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e-vay · 7 months

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From Chapter 22 of @beeextraordinary123’s story “What Was Stolen”

This last chapter had me DEVASTATED! And even though it hurt, I just had to draw it (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )

I’m sorry if I didn’t do the gown justice! I promise I really tried my best! 人(￣∀￣;)

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jelixpo · 8 months

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Part 1

Part 2 [You're here]

Chapter 25

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Want to read the comic in order and without a break in the chapter? You can over on tapas :)

The next chapter will be the epilogue

#a table turned bowuigi #a table turned bowuigi comic #luigi #bowser #bowuigi #princes peach #mario #super mario #e gadd #king boo #kammy koopa #violence #gore #trigger warning violence #trigger warning gore

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dragongirltongue · 2 months

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

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

#6aaah #I've also had people pre-emptively threaten police violence on me #to get me to comply with their demands before even making them #like just point a loaded gun at me at that point assholes #and fucking pull the trigger yourself instead of holding some moral highground for the inevitable

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thatdiabolicalfeminist · 1 year

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Am I the only one disturbed by the fact that 99% of what I'm seeing on social media about the Andrew Tate situation is funney jokes about how pwned he got??

This is a man who has built a career on publicly dehumanising women and encouraging other men to abuse women. Has made repeated public comments blaming rape victims in general for what they endured.

And it's just been made widespread public knowledge that he has committed horrific acts of violence based on those beliefs.

And that other public figures visited the home where he was imprisoning women to commit those acts against them and may have participated in that violence.

I get how there would be SOME jokes about his hubris etc but the fact that they're almost the entire conversation right now is deeply, deeply disturbing to me.

#rape culture #abuse culture #Andrew Tate #current events #not to mention how few posts about the situation are trigger tagged #which i feel like really highlights that people aren't even thinking about the violence that occurred #thatdiabolicalfeminist #rape #human trafficking

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kylejsugarman · 1 year

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nacho would roll up to the most tense, dangerous situations imaginable with the cuntiest facial expression ever performed and his arms crossed and he'd stand there visibly trying to explode people with his mind and roll his eyes hard enough to cast a breeze, and his bosses didn't bat an eye. meanwhile jesse couldnt step thru a doorway without getting his shit physically and mentally rocked into absolute oblivion

#syd squeaks #this isnt a condemnation of nacho btw he just served harder than Jesse. it happens #breaking bad #better call saul #nacho varga #jesse pinkman #nacho's impenetrable swag vs jesse's violence-triggering swag

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happyheidi · 3 months

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Did your partner try to kill you 😶😮😲🤯😩😭

Yes. Twice. First a car “accident” (that actually ended up in two papers here in Norway). He drove a huge Honda right into a little fence in record speed and it turned 180* degrees in the air and we ended up upside down. It was so weird because the medic said “it’s very important to use a seatbelt but in this specific instance if u had worn one ur neck would’ve cracked and u would most likely die. It’s important to wear a seatbelt at any time but this specific time it was actually good that u didn’t wear it”. HOW INSANE? I remember we told our parents when we had this “meeting” after this and no one believed it (not that it matters but I was just so stunned by it) but pls use a seatbelt!! This it not an anti-seatbelt announcement (wear ur seatbelt! Seriously!!!). I’m just relaying what he told me.

And the other time (I went back u see. Cus im an idiot u see…) and when I wanted to end it he said a version of the “if I can’t have u no one will” shit and stood there with a knife and said “well then one of us has to go” (and u know what ‘go’ means…) and I remember being really scared he was gonna hurt moffe (my dog) which he was always jealous of (imagine being jealous by a 3 kilo dog jeez man…) but yeah it was a little knife fight and it ended with the police (I called) and I had to walk to my dad in the coldest of winter. around 2 a clock at night I remember. It was legally his apartment after all. The rich wins. The cops didn’t even give me a ride. It was so cold I remember having to carry Moffe a lot of the way.. in the middle of the night. But I did love him at some point. He was the love of my life in many ways. I’m very glad I experienced that. I’m just sad it had to be such a dramatic ending.

I was always the “free spirit” so everyone including myself was very surprised when I ended up in a relationship. (I first started dating him when I was 16, we ended it when I was maybe 20, then two years without him and back at it again for a couple years) But I loved him a lot and I wish him all the best. I have no angry feelings towards him. I wasn’t an angel either. Tho it didn’t have to end like it did.

#that felt good to write #should this have a trigger warning?#if so what?#this is over 10 years ago btw so I’m all good #car accident #relationship #ask #domestic violence #car crash

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mickules · 2 years

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The (After) Life of the Party by @metamatronic Chapter 16: 2 Birds

the winner of my fanfic contest, where I asked for folks' fic recs and their fave scenes and picked one at random to draw

All credit to @metamatronic head over to their blog to check out their fics and wonderful art! They've got a bunch of extra ghost au interactions, as well as just tons of great stuff in general!

---

“ Don’t ,” Mondo said. His voice sounded weak, and for once he didn’t care. “Please, Kyoudai, please. Just don’t go in.”

For a moment, Taka hesitated. Mondo held his breath, watching as the prefect’s hand hovered over the doorknob. Then, mechanically, Taka leaned back and checked his watch.

“Right on time,” he said with a twinge of relief, before grabbing the knob and pushing his way into the room. Mondo’s feet felt like bricks, but he followed.

For a moment, it looked like Taka was alone. Taka huffed, checking his watch and straightening up. No amount of white hair or fake curse words could change his thoughts on punctuality, it seemed. Mondo let out a choked laugh.

Maybe Hifumi chickened out , Mondo thought. Maybe the plan fell apart, or Chihiro got through to him. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, and that unease in his stomach hadn’t settled. His eyes darted around the room, before catching the glint of glasses as a figure stepped out from behind the open door.

Hifumi was wielding a large hammer as he shuffled over to Taka. As he lifted the mallet over his head, Mondo let out a snarl and went in for a tackle.

As he phased through Hifumi, he heard the nasty crack behind him and felt his blood run cold.

Mondo fell to his knees at Taka’s body. He paid no attention as Hifumi let out a small noise of disbelief before shuffling out of the room. He watch Taka’s eyes flutter— he was still alive, he realized, bile rising in his throat.

“C’mon, somebody, anybody ,” he whispered, trying to will a witness to come through the door and help the man bleeding out on the floor.

Taka groaned, trying to push himself up before collapsing. Mondo watched as his hair slowly darkened back to its natural color. Mondo reached out, before recoiling. He was terrified that he would actually make contact, that he’d somehow drag Taka into this ethereal hell he and his other classmates were living in.

“Don’t die, just hang on. Someone’ll come, someone’s gotta come,” Mondo said. There was so much blood. It was just like Chihiro, just like Dai—

Mondo shook his head, trying to violently shake the thoughts out. He couldn’t do this, not again, not now.

Taka murmured something and Mondo snapped to attention.

“It’s okay, Taka, you’ll be okay. Just hold on,” Mondo said.

“Mon…do…” Taka’s voice was quiet as his eyes slowly fell shut. Mondo stomach twisted.

“No, no, no,” Mondo whispered frantically. Just as Mondo leaned in, something flew up with such force that it smacked his chin and sent him reeling backwards.

Sitting up and rubbing his chin, he looked over. He froze.

Taka was sitting up, rubbing his head and frowning deeply. His eyes opened before locking with Mondo’s. He stared for a quiet moment before the tears started.

“Mondo!” Taka shouted, tripping over his feet as he practically launched himself into Mondo’s arms. Taka buried his face in his shoulder, and he could feel his hands clutching onto the back of his jacket so tightly he thought it might rip. He was sobbing.

Mondo, for a brief moment, let himself be selfish. He wrapped his arms around Taka and squeezed. He’d never wanted this to happen, not to Taka, but there was a small, terrible part of him that was so thankful to at least get one more conversation with him. God, he’d missed him.

“What happened?” Taka asked, finally pulling away. “H-How are you here? I saw you…die.” He choked on that last word. Mondo stared at him, mouth agape.

“You, uh…You’re not…Um.” Mondo stuttered. Taka seemed to have noticed Mondo’s eyes flick briefly over his shoulder, and slowly turned.

Taka screamed.

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holyvirgilscriptures · 5 months

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okay noah is an ignorant idiot and people are more than welcome to criticize him and his actions, but can some of y'all be normal 💀 bc apparently twitter doxxed his fucking dorm location and are asking upenn students to assault him on campus. i literally cannot think of any reason why this would be okay. if you don't support him, if you hate him — 100% fine. but don't dox him and advocate for him to be violated wtf????

#noah schnapp #also noah's stance is about the fact that jews are safe in israel so if you beat him up he's literally going to double down on that #trigger assault #trigger violence #i didn't really wanna talk abt him mostly cuz i think everyone talks about him way too much #but i am wholly against praying that he gets killed or assaulted or whatever vindictive fans have against him #also even if those people were “joking” it's not funny especially considering antisemitism on campus #including another ivy league school (cornell) calling the cops a student who threatened to kill jewish students

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skrifores · 4 months

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I have seen the point being made that you don’t have to be in a romantic relationship for some behaviour to constitute domestic violence. I’m seeing this said with regards to Our Flag Means Death and what some people perceive as domestic abuse on Ed’s part - that him not being romantically involved with Izzy shouldn’t mean behaviour between can’t be considered domestic abuse.

It is an excellent point that in many places, the definition of domestic abuse isn’t restricted to intimate partners! It is often widened to consider any violence, coercion and emotional harm taking place within a home environment. Under this definition, children can be victims of domestic abuse by their parents, it can occur between siblings, even roommates - especially with a live-in landlord situation. And of course, the Revenge as well as being a workplace is ultimately where the characters live.

I think it’s very clear that the show is a workplace comedy about pirates, but if you want to apply the definition of violence, coercion and emotional harm within a home environment to your reading to the show, that can be done.

Of course, I would be surprised if you genuinely view it that way and still made it as far as even watching Season 2, given the way what you consider to be domestic abuse in this fictional setting happens so very often with little to no moral consequence, and is often intended to be taken as a joke.

I mean. In the very first episode, the crew talk about killing Stede, and begin to plan for this, including lighting him on fire.

Jim threatens Lucius and actually physically locks him in a small wooden box in the second episode for what seems to be quite a long time.

I think in 4, Izzy pulls on Fang’s beard and it really upsets him. He also talks pretty openly about the intention to kill the Revenge crew, though I’ll let that go at this stage since he doesn’t really live there so much as being there for the purpose of murdering them and stealing their stuff. Still, poor Fang, that looked like it hurt.

While we’re on Izzy, he does also actively try to kill Stede by stabbing him, and he then he goes and does the olde worlde equivalent of calling the cops on him on the intention of having him executed, which seems pretty fucked up on the ‘violence’ part of our DA definition but also hits pretty hard on coercive control since he’s doing this to get Ed to behave differently.

He does prevent the Navy from executing Ed, which is nice, but he does point out that he regrets this, which, ouch, emotional harm. If we’re doing real world definitions, “I should’ve let the cops I called on you murder you” is the sort of thing that would make me feel pretty fucked up. And we all know what it means when someone tells you to watch your step.

But it’s not all about Izzy! (It’s really not, guys, there’s a whole TV show here!) Buttons bites Lucius - who ends up needing the whole finger gone! And he’s a visual artist!

Even my darling man Roach tries to eat the Swede, and I’ve gotta say, I don’t think they were on that island long enough to justify murder.

And who could forget Mary?? Wonderfully written character, love her, but, she does with malice aforethought attempt to kill her spouse in his sleep with a skewer. She was right to do it, in my opinion, but y’know, even without broadening the definition beyond partner relationships, murder of your spouse is pretty classic domestic abuse.

So, y’know, the point I’m getting at really is that if your definition of domestic abuse is violence and control wherein the perpetrator and victim share a significant aspect of their lives like living space - that’s a fine definition in real life. It is the one I use, in real life. But if you apply it to Our Flag Means Death, I really don’t understand how you stomached watching the first season or why you came back for more.

And if you only apply this definition with regards to Ed’s behaviour, but not the rest of the characters, I do wonder why that might be.

#our flag means death #ofmd fandom #ofmd #ofmd season 2 #trigger warnings #domestic abuse #warning for domestic abuse #domestic violence #crew of the revenge #izzy hands #edward teach #stede bonnet #apparently I woke up this morning and chose discourse #I don’t know why #but there we are #the izcourse

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troyandabedsnewapartment · 11 days

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ON LOVE, ON VIOLENCE

#web weaving #if any other trigger warning is needed please let me know!!!#web weave #tw abuse #tw violence #tw domestic violence #this is probably only part one it’s about to get real unhealthy around here fellas #eroticisation of violence #do NOT do this fellas this is just a web weave do NOT #poetry #on love #on violence #mine #pls don’t be mean to me im just trying to process my trauma ok bye

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ragnarokhound · 25 days

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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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coolfireguy73 · 1 year

Text

TW: GORE AND BLOOD!!!

So... Emesis Blue

I'll be honest, I don't like this drawing. Well I do but I feel like I could have done better... I think it might be because I didn't sketch anything, I just went at it with a pen until it looked good enough 😅

I may do a better fanart one day, but I really don't know. I was really not sure about posting it :/

Don't pay attention to all the details I mostly did whatever I had in mind to fill up the space between the characters

Anyway, I won't really talk about the film, I thought about it for a few days now and I don't know if I want to talk about it in details or not, all I would say is that the years of work really shows. Amazing work guys.

I still hope that I did this thing justice and uh... yeah, see ya !

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beartitled · 9 months

Text

❗️This episode of discord shenanigans consists a ton of cartoon violence❗️

Trigger warning for blood and violence

(it’s nothing too much, but please be aware)

So few days prior wonderful @cha1nsawblood hosted the pathetic Hunger Games

Lea thank you so much, it was so fun ❤️

We had 2 rounds

Official one, that you can check out by clicking here

👉The official first round of pathetic Hunger Games 👈

And the second one

Which is like a semi secret one and wasn’t posted, but I did turn some events into comic from the second round too~

If you have no idea what patheticleys are, check out this post for more context

Without further ado, please enjoy

THE PATHETIC HUNGER GAMES

(Angy boi won in the second round)

Also this one makes me seem like a horrible mother, it’s for comedic purposes I swear! I love my little pathetic son

Credits!

@indigo-art @vellichorom @braisedhoney @blackkatdraws @SAD-ist (on twitter) @jaygrahamns @idkhowtoname @bucketfullofstrawberries @ihazmunchies91 @flatsodapop @thenamesmobu @noskav @corvidcrows @wilbursthoughts @tw1nkee28 @nahkriinn @insomniphic @plut0nix @xandyprojects @crow-cards

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