#but i thought he was going to get steamrolled

[animentality]

so Trump won, and Republicans won back the Senate.

...

I'm not going to work today.

I'm going to sit at home and contemplate death.

[wildflowercryptid]

⚠️ spoilers for some year 3 + 4 dialogue with gustafa's child below! ⚠️

[ some of the text in the second image is cut off, the full dialogue is likely meant to be "hold on a second. has gustafa been riding your coattails this whole time?" ]

no, because why is bea so brutal towards gustafa oh my god?? like you're really just gonna ask that question when he's within earshot??? 😭😭😭

[vulpinesaint]

i don't talk about alucard castlevania very often because the last season of castlevania was so bad to me that i just don't engage with the show anymore like that but make no mistake. i have many thoughts and opinions on that man.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

pinning to the workshop corkboard: you've heard of winston "i'm cassandra" billions clairvoyance concepts for fun & profit, hear also of winston billions sphinx concepts (you must be This understanding of what he means to proceed)

[diluc33rpm]

astarion is so fucking funny as a character because conceptually he hits all the marks of a wet cat blorbo but in practice he's unbelievably hard to stand. i'll be on the bg3 companion guide and have to start CRYING from trying to find the shit under his section that gains approval. loses -15 points for gently suggesting we not massacre an orphanage in cold blood with the d&d equivalent of a nuclear warhead

[alchemistc]

He's drunk when he sends it. Pissed because Buck won't just let this die. Tired of seeing his name flash across his screen, texts full of anger and sadness and hurt.

I suspect you've already met your last and it's not me he sends, and then turns off his phone and reaches for the bottle of whiskey on his top shelf.

---

If he'd been sober he would have known better. It's not even like it's been a pervasive thought - just an inkling at the start of things that seemed to be completely off base once he got to know everyone better, but looking back... He can see it. The built in life. The steadfast support. The knowledge that they'd always, always have each other's back. The kid who hero worshipped him.

The thing is he's fielding texts from Eddie, too, checking in and then circling around to being so goddamn judgmental that it's like they've coordinated their attacks to give Tommy no room to breathe.

He ended it to save himself from slipping so far under the surface he wouldn't make it back.

The fact that he's lost them both to his own fear is icing on the cake for the demon on his shoulder that keeps trying to remind him that once upon a time he'd fully thought Eddie and Buck were amicable exes.

---

He has to blink to figure out who's standing on his doorstep. The mustache is gone.

"If you meant who I think you mean, you're dumber than you look," Eddie says, and shoulders past Tommy before Tommy can even muster an affronted expression.

Tommy wanders after Eddie into his own kitchen, immediately annoyed that he looks more at home there than Tommy has felt in weeks. He'd gotten used to the loft - the space, the echoes, the lights of the city. The smell of his own aftershave on Buck's pillow.

They never spent much time here. The loft was closer - to Harbor, to the 118, to all the things in the city that tempted them out for a night. And staying at the loft meant he wouldn't have the echoes of Buck in every room, around every corner. (The echoes are in him, instead, and he still feels the absence like a lanced wound.) Tommy has always been good at making other people think he's good at putting distance between himself and them.

Eddie digs in a drawer, pulls out the bottle opener shaped like a cow and pops two tops. Holds one out for Tommy and scowls when Tommy wrinkles his nose at the Corona.

"Absolutely screw you if you think I'm driving halfway across town for you just to get the ones you like, right now."

Tommy can't argue that. He takes a drag and swallows. Stares. Is everyone else experiencing whiplash seeing him without the mustache? It looks fine but it'd taken so much fucking work to get used to it and now it's just gone. Clean shaven, an acre of skin he hasn't seen in months.

Tommy blinked and the entire world was different. Tommy freaked and the world changed.

"What are you doing here?"

Eddie's eyebrows both lift, a frank Are You Fucking Serious look on his face that makes Tommy want to take him to the mats and have it out in the garage instead of over beers.

"Buck may be spinning his wheels trying to figure out what the fuck you meant but I know damn well what you were implying."

That seems unlikely. Eddie always seems to be the last person to have a single clue what was going on, with Buck scraping in just before him. It's a tight race.

He used to find it charming.

(He absolutely does not still find it charming, he tells his heart, and wonders if he could hire some tiny asshole gnome to go stomp around in an atrium or two and get it to stop doing what it's doing. Fucking traitor.)

"Do you actually believe that, or is it some dumb excuse because you're terrified of being happy?"

Oh, that's fucking rich.

Tommy opens his mouth to tell him exactly that but Eddie just steamrolls right by him. "You don't have to point out the hypocrisy, jackass. I'm well aware of my own issues. Thing is - you're like, almost right. Buck does make me happy. Next to Chris there's no one else in the world I'd rather have by my side, rain or shine, good or bad. I love him. He's my person."

Tommy rolls his jaw. It's not a vindication to hear it.

"Except I'm not gay, Tommy. And I don't want that. I never have. And neither does Buck, just in case that argument was about to hit the airwaves."

"How do you know?"

Something sparks in the back of Eddie's eyes. Understanding. Triumph.

"You want an itemized list or a demonstration?"

Which is when Tommy knows he's stepped into an absolute minefield. No markers. Just free balling his way through a conversation that could explode with even the slightest pressure.

Eddie's got his phone out.

None of this is ideal.

When he looks up, his eyes land squarely on Tommy, who would like in this moment to be able to curl so far in on himself he gets sucked clean through the other side. "First of all, Buck may have just been improvising his entire journey of sexuality but for once I was trying to get ahead of the curve so that whole starry-eyed newly not straight vision you have of Buck is bullshit. You let him pull you along by the shirt strings for months without pressing pause and then you freak out when he thinks his speed and your speed are the same speed?"

This is feeling a whole lot like an ambush, now.

"Did you ever even try to slow him down?"

Tommy has some choice words that aren't remotely appropriate to say to someone who is at least tangentially still his friend, so he takes another swig of shitty beer. God, this shit is awful.

"You wanna know how I know I'm not his one? How I know he's not mine?"

Tommy really, really doesn't. Honestly he'd like to kick him out.

"Because he went at our friendship at the same warp speed pace he took your relationship and it never fucking scared me."

Proof in the pudding, for Tommy. He's not the sort of jackass who actually thinks he can make a different judgement call on someone else's sexuality than the one they've made themselves, but come on.

"Shannon's been dead for half a decade," Eddie says, voice dropping so suddenly Tommy feels it like an icy draft. "And maybe one day I'll make my peace with that. Maybe one day I'll get out from under it. The point is I've lost them both and the loss wasn't the goddamn same."

"Buck came back," Tommy argues.

Eddie scoffs. Wrinkles his nose. "Jeez, he wasn't kidding about how weird that sounds." His phone buzzes on the countertop, and Tommy wonders what the hell that look on his face means. "Don't change the subject. I'm not here to talk you into anything. I'm just here to drink a beer with you and tell you how goddamn stupid it is to think that an uncertain future with Evan Buckley isn't worth every second of terror it causes you."

"You don't know me as well as you think you do."

Eddie tips the bottle against his lips. Swallows. God, why hadn't Tommy just pursued the self-proclaimed straight guy for a couple weeks before he scratched the itch somewhere else and kept a friend, instead?

"Maybe." Eddie tips his head. "Maybe I do, though. Maybe in the months and months you were invited to all my mopey nights in with Buck and all the crazy crap we end up involved in at the station and all the times you couldn't shut up about him when he wasn't around and all the times I got to see you falling ass over teakettle for my best friend, I learned a fucking thing or two about Tommy Kinard." He wags his head back and forth. "Maybe."

"Is there a point to this?"

Eddie tips his eyes to his phone, and it's probably too late at this point for the suspicion to begin to creep in.

"I mostly just came to confront you about your completely off base bullshit excuses, but there's actually a pretty simple solution to at least one of your multitude of issues, so. Now we're waiting."

Tommy doesn't like the sound of that at all.

"Chris is mad at you, by the way."

It's a distraction. It's fully a - "Why is he mad at me?"

"I should actually thank you, because it's the first time he's actively talked to me in months," Eddie continues, like Tommy hadn't asked a question. "He's pissed because Buck is sad and there's literally nothing in the world that gets a rise out of the Diaz boys like sad Buck."

"You can just say you're pissed at me and go, Eddie."

"Oh I'm angry. Don't think I'm not. Mostly I'm just sad for you. You had six months to get to know Buck and never thought to yourself 'hes going to love me and it's going to hurt' until he skipped too far ahead in the program."

And that's - kind of the final straw. He's let Eddie get his licks in. He deserves it, he knows he does. Honestly it's a little cathartic to hear - to know exactly what Buck has spent his time dissecting post-Tommy. "That's all I ever thought about. Do you think I didn't know going in? I tried to put a stop to it before it even started and he just doubled down! Do you think for a second I wasn't viscously aware that I was setting myself up for -."

No. He's not gonna say it. He's not giving that to Eddie when he couldn't even give it to Ev-Buck. When he couldn't give it to Buck.

Eddie looks victorious anyway.

"And for six months you thought it was worth it."

"For six months I was too much of a coward to stop thinking about it."

Eddie drains the rest of his beer. "I'm not gonna lie. You screwed up pretty bad. Like. Astronomically bad. Giving up your location in a firefight bad."

Tommy does everything he can not to wince.

"It's salvageable, though. If you want it to be. If there's anything I know about Buck it's that second chances are his bread and butter." He's been dancing around saying anything of substance about Buck's feelings, in all of this, but the hints are there. As if the bouts of angry-depressive texts from Buck weren't clue enough.

"And what if it's not what I want?"

Eddie's eyes dart to his phone one more time. "Then you can make it a clean break in about ... three and a half minutes."

Tommy nearly tosses his beer across the room.

[occamstfs]

Ni Hao!NYC

Morally conflicted journalist puts off questions of ethics until it's just too late. Finally assigned to put his name next inflammatory content Sam finds himself more than appreciating Chinese culture.

Various white to Asian Muscle growth and racial change ahead!

Like many, I saw the final pictures on twitter and had to do something with them haha! Ended up with a piece just a tad different than usual! Hope you all enjoy! -Occam

Samuel Johnston knew he worked for a rag but as long as the checks cashed he could afford to mute his conscience. They made money not from sales so much as some rightwing think tank who wants their views affirmed in any way they can get it. So he lays low and pens little puff pieces, avoiding anything too controversial and introduces himself as an accountant to anyone he cares enough to lie to.

He’s quite adept at staying out of sight and mind when it comes to the doling out of any especially charged or problematic issues. Making sure to bury his own work any chance he gets, even using a pen name in case someone accidentally stumbles on his writing. It’s gone well enough so far he thinks! Sam tells himself that really working for NY:Red isn’t that bad, surely it’s even good that he’s got the job rather than anyone who believes the shit they write. Right?

No job is without its problems, he tells himself. So far he’s done a commendable job keeping his nose down with an almost supernatural ability to duck away from bigwigs or management. That is until now as he’s summoned by name to his boss’ side. His proficiency at staying off the radar of management has kept him from a one on one with the man in charge for some time, but now he is sitting on the top floor outside of Mr. Howard’s office, surely waiting to be assigned some horrible project.

“Come in!” Sam hears the surly man shout before promptly stepping into the gaudy office. He’s immediately taken aback as somehow the editor looks almost younger than he does in the many pictures Sam has seen. Sam hides his shock at the man’s jet black hair as well as he hides the general fear and disdain that begins to send adrenaline pumping towards his mind. Mr. Howard doesn't notice at least, getting straight to business, “I can tell from yer writing that ya like the city Sam, can I call ya Sam?”

Samuel opens his mouth to reply but the chief just continues on, “Anyway I love all yer little toilet paper stories but how do ya wanna write with the big leagues?” This time Samuel stays strong and gets a word in before being steamrolled again, “Actually I-” “I’m puttin’ you on the most important case we have Sam. Surely ya’ve noticed all this, what's da word, influx? Invasion? Bah. All the Asian shit that’s startin’ ta creep in on our city’s culture!” Samuel makes an awkward face as despite knowingly working for the racist, it’s different to hear the words out loud.

He holds his tongue out of shock or fear and his boss continues on his diatribe, “The last couple a schmucks I had on the beat just up’n left me high and dry can ya believe it! Old friends I thought!” He grumbles as he scratches his chin, moving away his hand it seems his beard thinned? He shakes his head in irritation and Sam would swear he saw his jowls tighten and wrinkles smooth over. “Anyway kid. Go out and do some prelim research. Have something on my desk by Friday or yer out just like those galoots!” Samuel stands for a second unsure if he’s allowed to leave before his boss looks up to glare with eyes Sam would’ve sworn were blue when he walked in.

Sam rushes out the door and to the elevator, riding it back to his floor, debating between writing a preemptive resignation or keeping mum and keeping on payroll for one last week. Profiteering from a culture war he may be but he’s not about to regurgitate genuinely racist talking points. He taps his foot impatiently as he thinks about just how cushy this gig is though. “Fuck!” He decides to call the only other confirmed decent human being he knows here, his friend Nick who works in the fashion dept.

The two go to grab coffee at a chain next door, Sam tries not to notice how they’ve started selling Vietnamese iced coffee. “Fuck man I can’t do it! Literally just one conversation alone with Howard was a wake up call.” Nick smiles like he has no problems with working for the dirtiest rag in the city, “Chill out Sam. Huward had my manager on the same beat and he, uh, Hidaka said that is said to just look busy for a bit and we won’t need to worry about all this racist shit anymore.” Sam squints his eyes at his friend, he’s not usually so easy breezy about work. He also racks his brain trying to figure out who Hidaka could possibly be. That can’t be his boss. No way Howard would let someone not white lead a department.

Seeing Sam lost in thought Nick reaches out and grabs his hand in a way Sam couldn’t imagine him doing before this second. In fact as the second drags on he stares down in the hand in shock, feeling the warm hand squeeze his forearm. He looks up to his friend’s face searching for any clue to the cause of this odd behavior. Sam smiles awkwardly and half-jokes “Hah hah, uh- Who are you and what’d you do with Nick… Hah.” Nick bursts out laughing, patting him on the arm jovially and leaving a hand larger than Sam remembers resting on his own. “Hidaka-san just showed me how to worry less about this job un?”

Sam inspects him closely for anything amiss, it looks like he’s picked up a bit of a tan? His hair is messier than usual and definitely a little darker, his skin is alluringly smooth and Sam can feel the heat his body is generating despite sitting across from him. Looking at his clothes Sam finds another surprise, his shirt almost looks strained! As if Nick has been hitting the gym for sometime, maybe it’s just been a while since he’s seen his friend in person? 

Assuaged in the slightest, Sam ignores the glowering red flags and follows this lede, “Woah Nick have you been working out?” Nick blushes and Sam at the very least sees his friend is as shy as ever. He goes to scratch the back of his head straining his shirt almost to its ripping point as he responds, “Ah a little haha! どうぞ(please) don’t you worry about me. Since you have no desire to write the article, why don’t you go ahead and check out the little Asian market down the street for fun? It was quite a good time when Hidaka-san brought me earlier this week!”

Sam awkwardly smiles as he wonders why on Earth Sam is suddenly referring to his boss like this, it’s almost like he’s performatively speaking Japanese. Taking a second to pause Sam looks at the haircut as hands unseen style it into something fashionable he puts two and two together. Thinking to himself, ah! Nick must just be a weeb! Tension disappears from his body with a sigh of relief as he wonders how he didn’t notice before now. He gets up to follow his friend’s advice, what better way to stick it to the man than support the people he aims to malign right?

He bucks up and grabs a Vietnamese iced coffee for the road, tossing a “Sayonara,” at Nick with a wink to which he perks up and slightly bows. Man, how did he not notice before Sam thinks yet again. Blissfully unaware, leaving just as kanji symbols appear on Nick’s keyboard and his friend responds to an email in a language he didn’t know this morning. Blue eyes growing coal dark as his tanned, increasingly muscular arms tap away at the keyboard.

Sam spends the bulk of his day at the little Asian street fair and has an absolute blast. Any residual stains on his mind from his unpleasant morning absolutely fade away as he goes from booth to booth sampling cuisine and chatting with diasporic cultures the world over. Time flies as he goes into journalist mode and basically interviews first gen Chinese immigrants about their time in the city. He finds himself beyond immersed in the conversation, continuing to learn from the couple as the tables around them begin to pack up for the day. 

He offers to help the older couple pack up and they happily take the aid, striking him bashful as they talk of what a sweet young man he is. “Wa! 哇强 (strong) Too!” The wife chuckles as she jokingly feels his less than impressive arms. He was having a better time at this little fair than he ever could’ve imagined, enough so that he thinks about going to stick it to Huaward then and there. Huaward? Whatever. His mind slightly off put by whatever that was, in an uncharacteristic act of transparency, Sam lets it slip that he works for NY:Red. The expressions on the kind couple’s faces immediately sour and Sam is quite shocked that they even know what the paper is.

There is a glint in the husband’s eyes as he starts to motion Sam away from any further aid, “谢谢 (Thank you) for your help, Sam. There have been a few, hm, bad men wandering around from that paper and I uh-” He looks around his table and grabs some miijiu they hadn’t put away yet. His wife nods, her face somewhere between rueful and hopeful as she watches her husband offer Sam the glass. “Again, 谢谢, er thank you for your help young man, enjoy this for the road 好的? (Yeah?)” The two turn to each other and begin talking to each other in mandarin alone and Sam takes the hint.

Kicking himself that he fumbled the capstone on such a pleasant afternoon, though finding solace in the rice wine he’s walking away with. He is blissfully unaware as the couple watch him drink and head down the street debating if everyone from that paper really is an asshole. Grimacing as they think about the vitriol spewed at them by NY:Red readers they decide they had no other recourse. Pleasant as he seemed Sam was consciously working on the side of hate and that could not be simply overlooked.

Sam quite enjoyed the rice wine the couple left him with, it immediately smooths over any lasting regret or concern about his interaction with the couple. They don’t know anything about him! He’s nothing like his other coworkers. It feels as if he’s had far more to drink than the small container they left him with should allow, but every time he looks down there always seems to be more mijiu to entice him. It would be impolite not to finish their gift he thinks; his confident stride quickly shifting to a stumble as he wanders home. 

His phone goes off as he gets an email from his boss, Mr. Huang?  Can’t be right. He squints at the email, deciding he must really have overdone it on the mijiu and stuffing his phone back in his pocket. Beyond the obvious difficulties in ambulation being drunk, Sam is unable to notice as his proportions slowly begin to shift. His ever-so lanky body begins to feel dull and heavy as the warmth of the wine fills his chest to capacity and then some as he leans against his apartment door, wiping his feet on an unfamiliar doormat. 

He kicks his shoes off by the door on some new instinct and immediately goes to collapse on the couch. His small sofa creaking as he puts more than his usual dead weight on it. His legs that usually hang off the end lengthen even further as his thighs grow meatier. Pecs press into the cushions as he snores. He is swiftly ushered into an unfamiliar dreamscape, the jubilee of the fair and the bewildering amount of wine he drank produce a vivid carnival of culture in his subconscious.

He sees the old couple at their stand and begins to speak with them in their mother tongue, seeing the delight as a load is taken off their shoulders. His dreamself seamlessly conversing with a fluency unearned. Sam stirs in the waking world as his mind existentially changes to match his morphing body. His blond hair grows thin and longer as its tint stains darker. Twitching in REM the green eyes that he prides himself on speckle with brown before they are entirely overtaken, becoming a rich cacao like the thick eyebrows framing them.

The discomfort of a new language forcing itself into this memory begins to wane as he prides himself on how fluent he is in both Chinese and English. His hand goes to scratch his pecs and he smirks in his sleep as they pulse larger, knowing pride is not the only thing surging within him. At the edges of his mind he feels the memory of learning a language, words written on a blackboard in chalk, English and Chinese both. For the life of him he cannot recall which of the two he’s learning second. An alarm set on his phone blares and he jolts awake to get ready for work.

Throwing on a shirt, Sam freezes as he sees his reflection. Hundreds of little questions seize his mind, those aren’t his eyes are they? Did he dye his hair last night? Are those abs? God his arms look good don’t they!? As they race through his mind and grow rampant they fixate on how attractive he suddenly feels. Rubbing his pecs and feeling them bounce he cries out to himself, “该死！Uhhh, Damn I look good!” He poses in the mirror and takes in every new angle of his powerful body. Taking note as his body hair seems thinner, and decidedly darker wherever it remains. He looks close at his pit seeing his once dense bush of curly hair thin out and straighten, before the memory of even having dense body hair is washed from his mind.

His phone goes off again and his work is immediately brought to the forefront of his mind. “Fuck I didn’t read Huang’s message!” He finds email after email from his boss, only the first few mention the wretched assignment they last talked about. Sam’s eyes widen as he continues to skim through the emails as the topic lines quickly show some drastic re-prioritization from his boss. Only then does he realize that he’s been reading his boss’ name as Huang. His boss is white. Rather his boss’ whole identity is based around being white! Huang isn’t, right? Incredibly he clicks the last email, subject line Vacation, and is immediately greeted with a mouth watering picture of a powerful man. Everything comes to a stop as he can’t help but gawk at this man’s body.

Ni Hao Sanuel- take the day off shi de? Still only half dressed Sam balks at just how bizarre this is, rereading the name Sanuel he is thrown for a loop as his mind reconfigures this. Tearing his eyes from the man’s torso he finally looks at the cocky face and sees a thread he recognizes,  “天啊! (Holy Shit!) That’s Mr. Huang!” He shuts his mouth before he drools like a dog at his boss’ arms. God, this is unlike him though right? He tries to dig through his memories of the editor in chief as the caustic racist he was yesterday, but with each uncovered the image of Huang changes as this dreamboat playboy overrides more of what was.

Sanuel readies to just stay in for this day of assigned vacation before he gets another notification, this time from his friend, Nobu? An image of Nick flashes through his mind, a handprint burns on his arm, and the taste of Vietnamese coffee dances on his lips. “Meet me on the boardwalk うん？” Sanuel rolls his eyes at his friend tacking on Japanese like that, willing his mind not to think about how his friend’s contact ID now says Nobu. Must be one of those, uh, his own thoughts trail off as he successfully abandons concern to head to meet his friend.

Nearing the meeting spot he looks for his usually cleancut friend, the only body present however is a massive Japanese man awkwardly flexing at himself in a reflective surface. Sanuel shyly speaks up, “Ni Ha-, uh Hey? Have you seen a guy named Nick around here?” The apparent bodybuilder beams and goes to engulf Sanuel in a hug shouting, “Oi! Shan! took ya long enough!” His eye twitches hearing the name, as this man effortlessly lifts him off his feet in a hug far too intimate for colleagues, and certainly from whoever this stranger is!

Shan pushes against the massive man, his body heat broiling him on this already warm day. He strains his eyes looking at the man grabbing him and suddenly it hits him, “Nobu?” The man promptly lets him go and pats him on the back with a laugh he would’ve never expected to come from his sheepish friend in the fashion department. “Wanna go have some ice cream or something Shan?” He feels the need to push back against his friend calling him Shan but as he hears it a second time he can’t recognize the names as anything but his own.

Shan pauses as he sees Nobu stop to chat with some Japanese tourists and something about the picture doesn’t sit right. God it’s that talk with Huang getting him all worked up again that,uh, racist? He clutches his head as contradictions between his past and present collide in his head and he slams his eyes shut as he cannot determine what is true about his current reality. Shan falls to the ground with a deep thud, slightly hyperventilating, his body grows larger as he takes deep breaths from the stress.

Hearing him collapse Nobu runs over to help him up, this time with more effort as his friend’s comatose body continues to put on muscle and grow heavier. Still, having the impressive figure he does, Nobu rather easily gets him on a bench and sits next to him, “クソ野郎？(Fuck dude?) You alright?” Shan slowly nods as his friend throws an arm around him. Looking down at his own arms as they pulse with muscle, he feels his eyes strain as the structure of his face begins to change.

Shan's jawline sharpens and his skin smooths. Stubble that has been a cornerstone of hiding his facial blemishes vacates as his hair stains black and flops longer. He feels clarity grace his mind as he stares at large hands on the ends of pale, hairless, muscular arms and he wonders if he is even himself.

He voices these concerns to Nobu who just laughs them off. “Hah! Of course dude, same Shan I’ve always known!” “那- that’s not my name Nobu.” His friend grins shyly in concern for his friend's mind. “It can't be my name. I’m-” grimacing before he continues as it takes everything in his power to speak against the realities in front of him. Memories of a world quite far away, moving to New York long ago, the youngest in a family of Chinese immigrants, “I’m white aren’t I Nobu?” 

Nobu can’t help but laugh again at the beyond bizarre statement. He jokes about Shan hitting his head when he fell. “You’re the most 2nd Gen Chinese わるがき(brat) I know bro! Imma go get us some ice cream while you chill out.” Shan stares at his friend as he abandons him, feeling his eyes tighten as they shift into the monolid eyes that his memories swear he’s always had.

Shan retreats into his mind racing against his changing memories to find a pillar of truth to grasp on. He sees himself at the gym with Nobu, his black mop of hair flicking sweat into the air as he poses with his bro. He sees just yesterday at the Asian fair, helping an elderly couple pack up their table, twitching as he would’ve sworn that went differently. He remembers sitting at the office getting no work done as he plays on his phone, 是的！that’s it! His job. There’s something there, if only he can remember what the problem was there.

He sees Nobu begin walking back with sweet treats, Nobu works at the paper too. Oh 呃/Duh! He smirks as he goes for his wallet to grab a business card. His eyes see the obnoxious red logo he knows before they read text that will send him irrevocably forward, Shun Jiang - Ni Hao!NYC. His body fills with warmth like a machine overworking as his mind races with information about his new reality. Sweat drips from his hair as he can no longer even struggle to recall his claimed existence as a bystander at the vile paper they produced. His brown eyes steep to a dark black as they glaze over.

“Shan-baka! Here’s a popsicle!” Nobu shouts as he returns to his overheated friend who immediately bursts from his stupor. “混蛋!(Asshole!) It’s Shun- thought we were close!” Nobe smirks as he starts to eat his own ice cream. Unable to recall anything too in depth he feels a pause as he wonders what his Japanese friend is doing working for a Chinese newspaper, before he answers it himself. Clearly his subconscious is more at place in whatever new reality he faces. Their paper is for all NYC’s Asian immigrants. Nobu works writing, or more often modeling, for Konnichiwa!NYC! Huang really was a genius for the idea.

Shun smiles, thinking fondly of his boss as he enjoys the short break from the summer heat that Nobu brought him. Back at the headquarters of their paper everything shifts from the rag it was and into a paper connecting the disparate Asian immigrants of the city, printed in any language they can find translators for, Ni Hao, Konnichiwa, Annyeonghaseyo, Namaste!NYC. Each day striving for a better, more inclusive New York City. Shun beams with his new face, no longer burdened with the just concern of his peddling vitriol, instead possessed with a desire to spread his culture far and wide.

———————————————————————————

As I was writing I remembered a similar series by the now gone Dumb-and-Jocked!

If interested do check out Horizon Zero: One, Two, and Three for quite a different take on a journalism themed Racial Change!

[thebibliosphere]

Wait, is Jason in Gotham Knights body horror? Because it doesn't feel like his body even tho he's controlling it? (He died, he came back, it's not the same and never will be)

Or is it more analogous to puberty and feeling like you don't know anything about your body anymore?

Just having thoughts about that boy again

I think Jason in Gotham Knights is very much connected with his physical body. It's his biggest weapon, possibly more so than his guns, given his lasting connection to the Lazarus Pit and the power it gives him.

His backstory talks about building himself up to peak physical condition into the absolute unit he is now, and you can either see that as someone trying to reconnect with their physical self or someone vowing never to be small or weak again.

I tend to think of it as both. It's a reclamation of his physical form but also a transformation into something bigger and stronger that ensures he's the scariest, meanest-looking mother fucker in the room. Basically someone you can't underestimate as a threat.

(Try not to think too hard about the fact that he now largely resembles Bruce in stature, that he is now the group's heavy hitter, the most menacing and the most likely to strike fear into the heart of his opponents, and that Jason molded himself into the person he needed to be rescued by as a child. Don't do it. Do not. I am normal about this.)

But he obviously struggles with feeling present mentally sometimes.

You'll see him zoning out occasionally, touching the J-shaped scar on his face before violently shaking himself back into the present.

He has panic attacks while playing a dance video game with a coffin in it—a coffin his character becomes trapped in because he's not moving fast enough. (hello, trauma)

He's angry all the time and so relieved when Barbra expresses her own rage at something because, yes, finally, someone else is letting their emotions out instead of bottling it up (Dick).

His emails are littered with orders for self-help books, emails from his therapist moving his sessions around, and concerned messages from his friends (Roy comes to mind) saying if he needs to get out of Gotham, they'll make it happen.

Alfred holding him while he sobs over losing Bruce still breaks me every time. I have to pause the game and walk around my house until I feel normal again.

And then there's the cut scene where Dick asks, "Hey, remember that time we all [insert funny thing here]," and Jason admits, somewhat angrily, that no, he doesn't because Lazarus took entire swaths of memories from him and he hates how he can't connect with people the way he used to and he hates the way they all look at him (the way Dick is looking at him now) when he admits he doesn't remember something they clearly loved about the old him: the version of him who didn't have volatile mood swings or made people flinch when he did something as mundane as handle a kitchen knife -- the undead monster he came back as*.

The fact that Dick then contrives to recreate this memory so Jason can be included in a newer version of it -- while also giving him what is arguably a weapon -- fucks me up every time. Dick just yeets a kitchen knife at him, trusting that Jason will catch it, and then just steamrolls over Jason's rightful 'what the fuck' expression with "Hey, we're making food. Get dicing."

And Jason knows what they're all doing. He's aware of it, and he gets the teeniest, tiniest smile before smothering it out. Except he can't quite. He's still smiling as he chops the vegetables. And yes, they're all hopeless at cooking compared to him, and he knows he's going to end up taking over, but that's okay. Because this is for him. He gets to control it.

And that's how Jason gets to make a new memory, one where he is handed a weapon and gets to turn it into a genuine expression of nurturing and care.

Because he does care about them. He wouldn't conspire with Dick to bake Barbara's favorite childhood cookies if he didn't. He wouldn't try so hard to be gentle with Tim triggering the shit out of him while he's struggling with his grief. He just doesn't always know how to express it because he doesn't always know what he's feeling.

Is his anger valid? Or is this Lazarus Pit Rage? Is he being overly sensitive because of his trauma, or is everyone else underreacting because of their trauma? (Should he sign them all up for therapy, quite probably, yes.)

So, you could perhaps argue that Jason experiences body horror in the sense that he doesn't remember all the pieces of who he used to be. (Speaking as someone with severe memory loss from medical trauma, it's certainly a type of horror.) But I don't think it's because he's detached from it physically or doesn't feel in control of his body. I think it's his mind that worries him.

His body he can control. It's his mind that still sparks green sometimes.

---

*Re the scene with Tim when Tim calls the Talons monsters. "What about me? Do you think I'm a monster?"

No, they don't.

But Jason does. And it scares him shitless.

[webanglikethat]

to every single queer person out there—trans, gay, bi, pan, ace, nonbinary, however you identify—let me just say this: I am so, so fucking sorry. SO, SO, SO FUCKING SORRY. I am furious. I’m pissed off beyond words. english seems like a forgotten skill as I'm typing this. I am so sorry.

we never deserved this. we never fucking deserved this.

I am sorry that you’ve been betrayed like this, that we’ve all been betrayed like this. I’m sorry that SO MANY of our damn votes weren’t counted, like we don’t even matter. like we’re just numbers on a page that they can toss out without a thought. like we can just be erased, as if we do not exist, like we’re puzzle pieces that don’t fit into their perfect picture, so they just throw us out, discarded, like we were never there in the first place. I’m sorry she just conceded, just gave up. left us hanging. just handed us over like we’re some afterthought, like we’re collateral damage in this disgusting twisted fucking game. as if our lives, our rights, everything we fought for, meant nothing. she just rolled over and let us get steamrolled, like we’re just noise, just numbers on a page, just nothing worth fighting for. do they even care that real people, people who trusted her, who put their hopes in her, are being crushed by this? and not only in the US. we ALL believed in her. and ... she ... just ... she was gone. just like that. and we’re the ones who have to pay the price. we’re the ones left with our futures on the line, wondering what rights we’ll have tomorrow, if we’ll even be safe tomorrow. and she just… gave it all up. handed us over to people who are hell-bent on erasing us, who’ve been clear from day one about what they think of us, what they want to take away. how do we even make sense of that? how do we believe in ANYONE? how can you abandon us in the lion's den and yet demand compassion and trust? to trust in the very hands that have left us to bleed, to burn, to fight alone?

we deserve better. we deserved someone who would stand with us when it mattered, who wouldn’t just throw in the towel and walk away when things got tough. we’re not just collateral. we’re not disposable. we’re human beings with lives, with love, with the right to exist without fear. we aren't statistics, diagrams, names forgotten on a wall. we are queer, and we are real. and she ... just left us to face down a nightmare she knows damn well is coming. so how dare they tell us to “keep faith” when they’ve shown us that our lives were never worth the fight to them. we needed someone who would dig in and say, “no, you can’t have them. not now, not ever.” and instead? we were left out in the cold to fend for ourselves. like always. like fucking always. and this isn’t just some political setback for us. this is our lives, our right to exist. we’ve fought and bled and stood through hell just to claim an inch of ground to live openly, to love who we love, and to be who we are. we deserved so much more than empty promises. and we won’t forget this.

right now, it feels like every warning, every fear we’ve had has come to life in the worst way. and let’s be real—what’s next is terrifying. I will not sugarcoat it. rights are going to be stripped away, our existence denied, our safety threatened. trump hasn’t hidden it; he’s promised it. this was supposed to be our home too. but they’re pushing us out, forcing us to hide. so please, if you need to, go back into the closet. change states if that’s what it takes. hell, think about leaving the country if you can, because it’s becoming clear that staying might mean risking everything. you do not owe anyone anything, just think of yourself first. you are your own priority.

and god .. Love. Love—something so pure, something so simple—has been twisted into a reason for others to hate us, to fear us, to hurt us. we were never supposed to be the ones people saw as a “threat.” that label should belong to hatred, to racism, to homophobia, to everything that has poisoned this world. but instead, somehow we are the ones they call dangerous. we are the ones they want to erase. and it’s maddening. what kind of world are we living in, where the fight to just exist is an endless battle? was it not love that led Eve to take that fateful bite, trusting in the bond she shared with Adam? and if love is the foundation upon which humanity was built, how can we be faulted for following its lead? of all the things we could hate, and we chose love.

if this moment feels like it’s too much, if it feels like everything you’ve fought for, every piece of yourself you’ve worked to own, every right, every dream, every bit of safety is collapsing around you -- I get it. I feel it in my bones. it feels like drowning, like being swallowed whole by a storm that never ends. the shore seems so far away. but listen to me: don’t you fucking dare let them break you. don’t let them get that satisfaction. don’t give them that power. we are not here to let monsters erase us. we’re here to outlast every single one of them. we’re here to survive and thrive. we are queer, we are real, we exist, we will continue to exist.

their power, their hatred, their cruelty—it won’t last forever. I know it's difficult to see the light at the end of this tunnel. but they are the ones who don’t belong in a world built on compassion, on love, on freedom. You are the real thing. You are here. You deserve to be here, and you deserve to feel safe, loved, and free.

if you’re feeling like there’s no point anymore, if this all feels like it’s too damn much to take, please just hang on. this fight is brutal, and sometimes it feels like it never ends. but I’m begging you—don’t give up. don’t let them have that final victory. don’t let them silence your voice, your light, your life. scream, cry, punch walls, call someone, reach out, hold on to whatever will keep you here another day, another hour. do whatever you have to do to survive this moment. because you’re needed. we need you. the world needs you.

you might not see it now, but you are a part of something big, something powerful, something they wish they could destroy but never will. you’re part of a legacy of resilience, of love, of defiance against hatred. every queer person, every person who has ever had to stand up against a world that told them they shouldn’t exist, that they should be crucified, erased, beaten up, has carried that legacy forward, passed it down so we could be here. so you could be here. and they did not survive all they did, did not fight, did not sacrifice so much just for us to lose hope. we’re still here because others fought and held on. now, it’s our turn. we owe it to them, to ourselves, to hold on with everything we have, to fight with everything in us.

and one day, I promise you, I truly pinkie promise you, that you’re going to wake up in a world that has moved beyond these hateful voices. one day, you will wake up in a world that sees you, that values you, where you don’t have to fight just to exist. you deserve to live in it, to walk in the sunlight without fear, without shame. they don’t get to take that from you. they don’t get to erase you. they don’t get to win.

this moment is hard. it’s beyond hard. but you, every single one of you, are worth it. you are not alone in this fight. you are surrounded by countless others who feel this too, who know this pain, who are holding on right alongside you.

so please, hold on. you belong, and nothing they do can change that. they cannot snuff out your light. they cannot erase your legacy. they cannot undo the love you were born to spread.

stay. fight like hell. be louder, be prouder, be everything they tell you not to be. because you are worth every ounce of this battle. and we will see the day they’re gone. we will make it through.

we too shall rise from the ashes.

to my queer family, my phoenix.

[stevebabey]

surrounded by your embrace

summary: when you get drunk at a party, old memories make steve worry. he really doesn't need to because all alcohol does is make you clingy. gn!reader but mentioned to wear sum eyeshadow, no warnings u and steve are just absolute goobers for each other :D wc: 2k

He goes to the bathroom for five minutes.

Five minutes and you manage to make yourself scarce. The corner you had been previously inhabiting, slurping the lip of your red solo cup while talking to some friends, is completely void of you when Steve finds his way back to it.

Your friends are still there, leaned against the wall and chattering amongst themselves. Steve clears his throat to gain their attention.

"Did you see...?" He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, asking if they'd noticed where you might've wandered off to. You've had quite a few drinks tonight already and Steve's not surprised if it means you've forgotten you're the only one he knows at this party. These are your friends, not his.

One of them points towards the kitchen and he mutters a quiet thank-you, beginning to wind his way through the people to reach the kitchen.

A fraction of unease prickles at the back of his neck. Last time he was a party and his partner ambled off, full of alcohol, it had left a couple memories that cut deep. Steve hasn't ever admitted it aloud to anyone the seeds that Nancy had sowed that night, the little insecurities that had never bothered Steve in the slightest suddenly sprouting up overnight.

Worst is, he can't make himself forget that night. He remembers the spill of red punch on her white shirt vividly. Remembers the sting behind his eyes. Remembers how later on she'd come back in the middle of everything with Jonathan by her side and Steve had just... known.

But you're not Nancy and he knows that. He knows that this is a different party, you're a different person, it's a whole different relationship—

Yet, those insecurities have rooted deep and Steve can feel them shifting painfully inside him as his worries get away from him. Like vines wrapping tight around his ribcage the longer it takes to find you.

You're aren't by the drink station on the kitchen bench and looking out at the sea of people in the living room, you aren't there either. Steve pulls his collar away from his neck, feeling the prickle roll down his skin again. You've gone, something in his head whispers meanly, You've left him and found someone else at this party. Someone without his baggage, someone without his neediness, someone—

Steve scrubs a hand down his face and shoves away his ugly thoughts. None of them are fair to you — you who has been nothing but impossibly and endlessly sweet on him in the one month you and Steve have been dating. He inhales sharply to clear his head and scans the crowd again. Nothing.

Just as he's turning to go bug your friends again, he spots movement out the corner on his eye, someone shuffling about the walk-in pantry. Steve walks closer and peers in. It's you.

Delight and relief bloom together in his chest and he rounds the corner with a shaky smile, leaning up against the door frame. "There you are."

You turn with a little hiccup, clearly startled.

Steve adores how the recognition on your face melts into excitement, steamrolling his anxieties in an instant, and you drop whatever is in your hands and leap for your boyfriend.

"Steve!"

"That's me," He says with a smile, arms opening for you to burrow yourself in. You do so, arms twisting around his middle and face smushing against his chest and he welcomes the warmth of you in his arms. He expects you to move after a minute but you stay put, pressed right up against him, hold only tightening.

"I couldn't find you." You whine.

"You were looking for me in the pantry?"

"Nooooo," The drinks you've had have turned your usual drama up to 11. You dig your face out of his chest and rest your chin against it instead, forcing Steve to look directly down to meet your eyes. "S'just went to get water from th' kitchen 'n' then I saw they have a box of Fruit Roll-Ups."

You say this all as if it's incredibly self-explanatory why you're in the pantry while you're also looking for your boyfriend. Steve looks over your head and spies the spilled box on the ground you were holding just a few moment prior. Lo and behold, half a dozen Fruit Roll-Ups are scattered on the ground.

"Fruit Roll-Ups, Steve." You whisper with more emphasis.

He laughs a little, looking back down at you and thinking how pretty you look tonight. There's this blue crystal-coloured eyeshadow lightly smudged across your eyelids and it glitters beneath the low hanging bulb of the pantry.

"Well, I'm sure you can have one." He nods to gesture behind you. "Melanie won't mind, you're her friend."

Melanie, the party's host, had been tucked up and fast asleep in her bed with a big red bucket by her side when he had opened her door trying to find the bathroom. Steve definitely thinks she won't mind letting you gorge yourself of a single Fruit Roll-Up. Or a couple. Whatever, he won't tell on you.

"You think?"

Steve rubs your back lightly and goads you back towards the snack you're clearly hungry for. Your hands slide out of the hug reluctantly but the moment you turn, you're scuttling over to the treats. Steve chuckles watching you plop yourself down, sitting down on the cold tiles. You're in shorts. Steve can see your goosebumps from here.

He takes a few steps and crouches down, taking a seat next to you, leaning his back up against a beam. You're trying to tear into one of the packets but the moment Steve's back in your view, you're pouting and holding it out to him.

Steve pretends to scoff, taking the packet and opening it easily, but really, he loves that you ask him to do those things. Loves doing little things for you. He offers it back to you and you pluck it from his hands with glee.

He assumes you'll sink your teeth into it but you stare at it for a moment before you surprise him, crawling forward and all bout clambering into his lap.

It's rather inelegant, your drunkenness not helping and you push the heel of your hand just two inches from where it would really hurt, making Steve wince in anticipation. He holds his hands up and out of the way and lets you settle yourself.

A quiet revelation makes something in his chest glows hotly. You're always affectionate, always want to be touching him, but this is another level for you — there's a shyness around PDA that you usually carry that seems to have been shed tonight. Anyone could peer in the pantry and see you curled up in his arms and lap and you seem too enamoured with him to even care.

Steve grins and chides himself for ever being worried earlier.

"Hi." You say, finally situated comfortably. Steve's not sure it is comfortable, sitting sideways in his lap with one leg twisted nearly underneath you and one out in front, sorta curled in, but you seem content enough. He places one hand on the small of your back, the other holding just above your knee.

"Hi there. Comfy now?"

"Very. Can you pass me my roll-up please?"

You've dropped it in your wriggle to get closer to him and its rolled nearly under the shelf Steve's leaning up besides. He leans over and retrieves it, thanks God for the wrapper, and produces it for you.

"A gift." He says, drinking in how your face washes over with delight. With the lights haloing behind your head, your hair frizzy from dancing earlier, he thinks you look like an angel.

"That's right!" You take it from him and pull it close to your chest, attention back on him. "I wanted to give you a kiss, to say thank you."

Steve feels his heart flutter, a stutter in the beats at the utter tenderness of your words. He squeezes your knee and turns his face, holding out his cheek.

"Well, go on then."

You giggle and it's the most dreamy honeyed noise Steve's ever heard. You lean in and plant a big wet kiss on his cheek with a happy hum, pulling back with a mwah!

"Thank you for the kiss, sweetheart." He rubs the hand on your back lightly and you soften at his words completely, pure giddiness running rampant across your features.

Steve soaks it all in, unsure of the last time he knew someone who gave him love so freely. You seem to have endless amounts of it for him. You don't even mind when he's greedy with you.

You finally peel back the wrapper of the Fruit Roll-Up and gobble a bit of it down. You chew and swallow and lean all your weight against him, your shoulder pressing into his. You're close, a couple more inches and the tip of his nose would brush yours. A bashful expression flits across your features.

"I like when you call me sweetheart."

"You do?"

You nod enthusiastically.

"That's good," Steve says, fondness coating each word. " 'Cos I like calling you sweetheart, sweetheart."

It's so cheesy that Steve thinks you shouldn't laugh, but you do because you're wonderful. He grins, his fingers on your knee tightening slightly as you look over him, your eyes crinkled up by your grin. The alcohol makes you brash enough to stare and you look at his face intently for a moment before you huff.

“God!” You drop your head back with a dramatic sigh and sink your teeth into your bottom lip to try contain your giddy grin. It doesn’t work in the slightest. “That look.”

"What? What look?”

You tip your head back up and Steve can read the shyness on your expression, pulling at your eyebrows.

“You know,” You say, a little embarrassed, which is even more adorable on you while drunk. You're flustered over your words, like you know you wouldn't normally have said them if you were sober. “You just get this look sometimes, when you’re looking at me—”

Steve frowns for a moment, minuscule, as he thinks of what face you might be referring to.

“—and your eyes get all intense and- ugh! It still makes nervous when you do it.” You’ve drop your head again, forward this time, to hide your face in his shoulder. You pat your tummy theatrically and then clutch it, voice lowering to a whisper in his ear. “These butterflies are your doing, Harrington.”

Steve laughs, entirely too pleased with himself —he still makes you nervous. Ditto, he thinks. “Is that so?”

"Mmhm." You hum and Steve feels you place a soft kiss on one of the moles on his neck. His breath catches and his heart flip-flops. You wiggle a bit but it's just to try get closer to him, your nose nuzzling against his neck. A tired sigh escapes you.

"You tired? Wanna go home?" He asks.

You nod sluggishly but make no attempt to move. Steve chuckles lightly, his hand still soothing up and down your back gently, not helping in the least he knows. Still, he can't help himself; he wants to ply you with love, with comfort, if he can. You sigh happily.

"N' a minute." You mumble. Your words are slurring the more tired you get. "Just wanna be at a party with my super hot and amazing boyfriend for one more minute. S'okay?"

Steve's heart crumples and he can feel his entire body curl up, his legs sliding up an inch, his hands tensing, all involuntarily reactions to try bring you in closer to him. There is an ache in his very core but it's a lovely ache. Steve feels a burn behind his eyes. He blinks and presses a long kiss to your hairline.

"Yeah, sweetheart," He murmurs into your hair. "That's more than okay with me."

[river-bottom-nightmare]

the two of the had always treated it as one big joke, was the thing. bruce and dick would put on a show together: a stumbling, overly-friendly yet well-intentioned gatsby and his young ward with a sweet tongue and an artful smile. laugh a little too loud, bat the eyes, play up the youth, and they had gotham eating out of their palms. it was fun, a punchline only the two of them were ever in on.

"that was a good one," bruce said, voice warm, deftly removing his cufflinks. "the bit with mrs. arlington's cosmetic surgery was particularly inspired."

"i thought so!" dick chirped back. his suit jacket was already draped over a chair in the sitting room, shoes flung off. "i mean, what could i possibly know about the divorce rumors."

bruce hummed in amused agreement. "i always forget how tiring brucie wayne is to play, though," he said. "for someone who doesn't exist, he's quite the effort."

right then, though, a quiet ripple of alarm went through dick. "wait, what do you mean brucie doesn't exist? what do you mean he's an effort?"

"i mean he's not...he's not real, dick. you know this." bruce shot him a confused glance. "he's a fiction i have to endure on occasion. having you there does make the theatre much more bearable, though."

"of cource brucie wayne is real. he's you!"

bruce was staring at him now, the tired comfort from a successful night wiped from his face. he was just confused, and more than a little concerned. heart on his cheek , always, helplessly (to dick, anyway). "it's just a performance, dick. it doesn't mean anything. you are well aware—"

but dick cut him off, shaking his head. "nothing is ever just a performance, b. that's not what performance is!"

and it killed him, gutted him that bruce didn't understand this, that he had failed to grasp 'brucie wayne' was poetic, was almost victorian, was a masterclass in crafting a mask around a kernel of truth. was the kind of murder you watched a play just to revel in at the end.

"i don't see how it isn't," bruce said, speaking very carefully. "the version of bruce wayne the public sees is a persona. his very existence is to perform the function of deceit."

"deceit?" dick said incredulously, almost laughing with it. "performing isn't deceit, bruce. and that's not what you're doing either." he jabbed a finger in bruce's general direction. "you way overplay how harmless brucie is, but you're not hardline serious all the time. with me and with other kids you meet on patrol, you're gentle."

"that isn't—"

dick kept steamrolling over him. "and sure, brucie is ridiculous sometimes. but you didn't pull that silliness out of thin air, did you? no, because you're playful with me and alfred."

"how i behave with you and alfred isn't a performance though, dick," bruce explained. "that's simply...well. that's who i am when i'm not pretending to be someone else."

"that's what you're missing, b. a performance isn't you pretending to be someone else. you're exaggerating certain parts of yourself like crazy, but at the heart of it all, you're still you."

"why does this affect you so much?" bruce asked. "you're hurting." you're hurting because of me, went unsaid. it wasn't an apology, but it was the closest dick was going to get.

"because brucie is bruce in all the ways that matter, and bruce is my best friend," dick said simply. "don't you dare tell me my best friend doesn't exist!"

bruce was still tense, though. like his heart was a step behind his head, like was a dandelion seed and the wind was unsure. so dick did what he should have done at the beginning of his whole ordeal: went over to him and looped his arms over his waist in a hug, as high as they would go.

"performing is a little tiring, but like batman is," dick mumbled into bruce's shirt. "it isn't a chore you gotta get through. it's an art, and you should have fun with it! because every show you put on is you basically just exaggerating different parts of yourself. you're not creating anyone new."

bruce reached down to hug dick in return, holding him close and sure, strength and sinew and sharing it all. "dick," he said honestly, "that sounds exhausting."

"yeah. but it's worth it," dick said in return. "you always perform for a reason. brucie exists 'cause you want to help people."

"i suppose that desire's real enough," bruce said, gentle. "in that case, thank you."

"for what?"

"for being my best friend, no matter the performance."

---

hahaha noooo being a performer from a young age hasn't impacted me or dick in any way at all we've got a perfectly normal relationship with performance i promise

anyway look guys!!! i wrote a thing!!! first time in forever idk my writing's rusty but i hope yall like it regardless. lmk if i should pop the taglist back in here i'm pretty sure half the people on that thing forgot i existed

[kinardsevan]

i know i keep just saying shit lately 😂😂😂😂😂

but I have a thing I have to point out.

there's something in this expression. I keep thinking about the way his gaze shifts before we get the shift to Evan, and how something about that whole look just screams to me Tommy internally going "what? am i actually hearing this?" but not from an incredulous standpoint as much as, "i thought we were moving in this one direction and somehow I've done this to myself again". It's goes back to my analysis yesterday about how this expression and the one where the smile on his face disappears give SO much to the story. Because if I'm right, what we're seeing him panic about is that he thinks he's put himself right back into the same position he's been in before where this has all gone wrong for him. He thinks that he and Evan have been on a different trajectory, but instead he's being faced with this speech about how great he is and talking about living together, engagement, and marriage, when (once again) we haven't gotten any acknowledgment of feelings. which then brings us to the second part of the response because to me, the move comes when Evan says "i'm not saying lets get married or engaged even though we would have the right", along with this little noise that he makes that feels very much like the "what" he clearly expresses with his face. I use the term steamrolled in the analysis because that's basically what it is. Tommy think they're going in one direction with their conversation, thinks they're having a heart-to-heart about their feelings for one another, and instead Evan is throwing all of this stuff at him that comes across as unjaded and fairytale-like. and again, I go back to the point of, Tommy has been down that road. He's leaned into the fairytale and gotten burned. I imagine at that point in the conversation, thinking that there were going to be declarations of their feelings and instead it turning into a proposal of sorts, it IS terrifying, because everything he thinks they've been building toward to that point feels like it's been turned on its head, and now he has to be the Voice Of Reason.

I don't feel the need to addend anything else, it's just this one part of the entire scene still sticking with me. and once again, it just makes my heart hurt that much more for Tommy.

[koolades-world]

Hellooo! I've been thinking about this for so long. Can you write the demon bros with a little sister reader ( around the teenage year maybe)? She's the 8th of the family. I think it would be really cute since she's the only girl in the family. Everyone will be protective of her and love her so much that Lucifer will have a soft spot for her even though she likes to annoy him. And what if she and Mammon are so close that they would together annoy Lucifer? Then Satan would be her tutor and Asmo would do a self-care routine with her. Okay, I think I'm babbling too much but that's it.

hello! yes haha this is such a cute idea. i have so many ideas!!

i did say sister in the title since it was requested, but it could also be read as gn or male!

enjoy <3

Demons brothers with a younger sister reader

you are lucifer's unspoken favorite! he'll invite you to eat lunch with himself, diavolo and barbatos from time to time, and the way he glows when you're around is so obvious to the other two, almost so that they feel like they're intruding on your moment

anytime you basically waltz into his room while he's working for whatever reason, he won't mind

you're the baby of the family, and he'd do anything for you, and you both know it

oh i just know mammon would SPOILLL you

i can already imagine all of the shopping days together simply because he wanted to treat you

he really really enjoys being your older brother and just loves you in general. he melts when you turn to him for everything, big and small, and he knows even the biggest of fights would never keep you apart

you can count on levi buying you any game you'd ever wished for, and of course he's going to either play them with you or be by your side while you do

don't worry, he'll always be there to back you up and if there's ever anyone bothering you in game, he'll steamroll them for you <3

he knows how hard talking about things can be, so if you ever need, his room is open if you need to catch your breath and relax

for anything school related, satan is the brother you can go to, and he hopes it's very clear

whether it's homework help or there's some pushy demons on your back for whatever reason, he's got your back

he's always looking out for you, even in the most unlikely of places. if you ever find that pencil you thought you lost last week on your desk, or a snack you were seriously craving is sitting on your bed when you get back from RAD, you might find satan in the background somewhere with a small smile <3

asmo is your number one fan! anytime, anywhere, he’ll be there to support and cheer you on

fashion emergency? no worries! he's got you covered no matter what. he's always carrying everything he things you might need and if he doesn't for whatever reason, he will find a way to get it for you

omg self care nights together <33 i can totally picture the two of you sitting on his bed together with face masks on and animatedly talking about your love lives together haha

if you thought lucifer was protective, wait until you see beel. he's not one to jump to conclusions, but if he even thinks someone is bothering you, he will bring it up with you and make sure you're alright

lots of late night snack runs together! he knows your favorite snacks at your favorite stores, so if you're too tired to go, he'll go and get it for you

when he gets back, the two of you secretly munch away together, occasionally joined by belphie

belphie might still act like he’s the youngest, but he’s fiercely protective of you just like his twin

so many sibling squabbles haha. the ones where you’re screaming at each other and then ten minutes later, you’re best friends again are the most common

together, you often team up to plead with lucifer for whatever you might want that day. he can’t resist two sets of puppy dog eyes at the same time haha

[witchofthesouls]

Wait something funny just occurred to me. In the AU where the kids get cyber formed but remain on the edge of being adults, someone would have had to give them the Cybertonian version of The Sex Talk.

Would it be Ratchet, giving them the strictly medical side of things, or would it be some bot, talking about the experimental/exploring parts?

(I genuinely believe Ratchet would have an aneurysm of some kind at the prospect of it. But let's pretend)

I have to name this verse properly because Tarn isn't here, but it will eventually lead the D.J.D. to Earth. I'll keep the soulmate au tag until I can figure out something.

Ratchet does have an aneurysm because he has set ideas on what is and isn't 'appropriate' from Functionist-held Golden Age Cybertron, but he also carries a lot of guilt from out-surviving almost all his friends, cohorts, and students...

And it's all being dragged into the mud by the Jasper trio, who gives no quarter on crushing his prejudices and fears. Even Raf, his favorite, casually steamrolls over it with the draconian and American mindset of giving no fucks.

Team Prime had harmless thought exercises of what their charges' Cybertronian frames would be like... and none of them were remotely correct!

Because Miko is a Seeker femme, Raf may or may not be a type of Predacon, and Ratchet can't get proper readings on Jack's base-coding, Ratchet sits them all down because they're not sparklings or mechlings with sealed plates but full-framed mecha with total access. He gives them the reproductive talk, especially since Seekers and beastformers go into reproductive heats, but humans don't have that. He's trying to be mindful, and Ratchet is going through the different sexual methods and the variations of parts. Of course, Raf has to interrupt because the draconian mech has two spikes and no receptacle, and he would like to know about any necessary care.

All in all, it's really Ratchet having another fit because his weird humans are now weird Cybertronians of yore/throwbacks. And the ex-humans are taking it rather well, but Jack, Miko, and Raf had literally lifetimes to explore sexuality: as humans, human-hybirds by exploring their heritage as well as alchemical concoctions and very curious lovers.

This, however, did kickstart the path of Ratchet teaching Miko his medical knowledge as she doesn't want the results. She's burning to have the technical skills and knowledge of the processes. Ratchet does pass on his skills to Raf and Jack, but Raf prefers the science as Jack is more fascinated by procuring research material. Miko literally bullzoned her way to become his student. The howling matches they had shook the foundations of the base, but she got her way because she deliberately aimed at his vulnerable parts. ("You'll leave us one day to go back to Cybertron! And you're refusing to tell me how to properly care for myself!?") Ratchet is highly concerned about how voracious Miko's appetite is for that knowledge.

She yearns to become a Tsunade/Unohana terror among them because they have a strong suspicion that if their status is revealed, then they'll become targets. She'll become a Cybertronian Bloodbourne horror if it means she'll never be trapped like what happened to some of her kin.

[chenouttachen]

i'm back to be angry at episode 5 alan before i steamroll ahead to eps 6 and 7. picking up straight after the world's worst staff meeting, alan follows jeff out of the garage. and leads with THIS!

after having the audacity to grab a (rightfully) livid jeff, alan tells him to let the others apologise without even apologising HIMSELF.

jeff doesn't say 'they don't trust me', it's 'everyone', and alan is included in that. i've said it before, but jeff just opened up to alan, trusted him, and had that trust thrown back in his face.

and alan keeps putting his foot in it. he tries so hard to be on everyone's side that he doesn't recognise that he keeps choosing the worst dialogue options each time. what he should have said is 'i trust you, i want you to keep working here'. instead he rationalises the other's actions, which wouldn't be a bad thing if he also told jeff that he understands his side. but he doesn't.

jeff continues to stand up for himself; he's not going to apologise to this man for doing his job. this entire situation is unfair and he's not going to pull any punches making sure alan understands that. he rightfully points out the biases and prejudices of the x-hunter team (because that was a setup through and through).

alan knows he's losing jeff in this moment. he's getting desperate to make him stay, but he has no idea how to do that. he thinks that dean and way are the problem, that if they apologise it will be enough. but he still hasn't done that himself.

and it breaks my heart, because jeff is ready to turn around and hear alan out. he's almost willing to overlook alan's lack of apology. but then alan keeps talking. and it doesn't come from a malicious place; alan wants jeff to understand the other's perspectives. but it cuts deeper than he intends to. by blaming jeff and his introverted nature, he conveys to jeff that there's something wrong with him, that he can't be trusted purely because he doesn't operate with the same boundless energy as the rest of x-hunter. and as his words sink in, we see jeff accept them and shut down.

it hurts jeff to realise that the one person who has made an effort to get to know him... doesn't know him at all. we know that jeff cares deeply about people - he loves charlie and is going through with this plan because he's tired of seeing people get hurt. but the wall that he's had to put up because of his past and his power hurts him too. to know that alan (unknowingly) condemns him for protecting himself, it's too much.

jeff has been so strong this entire time, clear in his knowledge that he's done nothing wrong. he's refused to apologise or stoop to way's level, but he can't do that anymore. because he isn't strong in his belief in himself. yes, he knows his skills and his worth as a worker, but as a person? he's lived his whole life as cattle being raised for profit, and he doesn't know how to reconcile with that, or how to speak about it. he's only just learning how to function in society with a power that keeps him inherently isolated. he's pushed himself so far out of his comfort zone in his short time in the garage, trying to protect these people, but in jeff's eyes they cannot accept him. not because he's a bad worker, but because of who he is as a person. and all he can do in the face of that is apologise.

but it is like that. alan has failed to step up for jeff in his time of need, and has still failed to apologise. jeff realises in this moment, that alan won't. and he can't take any further disappointments.

when jeff leaves, it physically pains alan. there's a part of him, one he can't acknowledge yet, that wants to do right by jeff, wants to protect and support him. and in one evening he's done more harm than he could have thought possible.

[poppy-metal]

Omg Poppy, i need some mid-ugly-divorce ex-wife tashi, where maybe you’ve been working out the details of you’re divorce contract, against better judgement a bottle of wine is being opened and before you know tashi’s got you on the couch showing you exactly why you married her in the first place, only for her to get some tennis call right after and leave you a mess without looking back

love the idea of tashi just being like "lol" to the thought of divorce like. she's the breadwinner. she owned everything in your marriage and you were the dependent little housewife. so it's cute you're putting up a fight at all. she has no problem absolutely decimating you with legal fees and contracts you'd signed and running you into the ground until you come to your senses. she pays for you to have a shitty little apartment just to humiliate you when you realize you don't technically own a single thing in your house - her house. but still. you fight. you decline her calls until she's at your door and letting herself in. and you're telling her you really want her to let you go, you don't want to play games anymore, you beg "stop steamrolling over me," only to back up when she steps forward, tits brushing yours and tells you - "you fucking love it when I steamroll your ass."

and you end up bent over your ugly fucking couch, the only one you could afford, with your panties around your ankles and tashis fingers burried deep in your cunt - pumping without mercy. "how long are you going to fight me?" she asks, sounding completely unphased. you doubt a single hair is out of place - you clench helplessly around her. refuse to answer and bite your own arm to stifle your whimpers.

she leans her tight little body over yours, and you feel her lips brush your ear - her tits against your back. "I just want to take care of you." her thumb circles your clit, rolls it just the way you like. "you know you're no good on your own. you know where you belong - " your pussy squelches loudly as he pulls her fingers out and shoves them back in. "in my bed with your legs spread. some pretty stay at home pussy for daddy."

your eyes roll back. fuck, fuck you miss is so bad. you hate this small ass fucking apartment and sleeping alone and having to take care of yourself. you miss having nothing to do all day but keep your body the way tashi like it's and being a hole for her to fuck when she comes home to your shared mansion. that's the life you want. its the life you're built for.

"daddy -" you wail, fucking back on those fingers - completely lost in her, and the moment. "oh fuck me. fuck my pussy, yes - "

tashi fits her smooth thigh under your bare cunt, pulls her fingers out so she can lean back and grip your ass, pull your cheeks apart and watch the way your pussy glides back and forth on her taut leg. the way your little asshole twitches. she smacks your ass once, hard.

"dirty little girl. humping daddys thigh like a slut - that little pussy miss me that much?"

you hump down against her. nod your head rapidly because you can't help it. "uh huh, uh huh."

"when you come back home." when not if. you feel her hands on your ass again, squeezing. her confidence makes your clit throb. "im going to paint this ass black and blue for making me put up with this shit."

you wish you could stand up for yourself. tell her it's not a game. that you're serious. but you can't really say that when you're too busy moaning out her name and coming all over her thigh, now can you?