before you even woke up, he sent you a message:

Dan:

“Best race I’ve ever lost was letting you beat me to dinner.”

-

Weeks passed in a blur of dusty trails and late-night conversations.

Daniel was different now—lighter, calmer, but still very much him. The cheeky grins, the teasing comments, the quiet way he always made sure your bike was fueled before his own. He had found something out there on the track again. Not F1. Not the crowd or the cameras. Just peace. And maybe something even more important—you.

You became each other’s weekend ritual. Saturday morning rides. Post-ride tacos. Sunday maintenance sessions in your garage, laughing as you both argued over who had better tire pressure control. And in between, the quieter moments—his hand finding yours while watching a movie, or the way his head rested against your shoulder after a long ride when neither of you needed to talk.

But he noticed something.

Every time you swung your leg off the bike, you winced just a little. When you thought he wasn’t looking, your fingers would massage your knee through your pants. Some days, after a longer ride, you’d leave early, saying you were “just tired.”

He didn’t push. Not right away.

But one night, after a sunset ride that left both your gear caked in dust, the two of you sat on the floor of your garage, backs against the workbench, sharing a bottle of water. Your helmet lay beside his, and the warm air was thick with sweat, grease, and unspoken truths.

“Can I ask you something?” he said suddenly, voice low.

You looked over, towel draped over your neck. “Sure.”

“Why didn’t you go pro?” He was gentle, but direct. “You’re easily one of the best riders I’ve ever seen. It’s not just talent—it’s instinct. You were born for it.”

You held the water bottle between your hands, staring at the label for a long time. Then, quietly:

“Because I’m broken.”

Daniel blinked. “What?”

You sighed, leaning your head back against the wall. “My knee. Old injury from when I was seventeen. I tore it bad on a landing—ACL, MCL, cartilage… you name it. They said I’d never ride again. I proved them wrong, but the damage was permanent. I can manage it with training and rest, but it’s getting worse.”

He was silent, watching you, listening.

“There’s a surgery,” you continued. “Experimental, expensive, painful. And it has a 70% failure rate. If it fails… that’s it. No more bike. No more trails. Just a lifetime of rehab and maybe a limp.”

Daniel’s brows furrowed, eyes narrowing slightly—not with judgment, but with the weight of someone who gets it.

“I’d rather ride in pain than risk never riding again,” you said, voice cracking just slightly. “This—riding—is who I am. It’s the one place where I feel free. Where my body doesn’t feel like a cage. I don’t want to lose that.”

He shifted closer, gently taking your hand. You hadn’t even realized you were gripping your knee.

“I get it,” he murmured. “More than you know.”

You looked at him. “You do?”

“I spent years racing through pain. Hiding it. Ignoring the noise. Because the idea of stopping was worse than the pain itself. And when I finally did stop… it wasn’t on my terms. It nearly broke me.”

You let that sink in—this man who’d been at the top of the world, now sitting next to you on a garage floor, speaking with the same fear you carried every day.

He looked at you, his thumb tracing slow circles on your knuckles. “But I also know that you don’t have to carry that fear alone. Not anymore.”

Your throat tightened. “You really mean that?”

He nodded. “You’ve been showing up for me every day since we met. Let me show up for you now. We’ll figure it out—whatever you choose. Surgery or no surgery. Pain or not. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tears welled in your eyes, unspoken for too long, now spilling in quiet silence. You leaned into him, forehead against his shoulder, and he wrapped you in his arms like he’d been waiting to do it forever.

In that moment, the fear didn’t vanish. But it softened. Because for the first time in a long time, you weren’t facing it alone.

Later that night, he kissed your knee, right over the brace you wore under your sweatpants, and whispered, “Whatever happens, you’re still a badass to me.”

-

part two here

[alive-gh0st]

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ…

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you’re here to teach, not manage a walking concussion with charm issues. but he keeps looking at you like you hung the stars—and asking questions like you owe him answers. it’s temporary. it’s professional. it’s absolutely not personal. right?

⛨ contains: sfw. slow tension. hospital-grade sarcasm. emotional constipation. accidental pining. reader being done™. mark being so not subtle. vending machine cameos. background bureaucracy.

⛨ warnings: mild language. cecil stedman. lingering looks. golden retriever energy. mild secondhand embarrassment. one scalpel-related flirtation if you squint.

⛨ wc: 2839

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: honorable mention to donald for surviving government-grade stress, doing 99% of the admin work and getting 0% of the appreciation. chapter three is happening. probably. don’t look at me like that.

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The hum of fluorescent lights should’ve blended into the background by now. So should the low thrum of activity—boots echoing against concrete, the shuffle of files, hushed conversations between medics and masked vigilantes. But somehow, everything still feels a little too loud.

Maybe it’s the migraine brewing behind your eyes. Maybe it’s the fact that he won’t stop staring at you.

You shift your weight, cross your arms, and resolutely pretend you don’t notice.

That Invincible is standing three feet to your left, burning a hole through the side of your head with an intensity that shouldn’t be allowed from someone who wears goggles.

You’ve been ignoring him for seven minutes and counting.

You’ve acknowledged literally everything else in this sterile, underground chaos bunker—someone called Sea Salt (you can’t be bothered to care enough to remember properly) pacing in the background, a superhero with a dislocated shoulder yelling about insurance coverage, the world’s most suspicious vending machine—but not him.

And still, he stares.

You exhale slowly. Sharply turn your head.

He flinches like you threw something at him.

“Can I help you?”

The words are flat, clipped. The tone you use when a patient insists they know better because they once watched half an episode of ’Grey’s Anatomy’.

Invincible stammers. Actually stammers, like he doesn’t know what to do now that you talked back.

Your brows lift. “You’ve been standing there like an underpaid mall cop—gaping at me like I’m the last donut at a police briefing. Do you mind?”

He fumbles for a reply. You regret asking immediately.

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A few days earlier.

You were on your fourth cup of coffee and hour three of mid-insomnia spiraling when the email came in.

A subject line so vague it practically screamed delete me.

“URGENT: National Heroic Outreach Program — Personnel Request.”

It sounded like someone stitched together LinkedIn buzzwords with a glue stick and a dream.

You almost deleted it without opening. Fingers already moving to close the laptop.

And that’s when your eye caught the numbers.

A full contract breakdown, bolded in crisp font at the bottom of the message. Enough zeroes to make your exhausted brain glitch.

You squinted. Re-read. Laughed.

Then read it again.

Field medics, trauma therapists, stabilization specialists…

Working directly alongside sanctioned heroic units. Teaching them.

Short-term. High risk. Higher pay.

You were already muttering “absolutely not” as you clicked Reply.

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And now here you are.

In the middle of a hidden operations center that smells faintly of iodine and military-grade deodorant, trying to keep your expression neutral while Invincible looks at you like you invented sunlight.

You narrow your eyes.

“Seriously man. What is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” he says almost too quickly. “I just…”

Didn’t think I’d ever hear you again—he wants to say, but the words die in his throat.

You groan like a middle-aged man.

“Fine, whatever—keep your staring fetish a secret. But you’re still in my space.”

And somehow, despite the sarcasm, despite the walls you’re already rebuilding brick by brick—he smiles. Like you just handed him a sunrise.

Weirdo.

The silence stretches.

Finally—finally—he stops staring. You can feel it.

Like the sun setting. Like freedom on the breeze. You don’t know what bliss tastes like, but you’re pretty sure it’s this exact moment.

Invincible turns his head. Doesn’t say a word. For the first time in almost ten minutes, you can breathe.

The air tastes clearer. Your shoulders lower half an inch. You feel like Eren Yeager looking out at the ocean, finally glimpsing the other side of the fence—finally, the taste of freedom.

You close your eyes, let your arms fall just a bit looser, and begin to reach for that fragile, sacred—

“So… what’s your name?”

You shut your eyes tighter. Channel the serenity of that dog meme you saw once—some old lab basking in the light like he’s ascended to a higher plane. That’s you now. Resigned to whatever curse has chosen to follow you. Accepting the inevitable.

“…Hello?” he tries again.

You breathe in. Deep. Steady. And swallow a curse.

“It’s not important,” you finally say, voice flat.

He blinks.

“Uh—it kinda is? We’re working together, technically. It’s basic team-building. Knowing names builds trust. It’s psychologically proven—like in war movies or HR seminars. I feel like not knowing your name makes it hard to build rapport. Or connection. Or, you know, that dramatic tension where I save your life and you cry over me in slow motion.”

He’s rambling now.

You open one eye. He’s serious. Or, worse—he thinks he’s funny.

You tune him out.

Just completely power down. Close your eyes again, channel the dog meme—serene, resigned, ascended. Accepting your fate as a woman destined to be cornered by a golden retriever in a super suit.

But of course—of course—luck hates you.

Footsteps echo behind you. Measured. Heavy. Government-issued.

Invincible’s voice finally stops.

You open your eyes slowly, carefully.

Cecil Stedman stands a few feet away, looking like someone who’s been awake for forty-seven hours and hates it less than he hates incompetence.

He looks at the hero. Then at you. He exhales like he regrets every decision that’s led to this moment.

“Invincible,” Cecil says, deadpan. “It’s not your job to harass new personnel.”

You smile. A flicker of victory warms your chest.

But it’s short-lived.

“And you—” Cecil turns to you, voice sharp and gravel as he states your full name and last name, “…stop ignoring people when they’re trying to learn from you.”

Invincible’s head snaps up.

Your smile dies on impact.

“…yes, sir.”

You hate him now. Fully. With your entire soul. You will refer to this man as Sea Salt until the day you retire, but only behind his back (you have bills to pay).

Cecil nods. Done with this interaction.

“You’re both assigned to Medical Rotation C for the next three hours. Report to briefings on time, don’t destroy anything, and for the love of god—try not to bleed on each other.”

He turns and walks away like he didn’t just detonate a small emotional warhead and bounce.

You blink slowly.

The superhero grins. Way too close to you.

Invincible repeats your name. Softly. Like he’s trying it on. Like he’s going to wrap it around a sentence any second just to hear it out loud again.

You don’t look at him.

You stare at a crack in the ground and plot how to fake your own death.

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This is fine. Totally fine. No one has died yet.

Except maybe him. Internally. Repeatedly.

You’ve been working together for exactly twenty-three minutes and some change, and Mark is dangerously close to pulling a muscle from glancing at you too often.

It’s not subtle. He knows that. He’s just hoping you haven’t noticed yet.

Mark Grayson—Invincible, world-class puncher of bad guys and part-time public disaster—is on assignment. Medical rotation. One-on-one.

With you.

You haven’t said more than three words since you got here.

Okay—technically, it was four if you counted “Don’t touch that,” which he did. Emotionally. Spiritually. Like a prayer.

He glances sideways. Again. That’s… what? The fifteenth time?

You’re focused. Like laser-cut precision focused. You haven’t looked at him once since the briefing ended, and that alone is doing something catastrophic to his brain chemistry. Your sleeves are rolled up, fingers moving quickly as you sort through supplies and assess whatever half-broken med bay gear they shoved into this basement. And he—

Technically, he’s supposed to be learning. Technically.

He commits the angle of your jaw to memory. He might need to sketch it later. For science.

A cart wheel squeaks. He jumps.

Smooth. Reeeal smooth Mark.

Mark’s dropped the same tool twice. He’s reorganized the same three items five different ways. And when you leaned over earlier—just for a second—he forgot how to breathe.

He thinks he said something to you. Maybe. You didn’t respond.

You probably didn’t even hear him.

Which is fair. You’re working. This is work. He should be working too.

Instead, he’s cataloging every tiny thing about you like it’s the last time he’ll get to. The little crease between your brows when you concentrate. The way you tilt your head when you read a label. The way your lips move slightly when you mutter to yourself. It’s ridiculous. He knows it’s ridiculous. But it’s also—

He nearly knocks over a tray of syringes and freezes like a man in a minefield.

You just say, “Don’t,” without even looking up.

That’s it. One word. And he listens.

Like his soul has been stapled to your command.

He exhales slowly. Starts organizing gauze packets like they’re puzzle pieces and not the only thing keeping him from going absolutely feral with nervous energy.

You’re right there. You’re right there. And not in the middle of some catastrophic collapse or stopping someone’s bleeding from a stress wound. Just—here. Breathing the same recycled air. Wearing scrubs like they’re armor. Not looking at him.

Mark resists the urge to break something—anything—just to make you look at him.

He peeks again.

Yeah. Still perfect.

“Invincible.”

He startles.

You don’t even look at him. Just gesture vaguely at the scalpel in his hand. “That’s upside down.”

“…Right,” he mutters, flipping it. “Just testing you.”

“You failed.”

You don’t say it with heat. Not quite. But not nicely either.

He clears his throat and tries again, forcing himself to focus on literally anything that isn’t the fact that you’re within touching distance. That you smell like antiseptic and cheap gum. That you’re here, and for some reason—still kind of talking to him.

He wants to say something normal. Something clever. But everything that comes to mind sounds like it belongs in a YA novel or a fever dream.

Instead, he peeks at you again.

You don’t notice. Or maybe you do.

But you don’t look back.

And still—he grins.

Because this? Being close enough to reach, even if you never turn around?

It’s more than he thought he’d ever get.

It’s not enough.

Mark lied.

All that pretending—organizing, fixing, standing next to you for three and a half hours like it didn’t matter—like breathing the same air wasn’t scrambling his brain chemistry?

He thought it would be enough. Just this. Just being near you.

But now you’re packing up.

And suddenly, it’s not.

You toss a roll of gauze into your bag like it keyed your car in a past life. Peel off your gloves with the grace of someone absolutely done with today.

The neckline of your scrubs shifts when you move, collarbone catching the light, and he has to look away.

You’re leaving.

You’re actually leaving.

He thought he’d be okay with it. He’s not.

You stretch your neck like it’s stiff, roll your shoulders with a sigh, and Mark swears it’s the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

Which is insane. It’s a shoulder roll.

But you’re doing it. And it’s happening five feet from him. And he doesn’t know when—or if—he’ll see you like this again.

Normal. Off guard. Not covered in ash and dust.

You zip your bag shut.

And that’s when panic hits him.

It spikes in his chest like a bad punch—jarring and immediate and almost embarrassing. Because if you walk out now, that’s it. You’ll vanish again. And he’ll be stuck wondering if he imagined all of this. You. The way you said his hero name like it was a dare.

His fingers twitch at his side.

He has no idea what he’s going to say.

He just knows he needs to say something before you’re gone.

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You clear your throat. Loud enough to be polite. Dismissive enough to make a point.

“I’m done here.”

He blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

You wait for him to move. He doesn’t.

You arch a brow. “Door’s behind you.”

Invincible stares at you like you’ve just committed a federal crime. “You’re—leaving?”

You frown. “Yes? That’s what normal people do when the job is finished.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Frowns.

“I just—” The hero shifts, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “I figured we’d—maybe—uh, debrief?”

You blink.

He looks panicked now. “Not like a real debrief! I meant like… decompress? Debrief-light? Low-stakes post-mission rapport-building?”

You pause. Then snort. You can’t help it. It slips out before you can stop it.

He looks like he just won the lottery.

You sigh, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “If this is your way of asking to walk me out—”

“Yes.”

“…I didn’t finish.”

“Still yes.”

You stare.

He fidgets. “Is that okay?”

You hesitate for a breath. Then roll your eyes. “Fine. But if you get weird again, I’m tasering you.”

Invincible grins. “I’ve survived worse.”

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A few days later.

You look like shit.

Not in a poetic way. Not in a cool, morally-gray antiheroine way. Just in the deeply human, overworked, underpaid, sore-back, I-haven’t-slept-since-Tuesday kind of way.

The ER lights buzz too loud. The coffee machine’s broken again. There’s a spot on your scrubs that might be blood or ink or maybe just your will to live leaking out.

It’s a Tuesday. Maybe.

You’re half-asleep at the nurses’ station when Carla walks up with a folder. She chews her gum like it’s keeping her tethered to this plane of existence.

“Room 9’s yours.”

You blink up at her. “Seriously?”

Carla shrugs. “Guy’s already in there. Looks like he could pay off my student loans in one go, but what do I know. File’s clean. Probably just here to flirt or die. Those are the only two kinds we get.”

You sigh. Take the clipboard. Totally miss Carla’s knowing expression and lazily stroll down the hallway.

Your pen’s already clicking as you push through the long corridor, shoulder nudging the door open without thinking.

You flip through the back pages first—vitals, allergy list, something about minor lacerations. The usual.

The door clicks shut behind you as you scan the first page for the name.

“Mark Grayson…” you murmur, before finally looking up.

He’s already watching you.

Smile crooked. Sheepish. And oddly familiar.

You blink. Shake your head. Tap your pen once against the clipboard.

“…What can I do for you today?”

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⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

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Before the bunker. Before the clipboard. Just burnt coffee and bad timing.

The room smells of government-grade stress and poor decisions. Fluorescents hum overhead. Somewhere outside the door, someone’s arguing with a vending machine again.

Cecil Stedman doesn’t look up from the file in his hands.

Donald stands nearby, half-glancing over his shoulder like he’s expecting someone to call out his name and ruin his night any second now.

“I don’t need someone who wants to save the world,” Cecil mutters, flipping a page. “I need someone who knows how to keep it breathing long enough to do that.”

Donald doesn’t answer at first. Scrolls through his tablet with the dead-eyed speed of a man two cups past his caffeine limit.

Cecil drops the folder on the table.

“Her.”

Donald glances down. Sees your name. Frowns.

“She’s not exactly—uh, team-oriented.”

“Good.” Cecil leans back in his chair. “We don’t need another idealist who thinks CPR is optional. We need someone who’ll tell a cape to stop cauterizing wounds with laser vision.”

Donald shifts. “She’s got a record of pushing back on authority.”

“Yeah. So do I.” He picks up the file again, thumbs through it like he’s reading between the lines. “Field trauma specialist. Surgical certs. Five years ER, three years private contract, and one particularly colorful incident involving Invincible.”

Donald raises a brow. “You want her for the hero-medical crossover?”

“Yeah. Not full-time. Just this once.” He thumbs through the file again.

”She’s not exactly a fan of the spandex crowd.” Donald reminds him.

“Which is why she’s perfect.” Cecil taps the edge of the folder. “She doesn’t worship them. She knows how they break. And better—how to keep them from bleeding out on asphalt.”

Donald crosses his arms. “You really think she’ll say yes?”

Cecil shrugs. “Send the contract. Let the pay do the talking. If that doesn’t work… remind her how many heroes think gauze solves internal bleeding.”

A beat passes. Donald exhales slowly.

“We’re asking her to train them. Teach them medical response. Basics. Field aid without powers.”

“Exactly,” Cecil mutters, eyes back on the file. “We’ve got too many weapons and not enough medics. Time we taught the kids how to stop the bleeding before they cause it.”

“And you think she’ll go for it?”

“Temporary contract,” Cecil repeats simply. “Send the numbers. Dangle the autonomy. No long-term commitment, no spandex worship, just her and a bunch of capes learning how not to be idiots for a few hours.”

Donald nods once and turns to leave.

Cecil stays where he is, flipping back to the front of the file.

A photo clipped to the corner. Dark circles under your eyes. Expression flat. Hands gloved, steady.

Unimpressed with the world and clearly not afraid to let it know.

He smiles, just barely.

“Let’s hope she doesn’t kill anyone.”

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ongoing TAGLIST: @pickledsoda @f3r4lfr0gg3r @bakugouswh0r3 @katkirishima @delusionalalien @bellelamoon @monaekelis @feminii @sketchlove @lilacoaks @cathuggnbear

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taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

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[horreurscopes]

pulling out the DEWALT™ Safety Goggles with Clear Anti-Fog Lens DPG82-11C to chop onions

[angelpuns]

“Interesting, he portaled back home,” Donnie tapped at his wristtech, giving the now paralysed thug at his foot a slight push. He rolled towards his buddies with a squawk, the three of them all sporting matching purple, Genius Brand™ labeled darts sticking out of their feathers. 

“ You all will owe a small fee for those by the way, they were meant to catch that blue bozo I call a brother,” Donnie informed, “ I will be sending an invoice by the end of the week, and my late payment policy is nothing short of a nightmare, so-” 

“Donnie, you can do your villain monologue later, is Leo still at the lair?” Raph cut him off and finished tying up one of the thugs, shooting them a mildly apologetic look. Donnie's whole thing did seem sort of evil villain when they let him go on too long of a tangent after all. 

Donnie sighed, “ you never let me have my moment, Raphala” 

He watched as Leo moved around the lair, his tracker dot blinking back and forth for a while in his room. 

“Yes, he seems to be pacing for now. I think he's onto the whole tracker thing,” Donnie murmured, watching the blinking dot with a frown. It suddenly began rapidly moving towards the med bay, as Leo began inevitably rifling through their supplies to patch himself up. 

Or…

Dread landed in his stomach like a stone, Donnie clenching his hand open and shut a few times to try and dissipate the mounting anxiety. 

“ If he is onto the tracker we've got limited time, he may try to….to remove it” 

The added implication of ‘by any means necessary’ wasn't necessary for him to voice aloud, but Raph and Mikey's shared looks of dread meant they understood that as well. 

“ We can’t just show up at the lair again, he'll just portal away..” Mikey sighed, wringing his hands, “and if he manages to find and remove the tracker….”

“ he'll be roaming New York until at least tomorrow…” Donnie finished. 

He sighed. His dumb dumb twin was not making this easy. Of course the one with the portals was the one they had to keep track of, that made this soooo much harder. 

Donnie stopped mid anxiety stim and checked Leo's location again. Still in the med bay. Vitals looked good. Excellent. 

“ good news gentleman, I have a way to track Leo if he does find the tracker - which he probably won't, he said confidently,” 

Donnie quickly typed up the idea into his gauntlet. It wouldn't take long to whip up at all, especially since his goggles already detected mystic energy. He just needed to make them able to detect Leo's mystic energy specifically and they'd be golden!

Raph grinned and have him a squeeze on the shoulder, “ there's my genius bro! You got a plan, Dee?”

Donnie grinned, “ absolutely, I do” 

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More of that one thing I was doing. 50 first dates style memory au. It doesn't really have a name so I'll just tag it as #50au for now?

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 6