#but functionally it's just a chum.

[moe-broey]

Not your favorite! Not even your least favorite!

Like that could have been avoided. That should have been avoided. It's so easy to avoid that. And Yet

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 2; ghoap x reader) part 1

-

The hard part is admitting to himself that he doesn’t know how to function on leave without Ghost’s voice in his ear.

Johnny’s two days into his annual leave when that stray thought crosses his brain. Out with chums even, packed into the booth of an old pub in his hometown, the leather well-worn and a match on the telly that he half watches while one of his mates goes up to the bar to order another round for them. In between his third and fourth pint of lukewarm mild, he thinks something like, wonder what Simon’s up to.

The thought comes and then keeps coming. Keeps cropping up when he least expects. At the pub (wonder what Simon’s up to), in line at the grocery store (wonder how Ghost takes his steak), drowsily puttering around the kitchen while making breakfast (no way he wears the mask at home), listening to some guy in front of him hack up a lung at the dry cleaner (Lt’d do his fuckin’ head in if he was here), and even in the shower with his head tipped back, rinsing out the suds (wonder if he’s got a girl tucked away at home). 

Is it so unusual? Johnny can’t remember a time in his life when someone lived in his head night and day, but Ghost’s presence feels like an extension of his own these days. He’s cycled through girlfriends without a care in the world, without contemplating their existence for half as long, but they never cradled his life like a small bird in the palm of their hands and returned it safe and sound, did they?

Still, he feels it like a knot in his chest. Dreams about Ghost even; wakes up hot and hard, and scrubs his hand down the side of his face when he sits up in bed. Phantom memories of a body heavier than his weighing him down (just the duvet) and a thick hand curling around his dick (his own hand wrapped around his shaft, rubbing one out in his sleep). 

He shakes it off, but it follows him out into the real world. Looking at the door of a coffee shop and thinking absentmindedly, Ghost would have to duck under that. 

Johnny puts it out of his mind. As much as he’s able to, that is. Chalks it up to some kind of hero worship. He’s worked with superior officers before—plenty of times, hundreds of times—but there are few men of Ghost’s calibre, both in skillset and mystique. Not to mention the sheer size of the guy. And what is Johnny if not a moth to a flame?

Better not to ruminate. He casts the memory of seeing Ghost’s dick in the showers after their last mission (monstrous thing, uncut, pubes darker than the hair on his head, more than a mouthful—it’d give him lockjaw) out of his head. Doesn’t think about it. Laughs at a mate’s joke at the pub when he didn’t catch a word of it to mask the way he perked up at the sight of a wide-shoulder man until he turned around, giving Johnny a proper look at his face.

He’s not ready to think about it. Might never be able to really look at why he eats it up, why he struts around with his chin cocked just a bit higher than usual because he knows everyone else is watching him with equal parts envy and curiosity for being Ghost’s favourite. 

Then, one day, he meets a girl.

Johnny’s not winning an award any time soon for world’s best son, but he knows a thing or two. The first thing being chocolates and the second being flowers. His sisters handle the rest; they fuss about the party, get a gift certificate to the spa, send out the invites—all that fun stuff. He’s sent off for the bare essentials. Practically kicked out of the house by his oldest sister—nearly brains himself on the asphalt and tugs his windbreaker on when it’s thrown out the door after him a second later, grumbling about being the errand boy.

He picks up a box of chocolates from the corner shop (not fancy enough, his sisters will probably bitch, but that’s a problem for later) before heading down the road to the florist. There’s a bench out front stacked with tin flower vases, the only spot of colour on a dreary spring morning. He spends a couple minutes chatting with the cashier and flirting a bit halfheartedly (he thinks maybe it’ll be worth it if it gets him a discount, even five percent off) until the florist comes out from the back. 

“Jesus, who gave ye the right?” Johnny breathes, horse blinders on, vision narrowing on the object of desire coming out of the back in a linen apron and simple t-shirt underneath, scissors poking out of the front pocket. 

“The right?” she repeats back, blinking.

“To leave the house lookin’ so fuckin’ gorgeous. Glad I wasn’t driving when I passed you by—woulda been in a twenty car pile up.”

She’s not impressed in the slightest. It’s thrilling. By that point, the cashier is long forgotten. Probably not the best impression he’s ever made, but he’s made worse ones. It’s not every day he comes across an angel. Hard to be polite in front of a real life miracle. 

He wears her down over the week though, showing up each day for a new bouquet. His mam’s never liked him more, so at least there’s that. His sisters side-eye him whenever he ducks out of the house to head down the road to the florist’s, but even they know better than to bring it up and risk pissing off their mam. He interrogates her about flowers and her job, makes his presence unavoidable, a week long siege that ends with Johnny taking her out to dinner and then letting her take him to bed. 

He wakes up nestled in her cozy apartment above the flower shop, stretching out and making himself right at home. When she trades in her linen apron for a terry cloth robe and stands expectantly by the door, Johnny just grins. Shows all of his teeth. 

“Are ye just gonna use me and kick me out?” he pouts. Folds his hands behind his head and digs a foot into the sheets, trying to sink into the mattress. Little king in his castle. 

“You know, you don’t have to pussyfoot around with me. Weren’t you just trying to get laid?” she asks, brow arched. The disbelief thick in her voice makes it clear what she thinks of him. 

“No’ just some playboy, hen,” he scoffs. “I have feelings too.”

Her other eyebrow lifts. He’s tickled pink.

He plays the part well, he supposes. Lounges in bed and eats grapes all morning while she stares at him from the kitchen like he might dissipate at any moment. He’s used to leaving a false impression, like a lake that someone builds their house next to until years go by and someone says I think this was once a meteor. 

When she comes back to bed around mid morning, Johnny wastes no time pulling her up onto the bed until she plants her cunt over his mouth and sinks down onto his waiting tongue. 

Candy sweet pussy, he thinks blissfully, then says it out loud because he can never keep his mouth shut. It must tickle because she yelps and nearly pulls away from his face altogether, but he wrenches her back down, fingers digging into her ass cheeks a bit too forcefully. He’ll pay for that later. 

In the aftermath, when she collapses beside him in bed and rests her head on his chest while he plays with her hair, he itches in his skin to message Ghost. It perplexes him. They never text, he and Ghost; they don’t call, they don’t write, they don’t email. For all intents and purposes, their relationship ends at the perimeter around base, dissolves to nothing. It’s not Ghost’s fault he trickles into Johnny’s dreams sometimes. 

A week goes by. Calm the mind. He thinks of Ghost and his fingers tremble and the phone stays silent and he lets the thought go. Steady. Breathe in and out. His caryatid girl slips in and out of his sheets, hesitant always like he might leave. Johnny doesn’t know if she wants him to, wants to feel vindicated in her assumption, but of all her wants, that ranks the lowest in his mind. 

He spirals deeper into it, infatuated. She’s sweet but snippy, candy sweet with a sour kick—everything he’s ever wanted in a girl. Ever unimpressed, watching him with a small, hidden smile, amused despite herself. 

Johnny wonders if this is the universe waving its hand in front of his face. Yoohoo, missing something?

He looks pointedly away. 

It’s new, but maybe he’s like every other military man in the world, unable to go with the flow, dissatisfied with seeing where things go. He needs instant gratification, everything now-now-now, the certainty of commitment—he spills blood with everyone he knows, so why would his girl be any different?

Returning back to base is harder this time around. The last day of his leave is an exercise in restraint, tempered only by her smile when he sees her off at the door to her apartment, reluctant to leave. 

“C’mon, promise me you’ll call, hen,” Johnny mumbles into her mouth, catching her answer with a languid swipe of his tongue. His arms press her tight to his chest, digging his hands into her back pockets and giving a good squeeze, relishing in the way she squeaks. “How’m I gonna survive without ye, huh? They’re gonna have to jumpstart my heart after it gives out from missing ye so bad.”

“So dramatic. You have my number,” she says when he finally pulls back enough to let her speak.

“No, please, baby, please—promise me—”

“Oh my god, alright, fine—I’ll call. Now get going already.”

The drive back to base leaves him feeling bedraggled, lost. When he gets in, it’s straight to the barracks, an hour long nap before reporting to Price, dragging his feet the whole way over. Moping, for lack of a better word, until he rounds a corner and nearly collides with someone that stops him with a single hand on his shoulder. 

When he looks up to eyes rimmed in black paint, the world lightens. His shoulders lift. 

“Wipe that smirk off your face, Johnny.”

It takes Johnny awhile to bring her up with Ghost. Something keeps holding him back, choking him when he tries to say it outloud. He blames it on uncertainty (had to be sure she was the one, Lt, ye ken?) but he feels the truth at the core of him. When he does finally muster up the nerve to pass his phone to Ghost where her photo is front and centre, no mistaking his intentions, he waits on tenterhooks for a reaction. 

Only breathes out when Ghost asks to meet her. He can do that. 

“Aye, Lt. Just for you.”

[channel4sims-cc]

TS4: Korean Bar Set

Sul sul ^^

Who wants to create a K-Drama moment for their Sims? :)

This is a Korean bar set :D

ITEMS THAT COME WITH THIS SET:

A functional bar (two versions: empty or with a beer dispenser (imgur link), bar stools, 6 neon lights, a wall (bottles) display, and a bar wall sign.

🍺 RECIPES/ DRINKS:

SOJU FLAVORS: Apple, Apple Mango, Blueberry, Citron, Fresh, Grapefruit, Green Grape, Mango, Original (Chum Churum), Original (Jinro),  Peach, Strawberry, Plum, Sour Candy, Yogurt, Zero Sugar.

BEER: Terra, Cass, Hite Extra Cold.

OTHERS: Somaek (Cass beer+Soju), Somaek (Terra beer + Soju), Makgeolli.

🍺 All types of soju and beers can be served in a glass or drunk straight from the bottle.

🍺 Only the Somaek (it's a "mixed drink") and the Makgeolli can't be drunk from the bottle.

🍺 If you choose the drink/glass version, the bartender will prepare it for you. You'll notice that they'll use the "correct bottle" to make your drink.

Example: If you order Strawberry Soju (glass), the bartender will use a Strawberry Soju bottle while making your drink. It was a lot of work to do, but I wanted it to look as realistic as possible :)

🍺 There are also different types of glasses depending on what drink you order.

🍺 If you order the drink (glass), your Sims will drink it in 3 sips. If you order the bottle, they'll drink it in 5 sips.

🥘 RECIPES/FOOD:

NACHOS: Your Sims will eat it with their hand, taking the nacho chips. It's vegetarian safe.

BINDAETTEOK: It's a pancake made with mung bean. You can fill it with meat or just vegetables. Since I wanted more Sims to be able to eat it, I made it vegetarian safe. It's up to your imagination what the pancake fillings are :) Your Sims will eat it using (custom) chopsticks.

CRISPY FRIED CHICKEN: Your Sims will eat it using the chopsticks as well. This way they won't get their hands dirty with all the oil and sauces  XD. It's not safe for vegetarian Sims.

🥘 All of these three recipes take 5 bites to be finished/eaten :)

*** Click here to see a big picture of all recipes (imgur link) ***

Check the post on Patreon to read more about this download :)

I hope you'll enjoy it a lot! :)

Happy Simming ^^

*-* DOWNLOAD (free on January 2nd, 2024) *-*

[sister-lucifer]

Hatchet Whore

Toby Rogers X Male Reader

Dubious consent, little to no preparation, anal, mentions of blood/anal bleeding, degrading, being caught after the act, no aftercare, you're literally getting a hatchet up your ass idk what to tell you buddy chum pals

!!NOT WRITTEN BY ME, THIS IS A GIFT FROM A FRIEND!!

Oh, you felt pathetic.

Just an hour ago, you were exploring the huge forest near your smaller town, the twigs and pine cones crunching under your feet as you listened to the birds chirping, smiling as you saw a squirrel dashing through the pine needles.

It was a bit silly why you came here, really. Everyone always spoke of a tall, pale man with no face, one who wore a suit, who took stupid little forest travelers and never let them go home.

You didn't exactly find him. More like you were found by these...men. A man in a yellow hoodie, a guy in a white mask, and a boy with orange goggles and a sly grin. You were knocked out for who knows how long, waking up in a dingy, dirty old basement, the first two men leaving as you woke. Leaving you with this…guy.

-

Toby felt a bit bad for the guy. He wasn't causing any trouble, technically, but God knows how much the crunching pinecones made the Masks' go into sensory overload, especially when Masky seemed to be in charge. But, then again..he's never been a selfless man.

"I-I've got a d-d-" Toby made several popping sounds with his mouth, frowning a bit before continuing, his neck occasionally jerking. "D-deal for y-you!" Toby grinned, an odd look in his eyes. A very, very clear look in his eyes. "I-I'll let you — entitled to compensation! — g-g-go-..if."

-

"I'm not letting you shove your nasty cock in me, who knows how long you've been in this forest without a bath-...no offense." The proxy didn't seem to take any offense, only nodding with an involuntary whistle of his tongue.

Toby had a grin on his face as he unscrewed the cap of his plastic water bottle, his hands rough and scarred yet his fingers lean. He carefully poured the half left in the bottle over the handle of his hatchet. "N-no problem, I c-can — fuck! fuck! fuck! — work w-with t-that."

He was silent save for the occasional pop of the tongue as he pushed you to lay on your back, ignoring your grumbling as he grabbed the waistband of your shorts and boxers, tugging them both down. He grinned as he shoved his fingers in your mouth, giggling maniacally as you were forced to drool over them.

He snickered a bit as he jammed his fingers down your throat, causing you to gag before he finally stopped his miniature assault on your throat. He prodded at your hole for a minute, staring intensely at your face as he harshly shoved two inside. He didn't give you a second to adjust, only giggling as he intently watched you attempt to stop your face contorting with pleasure.

He finally removed his fingers after a few minutes, ignoring your whimper at the loss as he firmly gripped the upper handle of the axe, the blade resting directly underneath his fist. His face showed clear concentration as he slowly brought the hilt to you, breaching your tight ring of muscle as you moaned, covering your mouth.

He snickered as he slowly brought it back out, only to violently shove the handle in until his fist rested on your ass, letting you moan into your hands. He repeated this a few times, before reaching up with his free hand to jerk yours away from your mouth.

"I w-wanna hear you, f-freak.."

He held your hands in his as he continued his rapid pistoning of the hilt into you, letting you squeeze his hand as you moaned, back arching as he shoved the rough wood into your prostate. If you could have lifted your head, you would've seen the tent in the man's jeans as he fucked the weapon into you.

You could barely function anymore, your aching cock red and untouched as he started to mutter to you. "Oh, f-fuck, imagine if i-it broke — entitled to compensation! — i-inside you, oh, fuck-" He grinned at your slightly fearful, cockdrunk (hatchetdrunk?) face as he continued his little ramble. "Y-you think you'd b-bleed? Y-you'd probably c-cum from it, you f-fucking slut..!" Toby looked close to cumming in his pants just from the idea of blood leaking from your tight hole.

His eyes were filled with excitement as he again shoved the hatchet as far as it could reach, seemingly not noticing your tight grip on his hand as you screamed, eyes rolling back a bit as your leaking, red cock finally got its oh-so-needed release, spilling onto your tummy and thighs. "O-ohh, fuck, you really — fuck! — a-are a s-slut, huh..?"

You didn't- hell, couldn't- answer as you panted, your cock softening as you came down from your high. He placed his hatchet to the side, neck jerking slightly as he slowly smeared your cum up to your chest with his thumb. "C-cumming from a f-fucking h-hatchet u-up — fuck! — up your ass..f-freak! Little freak!"

Despite his cruel words, he helped you sit up, tugging your shirt back down. You leaned against the basement's wall again as he tugged your shorts back up to your waist, not bothering to clean you up at all. "F-fuck, I'll be in s-so much trouble..y-you shut up, okay?"

He didn't bother to acknowledge your nod of agreement as he heard the basement's door creak open again. Hoodie and an unmasked Tim stood there, completely still for a moment until Tim spoke. "Toby, what the fuck, man."

"S-shit."

[puppetmaster13u]

Who wants a WIP with some Batdad

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

   “B, catch me!”     Bruce had barely landed in the cave before there was a small child barrelling towards him from the computers, trailing a blanket tied into a mimicry of a cape. Thankfully, Dick was incredibly light and his reflexes were good enough to catch the child who decided to take a leap into his arms.     “B, guess what!” the child in his arms giggled, mischief dancing in blue eyes as he patted at the fake wound across his chest.     He let out a questioning noise, pausing for a moment before he managed to force himself to properly speak. “What, chum?”      “Alfred says I’m good enough to start trainin’ with the proper sticks!” his kid beamed, giving a gap-toothed grin. Right, he’d been learning with foam for the last few months, with the hopes of finding a proper weapon fit for him eventually.     Bruce smiled at Dick, a bright feeling of lightness on his shoulders. “That’s amazing chum, I think that deserves some icecream and a movie night, what do you think?”     There was a cheer, itty bitty hands raising in excitement as he laughed quietly. “Why don’t you head up and pick out a movie while I change into something more casual?” he booped their itty bitty nose, eliciting a giggle as they wiggled up on his arm and flipped off to scamper up the stairs.     He smiled after the somersaulting child who disappeared into the shadows, reaching up to unhook the curved claws from where they rested below his neck. He sighed, taking a moment to breathe and finish shifting mentally from the Bat to just Bruce, even if it was getting harder to differentiate the two.     His hands found their way to the cowl next, slipping it off and over the ears, which he turned off after a moment. The spike-guards that helped hold them in place came off piece by piece with silent efficiency, then the ears themselves alongside the mouthguard that made his teeth appear tusk-like. An idea that Dick had put forth after another round of nature documentaries.     Amusement twitched on his lips as he carefully removed the layers around the undersuit meticulously crafted to allow for his full range of motion without taking away armor. Along with mimicking a mixture of chitin-esque scales and velvet-like fur, which was slightly new since Dick insisted that since bats had fur the Bat should too. Which honestly, a fair point.     Finally he was clear to unclip each piece of the wing harness, bracing the limbs on the area they had built specifically for such an action to slip out, leaving him in the undershirt. Honestly it was better to do it with another person, but taking the wings off alone every once in a while was fine as well, as long as he tested them before taking them out the next night.     Stretching, he unhooked the last bit of the wing membrane from his legs then the layer of armor on the boots that mimicked claws, even if not functional. Huh, there was an idea- for later though. He had promised Dick that they could have a movie night after all. 

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Maybe just doting Bruce being extra doting to reader right after they made up? Him being so relieved and in love that he can’t even function properly

Bruce tucked you under his arm and kissed your temple. Dick was already asleep on his other side. A long day of sunshine and excitement did him in. Or it was sugar crash.

Maybe both.

But he'd been undetered by throwing up after a particularly vicious roller coaster and so you'd simply kept giving him whatever sugar infested nonsense he wanted. Shrugging and telling Bruce he only got to turn 10 once.

"Sleepy?" he asked, smiling a little.

"Exhausted," you hum.

Bruce chuckled. He'd only managed to be there after lunch- he'd had a meeting. So it had fallen to you to run around the park with Dick- though the pictures he'd seen indicated that you didn't mind at all. "Poor baby," he murmured. "I'll run you a bath after-"

"I need a shower first. I refuse to sit in Theme Park soup."

"Fair," Bruce snorted.

"Do I gotta shower?" Dick asked sleepily.

"Nah," you tell him. "We'll just throw you in the wash with your sheets in the morning."

"Nice, I can try my new goggles," he yawned.

"Goofball," you hum.

"I mean if Alfred won't let us put him in the washer we can hose him off in the yard-"

"Too cold still for that," you point out.

"Or use a car wash-"

"If we wax him he'll be too stiff to do flips," you muse.

"There you have it chum, shower before bed or washing machine in the morning," Buce said kissing the top of his head.

[dickgraysonwayne]

Eighty Four

Ao3

Summary: Dick has 84 years of memories in his head. Except he doesn’t

@dickgraysonweek 2024, Day 7: A Celebration of 84 Years

It all happens very suddenly.

One moment, Dick is turning in for the night.

He’s just come back from a long patrol, and the worst of Blüdhaven had been particularly brutal today. He loves this city, but it has its moments where it just about grinds him down into dust. Today is one of those days, and all he wants to do is sleep.

Too exhausted to do more than peel off his uniform, he staggers to the bathroom to splash some water down his face to get the smell of the bowels of the city off of him.

The next moment, his head explodes: all colors, shapes, and sounds. The sounds overwhelm him: voices screaming, speaking, chattering , one after another, layering on top into an unstable cacophony with seemingly no end. At first, Dick is certain he’s been shot in the head. His hand desperately roams around his scalp, his forehead, his face, trying to find the source and plug the wound, anything to make it stop.

But he finds nothing, and he searches and searches and searches til his arms are tired but there’s no hole and no blood and the voices in his head won’t stop talking (shut up shut up shut up).

Finally he can’t do it anymore and just gives in, curled up on the tiles and rocking against the pain and waits and waits and waits and waits

-

Hours (Days? Weeks? Months?) later, Dick can move.

The voices in his head don’t stop, not really. Instead, they settle there, filling out all the nooks and crannies, whisper and yell and scream until the noise is just noise and Dick is able to come back to himself, slowly but surely.

He quietly tests movement, twitches his fingers and his toes. When they move normally, he carefully levers himself up into a seating position, leaning against the bathroom wall. His head thunks on the cold drywall, and he breathes out once, twice, three times.

He can’t think (it would just be another voice inside his head, and there’re too many, too many) but he can move, and waits for a bit more function to return. You got it chum, Dick whispers to himself, pulling on the thread of an old, comforting memory. You got it. You got it. He feels something inside him react in confusion in response.

He waits some more, rubbing feeling back into his arms, wrists, fingers, trying to center himself in the physical world, trying to find his voice again.

Eventually, he can weakly maneuver his arms and, with great effort, push himself up to his feet. The voices don’t get better, but they don’t get worse either. That’s all he can hope for at this point.

Okay. Okay okay okay. Move.

He takes a step, and everything explodes again. Everything goes dark before he hits the the floor.

-

He wakes up outside the manor.

The first thing he notices is that his headache is much more muted now. The noise is still there, but muffled, moved to the sidelines in his forehead.

The second thing he notices is that the manor looks…different.

There’s small details here and there that look altered, just similar enough that it’s clearly the manor but different enough that it’s triggering the space of uncanny valley in his brain.

He stumbles towards the manor, mind whirling. How did I get here? He thinks. Why does it look so different?

Paranoid, he makes his way over to a window instead of the front door. Cupping his hands, he leans over and peers directly inside only to see…

Himself?

He blinks, and he’s back in his apartment bathroom, cheek pressed onto the tiles. The headache is back, exploding in his head so suddenly he almost throws up.

He breathes through it, then prays.

-

At some point, he can move again.

He moves slowly, half-crawling out of the bathroom, trying to remember where he left his phone. Help. Is all he can think. I need help.

He moves until he reaches his bed, shakily lifting himself on it and grabbing at the phone on the bedspread. He makes to unlock it, wincing at the light, then pauses.

911 would be a logical choice. However—

His…disappearing act, or whatever had just happened to him? That hadn’t sounded medical. It hadn’t felt medical. This had to have been something else.

And so…

Hoping he doesn’t regret this, he scrolls through his contacts, takes another breath through the pushing headache, then calls Bruce.

-

Yeah. It’s a mistake.

“I’m telling you,” Dick hisses through his teeth as Bruce takes a sharp turn in his car. “I don’t think it’s medical. I’ve been having—”

“We’re going to get you medical assistance,” Bruce interrupts, like Dick hadn’t been speaking at all. “Then, if it doesn’t work…”

“It won’t,” Dick says. His thoughts are so loud. “It’s magic. I feel it.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Bruce says. He takes another sharp turn. “Don’t worry. I have it handled.”

“It’s not medical…” Dick says again. “It’s not—”

He draws in a quick breath. Something flashes in front of his eyes: shattered images, shadowy figures, memories. Childhood memories rush into his mind: moments from his time as Robin, form the teams he was part of during his youth. There’s Wally and Artemis and Kaldur and—

He frowns. That doesn’t sound right. He’s never…he’s never…

“Hey!” Bruce says, voice joining the shouting in his head. “Pay attention! We‘be almost reached the League. Stay awake!”

-

The voices get too loud to ignore very quickly.

He starts losing vision too, he thinks: quick flashes of things, of people, of conversations, start running through his brain at a constant pace. He doesn’t really know if what he’s seeing is what’s in front of him or not.

Eventually, he just starts asking.

“Bruce?” He wheezes out. “Where’s Duke?”

There’s a brief silence.

“Docto…”

“I’m calling Zatanna. This is outside of my capability.”

“Duke?” Dick asks, holding onto the name for dear life. “Where is he?”

He feels a hand grab his forearm. “Who’s that?” He hears.

“I’m giving him something,” He hears, and something pricks at his arm.

Dick says “what-” before the images and sounds come back and he can’t see anything and everything’s so much so much so much—

-

“It’s not magic,” Zatanna says.

Dick steadfastly refuses to look at Bruce. “What is it, then?” He asks. He scratches at his hospital gown. “They said it wasn’t medical—”

“Well,” Zatanna says. “It’s not not magic either. It’s just…it’s just not the magic I’m familiar with. This is…” She pauses, tapping her finger on the solid Justice League medical wing bed. “I don’t know where it’s coming from, or how it got to you. But I know what it’s doing.”

Dick winces. The voices pound at his head relentlessly. “What is it?” He asks. “What’s wrong with me?”

He sees Zatanna make nervous eye contact with Bruce. “It’s the same magical signature. How could you tell?”

“I couldn’t,” Bruce says, sounding defeated. “But from what he was saying…I had to check. I didn’t want to be right.”

“What is it?” Dick repeats, looking between them.

“Crisis,” Zatanna says simply, voice heavy.

Bruce actually freezes. He closes his eyes. “Shit,” He says.

That, make than anything else, scares Dick. “What is that?” He demands. “What does that mean?”

“We have to tell him—” Zatanna begins, but Bruce interrupts her.

“No we don’t,” He says staunchly.

“Then why did you call me if you didn’t want to…” Zatanna argues, and Dick has had enough.

“You put it out there,” He says. “So. Tell me. What’s Crisis and what does that have to do with,” And he gestures at his head. “This?”

Zatanna hesitates. She looks back at Bruce.

Bruce stares back at her, glaring.

“Forget him,” Dick says. “Tell me. Please.”

Zatanna sighs. “Well,” She begins. Bruce makes a gruff noise of disapproval. “It’s…well. It’s a long story. But to summarize: there’s been a few…events, in recent years. Multiverse events.”

Dick’s eyes widen. “Multiverse? Like…like mirror universe multiverses?”

“Yes, and no,” Zatanna says. “The details aren’t important. But. These events sent huge shockwaves over multiple worlds across the multiverse. I got caught up in the stream of events through…some sort of magical feedback. Because of that, Bruce knows too. And the Justice League. But other than that…our Earth was one of the ones that wasn’t caught in the crossfire, so we kept the information secret. Until…until now, I suppose.”

Dick’s head spins. “You’re telling me,” He says. “You guys had access to the multiverse for years? And you didn’t tell anyone?”

The voices in his head shout louder.

“We didn’t want to cause panic,” Zatanna says. Bruce shakes his head. “Since we would likely not be affected…”

Dick turns to Bruce. “Why didn’t you tell us?” He asks. “This seems like a big deal!”

“You didn’t need to know,” Bruce says shortly. “And honestly? Why would you want to. It’s difficult information to deal with.”

Dick can’t help but laugh. “What the fuck,” He says.

“Anyway,” Zatanna says. “I recognize the signature of multiverse connections. And…it’s all over you right now. You’re being suffused by the connection to not just one other earth, but multiple. You’re experiencing memories from multiple multiverses all at the same time.”

Dick places a hand on his forehead. “You’re telling me,” He repeats. “Everything I’m hearing here…it’s real people? Real thoughts, and they’re speaking to me?”

“Not speaking to you,” Zatanna says. “Just…connecting to you. They don’t know you’re there. It’s more like you’ve tuned in to a bunch of radio stations at the same time. And, well. It’s not ‘people’. They’re all…they’re all you.”

“Me?” Dick repeats.

“I didn’t know this part,” Bruce says, eyes narrowing.

Zatanna shrugs. “That’s what’s happening,” She says. “You’ve become…a focal point, I suppose. Of all your multiverse equivalents. They’re projecting onto you, and I don’t know why or how. You��re probably seeing their memories, or thoughts. But yes, they’re all versions of you.”

Dick feels dizzy. “So what I’m seeing…the memories that don’t make sense?”

“Are not yours,” Zatanna says. She looks grim. “Not this Earth’s version of yours, anyway. Earth-84, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

“What can we do?” Bruce says. “How do we fix this?”

Zatanna twists her mouth. “I’m not sure,” She says. “Yet, at least. I can call up Doctor Fate. Maybe Constantine? We’ll try to come up with a way to cut the connection without harming anybody.”

“I thought you wanted help?” Bruce says, sounding disgusted.

“You have got to get over the Constantine thing,” Zatanna starts, before Dick interrupts.

“What do I do, then?” Dick asks. He feels…numb. Empty. But also, much too full. “Do I just…do I deal with it?”

“You’ll have to,” Zatanna says, sympathetic. “We can’t risk anything that might make this worse. Try to deal with it for now. I’ll get back to you as soon as we have a solution.”

Dick looks to Bruce, who still looks displeased. “We’ll deal with it,” He says.

Dick just sits there. The voices keep shouting.

-

Dick insists on going back to Blüdhaven. Bruce is very much not happy with the plan.

He hasn’t had this bad a fight with Bruce in years. Dick is catapulted back years, to his adolescence and beyond, when fighting was Bruce was an everyday sport for them.

“Don’t be stupid,” Is Bruce’s argument. “You have a multiverse in your head right now. You’re seeing memories that aren’t yours. That’s dangerous. What if they overwhelm you? What if you lose yourself? Be smart.”

“I don’t see how staying here will help with that,” Dick argues. “I can only fight this battle by myself. Which means I get to choose how to do it. And that means going back home.”

In the end, Bruce can’t actually do anything to stop him (being injured or restrained could cause him to lose his concentration and fall into the voices, so Bruce doesn’t even try) and Dick stomps out, borrowing one of Bruce’s cars and hauling ass back to Blüdhaven.

When he gets home, he quickly scribbles EARTH 84 on a post it note and sticks it on his bedside lamp. Just in case.

-

Dick wakes up in a prison.

Well. Not in, really. It’s more like he’s watching a movie, seeing things move on a flat screen in front of him, two-dimensional.

He blinks at it. Where he is?

He sees a figure in a familiar uniform lying on the ground of a cell in the corner. The suit is black, with blue stripes running across and curling up around the fingers.

The figure groans.

Dick feels the pain and confusion from it like a physical thing. What the hell, he thinks, half hysteria, half curiosity.

Well. If he can help this Dick, why not? He’d have to have been summoned here for a reason, right?

He starts talking, and the man on the floor responds.

-

One morning, Dick walks out of his apartment to go to work.

He’s halfway to the station when he mindlessly looks down and just…stops.

He’s not wearing a uniform: just jeans, a tshirt, and sneakers. And that’s because he’s not a cop. He’s never been a cop. Some Dick somewhere must have been, but he’s never been. He’d gone on autopilot anyway.

Dick runs home, grabs his post it, and stares at EARTH 84 until his eyes tear up.

-

Dick’s phone rings. Startled out of his memories stupor, he leans across the kitchen table to grab at it.

“Hey Dick,” Tim says. “Haven’t seen you in a while. What’s up?”

“Oh, you know,” Dick says. A chorus of voices whisper Timmy. “Not much. Just Blüdhaveing away over here. What’s up with you?”

One thing Bruce and him had agreed on? Stay away from everyone. He knows himself, and knows that he’s not going to be able to act normally around them when he’s got so much happening in his head. And if they find out about this…well. There’s a lot that can do wrong there.

He sees the hypocrisy there, but he can’t bring himself to think about it more.

“Just Red Robining away over here,” Tim echoes. “Anyway, wanted to give you a call and see if you wanted to help with something. I’ve been chasing a lead with the League, and I think that—”

“League of Shadows,” Dick says, trying to covertly confirm that his memory of it is the correct one.

“…yeah?” Tim responds, then jumps right back into it. “They’ve been active again in Gotham, which, as you know, is a problem. I don’t want Damian involved either, so. You in?”

Dick sighs. “I can’t, Timbo,” He says. “I’m working on something super sensitive right now. I’ll give you a call if I wrap it up early?”

He hasn’t left his apartment in days. Hasn’t even read a news article in at least a week. He thinks.

There’s a silence at the other end of the line. “Okay,” Tim says. “I’ll wait for your call.”

“Great,” Dick says. His pounding headache increases. “Then I’ll just—”

“Wait,” Tim says. He sound serious. “Dick. Are you okay?”

“Of course,” Dick says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Tim’s sigh sounds tired. “Okay,” He says. “I’ll believe you. This time.”

Dick doesn’t know what to say. “Bye,” He says, then hangs up.

-

Dick wakes up, heart pounding.

He can still feel it: his stomach flipping as he falls, the momentary pain as his head smashes against something on the floor. And then blackness, darkness and goes on and on and on and on…

He frantically dials Bruce. “What universe are we in, are we 84? Are we 84?”

“I—” He hears the telltale signs of a car pulling over. “Dick—”

“Is this Earth 84?” Dick says frantically. He stares at the post it note like it’s lying to him. “Am I alive?”

There’s a short silence. “Yes,” Bruce says. “On both counts.”

-

“They need help,” Dick tells Zatanna at their daily check in.

Zatanna looks up from her notes. “Hm?” She asks, more sound than word.

“The other mes,” He says. “I can hear so many of them. But the ones I’m seeing? They need help. They need support. They’re suffering.”

Zatanna worries at her lip. “I was worried about that,” She says. “If they’re connecting to you, they might need you for something. Has anything been happening in the visions that you see?”

“Yeah,” Dick says, biting the bullet. “I think they’re hearing me.”

There’s a short pause. Zatanna looks shocked. “Please explain,” She says.

“I’m talking to them,” Dick says. “And they’re hearing me. Sometimes,” And he thinks back to that first memory, the one that started it all. “They’re seeing me too. But only briefly.”

“When did this start?” Zatanna asks, intense.

Dick shrugs. “Always been like this,” He says. “I just haven’t been engaging much. Not until recently.”

“Why?” Zatanna asks, alarmed. “You shouldn’t. The consequences could be…well. This is existential, here. You shouldn’t even be able to do this.”

Dick shrugs. “You know,” He says. “It’s not just people in here. It’s decades. Almost a century. Years and years and years. All inside my head. I don’t know if they’re dead or if they’re alive. All know is that they’re stuck in here and I can’t help them. The only thing I can do is speak with them.”

“I know,” Zatanna says. She sits down next to him. “You can’t, though. This is greater than them. This is greater than us. We all need you to keep the fabric of this universe, and all their universes, together.”

“I think they’re reaching out to me, though,” He says, practically pleading. “They…I keep hearing our number. Eighty four. Eighty four. Over and over again. And then that’s when I can show up, and when they can hear me.”

Zatanna looks even more troubled now. “You cannot keep engaging,” She says. “The fact that they can reach you at all is troubling. When it was just you crossing the multiverse, it was concerning. But if the rest of them can too? What if they start bleeding into each other’s timelines? That would have potentially disastrous consequences. You have to stop doing this.”

Dick nods. He doesn’t speak for the rest of his visit.

-

He can’t fight anymore.

Dick stares up at the ceiling, lost in the worlds in his head. He cycles through them, again and again and again, checking in. He sees how own gaze land on him, eyes widening, before he vanishes. He hears whispers crossing the lines between the many versions of himself, sees them making their way into their own heads.

He hears a knock, and it takes him to second to realize that it’s coming from his own universe.

He sits up so fast he gets dizzy. There, at the window, is Jason. He’s not wearing his helmet. Instead, he’s wearing his regular gear, and a Jasonesque frown.

Dick crosses to the window and pries it open. It sticks a little, so he has to push. “I have a door, you know,” He says, stepping back so Jason can leap inside. “It works perfectly fine.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “What, you’re telling me that?” He says. He glances around the apartment. “Whoa. Did a tornado go through here or something?”

Dick shrugs. He really hasn’t been up to tidying up much these past…however long. “Did you need something?” He asks instead.

“Touchy,” Jason says. He looks vaguely uncomfortable. “You been busy or something? Tim says he asked for support on a couple things and you didn’t come.”

Dick feels that familiar guilt rearing back up. “Well,” He says. “You know how it is here. I’m always working on something.”

“Clearly,” Jason says. He eyes the apartment again.

Dick feels itchy, uncomfortable. He feels the tug of the counterparts in his head. “Can I get you anything?” He asks. He searches through his brain. “I don’t have ginger tea or anything.”

Jason gives him a weird look. “That’s specific,” He says.

Okay. Wrong Jason’s tea. “You know what I mean,” He deflects. “Do you want something?”

“Nah,” Jason gives him a searching look. “Well. I came here to get your input on something but. Yeah. I don’t think that’s happening now.”

“Why?” Dick asks, even though this works out for him, actually. “What’s going on?”

“You’re asking me?” Jason asks, disbelieving. “Tim was fucking right. There is something very wrong with you right now.”

Uh oh. “What?” Dick asks. “Why?”

Jason snorts. “You kidding me? Look at this place. Look at how you’re acting. Have you even left this room today? Nightwing hasn’t been in the news for weeks. Maybe longer.”

Dick shrugs. “I have a lot of underground stuff going on right now.”

“And,” Jason barrels on. “You’re not making eye contact right now. Which is. Unusual for you.”

Is it? Dick lifts up his eyes, locking eyes with Jason. He prays that Jason doesn’t see the other worlds swirling around in his pupils. “There,” He says out loud.

“Dude,” Jason says. He keeps eye contact. “You have to be seeing this. What’s going on with you?”

Dick’s head hurts. “I know,” He tells Jason’s eyes. “I know it’s all weird right now. But…I can’t tell you right now. I need you to trust me.”

Jason just laughs. “Do you know how much like Bruce you sound like now?” He says. “You clearly need help.”

“I do,” Dick admits. “And I know you can tell that. But. I’m managing it right now. And I need to do it alone. And. When I’m done, I’ll tell you. But you need to let me do this.”

“Do what?” Jason says. “I don’t even know what you’re taking about!”

Dick breaks their staring contest. “Yeah,” He says. “God. It’s all fucked up right now. But it’s doable. Can you trust me on that, at least?”

Jason doesn’t say anything, and Dick is worried he’ll keep pushing—

“Don’t make me regret this,” Jason says. “Fine. Call me as soon as you can. I mean it.”

-

He wakes up in a dilapidated mansion this time.

“That’s new,” He says to himself, wandering the space. It’s all dark and cold and misty: something happened in this world. Something bad. “Where are you?” He asks himself vaguely. “Where are you, Dick?”

It doesn’t take long before he finds him: a familiar figure stands a distance away, looking far too put together for his surroundings, at least from the back.

The figure whirls around suddenly, and Dock catches a glimpse of a very familiar face. “What the hell…”

Dick waits for the moment where he’ll vanish from the other him’s sight, where he’ll fade into the background…

It doesn’t happen. The other him keeps starting at him, open-mouthed. “Hey,” Other Dick says. “Who are—”

“You see me?” Dick interrupts, eyes wide.

“Um, yeah,” Other Dick replies. “You’re standing right in front of me, of course I see you! Who..who are you? Why am I here?”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t this…this is the manor, right? Wayne Manor?”

“I guess,” Other Dick says. “I was just there, with everyone else…and now I’m in this one, and everyone’s gone. So. Yeah. I’m just…who are you? Why did you bring me here?”

Huh. This is new. “Um,” Dick says. “Well. I didn’t bring you here. You brought me.”

“How do you figure that?” Other Dick demands. “Look, just take me back, okay? I don’t have time to deal with this. Damian needs me.”

Dick’s heart pounds. “Why?” He asks. “Is he in danger?”

“What?” Other Dick asks. “No! There’s a school thing—anyway, I don’t have time to explain myself to you, bizarro-me. Just send me back.”

Dick frowns, examining the other him. He’s…different than the ones he’s seen so far. Brighter, almost. Colors deep and shiny against the backdrop. Almost too shiny.

“Um,” Dick says. This is…bizarre. Even by these standards. “I don’t really know how. Sorry.”

Other Dick’s eyes widen. “Well that’s just great,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “First I’m haunted by ghosts or whatever, now this? This is possibly the worst week anyone has ever experienced in the history of the world.”

Dick stares at him.

Other Dick shrugs. “Okay. So I may be exaggerating. But, hey. I think I’m entitled.”

Dick can’t help but laugh. “You’re kind of weird,” He says.

“That’s kind of a self own,” Other Dick says. “Considering. Either you’re me, or you’re pretending to be.”

“Can’t argue that one,” Dick says, shrugging. “Um I guess we can try to find a way to get you home? If, you know. I can figure it out.”

“Hey,” Other Dick says, tone pointed. “Of course you can! I don’t tolerate any downer self talk in this house. Even if it’s, you know. Post apocalyptic.”

Dick laughs again. “You know,” He says, before his vision shimmers, and he wakes up in his apartment with a gasp.

-

“Another one of them saw me,”

Bruce’s disapproving stare radiates over the phone. “I hope you didn’t engage,” He says

Dick hesitates. “Well…” He hedges.

“I don’t think I have to tell you,” Bruce begins, voice icy. “That you’re playing a very dangerous game here. Not just for you, for all of us.”

“I know,” Dick says. “I do. I would never put us in danger.”

“And yet,” Bruce begins, but Dick interrupts him.

“I’m helping them,” He says, almost desperate. “They need me, they need advice, they need support. And I’m doing that.”

“And you would risk—” Bruce begins, voice icy, and Dick quickly interrupts.

“No,” He says. “Maybe I was. But now. Now…after that last interaction? There’s something…” He cuts himself off. “It was different this time. But different good. I think I can figure this out. Maybe…maybe I’ve been going about this wrong. I’ve tried doing nothing, I’ve tried leaving hints. I think I need to be more involved.”

“Remember what Constantine said,” Bruce warns.

Dick chuckles. “A sentence I’ve never heard you say.” He comments. “Anyway. I know. Be careful in crossing the streams, I know. But he also said that I’m gonna have to break this connection on my own. And you know what? I’m gonna try it my way this time.”

“Just,” And here, unexpectedly, Bruce’s voice softens. “Don’t fall on your sword. That’s not your job.”

“It’s not yours either,” Dick responds. “And don’t worry. I got this, right? Who knows me better than me, anyway?”

There’s an amused silence on the other end of the line. “I think you know the answer to that,” Bruce says.

“I’m not gonna say you,” Dick replies. “Anyway. I’ll keep you updated, okay. You know I wouldn’t risk anyone if I wasn’t sure.”

“I know,” Bruce says, then: “good luck.”

-

“Oh, it’s you again,” Other Dick says.

Dick starts. He glances around the space: he’s in his childhood bedroom. A fire crackles in the fireplace, bathing everything in a warm light. “Huh,” Is all he can think to say. “I don’t have a fireplace in my room.”

“I’m just lucky, I guess,” Other Dick says. He sits cross legged in bed. “So. As fun as it is to see you again, did you want something?”

“Kind of,” Dick says. He crosses, sinks into the chair in front of his desk. “I wanted to ask something, I guess. More like talk things through.”

“Uh huh,” Other Dick steeples his hands. “Sure. I’m doing breakfast with Damian tomorrow so I’m gonna try in turn in early, but go ahead.”

“So,” Dick barrels on. “I’ve been looking for you again, cause, well. In summary, I’ve been seeing different versions of us, at various points in time. None of them have been able to see me, except for you. Why is that?”

Other Dick shrugs. “Are you about to tell me?” He asks.

“The other key difference,” Dick says, staring at the Flying Graysons poster on the wall. “Is I can’t figure out what you want. Everyone else needed help. You…you don’t. At least, I don’t think so. So why? Why did we connect? What did you need?”

Other Dick crosses his arms. “I think you’re missing something here,” He says.

Dick nods at him. “Go ahead,” He says.

“Maybe you called me to help you this time,” Other Dick suggests. “You said all of us needed help, right? You’re one of us too. So maybe…so maybe I was meant to help you?”

Dick thinks about it. “With what?” He asks.

Other Dick shrugs. “Hell if I know,” He says. “You tell me. Give me all your problems and I’ll psychoanalzye you right now.”

Dick laughs. “How are you so game for this?” He says. “You don’t even know me.”

“You’re me, right?” Other Dick says. “Who knows me better than me?”

Dick hides a smile. “Good point.”

“Anyway,” Other Dick says. “Look. You’ve been running around solving everyone’s problems for them. What’s going on with everything else? Life? All of that?”

“Um,” Dick says. “Well. You know how it goes. We have certain priorities we have. Vigilante shit.”

Other Dick sighs. “If I may,” He says. “Don’t. You’re not gonna make anyone else happy nor will you be able to do your job if number one,” And he points to Dick. “Isn’t okay either.”

Dick shrugs. “I hear you,” He says, then: “Your world seems nice, by the way. It’s so…it’s so bright here.”

“Why thank you,” Dick says. “I think we do okay.”

“Not that, though,” And Dick gestures at the Flying Graysons poster. “You know, everything’s almost free of tragedy here.” He smiles sadly. “You know that’s one thing I’ve never been able to help with? I can’t change events, but this seems like it happens again and again and again. They die every time.”

“Yeah,” Other Dick also smiles sadly. “Well. Our version of us kinda depends on that happening. You can’t really change that.”

Dick sighs. “And Bruce,” He says. “He’s there every time.”

“Same reason,” Other Dick comments. “But you know what? We’re not so bad. Stuff happens, you know? But sometimes…we can make that work. And all you can do is be you.”

Dick sighs. “Damn,” He says, leaning back. “Does that work on the family? You’re not a very specific encourager.”

“Oldest brother superpower,” Other Dick winks. “Works every time. You should know.”

“I mean,” Dick shrugs. “I think you do that gig better than me.”

“Your world seems different,” Other Dick says. “So, I don’t know. Maybe your gig means a bit of a different approach. Whatever.” He gives him a significant look. “From where I stand, you seem to be doing okay. You helped the rest of us too, right?”

Dick nods. “Yeah, I guess I did.” At those words, he feels a tug at his head. “Oh,” He says. “I think this is goodbye.”

“See you around,” Other Dick says. He waves. “Or not. Hope you figure it out.”

“Me too,” Dick says, before everything shatters again.

-

It all happens very suddenly.

One moment, Dick is turning in for the night.

He’s toweling his hair dry, contemplating. The last few days have been mostly manageable. He thinks he might have cracked it, he just needs to—

And the voices vanish. Just like that.

Dick drops his towel to the ground. He clutches at his head, looks hard.

Nothing. Not a peep. His head is empty and silence and all him and blessedly quiet. He’d forgotten what quiet sounded like, and it’s the loudest thing he’s ever heard.

Dick breathes out. He can actually feel tears in his eyes. “Oh my god,” He whispers. “Oh my god oh my god,”

He scrambles to his phone. The image of Other Dick comes to mind. Thank you, he thinks as hard as he can. He hopes it gets to him. Thank you.

He dials Bruce before the quiet can get too loud again.

-

“Earth to Grayson,” the Bluetooth speaker in his car crackles. “You there?”

Dick shakes his head. “Babs,” He says. “Sorry. I got a little lost in my head.”

“Can’t be doing that,” Babs says, laughter in her voice. “Especially when you’re driving. So. Just to confirm. 7, my place?”

“Confirmed,” Dick says. He signals left, changing lanes. “How many people did you manage to get?”

“Pretty much everyone,” Babs says. “Jason too. So. That’ll be fun. I’m gonna make him socialize.”

Dick laughs. “Good luck with that,” He says. “Anyway, I’m gonna pass by the manor and say hi to everyone there for a bit, then drop by yours after.”

“Woof,” Babs says. “Well. Good luck. Hope you make it out in one piece.”

“You and me both,” Dick sees the Gotham skyline in the distance. He basks in the familiarity. “To be honest, it’ll be nice to see everyone again. It’s been a little…lonely up in here.”

He remembers the days he had wished his head would stay quiet. He doesn’t regret that, but…

That connection, that ability to help? It had been a lifeline that was difficult to let go.

Bab’s voice softens. “I get it,” She says, then. “You sound better. I’m glad.”

Dick smiles softly. “I am better. I think.”

“I want to hear all about it,” She says. “You promised, right?”

Dick thinks of Jason. “I did,” He says. “You’re not ready, I can tell you that.”

“Ominous,” Babs says. “Anyway. See you soon! Don’t be late.”

“When am I ever?” He asks. The WELCOME TO GOTHAM sign passed by him in a swirl of green and blue. “I’ll be there. Promise.”

[houseofbrat]

These covers are nauseating because she. doesn’t. have. cancer and have literally exploited it to get out of the comms mess they made.

I expect the headlines going forward to be:

Anytime a member of the RF does any engagement it will be because “they working to support Kate” even The King who actually has cancer

When The King recovers from cancer it will be framed as he was inspired by Kate who again doesn’t have cancer

There will be zero calls for William especially to step up and work and they are never going to be criticized for not working again. Anyone who expects them to will be shamed

Also not how mercenary Kensington Palace is. When the King was diagnosed, they made no public statement of support. They didn’t even like or share his announcement message. Nothing leaked about how they were supporting him, if the grandkids sent him cards etc. Now suddenly to prop up this fake cancer storyline, The King is used as a prop for “heartfelt lunches” and “emotional hospital visits”. They don’t care about him - it’s just useful to use him now.

People falling for this are chumps are it says a lot about the moral rot at Kensington Palace. William truly is Diana’s son in the worst way and I wonder if their dishonesty and opportunism will ever catch up to them.

Sorry for the long ask but I’m frankly pissed!

I think Heath Ledger's Joker pretty much sums up the situation at this point.

I will also say that I completely side-eye the excuse of giving a public statement now due to the kids' term break & Easter holiday. I've seen plenty of rumors that the UK press has known since January that Kate had a medical diagnosis of cancer regarding her operation. This certainly fits in with Tom Bower's statements at the end of February.

If that's true, then KP could have made a simple statement in February when the kids were on their half-term break about her condition, even if they didn't release that specific diagnosis. That statement would have quelled and quieted down all the speculation weeks ago. Except they didn't do that.

I don't buy this notion of making a statement right before they go hide away for three and a half weeks to protect their kids from their school chums, is it? Do six-, nine-, and eleven-year-olds at Lambrook really care about what the media says about their classmates' mother? I find this really hard to believe given that there hardly seems to be any social media pictures of them attending school functions in the two years the kids have been attending school there. Sure, there's one pic here or there, but when the world is wondering "Where is Kate?," I didn't see any news reports quoting Lambrook parents supporting the speculation that Will had secretly offed Kate. Instead the Lambrook parents seem to be pretty keen on keeping the media/press out of their children's schooling. I don't buy the rationale of Kate announced it now due to the kids' break.

I think the British media is a bunch of clowns, and they are still set about continuing to be so. There were rumors circulating that the BBC was on alert for news about Kate a week ago. Lo and behold, the Beeb filmed Kate's video on Wednesday for a Friday night news dump. But last weekend, Roya Nikkhah was publishing KP pr about how Kate would only talk about her health in person to people she visited on engagements. This weekend Roya is writing about how Charles & Kate's cancer is bringing them both together! And yet, she will continue to post drivel-like scraps even if it's a complete fabrication by KP. KP already had a plan to do a video of Kate if rumors were already circulating at the BBC. When is Roya going to stop accepting nonsense from her KP-related sources? When will all of them? I wonder...

[aeriona]

Salmonid biology time! Yay!

These hulking fish are a polymorphic species that return to their birthplace to spawn in immense numbers. They’re known for their intense ferocity, crude technological prowess and their delicious flesh eaten by inkfish everywhere.

Much more info under the cut!

BIOLOGY ----- Being distantly related to the Chinook Salmon, this species comes in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. They have both functioning gills and lungs, however their gills and skin must stay wet at all times, so they do not leave the water for very long.

Salmonids experience a Type 3 survivorship curve, basically meaning that only a very small percentage of salmonids actually make it to adulthood (Cohock stage), with the rest being eaten by predators when they are young. Those that do survive however, tend to live for quite a long time, up to around 60-70 years.

Salmonids fry are a really important food source for the ecosystems though! As well as the unfertilised eggs (power eggs) help to feed local animals during the spawning season.

Unfertilized eggs (power eggs) are produced in immense numbers during the Salmon Run, as female Cohocks release them into the water by the millions. Fertile eggs (golden eggs) however, are far rarer and fiercely protected, with many Salmonids giving their lives to ensure the safety of the next generation.

"INK" ----- Salmonid slick (often incorrectly called ink) is a slimy green substance constantly secreted off a Salmonid’s body in order to protect the scales from damage and disease (like a fish’s slime coat!) It contains a lot of nasty bacteria that can make an inkfish very sick if it gets into their body, so Salmon Runners will wear watertight uniforms to protect themselves when working.

CULTURE ----- Cohocks are the primary way what their culture and technology is passed down, as the adults are the ones who train the fry and chum to fight in Runs. they also impart their weapons to the youngest generation, so they may continue to support the Run even in death.

A very important thing to remember about Salmonids is that they are people. they are a sapient, intelligent race with their own culture, languages and practices. just because they resemble wild animals does not mean that's what they are.

So when you eat salmon for dinner or use power eggs to charge something, just know that your are funding the slaughter of millions. Just a thought!

[some-pers0n]

infodump about tf2 ships por favor

i am very curious about the silly violent gay old men

You have no idea what you've just unleashed. You just asked me, the person who has to have an opinion on borderline everything, my thoughts and feelings on the ships for the game I've been hyperfixating on for over half a year.

This is gonna be probably a long one full of unhinged and disjointed rambles about Science Party, so click if you wanna see that. I love rambling about TF2 and these guys, which is funny since 99% of this is me being delusional and making stuff up (despite talking about it like it's canon).

Now, I should put something here first and foremost. I don't actually...ship any of the characters romantically that much. Even my OTP is literally a queer-platonic pairing. It's mostly because I see the mercs as all being good buddy chum friends, despite them all being queer as hell. Yes, I love and reblog ship art and ship discussions like a madman, but I think my aro/ace brain just likes thinking of them more as all being pals. Also doesn't help I headcanon a third of them as being aro/ace (though only one is negative/repulsed by romance and sex, the others are neutral and positive respectively).

I suppose let's start off with the ship that's entirely rotted my brain: Science Party, or Engie/Medic. I don't think I've quite been this obsessed over a relationship as I've been with this one. Like,, any other ship I've encountered, I either like or don't like them. If I like them, I feel inclined to make content about it and just have some fun with this.

Not with this. I think this is the only ship I've ever encountered that I actually 'ship' with how passionate and in-love with it I am about it. It's quite fun and has lead me to start writing my newest longfic as well.

Science Party I just...adore. The dynamic of two evil geniuses together already ignites a neuron in my brain, but there's more to it. Medic is an unhinged and impulsive wildcard that does anything that crosses his mind. He's got an extremely inflated ego and a pretty big god complex. Then, you got Engie, who is like Medic in every regard as well. The catch is that he's a bit more controlled. Don't mistake that for him being more sane or anything though. I feel like he admires Medic for just dropping everything and not giving a shit about looks or appearances, instead being his true, uninhibited self.

Then you get to the interactions and just...me little heart... I've always envisioned Medic as being an uncaring and apathetic guy when it comes to others and their concerns. Low empathy, if you will. However, as his relationship grows with Engie, he begins to care about him just a smidge more, which is saying a lot for Mr. The Healing Is Not As Rewarding As The Hurting. He cares about Engie, enough so to be partners with him rather than friends.

Oh, I should also probably explain that a bit. Medic doesn't exactly like being 'friends' with people, so instead he's partners with Engie. I like the word, partners. If you also notice, I only use the word 'partner' in SAR whenever I'm referring to their relationship.

Anyways, Engie helps Medic open up and feel a bit more. But how does Medic help Engie? Well, I feel by being his unhinged and 'he has 57 mental illnesses and is banned in most public spaces' self, Engie sees somebody he wants to be. Medic doesn't care. He is happy and unchained by responsibilities and a commitment to be a functioning member of society. I could go into why Medic feels this way, but I'll probably end up just saying something along the lines of: "SOCIETY! SOCIETY!!!"

So, Engie has got some issues for lack of a better term. Even as a merc, Engie likes keeping up that mask of being a light-hearted good ol' Texan. He likes that persona, not only because it's the one he's always used but it's just a nice, likeable personality, but he also likes the idea of just going 'fuck it, we ball' like Medic. Medic encourages him to be more creative and detach from that sort of mindset. He tells him that he should do what makes him happy as opposed to doing what his family wants him to do.

They're just...really nice together. I don't know how else to put it. I always saw them as really similar in that regard, both being intelligent and highly regarded members of the team for their supportive roles. Beyond that, they're both clearly nuts in a similar way. They're just...the sillies. I love them.

I've got a lot of opinions on a bunch of other ships, but that's a discussion for another time (or until somebody pokes me about them). Science Party is the one I feel the most about by far, though.

[no-where-new-hero]

Fire and Hemlock Readalong: Day 16 (Part 3, Ch. 4)

...in which Polly considers the human back.

One thing that I’ve really noticed throughout this read along, probably because I actually have to pace myself from chapter to chapter, is the incredibly deliberate way that DWJ breaks up her chapters and brings Polly through mini-arcs in them. She's also very careful to identify Polly’s age at each stage, and she lets us know at the beginning of this chapter that Polly is 13: newly a teenager and thus more susceptible to the dangerously liminal experiences of becoming a young adult.

(This is an aside in what I know will already be a super long post, but when I did research on the Tam Lin ballad and its fellow fairy-lover archetype narratives, I saw this pattern where the humans who drew fairy attention had liminal characteristics: they didn’t fit firmly into one identity or another or one societal expectation or another. I personally think that’s clear in Tom vis a vis gender—see my earlier arguments on his ambiguous masculinity—and that’s clear for Polly vis a vis age. At this point in the novel, she’s leaving the clear and safe realm of childhood and moving into the sexual and social confusions of young adulthood, which is partly how Laurel gets her. But that comes later.)

Right now, we see Granny being heroic in her defense of Polly, which goes a little ways to protect Polly from the cruelty of the world. Granny, however, treats Seb very favorably, for no real reason that I can anticipate except for the fact that narratively, we see Polly’s own ambivalence to him through contrast. Polly obviously feels flattered that Seb likes her, but she’d prefer not to have him around and considers him the blot on her summer. Between Granny’s kindness to Seb and of course the opal pendant, I’m starting to feel like Granny—perhaps particularly Granny’s kindness—is starting to function as Polly’s weakness. It’s something Hunsdon House can get around to reach Polly, perhaps in the confidence that it has gotten around Granny once before, to steal her husband.

Meanwhile, school life continues, with Leslie, Nina, and Fiona lingering around the edges of Polly’s social circle, though it isn’t until Tan Thare contacts Polly again that she shakes back into herself and reconnects with her creativity. Polly’s writing a sprawling epic novel utterly without an eye to outlining and thoroughly self-indulgent is intensely relatable, especially when DWJ describes that afterwards she was proud of her accomplishment and sick of the sight of the manuscript and lost without being able to work on it. It’s a way for her not only to work out her own sense of identity and heroism but also to address her underneath-feelings of sexuality, all wrapped up in “showing off” her great narrative prowess—until Tom slams her with “Sentimental Drivel.” This part is so deeply deeply personal to me, but it’s also great how we see this spurring Polly’s anger into seizing control of her relationship with Seb: she’s single-mindedly angry, no longer liminal, and can tell him off by asserting that he doesn’t know who she is. Her anger is misdirected because she means it for Tom, but its also perfectly pointed: she has defeated, for the moment, the agent of Hunsdon House.

Sam Rensky’s letter never fails to make me cackle, but obviously Tom is trying to do things with it beyond just giving Polly literary advice: in the first place, he’s trying to remind Polly that heroism is ordinary. It doesn’t have to look beautiful and glamorous and romantic to be effective and magical. If so, then they’d have already lost against Laurel, who’s already outstandingly beautiful and glamorous and will never fall below a superlative standard. In the second place, I see him trying to push away Polly's feelings for him. I’ve never really given too much thought to the progression of what Tom thinks about Polly aside from “chum who might save my life” but of course there’s a difference between a romance stuck into a fantasy novel for the sake of it as a narrative hinge (Arwen and Aragorn in LOTR, for instance) and a romantasy where the love story is baked into the plot. Polly edging into romantasy territory is cringe but it’s also demanding something of him that he might not want to give her or that he knows is dangerous to give her.

Tom’s return at the end of the chapter reinforces this: he has again depicted himself as an animal (kangaroo this time) which recalls the ostriches and tortoises of the beginning of the book. Polly, recognizing this, feels indignant that he only wants to see her as a child, which echoes her feelings about Seb only wanting to see her as a meek and mild love interest. In both cases, she wants to be taken seriously as a full-rounded person dealing with a whole lot of complicated emotions, but both Tom and Seb would prefer to see her in the light they want to for the sake of their own emotional security.

(Of course Ivy didn’t get on with her girl lodgers. I hate her.)

[tristandelarkadien]

On Clive & Maurice, pt. 1

Let me try to write out my thoughts on one of my favourite novels, and explain why the casting changes the implications of the movie.

I watched Maurice a while back. The film, not the novel. I had looked forward to seeing Hugh Grant, as I thought him a good choice for the main character. Needless to say, I was surprised and confused to see him playing Clive. Even more surprised and confused to see a small blond actor playing Maurice, and not Clive.

The blond guy was not a bad choice. I am sure he was a good actor. But he came across as more emotional than expected. The fact that he seemed a bit smaller than Clive's actor gave them a different dynamic than the one I had come to expect from the book.

I will lay out my ideas here. If this has already been touched upon in some prior essay, I apologise, but the sadly now ephemeral nature of Tumblr's search function makes it hard to locate.

(I also do not wish to turn this into an 'X is better than Y' debate. Both the film and movie are lovely stories, and they both deserve attention from their respective/shared devotees.)

I would love to cite or review the books involved, but unfortunately, they are outside of my reach due to reasons of money & location. I have endeavoured to cite what I am able to, in hopes of one day being able to afford scholarly literature written on the subject.

Introduction to Romantic friendships

In the early-to-mid 19th century, muscular christianity crossed over with ideals of manliness to create ideas about intense friendship between same-sex people being a precursor to romantic love with individuals of the opposite sex.

This friendship was meant to be mutually enriching. After the embers of passion had given way to mutual companionship, the two were to have a strong, but ultimately ‘normal’ friendship, less passionate than that of youth, as that emotion was now to be directed towards women.

These friendships were depicted in didactic children’s novels, as well as bildungsromans / Coming-of-age tales. We can see this in Tom Brown’s Schooldays, where a school matron puts the unruly, boisterous Tom together with meek, religious Arthur who looks younger than his years.

"Oh, Master Brown," went on the little matron, when the rest had gone, "you're to have Gray's study, Mrs. Arnold says. And she wants you to take in this young gentleman. He's a new boy, and thirteen years old, though he don't look it. He's very delicate, and has never been from home before. And I told Mrs. Arnold I thought you'd be kind to him, and see that they don't bully him at first. He's put into your form, and I've given him the bed next to yours in Number 4; so East can't sleep there this half."

Tom was rather put about by this speech. He had got the double study which he coveted, but here were conditions attached which greatly moderated his joy. He looked across the room, and in the far corner of the sofa was aware of a slight, pale boy, with large, blue eyes and light, fair hair, who seemed ready to shrink through the floor. He saw at a glance that the little stranger was just the boy whose first half-year at a public school would be misery to himself if he were left alone, or constant anxiety to any one who meant to see him through his troubles. (Tom Brown, pt 2, c. 1)

It doesn’t take long for the two to get better acquainted, in a way that enriches both of them, according to the dominating ideology of the age. Tom instructs Arthur in how to ‘fit in’ and not get singled out for bullying, while Arthur makes Tom’s fighting instincts kick in to protect Arthur, rather than roughhouse.

"What a queer chum for Tom Brown," was the comment at the fire; and it must be confessed so thought Tom himself, as he lighted his candle, and surveyed the new green-baize curtains and the carpet and sofa with much satisfaction.

"I say, Arthur, what a brick your mother is to make us so cozy. But look here now, you must answer straight up when the fellows speak to you, and don't be afraid. If you're afraid, you'll get bullied. And don't you say you can sing; and don't you ever talk about home, or your mother and sisters."

Poor little Arthur looked ready to cry.

"But please," said he, "mayn't I talk about—about home to you?"

"Oh yes, I like it. But don't talk to boys you don't know, or they'll call you homesick, or mamma's darling, or some such stuff. What a jolly desk! Is that yours? And what stunning binding! Why, your school-books look like novels!"

And Tom was soon deep in Arthur's goods and chattels, all new and good enough for a fifth-form boy, and hardly thought of his friends outside, till the prayer-bell rang. (Tom Brown, pt 2, c. 1)

Seeing Arthur set a good example by praying leads Tom to remember his own religion, which he has forsaken by refusing to pray before bed.

Tom was sitting at the bottom of his bed unlacing his boots, so that his back was toward Arthur, and he didn't see what had happened, and looked up in wonder at the sudden silence. Then two or three boys laughed and sneered, and a big, brutal fellow, who was standing in the middle of the room, picked up a slipper, and shied it at the kneeling boy, calling him a snivelling young shaver. Then Tom saw the whole, and the next moment the boot he had just pulled off flew straight at the head of the bully, who had just time to throw up his arm and catch it on his elbow.

"Confound you, Brown, what's that for?" roared he, stamping with pain.

"Never mind what I mean," said Tom, stepping onto the floor, every drop of blood in his body tingling; "if any fellow wants the other boot, he knows how to get it."

What would have been the result is doubtful, for at this moment the sixth-form boy came in, and not another word could be said. Tom and the rest rushed into bed and finished their unrobing there, and the old verger, as punctual as the clock, had put out the candle in another minute, and toddled on to the next room, shutting their door with his usual "Good-night, gen'l'm'n."

There were many boys in the room by whom that little scene was taken to heart before they slept. But sleep seemed to have deserted the pillow of poor Tom. For some time his excitement, and the flood of memories which chased one another through his brain, kept him from thinking or resolving. His head throbbed, his heart leapt, and he could hardly keep himself from springing out of bed and rushing about the room. Then the thought of his own mother came across him, and the promise he had made at her knee, years ago, never to forget to kneel by his bedside, and give himself up to his Father, before he laid his head on the pillow, from which it might never rise; and he lay down gently and cried as if his heart would break. He was only fourteen years old. (Tom Brown, pt 2, c. 1)

It is also evident in David Copperfield, where David moons after a boy named ‘Steerforth’ who eventually forsakes him. (Notably, asking if the ‘vulnerable’ boy has a sister is done in Tom Brown as well.)

‘Good night, young Copperfield,’ said Steerforth. ‘I’ll take care of you.’ ‘You’re very kind,’ I gratefully returned. ‘I am very much obliged to you.’

‘You haven’t got a sister, have you?’ said Steerforth, yawning.

‘No,’ I answered.

‘That’s a pity,’ said Steerforth. ‘If you had had one, I should think she would have been a pretty, timid, little, bright-eyed sort of girl. I should have liked to know her. Good night, young Copperfield.’

‘Good night, sir,’ I replied.

I thought of him very much after I went to bed, and raised myself, I recollect, to look at him where he lay in the moonlight, with his handsome face turned up, and his head reclining easily on his arm. He was a person of great power in my eyes; that was, of course, the reason of my mind running on him. No veiled future dimly glanced upon him in the moonbeams. There was no shadowy picture of his footsteps, in the garden that I dreamed of walking in all night. (David Copperfield, Chapter 7)

They reunite as adults, the 90’s miniseries has Steerforth kiss David’s head at that point. David still looks up to Steerforth at this point, which eventually leads to Steerforth forsaking him. The point here is that these friendships were not supposed to go on for too long.

And yes, depending on children to raise children in a milieu without adult supervision can definitely go wrong. Even the writers of the age knew it, both Vachell (The Hill) and Hughes (Tom Brown) mention abuse in their novels. Talbot Baines Reed (The Fifth Form at St: Dominic) mentions a clear cut example of grooming. I mention this, because it will be relevant later on.

From the above passages, we can extract the following framework: An ‘inexperienced’, vulnerable boy, is shielded and educated by an ‘experienced’ boy. I can write multiple essays on the topic (And I just might), but at the end of the day, this is what we need in order to move on to part 2.

[duckapus]

On a lighter note, Splatoon Stuff! More or less.

As I've mentioned before, after Inkopolis glitched out of existence in the Emulator Arc many of the survivors settled in the Mushroom Kingdom, and of course brought much of their culture with them. Most notably, Inksports. By the point we're currently at in the AU timeline, enough of a Profreshional Inksports Scene has developed that a part of New Donk City called Blooper Heights has become a Splatoon Hub Area, and several parts of the city and out into the kingdom as a whole have been seeing use as Stages, both of which got the Royal Stamp of Approval and Official Splatoon League recognition after being in use for a few months.

Also, thanks to E. Gadd perfecting his Inkboi technology Inksports are now fully accessible to non-Splatoon characters as well. The new versions, rather than being boards (and board equivalents) that need to be pulled out and ridden through ink, are instead much smaller add-ons for the Ink Tank that give the user their own proper Swim Form.

Anyway, as you'd expect Blooper Heights has the usual Hub features.

The Battle Lobby is in a central tower (as expected) that has a large statue of a Blooper on top, which a Great Zapfish has decided to perch around. Though it hasn't been seen lately...

The weapons shop is the Funky Shack, run by Funky Kong (he is a weapons dealer after all), who's entered a business partnership with Sheldon of Ammo Knights.

The Crazy Cap store, run by Soldier and a Bonneter named Derby, is the headgear shop.

Stomp Zone is the shoe shop, and is run by a Goomba with really cool sneakers named Kicks.

The clothing shop is called Fresh Wraps, and is run by a Chum Salmonid who goes by Tortilla. I say goes by because Salmonids actually use titles instead of names but she needed something that would fit in a dialogue indicator.

The local branch of The Shoal is owned and operated by the Grid.

The local Shroom Mart carries Locker customization items, and Karen just so happens to work there as one of her many jobs.

Ever since the Haltmann War there's been a Salmonid problem off the Mushroom Kingdom coast, even without A.S.Swipe leading them, so the BattleToads Justice Crew has been on the case on Peach's orders, and has been recruiting part-time members to help with the large workload. It's basically GrizzCo with a different aesthetic.

Waluigi's Taco Stand is now much more official looking (aka it's an actual purposely built stand instead of a random table with a paper sign) and has a specialty menu that functions similarly to the Crust Bucket and Crab-n-Go.

There's a Pianta Gangster who's figured out the secret to Ability Chunks and is doing back-alley deals

And of course, there's an oddly-dressed Inkling people-watching near a Warp Pipe...

[adleryoung]

How Adler Stole Kringlemas, part 3

Elves do not lie, but Adler was slick. He told her the truth, but he dressed it up quick! “Why, my sweet little dolt,” the fake Kringle laughed, “I’m an elf out for vengeance for getting the shaft. “I’ll ruin your good times and all you hold dear “By stealing these symbols of faith and good cheer.”

And then the girl giggled. It went over her head. She assumed he was joking, and went back to bed. He arrogantly patted her head like a pup, Then went to the chimney and stuffed the tree up! And the last thing he took was their cellophane fire. Then Adler split too, and the scene was quite dire. On their walls he left nothing but hooks and some wire. And the only food left in the home there was scant. A single speck-crumb much too small for an ant.

Then he did the same thing in the other Yew houses, Leaving crumbs much too small for the ants and the mouses!

. . . (everybody sing along) You’re a dumb one, Adler Young. You really are a doof. You’re as smart as a dead weasel, your ideas are all a spoof, Adler Young. You’re an ignorant nitwit and a mindless goof!

You’re a moron, Adler Young. Your head’s an empty hole. Your brain is full of dust mites, you have sawdust in your skull, Adler Young. I wouldn’t trust you to so much as pour water in a bowl!

You’re a numskull, Adler Young. You have less thoughts than a bug. You have all the thinking power of a brain-dead, drunken slug, Adler Young. Given a choice between the two of you I'd take the brain-dead, drunken slug!

You’re a dingbat, Adler Young. Your brain is dried chewing gum. Your head is full of broken rocks, your thoughts are made of chum, Adler Young. The three words that best describe you are as follows, and I quote, “Dim, damn, dumb!”

You’re a smooth-brain, Adler young. You’re the king of empty thoughts. Your head is full of static inside empty, rusty pots, Adler Young. Your skull is an empty void lacking in even the most basic of functions Spaced out between frayed, broken threads with nothing to guide them but lightless, dead clots!

You horrify me, Adler Young. How have you gotten this far? The few successes you’ve managed in your life are just bizarre, Adler Young. Because in the land of fools and morons, you’re the undisputed czar! . . . (everybody who sang is now guilty of sedition and treason against the crown)

Ten-thousand feet up! Right up to the summit He rode with his load to the tip-top to dump it! “Pooh-Pooh to those Yews!” he was elfishly humming. “They’re finding out now Kringlemas is not coming! “They’re just waking up! I know what they’ll do! “Their mouths will hang open a minute or two, “Then the Yew-men of Yarksberg will all cry BOO-HOO!

“That’s something,” laughed Adler, “That I simply MUST hear!” So he paused, and he lifted his hand to his ear. And he did hear a sound rising over the snow. It started in low. Then it started to grow…

[digital0disaster]

What about a short story (in TFP) where we get to see KO and CYLAS's torture sessions. Cause that's some good angst there. Bonus with flashbacks of KO and BD.

Mmm, yes angst~ lmao. I'm a sucker for angst if it involves someone getting tortured and I get to put in some body/surgery horror into it. Thank you anonymous for the request! Hope you enjoy Knockout torturing Cylas as I had fun coming up with the scenery. NSFW Warning!!

The loud and irritating, painful screams can be heard throughout the dark hallway on board of the Nemesis Ship leading to the medical bay where said screams are coming from. The very few vehicons that were passing by the medical bay doors, didn't bother to check in on what's going on the inside- Seeming to stay away and simply ignore the constant screaming and the buzzing electrical sounds of a saw being revved up and cutting into something that's not metal like their own.

A red medic stood at the side of the medical operating table with a circular saw in his right servo as he began to cut into a male human that lay forcefully strapped onto the table, unable to escape the red Aston Martin Decepticon medic rage. The blade on the circular saw is stained and freshly dripping a deep red, thick liquid with a few chunks of flesh clinging onto the sharp tidbits on the blade, catching the red optics of the medic as he brought the circular saw close to his face plate to examine it up close. The Decepticon tilted his helm to the side as he slowly turned the circular saw blade in his hand, watching in deep interest at how the deep red liquid easily catch the light on it when put up in a certain angle under the ceiling light just above the medical operating table. "How interesting... Such a beautiful shade of red that you organics produce when you're being cut open~" Knockout said with the corner of his dermas twitching up into a small sadistic smile, the tone in his voice held a twisted version of admiration and sarcasm as he turned his red gaze onto the human with a glare.

The human was no other than Cylas, having been stripped of his clothes and been forcefully strapped onto the medical table with a deep incision cutting right into his abdomen. Deep and thick rivers of blood seeped out of said deep cut and began to heavily pool off to the sides of Cylas on the table. Pieces of his skin had turned into chunks of chum thanks to the circular saw blade cutting into his abdomen, leaving a huge gap to easily see at his internal organs. The pained groans and shuddering gasps is all that Cylas is able to produce out of his mouth- other than screaming in pure agony- as he struggled greatly on pulling at the straps that are uncomfortably and impossibly tight on his wrists and ankles.

Knockout carefully placed the blood covered circular saw blade onto a nearby tray with the other surgical instruments besides him; delicately ghosting his pointed digits over the different varieties of surgical blades and other torture methods that he can choose from. "What to choose next- Oh there's sooo many options, it's hard to pick!" Knockout dramatically exclaimed before he picked up a razor blade and brought it close to his face plate with a small devious grin forming on his dermas. "I bet it wasn't hard for you on dissecting my partner... Tearing him apart to your pleasure- To see the insides of our Cybernetic organs... To see how he functions... To see his spark die out while you rip it out of his spark chamber-" Knockout stated with a displeased voice that turned into an unsettling growl that held grief, striking Cylas just above his chest. Hearing the satisfying crunch of bones breaking and being crushed upon the unforgiving force and the wet squelching sound of flesh being forcefully stab into, only to be followed by a powerful scream and painful sobbing cry coming from Cylas as Knockout stabbed him with the razor blade into his chest. Cylas voice grew raw and strained as he continue to painfully scream out in agony while Knockout forcefully pulled out the razor blade from his chest, watching as more blood gushed out and leave a massive trail of the thick liquid flow out and pool onto the table.

Without much thinking, Knockout strikes once again with the blade now imbedded into Cylas head, cracking the fragile human skull with ease as the annoying screaming from this wretched organic was silenced instantly. But that didn't stop Knockout from continuing to mercilessly stab the now dead human to nothing but chopped up flesh. His red optics were blinded by his fury of rage and intense grief that washer fluids began to blur his vision, seeing nothing but intense red until he slowly came to a stop. His tight grip on the blade loosened greatly as he grew limp, washer fluids now streaming down his pale face plate as he sobbed quietly to himself.

He let go of the blade as he pushed himself away from the table before he dropped to his knees with a choked sob stuck in his vocals as he closed his optics with his entire frame shaking with no intent of stopping. Memories flashed in his processor as he recalled his partner... His lover... His assistant... Breakdown... Just the mention of his name brought more washer fluids to his optics as he finally let out a broken cry of grief from his vocals. The big mech with his optics a yellow color like a daffodil flower, his smile that was just idiotic but held such happiness and pure adoration whenever he looks at Knockout. Those rough but careful servos gently caressing his face plate or even holding his waist in such a warm and comforting hold as he hugs Knockout close to their bulky, navy blue frame. The sweet pestering kisses that left Knockout craving for more after receiving them in such intimate settings or just in a casual day among the halls of the Nemesis ship... They were all gone but never forgotten, at least to Knockout, as he continue to sob until he can't anymore. His spark pulsing in a painful aching as it yearns for his deceased partner, to feel their warmth against him... To feel the sense of serenity once again like he always feels when he's with them.

[ammoknightsofficial]

man istg if we have to get salmonlings to get people to acknowledge salmonids as people I'm gonna throw myself into the sea/nsrs. like no offense to ppl who like the concept but 1. it makes zero sense from a lore standpoint and 2. it feels like it misses the point. salmonids are they're own fully developed culture separate from cepholings and if we have to make them more cepholing-like to get people to understand that then what was the point?

Oh, god, finally, someone who fucking gets it. Fan concepts for Salmonlings are fine, because those are largely just people having fun, but I do not think Salmonlings should ever be canonized, and I hope they never do get canonized. There's no way to pull it off in an actual game without missing a point somehow.

If we get some kind of Playable Salmonid DLC- which is something I genuinely do not think will ever happen- then the only way to do it right is to play it straight and make regular old Salmonids playable. Playable Chum, basically. The reason I don't think this will ever happen is because it's extremely, extremely unrealistic from a development standpoint. Think of the emphasis of the gear in gameplay, and the function of the weaponry. If Playable Salmonids was ever made a thing, it would absolutely have to be relegated to it's own special mode, and probably not be relevant to any other part of the game.

That's besides the point, though. It's baffling to me how some people don't seem to be able to grasp the idea of a fictional race being as sapient and deserving of mercy as the Player Character's Race. We saw it with the Octarians- people outright denied them of any humanity, and anyone who spoke of the idea of respecting them as a race was deemed an "Octo Sympathizer"- and we're seeing it again with Salmonids... Except it's a little worse now, because people can't look at Salmonids and immediately identify them as Humanoid, and therefore "like them", and consequently decide that they're animals. (Half related, can someone please take Lil Buddy away from New Agent 3?!)