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The way Superman depicted complicit civilians is gonna stick with me.

Because usually when you have your villain, usually the civilians working for them are gonna be largely faceless or cowed. And then when the hero crashes the scene, only the armed goons are taken out while said civilians flee to remove any questions.

In here though, you can tell they all enjoy working for Luthor. The technicians in his hq have fun plugging in directions to Ultraman. And those in the base camp wear tropical shirts while listening to music and playing games on their downtime. Nobody is working with rigid confirmity nor are there moral reservations (the only objection shown was when his obsession almost got them killed).

So when Mr. Terrific arrived on the scene, it is actually fitting that he wiped out the workers alongside the armed goons.

Also the way Superman's fellow prisoners not only attempted to snitch on him but actually tried to out snitch each other deserves a whole other analysis.

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Every Fred Astaire & Ginger Rogers Dance “Bouncin’ The Blues” in THE BARKLEYS OF BROADWAY (1949)

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🩺

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And whilst our souls negotiate there

Chapter 14

“I’ll leave you to it, but Miss Granger’s senior attending Medi-wizard said I was to look in on you both after three hours,” the nurse, a pleasant creature of indeterminate age and orientation far superior to the one who’d referred to Hermione as “no trouble” and “Jean,” said, careful to keep the tone respectful and matter-of-fact, as if Draco were as deserving of respect as any other wizard, despite the sickly green Dark Mark remnants on his arm and the absolutely extraordinary and bloody bonkers untested and unverified spell set he planned to cast. 

(Not wandless, though he’d considered it. Not with his usual wand, though he held it lightly in his left hand. Luna Lovegood had done whatever her equivalent of calling in a favor was and he had a brand-new wand of Japanese umbrella-pine with a condor feather core whose power was undeniable and unpredictable.)

“Ta,” he replied, channeling Neville and not Theo. 

The nurse left.

Would he have lost his mind in three hours?

More optimistically, would Hermione be sitting upright in the narrow bed, arguing over his technique and inflection, absently nibbling on the shortbread that was Mungo’s only culinary accomplishment?

He’d have to hope for the best, which came as naturally to him as singing along with the Weird Sisters on the wireless, which was to say, not at all. That American witch who’d famously refused Salem Academy had written hope was the thing with feathers and at the moment, Draco could not help wondering which blood-thirsty feathered magical creature of the wild Americas she’d meant to invoke.

It was not reassuring.

Still, he’d lived cheek by jowl with Voldemort before he’d sprouted once platinum whisker and had survived that meal with Potter in the Muggle pub, so he mustn’t quail.

He lifted the Lovegood sourced wand, winced a little at the sheer power leaping within it, and cast.

And waited.

Nothing happened. Hermione lay still in her bed. There was no evidence she’d felt anything, which wasn’t surprising, since Draco, who had cast the spell, had felt nothing either. He had a sudden memory of Severus Snape looming over him as he’d stirred a cauldron, compelling him to hold his gaze, those dark, dark eyes, and that resonant voice, very quietly saying attention, intention, without anything snide or impatient. The teacher the wizard could have been, had he not been bound to two other Powers.

Attention, intention.

Draco cast again, the wand in his hand somehow smiling at him dreamily, Luna’s perpetual expression. 

He found himself in a place entirely foreign and yet familiar in the smallest of ways.

He found himself with Hermione Granger’s hands at his throat.

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I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again but it is absolutely an example of civilizational inadequacy that only deaf people know ASL

“oh we shouldn’t teach children this language, it will only come in handy if they [checks notes] ever have to talk in a situation where it’s noisy or they need to be quiet”

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1915 Bathers at "Long Beach" on Long Island's South Shore. From New York City-Vintage History, FB.

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Gnawing at the bars of my enclosure

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YOU ARE TELLING ME THERE WAS A TAKE WHERE CLARK HAS HIS GLASSES AND LOIS TAKES THEM OFF I WOULD HAVE HAD A HEART ATTACK

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Seems like a good time for a reminder that the Texas Democratic Party has a really excellent online store, including such fun products as shirts that say “Y’ALL MEANS ALL” and “VOTE FOR WEED” (the latter in the Vote for Pedro font), a mug with a trans flag Texas on it that says “Protect Trans Kids,” and — perhaps most importantly — a sticker of a pot-smoking cactus. A pretty fun way if you have some extra cash to toss it toward saving democracy. AND you get a stoner cactus sticker. What’s not to love?

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For @asteraceae-blue and inspired by these gifs and also my own imagination...

Easy does it

First date and she’d invited him over.

“I’m not easy,” Lois panted, Clark kissing her cheek, the soft place beneath her jaw, tonguing her neck, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other at the small of her back, holding her close.

Closer.

“I’m not, I don’t want you to think—” she murmured, managing a murmur and not an uncontrolled moan, but just barely, arching into him.

“I don’t think, I’m not thinking,” he said. It was the hint of laughter in his voice, the dry vermouth in the martini, that brought her back into herself, the analytic place she spent most of her time.

“It shouldn’t be an issue, it shouldn’t be a framework, being easy,” she said.

“It shouldn’t,” he agreed, like they were sitting at work and he was wearing his freaking glasses and they were having a discussion. “And you’re not. Not easy—”

“I’m not difficult,” she retorted. As retorts went, it was pretty weak because she prided herself on being tough and she’d also untucked his shirt and eased her hand beneath, to touch his back, to feel him without anything between them, which he evidently liked about as much as she did, since he started kissing her mouth again, sucking on her lower lip, demanding, letting go of that reserve he cultivated, letting her feel his power, his desire.

“No. Not difficult. Not easy,” he said, the hand at her waist at her thigh, nudging her to wrap it around him, then picking her up and walking to her bedroom, falling back onto the bed so she was on top and he had a decent view down her shirt.

If she wasn’t easy, why had she worn the embroidered lace balconette bra with the matching panties? Who the hell was she kidding?

“Gosh you’re pretty, Lois,” Clark said, startling her. His eyes were so blue, so direct and so full of a tenderness she couldn’t possibly deserve. She froze.

“I don’t think you’re easy and we don’t have to do anything else,” he offered, his hands almost chaste on her body, his voice soft. “I could go home—”

“No,” she blurted out. “Stay. If you want, I mean.”

“I want,” he said, shifting her slightly, letting her find out just how honest he was. 

Very. 

Prodigiously.

Cripes.

“You’re not easy, but this could be,” he said. “You and me, maybe like this, it could be the easiest thing in the world.”

“That depends,” Lois replied, happiness making her snarky.

“On what?” Clark said, still earnest.

“On whether you’re any good at this,” Lois said. 

Clark grinned and before she could say a word, had flipped them, Lois’s thigh canted over his hip, his free hand unfastening the buttons of her oxford. The tender expression in his eyes shifted to something darker, headier, as he took in the lace bra, the edge of her tattoo above the waistband of her pants.

“Oh, I’m good at this. Super, even,” he said.

Oh, he was.

Gnawing at the bars of my enclosure

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Manny Jacinto | Kitchen Convos | August 08, 2025

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what does your blood taste like to a vampire