#because he gets called out later

[yawnderu]

CW: mentions of kidnapping and stolen body autonomy.

Find a way in, kill the enemy, retrieve the hostages, leave. A routine of sorts that gave his life some sense of purpose to avoid going insane for the past two decades. Simon liked to believe he got over what happened in his past... truly, he did; and yet Manuel Roba’s horrors seem to haunt him no matter where how many years pass.

“C’mere.” Simon’s voice held no hostility, he made sure of it, yet your stiff position never changed. Legs angled to the right, hands folded on your lap, and eyes looking forward, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze even if it’s been hours since your rescue. Garrick, Price and Johnny have already tried to get you to talk multiple times, all of them with different approaches. 

Garrick was friendly, trying his best to seem approachable, a bright smile on his lips that you didn’t seem to notice, too busy staring at a wall no matter how much he tried to hold a conversation.

Price seemed fatherly, never once laying a hand on you even if it was itching to comfort you, and so he settled with telling you you’re safe now, how no one will ever get you again now that they're here. His words didn’t seem to do much, either. 

Johnny was… something else. His first attempt was a shitty pick up line, getting a reaction out of you for the first time— a nose scrunched up in disgust, but a reaction nonetheless.  

And Simon… Simon’s approach was different. The man was used to barking out orders and obeying them himself, not to deal with an unresponsive hostage. His behemoth frame was nestled next to you, putting a tray on the table and observing your reactions. From the way you swallowed thickly the moment the meal was presented to you, to the sound of your stomach growling. 

“Go on, then.” Your gaze follows his movements for the first time, the feeling of your stomach rumbling makes you more aware of your hunger, so many years being fed nothing but what was necessary to keep you alive by Manuel and his associates, so many years of being trained like a dog to obey to their very order. 

Simon can see the hesitation in your body language, too tense to allow yourself to dig in the way you wanted, yet no longer as stiff as before. There was a sense of relief at the fact that they didn’t seem to want to hurt you —unlike Roba—, yet years of non-stop brutal training can’t be erased within hours.

Roba’s training was engraved into your brain, and while the sense of security the SAS blokes gave you is something you’re thankful for, nothing guarantees they’re not working for him. You’ve seen other military men come and go throughout the years, always Roba’s friends, and always sharing the same disgusting, sadistic desires.

“Eat up.” The rest of the men watch the way you move, curiosity and amusement mixing at how strange your movements seem, almost robotic. Your forearms rest on the table, elbows away from the cheap wood as you attempt to hold your own cutlery— attempt, because it looks fully foreign to you, trying out different angles to make it work, and yet it's the first time in years you've been allowed to try and feed yourself.

Simon is the first one to catch on, having lived under Roba’s rules for long enough to know he enjoys taking people’s autonomy, to reduce them to nothing but a pathetic mess that depends on him. His gloved fingers are gentle as he takes the spoon from your hand, scooping up some food before holding it up to your lips. His full attention is on you, relief starting to make its way into his body as sees your rather soft lips wrap around the spoon, eating whatever he was feeding you. Lucky for you, this time it wasn’t an MRE… or beans on toast.

His gloved thumb wipes the corners of your lips every time you’re done chewing, and he’s quick to pick up more food from the plate, nothing but patience and kindness shown in his actions, so unlike the brooding soldier he's known to be.

“... two goldfish are in a tank…?” Johnny’s loud groan gets your attention for a second, yet you quickly glance back at Simon, curious eyes looking up at him, almost as if asking him to go on. 

“One turns to the other and says… ‘you know how to drive this thing?’” You can see the corners of his eyes crinkle before he even finishes his joke, clearly trying his best not to laugh at just how awful it was. A small smile hides in the corners of your lips, and Simon takes that as a victory, ignoring the questioning looks he’s getting from his team, for now.

[mobius-m-mobius]

#just a wizard gentleman and his butler 🪄🎩

[spacedace]

Got inspired by the below tiktok and the idea of the Rogues killing the Joker in revenge for Jason instead of Bruce and had to write about it.

Here, have probably way too many words (with more to come most likely, this really won't leave me alone) of the Rogue's feelings about Jason's death at the Joker's hands and everything that followed.

(also I know the timeline is a bit screwy, shhh just go with it, we're going on vibes with this one lol)

-

Childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham.

The city was hard and cruel and she didn’t care about the ages of those that were ground up and spit out in her oily black heart.

A kid could slit your throat as easy as a man grown in a place like their fine city, maybe easier even for those who still fell for the ideal of children being incapable of anything but innocence and sweetness. Children learned from the world around them though, they learned from the savagery that filled their world, the hard scrabble desperate attempts to survive. They learned what dark corners to avoid, which ones were safer to skitter down.

It didn’t mean there weren’t still some rules of decency to be honored though.

Most folks, even those in the circle of the Rogues, largely left kids out of the equation. Crossfire happened of course, hitting busy city centers always meant some kind of collateral. But there wasn’t much that they got out of purposefully hurting kids outside a black mark on their name in most levels of the grungy underbelly of the city and one hell of a big target on their back. Both from the Bat and those criminals in the dark with them that took offense to those kinds of things. They were crooks, but with few exceptions they weren’t complete monsters.

Robin had always held an interesting place in their grungy little ecosystem. Anything to do with the Bat was generally ruled as gloves-off, do what you do without hesitation. And Robin - both of ‘em - had no problem hitting hard and being ruthless. The first one in particular had a feral sort of rage to him that was a terrifying thing to be on the business end of.

But they were still kids.

Defending yourself from any kid swinging on you was fair game, a person had the right to defend themselves. Grabbing up Robin to hold hostage or bait Gotham’s local cryptid, that was all fine and dandy. You could even get away with roughing the kid up a little here and there, so long as you made sure not to go too far and always kept hits to where the kid’s armor was the thickest. No hard and fast written rules, mind, but general rules of thumbs. Lines indistinct due to the shaky ground a child dancing through the night as a vigilante left all of them on, but ones clear enough that you knew when you were at risk of going too far.

Besides, the Robins were good kids. Fucking feral little shits, of course, able to leave you bleeding just as easy from a kick as they were a sharp word. But good kids. Even most the Rogues in the Gallery liked em. It was hard not to be at least a little fond of a gutsy little punk like that.

Though they were all maybe a tad less nervous around Robin II than they were the original.

Robin I had a lot of anger burning in him, a lot of anger in him, but he was still a cheerful boy with a bright attitude that was refreshing in a world so bleak and dark as the one they all lived in. It was up in the air which was scarier about the kid: The smiled he gave when he was about to give a hands on demonstration about how much force a tiny ten year old could put into a kick when they had half a dozen spins shoved into a flip to wind up to 80 miles an hour, or the flash of his teeth when he was demonstrating the knife sharp brilliance of his belief that Batman was only as frightening as Robin was hopeful.

They weren’t sure if he realized that sometimes they felt a helluva lot more hope at the sight of the Bat when the little bird was putting the hurt on them, or if he’d simply folded that fact neatly into his core philosophy without issue.

Robin II on the other hand had this kind of quiet shyness to him - even as he was shouting the most inventive swears ever heard by human ear at someone while he kicked them in the balls hard enough to make ‘em see not just the face of their own god but a few dozen besides. He was just as unhinged as the Robin before him - seemed to be a requirement for the job really - but there was a distinct different in how the two birds flitted about the darkened skyline of the city. Where the first Robin’s smile was as much danger as it was dazzle, a fanged declaration of victory against the dark, Robin II’s was a sunny, stubborn declaration of perseverance. Kid was sassy and smart, and never - ever - flinched away from extending a hand to those he thought in need of it.

Even if the folks he offered that hand to were in the middle of an attack on some fancy Gala or Wayne Enterprises or whatever target of the week it was. Even knowing the offered hand was likely to be slapped away and followed by a right hook. Kid still always tried.

They all knew why.

The Bat was big on offering chances, on rehabilitation rather than damnation. Some of Robin II being the way he was came from the broody cryptid he followed around. But Batman couldn’t claim to be the sole reason for Robin II being the way he was, couldn’t even pretend to be the cause of most of it. Nah, they knew why the little bird was the way he was.

That unmistakable thick accent. That frame that was always a little too thin even as he got older and stronger. That unshakable, headstrong spirit.

Robin II was an Alley Kid.

A true child of Gotham.

Her polluted waters in his veins. Her smoggy air in his lungs. Her shadows clinging to his edges less like a beast looking to swallow a small bird up and more like a protective mother hiding her hatchling. He understood the world most of them came from. The one they all lived in. Knew it in a way anyone who hadn’t been swallowed up by the dark never really could.

Everyone had their favorite, but even those that claimed the first Robin as theirs couldn’t deny that Robin II was someone to be respected. Nor could they deny a fondness for the chain smoking, classic lit referencing, perpetually baby-faced little shit. They’d all had knock out drag out fights with the kid and knew how fucking unhinged the puny motherfucker could be in a fight, but he always tempered it with offers of resources, of a listening ear, of understanding.

He visited them after they’d been arrested sometimes. In Arkham, or Blackgate or wherever else they’d been locked up in after being stopped by the Dynamic Duo. The little bird would make the rounds whenever he had a broken wing or was stuck waiting as the Bat interrogated someone else or for any other reason he wasn’t out flitting about the city skyline at night. He’d bring cookies or snacks and even cigarettes from his own secret stash on the rare occasion, mask unable to hide the furtive glances around to check for the living shadow that was the disapproving Bat.

The Rogues and their Goons always had a soft spot for the Robins. And Robin II made it especially easy to let fondness bleed out of them from time to time. He was a good kid.

But childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham.

Bad things happened to good kids all the time.

And some of the monsters that lurked in the city’s darkest shadows took the black mark of a kid killer as a point of pride.

Robin II disappeared one day. Just after that piece of shit Garzonas took the fast way down from the top of a tall building. There were a lot of Rogues with doctoral degrees to their names but even those Goons that dropped out of school before they learned to spell their own names could do that math.

The big bad Bat had benched the boy after the fierce little bird had done what any decent member of the criminal underbelly would have. There were those that thought maybe it’d been an accident, that the kid was pulled off duty because of being too upset at unintentionally crossing the heavy line the Bat drew in the sand. Those voices were drowned out pretty quick though.

Sure, Robin II was all about second chances, of doing better, of redemption. But Garzonas had chances to spare and only ever spat in the face of those offering them. Doubled down on being a monster in a way very, very few of the Rogues Gallery would. The kid was a sweetheart, but he wasn’t no push over and there were some things so heinous that there was only one way of handling them. Crime Alley had its own kind of justice system, and when faced with a monster that was beyond even Batman’s jurisdiction, Robin II did what he always did: fell back on his roots.

Or so the rumors said, at least.

That was the thing about Gotham’s seedy underbelly. It was a grimy, wretched nest of vipers and cut-throats, but it was also worse than any beauty parlor when it came to gossip. No one actually knew anything other than that piece of shit motherfucker took a dive while Robin was chasing him and that he’d not been seen on the streets since. But most had a fondness for the kid, and a distaste for the kind of cruelty Garzonas reveled in and there was no proof that Robin hadn’t gone and done the world a favor by drop kicking that barbaric sack of shit off a roof. So as far as most in the Gallery were concerned, the little bird had stepped up and been a hero.

Time passed. Not a lot. But enough. The Bat disappeared too, popping up on an entire other continent in a way that was awfully tempting. Even with other Masks playing baby sitter while the local cryptid was away. Rogues were scrambling to set plans in motion, Goons getting hired en masse, weapons and weird chemicals getting delivered to shady places across Gotham by the truck-full. The criminal underbelly was abuzz with the same excited energy of children the day before a big birthday party.

And then the news came in.

There were people in the dark who made their living finding things out. Knowing things that no one else did or could. Some even specialized, keeping tabs on Batman and Robin better than anyone else in the business were able. And when the information they found wasn’t anything handy to have tucked into a back pocket or a secret they were paid extremely well to keep? They held on to with the same tenacity a sieve clung to water.

Robin II had run off across the globe and ended up in Ethiopia. Something to do with a doctor doing aid work, the same something that had the Bat end up there was the assumption. Kid ran off to handle things himself or was sent on a separate path on purpose for some plan or other the Bat had cooked up on his hunt.

Whatever the reason, the kid crossed paths with the Clown.

Alone.

Childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham. The city was hard and cruel and she didn’t care about the ages of those that were ground up and spit out in her oily black heart. But Robin II was hers, the child of her heart, an exception to the rule. And besides, most folks - even those in the Rogues Gallery - largely left the purposeful harm of kids out of the equation.

The Joker wasn’t most folks.

And the little bird was a long way away from the protective shadows of his mother city.

The Rogues and their Goons always had a soft spot for the Robins. And Robin II made it especially easy to let fondness bleed out of them from time to time. He was a good kid.

When the news broke, it broke most of them right along with it.

Plans stalled. Schemes ended. Gotham, for an unnervingly quiet stretch of time that neither its civilians or the world at large understood, went still. Crime continued, of course, but the big names weren’t seen. It was only right, by the standards of those that lived their lives in the dark, that they hold off and give the man that fought them all so relentlessly over the past years the time he needed to focus on hunting down the monster that killed his son. He didn’t need the distraction, and they all owed it to Robin II not to interfere while the Bat at last put a final end to the Clown.

And the hellish cryptid would need his full focus on this one. The Joker wasn’t one to take lightly at the best of times, but he’d set himself up neatly in the middle of a nasty bear trap. Ugly and complicated in the way everything with the Clown was. Interference from the CIA, from the UN, from Superman.

Shit went down. People heard about the Bat and the Clown throwing down in a helicopter plummeting from the sky in one hell of a water landing. Big Blue fished Batman out of the drink before he could drown but there’d been no sign of the Joker.

But the Bat would find him.

They all knew the relentless bastard would find him. It was just a matter of time. With the hellish drive of a demon straight from Gotham’s darkest shadows, the Bat would track the grinning, child killing ghoul down and make right the terrible wrong the evil motherfucker had done. Batman would hunt him to the ends of the earth and enact the justice he held up so fiercely. Robin II would have the vengeance the kid so rightly deserved.

It was just a matter of time. So they waited. And waited.

Days.

Weeks.

Months.

The Clown still lived.

The world, impossibly, began to move on. The Bat returned to his lurking in the night, picking off gangs and petty crooks and no-name gangsters as if nothing had happened at all. More vicious, more savage, but failing to turn that rise in brutality into the killing blow against the one figure that so rightly deserved it.

No one knew what was happening. There were rumors and theories, as there always were in the underground. Some thought that it wasn’t the Bat at all back in Gotham but someone else pretending for awhile, looking after his neglected city while he continued his pursuit of the Joker. Other held that it was the Bat but the whole thing was a ploy to draw the Clown out into the open. A pretense at not caring meant to get under the Clown’s skin, make the asshole mad enough to get stupid and sloppy and reveal himself.

That the man simply had given up was beyond comprehension. Beyond what any upstanding Rogue could accept. So it simply couldn’t be true. There was a trick being played. Some brilliant game of 4D chess that none of them had been able to parse out. It’d be revealed in time, and they see the brilliant trap that had been set. The Clown would be lured out, the Bat would put him down for good, and then they’d all at last raise a glass to the little bird that had been shot down far too soon and smoke shitty cigarettes and quote literary masters and mourn the loss one of Gotham’s own true children.

They just had to play along. Stumbling forward back into their usual habits, pretending that it was a choice and not the world just forcibly dragging them along. It’d make sense, eventually. The Bat had a plan. Robin II wasn’t forgotten, his killer not left free to roam and ravage unpunished for what he’d done.

And then one day there was a new bird flitting across the rooftops.

Chasing the Bat’s looming frame like a reverse shadow. Bright flashes of color in contrast to the bleak darkness of Gotham’s grimy nights. Small and thin and young.

Not the first Robin. With his showman bright grin and bloody rage and unwavering belief in the terrifying power of hope. Not the brilliant, vicious little boy that they’d seen grow over the years into the fierce and fearless Nightwing.

Not Robin II either.

Not Gotham’s soft hearted little bruiser with his unshakable belief that people could be better if given the chance, shinning so bright in the dark as he held out a hand that even the Rogues had no choice but to believe right along with him sometimes. Not the tough little songbird they’d never get to see grow up. Unavenged and unhonored. Put in a box and buried in the ground with a name none of them would ever know carved into a stone they’d never be able to visit.

No.

It was a new Robin.

A new child with the R emblazoned upon his chest.

Sharp and quick and young in the way the birds always were when they started flying at the Bat’s side. Every inch of the boy’s tiny frame a tragedy and an insult. One very, very few of Gotham’s vicious underbelly were willing to tolerate.

Childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham, but there was a damn big difference between holding something sacred and not giving a damn about it at all. There were rules unspoken but understood, a way things were done. Nothing so solid or concrete as a code of conduct, more a collection of time honored traditions. Blood for blood was among the oldest and truest, and the more precious the person taken the more vital and vicious payment was to be made in kind.

The Clown had killed Robin II.

Beaten the kid half to death and then finished the job with a bomb.

Everyone knew he’d done it laughing all the way.

The Bat should have done the same in kind. Done worse. It was justice, it was what was right. You kill a kid you’re marked forever. You kill one so well liked and kill ‘em like that and you’re destined for a cruel and cold death. The Bat had first dibs. It was his kid. It was his right to put an end to that awful laughter and let his son have peace at last.

But he never did.

Nightwing had. For a bit. For a moment.

Robin I, who half the time had scared them all more than the Bat ever could. Dazzling and dizzying and dangerous. Gave back the pain and hurt the Clown had forced upon him with clenched fists and bone shattering hits. They were glad for him, that he was able to beat the monster who had taken his little brother from him to death, that he was able to have such justice.

And then the Bat stepped in.

Revived the fucking Clown.

A slap in the face. The snapping crack of a spine beneath one straw too many. The final, unforgivable insult the man had dared visit upon not just the child taken from him but the entirety of Gotham.

The Rogues and their Goons always had a soft spot for the Robins. Respected their ferocity, admired their moxie, marveled at their ability to keep shining in the dark like they did. Robin II made it especially easy to let fondness bleed out of the city’s dirty criminal underbelly from time to time.

He was a good kid.

He deserved better.

Better than the silence and peace he should be granted in death to be marred by the mad cackles of his killer still running around alive and unpunished. Better than his father giving up, returning to the same old routine as if nothing had happened at all. Better than the Bat snatching up a new bird less than a year later.

Gotham and her Rogues had given the Bat time enough to do what needed to be done.

It was their turn.

[icewindandboringhorror]

HAPPY 16TH BIRTHDAY!!! To this elderly bapy boye!!! he...!!!

[deoidesign]

A frustrating development with the growing lack of reading comprehension I've personally noticed is an emerging fervor of insisting things aren't canon unless they are explicitly stated beyond all reasonable doubt.

I can not emphasize enough how harmful a mindset this is to have. Yes, it's wonderful to have characters outright say "I'm trans," but to deny a character's identity for not saying that is dangerous.

Plenty of real people prefer not to use specific labels. Historically, people didn't have our modern terms or modes of expression. Many modern cultures don't use these terms, either, and plenty of people within those that do can't safely openly identify.

If the only representation you accept as canon is within modern (and let's be honest, wealthy white able-bodied American) standards, then you are denying yourself and others a huge amount of representation and seriously limiting the media around you.

[vitrificvitriol]

Kinklabtober Day 7: Cuckolding! Sorry (not sorry), Astrotrain! Try again when you're a reasonable size for reasonable mechs.

My lines, @oozeandgoo-art's colours.

[theotherbuckley]

Okay but Tommy drops out of high school — he told his father he was gay and he told him he could either be homeless or go to military school. He goes to military school and joins the army and he likes flying the helicopters because it means he doesn’t have to do any of the killing himself. And he makes some friends.

There's one guy who's like the squad leader who's a few years old and built like a Greek god and Tommy's young and a little bit in love. And they're friends maybe even family because this whole group of people spend every waking (and sleeping) moment together. And they all talk like a family and they all say they love each other and tease each other and it's nice. And one night it's just the two of them trading a flask of some sort of alcohol that Tommy doesn't know the name of and the man asks Tommy why he joined the army and where he wants to be in five years and Tommy trusts this man. He's half way in love with him so he doesn't even think twice before he tells the story about the time he came out to his family and his father nearly beat him to death before sending him here. And the conversation tapers off after that and he doesn’t register the change in the air but when he wakes up the next morning he’s being dishonourably discharged because he poses “unacceptable risk to the high standards of morale, good order and discipline, and unit cohesion that are the essence of military capability”. He knows what that means.

Tommy joins the fire department because he doesn’t know what else to do. He represses anything regarding his sexuality because he knows now that it’s wrong. He almost feels like he has a family again because his captain seems to like him and some of the guys are cool even if they say things he doesn’t agree with. And then he starts agreeing because maybe they’re right and he’s wrong and he’s just inherently wrong. So he follows their leads and is just straight racist because that’s how he can fit in.

And then a black lesbian woman joins and says she’s a black lesbian woman and Tommy doesn’t understand that either because you can’t be queer you just can’t be because it’s wrong.

But he nearly dies and and an Asian man saves his life and a black lesbian woman comes up with a better idea than any of them had and she tells them she’s no different and she is just as capable. So he improves himself he does and he tries to be better but he still can’t be who he is because the last 2 times he was honest about that he was betrayed.

Tommy leaves the 118 and “don’t ask, don’t tell” is lifted and he meets this guy he likes who likes him back and the 217 don’t seem to have a problem with the gender neutral pronouns and he slowly but surely lets himself open up again and be who he is and when the thing with that guy doesn’t work out because he’s moving to New York and Tommy’s not sure he’s ready to leave, it’s okay because his crew is there and they support him and he can still be himself.

[journey-to-the-attic]

au where this was how ik and diavolo met for the first time when she was like seven

[buwheal]

I wanna give him a blanket. Can it maybe just materialize outta nowhere?

(I know fabric wrinkles suck to draw. You don't gotta 😵)

[hydrachea]

I think if Blade ever does send a text directly it should be a single sentence of the most basic kind, and then it never happens again.

[bonefall]

I personally like Thunder's prosthetic. Explained it to my friend (who does use a mobility device, a cane and wheelchair, and listens to me rant and infodump about BB) and they agreed, it's important to know that not every person needs what someone wants to give them. It's another example of "bad ableist person does a thing that hurts a disabled person because they are bad and ableist".

Clear Sky got Jagged Peak killed and would have killed Sunlit Frost! He would absolutely force his disabled son to be "normal" and present it like a privilege. "I wouldn't do this for anyone else, it's special, why don't you want to be helped?"

Thunder Storm should toss it in Clear Sky's face. (I would say toss it into the river but we do not pollute waterways in this house)

Thank you for telling me this, and tell your friend I'm thanking them too! If they have anything else to add please forward what they have to say

Since BB!DOTC tackles some of the heaviest topics in the entire series because its canon equivalent is so dark, I think very carefully about what I do here and how I show it. I take feedback on its sensitive aspects very seriously. If I'm understanding the criticism properly, it's that I should avoid stigmatizing prosthetics by making sure Thunder Storm's not the only one with it-- which he's not! And I'll add even more.

I don't want to avoid something only because it's uncomfortable if the topic is important, and my portrayal is respectful. Ableism IS uncomfortable! There are some situations where a prosthetic is not wanted! I think the rejection of this particular one is both a good opportunity to show a type of ableism and ALSO is very fitting for the characters.

In BB!Clear Sky's mind, the villain, he's fixing an old mistake. He can't admit that he got Jagged Peak killed or take REAL accountability for it (though he will, occasionally, apologize insincerely), but deep in his bones, he knows what he did was cruel. He'll never tell anyone this because he doesn't really cognate it himself, but Thunder Storm NEEDS to take his gift.

If Thunder doesn't take it, it blows a hole in his newest story. You see, throwing Jagged Peak out was All That Could Have Been Done back then. It was a Tragedy and he simply Made A Hard Choice. He regrets it very much, But You Have To Understand.

But now? Now? Well, behold. Look at what he's accomplished since the tragic death of his little brother. His cats are well-fed, cared for, and stable enough to make such incredible advancements. If only Jagged Peak had been able to hold on longer, if only he could be here now, I could fix him.

Just like I can (MAKE YOU JUST LIKE ME) fix you.

"Everything I've ever done is for Jagged Peak. For Fluttering Wing. For you." Thunder Sky is SPECIAL, but if he rejects any gift, tries to turn down the "privileges" offered to him, in an instant that becomes ungratefulness and arrogance. He both forces him to be special, and then leverages it against him if it's rejected. "Spoiled brat, doesn't appreciate what I've worked so hard to give him."

It all goes back to him and his own guilt. He can NEVER be wrong. He can't accept his family doesn't have to be "normal" or reflect his own ability. He won't see himself as a bully, let alone a murderer. It was never about his son's comfort or finding out what Thunder Storm wants or needs, it was about his own ego.

...All that said I'm still taking feedback if there's anything else I should keep in mind, or if anyone has a counter point, especially if you also have experience here.

(In the interest of having a link trail for posterity, here's the critique/call for feedback this is in response to)

[buddiebitch]

call me crazy but i thought of a parallel i didn’t notice before

in the s4 episode treasure hunt, when they’re all teaming up to secretly look for the treasure, Eddie asks Buck to team up with him but he’s already teamed up with Taylor.

in s7 Eddie asks Buck to go to the bachelor party as Crockett and Tubbs, Buck doesn’t think for a second before saying absolutely, despite the fact that he’s currently dating someone he could wear a couples costume with instead.

[bolithesenate]

fun fact of the morning is that to me Tarre Vizsla was a cringefail jedi twink so horribly bad at jedi-ing that he did an accidental 180 and became Mand'alor

man's could not find a lightsaber crystal for his goddamn life, so much so that a mandalorian deity had to come and help out

then he crashed in someones backyard destroying half their tuber harvest when he took a wrong turn after going home from a bandomeer agricorps summit

the shame is too big so he ditches everything and becomes a weaver for a like year

only after that year does he even realize he landed himself in karking mandalorian space (the weaver he holes up at is an old lady and doesn't wear armor so he just never noticed)

meanwhile everyone back at the temple just assumed he died

over his year as weaver-apprenticing he also did odd little jobs here and there around the village. mostly helping people with paperwork and taxes and how to price grain to sell the next city over

which gets him implicitly elected like mayor of that village (mostly because no one else wants to do the paperwork)

which is how he, a failed jedi that crashed in someones backyard and just wallowed in shame ever since somehow is made to attend a city/region council as representative of that village (it is there that he realizes that wtf that's too many mandalorians for this to just be coincidence. those CANNOT all be bodyguards) (yes he had stereotypes)

still, apparently he is one of them now

(he is standing there like 🧍🏻 the only one in the room without any armor to speak)

but also definitely the only one with a single political bone in him (it was forcibly installed in him by the temple's teachers). and also the knowledge of How To Do Taxes (that and he weaves a mean rug)

which once again gets him elected representative of that council as well

so now he has to go to a House meeting in a month

(which is bad, he has a deadline on a new tapestry that needs to be done by then can't they just postpone? also what is a House and why do they have meetings)

the lady weaver who kinda just is his adoptive mom now just laughs and pats him on the head and tells him he'll figure it out. but oh maybe he should wear some armor for that one, House meetings have a tendency to get wild and many things are settled over honor duels. and the city/region he's representing sure would like for their needs to be defended.

meanwhile Tarre is panicking because the one thing he was worse at at Jedi School than actually being a jedi was lightsabering

he's decent at hand-to-hand but that was NOT worth any points in the eyes of the Battlemaster

(turns out he shouldn't have worried. 'decent at hand-to-hand' for an old republic jedi still meant 'kriffing lethal' in comparison to everyone else.)

his region's demands have never been represented better

especially since he also does know the maths to make it work in the long run.

that gets him noticed by the like son or heir or whatever of the Head of the House, who promptly makes Tarre his right hand (Tarre agreed to it either while drunk -- he is a sad drunk and JEdi aRE SupPOseD To hELP aaaaaaaa -- and was guilttripped into it OR he misunderstood the assignment to be a weaving commission)

(because, in Tarre's mind, that IS still his day job)

and so on and so forth it spirals out of control farther and farther until one day he is there helping represent the mandalorian side in a trade dispute with the republic and the other side have jedi with them (ofc) and he is one again just doing his best statue impression trying not to be noticed only he forgot that mandalorians announce themselves and their whole allegiance and lineage in front of everyone so he gets first-name-last-named by his new boss in front of his old boss and it does horrors to his nerves that much is certain

only the jedi just kinda squint and then leave it uncommented so he thinks he's safe until HIS OLD MASTER JUST TELEPORTS STRAIGHT INTO THE DINNER ROOM DEMANDING TO KNOW WHY HE WASN'T THERE FOR THE LAST TWELVE LINEAGE DINNERS

[yuripira4e]

I think we too often gloss over the fact that Kurt is canonically homophobic *in some timelines

[vee-is-a-clown]

Lance needed to sew something and Keith needed a jacket that covers his entire torso.

[kenisle]

are there any fics about the existential/body horror and everyday idiosyncrasies of being wolverine — indestructible heavy metal skeleton, knife hands, healing factor, amnesia, and eternally chained to this mortal plane cursed to watch everyone around you age and die except this one really weird guy you can’t fucking stand who also happens to be from canada — with maybe a dash of homoeroticism? or at least just minimal heterosexuality? is that too tall an order?