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ragnarokhound · 1 month

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t exactly plan on this, okay?

But, uh. Let’s back up a little.

—

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

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

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

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

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

"What's going on here?"

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

"Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

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

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

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

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

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

Tim stops in his tracks.

“Forty-eight—?”

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

Tim's jet-lagged brain kicks into overdrive.

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

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

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

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

And then Tim thinks about the call.

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

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

“Today,” he repeats.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh shit, bro, did you live here?”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

See, here’s the thing.

The thing is, he has options.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hand over your wallet!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, let’s just—” Tim tries to say.

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

“What’s it gonna be, pretty boy?!”

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

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

Tim blinks. So do the muggers.

He knows that voice.

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

Everything happens pretty quickly after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Had.”

So much for the League, Tim muses.

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

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

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

Jason stops abruptly, and Tim stumbles into his shoulder.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Jason wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”

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

“Again. Fucking ew.”

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

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

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

Jason thwacks him upside the head.

“Ow! What the fuck?”

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

“Am not. B is on-planet right now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jason—!”

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

“Blood money doesn’t count as square!”

“Tell that to half of Gotham, kid.”

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

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

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

“Coulda fooled me, shortstack.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Baby, you don’t know how big I am.”

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

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

He knows, okay?

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

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

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

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

But he still means it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jason’s grin is electric.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kiss is— bad. At first.

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

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

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

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

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

Tim is already asleep.

#one hundred thousand years have passed #i creak up out of the soil gasping and hacking and coughing #'i lived bitch'#'have some jaytim that grew legs on me'#my writing #asked and answered #jaytim #ladytauria #hurt/comfort #this one is sillier and more light-hearted than the other ones #the hurt is more like 'near tears travel exhaustion' than your typical aftermath of violence lol but it so definitely counts #i held a gun to the head of the muse that said 'this is way too short' and pulled the fucking trigger #i KNOW it's a very fast get together but i did Not want this to become my next 5 digit wordcount fic okay. okay. oka #the bones of a long 'tim and jason vs the league of assassins' fic is hiding here #and if i actually wrote that this would have ended much differently #but i am Not Writing That okay I am Writing Cowboys and also Werewolves Right Now. I Do Not Have Time For This!!!!!!#prompt fill

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inkskinned · 2 years

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Genuine question, because I don't know a lot about the topic and you're:

If someone identifies as non-binary and genderfluid, which from what I've gathered means something like "human" instead of male or female, doesn't that imply that women are not humans , like whole complete people with richer inner lives? And why is a dislike for (performative) femininity combined with a preference for things that are stereotypically associated with maleness an indicator that one is genderfluid? Does that mean a woman is only a woman if she loves to do make-up, wants to be a mother, only wears skirts, dresses and high heels, shaves daily, is always kind and never angry, has long hair, hates to get dirty and so on? Because I have never met a woman who's exactly like that in my life, but plenty who liked gaming, sports, being loud, opposed to shaving & make-up, who wore pants every day.

I do not believe this is a genuine question, but I'll answer it as if it was, just in case other people have to deal with this, and would like someone who is patient enough to give them the words. The argument you're making here is something that already stems from a deep logical fallacy in the beginning argument. You assume "If you are neither A nor B, and instead C, you think that A cannot be C."

It is a logical fallacy to say "X implies Y" when it does not do so. By this logic, I also believe men are not human. By this logic, I believe only nb people are human.

Some - but not all - rectangles are squares. Some - but not all - animals are dogs. Some humans are nb.

I have given no information about how I present, nor my interests. I am not going to give you that information, because it's irrelevant. What I need you to understand is that, again, you are making the incorrect logical assumption that "If a person dislikes X and likes Y, they must be Z." For all you know, I dislike performative masculinity and like stereotypically feminine preferences.

You then assume your own statement is correct and move forward with your logic as if I had debated you. This is not a "genuine question" about how nb people work, this is assuming being nb is based on a series of preferences.

As a teacher, I do think it's important to tell you: even if this is coming from a genuinely confused place: you are conducting bad research. You begin with an inherently flawed question, as it biased and assumes a position I must defend against - "why don't you see women as people?" Then you make logical conclusions about my personhood and experiences and ask inflammatory questions as if you were debating me, which I am not interested in doing.

If you were my student, and genuinely curious about how nb people see gender, I'd have no trouble with you asking an out nb content creator. If you're really trying to collect information, ask honestly, without personal bias. Here's some examples of what a genuine question would have looked like: - Do your preferences play into your gender identity? - How has being nb informed how you see femininity and masculinity? - What tools do you use to express your gender?

You are mistaking gender expression and gender roles as being part of my identity.

You are most crucially mistaking being nonbinary as being part of the binary and having to exist "in opposition" to other genders in order for it to "make sense". One of the most freeing things about realizing I was nb is that I don't exist in opposition to anything - and also that all gender works similarly.

Gender is a describing word, and this can be confusing for some people. In general, we tend to learn describing words in binary - short/tall, old/young, kind/mean. Therefore, there are (many) people who think - feminine/masculine must be oppositional. Gender is also a feeling word - and again, these are words that can be taught in opposition to each other. Hungry/sated, happy/sad, feminine/masculine.

But because gender is such a rare type of word - feeling and describing - it exists outside of binary. It exists more like art exists.

Green can exist in opposition to red, but it also just exists as its own color. Blue is a part of green, but it is also a part of yellow - blue is still its own color, and yellow is still its own color, and green is still its own color. One painting titled "still-life with fruit" may be a series of vague colors and boxes. Another may be a hyper-realistic singular plum. They are both how the artist expresses their personal vision of the fruit. They might even be by the same artist! And although we may compare them, they are not opposites.

One song by Hozier is not in opposition to one song by Britney Spears. They are different styles, not oppositional styles. You may choose to see them as oppositional - but that is your personal opinion, and not fact. And some people may feel and experience those songs as being actually incredibly in-line with each other.

This is why we say: gender is a spectrum. That all gender roles are made up. Personality, interests, and experiences may shape how someone sees and feels their gender, but it does not define how they see and feel their gender.

When we question gender roles and gender expression like this, it tends to make people upset. People like me tend to make people upset. So much bigotry is based on the lie that "feminine" and "masculine" are oppositional. Opposition is rigid and important - it keeps white hegemonic structures in power. I don't have time or space in this post to talk about how rigid gender roles/enforced gender expression rules are not just sexist but also racist, classist, ableist, homophobic, and bigoted; but I really recommend you do the research on how disruption of the gender binary might put the patriarchy at risk.

The thing you feel trapped by - that "being a woman" is a complicated series of rules - is exactly the kind of thing a nonbinary person would agree with you about. We have to fight hard to be recognized for what is a basic truth about our identity - of course we don't believe that gender expression is equivalent to gender identity.

And truth be told... I think you kind of knew that. I think you kind of knew all of this. I am going to hope that you are young. I'll tell you this: I was raised by someone who was a far-right extremist catholic asshole. I certainly didn't have the research/knowledge/exposure to interrogate this stuff honestly until I was probably 23.

I am so much happier now. I hope one day you get the same opportunities as I had. I hope you choose to move away from bigotry.

love u anyway. all this in kindness only.

#to be deleted #do i accidentally give my short lesson on gender here? yeah #<3 in this u can tell exactly the age that i taught for 15 years lmao #but also like.#yeah you got me.... i have never met a woman before and i totally think women are only fembots #meanwhile every person who has ever read my writing:#every 3rd week this bitch is on her bullshit about how unfair gender rules for women are #this is actually more to help other nb people whom i KNOW get questions like this #than it is to inform the anon #who like v clearly is not doing this in good faith #this is just like the 10th one i got like this #that first logical jump of - you think ur not male or female but human so therefore #women aren't people #was just SO wild .... like #yeah!!! that's totally a normal thing to assume!#do you think people who are like ''well yeah im from america #but i wouldnt consider myself to be from any particular state''#are actually saying ''i don't think states are american''#hell when i say #im cuban but i obvi grew up in america im just the daughter of an immigrant #nobody is like -- well. raquel. that means u think no americans live in cuba huh #anyway love u bye #okay to reblog #!!#love u

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miyuecakes · 8 months

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funny enough i've never drawn male nepal and sri lanka

#hws sri lanka #hws nepal #aph sri lanka #aph nepal #hetalia #hetalia oc #hws south asia #idk. ive been feeling uninspired about their designs for a year now #also yeah i recycled one of lebanon's old hairstyles for nepal lmao cause i still liked it but i thought it didn't fit the former #plus it was too similar to jordan #it works because this style is just basically a short hair ver of fem nepal's hair down #almost all of south asia has gotten a face lift these this past year and a half.....maldives and bhutan are next #i made south asia in like 2018 or 2019 #isnt that crazy?#i think i'm particularly fond of my south asian designs despite starting with SEA because they basically grew up with me #as the 2nd region i designed

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jonathanbiers · 2 years

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i can't stop thinking about lil teenage tommy hagan and steve harrington doing things that are definitely a bit fruity while they're in the figuring yourself out stages of life. so maybe steve grows up not thinking it's weird at all to want to cuddle or even occasionally kiss boys, or hold their hands, or lean his head on their shoulder while they watch movies. that's just typical friend behavior, he's been doing that with tommy since they were kids and it was never weird.

until it wasn't tommy, it was one of steve's other friends, and they definitely thought it was weird when he instinctively went to snuggle up to them on the couch or whatever. they definitely got very obviously uncomfortable, might have even accused him of being gay or said some vile things to him. so, okay, he gets it in his head that it's not normal, maybe even that it's wrong and bad.

so, he stops being physically affectionate with tommy. he pulls his hand away when tommy reaches for it, shrugs off tommy's arm. pretends not to notice the kinda hurt look he gets in return. when he wakes up after they passed out on the couch during whatever movie it was that week, his head resting comfortably on tommy's chest and the familiar thump of his heartbeat right under his ear, he feels guilty because this isn't supposed to be something guys do but he likes it. but that's wrong, that's what his other friend said, it's bad.

so, he pulls away further. doesn't stop being friends with tommy, but he keeps him at an arms length at best. and tommy gets a girlfriend, and steve is relieved... right? he should be relieved. that's normal, they're guys. they get girlfriends. but tommy's been kind of a dick to him lately, and seeing him with his arm over carol's shoulder, or kissing the top of her head, or her kissing his freckle-covered cheeks, it makes something in his stomach twist. he used to do those things. he wants to do those things still. but those aren't things guys are supposed to do. they're wrong.

they go on double dates sometimes and it's fun. it is! steve doesn't think about the fact that tommy and carol are making out in the movie theater, because he's too busy making out with jennifer, or heather, or christy.

things with tommy are getting weird. he's not being mean to steve, just...vaguely rude all the time. until he starts lashing out, and steve's just confused. doesn't say anything, figures it's probably not his fault, just tommy's own shit. him and carol haven't been doing great.

tommy and carol are on a break, have been off and on for the past year or so. steve doesn't know what fight it was this time. he doesn't really care, past the fact that tommy's upset. they're at steve's house, and they're alone, so they're drinking. to get tommy's mind off of it. steve doesn't know how many beers they've had between them but they're sitting at the edge of the pool, their feet in the water and tommy's leaning on him. he's damn near in steve's lap. would be, if he just moved his leg a little bit. steve doesn't think too hard about why he wants him to. doesn't have time to think about it.

because tommy sets his beer down behind him, tosses it more like, it spills all over the concrete. his hand is on steve's cheek, turns his head, and steve doesn't even try to think. he knows this, it's familiar, it's good. steve's kissed a lot of girls, none of them kiss like tommy. not like they mean it. tommy gets his other hand in steve's hair and steve's arms wrap around his waist, this is normal. tommy is in his lap now, and steve missed that. doesn't get to savor it for long, because tommy pushes him down to his back. tommy's spilled beer soaks through the fabric of his shirt, he doesn't care. this is right.

up until it stops. steve lifts his head off the concrete, tries to chase after tommy's lips, but when something drips onto his cheek, he opens his eyes. tommy is crying, is glancing back and forth between steve's eyes like he's looking for something. he doesn't seem to find it, asks, "why?" steve doesn't know what he means.

when they wake up in the morning, tommy in steve's bed and steve on the floor, he wants to ask. he's got one hell of a hangover but he can't stop replaying that kiss in his mind. he waits to see if tommy says anything. he might not even remember, he was drunker than steve. drunk enough to do things he didn't mean to do, didn't want to do, steve thinks. he wants tommy to have wanted it, though, because something clicked for steve last night.

tommy doesn't mention it. doesn't act like anything happened at all. he's not back to his regular self, but he's back to being the bitchy tommy that steve has known for the past few years, so steve assumes he's right. tommy was blacked out, didn't mean for it to happen. he tries to ignore how his heart aches when tommy steps out the door to go home wearing a change of clothes he'd borrowed from steve.

tommy and carol stay together after that. when they hang out, it's always the three of them, sometimes plus whoever steve is dating that week. steve doesn't get his shirt back, but him and tommy aren't talking nearly as much as they used to, and it's not like he even really wants it back. he kind of hopes tommy will just...wear it one day. like some kind of signal or something. he'll show up to their double date wearing steve's shirt under his jacket and give him one of those looks that says more than words can. says more than steve thinks he's capable of saying in words.

he doesn't. nothing happens at all, until nancy wheeler happens. things are different with nancy. steve wouldn't say they feel right, nothing's ever felt right with any of the girls he's dated, it's still nice. but sometimes out of the corner of his eye he thinks he catches this little look, a little spark of jealousy, but when he meets tommy's eyes directly, it's gone. he must be imagining it.

then jonathan byers happens, and steve says some shit he'd never in a million years actually mean. he's not imagining it then, the way tommy reacts to his words. it's nothing steve's never heard tommy say himself. projecting, he later learns is the term for it.

then it's after jonathan byers happens, and tommy has steve backed up against the door of his car, fists in his shirt, their faces close. it's not like the last time, not like any of the other times they've been this close, but steve can't help it. his eyes fall to tommy's lips, wishes he'd just close the distance. it feels kind of like it's their last chance. he knows tommy won't, and he knows he doesn't have the guts to do it himself. even if he did, carol is right there, they're in public. it's game over for them either way.

#spotify has me in an angsty mood again #im sorry if this is very ''grew up with catholic parents internalized shame and comphet'' of me #every goddamn time i try and make a short little angsty post it turns into a whole ass fic outline #im tired of this grandpa #my spotify algorithm: WELL THATS TOO DAMN BAD #sending a strongly worded letter to bay faction and it looks sad. they're the main culprits #stranger things #stommy #steve x tommy #steve harrington #tommy hagan #why is this longer than any steddie post i've ever written

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pointycorgiears · 22 days

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Crocodile was on the outer balcony, watching the dark waves. It was a moonless night and thousands of stars littered the sky. He gave a puff of his cigar and gazed out on the horizon. Shark Rock, a tiny island off the coast of Karai Bari, was a black silhouette against the starlight. It was given that name because of the tall dolomite that jutted out the middle, resembling a shark's dorsal fin. There was a scout ship milling about it.

It was quiet. Just the soft tumbling of the breakers and Mihawk's shuffling books around the shelves inside to keep him company. Buggy was already passed out somewhere. No Marines, no rival pirate crews, no activity whatsoever. It was peaceful.

He took one more drag of his cigar. As he turned to go inside, something caught his eye.

He looked at Shark Rock. The orange lights of the scout ship seemed higher than they should be. He blinked to clear his eyes, thinking it was a trick of the darkness. But no...the lights hovered above the water...all three of them.

"Huh..."

He watched them for a moment, squinting to focus. Maybe a rogue wave had lifted the boat upwards? That idea was shot down as soon as the lights rose higher....and higher, far past the shoreline of the rock. And they kept going.

And then they moved.

They changed their position, spinning around each other while simultaneously rising, until they were at the tip of the shark fin. The arranged themselves, by some force of their own, into a triangle pattern, hovering over the rock.

"Mihawk..." Crocodile quietly called out to his partner. The other didn't hear him. And he was too transfixed to look to see what the swordsman was doing.

The lights grew brighter.

"Mihawk..."

The lights became so bright that they began illuminating the rock...and then they illuminated something else. Something metallic-like, nestled in between them as if they were attached to it. Triangular, silver, and solid. A light shot from the middle of the thing directly onto the shark fin. As bright as a pillar of light from God himself.

"Mihawk!" His voice was now strained, and he didn't know why. The air on his arms stood up. His hand trembled his cigar. And he didn't know why.

"Yes?" Mihawk answered from inside and began walking to the balcony.

The lights pulsed, flashed, and disappeared in the blink of an eye. Shark Rock was dark again.

Mihawk finally appeared on the balcony. "What is it, Crocodile?"

Crocodile tried to find his words and choked. "Uh...nothing. I just...I thought I saw something."

****

[[About a week later...]]

The beach was nice and moonlit. The palm trees swayed overhead, their fronds dark and gentle in the wind. Crocodile liked to smoke on nights like this. The moon cast a caressing glow over the whole island and it soothed away the hectic moments of the day.

He walked to the edge of the trees, looking across the beach to the water. The waves rolled calm and easy. He took one final drag and blew the smoke through his nose. He bent down to crush the embers of the cigar in the sand. Some flitted along the ground and burnt out. One caught the breeze and flew up past his eye before simmering into nothing. Crocodile turned away to head back through the trees.

The little ember appeared in the corner of his vision. He tilted his head to make sure it went out.

Then froze.

Oh no.

Three lights glowed an eerie orange further down the beach. His gaze was stuck. He could not look away from the three orbs hovering several feet above the sand, casting their luminance on the beach. He paused and waited in the trees.

What are these things? he thought. He never expected to see anything like this again. He stared at them from his hiding spot in the treeline. They could be a threat to Cross Guild. As he observed, he noticed a black shape between the lights, connecting them together into one form just like the first time he saw them. It was slender and narrow. It looked like a cake platter and cover. The lights glowed on the underside, arranged in a triangular pattern. He was fixated on it.

Then the beam shot down from its belly, just like it had on Shark Rock, only this time it hit the sand a few feet below it. Crocodile narrowed his eyes. Something moved behind the light pillar. He blinked again, and there was a humanoid form with long arms and legs. It looked…off. Like parts of it were transparent or made of a mirror.

Crocodile froze. Every hair on his body became alert. It felt like the wind was knocked out of him and he almost gasped for air. Instead he made a quiet inhale of breath in fear of drawing the thing's attention.

The fear.

Crocodile was a veteran as far as battles were concerned. He faced Marines, pirates, Whitebeard, all head on. He was never afraid. He could not be shaken. The thing moved its glittering head.

He was afraid. And he didn't know where the fear was coming from.

He was thankful he was in the dark shadows of the trees. The head moved again, turning, and two black, soulless eyes were suddenly looking in his direction. Crocodile instinctively dropped into a pile of sand next to the tree stumps. He dared not move a single grain on the ground.

The thing turned away. One of its long arms reached down to where the water curled on the beach and scooped some of it up into some kind of vial. Then it shimmered and dissipated into the light beam. The light disappeared, and the orange orbs and black mass began floating out toward the ocean, slowly, and was eventually far enough out to sea that the lights could have been ordinary stars on the horizon. They vanished into the night.

Crocodile crawled as a sand pile all the way back to his tent.

****

Dinner was quiet. Crocodile did his best to keep his fork from rattling in his hand and his hook from carving holes in the table. Mihawk asked him what's wrong. Crocodile couldn't answer. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. Buggy was staring at him to. He drank a little bit more than usual that night. Buggy bumped into him in the hall as they prepared for bed.

"You ok?" he asked. There was something in the clown's eyes. Crocodile nodded.

"Did you see the lights too?" Buggy asked, deadpan.

Crocodile stuttered and his voice cracked. "W-What?"

****

Mihawk had forgotten the book he was reading in the common room of the main tent. He went down the hall that connected the living tents to the main tent, walking brisk and silent with barefeet. He trotted up the stairs intending to retrieve it and go back to bed, but he found something unexpected that made him take pause.

Crocodile and Buggy were still there, talking excitedly about something on the sofa. He peeked from the top steps. They were dressed in their night clothes and Mihawk wondered what was so important that it was stalling them from going to their quarters to sleep. He walked up the last steps. "Why are you two still here?"

"AAAAAHHHHAAIIIIEEEEHHH!"

Mihawk was taken aback. Both Buggy and Crocodile had just screamed, at him.

Buggy's eyes were wide as he was pressed against Crocodile's chest, a knife gripped his hand pointed at Mihwk. Crocodile's hook was also raised in his direction in a defensive stance.

Mihawk lifted a brow. "Are you in distress?"

"We can't go to sleep!" Buggy exclaimed."

And why is that?"

"Because they'll come for us!"

"Who, exactly?"

"The Star People!" Buggy exclaimed and Crocodile silently nodded. His eyes were bloodshot.

Mihawk was now concerned. "What are you idiots talking about?"

****

Mihawk never should have asked. He never should have indulged them. Because then, maybe he could be sleeping snug and comfortable in his room right now. Instead, he had to hear a mad rant from Buggy about the "Star People" and how they were flying around at night in invisible vessels, and they got into people's heads to hear their thoughts, and how Gol D. Roger had seen them once, and how Roger had told Buggy to beware of them, and how they somehow lived among the stars, and...

Mihawk didn't really remember the rest. He stopped listening after awhile. All he knew was that Buggy, and somehow Crocodile, had convinced him that they were suddenly incapable of sleeping tonight because they needed to be on guard and they wanted Mihawk to stay with them in the common room all night. Because he was the most powerful, they reasoned. He could protect them.

While it was flattering that his crewmates thought so highly of him, he had a slight issue when it meant he was going to be protecting them from ghosts and fairytales like a couple of scared children.

Actually, Buggy and Crocodile were terrified. Of what exactly, Mihawk did not know. Crocodile was not easy to scare, so it had to have been something serious. All he knew was that both of them saw something to put them in this state, and it was his duty as the only currently sound mind of the leadership to care for them and be on guard. Cross Guild couldn't afford to be vulnerable. If that meant sleeping in the common room with them, then so be it.

So here he was, bringing some blankets and pillows from his quarters for himself to sleep on. He reached the top of the stairs and walked in the room. Buggy was in a reclining chair with a blanket over him and a very large lion plush toy caught in his death grip. Crocodile was laid out on the sofa, draped by blankets and his coat. Both of them seemed to be settling down at least, finally.

Buggy caught sight of him from the chair. "Did you bring Yoru?"

Mihawk raised the sword with his hand, making sure the blade was displayed sharp and intimidating in the low light.

"Good," Mihawk heard Crocodile mumble from under his coat.

Mihawk sighed. He set his blankets and pillows on the floor between the sofa and chair, arranging them so he would be comfortable. As he began to lay down, he heard footsteps on the stairs. Mihawk stood, taking Yoru with him to the landing.

Daz Bones met him there in the dark. He looked at Mihawk curiously. "I was doing a security check. I thought some children had snuck in here. It sounded like little girls screaming."

Mihawk sighed. "Do not worry. I will handle any children that need attending to."

Buggy yelled from his chair to see what was going on and if they should put the foil on their heads and start running. Luckily, Daz caught on to Mihawk's exasperation.

"I see. Goodnight, Sir."

Daz left and Mihawk returned to his luxurious bed on the floor. He laid down, Yoru dutifully lying next to him within arm's reach. Just in case there were any...intruders, or something.

🛸🛸🛸

#Long post #short story #cross guild #dracule mihawk #sir crocodile #buggy the clown #daz bones #one piece #This just kinda happened. Instead of working on my other fic I wrote this lol #The first part is based on my dad's ufo sighting #I grew up in a very active area. Lots of weird lights in the skies #I just wanted to torment Croc a little bit #Yes I know there are Space Pirates. But this not about them. Spooky.

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