#This is hiding something

[sortingmyideas]

Male character: I'm not attracted to women.

Fandom: Oh, he's gay.

Female character: I'm not attracted to men.

Fandom: Oh, she's a lesbian.

Any character: I'm not attracted to anybody.

Fandom: Well, we don't know that they're ace/aro/aroace. It's open for interpretation. They're not canonically ace/aro/aroace unless they specifically say they are.

Hmmmm. I wonder why we're so frustrated in fandom spaces. I wonder if there's a reason.

[bubblesthecow]

Watching Star Wars in chronological order is so funny.

Obi-Wan Kenobi really took one look at R2D2 in the middle of the desert and said “No, Luke, I’ve never seen this fucking droid in my life. Looks like a real bitch though. Not that I’d know. This is my first time meeting the asshole.”

No one in that whole franchise was Gatekeep-Gasslight-Girlbossing quite like “Ben” Kenobi, regular human-man.

[marypsue]

One of the worst feelings in the world: when you are just desperate, like claw-your-own-skin-off desperate, to create, but the only thing that even vaguely appeals to you to work on is a nebulous half-feeling that might be dreamily related to some half-formed notion of a concept. I must! Make! No thing! Only make!

[herenvibing]

a minor headcanon that I will die defending is that reigen initially assumed that mob’s supposed “psychic powers” were just how he rationalized his autism to himself. like here’s an obviously autistic kid, one reigen clocks immediately because he’s, well, reigen, and he’s talking about extra sensory perception and having powers he can’t control, powers that are scary. obviously, he assumes, this is something the kid picked up from his parents, a way for him to rationalize his alienation from other children— that no, you’re not “different”, you’re special (not even going into the parents who think their autistic children are like, aliens) and the other kids can see that you’re special and so they treat you like you’re weird and creepy and they don’t invite you to play and they whisper behind your back but it’s fine, because one day they’ll see how special you really are. and adult autistic reigen arataka, who was also probably-definitely bullied as a child, decides to nip that thought in the bud and gives the whole spiel, that no, “psychic powers” (autism) don’t make you special, and yes, they do make you different, and that’s fine because everyone’s different, and at the end of the day you have agency and you get to decide the kind of person you’ll be, so choose to be a kind one, and he sees this kid hanging off his every word as he tells him the kind of stuff he wishes someone had told him when he was so little and alone, and he mentally pats himself on the back and hypes himself up for another cigarette.

and then the kid makes a teacup float in front of him and he’s like oh. damn. can you kill ghosts

[rookanisstuff]

the victory ball

[akanemnon]

So THAT'S how they did it! I'm sure that will have no major implications at AAAAALLLLLL...

FIRST - PREVIOUS - NEXT

MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

[starry-bi-sky]

I am loudly pushing the batdad agenda i am loudly pushing the— DPxDC Prompt

“Woah. You look like shit."

Granted, that’s probably not the first thing Danny should be saying to the guy that just bit the curb, but in his defense; he’s not running on 100% right now either.

The man -- tall, towering, and broader than Danny is tall -- whips around on his heel, black frayed cape flaring out impressively. Danny would've whistled in appreciation, but he takes the time instead to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood running from his nose across his cheek.

"Sorry." He blinks widely, not even flinching as the man with the horns zeroes in on him. "That was rude of me. I have a really bad brain-to-mouth filter; Sam says its what always gets me into trouble."

And she's not wrong either, per say. His smart mouth is what landed him in this situation -- with blood blossom extract running through his veins and cannibalizing the ectoplasm in his bloodstream. Thanks Vlad.

The man grunts at him; a short, curt "hm" that shouldn't make Danny smile, but he does because he's somewhat delirious and probably concussed. The man keeps some kind of distance, sinking towards the shadows of Gotham's alleyway like he dares to melt right into it.

If it's supposed to scare Danny, it doesn't work. Danny's never been afraid of the dark; he's always been able to hide himself in it. He blinks slowly at the mass of shadows.

"You look hurt." The shadows says, blurring together around the edges. Danny squints, and licks his lips to get the blood dripping down his chin off. Ugh, he hates the taste of blood.

"I am." He says, "My godfather poisoned me. M'dying." The agony of the blood blossom eating him from the inside out looped back around to numbing a while ago, so all he feels is half-awake and dazed.

"Hey," Danny stumbles forward towards the man, a bloodied hand reaching out to him. "You-- you're a hero, right? You're not attacking me; which is more than I can say for most costumed people I've met." Maybe it's a poor bar to judge someone at, but he's already established that Danny's not in his right mind.

The man makes no change in expression, but Danny realizes blearily that it's hard to tell with the shadows on his face. He stays still long enough for Danny to latch onto the cape -- stretchy, but almost soft under his fingers.

He looks up blearily into the whites of the man's eyes. "Can you help me? I don't-- I don't wanna die." Again. He doesn't wanna die again. He blinks slow and lizard-like. "I mean- I'll probably get to see mom and dad again, but I told them I'd at least try and make it to adulthood."

There's a clatter down the street, and Danny's ghost sense chills up his spine and leaves a bitter, ashy taste in his mouth. He immediately knows who it belongs to even before the deceptively gentle; "Daniel?" echoes down the way.

"Daniel? Quit your games, badger, Gotham is dangerous for children."

Danny's mouth pulls back, and blood spills against his tongue. "Please." He rasps, and grabs onto the shadow's cape with both hands. "Please. He's going to kill me. Please--"

"Daniel? Is that you?"

His lips part, dragging in air to plead with the darkness again. He doesn't need to, the whites of his eyes narrow, and the cape whirls around him before Danny can blink. Soon swaddled in shadows, the Night lifts him up, and steals him away.

[ditzybat]

any super showing basic human decency: ope, lemme squeeze right past ya there pal!

the bats finding their mannerisms unsettling: i don’t think i can handle much more is this midwestern kindness, please call me a slur or something…

[faerie-fang]

naruto’s cats omg guys don’t stareee

[sunsestart]

Did this super fast yesterday cause I needed to get the idea out my head

I miss him

Papyrus is many thing but he's not quiet...

[buckyscap]

logan gets so used to wade's chattering that once wade stops he actually craves for it and immediately thinks something's wrong.

one morning he's making breakfast and wade appears next to him, bumps his forehead against logan's temple lightly and says "mornin'" before going straight to the bathroom. no slapping his ass, no peppering kisses to his face, no loud and annoying nonsense, not even a good morning and all logan could think about is oh he doesn't like me anymore, he's tired of me, he's gonna kick me out soon but all that left his mouth in the end is "the fuck is wrong with you?"

[random-cockroach]

I am okay about them I swear Then they slid the hill like fricking surfers Spellbound au by Keferon, two suffering cutie-patoties and my fried brain because of it

[monatoxin]

i'm not afraid of you now

[willosword]

Fake, facsimile, forgery.

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.

[superbat-lmao]

Before Jason makes his debut as Red Hood, he goes apartment hunting.

And the thing about Gotham is, all of the apartments that would make for good safe houses, are safe houses. The Bat’s safe houses. If Jason wants to set up shop, he’s got to get creative. This means being willing to look the other way about some things. Namely, living with other people.

Jason gets a roommate.

Sure, he’d found a couple of spots that fit some of the criteria he used for making safe houses, but not all apartments were equal. And having a semi-functioning civilian cover was useful. Sometimes.

All this to say that Jason responded to a craigslist post of some guy looking for a roommate. The post was written well enough, decent grammar and a fair enough price. Unlike some of the places he’d “toured.”

He has to trudge up a few flights of stairs to get to the place, because roof access is always high on the priority list, and knocks on the door. He waits a few minutes, hears someone check the peephole, and then the sound of at least five separate locks being undone.

With the door finally open, he gets a good look at the guy’s face. Too good of a look, actually.

Because the man who opens it is Dick Grayson.