#derail and i GET you

[yiffradio]

[ghost-bxrd]

Prompt:

Brucie Wayne gets into a mild accident in public (read-got hit by a car). And Batman would just walk it off (“it’s barely a bruise”), but Brucie obviously… can’t.

So he has to suffer the ordeal of having civilians call paramedics, getting fussed over, and having-

Having his dead son get into the back of the ambulance with him.

Oh- oh no. He must have hit his head worse than he thought. He thought he was past this…

[yuri-puppies]

an inventory of labru and farcille double dates

with thanks to this fanart by @hawberries for the inspiration and to @holmsister for the park date idea

art museum: the toudens wandered off when a local moth flew by in the courtyard and they realized there might be a nest nearby. several people comment on what a handsome couple kabru and marcille make, why, they could be one of the portraits.

theatre play: both toudens are asleep before the intermission. kabru and marcille can't stop shit-talking everything from the acting to the set design out loud and are about to get kicked out.

park: marcille is so ready for a cute picnic under the trees, and she gets it… with kabru. the toudens are rolling in mud with a stranger's dog. this is not even a dog park.

gym: marcille is the only one who thought this was a date.

beach: see daydream hours sketches. marcille came here to look cute and have a good time and is now chasing the other three around with a sunscreen bottle.

science museum: marcille has her lowest-cut top and is planning to Cling TM throughout the grosser exhibits. she underestimated: a) how many children there would be around b) how grossed out she'd get c) how much more interesting the mating rituals of the greater sage-grouse are than her tits. at least kabru isn't there to make fun of her, since he became entranced by evaluating the effectiveness of the various knowledge translation strategies at the anti-pollution exhibit. laios has started giving an impromptu lecture on the dangers of exotic pets in the reptile exhibit to several transfixed children and their baffled parents. the staff has gone from trying to stop him to calling for the volunteer coordinator to recruit him.

[abstract-venus]

If Payneland has a million fans, Jayden Revri is one of them

If Payneland has 1 fan, Jayden Revri is THAT ONE

If Payneland has no fans, the fucking Netflix execs got him

10 more seasons or 0 more seasons

Canon ship or not canon

He will always support them

¡VIVA LOS CHICOS DE MEURTOS!

[teddybeartoji]

vampire!choso struggles with holding back on his urges, he wants to taste you so so bad. nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck while quietly begging for you to let him do it.. he's very handsy too, his fingers have already found their way under your shirt and are now grabbing at your sides and your tummy and your chest he just wants to feel you in every way he can.

he really likes to suck the blood from your wrist aswell. gets down on his knees while you're sitting at the end of the bed and looks up at you with the prettiest eyes while pressing a kiss to your skin before sinking his teeth into you. he lets his eyes fall shut when he finally feels your sweet ichor fill his mouth, humming into you as he drinks away. he also really likes when you play with his hair while he's doing it, he wants to know that you're enjoying this as much as he is. he just wants to be good for you.

[trentcrimminallybeautiful]

"The fumes make me dizzy, and I overshare. ...Please don't print that."

[lesbianjonimitchell]

Joan Baez presenting boygenius with the Variety 'Group of the Year' Award:

“I’m here to offer the award for Group of the Year to three women who have personally and musically stolen my heart. [...] I believe that the songs of these three women speak to the delicacy of the human condition. And they are in a sense trailblazers, not just with their music and its uniqueness, but in their willingness to speak out for people who are marginalized, and in fact ostracized and persecuted in this society. To bring about any society of decency and caring is going to take a lot of work, and you women have been a part of that work. A word about the music: I was brought up listening to and singing harmonies, and I’ve heard a lot of them in my day. I have seldom heard harmonies as true and as fucking angelic as yours. It’s just a glory to listen to. [...] Actually, they, I believe, will teach us something about the kind of friendship in musicians that I didn't really know back then. I was trying to imagine Crosby, Stills and Nash romping through an outdoor amusement park [...]. Friendship and pleasure and joy and trust, all of these come through clearly to me, and I think we can all learn from that as well."

[starlitsequins]

because there is so much potential in fiddlestan being exes. like imagine the guy you had a situationship back in 1982 blasted every memory of you from his brain and then has the audacity to show up 30 years later and ask for you to shelter half the town during the apocalypse. AND he now wants to turn your house into a giant mecha to go rescue your twin brother. who he may or may not have had a crush on.

on the other hand. imagine thoroughly destroying your own mind and, as you slowly regain your sanity, you keep getting homoerotic flashbacks about the local conman while you crash at his place during the apocalypse.

[gurinpotte]

evidence dump of the brain altering that rewatching atla for the first time as an adult has caused in the past few weeks

[hopesallwegotleft]

"Thank you, Jason. Goodbye, my friend."

The journey of Jason's facial expressions during Salim's goodbye.

[flowercrowngods]

yearning hours (b-side) — in which being in love can feel like the greatest tragedy of all until you learn that you’re not alone (or: bravery, despite everything)

🤍 also on ao3

Steve comes to the quarry when he needs to think. He comes to the quarry when he needs to not think. When he needs to feel this rush of adrenaline that feels so much like monsters are real and the world has turned upside down. Except he isn’t going to die here, sitting on the cold ground, legs dangling over the abyss.

He’s not going to die, but life stops for a moment all the same. 

And Steve relearns how to breathe. How to think. How to not think. While the darkness below him swallows it all. The pale light of the moon is not enough to reach the ground hundreds of feet below, or to chase away the complete and total darkness that meets his eyes when he looks down there. 

It’s all-encompassing, this darkness, the vastness of it; Steve sometimes feels like he becomes part of it. Just for an hour or two. Just for the night. 

The cold air that hits his face makes him shiver for a second, and reminds him that he used to think the darkness at the bottom of the quarry had a life of its own. Hell, maybe it does. With what they’ve seen, what they’ve fought, who’s to say there’s nothing down there? Maybe that’s what draws him here so often. 

Does the living darkness know his secrets like the darkness in his room does? Does it listen to him, does it care? They’re stupid questions, Steve knows. But they carry a hopefulness he wants to preserve. Something that survived the Upside Down, that survives the nightmares and the flashbacks and the post-traumatic stress, as Hopper and Owens call it. 

There’s something primal about sitting on the edge of such vastness, so much so that it makes his heart beat faster, his breath come shallower, like he is just a second away from falling. Like he has to savour this; this second, this moment, this life, because beyond it, around it, below it, there is only darkness. 

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets it all out until his lungs ache. The silence is absolute. He feels like the only person on the planet — but not in the bad, painful way that’s been hiding in the back of his mind for as long as he can remember. 

If he only breathes like this for a while longer, lets the feeling settle, lets the thoughts come and bring emotions with them, he knows that soon the tears will fall.

Tears, because he shouldn’t have to sit at the edge of the quarry in the dark of night just to be able to feel. Tears, because he forgot how to be a boy, how to be a person, about three years ago. Almost to the day. Tears, because they all did; but he’s Steve. He can’t let them see. Wouldn’t know how even if he wanted to. 

And tears, tonight, because just hours earlier, Eddie fell asleep while Steve made dinner. His arms were curled around the pillow Steve had leaned against all afternoon, and Steve just stood there in the doorway to Eddie’s room, the smell of fresh pasta mixing with that of leather, paperback books, tobacco and laundry detergent that is so purely and wonderfully Eddie that Steve just wants to catch it in a mason jar and open it whenever he needs a dose. 

Eddie had fallen asleep, and all Steve could do was look at him. Smile on his lips, ache in his heart that only grew in ferocity until all he could do was leave. Because friends don’t watch their friends sleep. Not like this. Not with their hands twitching by their sides, curled into fists to stop them from reaching out and trailing over soft, warm skin. Friends don’t… They don’t. 

So Steve left, pasta untouched. Heart unravelled. Words unspoken. 

He left and sped off until he reached the quarry, a safe place to piece himself back together again — but he doesn’t have the heart to leave out Eddie. So every time he comes here and puts the pieces of himself back together, he puts Eddie in the centre. He always does. It’s what keeps getting him in this mess. 

But it’s still the closest he’ll get to bravery after the Upside Down; admitting, if only to himself, that he likes a boy. Allowing himself to cry about it. To breathe in and breathe out and have the truth unchanged, unchallenged, undoubted.

He’s still breathing when the all-encompassing silence is interrupted, joined by the unmistakeable sound of tires on gravel. Seconds later, headlights illuminate the night, his arms, the edge of the quarry, but still not reaching beyond that. The car comes to a stop but Steve still doesn’t move, doesn’t turn around, just hopes that whoever it is will just leave him alone. 

Lights go out, the engine is killed, followed by the sound of a car door opening and being closed far too gently. 

Steve isn’t too surprised when steps approach him slowly, nor when they come to a stop beside him, chasing away some of the cold that’s been resting over him like a blanket.

Instinctively, he knows it’s Eddie. He just doesn’t know why. 

“How’d you know I’m here?” he asks into the void, still unmoving. 

“Just knew,” comes the reply, and it sounds so soft, so gentle, so understanding that Steve fears he might fall apart and have to rebuild himself once more. Twice in one night. Wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t be the last. “Why’d you leave?” 

Because otherwise I’d have crossed the distance and fallen to my knees, brushed a kiss to your forehead and told you dinner was ready. Because otherwise I’d have slid down the doorframe and watched over you, watched you, and the firework of a person that you are even in your sleep. I’d have fallen in love and I’d have fallen, fallen, fallen. So I needed to go where falling is not an option. 

Instead of saying any of that, Steve only shrugs. “Just did.” 

It’s lame and unfair, he knows, but talking to the darkness is so much easier when there’s not an audience, and Eddie just… he can’t know. Any of that. 

“Can I join you?” Eddie asks then, and Steve can hear it in his voice that he would leave if Steve said no. 

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t; just nods and scoots to the side a bit even though there’s enough room for Eddie to sit just anywhere. 

But he doesn’t sit just anywhere, no. He sits down rather clumsily — for which Steve can’t blame him, it is a little scary in the dark, and one wrong move could be your very last — and ends up with his arm and shoulder pressed to Steve‘s, their legs so close he can feel Eddie‘s warmth through the denim.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s dangerous, so close to falling, and Steve scoots to the side, breaking contact. Breathing carefully.

Eddie‘s eyes are on him, he can feel it. He doesn’t react. It hurts, his entire body aches with how close he wants to be. But it’s too much, even for himself to bear. Putting all that on Eddie would be enough to take them both down to the bottom of the quarry, and lower still.

So he swallows. All the words he cannot say, all the thoughts that lump together and clog his throat.

“Are you okay, Stevie?” Eddie asks, and Steve just shrugs again.

“Sure.”

“Right,” Eddie whispers, then sighs. It’s not a heavy sigh or a judgmental one, but it makes Steve flinch all the same.

Too much. Too fucking much even unknown.

Silence falls over them, the quarry working its magic — or its curse — even on Eddie Munson. Steve wonders if it suffocates or liberates him, but he doesn’t dare to ask. It would take too much explaining for the question to make sense, too much revealing himself, too much of… Just too much.

He wants to ask. To say something. To scoot back over again, closer to Eddie, and lay his head on his shoulder, bask in his warmth and withstand the magic, the curse, the darkness.

Withstand it, because that’s what Eddie does. He is brave, despite everything.

And Steve is just the boy who sits with darkness at night because he doesn’t know how to be brave anymore, not when there’s no question of life or death. He forgot all about everyday-bravery.

But Eddie didn’t. He’s still there, still smiling and laughing and teasing his way through life and into Steve’s heart and soul.

And Steve doesn’t know what to do with it. Doesn’t know what he can do with it. Doesn’t know how to ask.

It’s no surprise, then, that it’s Eddie who does.

“What are we doing, Steve?” He sounds a bit resigned about it, and it makes Steve hide away in himself even more, focusing on the darkness beneath him rather than the light beside him — they both leave him blinded at equal measure, but one of them doesn’t ask him questions to which he doesn’t know the answer.

“What do you mean?” he asks after a while, his voice a little off. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. Apprehension, maybe. Caught. Uncovered. Exposed.

Beside him, Eddie sighs again, just a little bit, but Steve has always hated that he keeps making people sigh. Makes him feel so fucking small, so incredibly useless.

He raises one leg from the abyss to rest his chin on his knee, because suddenly he feels so heavy that he needs the physical reminder that he’s not about to fall. One foot on the ground. Steady, secure, a great illusion for now.

“Sorry,” he whispers at last, because Eddie hasn’t said anything, has only sighed and created a silence that’s so loud it can probably be heard at the bottom of the quarry, and Steve feels like the silence is his fault this time.

“What for?”

“Dunno,” he confesses, lies, concedes as his house of cards begins to crumble for some reason. The heaviness wanders from his throat down to his heart and settles there, making a home for itself, casting out all the lightness that usually comes when he’s around Eddie.

But it seems he’s reached his breaking point. It seems he can only pretend to be okay for so long, pretend not to yearn and ache and long for intimacy and tenderness. It seems he can only put himself together again, rebuilding himself around Eddie at his centre, until it would break apart for good. Burst out of his heart, dismantle him piece by broken piece until all that’s left is a broken boy, yearning.

And so he can’t stop the tears even if he wanted to. They’re kind in their silence, streaming down his face without demand for sobs or sniffles. Just breaking free, a simple displacement reaction. Following the physics of emotions.

“Hey,” Eddie whispers, reaching out to wrap an arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him into his side. There’s that warmth, that touch, that gentleness he’s been craving — and there’s that sob he’s been suppressing. “Hey, Stevie, it’s okay. You’re okay. You can talk to me, you know that, right?”

He shakes his head into the warmth of Eddie’s neck, wiping dejectedly at his tears.

“No?”

“No,” he whines, sighs, groans, annoyed with himself.

“Don’t want to? Or can’t?”

Both. Neither. All at once.

He shrugs again, still leaning against Eddie.

Eddie, who turns his head slightly and brushes his lips over Steve’s hair in what can only be described as a kiss. Except, it can’t. It couldn’t. It isn’t.

Steve begins to shiver against him — maybe he’s cold, maybe he’s overwhelmed, maybe he’s both and neither and everything all at once.

“I’ve got you, Stevie.”

And then Eddie kisses his head again, and he stills.

“You can’t kiss me, Eddie,” he says, voice still thick, but steadier this time. No more sobbing, no more whining. Just a broken boy, yearning. Always, always that.

Eddie freezes where he’s holding Steve, only his arm still moves in soothing, rubbing motions — warming him, holding him, saving him. Always, always that.

“Sorry,” Eddie says this time. Except it’s wrong. It’s so wrong, and Steve leans back to look at him. It’s impossible to make out his expression in the darkness, but he tries nonetheless.

“Don’t be sorry,” he whispers. “Just…” He gestures vaguely, not quite sure what the just entails. Just mean it. Just do it right. Just don’t do it out of pity. Just leave me alone until I’m over you even though we both know I never really will be.

“Just?”

Steve shrugs. Whispers, “I don’t know.”

“Don’t hide, Stevie.” Be brave, Stevie. Be brave like me.

God, how he wishes. How he longs. How he aches.

“You don’t have to hide, not from me.”

Steve huffs and says, before he can stop himself, “Especially from you.”

Eddie pauses and Steve freaks out a little bit, even before Eddie asks, “Why?” He sounds wounded. Small. He shouldn’t sound like that. Never.

“Because you’re gonna see otherwise.”

“See what?”

That I’m completely and utterly in love with you. Besotted. Enamoured. All the big words you like to make fun of. All of them and more.

“Me.”

There’s a beat where nothing happens. Maybe time stops, maybe reality resets itself, settling in more comfortably in anticipation of vulnerability’s fallout.

And then Eddie takes his hands, reaching for them in the darkness and finding them with ease. Like he’s done it many times before. Because he has. Just never like this.

“Steve,” he begins, and Steve wants to run again. To hide, to confess to another void, and make Eddie forget this conversation ever happened. “I think I already do.”

What? No. No, you can’t.

When Steve doesn’t respond, Eddie continues, seemingly gathering himself and his thoughts as he goes. Always so much stronger, so much braver than Steve.

“I already do see you. The way you smile at me, light up the whole room with it. The way you hug me, always a little too long, but never long enough if you ask me. I see you blushing, I see you going out of your way for me, and… And I think, if you knew how to look, you’d see the same in me. Because, uh. Because I like seeing you. And I like… I like you. Not in a friends kinda way. In a way where I wanna sit beside you all night and talk about deep shit, but I wanna run my fingers through your hair when we do. I wanna play with your fingers when we do. I wanna kiss you when we do, because there’s deep, heavy, traumatic shit everywhere, but there’s also you. And I don’t want one without the other. I want you. In that exact way that I see you looking at me, wanting me, too.”

Eddie swallows, a little breathless beside him like Steve’s not choking on emotion himself.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Eddie whispers then, pressing and desperate and knowing. “Tell me you don’t like me in a way you think you shouldn’t. Tell me I don’t see you.”

He shakes his head, slowly, frantically. “I can’t.”

“Because it’s true?”

Steve’s nodding now, just as frantic, leaving him disoriented and falling, only anchored to Eddie who’s still holding his hands.

“Yeah,” Steve gasps, rasps, whispers. “It… I’m. I don’t.” It’s he who swallows heavily now, needing a second or an eternity to process Eddie’s words. “You really mean that?”

Eddie nods. He can feel it, somehow.

“I don’t know what has you so scared,” Eddie begins. “Except the obvious, of course, but I feel like that’s only a small chunk of it. But you gotta believe me when I say that I mean it. I like you. So much it makes me stupid sometimes.”

Steve huffs, but it’s a smile this time. A real one. Tinged with sadness and heaviness and disbelief still, but a real one nonetheless.

“I wanna tell you. All of that. Everything, in my own words. And I will, but… Eddie, I’m—“ Steve starts with a quivering voice but shuts himself up before he can ruin this.

I’m broken. I’m not sure if I can let you. I’m just Steve. I’m bullshit. I’m…

“I’m tired.”

It has a double meaning, here at the quarry — but he doesn’t mean it like that. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He won’t.

“Can you just hold me?” It is perhaps the closest to bravery he’s going to get. Tonight, or always. But it’s enough. It can be enough.

Eddie hums and Steve can hear the smile, can feel how some of the heaviness inside him dissipates with it.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Steve shivers again as he shifts, lying back so it’s only his legs, bent at the knee, that dangle over the abyss now. Eddie joins him, wrapping his arms around Steve’s middle and rearranging them so Steve rests half on top of him. It can’t be comfortable, but Steve doesn’t mention it.

They lie there in silence, and Steve allows himself to let go of the tension in his bones as he feels Eddie’s hands travelling across his back in a tender caress. He doesn’t quite believe it’s real, doesn’t believe he’ll get to keep it beyond this moment, and can’t quite savour it the way he wants to because surely he will lose this, too. Surely Eddie will realise and come to his senses and—

“Do you really mean it?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, leaning up slightly to brush his lips over Steve’s temple. “Yeah, Stevie. I really, really mean it.” And then, after a while, “Will you come back home now?”

Back home. Home to Eddie and Wayne. Home, because Eddie cares and wants and bravely, bravely asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says.

Another kiss to his forehead. “And will you stay?”

It is Steve now who leans up, hovering above Eddie to meet his eyes through the dark. “I will. I do.” And then he slowly, carefully captures Eddie’s lips with his own, sealing the promise and receiving one in return.

Kissing Eddie is a lot like falling, he realises. But there are arms wrapped around him, holding him, never wanting to let him go — so maybe it isn’t falling after all. Maybe it’s flying.

At home in his bed, Eddie holds him some more, running fingers through his hair long after Steve has fallen asleep.

They’ll make it work.

[ballpitwitch]

Keanu Reeves performing at The Roxy in Los Angeles - July 18, 2023

[caffeinatedopossum]

I actually find it really bizarre and counter intuitive that clinically speaking, you cannot legally be diagnosed with a personality disorder until you're at least 18. The reason given for this is because "the personality has not fully developed before this age" like ???

Ah yes, my favorite strategy. Not diagnosing the problem until it's already been virtually cemented into your brain for life! Wouldn't it be easier (and more painless) to address the problem before it's fully developed?

[sphnyspinspin]

OMG TFONE HEADCANNON/REVIEW TIME LETS GOO‼️✨💙❤️🩷💛✨‼️

[B-127]

I just want to say I FUCKING LOVED TRANSFORMERS ONE!!! It has officially won a special place in my heart that I’ll cherish fondly until the end of time.

Okay, now I just HAVE to talk about some of my headcannons that theorizes some things that a certain review that—may or may not have irked me the wrong way—has gotten me thinking about. Like, for example:

Is B-127 really just there for comedy relief?

HELL. NO. You know why? Because he was forged to be a yapper, that’s why. He’s a storyteller. He might not be the most mature one in the gang, but he’s the type of immature that stems from being repeatedly outcasted and ignored to the point of not understanding other people’s boundaries or a majority of social cues.

And let’s just face it, everyone is their own type of immature.

His yapping tendencies can actually play a big part in some potential development as more than just a bystander. BY BEING A STAND-BYER! HEY-OH!

I think that B-127 is going to be the one to spread the true narrative about his three other friends during their long trek across Cybertron and their beginnings. Because he was there… he was always THERE.

He was there when Orion Pax and D-16 found the SOS message from THE Alpha Trion. He was there when Alpha Trion was discovered—and was REVIVED thanks to HIS pocket energon. He was there when Sentinel’s allegiance with the Quintessons was revealed. He was there when he, Elita-1, Orion Pax, and D-16 were given the T-Cogs of the deceased Primes. He was there to see D-16 rally the High Guard after beating Starscream for the first time.

And he was there when Sentinel Prime violently carved the face of D-16’s idol into his chest while parading around that same idol’s T-Cog right in front of him… In front of the both of them…

I’m not even going to try to repeat the wise banger that Alpha Trion said about how the T-Cogs are the physical embodiments of their race’s freedom to choose what they become and stuff, because I genuinely can’t remember any of it. I’m so sorry. But I know for a FACT since D-16 and B-127 were both there when he said it they immediately made it a core memory for themselves—therefore they BOTH knew the downright gruesome implications it meant for Sentinel wearing one as a trophy after murdering the Prime it belonged to.

That also means B-127 was able to see what Orion Pax and Elita-One weren’t able to see right before D-16 was about to murder the guy. Yeah, they were able to show all of Iacon all of the shitty actions he did BEFORE he captured B and D and half of the High Guard, but none of what transpired in that torture room was ever broadcasted to any servant class workers, or civilians in general, or to Orion Pax and Elita-1.

But B-127 saw it. He saw ALL of it. He was THERE. He was the only other friend that D-16 had in there, the only other friend of Orion Pax and Elita-1 that was in there. The High Guard didn’t count, they haven’t seen any of what Sentinel did through the lenses of B-127.

Through the lenses of a friend to the inevitable Optimus Prime.

So here’s what I’m imagining. B-127 is going to play devil’s advocate, one way or another, whenever there’s a time when the subject of a conversation would be Megatron related. He would be able to recollect their time together in that room with Sentinel and the rest of the High Guard—waiting to be tortured and framed and EXECUTED in front of the WHOLE CITY OF IACON. B-127 and D-16’s HOME.

He’d most likely be able to sympathize, maybe even EMPATHIZE, with Megatron’s motives. Unlike Orion Pax or Elita-1. Of course we all know that Optimus was friends with Megatron for way longer than B-127, but again he didn’t see what B-127 saw. And… now that I’m thinking about it… B-127 is a little bit like D-16. In a sense.

I think we all saw how eager he was to use his knife hands as often as possible after he discovered them. Kind of like how D-16 became real attached to his canons, both in and out of his alt-mode, when he got them. Oh my god, I could seriously go on and on about so many minor character parallels between D-16/Megatron and B-127 if I could. Like I’m just now thinking about how B and D could’ve gotten along a lot better if they actually got to know each other. The main reasoning why they’d understand each other a lot:

They both know what it’s been like to face the unjust consequences of the system they were unknowingly forced into.

While Orion was, from a shallow perspective, a rebellious punk who was always putting himself in these whacky situations to get what he wants, where D-16 would have to come and save his aft, while he’d suffer the consequences later on. Though Orion was able to subdue D-16’s wrath with calming reassurance, D-16 would still continue to be the “understanding type” from Orion’s perspective as long as he was able to be forgiven after another one of his stunts, that sometimes, he even brings D-16 into against his better—more cautious—judgement.

And Elita being the commanding type, incredibly determined at any given task she puts her mind to, like Orion, she too faced the consequences of Orion’s actions, like D-16. But then again, her strong headed attitude and overall ability to get back up and immediately put herself back to work to accomplish her goals, is what separates her from the rest of the gang; by being responsible for herself and herself only, and when ORION’S actions got HER demoted, she’s rightfully upset and makes it well-known to Orion and holds him accountable.

But B-127 isn’t headstrong like Elita, and he isn’t rebellious like Orion. He’s his own in-depth unique thing that has a slightly more similar comparison with D-16 than the other two. It’s definitely hidden well. But not completely invisible. He’s more complaisant when it comes to facing consequences, especially when he doesn’t have a choice in the system he grew up in.

And so is D-16. He literally said he deserved it when DARKWING of all bots decked him in the face for defending Orion.

As I was saying, I genuinely do believe that B-127’s progression through the story would be him being a kind of devil’s advocate to Megatron, with him being able to better comprehend the events that were put into play and how they conspired into D-16 killing Sentinel, cementing his role as Megatron. And how B-127 would be the one to be the metaphorical dampener when it comes to any misinformation that’s potentially passed around when it comes to Megatron’s “descent into madness” and be able to back himself up with the proof that’s up in his noggin.

He’ll be able to SAY something.

He’ll be able to say that D-16… that Megatron is worth sympathizing, is worth UNDERSTANDING, even when what he did was horrific to say the least.

.

.

.

And imagine how much of a downfall it would be if Megatron were to be the one to tear out B-127’s very instrument that was one of his main tools in saying ANYTHING that could’ve brought a bit more understanding to HIS story… From an up-close and personal perspective, outside of his own.

To show is to inform, to communicate is to educate.

Without his voice box he can always just let someone project his memories onto a screen… but to sit back and not give any verbal feedback of his personal feelings about it, would be less than ideal to the interaction-starved mech we know and love. Especially since he was one of the mechs that played one of the biggest roles in history that could wholeheartedly understand Megatron’s origins more than anyone could know.

[ratatatastic]

"That was a great opening pitch ceremony before the game today! Matthew Tkachuk from the Panthers, Jayson Tatum from the Celtics, threw out the first pitch today. Two St. Louis Champions!" "—Thought they went to high school together, they rode the bus to school together, they won Championships in the same year. That's pretty amazing!" "Well Tatum's one-uped him, he's got a gold medal too. From the Olympics." "Yeah, that's true... So I went downstairs today to go say, 'Hi,' to Keith Tkachuk, obviously, and Matthew. I have this picture of Keith and I, and Matthew when he was 5 years old in front of my locker. So we reincarnated the picture today." "Oh, did you?" "Yeah, it was pretty funny—except for Matthew was a little too tall to stand on the chair this time, and Keith has gained a few pounds as he said. But still one of the greatest people—I think—that will ever be around this city—right there, that guy, Keith Tkachuk. There's his son, Matthew, right there. What a great family! I always say the star of their family is Mrs. Tkachuk. Chantal is, obviously the mom, and she is the star of the show—"

los angeles dodgers @ st louis cardinals | 8.18.24

[shizunitis]

Luo Binghe & Tianlang-Jun: Origins. And a Bit of Projection.

Disclaimer: This is basically just a collection of quotes from The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System, Volume 3, accompanied by (adjective) thoughts, and then even more relevant quotes listed at the end. If I could, I’d paste the entirety of Chapter 18.

“As expected, I can’t bring myself to hate humans.” — Vol. 3, Chapter 21: Always Together

I will always be conflicted on the topic of Tianlang-jun, and it annoys me. There is so much I could say about him, and so little I can successfully articulate. He is, to me, more confounding, complex and tragic than Shen Jiu.

He’s pitiful and awe-inspiring, wicked and affable, cunning and wide-eyed in his curiousity. He is a compelling, heartbreaking character. He alternates between emotionless wisdom and mournful apathy. I admire how his knees don’t buckle under the weight of his grief, but how he crumbles at the barest hint of hope. How rage claws at him and, still, he can’t figure out how to make it stick.

I empathise with him. I understand him.

But then, in the distance, Luo Binghe's indifferent voice disturbs the silence, causing me to drop my drink onto the floor and this post onto your screen:

“He’s not my father.”

It’s an interesting exercise, exploring their relationship in reconciliation fics. To see them interact (semi-)honestly, watch them take turns filling up the chasm between them. It’s wonderful. Every fic I’ve read centred around them was a delightful read that I still think about.

However. I cannot see Tianlang-Jun, as I understand him, as Luo Binghe’s father. And not just because of the 3rd Novel’s events.

But because Binghe had hoped for something; he did have that wide-eyed wonder. He did hold one last window open, for the sake of an improbability he couldn’t quite, just yet, dismiss.

It’s what (most) orphaned and/or adopted childred do.

Though Luo Binghe had never said a word about it before, Shen Qingqiu knew that he harbored some fantasies about his birth parents. […] In fact, he’d always secretly fantasized about whether his parents might still be alive, and how well they’d treat him, and how they’d never let him suffer the mildest slight. — Vol. 3, Chapter 17: Tianlang

It is the most human thing; to want to be helped, accepted, invited by those given to you. A family is given to you. Whether you believe it an act of the divine, of nature, of coincidence, it isn’t something you fight for. It’s the first and, arguably, only thing you don’t have to fight for in life.

Depending on a multitude of factors, that can be a blessing or a curse; but where there is room for interpretation, questions left unanswered, most childred—Binghe included—will turn to their imagination, and try to make sense of it. Usually, to comfort themselves, to reassure themselves that surely, if their family could, they would have.

And, yeah. Most likely, if the Palace Master had gotten punted into the Sun like he fucking deserved, they would have. But does it matter?

In the face of a bleak reality, what comfort is a could-have-been?

He liked to call Luo Binghe “that son of mine,” but he didn’t seem to possess any concept of fatherly affection. […] Luo Binghe was in fact…someone who was unloved by even his own parents. — Vol. 3, Chapter 15: Holy Mausoleum

What use are good intentions to an abandoned child? What consolation is it, to say, They gave birth to you, when that child has seen no evidence of their care? Does it dry their tears, that their mother can’t be here, but she surely would have wished to be? That their father would protect them, if only he knew of them?

(And don’t make me tell you about the visceral horror I felt reading the Origins chapter. I’ve yet to make my peace with it. MXTX, Airplane, whoever: you’ve ruined me.)

The washerwoman was and continues to be, to Binghe, his only mother. And I would argue, that’s healthy. Even independent of his other traumas (Abyss, Shizun’s betrayal, Xin Mo’s influence, living on the streets, etc, holy shit Binghe) Luo Binghe will not accept anyone else as his mother.

“Who is this Su Xiyan?” Luo Binghe asked coldly. “My mother was a mere washerwoman.” — Vol. 3, Chapter 18: Origins.

It may seem callous. It probably even is! But it is a healthy line he’d drawn by his own initiative. It’s what helps him, what he feels he needs to do in order to do right by his mother, and his own heart.

And! Tianlang-Jun doesn’t seem to give much of a shit, either!

Won’t, probably, even in the future, once the dust will have settled. He is exhausted, weary with carrying the corpse of his love, the loss of his nephew. Whatever goodwill he shows, it’s a perfunctory sort, because he can’t afford more.

So. Uhh.

Tianlang-Jun is not a character I can love, nor one I can hate. Usually, I can’t help but be inclined to love complex characters. Like them, too—though that’s more of an action-based thing rather than just said character’s personality.

But with Tianlang-Jun, I’m stuck whichever way I turn. If I want to love/like him, I’m drawn back by Binghe’s pain and disappointment. If I try to hate/dislike him, I’m drawn back by his own history and grief.

In conclusion:

I don't know! I'm not really trying to, like, prove anything. I still love the aforementioned TLJ & LBH fics, I still love their dynamic. I started walking and ended up exactly in the same space. This, perhaps, could be considered a Heavenly Demon Family Mobius Strip!

I'm not really trying to say anything. It just… makes me feel conflicted, and angry, and whenever I allow myself to think about it a bit more, sad.

But.

However!

Alas.

Nonetheless, even.

As a reader and—on my better days—a writer, all I can say is:

As promised/threatened: some selected passages, for your reading pleasure:

So, it looked like neither the father nor the cousin had any intention of acknowledging Luo Binghe. — Chapter 15: Holy Mausoleum

He liked to call Luo Binghe “that son of mine,” but he didn’t seem to possess any concept of fatherly affection. — Chapter 15: Holy Mausoleum

Tianlang-Jun lifted his hand, took a look at Luo Binghe’s snow-pale face, and commented indifferently, “He looks like his mother.” “His eyes look like yours,” came a chill voice from the side. — Chapter 15: Holy Mausoleum

The faint hopes and dreams Luo Binghe had held in his heart for many years had been mercilessly pulverized into so much dust. […] [Tianlang-Jun] refused to speak a single word of their relationship and had been utterly ruthless back in the Holy Mausoleum. […] To his parents, Luo Binghe was an unwanted child. — Chapter 18: Origins

“If he was my father, why didn’t he bring it up earlier? Why not tell me?” The most Tianlang-Jun had said was that single line he offered while beating up Luo Binghe, devoid of either praise or criticism: “He looks like his mother.” He looks like his mother. What of it? But that was all. There was nothing more. — Chapter 18: Origins

Luo Binghe was indifferent. “He’s not my father.” […] Luo Binghe shook his head. It was unclear what he was stubbornly clinging to, but he repeated, “He’s not my father.” — Chapter 18: Origins

Luo Binghe raised his smiling face, his eyes shining brightly. “Mother was the kindest person in all the world to me.” — Chapter 19: Shen Jiu