#Fandom content

[cybernaght]

The fandom echo chamber: fanon, microanalysis and conspiracy brain 

As someone who has been in fandom spaces, on and off, for 20 years, I find some fascinating trends popping up in the last decade that I thought to be fandom-specific but clearly aren’t. So, I would like to do a little examination of where those things come from, how they are engaged with, and what it says about the way we consume media. This is a think piece, of sorts, with my brain being the main source. As such, we will spend some time down the memory lane of a fandom-focused millennial.

This is largely brought about by Good Omens. But it’s also not really about Good Omens at all.

Part one. Fanon.

The way we see characters in any story is always skewed by our very selves. This is a neutral statement, and it does not have a value judgement. It’s simply unavoidable. We recognise aspects of them, love aspects of them, and choose aspects of them to highlight based entirely on our own vision of the universe. 

Recognition comes into this. There is a reason so many protagonists of romance novels have a “blank slate” problem. Even when they do not, we love characters who are like us or versions of us that we would like to be. And when we say “we”, I also mean, “me”. 

(I remember very clearly this realisation hit me after a whole season of Doctor Who with writing which I hated utterly when I questioned why I still clung so incredibly hard to Clara Oswald as my favourite companion. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. Oh. Well. That would do it, wouldn’t it?)

Then, there is projection, and, again, this is a neutral statement. Projection exists, and it is completely normal and, dare I say it, valid way of engaging with — well, anything. Is the character queer? Trans? Neurodivergent? Are they in love? Do they like chocolate? Are they a cat person? Well, yes, if this is what the text says, but if the text does not say anything… You tell me. Please, do tell me. Because, in that moment of projection, they are yours. 

And then, there is fandom osmosis, and that is the most fascinating one of them all, the one that is not very easy to note while you are inside the echo chamber. It’s the way we collectively, consciously or not, make decisions on who or what the characters are, what their relationships are, and what happens to them.  

(Back when I was writing egregiously long Guardian recaps on this blog I actually asked if Shen Wei’s power being learning actually was stated anywhere in the canon of the show. Because I had no idea. I have read and reread dozen of fanfics where that is the case, and at some point through enough repetition, it became reality.)

We are all kind of making our own reality here, aren’t we? 

Back when things were happening in a much less centralised manner - in closed livejournal groups, and forums of all shapes and sizes - I don’t remember there being quite as much universally agreed upon fanon. Frankly, I don’t remember much of universally agreed upon anything. But now, everything is in one place: we have this, and we have AO3, and it’s wonderful, it really is so much easier to navigate, but it’s also one gigantic reality-shifting echo chamber, with blogs, reblogs, trends, and rituals. 

Accessibility plays its part, too. If you were, say, in Life on Mars (UK) fandom between seasons, and you wanted to post your speculation fic, you had to have had an account, and then find and gain access to one of the bigger groups (lifein1973 was my poison, but ymmv), and then, if you feel brave you may post it, but also, you may want to do so from your alt account if you wanted to keep yours separate, and then you would have to go through the whole process again. And I’m not saying that fan creations then were somehow inherently better for it than fan creations now (although Life on Mars Hiatus Era is perhaps a bad example - because some of the Speculation Fic there was breathtaking), but there is something to say about the ease of access that made the fandoms go through a big bang of sorts.

(I mean, come on, I can just come here and post this - and I am certain people will read it, and this blog is a pandemic cope baby about Chinese television for goodness sake.)

The canon transformations that happen in the fandom echo chamber truly are fascinating to witness as someone who is more or less a fandom butterfly. I get into something, float around for a bit, then get into something else and move on. I might come back eventually when the need arises, but I don’t sustain a hiatus mind-state. This means that when I float away and return, I find some very intriguing stuff.

Let’s actually look at Good Omens here. Season two aired, and I found it spectacular in its cosy and anguished way; deliberately and intelligently fanfic-y in its plot building; simple but subversive, and so very tender. (I will have to circle back to this eventually, because, truly, I love how deliberately it takes the tropes and shatters them - it’s glorious). And, to me - a person who read the book, watched the first season, hung around AO3 for a few weeks and moved on - absolutely on-point in terms of characterisation. 

So imagine my surprise when the fandom disagreed so vehemently that there are actual multi-tiered theories on how characters were not in possession of their senses. Nothing there, in my mind, ever contradicted any of the stated text, as it stood. This remained a strange little mystery until I did what I always do when I flutter close to an ongoing fandom.

I loaded AO3 and sorted the existing fic by popularity. And there it was, all there: the actual earth-shattering mutual devotion of the angel and the demon; willingness to Fall; openness and long heart-aching confession speeches. There was all of the fanon surrounding Aziraphale and Crowley, which, to me, read as out of character, and to one for whom they became the reality over the last four years, read as truth. 

Again, only neutral statements here. This is not a bad thing, and neither this is a good thing, this is just something that happens, after a while, especially when there are years for the fandom-born ideas to bounce around and stew. I can’t help but think that so much of what we see as real in spaces such as this one is a chimaera of the actual source and all the collective fan additions which had time and space to grow, change, develop, and inspire, reverberating over and over again, until the echoes fill the entirety of the space. 

Eventually, this chimaera becomes a reality. 

Part two. Microanalysis 

Here are my two suppositions on the matter:

1. Some writers really love breadcrumb storytelling. 

Russel T Davies, for instance, on his run of Doctor Who (and, if you are reading it much later - I do mean the original one), loved that technique for his seasonal arcs. What is a Bad Wolf? Who is Harold Saxon? Well, you can watch very very carefully, make a theory, and see it proven right or wrong by the end of the season. 

Naturally, mystery box writers are all about breadcrumb storytelling: your Losts and your Westworlds are all about giving you snippets to get your brain firing, almost challenging you to figure things out just ahead of the reveal. 

2. We, as humans, love breadcrumbs.

And why wouldn’t we? Breadcrumbs are delicious. They are, however, a seasoning, or a coating. They are not the meal. 

Too much metaphor?

Let’s unpack it and start from the beginning.

Pattern recognition colours every aspect of our lives, and it colours the way we view art to a great extent. I think we truly underestimate how much it’s influenced by our lived experiences.

If you are, broadly speaking, living somewhere in Western/North-Western Europe in the 14th century, and you see a painting in which there is a very very large figure surrounded by some smaller figures and holding really tiny figures, you may know absolutely nothing about who those figures are, but you know that the big figure is the Important One, and the small ones are Less Important Ones, and the tiny ones are In Their Care. You know where your reverence would lie, looking at this picture. And, I imagine, as someone living in the 14th century, you may be inspired to a sense of awe looking at this composition, because in the world you live in, this is how art works. 

If you, on the other hand, watch a piece of recorded media and see the eyes of two characters meet as the violins swell, you know what you are being told at that moment. You don’t have to have a film degree to feel a sort of way when you see a green-tinged pallet used, when cross-cuts use juxtaposing images, or notice where your focus is pulled in any given shot. This stuff - this recognition of patterns - has been trained into us by the simple fact that we live in this time, on this planet, and we have been doing so long enough to have engaged recorded media for a period of time. 

As humans, we notice things. Our brains flare up when they see something they recognise, and then we seek to find other similar details and form a bigger picture. This often happens unconsciously, but sometimes it does not. Sometimes we do it on purpose: finding breadcrumbs in stories is a little bit like solving a mystery. It allows us to stretch that brain muscle that puts two and two together. It makes us feel clever. 

So yes, we love breadcrumbs, and, frankly, quite a lot of storytelling takes advantage of this. It’s very useful for foreshadowing, creating thematic coherence, or introducing narrative parallels and complexity. It’s useful for nudging the viewer into one or the other emotional direction, or to cue them into what will happen in the next moment, or what exactly is the one important detail they should pay attention to.

Because this is something media does intentionally, and something we pick up both consciously and not, it is very hard to know when to stop. We don't really ever know when all of the breadcrumbs have been collected. It becomes very easy to get carried away. There is a very specific kind of pleasure in digging into content frame by frame, soundbite by soundbite, chasing that pleasure of finding. 

But it is almost never breadcrumbs all the way down. They are techniques to help us focus on the main event: the story. I truly believe those who make media want it to reach the widest possible audience, and that includes all of us who like to watch every single thing ever created with our Media Analysis Goggles on and those who are just here to enjoy the twists and turns of the story at the pace offered to them. And I think, sometimes in our chase to collect and understand every little clue we forget that media is not made to just cater for us.

One can call it missing a forest for the trees. But I would hate to mix my metaphors, so let’s call it missing a schnitzel for the breadcrumbs. 

Part three. The Conspiracy Brain. 

If you are there with me, in the midst of the excited frenzy, chasing after all those delicious breadcrumbs, then patterns can grow, merge together, and become all-encompassing theories. Let’s call them conspiracy theories, even though this is not what they truly are.

So, why do we believe in conspiracy theories?

One, Because We Have Been Lied To. 

All conspiracies start with distrust.

If you are in fandom spaces - especially if you are in fandom spaces which revolve around a queer fictional couple - especially-especially if you have been in such spaces for a period of time, you have most certainly been lied to at one point or another. 

We don’t even have to talk about Sherlock - and let’s not do that - but do you remember Merlin? Because I remember Merlin. Specifically, I remember the publicity surrounding the first season, with its weaponised usage of “bromance” and assertions that this whole thing is a love story of sorts, and then the daunting realisation that this was all a stunt, deliberately orchestrated to gather viewership. 

And, because we were lied to in such a deliberate manner for such an extensive period of time, I genuinely believe that it forever altered our pattern recognition habits, because what was this if not encouragement to read into things? Now we are trained to read between the lines or see little cries for help where they might not be. Because we were told, over and over again, that we should.

(Yes, I think we are all existing in these spaces coloured by the trauma of queer-bating. I am, however, looking forward to a world where I can unlearn all of that.)

Two, Cognitive Dissonance.

The chain reaction works a bit like this: the world is wrong - it can’t possibly be wrong by coincidence - this must be on purpose - someone is responsible for it.

Being Lied To is a preamble, but cognitive dissonance is where it all originates. In so many cross-fandom theories I have noticed a four-step process:

A) this is not good

B) this author could not have made a mistake 

C) this must be done on purpose

D) here is why 

(Funny thing is, I have been on the receiving end of the small conspiracy spiral, and it is a very interesting experience. Not relevant to this conversation is the fact that a lot of my job revolves around storytelling. What is relevant is that my hobbies also revolve around storytelling. And one of them is DnD. Now, imagine my genuine shock when one of the players I am currently writing a campaign for noticed a small detail that did not make a logical sense within the complexity of the world, and latched on to it as something clearly indicating some kind of a secret subplot. Their thinking process also went a bit like this: this detail is not a good piece of writing — this DM knows how to tell stories well — this is obviously there on purpose. It was not there on purpose. I created a clumsy shorthand. I erred, in that pesky manner humans tend to. And, seeing this entire thought process recited to me directly in the moment, I felt somewhere between flattered and mortified.)

This whole line of thinking, I think, exists on a knife’s edge between veneration and brutal criticism, relentlessly dissecting everything “wrong”, with a reverent “but this is deliberate” attached to it like a vice, because it is preferable to a simple conclusion that the author let you down, in one way or another. 

Three, Intentionality 

I believe that there is no right or wrong way of engaging with stories, regardless of their medium, and assuming no one gets hurt in the process. While in a strictly academic way, there is a “correct” way of reading (and reading into) media, we here are largely not academics but consumers; consumption is subjective.

However, this all changes when intentionality is ascribed. 

The one I find particularly fascinating is the intentionality of “making it bad on purpose” because, as open-minded as I intend to always be, this just does not happen.

It certainly does not happen in long-form media. Even in the bread-crumb mystery box-type long-form media. 

When television programs underdeliver, they also underperform, and then they get cancelled.

If all the elements of Westworld Season 4 that did not sit together in a completely satisfactory way were written deliberately as some sort of deconstruction for the final season to explore, then it failed because that final season will now never come.

(There will likely never be a Secret Fourth Episode.)

And look, I am not here to refute your theories. Creativity is fun, and theorising is fantastic. 

But, perhaps, when the line of thought ventures into the “bad on purpose” territory, it could be recognised for what it is: disappointment and optimism, attempting to coexist in a single space. And I relate to that, I do, and I am sorry that there is even a need for this line of thinking. It’s always so incredibly disappointing that a creator you believed to be devoid of flaws makes something that does not hit in the way you hoped it would. It’s pretty heartbreaking. 

Unfortunately, people make mistakes. We are all fallible that way. 

Four, Wildfire.

Then, when the crumbs are found, a theory is crafted, and intentionality is ascribed, all that needs to happen is for it to catch on. And hey, what better place for it than this massive hollow funnel that we exist in, where thoughts, ideas and interpretations reverberate so much they become inextricable from the source material in collective consciousness. 

Conspiracy theories create alternate realities, very much like we all do here. 

So where are we now?

I am not here to tell you what is right and what is wrong; what is true, and what is not. We are all entitled to engage with anything we wish, in whichever way we wish to do it. This is not it, at all. 

All I am saying is… listen.

Do you hear that echo? 

I do. 

[noobiestnoober]

Bang Bang, Baby (Leon X Reader)

When Leon offers to teach you how to shoot, you expect a lesson in marksmanship—not butterflies, blushing, and flirty banter that leaves him more rattled than a T-Virus outbreak. In the middle of a quiet training session, tension simmers and laughter sparks, turning a simple field test into something much more intimate. And maybe, just maybe, you’re a little more dangerous to Leon Kennedy’s heart than any mission ever was.

The gun was heavier than you expected. It wasn’t like in the movies—where characters held them with easy confidence and fired without hesitation. No, this was real. Cold, solid, dangerous. The metal pressed into your palms, unyielding, making your fingers ache with the unfamiliar weight. You shifted your grip, heart racing, just as Leon’s voice broke through the stillness.

"Finger off the trigger until you're ready," Leon said gently, stepping behind you. His tone was patient, like he’d said this a hundred times, but there was something softer in the way he spoke to you. His hand hovered just above your shoulder, guiding without touching—always respectful, always careful. Yet his closeness wrapped around you like armor. You could feel the weight of his presence like a second skin. Protective. Comforting.

You glanced back at him, lips twitching upward. "Like this?"

The gravel beneath your boots crunched as you adjusted your stance. The summer air buzzed with cicadas and the faint smell of gunpowder. You were somewhere remote, quiet—one of Leon’s off-the-grid training spots. The kind only someone like him would know about. The world felt distant here, like you had slipped into a secret pocket of time.

He stepped in closer, and this time, his hands met yours. Warm, steady, grounding. Your fingers curled a little tighter around the grip as he guided you from behind, gently shifting your aim.

"You're doing great," he murmured, voice low and gravelly by your ear. "Try aiming a little lower. Just a hair. There—perfect. Now breathe in... hold it... and squeeze."

The shot rang out. You flinched slightly at the sound, but kept your posture. The target—an empty soda can balanced on a stump—spun off into the grass.

"Bullseye!" you gasped, bursting into a wide grin as you lowered the gun. Excitement rushed through you like a thrill you hadn’t expected. Your chest swelled with pride. "Leon, that was amazing! You're such a good teacher. Seriously. I actually hit something!"

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then looked away, a deep flush creeping up from beneath his collar. "I—uh... thanks. Just... just doing my job."

"You're cute when you get all flustered," you said sweetly, tilting your head. You bit back a playful grin, watching his expression twitch like he was fighting the urge to smile.

He groaned softly, running a hand through his hair, his usual composure crumbling. "Don't say stuff like that when I'm trying to be professional."

You nudged him with your elbow. "Too late. You brought me out here to train, remember? You can’t expect me not to notice how hot you look holding a gun. All serious. All protective."

Leon’s ears turned red. His fingers flexed at his sides like he was grounding himself. "Lesson’s over. We’re going home."

You gasped dramatically, stepping in front of him. "Nooo! I was just getting good at this! I want to shoot at least two more cans!"

He sighed like a man who knew he’d already lost the argument. His shoulders dropped, but the smile pulling at his lips betrayed him. He looked at you—really looked—and you could see the fondness hiding behind his eyes. Like you were more than a trainee. More than a distraction.

He reached for your hand, his fingers brushing yours so lightly it felt like a secret shared in silence. "Fine. One more round. But if you flirt again, I’m calling it."

You smirked, loading another round. "So… what happens if I shoot better than you next time?"

He raised an eyebrow, that confident edge slipping back into place. "Then you get to teach me. And I promise I’ll be a very flustered student."

"Oh, I’ll hold you to that," you replied, cocking the gun with mock seriousness. You added a playful wink. "Now step back, Agent Kennedy. Let the rookie show you how it’s done."

Leon chuckled under his breath, watching you take aim. And maybe—just maybe—he let you win the next round. Because when you turned around, grinning like you’d just conquered the world, his heart did something stupid. That blush? It only deepened. And for a moment, in that quiet field, all he could think was this: you were dangerous—but in the most beautiful way possible.

[frannonfire]

thinking about: a barely adult nicky was the first person who made andrew feel somehow safe

[savethegrishaverse]

One of our campaign organizers - geekgal2006 on insta (if you want to go give her a follow 😉) - made a video highlighting the experience at ASOCAS3 and can I just say it makes me tear up a little bit! I'm just so in awe, this is such a passionate fandom and one that seems set on sticking around for awhile longer!

[ct-9902]

almost every fandom I'm in except for ninjago feels like an underground civilization fighting to be seen because we're living off of the occasional fan content or a new member looped in because they just so happened to look for fan content of a semi obscure book series

[magic-number-3]

The winds are cold and we are made to warm each other. And the night is long and that is why we keep the fire lit.

Lucy Frostblade | Fantasy High Junior Year

[besly1]

assortment of old rotgrind doodles! (and by old i mean by like. a couple years at this point) i was planning on making a whole sticker line but i kinda ran out of ideas so these've just sat in my phone lol. completely open for personal use if you want them!

yes baldric does feature twice i am terribly biased and i will not be taking comments from the crowd at this time

[shyjusticewarrior]

I made a bluesky account

[highlighted-curls-ships-it]

[kmatrixx1130]

Chapter 2: Pulse Check

Summary: Abby and Nia clash over patient care philosophies, but a late-night trauma case forces them to work seamlessly, revealing mutual respect.

Word count: ~5k+

M 18+ for mature audiences only. Graphic description.

The fluorescent lights of Seattle General’s conference room buzzed faintly, casting sharp shadows across the table where Abby Anderson sat, her arms crossed. The morning case review was routine, but today’s discussion felt like a battlefield.

Across from her, Dr. Nia Carter leaned back in her chair, her locs catching the light, gold cuffs glinting like tiny beacons. The topic: a 58-year-old patient, Margaret Cole, with a fractured femur after a fall. Abby’s surgical plan was aggressive—a full open reduction and internal fixation. Nia, as the anesthesiologist, had other ideas.

“I’m not saying surgery’s off the table,” Nia said, her voice steady but firm. “But this patient’s got a history of hypertension and a recent cardiac stent. General anesthesia carries risks. A regional block and minimal invasive pinning could stabilize the fracture with less strain.”

Abby’s eyes narrowed. “Pinning’s a half-measure. The fracture’s displaced, unstable. Without ORIF, she’s at risk for malunion or worse—nonunion. She could lose mobility.”

Nia didn’t flinch. “And pushing her through major surgery could tank her BP or trigger a cardiac event. We’re not just fixing bones; we’re keeping her alive.”

The room went quiet, the other doctors—Owen Reed included—glancing between them. Abby felt heat rise in her chest. Nia’s logic was sound, but it challenged her instinct to act decisively, to fix the problem head-on. She leaned forward, her voice low. “I don’t take half-measures, Dr. Carter. If we don’t stabilize the femur properly, we’re kicking the can down the road.”

Nia’s lips curved slightly, not a smile but a spark of defiance. “And I don’t gamble with patients’ lives for the sake of being thorough. We weigh the risks, not just the outcome.”

Owen cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “Both points are valid. Abby, your approach ensures long-term stability. Nia, you’re right about minimizing immediate risks. Can we compromise? Regional anesthesia, but proceed with ORIF if the fracture’s as bad as imaging suggests?”

Abby’s jaw tightened, but she nodded. “Fine. But I want real-time monitoring. Any sign of instability, we pivot to my plan.”

“Agreed,” Nia said, her gaze locked on Abby’s. “I’ll keep her steady.”

The meeting moved on, but Abby’s focus lingered on Nia. The anesthesiologist’s confidence was unshakable, her arguments rooted in a pragmatism Abby couldn’t dismiss. Yet something about Nia—her poise, her unapologetic presence—felt like a disruption.

Abby prided herself on control, on keeping her world orderly. Nia was a variable she couldn’t predict, and that unsettled her. Worse, she couldn’t stop noticing the way Nia’s eyes held hers, sharp and searching, or the way her gold cuffs caught the light. It was distracting, and Abby didn’t do distractions.

As the team dispersed, Nia lingered, gathering her notes. Abby stood, intending to leave, but Nia’s voice stopped her. “Dr. Anderson, a word?”

Abby turned, her expression guarded. “What?”

Nia’s smile was small but warm and stern. “I’m not here to fight you. I just want what’s best for the patient. Same as you.”

Abby’s instinct was to snap back, to reinforce her walls. Instead, she exhaled. “Noted. Let’s just keep Cole stable.”

Nia nodded, her eyes softening. “Deal.”

Abby walked away, her pulse quicker than it should’ve been. She told herself it was the argument, the stakes. Not Nia.

The call came at 11:47 p.m., shattering the quiet of Abby’s on-call room. A car accident on I-5—multiple victims, one critical. She was paged to the trauma bay, her scrubs already on, her mind shifting into gear. As she jogged down the hall, she saw Nia striding toward the same destination, her locs tied back with a clip, her face set with focus.

“Details?” Abby asked, falling into step.

“Twenty-three-year-old male, ejected from the vehicle,” Nia said, her voice clipped. “Open femur fracture, suspected pelvic injury, hypotensive on arrival. EMS gave fluids, but he’s tachycardic. We’re prepping the OR.”

Abby’s mind raced. Open fractures were messy—high risk for infection, blood loss, shock. “We need to stabilize the fracture and control bleeding. Fast.”

“Agreed,” Nia said, pushing open the trauma bay doors. “I’m setting up for a combined spinal-epidural. It’ll give you access without crashing his system.”

Abby shot her a glance. “You sure you can keep him stable? He’s already circling the drain.”

Nia’s eyes met hers, steady and unflinching. “I’ve got this, Anderson.”

The trauma bay was chaos—nurses shouting vitals, residents scrambling, the patient, Javier Torres, writhing on the gurney. His leg was a mess of blood and bone, his face pale, his breaths shallow. Abby assessed the injury, her hands moving with practiced speed. “We’re taking him to OR now. Let’s move.”

In the operating room, the team snapped into place. Abby scrubbed in, her focus narrowing to the task. Nia was already at the head of the table, her hands deft as she administered the spinal-epidural. The monitors hummed, their rhythm a lifeline. “BP’s 90 over 60,” Nia reported. “Heart rate 110. I’m pushing fluids and starting pressors if needed.”

“Do it,” Abby said, her scalpel ready. The open fracture was worse than she’d feared—a jagged break, soft tissue shredded. She worked quickly, irrigating the wound to prevent infection, then aligning the bone fragments. “External fixator for now,” she told the resident. “We’ll do definitive repair once he’s stable.”

Nia’s voice cut through the noise. “He’s holding. Oxygen saturation’s 96. Keep going.”

Abby glanced up, catching Nia’s eyes over the drape. For the first time, she saw not just confidence but trust—a shared rhythm. Their earlier clash faded, replaced by a seamless partnership. Abby placed the fixator pins, her movements precise, while Nia adjusted the anesthesia, her hands steady on the controls. The monitors beeped steadily, a testament to their sync.

“Bleeding’s controlled,” Abby said, stepping back to assess. “Fracture’s stabilized.”

“Vitals are solid,” Nia replied. “BP’s up to 100 over 65. Good call on the fixator.”

Abby nodded, a flicker of respect breaking through her walls. “You kept him steady. Thanks.”

Nia’s lips quirked. “Just doing my job.”

As the team closed the wound and prepped Javier for the ICU, Abby felt the adrenaline ebb. She scrubbed out, her mind replaying the surgery. Nia had been flawless—anticipating, adapting, unwavering. For the first time, Abby wondered if she’d misjudged her.

Nia leaned against the counter in the break room, a cup of coffee warming her hands. It was 2 a.m., the hospital quiet except for the distant hum of monitors. The surgery had drained her, but the success buoyed her spirits. Javier Torres would likely walk again, thanks to Abby’s skill and her own steady hand. She allowed herself a moment of pride, though the weight of the day lingered.

Nurse Ellie, a young woman with a quick smile and a knack for keeping the OR running, slipped into the room. “Hell of a night, huh?” she said, grabbing a soda from the fridge.

“Tell me about it,” Nia said, her voice warm. “That was my first trauma case here. Intense.”

“You handled it like a pro,” Ellie said, popping the can open. “You and Anderson were like a well-oiled machine.”

Nia chuckled, but her expression softened. “She’s good. Tough, but good.”

Ellie raised a brow. “Tough’s an understatement. Abby’s a fortress. But you got under her skin, I can tell.”

Nia sipped her coffee, hiding a smile. “Just trying to keep up.”

Ellie sat across from her, her curiosity evident. “So, what’s your story? You’re new, but you’ve got this… vibe. Like you’ve seen it all.”

Nia hesitated, then set her cup down. “Grew up in Atlanta, daughter of Ghanaian immigrants. My mom’s a nurse, my dad’s a teacher. They drilled discipline into me, but also pride. These—” she touched her gold cuffs, their soft clink echoing in the quiet room—“are from my mom. A reminder of home, of who I am.”

Ellie nodded, her eyes warm. “They’re beautiful. Bet they turn heads here.”

Nia’s smile faded slightly. “Yeah, they do. Not always in a good way. Med school was… tough. Professors who thought I was too ‘flashy’ to be serious, classmates who assumed I got in on a quota. I had to be twice as good just to be seen.”

Ellie’s face softened. “That’s bullshit. You’re killing it here.”

“Thanks,” Nia said, her voice quieter. “It’s just… you feel like you’re always proving yourself, you know? Like you’ve got to justify your space.”

Ellie reached out, squeezing her hand. “You don’t have to justify anything. You’re damn good, Nia. And those cuffs? They’re you. Don’t let anyone make you dim that.”

Nia’s throat tightened, but she smiled. “Appreciate that, Ellie.”

As Ellie left, Nia leaned back, her thoughts drifting to Abby. The surgeon’s intensity, her guarded eyes—they intrigued her. Nia had faced plenty of walls in her career, but Abby’s felt different. Not hostile, just… fortified. She wondered what it would take to breach them.

Abby sat in her office, the dim glow of her desk lamp casting shadows on the wall. Javier’s chart was open on her laptop, but her mind was elsewhere. The surgery had been a success, and Nia’s role was undeniable. She’d anticipated every shift in vitals, her hands steady, her voice calm. Abby respected that kind of skill, even if it came with a personality that rattled her.

She leaned back, rubbing her temples. Nia was competent, no question. But there was something else—a pull Abby couldn’t ignore. The way Nia moved, confident and unapologetic, stirred something in her. Attraction, maybe, though she shoved the thought down. It was a distraction, and distractions were dangerous. Her father’s surgeon had been distracted, and it had cost him his life. Abby wouldn’t make that mistake.

Still, as she closed her laptop and headed home, Nia’s face lingered—those piercing eyes, that quiet strength. Abby told herself it was professional respect, nothing more. But as she drove through Seattle’s rain-slicked streets, her pulse betrayed her, quick and unsteady.

Nia’s apartment was a small haven, filled with color and warmth—bright kente cloth draped over the couch, photos of her family on the walls. She sat cross-legged on the floor, a glass of wine in hand, her phone playing soft highlife music. The surgery replayed in her mind, not just the mechanics but the moment she and Abby had locked eyes over the drape. There’d been a spark there, a shared understanding. It thrilled her, even as it confused her.

She thought of her parents, their pride when she’d graduated med school. “You carry us with you,” her mother had said, fastening the gold cuffs on her locs. Nia carried that weight gladly, but it came with pressure—to excel, to represent, to never falter. Seattle General was a fresh start, but the stakes felt higher here, the scrutiny sharper.

And Abby… Abby was a challenge. Not just her skill, but the way she held herself, like a storm contained. Nia felt drawn to her, not just professionally but personally. It was a dangerous line to walk, but Nia had never shied away from a challenge.

She sipped her wine, her resolve hardening. She’d prove herself, to Abby, to the hospital, to herself. And maybe, just maybe, she’d find a way to crack that fortress.

LOVE, TANA 💋

[cobwebbz]

They could be queer platonic lesbians your honor.

I LOVE the idea behind this dynamic.

HEAVILY INSPIRED FROM THIS

👇

[shadowymetalhead]

Hot take:

Dipper and mabel are the same person

I will not elaborate further

[cclowneryy]

can monster high tiktok/ g1 purists stfu for once like

okay i love g1, actually i love all of the generations but it’s so fucking tiring how that there will literally be a g3 monster high posts and some hag will literally comment “omg g1 better mh is ruined mah childhood 😢😢😢” LIKE OMG WE GET IT YOU HAVE NO JOB NOR A SOCIAL LIFE OUTSIDE OF TIKTOK LMFAOAO.

don’t even get me STARTED on how bitches will see draculaura or Abbey or hell any curvy character and call them “fat” or “obese” for having thick thighs LIKE GIRL WHY U HATING LIKE A MAN. it’s giving onision’s rating bodies and calling one of the poor girls bodies “violin hips” OMG STHU

if you don’t like g3 then that is perfectly fine but my god why are u being a literal bigot over dolls when MH always stood for is acceptance.

anyways stan g3 draculaura she outsold all of ur favs

[evasive-anon]

Batfam as Pokemon Trainers

Batman is a dark type trainer generally, but I also really think his team would be made up of pokemon that represent other members of the batfam. His partner would be Corviknight because it suits his aesthetic and its a flying pokemon so it kind reps Dick. He would also 1000% have a male Indeedee named Alfred.

Dick is flying type trainer, this is honestly so self explanatory. He has a Talonflame, Dartix, Staraptor, Honchcrow, Togekiss, and a Sylveon named Haley that he intended to keep an Eevee but it evolved from friendship. EDIT: It's a shiny umbreon it evolved from friendship at night and its colors match Nightwing's. (Thanks, @vythika96.)

Babs uses ghost/electric because the writers tried to fridge her and she's great with tech. Her partner Pokemon is a Rotom named Francis.

Jason is fire/fighting, this is another one that seems obvious to me. He has Blaziken cause it starts its evolution a cute bird and then it grew into a fighter. He also has an Alolan Marowak because he needs at least one ghost pokemon after dying and Marowaks have enough Mommy issues to match him. Pangoro I also think would suit him, they are prone to violence but hate bullies and they look so rowdy. Also think Arcanine, Toxicroak, and Emboar would work for him.

Tim is psychic trainer. I told myself no legendaries but I honestly think Tim would an Unonwn that just chills with him, constantly hovering at the edge on his vision while he works. It's benevolent and likes him its just shy, but it drives Tim absolutely insane. His partner is an Espurr.

Stephanie doesn't stick to one type she just collects purple Pokemon. She has a ditto, a shiny sloking, a golbat, a stunky or skuntank named Jason, and an espeon she co-parents with Cass. Her favorite move in battle is confusion.

Cass is fighting/dark. HER PARTNER IS LUCARIO. Lucario can predict opponents moves by reading their auras and that is just so like her. Cass and a Lucario would be best friends. They would spar together and just get each other so much. She'd also be an absolute tiger mom trainer to all her pokemon.

Damian, like Steph, has a non-traditional team. He has the pokemon equivalent of his pets. (Noivern as Goliath. Miltank as Batcow. Houndoom as Titus. Meowscarada or Persian as Alfred the Cat.)

Duke is electric. I will straight up admit this is just to match the yellow/black aesthetic he has as Signal. I'm thinking Jolteon, luxray, morpeko, manectric, toxtricity, and killowattrel.

[besly1]

[TW: Burn scars]

(unsure if it counts as graphic but it's always better to be safe than sorry)

woe, baldric face hc be upon ye 💥

he hasnt seen the sun in 15 years. the scowl dimple is permanent

Decided to do a quick lil doodle of my favourite chucklefuck and what I think he looks like under the bucket helmet! I've had this on and off headcanon that Baldric has severe burn scars (inspired by fanart that I cannot for the life of me remember who did from the NarraDecla discord), so seeing that gnarly mouth in the S3 EP20 thumbnail made me feel kind of seen lol. Jers you have once again fed us well

bonus goof: