#it's a complicated and messy issue

[boyfriendgideon]

as yr favorite local jason todd fan sometimes i get so fed up with the apparent inability of most dc comic writers to write a class conscious narrative about him.

and yes, i know that comics are a very ephemeral and constantly evolving and self-conflicting medium.

and yes, i know they’re a profit-driven art medium created in a capitalistic society, so there are very few times where comics are going to be created solely out of the desire to authentically and carefully and deliberately represent a character and take them from one emotional narrative place to another, because dc cares about profit and sometimes playing it safe is what sells.

and yes, i know comics and other forms of art reflect and recreate the society within which they were conceived as ideas, and so the dominant societal ideas about gender and race and class and so on are going to be recreated within comics (and/or will be responded to, if the writer is particularly societally conscious).

but jesus christ. you (the writer/writers) have a working class character who has been homeless, who has lost multiple parents, who has been in close proximity to someone struggling with addiction, who has had to steal to survive, who may have (depending on your reading of several different moments across different comics created by different people) been a victim of csa, who has clearly (subtextually) struggled with his mental health, who was a victim of a violent murder, and who has an entirely distinct and unique perspective on justice that has evolved based on his lived experiences.

and instead of delving into any of that, or examining the myriad of ways that classism in the writers’ room and the editors’ room and the readers’ heads affected jason’s character to make sure you’re writing him responsibly, or giving him a plotline where his views on what justice looks like are challenged by another working class character, or allowing him to demonstrate actual autonomy and agency in deciding what relationships he wants to have with people who he loves but sees as having failed him in different ways, or thinking carefully about what his having chosen an alias that once belonged to his murderer says about his decision-making and motivations, you keep him stuck in a loop of going by the red hood, addressing crime by occupying a position of relative power that perpetuates crime & harm rather than ever getting at the root causes, and seesawing between a) agreeing with his adoptive family entirely about fighting nonlethally in ways that are often inconsistent with his apparent motivations or b) disagreeing and experiencing unnecessarily brutal and violent reactions from his adoptive father as if that kind of violence isn’t the kind of thing he experienced as a child and something bruce himself is trying to prevent jason from perpetuating. because a comic with red hood, quips, high stakes, and familial drama sells.

it doesn’t matter if it keeps jason trapped, torn between an unanswered moral and philosophical question, a collection of identities that no longer fit him, and a family that accepts him circumstantially. it doesn’t matter if jason’s characterization is so utterly inconsistent that the only way to mesh it together is to piece different aspects of different titles and plotlines together like a jigsaw. it doesn’t matter if you do a disservice to his character, because in the end you don’t want to transform him or even understand him deeply enough to identify what makes him compelling and focus on that.

and i love jason!!!!! i love him. and i think about the stories we could have, if quality and art and doing justice to the character were prioritized as much as selling a title and having a dark and brooding batfam member besides bruce just to be the black sheep character are prioritized. and i just get a little sad.

[millidew]

maizuru and milsiril are my favorite fucked up dungeon meshi mother figures

[lunchtimebedamned1997]

Hazbin S2 thoughts?

Okay, hear me out:

I love Poly!Vees, but if it ends up being just Vox/Val being fuckbuddies with Vel not in the romantic or sexual mix - particularly if Velvette is more of a daughter to Vox and Val... then that could set up a super interesting dynamic in S2 with the other half of the cast???

So in 1x05 we get Al (presumably just postulating) about how he sees Charlie like a daughter (heh, yeah right. Al? After like, four or five months? No way. With Nifty? Sure, I can almost buy it. Charlie? No.)

So, like, imagine this:

Charlie steps between the two overlords, hair mussed from the warring static, scleras dipping red as they fix on Vox.

"Stop." Her arms are out, Vox almost laughs when he realizes she's shielding Alastor. "I won't let you hurt him."

Alastor's expression is somewhere between smug and affronted. Vox can understand, having someone as powerful as the princess devoted to your safety is quite the bragging point, but to have anyone think that Alastor would need help, against him, no less. No, no. That stroked Vox's ego. He did laugh now.

"Alright, princess, I'll bite. How'd he win you over?"

"What?"

"Alastor. How'd he convince you, you matter to him? I can tell you how he convinced me, if you'd like."

"Charlie - I would strongly advise not engaging with this one. Once you get him started, its quite hard to shut him up again. Not to mention, most of what comes out of his speakers is meaningless drivel."

Vox scoffed.

"What are you, her fucking dad?" He watches the princess puff up her chest, eyes sparking with something that could really only be noted as passion.

"Yes." She looked back over her shoulder at Al, and Vox caught the softness in her growing smile as her head turned away from him. "He's as good as." When Vox processed the genuine tone in her voice, he started uproariously, uncontrollably laughing, she returned her gaze sharply to him. "You don't know him like I do. Like we all do! He's helped us, maybe not out of the goodness of his heart at first, but time means something, and we've built a bond! He's shown up for me in ways people who should have, haven't."

"Oh my god you're serious!" A few more laughs escaped him before the righteousness and earnestness of her expression processed in his system. Oh my god. She's serious. He felt his expression sober, and he dropped his aggressive stance, keeping a few of the cameras trained on Alastor so he could keep his screen directed at the girl, and he watched her tense at the serious drop to his expression. "Look, I don't know what you think he's done for you, but I learned the hard way how little he cares. I'll admit, your little theory has more of a shot than the things I used to think were between us, but I wouldn't count your chickens, Charlie." Her mouth pulled into a flatter line as her name left his speakers. "I know what it means to care for someone like a daughter. And I don't think he has that in him."

"You -" When Charlie's words faultered, Vox cut in.

"Alastor can manage - what did you call it Al?" He spared a glance over Charlie's shoulder. "'Passing affections?'" He choked down the sneer he wanted to give Alastor and returned his gaze to Charlie. "I think he's too selfish to love anything but himself. I think he can enjoy people for what they give him, but don't be sweet-talked into thinking he has enough room in his heart to be anything like a fath-" A black tentacle shot up from the pavement, hitting the base of Vox's screen and throwing him up into the air and back a few feet before he crashed back down onto the ground.

Alastor stepped up beside the princess, putting a hand on her shoulder and bending down slightly, his tone light, like he was sharing a bit of innocent gossip.

"What did I tell you, my dear? This one doesn't quite know how to summarize a thought." He looked over a Vox, who was pulling himself back up into a standing position, his screen still glitching mildly from the force of the impact, he could feel wetness dripping down from the corner of his mouth. "Shall I summarize for you then, old friend?" He moved out and around Charlie, removing some of the newfound space between himself and Vox. "Something, something, I'm a terrible monster who cannot be trusted, i hurt your feelings, nobody should risk being near me, and you... 'hate' me?" He leaned forward slightly, smiling as he tilted his head to the side - that stupid fucking smile widening even further as he send another tentacle barreling into Vox's stomach like a punch, Charlie squeaked somewhere in the background like she wasn't expecting them to come to blows again already. Vox was just pleased he was only winded rather than thrown this time though. "Did I about cover it?"

Vox breathed raggedly, trying to get his lungs to work right. "You're a fucking prick."

"Poetry!"

"Get a new fucking line."

Alastor narrowed his eyes slightly. "I am curious about this 'daughter figure' of yours? That spunky little overlord nobody worth their salt can stand? The one with the fabric name? Velvette, was it?"

Sparks flicked from Vox's claws. "Don't."

"You expose a weakness and expect me not to strike? And here you are trying to convince Charlie how well you know me!"

"Velvette can handle herself."

"Against me? I hardly think so. So few can."

"Adam did alright." Vox watched the small twitch of displeasure Alastor gave at the bruise to his ego with a little bit of pleasure.

"You can't seriously think their levels are comparable. What exactly might she do? Wrap me in silks? Oh the horror. I have felled overlords so old only Zestial rivals them. And her? Has she even reached fourty? Thirty?" Alastor shook his head disappointedly. "No, I'm sure she'd be quite the waste of energy. Then again, I do so love to see you suffer."

Vox surged forward and blasted enough volts to level a city block straight into Alastor's neck, watching him fly back to land behind the Princess' startled form.

"That, is mutual." Vox rolled his shoulders, getting ready for more... for maybe dying. You always had to be with Alastor. Part of him didn't want to believe they'd ever devolve quite that far, but the part of him that scrabbled around in his self preservation like a panicked animal had to face that eventually one of them was going to...

It was statistics, honestly. Even in eternity, nobody seemed to last forever.

...

Like???? Come ON. That doesn't even touch the Valentino side of things. Make the terrible people complicated! Give them weaknesses and things to like about them that makes hating them feel worse for us!

Idk something about the idea of Vox, the fucked up guy from the age of the 'nuclear' family having the most warped but genuine dynamic with Velvette and Val? It tickles me!

Like I can see Charlie trying to convince Al there's something worth redeeming in Vox if she actually stumbles across seeing him being a doting father to Vel, especially if it was before any interactions like the little senario I wrote above. You just know our little baby bleeding-heart with her big doe eyes and daddy issues would just feel for him. Wouldn't want him to lose even though she wants her side to win.

'how can i destroy what might be the only good family relationship I've seen in almost 200 years. If someone took that away from me -'

You just know that Vox would be the most indulgent little guy ever when he loves someone.

Now, do I think Charlie actually bought Al saying all those things to her in 1x05? Not entirely. Not given how she spoke to him in 1x07 before they made their deal. I think Charlie is a lot less naive then people assume her to be, but I also think she'd want to believe it. Maybe with a bit less desperation then before she made up with Luci somewhat. Regardless, it's clear she has a big soft spot for Al, and considers him to be like family much the same as the others from the S1 hotel crew.

Idk, I just think there's a lot of potential there! Do I think it will go that route? Heh - no. Probably not. But It's fun to think about :3

[strixhaven]

“that’s a normal human behavior/thought that basically everyone has” not in a “you’re mentally normal and dont have any problems and are lying about whatever’s going on with you” way but instead in a “the degree to which you’re pathologizing human behavior and ascribing it to xyz disorder/syndrome is making you feel disconnected from other people and ignores the messy reality of mental well-being and how human beings function. viewing the world with such a clinical lens is ultimately detrimental to your health and also gives far too much credence and authority to psychology and mental health professionals and fails to understand how our entire idea of mental health is steeped in very human biases and is ultimately something that is subject to change and constant interpretation and reinterpretation”

[timlucys]

the day the fandom realizes that chenford doesn't currently function within the confines of a healthy, communicative, adult relationship is the day i will know peace.

[grahamcarmen]

i kinda wished gray was angry at carmen instead of relieved just for yknow angst and stuff like at the jail when he was like "how did u know i was here" and shes like "all in good time gray" i wish he was like "its graham. whos gray?" cuz lol yea idk if this makes sense i suck at typing

Alright i might go off on a tangent so like feel free to clarify if its too far off base from intent

But i am personally actually ok with the angst on Gray’s side being saved for later, there are so many angsty moments already stuffed in there

->the fight being draining and difficult and ultimately a failure to keep them off him

->the parallel to gray disappearing from sight because of the cleaners

-> gray still getting pain pang and helping carmen where he can

->carmen desperately trying as many keys as she can when the robot finally comes

->carmen screaming for gray after he screamed for her

Like…phew thats alot happening and i think that it would get lost in the fray

Side note:

-> him taking the info that ACME finds carmen shady and she decided to work with him and actually wondering who gray is especially because she came to find him…hmm fun

-> gray watching all those civilian gets mistaken as spy movies and going ahhhh.ha.

BUT on the sentiment of gray being angry and not just relieved.

He does start to say it’s graham before he’s interrupted. And he has always been exasperatedly trying to put it aside to try and just be with her in the moment

Like…askjdnfdaksjf look at this face

Relief is not the only emotion here

And it does come to its breakpoint

because well  [the point is she’s lying to him.- bugs life voice]

And what a breakpoint it is because Carmen is not allowed to pretend that the person in front of her doesn’t have a thing to say about who she was protecting* 

So its not angst denied but angst delayed if that makes sense and the himalaya caper puts it into more focus than the jail could

Like  “alas why did he not simply look into her yearny eyes and make a decent life choice for once” aside [which is so fun to say]...

but the thing is …it's something that i do think gray gets to be mad about at that moment [not that he isn’t making a terrible life choice on the side but-]

…she lied to him by omission and flat out. And only came to rescue a fake version of him as far as he’s concerned. A fake version it seems she was pretending even further with by calling him gray and not graham.

….

GAH THIS IS WHY I DON’T GET WHY YOU GUYS THINK BLANKET LETTING CARMEN HAVE ZERO REVISIONS ON HOW SHE SEES HIM IS OK

And no just enemy who !had his chance at the cotillion you! doesn’t work as the final verdict either >:0

 [you're making the carmen sad and that has literally never worked plus carmen is just wrong for this on some level]

They’re so messy dude…like there’s so much to unravel and him being firm but straightforward about it is at least picks at this issue good enough for the moment…oof…was a lot like …oogh

But necessary. Gray is a person who actually has a reaction to this ya know [or character i mean- same thing].

His anger tends to be overshadowed by a lot else is all…[T.T multiple mistakes in a row babeyyyyyyyyyy] + his own prioritizing when it comes to his own emotions

And to make matters worse….OMFG THEY STILL LIKE EACH OTHER THEY’RE STILL SO MUCH MORE SAD INSTEAD OF MAD ABOUT IT ALL AND WANT TO BE TOGETHER AND ALL THE LIES BEING UNVEILED JUST MAKES THE TRUTH MUCH MORE NECESSARY AND IMPORTANT OMGGGGGGG GRRAH WHY ARE YOU 2 BEING SQUISHY CRIMES HAVE BEEN COMMITED!

They just need to tone down the nonsense…be even more honest with each other …they be wild out here…ya’ll can do it with time i believe in ye, even if that will mean more tough conversations with each other, i think they like each other enough

But yes. Him mad at it DOES make good angst. ..and tbh not even for just that moment…because …

[guiltreservoir]

 as long as there is an ocean ✧ read on ao3

the abyssal plains of tommy's subconscious are littered with the carcasses of his father's favorite adages.

no matter how valiant his attempts have been to pry them free — and despite the meticulous, delicate nature of his methods — it seems that many of the sea-skeletons have been left sitting beyond salvation, now inextricable from waterlogged sediment. they're too far-sunk to extract safely; if lucky enough not to crumple like a sheet of discarded tissue paper on the journey down, he'd explode his lungs to red mist on the way back up to the surface. it's almost easier if he imagines them this way, as broken fragments of corpses too fragile to exhume:

the fleshy tissue of a half-eaten squid — actions speak louder than words. the crushed shell of an unfortunate lobster — beggars can't be choosers. the rotting remains of a clever eel — boys who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. the ribcage and spine of a starved shark — do as i say, not as i do.

one saying in particular has been mummifying for longer than the others, a giant humpback frozen in a state of watery decay, embalmed in the sandy gunk of his darkest trenches — keep your shoulders straight and your head on straighter. oft punctuated with a caustic, kid.

it's pretty ironic, considering the fact that tommy kinard has nary a straight bone in his body. maybe that's why the line burrowed itself so thoroughly into the deepest, slimiest crooks of the substrate of his mind, slow-growing algae coating the slippery crevices of his hippocampus to rankle him perpetually. tommy hasn't spoken directly with his old man in years; these days he couldn't if he wanted to, or at least not without a ouija board and an uncharacteristic flair for masochism, neither of which he cares to equip himself with.

nevertheless, the phantom whale fall of his father's most-reliable phrase continues to nourish the last hungry, lonely fish left scouring the ocean floor of tommy's mind. nearly every move he makes is centered around practicality, every decision sewn together by threads of vigilance and observation.

with nearly four decades of practice and application under his belt, he's gotten good at keeping his shoulders straight, and gay as he may be, he thinks his head's on just fine, although such would be a contradictory and controversial statement upon the ears of one thomas kinard, senior. thankfully he'll never have to hear it.

tommy can live with his own amendment to the man's words because tommy knows himself and therefore knows the truth. his posture is excellent and he's a considerably level-headed guy. he can't be straight; he doesn't want to be. what he can be is pragmatic. he can be logical, he can be useful, he can be rational. he can be quite capable and, as it turns out, even likable. he can be funny, and charming, and vulnerable with the right people. he can be queer, he can be gay, he can be loved, he can love. he can become without becoming unmoored.

for thirty-some good years, tommy kinard does a bang-up job at keeps his shoulders straight and his head on just fine. he's pushing forty when he meets evan buckley and eddie diaz.

───────────────

evan buckley and eddie diaz exist as a singular entity within the confines of tommy's skull. two sides of the same coin, grumbles the detached jaw of an imaginary anglerfish.

it takes some effort to extract one from the other, but tommy finds ways. over mutual interests in muay thai, basketball, and helicopters, he and eddie become fast friends. over mutual interests in each other's inquisitive minds, curious hands, and wanting mouths, he and evan become even faster lovers.

he makes out with one of them, roughhouses with the other; it all feels the same, gets identical synapses firing. he knocks eddie to the mat, steals spit-flecked exhales off of the inches of air near his wild-grinning lips and brings them home for buck to drink down, licking them into his ravenous mouth, delivering him secrets to unwittingly swallow. he smelts himself down to the base and seeps in between them, liquid copper in the nickel sandwich of their clad coin.

it isn't until tommy's got both of them sprawled out on his couch one night, months into his increasingly complex relationships with each of them, that he truly starts to grasp how evan and eddie might exist as a singular entity outside of his skull, too.

top gun's ending credits march, sans serif ants, to the glowing edge of tommy's television screen. fuzzy, synthetic white-blue haze pours into the room and across the skin of buck and eddie's limbs and faces in a manner that makes tommy think of marble hewn painstakingly into handsome statue, of rock tumbled smooth by a patient, perpetual stream, ever-flowing towards the sea.

tommy thinks, i could be a sculptor. i could be a river.

copper in the nickel.

the two men are draped across his sectional like lions in the sun, impenitent and unabashed in the way they take up space, in the way they take up each other. buck's legs are long, stretched out along multiple cushions, his head heavy on tommy's lap. eddie, on the opposite end of the couch from tommy, started out the evening upright, but the drone of the movie — combined with tommy's easy laughter and the literal and figurative warmth pouring off of buck — had helped to coax a more relaxed posture out of him. now he slouches deep into the pillows, legs spread wide to knock up against buck's bare feet where his sweatshorts ride up his quads. tommy almost expects the point of contact between the pair of them to spark, start a blaze that would surely incinerate the three of them in spite of their résumés.

his heart's been a tinderbox for long enough that he can usually recognize flint even when it's disguised as water; the thirst that parches him convinces him it's worth attempting a sip without regard of probable risk.

he lets out a long exhale and drops a hand to card through evan's hair, half-listens to eddie babble on about how the shots of the F14 fighter jets are still so cool all these years later. he's beaming like a kid the whole time, sunshine-ray of a smile gleaming straight at buck.

tommy watches as buck can't help but smile right back, and god, if the energy radiating off of them could be harnessed for physical usage, tommy would never have a utility bill again in his life. he watches, enraptured, as buck flexes and curls his toes against the soft dark hairs of eddie's thigh, pressing dents into his skin. watches as eddie presses back.

eddie falters in his warplane musings when buck's foot skids over and catches in the edge of his shorts.

buck says, "sorry," not convincingly.

eddie clears his throat and drags his gaze from the arch of buck's foot resting against his leg up buck's calf, to his knee, to where the exposed pale of his thigh disappears behind them hem of his shorts. he takes his time wandering up the rest of buck's body, lingering especially at the relaxed curve of his dick under loose cotton fabric, the relaxed curve of his gently parted lips. finally he meets buck's answering stare and blinks, languid, like he's searing something into his memory, buck-shaped sunspots in his retinas. he says, "no big deal," not convincingly.

before tommy's eyes, water transmutes into flint and back into water and over again, metamorphosing in a churning lazy whirl. it dizzies him, blurring his vision until there is no difference between the two; there's just a murky charcoal pool, molten obsidian shimmering like glass, rippling like the surface of an ocean less haunted than the one sloshing in his cerebrum.

an ocean glinting with the reflection of two incandescent stars careening towards each other at a devastating rate, a spectacle to behold.

relaxing his shoulders, tommy orders them to, "kiss," more certain than ever. when they hesitate, he adds, "each other," bracing himself for the likelihood of a stellar collision.

when eddie clambers on top of buck and leans down to crush their lips together, pushing his head down against tommy's thighs, pushing tommy out of his own, it feels more like the calm soar and twinkling glitter of a shooting star against the navy velvet sky, the soft crash of a wave against the edge of a silky coast.

there's no threat of unkind flame, no exploding celestial dust.

it feels like water.

tommy kneels at the sacred place where the luminous sea laps at the heavenly shoreline and drinks, and drinks, and drinks.

───────────────

drinks become shots become wandering hands in the generous backseat of a stranger's car, an obvious cocktail to use as a scapegoat for the hammering beneath tommy's breastbone. the depths of his mind bubble up with, trust your gut, not your heart.

he has mixed feelings about that one, but at present he's not sure he can trust any singular part of his corporeal form, so at least it half-applies.

hearts and guts aside, tommy is starkly aware that things between buck and eddie may be escalating a bit beyond his feasible reach. he'd come into the evening equipped with the knowledge that he's successfully constructed his own internal witch's cottage of cake shingles and sugared windowpanes in this questionable "date" night between the three of them, however mutually agreed upon the night may be. he's self-aware enough to understand that he's destined to walk himself straight back into it, naïve as hansel and gretel without the excuse of not knowing better.

he just hadn't realized how famished he's become, and how tempting his own makings would look.

with buck seated comfortably between himself and eddie, tommy has no real access to eddie outside of the smush of knuckles-on-upper-arm from the hand he's got slung around buck's shoulder. as per usual the concept of space does not seem to exist between the other men, and tommy's fingertips get wedged so tightly between their limbs that it feels like with just a little more effort, maybe they could do some damage. the sick, private, bourbon-drenched gutters of his mind surmise that maybe he'd let them.

he watches as they exchange a heated look and a hotter liplock, uncertain as to whether he'll ever get used to witnessing them like this. in the weeks following the fated night of their little home movie screening, tommy's been lucky enough to encourage and initiate several more exchanges of both kisses and conversation among the three of them.

"i... still want to be with you," evan had mumbled against his chest, as they laid in bed together the morning after their tag-team makeouts with eddie to the soundtrack of top gun's menu screen music on a muffled loop.

"i had hoped," was tommy's response. after a beat, "and eddie?"

buck had peered up at tommy, eyes so earnest and open and stupidly fucking blue. "yeah, yes, eddie," he'd said, almost apologetic. "i— i do want to be with eddie," like he had to.

"i know," tommy had told him, the organs in his abdomen heaving tumultuously. "it's okay, evan," he'd said, his heart a hummingbird fluttering frantic. like the idea wasn't sending his ribcage collapsing in on itself, he'd even managed, "i can leave whenever you're ready for me to go." he'd assumed all along that he was on borrowed time; couldn't be a beggar and a chooser.

buck, with love bursting forth from every single inch of his being, with more than enough to go around, had admitted to wanting tommy to stay, if tommy would be okay with it. he pitched the idea that they could talk to eddie, try this together, give it an honest shot.

tommy had flashed back to a childhood history lesson on the u.s. mint where he learned that certain coins aren't made in layers, but instead by melting all of the metals together to become a solitary slab. his copper edges fuse further into mirroring ponds of nickel.

three sides of the same coin, he'd thought to himself. imagine that.

"god, eddie," buck rasps now, voice low, clandestine enough to stay in the backseat. "want you so fuckin' bad."

eddie's answering, "jesus, buck, i— want you, too," honest and shameless, snaps tommy fully back into the present moment in perfect timing.

their rideshare driver whips into the driveway of tommy's house, personified stress wearing a thin windbreaker of customer service as he vocally ushers them out of the car — ahem, looks like we're here, have a pleasant rest of your evening, goodbye. as eddie and buck tumble out of the passenger's side rear door in a picture of resolute gracelessness, tommy, clutching stubbornly onto an ounce of awareness, pauses to give a rearview-mirror nod of thanks to the weary-eyed dude white-knuckling the steering wheel. he promises a significant gratuity for bearing with their shenanigans and lets himself out on the driver's side of the car.

while he steadies himself on his feet, gravel crackles under the wheels of the gratefully retreating sedan, headlight beams fading to shadow. tommy observes the silhouette of the inelegant, eight-limbed, two-headed harbinger-creature making its way to his home's front entrance in a clumsy tangle and waits for his innards to spike with fear, with reluctance. he meanders up the drive and overturns every stone lining the path to his warranted doom, expecting to find the tattered shreds of his decomposing clarity, or maybe a colony of vicious fire ants. all he finds is fertile, loamy earth, rife with potential.

he stumbles up his porch stairs and unlocks the door when he gets there, opening it for the lot of them to fall through together.

───────────────

together on tommy's mattress, buck and eddie writhe and moan and curse. they haven't been able to break apart since toppling out of the backseat. they kiss like it's the very thing keeping them alive.

from where he's snuggled up to buck's back, tommy's got a front row seat for the premiere screening of his most-likely demise. he can see the saliva bubblling on the edges of eddie's tongue as he smears it from buck's throat all the way to the cap of his shoulder, a glistening snail trail scattered through with blooming bruises he'd sucked into buck's skin minutes before. he can hear every wet catch of buck's breath in his throat, every soft grunt eddie lets out into against it, every exhale shared between them.

tommy's head spins, so god damn far from being on straight. he feels like a balloon released into the wind, miles above the cold and familiar waters of his deep-ocean, stranded somewhere in the high desert of his psyche. loose dry earth kicks up in a vortex around him, carried by the tempest of his culminating untended emotions. when the dust cloud settles enough for him to think, he recalls the term raison d'être.

it's french, that's why it sounds fancy, is what his father had said to teenage tommy, long before he'd cared to even attempt a grasp on the concept. he'd been moody, hormonal, and wildly, spitefully uninterested in all of the things the man he shared a name with held so dear. rolled his eyes at the gruff, translates to 'reason for being.'

"buck, buck, c'mon," is what eddie says as he scrabbles for a good grip on buck's shirt, taking fistfuls of fabric and wrenching it over buck's head in a frenzy. says, "come here," like buck isn't already melded into him, bare torsos flush, thighs slotted close. says, "come here," again, and it registers that eddie is calling for tommy, too.

tommy eyes snap onto eddie's across the naked curve of buck's shoulder to find them scalding. "fuck," he breathes out, "okay," like it's permission enough for all of them.

for now, it will suffice.

the skin stretched over buck's bulky trap muscle is tacky with eddie's spit when tommy sets his mouth against it, bursting salty-bitter on his tastebuds. buck whimpers into eddie's mouth and grinds his ass back against tommy's crotch; eddie's hips follow after them in a sinuous roll. into the blushing hollow of his ear tommy asks buck if he'd like to feel eddie inside of him, makes sure it's just loud enough for eddie to hear, too. he feels eddie's ankle hook around his own, overlapped with buck's.

"please, yes," urges buck, fervent and wanton, lust and liquor fraying the last threads of his hesitancy. "i've been wanting that."

"you have?" eddie asks, as tommy says, "he has."

"god." context aside, eddie's tone is reverent. he says it again, as though the word is synonymous with buck's name. then, like it's still a secret to himself, admits, "i've been wanting you, too."

buck groans and shifts, or maybe it's eddie — as tommy's faculties render off in the burn of both the top-shelf whiskey in his bloodstream and buck and eddie's immediate intimacy, it becomes progressively more challenging for him to distinguish the fine details. it all feels the same, gets identical synapses firing.

he tracks eddie's movements as he smooths a hand down buck's side, sure and attentive, as natural as breathing. when he keeps moving south to bump his fingertips up against the waistband of buck's jeans and the boxers beneath, buck's breath hitches, hips jerking. tommy tilts against them in pursuit.

eddie asks, "can i?" and it's double the approval he's seeking.

"yeah, eddie, please," buck begs again while tommy nods, delirious with overwhelm.

in an uncoordinated jumble, eddie gets buck flat on his back and makes himself a home between his open-lolling legs. right away his palms return to the broad planes of buck's chest, the curves of his strong stomach, the slight slants of his hips. he makes constellations out of kisses on buck's collarbone, his nipples, in the divot of his sternum.

it looks as close to worship as anything tommy's seen.

tommy wonders if it's worth telling eddie how he'd taken his time working evan open that morning, fucking him deep and thorough so he'd be easier for eddie to push inside of now. if it's worth telling eddie how he'd come, sudden and hard and so fucking good, from thinking about buck taking him so readily.

when eddie's devout, trembling fingers struggle to unclasp the button of buck's jeans, tommy decides to backburner the dirty talk. instead, he rests a hand on top of eddie's, gentle yet authoritative, and says, "let me help."

buck's hips lift for tommy's hands without second thought, making it simple to shuck the pants off of him as eddie shimmies out of his own. before he can even process the sight of evan buckley and eddie diaz naked, together, on his own mattress, tommy's met with twinning expectant gazes and understands that he's meant to strip, too.

"i—" thought i would stay on the sidelines, he tries to say. but as seconds pass under the scrutiny of the other men, the reluctance dies in his larynx, and he jostles around a bit until the denim of his pants is bunched down low enough to free his dick.

he's too preoccupied by the fact that he's got both objects of his affection directly in front of him, touching and loving on each other and spilling all of it onto him, to truly comprehend the magnitude of the moment. his head is so far into the atmosphere that he almost misses eddie say, "tell me what to do, tommy."

re-tethered to the earth by the string of eddie's voice, tommy doesn't miss buck's impatient, "aw, c'mon, eddie, just get in me." his desperate, "need you," is clear as day, clear as his afternoon sky irises, brighter against the rosy blush ruddying his cheekbones. he's always so damn pretty when he pleads.

tommy glimpses down at buck's dick, finds it stiff and pink and already leaking a mess onto his belly; he flicks across to the heft of eddie's where it rests heavy in the lax grip of his own hand. it's a beautiful cock, flushed dark and filled out, not quite as thick as tommy's but a nice, proportionate size. tommy knows buck will unfurl for him at once, a blossom to the morning sun.

meeting the bonfire of eddie's anticipative stare, tommy decides to say, "it won't take much, i got him ready for you this morning. right, baby?"

if buck could nod any more vigorously, he might snap his vertebrae. he adjusts the angle of his hips a little to make more of his ass visible, scoots onto a pillow so that he can prop himself up enough to get a better hold on eddie's waist.

"jeeesus," drawls eddie — a rare slip of his honeyed-rye texas lilt — and then, like he can't help it, "christ." his eyes rake down buck's body, idling on his twitching dick before trailing further, like he'll be able to find evidence: tommy was here.

that makes tommy smirk. he wishes he could keep his instructions ambiguous, left up for eddie's interpretation, something like he can handle whatever you're willing to give him. instead, mindful of the fact that this is largely uncharted territory for eddie, he suggests, "start with your fingers, you won't hurt him."

tommy's trusty bottle of nightstand lube is within convenient reach, making it no trouble to squeeze and slather some across eddie's fingers with a lewd jerk. a bit of extra coats the side of tommy's hand and he uses it to rub along the cleft of buck's ass, prompting a shiver out of him.

"there you go," tommy rumbles, "nice and wet."

the synchronous broken moan that the two let out when eddie finally finds the courage to nudge his fingers into buck is one that will most likely play like a broken-record loop within the walls of tommy's skull forever from this moment forward, for better or for worse.

buck promises, "i can take more," with the bleeding edge of a prayer still present in his tone. "i want more, want you, eddie, come on. it's alright, you can fuck me, you're not gonna break me."

eddie asks, "are you sure?" dually directed.

"never been more sure," buck affirms, as tommy says, "trust him, he knows his own limits," all the while knowing he can't make the same claim about himself.

regardless, he casts himself into the riptide, plummets into the undertow and captures buck's lips in a greedy kiss. he licks behind buck's teeth and drinks up his whines as eddie rides his dick along the slick valley of buck's asscheeks. before he even pushes inside, buck's making these fucking tiny wounded noises that make tommy's heart swell and cock throb.

when eddie lines up and sinks, at last, into the place inside of buck that tommy has come to learn and know and adore, buck breaks away from tommy's kiss with something close to a genuine sob. one of his hands finds one of tommy's, the other still firm on eddie's waist, keeping both of them close. he's got a leg hitched up over one of eddie's hips for better leverage, and his toes curl when eddie starts to move, shallow and slow.

eddie's name has never sounded better to tommy's ears than it does falling out of buck's lips now.

"buck." eddie's tone is reverent. he says it again, as though buck's name is synonymous with god, the two a singular entity within the confines of his skull.

tommy nearly has to look away from them, they blaze so brightly. evan buckley and eddie diaz, starfire contained in terrestrial form, crashing and combining and dazzlingly white-hot.

───────────────

white-hot aftershocks zap through tommy's nervous system as he sits at the edge of the mattress, back turned to the two other men. his fingers are gooey with spatters of buck's come mixed with his own, his softening dick sensitive and sticky as his entire body pulses from the dopamine spike of his orgasm. being a spectator to eddie and buck's otherworldly connection — and a helping hand in their ridiculously hot, intimate sex — has him feeling triply unmoored.

he's supposed to be getting them something hydrating to drink; he'd been the one to offer after eventually peeling himself free from the gordian knot of their bodies. evan always gets thirsty after, in particular when he gets a little teary from the pleasure overload, so tommy figures he could use a glass of cold water. they all could.

he tries to will his legs to stand; he finds his knees locked. impulse turns him inward and sweeps him cliffside on the tallest peak of his high desert mountain range. there, he can stand with his shoulders in repose and head in the clouds, squinting far into the distance where he can decipher the unmistakable expanse of an ocean that glints with the reflection of two incandescent stars careening towards each other at a devastating rate. a ghostly whale breaches the surface for a flash, a mere speck on the horizon from here, vanished before its presence totally registers.

his heavy eyelids flutter shut and he mulls, achingly, over the term raison d'être.

he can hear buck and eddie behind him exchanging lazy, smacking kisses and sweet murmured praises.

"you made that so good for me, thank you."

"mm, you were pretty fuckin' good yourself. now come kiss me some more."

the sounds and sentiments soak into tommy's soul like they're meant for him. his lips tingle as though the press of another mouth is against them; his ears warm as eddie waxes on about how fucking glorious that all felt. his heart swoops at evan's quiet, bashful laugh.

upon opening his eyes the fog in his line of sight clears, and even through a blur of unwanted tears he can clearly recognize that he is no longer in the desert but in the sacred place where the luminous sea laps at the heavenly shoreline. the call of the waves isn't far off at all — the surf is actually rippling at his toes, splashing at his knees and calves. he's been here since the night that eddie diaz kissed evan buckley in his lap, feet sunken into silt, warm tides rising and falling around him.

translates to 'reason for being.'

"come back to us, tommy," summons eddie, as evan's hands reach out and welcome him back down to their mess of rumpled sheets and sweaty limbs.

tommy thinks, i could be a river, and lets himself melt into the embrace of their current, stream into ocean, copper into nickel.

[shorlinesorrows]

just got the time to start the sunshine court and I'm Vibrating out of my skin

[insidejupiter]

jingliu is a perfect example of "if this female character was male, shed be universally loved instead of heavily criticized"

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[shaniacsboogara]

poking at my dear evan hansen hyperfixation with a stick. STAY BACK!!! I ALREADY VANQUISHED YOU!!! WHY ARE YOU CREEPING BACK INTO MY MIND!!!

[fullmetall]

thinking abt hohenheim 2day

[kaeyapilled]

No hate to any writers ever, but some works feel a bit like they read one to many posts psychoanalyzing his internal workings and wanted to write a fic about it, but in the process.. forgot how he actually acts in game? and so when they're writing, it's with the assumption that he [1] is aware of all those things about himself and has 'decade+ of therapy' (he would not, under torture, do that) level self understanding, and [2] would explain all these insecurities to Diluc on a sad-mood whim. he would not, under torture, admit that

YES UR SO RIGHT especially about him admitting all of it on a drunken whim. to diluc of all people. oh my god he would never. hello?? kaeya?? kaeya whos hidden under twenty complex layers of lies and masks?? even if he wasnt so emotionally inept about it he would still not talk about it easily

[mbat]

okay but why is it that literally everywhere that i see people discussing wings of fire, its to criticize it. like, when i dont see art the only stuff i see is people saying how much they hate pretty much every aspect of the books and how tui sucke and how arcs 2 and 3 are horrible and.... like, i get criticising things, even things you like, i mean im no stranger to liking things that have MANY issues, but damn wheres the love?

like, wheres people talking about the things they like about these books without feeling the need to preface it with 'these books are the worst thing ive ever seen'?

do you like the characters? the tribes? the concepts? the worldbuilding? anything?

like. i love these books so much. they definitely have issues because EVERYTHING does but i dont see what other people see that makes them act like these books are atrocious.

are people just ashamed to like a kids series or something? i just dont get it.

idk, maybe its just what the internet has given me, and there is a side of the fandom that manages to have discussions about these books that arent just acting like they hate them, id love to know how to get there.

i just dont get being in a fandom and acting like you despise the very thing that brought you there.

[peppermintmochafem]

.

[shifuaang]

I can't concentrate on work today when all of the live action ATLA spoilers are flooding in. Is it as bad as I thought it was going to be?