#SO RAMBLY. BUT. MMY VISIONS........

[moe-broey]

I ❤️ HITTING TAG LIMIT. BUT. ALSO. I feel like there's a whole other avenue to explore, when you have an aromantic chara who Isn't Strictly Ace. Like mind how I said Mani is "functionally ace". Regardless of if its internal sense of whatever would line up perfectly w Moe's, who's demisexual -- that doesn't matter. Like I fully don't have a strict answer on that. What I DO have for a strict answer, though, is that Mani has such an unhealthy, trauma-fueled, and just deeply UNCOMFORTABLE relationship to sexuality that it straight up Does Not Matter. Treat it as though it is fully aroace, who would be abstaining on both accounts. Somewhere in here there is a Plumeria comparison -- it's important to acknowledge each goes about navigating the discomfort a bit differently. But. The sheer amount of intense discomfort is There. Enough to where forcing either into such a situation "nice style" (as in, idealizing the scenario and not using it as an avenue for horror) would be antithetical to Who They Are, as characters.

Cut back to Moe, and the opening statement. This is not something I'm gonna be able to capture perfectly, esp off the cuff. HOWEVER. For many reasons, Moe imprints on Alfonse. It is not a simple or straightforward process. But it does happen. The deep emotional bond is made. The Trust is established. Moe has been shockingly meticulous and methodical about it. Shocking, because of how rapidly it happened AND -- it's... A bit easy. To misjudge Moe. As someone who's far too flippant, casual to the point of carelessness, and naive. That isn't to say it lacks these qualities completely. But it is to say Moe contains multitudes, in a most contradictory fashion.

Okay. So give a mouse a cookie, and now we've got a sexual situationship going on in the budding friendship, friendship specifically slowed only by each having their own sets of Issues. Alfonse being Alfonse about it, you know the guy who's all "I find it best, not to get too attached these days... especially to Heroes." and "Promise you'll never leave us. Without warning me, first." and "I advise you not to get close to the Heroes. It will just make it harder... should you ever be parted." and AGGRESSIVELY GESTURES. AT THE ENTIRE 40 CONVO. AND THE ALEAR FBS. OKAY? SAME PAGE? OKAY. And now we got Moe being Moe about it. Guy who SWEARS up and down that you can like someone very much, genuinely, and not get attached to them. Guy who is relieved to leave everything behind and start anew. Guy who has an INFINITE AMOUNT of trust issues and is endlessly stubborn about it. Moe voice "you're not allowed to like me" and "I can Leave Any Time." Moe mentality "but i can like you just fine. You Deserve a Little Pussy, as A Treat. for your troubles. I'm Helping." And, of course, the Loadbearing "this guy is fuckin' awesome. he's not gonna get attached to me at all, i mean he said so himself."

There is. Of course. SO much set up and context. So many trust tests. So much of Moe just Evaluating Him. And so much of Alfonse becoming a neurotic guard dog about it. Extremely calculated. Moe worries for his well-being, makes itself available as a person to confide in. Alfonse has taken note of Moe's Struggles, like that thang is going to DIE if left on its own. Wounds fresh from Catastrophic Bruno Incident. Takes this opportunity to accept Moe's offer, Only if you confide in me, as well. Moe thinks it's got his ass. Alfonse knows he got Moe's ass. Peace and love on planet convoluted Trust Pact where neither party is remotely normal about it.

Okay. Looping all the way back to the opening statement, again. Aromantic character, who experiences some level of sexual attraction and desire for sex. All our ducks in a row, all the planets perfectly aligned...

This has. Fascinating effects. On the Moefonse dynamic. Moe likes Alfonse a lot. Is extremely fond of him. Moe would describe him as, "being very likeable". There isn't any romantic intent behind those words -- in fact, Moe makes it very clear, it resents the notion. Moe and Alfonse's relationship can only exist as it does at this point in time, because neither are "ready" to "be in a relationship". What Moe doesn't exactly realize yet, however, is that "ready" never comes to be. Alfonse is capable of romantic attraction, just has an odd way of going about it. He, on paper, could feasibly be "ready" one day. Moe never will. But this isn't exactly doomed -- it's not a story of starcrossed lovers. It's a story of being in love with your best friend, and loving your best friend dearly. Alfonse's goal will eventually become, learning to love Moe exactly where it's at. Hell, this can even go for Mani, too! Only the "Where it (Mani) is at" is very different, than where Moe is. That's focal. It defines the entire relationship (neutral phrase/title, here). Maybe, for Mani, the story is loving at a distance, and learning to be loved in a way that doesn't hurt, that isn't scary (OW! OUCH! OOOWWWW!!!!!!!!!).

I keep getting bogged down in the details, though. Sex, for Moe, is... An offering. It has determined, after much careful consideration, that Alfonse can be Trusted with its body. That he's worthy of it. That he deserves it. These words, feel like obligation, but trust -- Moe wouldn't be doing this if it weren't extremely fond of the guy. It has A LOT. Of odd, intense feelings about him it can't quite place, on top of that -- which surely will not come back to bite it in the ass come Book 3 and 4. Surely.

Meanwhile. What gets REALLY fucking fascinating, actually. Is how, Alfonse does allow all this to happen. He is giving that mouse a cookie. Ofc has his hot and cold moments about it. But something that GOT ME. THINKING ABOUT THIS. DEVELOPING THIS. Is how Alfonse is using this offering, and sex itself, as A Tool. Don't get me wrong, he genuinely likes Moe a lot too (just don't tell it that. Yet.), he wouldn't be allowing this to occur in the first place, if he didn't. He's very fond of Moe, and treads VERY carefully. Especially after he learns how calculated Moe has been, too. Complete perspective shift, needs a new approach, and... Yeah remember how Moe is stubborn? Endlessly? And how even WITH the Trust Pact, Alfonse is often fighting for his life to wrangle Moe into accepting ANY fucking help????? When it is DIRELY NEEDED?????

LIKE if I were to make a canon comparison. He handles Moe Exactly how he would come to handle Ratatoskr. VASTLY different circumstances, dynamics, and flavor of what bond would be developed, here. The opening of Book 8 and the insane Alfonse and Ratatoskr conspiring under the Order's nose and almost getting himself killed for it moment. Normal Alfonse Things. But the way he takes in all of the information Girl Assigned To Assassinate Him (And Is A Bit Hesitant To) gives him, through what she says directly, and what she reveals through her emotional state (sobbing wet creature), AND what she doesn't even INTEND to fully tell him, the context just slips through. In BOTH scenarios, after diffusing the threat (bc make no mistake! And he didn't either! Behind those tears, IS someone with the knowledge and skills to kill him.) by winning her over, getting her on HIS side. And the Normal Alfonse Moments Incident. In Both Cases, he is using Ratatoskr to achieve his own ends, here. And Ratatoskr, stuck between a rock and a hard place, but given exactly what she fucking Needed and was denied by her previous situation, The Choice. Him, respecting her agency and autonomy and just trusting the rest. She willingly offers herself, to help.

Like. Back to Moe. Back to Alfonse, with Moe. Like with Ratatoskr, there is a level of diffusing a looming threat. Except instead of his own life, it's Moe's safety. And after his previous homoerotic bestfriendship ended w his bestie trying to goad Alfonse into Killing Him, like, suicide at the hands of your bestie, and the implications that Bruno has made SEVERAL attempts before turning to the false identity suicide plot. That's, ah....... maybe a sensitive subject. For Alfonse. The idea, that Moe could be a danger to itself.

And beyond that! It's a matter of slowly but surely winning Moe over. Getting Moe to actually... be vulnerable, with him. It likes him a lot, that much is clear. He already has one foot in the door. But Moe is Moe about it. Will take some time.

So, fellas. What's the solution, here? Well. Clearly. Gay sex. Sex as an offering, and sex as a tool. Both UNBELIEVABLY calculated about it, believe it or not with all braincells just being thrown out the window, also. Because, that's the key, too. Despite how hard each of them fights it -- they both do, really, really like each other. They just enjoy each other's company. SO much. Devastatingly fond of each other. They're... Friends 🥺🥲💕

(... What does this make Mani? Whole other Beast. What does this make Lif? Epic Divorce Man. Easy.)

[gooddadstan]

Fuzzy Walls and Tired Eyes

I wrote something, and people didn't hate it so what a way to start off than crossposting to tumblr?

Everything was going to be okay. He’d made a will, sent the company back to Bruce, tried to make sure they’d be able to understand his case notes, and did his damndest to let them know that it wasn’t any of their faults and he loved them. He was the only one to not die yet, after all, and statistics just spoke the cold truth. He was going to be next, and he’d prepared for it. So yeah, Tim was pretty sure that everything was going to be just fine. Maybe he hadn’t anticipated it happening like this, but c’est la vie, sometimes you’ve just gotta take what life chucks at you and run with it.

With that preparedness and peace of mind, the actions he’s taking feels like nothing more than an aimless ritual than a fight for life. Turn on the emergency tracker, take the bandages from his belt and start trying to patch up what he can, activate the comm and ask for backup. None of them would make it in time, anyway. He’d been watching as they fanned out, just blips on his GPS screen as they forge on with the search for the Joker that Red Robin had abandoned for taking care of the drug case he’d hyperfocused on over the last couple of days. Every one of the bats was too far away, and even the newbie Signal was out and about in the darkness.

But maybe if he’d left the drug case for another week or two just to catch the Joker and come back, he wouldn’t be bleeding out in an empty warehouse on the pier. Maybe if he’d only thought to bring his phone with him he’d be able to call Bart or Kon and the voice he couldn’t raise above a whisper would be enough to bring him back to the cave. Maybe if he’d asked Babs to stay by the computer that night instead of letting her rest while nursing her case of the flu, citing worry over the Joker search instead of his own agenda. He’s sure she’d know what he’d been up to anyway. Maybe if he’d let Alfred stay in the usual schedule instead of being a part of the mob convincing the clearly overworked man to take a vacation, he’d be able to call for the caring butler and the familiar sight of the Batmobile rolling to a stop outside wouldn’t only be a projection on behalf of his exhausted mind, and the almost laughable visage of the cowl still leaving a mustache visible above the suit so finely pressed and painfully out of the ordinary in the dirty streets would be by his side muttering assurances instead of staring ominously in typical hallucination-showing-your-worst-fears fashion. Maybe if they’d actually gone through with calling Alfred back after the Joker broke out of Arkham instead of forcing him to keep relaxing wherever in Europe he was at the time without knowledge of the situation, he would’ve been sitting with a cup of coffee next to Alfred’s tea, having been convinced by a short mention of being lonely left at the computer watching the comms alone.

Maybe there had been so many ways to avoid this, and not have to subject the others to his rambling notes and ill-articulated theories as they take over his cases, but he’d been too incompetent to see them. Maybe he should at least try to get back to the cave and into the medbay, not make them go through the effort to retrieve his body to keep some random thug from unmasking him and placing suspicion on his family. Maybe he should’ve been more careful, gotten rid of his blood on the scene, confiscated the knives and guns fired and stabbed at him, not have been so sloppy in his form with the takedown.

It’s a bit too late for that now, though.

The drugs were blown up, the police were likely on-scene arresting the goons by now, and the gangs that instigated the bust in the first place were too small to not be terribly crippled by the loss. Their promise in rising through the ranks was at least put off long enough for the Bats to attend to the more ‘super’ of their enemies in Gotham for a while. His family would take over his remaining cases, likely finishing them faster than Tim himself would’ve been able to. He had enough reason to be okay with this situation in the end. His own fuck-ups aside, he’d gotten done what he needed to. He swore, by this logic, that his family would be just as well if not better off because of the way the bust ended up.

So who’s going to care if what bandages he does apply are a bit too haphazard to be effective, if he doesn’t repeat his request for backup with his current location after what he’s pretty sure is five minutes passes and protocol says he should. Who’s going to care if in the end he’s not really helping himself. If any of them cared any more than for the necessary hassle of moving and burying his body, creating a false death for his public persona, and going through the motions of mourning the acting CEO of W.E., Timothy Drake-Wayne, for the sake of the rest of their secret identities, maybe they would blame his current carelessness on the blood loss. Maybe they would blame it on what’s probably a major concussion visible from the sheet of pain going from his left temple to his chin. They could even blame it on Tim himself, no injury to buffer it. He could deal with that. After his vision goes black in just a few more minutes, he shouldn’t be able to think and feel things about it anyway. That’s how Jason described it, anyway. Painless and empty and without your own mind really there to interfere.

Though, at this point Tim’s entire body was pained, from the dull aches of sore muscles to the sharp piercing hurt of his assorted knife and gunshot wounds. As much as he trusted his brother, he wasn’t sure if it was even possible for all of that pain could just cease to exist. He wasn’t sure if the brain could even comprehend what was beyond, if anything really was, or if that comforting nothing Jason had almost seemed wistful for was just the way the human brain tried to fill the gap in comprehensibility that was created after that bomb went off. When had he asked that, anyway? It must’ve been over… oh. A week ago, at most. Not the most convenient time to be dying, he supposed. Too coincidental. It’s not like he’d meant to go out and get killed.

Which was true, wasn’t it? He’d thought he could handle it, and just didn’t want to distract any of the others from the Joker, right? There was no way that he’d done this on purpose, much less subconsciously. Except, he’d known how many people were going to be at the trade tonight. He’d known that there would be less people at smaller ones later on, far less armed and more calculated aggression levels. Less dangerous. He’d known that he’d likely suffer at least some of what Alfred called ‘excessive injury’, but he was okay with that. He’d planned to get out of the situation with maybe a gunshot wound or two at most. Nothing too fatal, he’d had worse and lived through it. There was no way that this was intentional. But he could have asked someone else for help, couldn’t he. He wouldn’t have been able to take Bruce or Jason away from the Joker, of course, maybe not even Damian from the way he growled and made threats as the group left, but asking Duke or Steph to watch his back would probably be feasible with minimal effect on the effectiveness of tonight's search.

So why’d he go out alone again?

Right, yeah, taking out the Joker took priority. The effectiveness of their search would still drop without another person, and whereas his involvement would likely not help at all, the others were imperative for this plan to work. All useful hands on deck, and he could take this alone. He was sure of it. Well, he was sure of it before. He should’ve at least made it back to the cave, no matter how injured he was. He was just being dramatic, his bike’s only a couple blocks away and here he is still only lying here while he’s got two working- two vaguely working- one vaguely working leg. That should be enough to get him to the medbay, right?

The others would only be disappointed in his performance right now, no doubt they’d all have been back in the cave if they’d taken the case, taking a nap after pressing enter on the completed report. Even if they’d gotten the same injuries, which they never would, they’d take care of them more efficiently and wouldn’t even have to take those antibiotics somebody managed to shove down his throat every time he was injured while going on about his lack of a spleen. No wonder he was laying here so pathetically as his comms buzzed in his ear. Wait, his comm is buzzing in his ear. Somebody’s trying to contact him. That’s not right. Did they catch the Joker already? It’d only been maybe a day and a half since the escape, nothing ever happens this quickly. Unless one of the others got hurt in a trap the Joker had placed? God, he knew he should’ve been out there instead, the others shouldn’t have to intercept the Joker’s traps.

Fumbling with the comm in his ear, the familiar click of getting into the channel rings small, smaller than it ever should be, bringing yet another injury to Tim’s attention as the scowl that had formed subconsciously grew deeper.

“-mmy! Timmy you’ve got to answer me, can you hear me?” The surprise that sinks through Tim’s chest isn’t enough to get his drooping eyelids to rise even a centimeter as he hears Di-Nightwing’s, no names in the field, voice echo through his head sharply even with the low volume.

“Nightwing?” It comes out as even less than a whisper, pleading and croaking and so undeniably pained that it sends an overwhelming wave of shame through his soul that hadn’t been there before.

Nightwing, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice the tone. At least, he didn’t let the likely increased levels of worry about Tim’s wellbeing bleed into his reaction in the slightest if he did, the steady voice still the same hardly panicked steadfast rumble it is in most situations. Tim can’t help but resent that Nightwing had to have perfected maintaining that controlled expression. “Yeah, yeah it’s me, Nightwing. Timmy, Black Bat and I are coming to pick you up and bring you back to the cave. Is your tracker still on you? How badly are you injured?”

They shouldn’t be here, they should keep looking for the Joker, not bothering themselves with coming back here, go save more lives! Come on, you stupid mouth, object to this, do something! His grumble of frustration doesn’t even make it past his lungs, a noise so pitiful it could barely even be considered a cough bursting from his lips instead as his entire body still managed to shake and scream against the movement. There’s no time to focus on the pain, just report and convince the others that he can get back to the cave himself and they don’t need to leave their mission. Make them believe that he’d hit his emergency tracker on accident, and had been doing recon in this warehouse without realizing it was even on.

As Tim tried to angle his head so he could assess his injuries in a way that would be remotely coherent as well as significantly more non-lethal than they actually are, didn’t he do that before he got here, the swaying support beam in his line of sight caught his attention. Heh, it looks like that one thing on the internet where- no, wait, that’s not something support beams are supposed to do. That’s fairly concerning, seeing as the entire warehouse is in danger of falling on top of him should his eyes not be betraying him. Trying to form at least another word, at least mentioning the concussion so they wouldn’t have to guess on it, maybe even the fact that the building might fall and he’d be on his way out, his tongue stopped feeling like a piece of his body, and more like some weird… meat sausage warm hurty thing. Yeah, that’s what it is. And hold on, no, that’s a muscle that definitely belongs to him and is a part of his body, not some random lump of meat in his mouth. He knew that, he’s always known that. What’s even going on with his brain? Wasn’t he doing something? Why’s he on the ground?

Pushing himself back into a sitting position, he chokes out a groan and lets everything slow the unceasing screech against his entire existence before opening his eyes again.

Hm. That’s mildly concerning.

Now, Tim’s fairly certain that he’s not any kind of expert on warehouse construction, as he usually focuses on infiltration rather than means of building, but giant splotchy pools of red along the walls and floor don’t exactly scream up to code. Looks almost like blood. That isn’t his, right? Was he bleeding? Oh, wait, yeah he is, he very much is. That would probably go along with the absolute agony spreading through every ounce of his being like a nuclear bomb going off on repeat every two seconds. Didn’t he know that? There’s some kind of wacky buzzing in his ear, like a fly managed to get right into his ear canal, and one arm flings up to swat it away for some black cold thing to intercept his hand as it goes backwards into what might as well be an abyss for how much Tim’s spatial awareness is doing its job. Hey, the buzzing’s gone, but now his arm feels like it’s got at least seven nukes going off in it, which seems like it should be a concerning number of nukes.

And oop, walls probably shouldn’t go wildly in and out of that fuzziness, but who’s to say? Technology’s gotten pretty wild since aliens revealed themselves to be a thing, and maybe somebody decided they wanted walls that could morph into fuzzies at any point in time. That’d be kinda cool to have in a house. Wait this isn’t a house, right? He doesn’t think it’s his apartment, he wouldn’t have had the time to install fuzzy walls, and this floor is too hurty to be his own. He would know, he spends a lot of time lying down on it. Why isn’t he home right now? A nap sounds like a good plan right now, but he’s in somebody else’s house. Should he be bleeding on somebody else’s floor? That doesn’t sound good. But something that does sound good? Just closing his eyes and ignoring the alarm in the back of his head screaming at him to get up and do something, whatever that something is, just a little bit quieter than the pain crashing through his body, holding him in a vice of suffering. Yeah, he thinks, I’m gonna… I’m gonna do that.

And around Tim, as his head hits the metal of the warehouse underneath him with a resounding thunk, the world fades to black.