#YOU AND IIIII

[celestialholz]

Just the Two of Us (or 'the number two and Hassius')

So, you may remember me discussing TM20 a while ago, how it's Brassius' life story and how the numbers two and zero make up an experience shared with no one else, and... well, thought that was as far as the 'twoness' went, to be honest. That was enough, right? That's already enough gay, between the Applin and the sculptures in Artazon????

... Except no, because in case you hadn't realised by my collection of seven ephemeralart metas and counting, Paldea simply loves to gaslight me into a false sense of security. A girl thinks she's done with Pokemon's chief husbands, and yet here she is again.

What follows is a collection of 'twos' and their multiples that follow Hassel and Brassius around as though they're being stalked by their own love story.

We'll start with: if you take on Victory Road in its recommended order, Brassius is the second trainer you fight, whilst Hassel is the second to last.

I'm sure we all know it by now, but here's the order you're meant to go in:

And obviously it's followed by the Elite Four, Hassel being the last one before the champion herself. (We're... not counting Nemona. The Nemona fight's its own special little thing, and she's not part of the League anyway.) Couple that with the fact that Hassel canonically shows up to say hello after the second gym, and... mm. Mmmmm.

Point one, in fact, is almost as good as point two: Applin.

This is Applin's stat spread. Which is all perfectly divisible by two. In fact, if you just throw Hassel and Brassius (TM)20 points each... well, that's four stats covered, and it kinda stands to reason that two older men might be slower, and that that two older, emotionally damaged men might be really good at being overprotective. 'Dragon that guards the final fortress of the Elite Test,' anyone?

Oh, but we don't end there with Applin. Oh no.

The apple daughter has Ripen as an ability later, which, well...

... doubles effects. Okay then...

Is this the better of Flapple's two abilities? Oh, absolutely. But it also means nothing practically, because Hass doesn't use berries, or held items at all in fact. It's almost like it's only there symbolically! Imagine that, what a world. And Flapple, as I've discussed before, is also second to last in his team line-up, which as we know symbolises the heart and personality of the trainer. I'd argue, in fact, that Hassel having Flapple over Appletun is indicative of turning a misunderstood childhood (a 'self-defence', if you will) into a powerful and prosperous adulthood, because Flapple's much more of an offensive Pokemon - but that's an observation for another time.

Point three: there are four Harvest Cs, again two times two. I talked about the significance of The Harvest over here, and about how the sculpture I named 'C' there is a lovely fusion of Grass and Dragon, orbited by small suns. And here they all are:

(Shoutout to mini Holz for that colour coordination. She did it herself, I am but a mere humble illuminator of the lore.)

Point four: there are 34 Surrendering Sunfloras. Also divisible by two. (I am not spending another five hours on fucking Sunfloras so no photography for this one, but trust me... I spent five hours on this shit.)

And there's also that Brassius is gym two... Hassel is fourth of the Elite Four... but here's the real killer:

Point five: Art (4). Just... just going to leave that one with you, and remind you that Paldea has never heard of the concept of 'coincidence.' And I'm going to drop this rainbow two here... just because, y'know.

[charalol]

...you and I....

*seductively* would you.. be interested in doing a unfunny bit with me sometime.. just the two of us..

[lights-at-night-art]

final reunions - and final partings.

[afreakingmilkshake]

TRADITIONAL DOODLE DUMP YIIPPIEE (you definitely didnt see that meta before)

[satyricplotter]

(suggestive, slightly explicit content at the end)

Even though you’ve been expecting the visit for most of the night, the Red Hood knocking at your balcony door at 1 in the morning still catches you off guard. You scramble off the couch in a sleepy daze, book falling off your lap and cracking open on the floor. For one long second, the only thing you can think of is that whoever your last assignment was has managed to find you, that you’ve finally been too sloppy and left a trail with which to track you.

That’s your first thought. Your second thought is, of course, Barbara. But before you can reach your phone to shoot your boss a SOS, or, at the very least, an alert, a second rasp at the window panes freezes you on the spot.

“Will you open the damn door?” Red Hood’s unmistakably robotic voice grits out. “It’s raining cats and dogs out here.”

You trip in your rush to open the doors, limbs loose and clumsy with relief. Hood shoulders past you with a grunt, fingers prodding at the back of his head to get at the latch of his helmet. He takes it off in a smooth motion, his hot breath forming a white cloud against the cold air of your running AC. You lock the balcony back up after him as he goes around your apartment, setting his helmet on your dinner table and shrugging out of his jacket. He means to stay apparently. You could’ve lent him an umbrella if he wanted to go back out there. Probably would’ve been best.

See, you don’t like the Red Hood much.

He invites himself over to your kitchen, opening cabinets here and there until he chances upon the dinnerware and pulls out a glass. The Gotham public infrastructure is in such state you have never once attempted to drink out of the tap, but you don’t stop him when he does. It is, technically, allowed. And he had the pitcher full of filtered water right under his nose, so. You wait impatiently as he downs two whole glasses of tap water and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand (there is a perfectly usable kitchen towel draped over the oven handle).

He glances over, notices you staring. The corner of his lips quirks up. “How obedient,” he mocks. He pats at his sides, pulls a folded envelope from somewhere in his body (the Bats have endless pockets, you’ve come to learn) and tosses it on the table. “There’s your file. You better be fucking thankful. Traipsed through half the city in this shit storm just to get you these.”

“Thank you, Red Hood,” you say politely, picking up the rumpled envelope and eagerly flipping through the files. “Much appreciated.”

Red Hood rolls his eyes at you, eternally put off by your insistence on following the proper channels of conduct. “Whatever. You got anything to eat?”

“Help yourself,” you tell him.

You walk back to the couch with the file in hand and leave him to make himself whatever he will, already too distracted by the information within to care that you’re gonna have to make a second grocery run when he’s done with your fridge. Red Hood rummages through your cabinets, pulling out far more stuff than he should for a midnight snack. At one point, he asks if you’ve had dinner, and you respond him with an absentminded (and truthful) negative. The files he’s brought are the latest Robin’s swiped from the team’s ongoing investigation on a dicey arms exchange deal that may or may not involve three out of four of Gotham’s biggest conglomerates (sans, of course, Wayne Enterprises). It’s your job to process the info—a task too menial and too tedious for Oracle and Red Robin, respectively, to handle. Besides, Tim’s far more useful on the ground.

It must be about twenty minutes of you pouring over the pages scattered over your coffee table when the man speaks up again. “Dinner’s ready,” he says.

You look up to see him setting two plates of steaming stir fry on the table. He’s taken off his gloves, his utility belt, the domino mask and rolled up his sleeves—the whole nine yards. Only missing the apron. The food looks lovely, but of course it does. Cooking is listed as a specialty in Red Hood’s file, right along with marksmanship and hostile takeovers.

Your lips quirk up at the unexpected kindness, but you shake your head. “None for me, thanks.”

“I said,” Red Hood says, placing his gun on the table menacingly. “Dinner’s ready. Come eat.”

Well. So much for kindness. You’re about as dumb as Red Hood’s subtle, which is to say only at your benefit and very much at will, so you only sigh and push the papers aside. He watches you rise and sit, and pick up the fork, before he does the same. You eat in silence.

After a few bites, you stop being disgruntled at his coercion and grateful that he’s got something other than a protein bar in you because you were, in fact, quite hungry. That’s not something you can say—or at least not in any way which he would accept, so you just shut up and eat your meal happily. That seems to be enough for him, as he watches you finish the whole plate with a satisfied expression.

“Good?” He asks.

“Yeah, actually,” you beam.

Even when he stands and brings the dishes over to the sink to wash, you are reluctant to leave your spot at the table. You watch him rinse and sponge the plates and pan, the knife and spoon and cutting board, and your afternoon tea mug. He washes his hands thoroughly and rinses his mouth with the dubious tap water again. A thorough, judicious man. He’s played remarkably nice this evening. You wonder if Oracle’s been pulling his ear to leave you alone.

When he finishes, he walks slowly the remainder of the narrow hallway of your kitchen back to the dinner table and leans against the threshold. The long line of his body catches you off guard, always so unexpectedly graceful despite his musculature, his brutality. You hold his gaze serenely, trying not to cave under his scrutiny.

This is why you don’t like the Red Hood. Every time he looks at you, he sees you wholly. As you are. Not, crucially, as you want. It has been this way since the first time he laid eyes on you—a single glance and he had taken the measure of you. No further explanation, no time to make amends. And what’s worse: he expects you to be honest. He expects you to say what he can read in your face. He doesn’t let it go when you deflect, when you coat your truths in niceties. He wants it raw and open.

You can’t play dumb with Jason Todd.

He breaks the silence first. “Were you expecting Grayson this evening?”

The non-sequitur catches you so off guard you break eye contact accidentally. What’s Nightwing got to do with anything?

“No?” You say, evidently baffled. “Nightwing’s been off-world all week. Why would he be coming around?”

He cocks his head to the side, sucks in the bit of flesh below his lower lip. "So you knew it was me who'd be coming around?"

"Obviously?" What is he going on about? He clearly doesn't believe you, either. It's childish when you stomp your foot and whine, but he always brings out the worst in you. "I'm serious, Hood. I've been waiting for you all evening. Just you."

Jason pushes off the wall and approaches, staring you down with slightly raised eyebrows. “Then, if you knew Dick wasn't coming with, what are you looking so fuckable for?”

Despite how much it bruises your pride, you cannot help but sputter. The staring is one thing, the passing brushes are another—even the stupid pulling at your pigtails like you’re both in kindergarten is… permissible. But this? Coming at you so straightforwardly when all you know how to do is circumvent and hide? Desperately, you respond to the one thing in that sentence you can make sense of: the accusation.

“I don’t like Nightwing,” you whine. Jason fixes you with a look of dry incredulity. You huff. How you despise him. He can’t even let you lie. “And I don’t dress for him either.”

“Hm.” He reaches over to pull at the neckline of your admittedly skimpy top, his knuckle brushing against your chest. “Sure.”

You bat his hand away, and stand up, but that leaves you much closer to him than you expected. Or wanted. “This is not fuckable,” you grit out. “This is… pajamas.”

Jason cranes his neck to take a close look at you, every bit as assessing as the first one had been. One of his large hands comes to play with the hem of your shorts, pushes it up just a smidge, and the pads of his fingers are rough and calloused against your outer thigh. Your eyelids flutter, and he has the nerve to smile.

“That’s a blatant lie, you know,” he says, dipping his head low so the words brush against your lips. “Try a little, huh?”

“This seems like a you problem, my guy,” you snap, so close you might as well be speaking into his mouth. You need to get away. You don’t.

Jason’s smug when you gasp after his hands close around your ass and bring you forward, flush against his body. The hardness in his pants trapped between you, a pressing weight just below where it should be. Should be? What are you—but Jason adjusts before you can scold yourself, lining up your crotch with his and grinding. It feels bigger this way, which is insane because it's already pretty fucking huge, and a hot flash of desire runs through you lightning-quick and just as obliterating. You slump against him, head on his shoulder.

“That’s my problem,” he murmurs against your ear. His thumbs press just under your asscheeks, playful. “You gon’ do anything about it?”

[dr-wormman]

Is this anything

[mcybree]

I’ve been thinking a lot about how merciless scott was towards joel in limited life specifically during the session where joel was outwardly grieving jimmy in this messy violent desperate way that made him appear mad. and I’ve been thinking about scott’s own relationship towards the concept of grief, what grief “should” look like, and his tendency to act as though he is above letting his emotions consume him. and i’ve been thinking about scott stating that joel “deserves it” shortly before taking him out of the series. do we think that scott judged joel so severely for grieving jimmy in such a raw way that he killed that fucker four times to get rid of him. because of his own standards for what correct grief looks like. and how any reflection of scott’s own emotions needs to be eliminated. i personally dont think so but I think the concept goes hard as fuck anyways

[opopsums]

hi i promise im working on art stuffs but im also working on something else [mischievous plotting emoji]

here have someeeeee old art except lizzie i drew her last night

[campbyler]

happy last kiss day for no particular reason :-)

[rhinco]

hey guys cna we talk about tjis. can we fuckign. can we discuss this for a moment. c

[ask-the-roommate-au]

*Comedy Bot wheels in.*

"A man walked into a bar and said 'ow'."

*Comedy Bot exits stage.*

Do I even need to say anything?

Do the words "you're not funny" mean anything to you guys??

[jack-kellys]

underrated newsie of the year award goes to 🪽

[the-clay-quarters]

It's Pembroke's birthday and in celebration I uhhhh made her a business card 👍

I had the idea for this two sided card ages ago but only just got to making it. Don't need to worry about which business card you have if it's the same card >:3c

(If this prompts any interaction ideas, do feel free to send her a calling card <3 (link in pinned))

[aphidclan-clangen]

so what's your process for designing characters?

Man people keep asking me how do I design characters, how do I make characters, how do you pick characters genders, etc. and I feel SO bad because I!! There is no process!! Especially with designing AphidClan characters in particular, my process is EXTREMELY wild and intuitive and spontaneous and very “just wing it first try it’ll be fine. I totally won’t hate it 3 months later ((I will and I do))”

I. I don’t know how to explain it. Like. Alder for example, I knew Lilacpaw was this kind of pinkish purple with an orange gradient, so I wanted her dad to be pinkish purple and her mom to have the orange gradient, so when it came time to design him, I jus. made him purple. and that’s all he is there isn’t any thought put into this, this is a. Random, not professional at all, “I made a quick concept sketch as my first and only attempt, he came out purple, that’s all he is, just purple” and “I got it first try” bullshit, and everything else about his design happened because. it felt right, and I never questioned that, so now hes. alder. he exists now. “how did you make him?” i don’t know but he sure as hell is here now

That’s how I make literally all of my character designs and decisions, especially since this is just a Warrior cats blog that I do as a fun “low-effort” hobby. I had a single idea of “rainbow,,,” it felt right, I never questioned it, it happened, I made a single quick sketch of concept art as prep to solidify what already existed in my brain, and now it exists, and then 4 months and 10 updates later I become deeply unhappy with the design and I try all over again lol. It’s extremely extremely intuitive for me, it’s all just feeling. I don’t really follow any professional tips or legitimate art techniques, I don’t really make concept art, half of the time the characters first appearance in a moon update or ask response is literally the first time I’ve ever drawn them, as you can tell from the Fire/Gravel kids and their extensive “gradually redesign them piece by piece over each moon until I decide I hate all of it and start over entirely” process which is NOT something I’d recommend for a webcomic or any legitimate art project you want to take seriously or professionally!! I don’t really. have a process, I just start drawing the moon update and they appear lolol

[carlyraejepsans]

I was looking back through your character analysis stuff bc you are great(!) at this kinda thing and you said a sentence that has me curious in so many different ways.

"and what better scenario for this than one where 1) everyone he truly loved is already dead, and 2) there's a brand new unethical system of power ready to be taken advantage of now that he's got nothing left to lose."

In the best possible way, what the hell does this mean? What *could* this mean? I'd it referring to the obvious answer of "He starts getting LV"? Is it referring to him working up the underground's political system (becoming King for some reason)? Is it some secret third option???

Even if this is obvious or meant to be left to suggestion, I would love an expansion and/or exploration of this idea further because it is so captivating.

(Anyway, love your work! Keep it up)

BAHAHAHA, nothing that drastic, don't worry! but... sorta the second option there? not all the way to king though

king mtt ending: dystopian, celebrity king with zero leading experience and dubious mental stability (he is one stage of grief away from killing himself at any moment), takes power in his own hands, sets off a countrywide brainwashing campaign, ignores the kingdom's multiple crisis and if anyone opposes him too much they "disappear". what does sans do? why, he climbs up the social ladder (either by kissing his ass or making himself useful) and secures himself a place as his agent. he neither fights or miss l nor survives the system, he exploits it to cover his own ass, and rip bozo to the poor bastards underneath. now, with papyrus still around he'd obviously have something else left to care about and dedicate himself to after securing their own safety in the system, but if papyrus is gone, well. i don't see why he should give a fuck and not go along with whatever plans mtt has

empress undyne ending: undyne seizes power, declares war (again), expands the royal guard massively, and turns the underground into a massive military state hoping to crush humanity. what does sans do? ...well, we don't know for sure. he ends the phonecall on a rather vague threat

lots of people take this to mean that he's really, REALLY hoping undyne will kick your ass, but still acts as a passive observer. which i think is a perfectly good reading. now, i wouldn't say what I'm about to propose is canon, more like a personal theory/hc of mine... but there's another line in the phonecall I'd like to call attention to. and well. when you connect the two? considering sans' background as a scientist?

...i think they have some REALLY fun implications :]

[taruruchi]

A sneak peek at one of the fankids? 👁👁

And I'm working on her brother rn...