#cape slander!!!

[erinwantstowrite]

do dick, duke jason cass and babs sometimes join in peter’s cape slander ?

(asking cause they don’t wear one)

only duke is allowed to because the rest of them HAVE worn a cape at some point. peter and duke add this to their "we're cooler than the rest of them" jokes as well (Super Power Buddies stick together)

[starry-bi-sky]

MMMM twins au with danny and dan except its og TUE timeline danny and dan

ok okay i neeeeed o write this down and share it before i explode buT. as the title says. twins danny and dan (who im going to be calling James/Jamie bc i cannot express how much i despise the name dan) where, instead of disappearing into the ghost zone after he's separated from danny's body, Dan rips out Vlad's ghost half, tears THAT in half, and fuses one half with himself and the other with Danny.

Shit happens, and BOOM. Two morally ambiguous and perhaps slightly murderous demonic twins from hell. Daniel James Fenton and his Twin WHose Always Been Here What Are You Talking About :) James Daniel Fenton. They are both depressed, lonely, and one bad day from becoming a mass extinction event :)

this is because i got grabbed by the hair today and dragged into the SVSS fandom screaming and the fanart of Shen Jiu/Shen Yuan/Shen Quingqiu (????) with his fan entranced me. Ice Prince Core is my favorite thing so naturally i have to implant that onto my favorite blorbos ever :)

After the Incident, both their appearances changed and they're practically identical to each other. Sorta. They both have heterochromia and salt-and-pepper hair. But Danny has one green eye and one blue eye and white hair with black streaks, while Jamie has one blue eye and one green eye and black hair with white streaks. I'm iving them both long hair, for funsies <3

nobody can tell them apart, they keep getting confused on whose who and frankly the mix-match hair and eyes make it worse not better asjd. they're horrifically codependent. please do not separate :)

and because i must. im pulling a blood blossom/tales of the passerine and giving them to pre-robin batman. batman and his terrifying demon(??) twins. nobody is quite sure if they're human or not, and the scourge of gotham are a little too terrified to ask.

(they dont HAVE to go to batman while he's pre-robin. however. i think its much funnier that way bc gotham isn't use to A) Batman having kids, and B) Batman having TERRIFYING kids yet. think of all the new fun rumors)

they both use war fans while they're out, and neither of them use their ghost forms because they at least have the remaining empathy to know that they're more likely to murder someone accidentally as a ghost :). Ghost form is for fellow mythicals and Functionally Immortals Only! Not for Squishy Humans.

Jamie: murder. bloodshed. revengggee Bruce: no. no. Justice. peace!! hope! Danny: bittinngggg. blooood. ^-^

They're honestly not bad kids they're just horrifically traumatized two halves of a whole that can never be reunited ever again :).

idk what their vigilante names are but i do know that the underground refer to them in horrified whispers as 'the twins'. this all stemmed from the desperate and sudden urge to see Danny and Jamie, as their vigilante selves, hiding the lower half of their faces with fans and looking terrifyingly judgmental while they do it <333

[incorrectbatfam]

Do the batfam read fanfic of themselves or each other? What kinds do they read?

Barbara: *at the Batcomputer, trying not to laugh*

Dick: What is it?

Barbara: Nothing. It's just... I found people's fanfictions about you.

Dick: Me?

Barbara: All of you.

Jason: What are people saying about me?

Barbara, reading the author's note: "I wrote this because there isn't enough for my soft baby Red Hood who did nothing wrong uwu."

Jason: *gags*

Steph: Ooh, what about me?

Barbara, reading another author's note: "Sorry for not updating, the Joker kidnapped my entire family and I had to escape via the sewers where I lived amongst Scarecrow's mutated experimental rats for three months (also I had homework). Anyway this chapter is a fix-it because there is way too much Spoiler slander out there."

Steph: Damn right there is.

Barbara: Duke's one started in 2015, is a million words and counting, and at some point became a crossover with Spider-Man, Naruto, and Super Mario. There's also fan art.

Duke: Fuck yeah.

Tim: What did I get?

Barbara: A lot of crossovers with Danny Phantom and a bunch where you're Selina's apprentice.

Tim: Meh, could be worse.

Barbara: Damian has a bunch of crossovers with something called Miraculous Ladybug. There are also a ton where your ages are reversed and Damian's the first Robin.

Damian: I'm not touching either of those with a ten-foot sword.

Dick: Wait, we still haven't seen mine.

Barbara: *types into the search bar*

Barbara: The top three are all original character inserts. There's the main character being sold to the Wayne family, a reader-insert love triangle with Nightwing and Red Hood, and one where they're a new adoptive bat-sibling... that also ends in romance.

Dick: Ew. Forget I asked.

Barbara: The shipping can get worse, trust me.

Harper: Do I wanna know about mine?

Barbara: Don't worry, no one remembers you. Or Luke, Kate, Bette, Helena, Jean-Paul, and most of our non-Gotham friends. Or me and Alfred, unless it's convenient. Actually, it's kinda skewed against us ladies overall.

Harper: I'll take the misogyny for once.

Cass: And me?

Barbara, reading the first line: "Hi my name is Cassandra Wu-San Dementia Raven Wayne—"

Bruce, walking in: What are you doing?

Barbara, quickly closing the tab: Working on a case. The Riddler's at it again.

Bruce: Well, I need to use the computer. It's confidential.

Barbara: Of course.

Everyone: *leaves*

Bruce: *checks over his shoulder*

Bruce: *logs into Ao3*

Bruce, posting: This is a domestic no-capes universe where the bats are one big happy family. Feedback is appreciated.

Cullen, the first comment: Seems out of character.

[ayamari-no-goshi]

I’d like to clear up some common misconceptions about the Attack on Titan Tower, aka when Jason infiltrated it to attack Tim

If you want to read this for yourself, here are some links: readallcomics - I have the best luck with this site on destop zipcomic readcomicsonline - this site can be temperamental

1) Jason did not go there to attempt to kill Tim

Jason seems to have 3 separate goals for this: - size up the new kid. - make sure he knows Bruce just sees him as another soldier - prove to Tim just how dangerous the job is (heavily implied, in my opinion, especially after Tim tried telling Jason he was wrong about how Bruce saw him) He also voiced his anger over being forgotten by everyone. Depending on your interpretation of Jason and his character, this could also be a reason. To me, this feels more like an afterthought because they moved to the Hall of Fallen Heroes before he said this, and Jason likes to be dramatic.

Side note on this. Jason never says anything about being replaced.

2) none of Tim’s injuries were life threatening

Once again, Jason was not attempting to kill him. He beat him up pretty badly, but it was designed to prove a point

3) Jason did NOT cut Tim’s throat.

That happened during Hush which predates both Under the Red Hood and Titan’s Tower. Jason was pretending to be Hush, put a knife to Tim’s throat, and put enough pressure to make him bleed (it was not an actual slice) to get Bruce to react to him. That injury was not life threatening either

Edit: I’ve seen some comments about the ‘not life threatening’ statement. Yes, it needed stitches, but it wasn’t spurting blood, therefore not life threatening. Just because you’re bleeding from a neck injury, it doesn’t mean you’re at an immediate risk of dying (spoken from experience). It’s if the carotid artery or jugular vein are cut that it’s a problem, and you’ll know if that happens because of SO MUCH BLOOD. You will bleed out within minutes.

The way it’s portrayed, it’s not a life threatening injury

4) Jason developed a respect and a bit of envy for Tim after fighting him

At the end of the issue while he’s leaving (while outside the tower), Jason acknowledges Tim’s skill. Jason also wonders if he could have had a life more similar to his, where he had friends and a better support system, if he could have had a different life.

5) Tim was NOT a damsel in distress during the fight, and he did NOT develop a fear of Jason.

Tim was making quips and dissing Jason the entire fight. Tim was not afraid of him nor did he bat an eye at being attacked by Jason. He also vocalized just how much he had to work for his cape because of how Jason's death affected Bruce

Also, the next time Tim saw Jason after this, he made sure to kick Jason in the groin

6) Jason wrote "Jason Todd was here" and signed it with a hand print on the wall.

It looks like it could be in blood, but Tim's not injured enough for there to be that much... and blood darkens after a while. There's a bit of time between Tim getting knocked out and the rest of the Titans finding him and the writing so it's probably paint. Again, Jason likes to be dramatic

7) more Robin!Jason slander by Raven

Once again, we get the mention that Jason was "aggressive". I swear, this is the only thing writers remember from Death in the Family and not the point that that behavior was out of the ordinary for Jason. This is a personal pet peeve of mine in the comics.

8) almost forgot to add the most important part, Jason made a homemade Robin costume and wore it under his Red Hood outfit because he could

Again, Jason is a dramatic bitch.

[pinksugarscrub]

Headcannons

Batboys x meta! Reader

Synopsis: I finished the main storyline for Gotham Knights and need some fluff in my life (Talia sucks). So here's Jason, Dick, and Tim with a bat mutant reader.

*Can be read as romantic or platonic, you be the judge.

Words: 700 +

Warnings: None

~

Jason Todd

In the beginning Jason tried really hard to dislike you, he did.

If he was seen being soft with you he’d never beat the allegations he was a bat through and through.

But then your ears were flopping as tears flooded your vision because someone called you a less than polite term for being a meta.

Yes he beat them up as a civilian and he’d do it again.

He likes your ears the most because they perfectly display your emotions.

Reading your expressions and attending to your needs makes him feel important.

His heart grows a little fuller everytime you say thank you and come to him for anything ranging from advice to a shoulder to cry on.

He makes fun of your poor eyesight despite your echolocation being an asset on missions.

You scare the crap out of him by hanging from the ceiling. He never hears you and you pop up seemingly from thin air.

Despite having a large wingspan and long pointed ears, Jason is still taller than you.

He makes sure your nutritional needs are met depending on the type of bat hybrid you are. Fruit, meat, etc.

He won’t admit it but every time you spread your wings to shield him either as a joke or on a mission he’s melting.

Jason’s used to being strong so having someone protect him on first instinct and actually be physically capable is mind boggling.

The Outlaws love you just as much if not more and it pisses Jason off when they hog you

Dick Grayson

Bat jokes. Bat puns. Lots of them.

He has some already in his arsenal because of Bruce but it’s just ten times worse.

When he looks at you with that grin and glint in his eyes you know you’re in for the cheesiest dad joke of your life.

He likes to tease you about being a vampire while pulling on your cheek to see your smile (canines).

Plays with your wings just like he did with Batman’s cape as Robin. He even deepens his voice.

He will not tolerate any slander about you in or out of costume.

People at galas and charities know to steer clear of any topic relating to you or metas unless they want an eight hour lecture and powerpoint presentation.

His nicknames or pet names are the worst. Usually a play on words or an outdated term from the eighteenth century.

Talks like he’s in a Shakespearean play when you’re in a sour mood because it makes you laugh.

He does not like to be flown around. None of the bats really do but on occasion he’ll let you parade him around.

He’s happy you and Garfield get along so well when he brings you with him on a visit to the Titans. Not to mention the rest of team.

Loves hugging you because your wings wrap around him like a blanket.

He will never forgive you and Wally for dragging him around like a ragdoll just prove who could get him to missons faster.

Tim Drake

You’re both on a separate time zone compared to the rest of the world.

3 AM snack trips are a must, especially on patrol.

You both buy each other energy drinks or coffee to get through the morning. Especially if you stayed up longer than usual.

Yes you’ve used your fangs to open a can when the tab was missing. It did not go well.

You’re the only one who understands his system of disorganization and commonly help him find things he’s lost in stacks of case files.

Studies you almost constantly because your abilities are so fascinating. There’s definitely a file on his computer dedicated to you. (*cough* Deku coded *cough*)

Insists on you getting glasses despite how well you maneuver throughout the manor and the world for that matter because you accidently walked into a wall once.

He has the most unhinged photos of you where the lense is .5 and your eyes are glowing. It’s his screensaver and the pictures change every few months.

Whenever he wants something from Bruce he sends you with the most heart wrenching puppy dog eyes because the old man has a soft spot for you.

Is always awestruck when he watches you fight. Then he’s got a smug grin on his face when he notices everyone else on the team is just as mesmerized.

You and Kon get along swimmingly.

One day you decided you wanted to get your ears pieced so you asked Kon for help. That was the most traumatizing experience for Tim.

He couldn't stand to see you in pain even if it was only for a moment.

After getting over the initial panic he thought you looked really nice with the new accesories.

[solarisfortuneia]

— 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟.

✦ info: kaeya returns home wearing his master thief costume. (takes place after the events of 'secret summer paradise' in version 3.8)

✦ warnings: not proofread.

✦ notes: where can i get myself a kaeya pls why isn't he here with me

the clock strikes nine just as the knob to your front door turns, the little bird in the wooden device chirping out the counts at precise intervals. the creaks of the door are not loud, yet they still have you jolting awake from your impromptu after-shower nap. 

“sorry, did we wake you?” a very familiar voice whispers into the dark from near the hallway. kaeya’s back! you realize, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

you shake your head, closing the book that lays open on your lap. “no, no. i just dozed off.” you laugh it off, smiling at your boyfriend and at klee, who’s dozing off comfortably in kaeya’s arms. she stirs when he moves a little too abruptly. 

“hey, it’s okay, you can go back to sleep.” he coos softly, patting her head. he sets her down on the couch, gently laying her head on a cushion.

“we had a little too much fun in sumeru,” he tells you after he’s made sure she’s sound asleep, pulling you close and wrapping his arms around your waist. “she’s all tired out. albedo’ll be here to take her home soon.”

“i can tell. i love her mage costume.” you squint at his indigo and peacock feather get up. “and you’re supposed to be a…?”

he huffs playfully, pouting. “you can’t tell? i’m a master thief, clearly.”

“the style suits you.” you tap at his lips and his mouth spreads into a grin underneath your fingers, lighting up his entire face. “though, you’re not you without the boob-window. or that fluffy monstrosity you call a cape. it’s characteristic, but unnecessary. ”

he gasps in mock offense. “how could you slander my cape that way? you call it an unnecessary fluffy monstrosity, yet you still steal it when you’re cold, do you not?”

you exhale forcefully through your nose despite your best efforts to keep a straight face. “touché. drama queen.” 

“besides, i was born for this role, you know,” he says, mischief glinting in his periwinkle eye. “after all, did i not manage to steal your heart?” 

you roll your eyes, undoing the peacock feather tie and tugging at the braid he has his hair in to free it. he gives you a fond look, shaking his head to assist once you’ve loosened it enough. azure cascades down his shoulders, a slight wave throughout. “so, master thief kaeya, wearer of feathers, stealer of hearts.” your expression mirrors the still-present grin on his face as you loop your arms around his neck, his hair a silky waterfall on your fingers. “what caper are you chasing next?” 

“since i already have the most precious of hearts in my hands, i believe i need to steal a few kisses to complete my collection, yes?” 

“but good sir, are you sure you’d be satisfied with just a few?”

“oh, haven’t you heard, darling?” you feel his mouth curl into a slow smile against your neck, his voice a caress against your skin.

 “i’m insatiable.”

taglist: @number-one-love-lover

new taglist form (old one had issues): here.

[plantyberry]

Cloudcuckoolander Tally Part 1: Prologue + Chapter 1: 'My little poltergeist can't sound this sexy!'

Helloooo Internet. Seeing as I have nothing better to do with my time, and that people asked about it, but never actually asked for it, I have taken it upon myself to do some weird… Cuckoolander thing.

Now then, let's get ⭐🌟✨~Fabulous~✨🌟⭐

Prologue

Nothing, but Reach Out for Arthur anyway for that +2 Relationship bonus or choose to Wake Up for that +1 Will.

Chapter 1

Some of the choices there lead to you picking the 'real' option next while giving you points. For example, in your Job Choice options, you have:

Fairy Princess (with requisite singing!) (Cuckoo +1): If picked, you get a second choice with the 'actual' job pick. For the sake of not having to repeat this every time, every such choice will have (++) added to them to signify that they work similarly.

Run screaming through your apartment. That's definitely going to be helpful. Cuckoo +1 (Note: Not picking the floor lamp means you're not picking that +5 physical) Charge around your apartment while screaming epithets. You don't know if it'll help anything, but it sure will make you feel better. Cuckoo +1 (Note: This one increases you potty mouth score, which interferes with your purity score, so if you're aiming for Percy, keep that in mind)

Reptilian Eyes.(++) Cuckoo +1 (Note: Does not actually give you reptilian eyes. Or does it? * Side eyes changeling MCs *)

I whip open the closet door with a sudden movement: Doesn't give cuckoo points, but gives access to Cuckoo options. ===…it's been ransacked! Your clothes and shoes are strewn everywhere and- oh, wait, that's how your closet normally looks. Cuckoo +1 ===…there's a great hulking monster inside and it smells like- wait no, that's just your raincoat. Cuckoo +1

I whip open the closet door with a sudden movement. I also yell "HIYAA!" and strike a martial arts pose for the added effect. Cuckoo +1 ===…I said I was going to yell "HIYAA!" and I keep my promises. Cuckoo +1

Clothes:

Depending on your club picks and your character settings, you may get some cuckoo points out of them, though if you follow some restrictions like, say, a mute run, or are achievement hunting, then some combinations may be preferable even if they give less points.

Birthday Suit.(++): Cuckoo +1

Other clothing options also give cuckoo rating during the talk with Adrian before clubtime. The pick that gives the most points here, that I can see, is the Vampire cape (up to +3 points), but here is a list of the other picks and the points they give with the right club options:

Riding club:

Red Cape + Frame = 3 or height = tall: -"Little?" I wonder if Adrian has suddenly gone blind. --"Aye, Aye, fairy godmother." +1 Cuckoo

Vampire Cape: +1 Cuckoo -Strike a stereorypical vampire pose . +1 Cuckoo --"No promises" +1 Cuckoo

Tuxedo: -"Actually, I was planning to wear these clothes during practice." --"It will totally be worth it to see everyone's reaction to me riding around in a tux." +1 Cuckoo

Spandex Tracksuit: -"It's a tracksuit, Adrian. Why would I change my clothes again?" I ask 'innocently'. -- I say nothing, I merely start dancing the Tango de la Muerte. +1 Cuckoo (and the Keikaku achievement)

Fencing Club:

Vampire Cape: +1 Cuckoo -Strike a stereorypical vampire pose . +1 Cuckoo --"I never bite and tell." +1 Cuckoo --"Lies and Slander!" +1 Cuckoo

Spandex Tracksuit: -I say nothing, I merely start dancing the Tango de la Muerte. +1 Cuckoo -"I was thinking about wearing this instead of my uniform today." --"If we switched to plastic swords we could totally do naked fencing!" +1 Cuckoo

Favorite Drink:

The fresh blood of virgins. (++) Cuckoo +1 (Note: You can't pick the option if you picked 'Blood' as a fear)

When watching the TV:

If Wildlife Biologist: He was obviously eaten by a giant mutated bear. Case closed. I'm a genius. Cuckoo +1 If NOT a Wildlife Biologist: He was obviously eaten by werewolves. Case closed. I'm a genius. Cuckoo +1

Hobby:

Gadgetry gives the option to gain +1 Cuckoo point if at least Friendly with Adrian (pick 'I asked the magical 8-ball' option when remembering about your first meeting)

Once the phone pick is done, open your status page, scroll down, and select 'Magical grimoire (Phone)' bank-mobile-alert-666: Pick the overly-long reply. You'll know which one it is. Cuckoo +1 Work: Talk about your Theory (Mutant / werewolf / Zombie / Thousand eyes in their throat). Cuckoo +1

Jump up and charge at the glass doors. Cuckoo +1 (Note: You can't pick the option if you picked 'Fear' as a fear)

After the Sin choice:

I whip out a nearby Bible and try to exorcise the monitor with its words. Cuckoo +1

Mask Choice:

Jason Voorhees Pandemic Mask (ie Hockey Mask Style) Cuckoo +1 Plague Doctor Mask. Cuckoo +1

Final notes:

While character generation isn't overly-long, it's an excellent way to farm cuckoo points (If you pick the right followup options in club and with Adrien, up to +17 to cuckoo score from this section alone). Two picks in particular stand out here in my personal opinion. The Spandex tracksuit, as it's easy to move in, increases your interpretative dance score with the right picks, and gives you an achievement. The other is the Bible Exorcism which, while incompatible with mute, also gives you +1 Will, and those points are quite a bit harder to farm.

[doshi-sukiru]

I saw you were asking for sg asks. I love your stuff au a lot :3 What exactly would it look like for megs if sg Optimus got ahold of him for permanently? What would life look like for them?

Hahaha...that is how my sg megop child came to be actually.

For starters, Optimus would ensure Megatron/D-16 could never leave him. Without Cliffjumper, he does the next 'best' thing he can- have Ratchet alter D-16's form so that he can never fly, and alternatively never transform into his flight alter mode to escape either. And what better way to do that than by clipping his wings off like a bird?

It's not all bad, of course. Optimus makes sure the different areas where Megatron was injured before (his helm, side of his cheek) were properly soldered and sealed up properly. Unlike the surface, medical care in Iacon is much better and safer for Megatron.

Optimus of course, is never letting Megatron out of sight. Outside transportation like trains do exist in Iacon of course, and with Optimus's former past as Orion and his skill of evading guards before taught him anything, any chance Megatron is left alone means there's always a chance of him escaping. And if Optimus can't watch over him, he makes sure there is always a guard following Megatron, and/or is kept in their shared chambers as often as possible.

For Megatron, his presence is overbearing, and often times suffocating too. The first few times he did try to escape, but after being constantly caught and left isolated in their shared chambers long enough, he stopped trying and stayed put. He eventually grew to accept it, but that didn't mean he enjoyed the constant attention.

Of course, being the former leader of Decepticons, and the only mech Primus hates because he defied his original fate, many Autobots mock him and berate him whenever Optimus isn't around. The guards, although are loyal to Optimus, are not as loyal to protect Megatron from their slander. Only when Optimus asks do the guards actually inform him about the situation, but almost always it's overlooked.

One of their most favorite things to do is remind Megatron of the forced removal of his wings and ability to transform properly. Many like to tease him for not really 'escaping his cogless life' for this, even by mechs who were also cogless like him. To avoid it, he chose to wear a cape altered to hide his back entirely.

Like I said, this is how their sg child was born. Ever since their little protoform came online, Megatron has always been there for them as their carrier (bc boTTOM MEGS-) and made sure their growth and development went smoothly. By then, Megatron and Optimus's relationship had begun to heal and grow back to how it was back in the mines, and the two made sure to raise Alioth properly before Megatron died around a vorn later.

Hope that answered it!

[mistymem0ryy]

Yandere Arlecchino x Ballerina Reader

‘Oh who is She’

Summary: As a ballerina in Fontaine’s most prestigious dancing Academy you have lived your life with the intent to serve the arts and being able to provide to your family a next meal. Life in the Opera house flows with the same old mundanity until the growing number of Fatui agents within the country alongside the death of one of your coworkers begins to solidify the already running distaste for the Shneznayan ‘diplomatic’ lackeys. Your opinion about them is as unsavory as the next guy, that is until you meet one of the grand patrons of the Theatre, Arlechinno, whose interest in you and your talent grows concerningly more fierce with every passing performance.

Author’s Notes >>> at the end of the post! please check it out for some clarifications!

Warnings: discussions of pr0stituti0n and the unsavory sides of performance arts, mentions of murder and your common yandere sketchiness

No beta we die like any teenage girl with Slavic ballet teachers

I. A misty memory 

The memory of the Genesis of your own downfall has never faded completely from your straying recollections. It possesses a freshness that stings and contorts. It is partially hidden by a cape of fog, a mist deep enough to make you look twice and yet, within its frailty, to provide you with a rough silhouette of that which now inhabits the realms of the unconscious.

Sometimes you wonder if its repression won’t be for the better. You have, for the first time in your life, genuinely reached the understanding that ignorance is truly bliss.

If you had known that a single glance could have harbored the power to throw you into the scorching depths of hell, you would have blinded yourself by the age of 9.

If you had known that the only way out of such an inferno would be through the merciless mountain of purgatory, you would have preferred for your limbs to be frozen whole alongside that six-eyed beast. Perhaps his flowing tears would have purged you of whatever sin you unknowingly committed in order to be cursed with such a fate.

She says she serves a God in her doings. You fear she has mistaken the voice of her unsightly desires for that of divinity.

But perhaps that must be the forbidden truth stuck within our suffocating throats—that our most grotesque and hideous desires are but a reflection of the Gods.

You were wearing black that day, a colour not unknown to your wardrobe, yet it was worn with a completely different intent, if memory serves you right. A girl around your age, red-haired with a blemish under her right eye. You had previously exchanged some vague pleasantries when alone behind the velvet curtains that could rival the tint of her reddening cheeks; she had once gifted you an arrangement of lavenders as a congratulation to your promotion into one of the highest grades within L’Academie and even went as far as to write one of your favourite poems upon the accompanying card attached to their freshly cut stems.

She had a name; you are sure of it, but for some reason you cannot bring yourself to recollect it now, the girl’s body had been found bloody and mud covered in a soiled ditch on Fontaine’s southern border exactly three days before you formally met Her.

She had been charming; even a blind fool would have been hypnotized by Her  enticing aura. And you had been exactly that—an ignorant and mindless fool.

It wasn’t the first time she had visited the theater; you try your best to blur the faces of the audience into an unrecognizable blob of flesh during performances, but hers was too marking to dismiss. Her gaze scrutinized each minute move of your flowing limbs, there was a certain hunger behind her eyes that made tremors consume the entirety of your body every time you set foot upon that regal stage.

It was as if you were 8 again and praying that the examiners for the exact prestigious company you now work for took pity upon yourself and did not slander your hard work with a crude rejection.

For the first few performances you presumed her attention was, in the least, wandering through your dancing colleagues too, the recurring meetings between your eyes and hers perhaps purely coincidental. That was until your first solo was presented.

You have been witness to hunger and yearning countless times, having even seen them invading and ravaging the souls of those near and afar from you, the prologue of such fervorous and ardent emotions, always far away from being sweet and clean. Like all things should strive to be.

To mistake whatever plundered her mind for ‘hunger’ or ‘yearning’ would be a bland fool’s mistake, you had unwisely mistaken a building famine for a theater’s infatuation, and that was the first of the many errors you would commit along the line.

Deep within yourself, you knew that at some point between this game of cat and mouse the Opera house ceased from being a place for the upper echelons of society to converse and demonstrate their riches while underpaid artists feebly hoped for recognition of their labors, and it began to belong solely to the two of you. 

The stage had become your own dissection table, and you did not know if it was pleasure or terror you derived from her dissecting gaze.

Perhaps your first solo had been the nail upon the coffin. You had refused to look towards her for the entirety of the arduous choreography, depicting the history of Chloé as she is taken unwillingly by pirates, eventually saved before the ravaging, thanking Pan for his graciousness, and once again reuniting with her lover.

 Your eyes were directed towards hers only once the music ceased with a harmonious  and thundering ending. You watched as, from within the silent public, her gloved hands came together and the first clap clamored through the walls, you felt a weird sense of pride and fear as she got up from her seat inside the private box, all while applauding your performance with an elegant smirk adorning her features, the rest of the audience followed suit, collectively getting up from their seats and filling the Opera house with the sound of resounding applause. 

You always felt this clamoring sting upon your scapulae every time your gazes happened to cross; their meeting as quick as their departure, or so you liked to believe.

Even after the closing of the curtains, when the only sound that met your ears was that of ragged breaths and squeaking wood, when the only smell that filled your senses was that of a mixture of human flesh and whatever toxic atrocity held your hair in place, even then you could still feel remnants of her stare covering your body, as if becoming a second layer of skin with every passing performance.

You knew she was Fatui from the beginning; after all, the servants of the so-called Tsaritsa didn’t exactly hide their duties or loyalties, be it by manner of speech or that of dressing. They had good money, though. You knew it. The rest of the dancers knew it. The directors and associates knew it. And sometimes you had to turn a deaf ear to hushed whispers about people mysteriously disappearing in the night without a single trace to be found. Sometimes you had to kill your morals if you wanted your next meal to be within an evening and not within 3 days.

The jeweled and fur-adorned audience could be drowning themselves in luxury and splendour, but the little dolls they so merrily applauded at the end of two continuous hours of Tchaikovsky couldn’t be more far away from such a blissful existence. It had been common for some spectators from the upper balconies to take an interest in certain ballerinas; with time, this commonality became a tradition and eventually a business in its own right. But to discuss it in such a manner would have been blasphemous within the highly adorned walls of the prestigious Theatre, some called it pr0stituti0n, the directors called it keeping their loyal patrons satisfied.

After yet another performance based on local folklore that the rich over-intellectualise in order to differentiate themselves from the common folk, you and your companions sluggishly returned to the poorly lit room where your belongings and whatever remnants of your honour were housed. You were all substituting the attire of Tyrian purple silk with formal dress in the colour of grief. The entire theater was in mourning, or at least that was the image the directors wished to convey.

The death of your fellow ballerina had caused quite the stir within Fontaine’s journals; the cause of the death of this poor girl was being discussed by intellectuals in fancy cafés and by drunks in dirty taverns, and yet you knew there was no real mourning behind it all. Her corpse was their quirky theme for the weekend chatter; a life had been lost, and her memory too would vanish from public memory within a week or two. The headline writers pointing to a possible murder would die out with time and enough pocket money on the directors’ part. Perhaps this was your first direct contact with the fragility and lingering nature of the human experience—to be forgotten, you presumed, was but a logical step in the grander scheme of things.

Some hours before it all went astray, you and other members of the Theatre’s staff had decided to visit a nearby cathedral before beginning the preparations for the performance destined to take place that same day. You had cleansed yourself before entering, scraped your knees upon the humidity of the wooden floor, and even lit your votive candle in front of the mosaic depicting the Hydro Archon.

You selfishly wanted to pray for the health of your family, perhaps even for a better salary, and yet you found yourself solely asking why—what greater good could the death of such a simple and honest girl have brought into this world? Was there a greater meaning behind her early departure? Did she at least have the grace of a painless death? Wherever she is now, is she happy?

The silence you received from the other side was deafening, like slaughter.

You could feel the intensity of an unknown gaze upon the left side of your face. You refused to even cower in its direction, to whomever that glance belonged to, it was most probably of no God that could fulfill your wishes.

You still remember how your knees ached as you gathered yourself from a praying position. How you had bid a good day to the priest upon your hurried leave. 

How you had petted the church’s cat that sluggishly showed you his black furred belly as you passed by his way. 

How you had offered whatever lingering candy you still gathered inside the pockets of your ageing trench coat to some street kids that always went to you for their sweet tooth (the little rascals).

The commute towards the curving golden gates that encircled the greenery belonging to the theater was too mundane to serve as a presage. The Archons had sent you no omens, no foreboding whatsoever. The birds chirped away the same conjunction of clashing tunes, the melody of human society waking up from its slumber and beginning its unceasing movement was the same you had experienced on a loop for years. 

Would you have entered the theatre’s doors if you had known what awaited you at the end of the day? Would you have been able to escape your future if only you had thought twice after the performance, after lingering gazes filled with want and something more?

Perhaps yes, perhaps no. There really is no use in pondering such things now, but you cannot deny that they do serve as interesting thought experiments to pass the time with.

No matter how many times you attempt to recollect the happenings of that day, they always re-emerge from whatever mental corner you’ve confined them in different forms, different silhouettes, different essences. Your memory has slowly lost the trust you had once graced it with, but no matter how many times you repeat that forsaken day in your diminishing mind, there is one thing that always resists change, one single constant within the writing of your doom.

The altar had smelled of chrysanthemums and lavender.

Author’s note: This will be a series of approximately 5 parts, some from Arlechino’s perspective and others structured as reminiscences such as the one just presented. Since Fontaine is still not out, the characterization of Arlecchino could with the coming of new information and lore become erroneous so I feel as if it is my duty to inform you that I am molding her personality based off of the new trailer and imbuing her with certain characteristics of fictional characters I personally think would be similar to her!

[thewizardmus]

Peter Parker could totally handle Gotham and a typical Batman patrol but Bruce Wayne could not do a typical Spider-Man patrol in NYC.

Not because Batman couldn't handle Spidey's rouges gallery, he has that in the bag. Fighting Mysterio isn't really any different from Scarecrow and talking down Solomon Grundy and The Hulk is about the same. Same with Sandman and Clayface, Penguin and Kingpin, The Lizard and Man-Bat, etc. Green Goblin might give him a little trouble but that's just cuz Joker normally doesn't have tech like the glider.

The issue is their theming and the way they approach their communities. Batman's entire image revolves around being feared by Gotham's underbelly. He is the night and all that. It's why he wears dark in the pitch black of night and why his body shape is mostly cape. He is a shadow, practically a primordial entity in Gotham.

But Peter's entire thing is being The Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man it's more about making the civilians feel safe and comfortable knowing he's present. The wise cracking jokes and waiting in line at a hot dog cart are just as important to that as actually webbing up thugs and fist fighting The Rhino again. Spider-Man selfies are as important to NYC as the man himself, whether it be actually Peter posing with the latest issue of the Daily Bugle or some guy with a decent costume. Anyone could be Spider-Man, both in the sense of Peter's anonymity and the fact anyone could use his web shooters and also the idea that anyone on the street could do something to help someone to use their own small amount of power.

And while Bruce has his softer moments where he shows how much he cares and empathizes with the people's pain and suffering because he was there he was that boy in the alley all those years ago. Importantly, that's something that Bruce only ever is shown to either the victim's or his own inner circle. It's not something that criminals are allowed to associate with Batman.

Honestly this thought started with the idea of Bruce being disgusted with Peter eating a hot dog cart hot dog cuz he's a rich boy who gets professionally made meals. This isn't meant to be Batman slander I love both of them this is me saying I want to see Peter give Bruce the ultimate aneurysm.

[amalthea-13]

To balance out the Blitz rants I've been going on here is some Stolas Slander from his ultimate kinnie...

I AM SO GLAD HIS HAT AND OUTFIT ARE DIFFERENT NOW

I love my baby but that fuck ass hat pissed me OFF it obstructed my view of his pretty face.

The main part of his outfit I hate is the torso part that functions as a body suit- Stolas honey WHY?!

His cape thing is the best part of his fit but god i hate that fuck ass hat😭

[mrscienceman4000]

I will never tolerant any cape slander- I don’t care what Edna Mode says- capes are amazing!!

[darksaiyangoku]

RWBY Christmas Tales

Oscar and the Green Knight

It was Christmas Eve and the young King Arthur Azure had invited everyone to a party in Camelot Castle. Most royals had huge banquets, goblets of wine, rich lords and ladies dressed in fancy suits or luxurious dresses. But Arthur was different. Instead, he and his trusty knights were engaged in a snowball fight outside the courtyard. Jaune Arc and Lie Ren stood back to back as they faced Ruby Rose and Nora Valkyrie. Sun Wukong and Yang Xiao Long leaped from the bushes and pelted Weiss Schnee and Blake Belladonna. Sage Ayana, Scarlet David and Neptune Vasilias kept a watchful eye as they hid behind several stone statues for cover. Even the common folk were starting to join in and soon the snowfight turned into a snowbattle. Lines were drawn, families were pitted against each other, best friends became mortal enemies and the Knights of Vale took arms against the very people they swore to defend. It was a frenzy, many had lost their footing and fell onto the soft, velvety ground. In the end, only two were left standing, Arthur and his best friend, Oscar Pine. Oscar held a snowball so large that he had to use both hands, while Arthur's was in the shape of a small egg. They glared at each other menacingly, standing their ground.

Oscar: We knew this day would come, Your Majesty.

Arthur: So it would seem, Oscar. Your resolve to win is strong, but can the same be said about your snowball?

Oscar: *deep breath* This snowball was forged by the hands of the Pine Family. It carries their blessing, courage and honour. As a Knight of Vale *lifts snowball* I'll put everything into- agh!!

Arthur's snowball directly hit Oscar in the nose, knocking him backwards. Oscar felt a cold, hard sting and screeched, much to the amusement of his fellow knights, who were laughing at the sight.

Oscar: Come on!! That wasn't even fair!! I didn't even get the chance to finish my speech!!

Arthur: *chuckles* Consider that a lesson, my friend. You can't delay a battle simply with words, the enemy won't allow it.

Oscar: Tck! Whatever. *grumbles*

Arthur: Oh come on, don't be like that. Tell you what, how about I get Glynda over to make you a warm, sweet plum pie?

Oscar: Hmmmm..... *sighs and smiles* well okay. You know I could never refuse a plum pie.

Arthur: *smiles* That's the spirit! *helps up Oscar*

While all the guests were getting ready to head inside the castle, the gates suddenly burst open and a strong, gust of wind flew into the courtyard. As the wind cleared, everyone was stood silent as they saw a large knight standing before them. His armour was dark, luscious green, his cape was bright red and his hand, he carried a large battle axe, with a a beautiful golden handle. The most ominous feature, however, was his helmet. It bore the horns of a devil and peering through the vizor were ghastly, white eyes. Slowly, the Green Knight entered the courtyard and shook the ground beneath him with every step. Arthur tried to signal his comrades to retrieve their weapons, but the tremors made it impossible to move. The Green Knight in front of Arthur and bowed to him.

Green Knight: Merry Christmas, young King of Vale. I have travelled far and wide for players of my game.

Arthur: ...and what "game" would that be?

Green Knight: The axe I hold in my hand is one of the most powerful weapons in all of Remnant and I shall gladly depart with such a jewell if one is willing to strike me down with it. But whoever is victorious, I shall return the blow in one year's time. Who among you is willing to play? Or are the Knights of Vale merely children pretending to be heroes?

The Knights of Vale took offence to this slander and they all lined up to face the Green Knight. Arthur, however, was stricken with fear. There was a dark presence that he could feel. It was harsh and terrifying. He tried his best to stop his hands from trembling. The people shouldn't see their King afraid. Oscar pushed through the crowd and came between Arthur and the Green Knight.

Oscar: I accept your challenge, sir.

Arthur: What?!

Ruby: What?!

Knights of Vale: WHAT?!

Ruby: *runs to him* Oscar, no! This is crazy!

Arthur: Ruby's right. Please let me handle this.

Oscar: *shakes head* No. It's okay. I was the one who answered his call and I'm the one who's going to see it through. None of you must interfere. *deep breath* I'll be okay.

Reluctantly, Arthur and Ruby stepped away and allowed Oscar to continue with the challenge. The Green Knight gave him the axe and got onto his knees and lowered his head. Oscar gripped the handle as tight as he could and raised the weapon high into the air. He swung the axe down with devastating force and cleaved the Green Knight's head clean off. Many of the people screamed in horror as they witnessed the head roll to Oscar's feet. He turned pale and his stomach felt heavy. The Green Knight reached for his head and stood up, carrying it under his arms.

Green Knight: Well done, Sir Oscar. You have bested me. But remember, you shall return that axe to me so that I can repay you in kind. You have one year. Good luck.

An ugly, bellowing laugh escaped from his head as he left the courtyard. Oscar's legs started to shake and he collapsed to the ground.

Ruby: Oscar!

Arthur: Quick, someone fetch water!

Ruby: *shakes Oscar*Oscar! Oscar! Wake up! Please wake up!

[angel-of-the-moons]

A Rose Under The Moon

Moon Knight System (Marc/Steven/Jake) x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: None mostly. Goldfish slander, some minor injuries resulting from clumsiness, mentions of events from the show. Layla is here! We stan a healthy, happy divorced couple in this house >=\

A/N: There will be multiple chapters like these in this series, mostly dialogue and filler to help facilitate plot.

Taglist: @shirukitsune @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @bad4amficideas

🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒

Chapter 4:

Old, Unhappy, Far-Off Things

"You guys can't keep doing this." Layla said over the phone.

"I know, I know." Marc sighed, running his hands through his hair. He haphazardly sprinkled some fish flakes into the tank to feed the ever chubby goldfish; looking at the glass to see Steven's reflection staring back at him, a frown creasing his features.

(Marc, you're going to make 'em pop!) Steven scolded.

"Well, how am I supposed to know how much to feed three goldfish?" Marc groaned.

"Steven told you the fish were gonna explode, eh?" Layla laughed softly.

"Yeah. Almost exactly that. I swear, I've never met a man who needs an emotional support fish." He replied, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear, screwing the lid back onto the tiny container of nasty-smelling flakes.

(How dare you! Gus and his friends are members of this family! You're going to hurt their feelings!) Steven said, absolutely aghast at Marc's summary of how the little aquatic creatures fit into their lives.

(The other two don't even have names yet, hermanito.) Jake finally piped in, coming to co-front to see what all the fuss was about.

"But seriously, Marc. You have to take it easy. Just tell Khonshu to shove off and ignore his bony ass for a few days!" Layla sighed. Though they weren't married or intimate anymore, Layla still cared deeply for "her boys"; even Jake, to a point. Even if she didn't fully trust him, he was a part of Marc and Steven. Part of their system. She knew Jake was the protector. She knew that he was only violent when he absolutely had to be.

Or when Khonshu sent him after fresh targets. She still didn't like that.

"You think I haven't tried that?" Marc flopped onto the sofa, his hand resting over his face as he sighed.

"He's a god, Layla. It's not so easy to just say no."

"Taweret doesn't seem to have a problem with boundaries." She pointed out.

"Because Taweret is a big softie, Layla. She literally mothers you." Marc retorted with a grunt.

"Well… she is the goddess of motherhood. One of them, anyway." Layla conceded.

"And Khonshu is the god of being a tall, harping asshole who refuses to let me rest." Marc leaned back, closing his eyes as the leather on the sofa softly groaned under his weight.

"You think we like working for him, still? We don't. We need the suit, and people need to be kept safe..."

"Have you considered just… giving it all up? Telling Khonshu you're done? Just hang up the cape?" Layla hummed.

Marc could feel Steven and Jake fade into the background of the headspace, leaving him alone to his conversation with Layla, not enjoying the current topic at all. And it would be smarter to prevent a possible argument between Jake and Marc, right now. They had enough headaches.

"I already tried that, remember? Khonshu just used Jake before we knew he was here and had him kill Harrow."

"Right…"

"And besides…" Marc said, conspiratorially. "...I think he already has his sights set on another person to be a Moon Knight. And I don't know who it is, but I know he's going to hold it over my head. Steven, Jake and I would rather be dead than let some poor, innocent person see the shit we have."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"Okay… You obviously need a mental health break. Anyplace in particular you can go to get away from everything?"

"Well… there is one place. A little shop Steven found that's nearby." Marc replied.

"Is it a bookstore?" Layla laughed.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is." Marc chuckled. "Some woman runs it. American, if you can believe that. Apparently the store was her aunt's or something and she inherited it from her when she died. Steven's built a bit of a rapport with her. Me too. Kinda. She also sells stuff like coffee, tea, snacks… kind of like a one-person cafe."

"She runs it alone?"

"Yeah, impressive actually. But, it's not always safe, I saw that the other day." Marc nodeed.

"Oh? What happened?" Layla asked, wholly invested now. They had a friend? She likely didn't know about their DID, but Marc, and by that extension Steven, and possibly Jake having friends was a win in Layla's book.

"Some abusive drunk ran in after his girlfriend. Apparently she hid his girlfriend in her flat upstairs when she came in covered with bruises and freaking out." Marc said, smiling a bit at remembering your tenacity and urge to protect somebody you didn't even know. Even Jake respected you after that. And Jake respects very few people.

But it proves you were a protector, like he was. Not to the same extent, but close.

"Sounds like a good person."

"She seems like one. I just hope she doesn't get herself into trouble with anymore–ah!" Marc hissed, dropping the phone and waving his hand in the air as pain whipped through his fingertips.

"Shit!" He cursed, picking up the phone again with his other hand. He glared at the red marks appearing in his palm.

"Marc? Are you okay? What happened?" Layla asked, her voice just a hair above worried.

"Yeah, just my fucking hands again. Last week it was my shins." He grunted.

"So either you're getting old," Layla teased. "Or a certain someone hurt themselves again."

"Yeah, just wish they'd quit it. It's really inconvenient."

"That's a bit hypocritical, don't you think?"

"What?" Marc asked, his brow furrowing as he watched the burning red marks blossom on his skin. Pretty, almost, if you were into that sort of messed-up body art.

"Marc, please don't tell me you haven't considered that every time you got hurt, your soulmate felt those pains, too?" Layla deadpanned with a sigh, most likely pinching the bridge of her nose. He could picture it now. She was probably pacing in the kitchen of her flat in Cairo; the sun illuminating her figure, making her curls glow in an amber light, highlighting her jaw as she frowned.

But the thought she triggered in his mind sent a stone dropping into his gullet. Had he really not considered that? He thought that maybe, being Moon Knight would… would dull the pains, or maybe negate them entirely. Or… was he just stupid and didn't put them into consideration?

If they can feel his pain, and he can feel theirs... what about when he…

But sometimes it felt redundant to think about and worry for someone he never met, but at the same time…

"Fuck." Marc hissed, wiping at his face.

"Oh, my gods! You haven't been careful at all have you?" Layla gasped.

"I…"

"Marc! You and the other two need to get it together and take it easy. You think you don't understand things? Imagine how your soulmate feels. They're probably going about their normal daily routines and feel it when you get shot! Oh gods, what about when we were in Egypt and you got impaled?" Layla murmured. "Gods, I almost forgot about… what about when you died? I don't even want to imagine what they felt."

Marc dropped back into the cushions staring blankly at the ceiling. She voiced the very thing he himself was hesitant to mention.

"I… I forgot about that, too." Marc said, his voice almost flat.

"I imagine they must have been confused when their mark reappeared."

"Fuck…" Marc groaned, feeling exhaustion suddenly creep into his body. But then, he jerked, gripping the back of his head. "Damn it!"

"Another pain?" Layla mused.

"God–yeah. Right in the back of my head." Marc grunted.

"Yikes. Your soulmate must not be having a good day." Layla chuckled.

"Whoever they are, they're accident-prone as all hell!" He grumbled, pouting as he rubbed the fresh sore spot.

"Pot callin' kettle, Maaaarc." Layla sang softly over the phone.

"Yeah, yeah. You sound like Steven."

"Good."

"Ugh, please don't say that." Marc said, a smirk cracking his mask of discomfort. "He's already nagging me."

"Okay, okay…" Layla quieted for a moment. "Hey, Marc?"

"Yeah?"

"I might take a trip to London. Maybe if I'm there, Taweret and I can run interference for you to give you a break." Layla suggested.

"Layla… You don't–"

"Already looking at plane tickets." She interrupted.

"Of course you are." Marc smiled. That was one of the things he loved about Layla when they first met. He was drawn to her. Her snark, her determination…

"Yeah. I'll pack a bag and hop the flight that leaves in a few hours."

"Wow, okay." Marc said, his eyes widening. "You're serious about this?"

"Who else is going to babysit you three and get Khonshu off your back if me and the Hippo Mama don't?" Layla jabbed playfully.

"Oh my god, you do not call her that." Marc snorted, shaking his head.

"She thinks it's a cute nickname. And she agrees with my plan, so…"

"Oh great. You two gonna just harp me and remind me to take my vitamins, too?"

"I mean, if we have to…"

"Ugh. You're impossible."

"But that's why everyone loves me!" Layla laughed.

"Sure, sure. And Layla?" Marc asked, looking at the mark on his wrist, a soft fond look in his eyes. It was blooming today, the rose.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"No problem, Marc. Go hang at that bookstore and get a coffee or something, yeah?"

🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒

You hurried up the stairs and rushed to your oven, frantically cursing with each step as you hauled yourself up the stairs and into your flat.

You practically ripped the oven door open, coughing as smoke filled your nostrils as the burned pastries greeted you.

"Damn it!" You whine, slipping your oven mitt on and grabbing the small pan with one hand.

Your phone started ringing and you spun on your heels to glare at the offending object secured to the wall.

"Oh, shut up, you–"

You felt the pan tip when you turned, the blackened treats threatening to fall to the floor, and without thinking you reached out with you other, unprotected hand and gripped it, before making a sharp yelp and throwing the pan onto the counter with a loud bang, blowing air over your burning and blistering hand.

"Shit, shit, shit!" You hiss, turning to your sink and hitting the tap for some cold water. The stinging subsided, if only minutely.

The phone rang incessantly again.

You dropped your shoulders and rolled your eyes with a groan, and pulled away from the soothing coldness of your tap.

But, of course, as your natural "luck" would have it… You trailed water onto your floor, and slipped into it, cracking the back of your head on the tile. Not hard enough to knock you out, no, but it was just enough to hurt, and leave a rather nasty bump.

So. There you lay, flat on your back, water still flushing into the drain of your sink, smoke detector now going off, and your house telephone ringing impertinently.

"I didn't do anything! Why're you guys always giving me the short end of the stick?" You shout at nothing in particular; maybe whatever gods could hear your lamentations and rueful words.

For extra effect, you flipped the bird with your uninjured hand.

Yeah.

Fate was a funny thing, all right.

Chapter 5: Link

[grawlix-ness]

The Big Sleet and Dingo Headcanon Post V2!

Bear in mind this is largely a collection of subconscious Notes app ramblings I’ve patched together so I may have made a few grammatical boo-boos or repeated myself here and there. It’s almost 4AM, I’m sure I’ve missed things. I’ll continue to add and edit this post should more ideas come to mind. Questions encouraged!

Cw: light implications of child neglect, mentions of drinking and mutant body horror

🔫 Sleet 🔪

Sleet was raised in the gutter. He knows a fair bit more than the average Lower Mobotropolis street urchin because his mom was an aristocrat until she was slandered by her peers and booted from high society. She taught him the essentials, and he learned everything else from scavenging library books. Presently, his education has all but fallen through the cracks. He tries to avoid reading most of the time. What will Dingo think if he learns he’s not the uber-genius he makes himself out to be? Why does he care what Dingo thinks? When such thoughts arise, they are pushed away and buried.

He has cybernetic implants to aid with frequent aches and muscle strain. In the winter, he struggles due to a lower cold threshold, the result of a fur and skin condition. Dingo knits sweaters for him. They’re oversized and kind of a mess. On particularly glacial nights, Sleet isn't averse to sharing warmth, willing to cuddle up and be the little spoon, so long as Dingo promises not to tell anyone. 

He had no friends growing up and was often picked on. His ailments and interest in science made him an easy target. Some of his peers disliked him on the very principle of him having an ex-aristocrat mother. This made him prickly and distant. While others played kickball or tag, he was tinkering with junkyard machinery or eavesdropping around spacer hangouts, dreaming of someday getting off planet and flying to a world that’d understand him. 

He’s quite good with a needle and thread and tailors his and Dingo’s ball outfits himself. Sleet gets his sewing skills from his mother. She was the personal outfitter and trusted right hand of an important noblewoman. As a pup, he adored listening to his mother’s stories of galas and masquerades. During such fleeting moments of peace, she’d also make costumes for him. He still heavily enjoys fashion, having a closet dedicated to fancy capes. 

Sometime in his tumultuous childhood, Sleet discovered there was an Honor Guard. He admired their outfits and swordsmanship. Most of all he wanted to join so he and his mother could live in the warmth and safety of a castle. He even fashioned a costume out of his mother’s fabric scraps, complete with a sword made from a rusted metal pipe. She was quick to dash those dreams and didn’t take kindly to him borrowing her things, especially not for such a “ridiculous” project. During lonesome, existential nights he wonders how differently things could have turned out if he had become a member of the guard after all. 

When his mother was absent or too volatile to be around, Sleet found company in local mechanics.  He learned how to swindle and cheat with the best of them. One shop owner actually took him under her wing, viewing his perceived weaknesses as strengths. 

Sleet first developed the transmogrifier as a kid. He used it not only to defend himself against the local rabble rousers and humiliate them. It wasn’t a complete success, only partially transforming targets, giving them wings or eyestalks and other unwieldy appendages. Transformations were temporary. No less horrifying however. 

He calls himself a jack of all trades. This title is dubious. Thanks to an enriching education from the school of hard knocks, he does have an approximate knowledge regarding a variety of things, though it’s usually limited to topics relating to self-preservation and chicanery. 

Animals don’t like Sleet and aren’t afraid to let him know. It’s become a standing joke. Dingo teases him for it, despite the fact that, because of his stature, toothy countenance, and tendency to squeeze or pet too hard, he isn’t the best with animals either. 

Sleet is a skilled marksman. He prefers distance, specializing in both handguns and long guns. If the weight class is right and the odds are in his favor, he can hold his own in close quarters using an array of hidden fighting knives and some rudimentary martial arts. Sleet simply won’t hear that his cape is a hindrance, even when this has been proven multiple times. All that being said, Sleet is more of a fleer than a fighter. He is an unabashed coward, not opposed to unning away screaming with his tail between his legs. 

While preferring motorcycles, he’s not half bad at riding animal mounts, thanks to the teachings of cowboy bounty hunter and old flame Fleabyte. It is serendipitous that he’s acquired this ability, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to stay on as well after zapping Dingo into a beast of burden. The poor brute has heard a lifetime’s worth of ass jokes from his rider. 

He enjoys strategizing and has free time stored away solely for scheming purposes. These lovingly-crafted plans generally go awry due to Dingo’s haphazard, devil-may-care nature and forgetfulness. That’s not to say Sleet would do better in the bounty hunting business on his own. He has the upper body strength of a wet noodle and a predilection for monologues and theatrics. He needs someone to shake him out of these ego trances.

Sleet uses his hands often when talking. Lots of flourishes and waves, tapping his chin as he feigns uncertainty, balling his fists and involuntarily shaking them when incensed. Little itchy, twitchy movements. Dingo finds it most endearing. 

Though tech-savvy and clever, his anger and pride sometimes get the best of him, leading him to make less than wise decisions, such as forcing machines past their breaking points or abandoning plans the moment his buttons are pushed. 

Sleet is not good at maintaining his hygiene, hence the hedgehogs’ odor-themed jabs. He'll polish and shine his armor until it glistens, yet giving the suit an interior deep clean is far from his mind. He's become so dependent on the power high and protection the suit gives him that he rarely takes it off. Dingo found this strange and a little concerning at first, but Sleet has convinced him that a good bounty hunter is always prepared in case of ambush. The thick polluted air of Robotropolis doesn't do any favors for his mangy fur coat either. So if anyone's a flea hotel, it's Sleet, though you’d be hard-pressed to find any fleas that’d give his scrawny hide the time of day.

Underneath that armor, he wears a black one-piece bodysuit  made of a silky, breathable material, more resilient than it appears. Sleet is skin and bones. It’s why he prefers working with a partner. He went through—or rather left for dead—dozens of other partners before finding a suitable match. Dingo’s hardy. Sturdy. Loyal. Revoltingly sweet. He’s an intriguing oddity to him. Dingo could easily kill him and yet he doesn’t. For a time Sleet wondered if he was just too dim to ever consider betrayal. 

He’s not big on displays of affection or people entering his personal bubble. However, when traversing through big crowds, he always presses close to Dingo, sometimes even reaches for his hand. 

Considers himself sophisticated. He’ll generally greet with a low bow and flourish, allies and enemies alike. Has neat freak tendencies, despite the fact he’s a hot mess himself.  In short, rules for thee, but not for me. There’s often a mental tug of war between his debonair self and the mouth-frothing sewer rat that lies deeper beneath. 

Sleet has a bad habit of late night tinkering.  He isn’t actively trying to be a night owl, time gets away from him. If Dingo doesn’t carry him off to bed beforehand, he ends up hunched over and asleep at his study. It does no favors for his already poor posture and eye bags. 

His reputation precedes him. When he freelanced, many bounty hunters steered clear of him because he was a noted cheat that backstabbed his partners. Despite these unsavory exploits, he manages to reel in even the most disconcerting of clients via ingratiation, boasting a nigh supernatural silver tongue. Those who’ve been tricked by him before cite his wordsmithing as being almost hypnotic. 

He tries his damndest not to acknowledge Dingo’s gaga eyes and honey glow cheeks. More times than one would deem platonic, he’s gotten distracted by Dingo’s chest. Though, to his credit, it’s hard not to when your co-pilot’s almost always shirtless and idly flexing his muscles. Even harder when you’re pinned beneath his chest—Dingo could make tripping over his feet a professional sport. 

💪 Dingo 🧬

Dingo has a sizable extended family, a horde of siblings and cousins back home. His destructive tendencies came as no shock to his aunts who raised him, since the family business used to be organized crime. The syndicate disintegrated long before Dingo was born, other groups like the Toad Warriors and Bear Pack Bikers quickly outcompeting them. 

Has no memory of his mother or father and holds no ill-will towards them. He has plenty of wild theories about their disappearance though. Everything from being lost at sea to being flattened by an asteroid. Whatever it was, he’s convinced it must have been legendary.

Of his litter he is the eldest brother. Barring fur color, none of his family look quite like him. His spots and flopped ear are noted recessive traits. His more dramatic features are the result of an understudied mutant gene. Nobody’s sure where in the family tree it came from. So far as Sleet can glean, it’s one in a billion, a title Dingo wears proudly. He isn’t interested in making connections with any long lost relatives, fearing there could be someone out there better than him at all things mutant. 

Dingo grew up in the outback of Tralius, quite some distance away from the hustle and bustle of Mobotropolis. He was a rambunctious, often rude and aggressive child. A typical schoolyard bully. Sometimes he would lament over his appearance and wish other kids invited him to play, but those moments were short-lived. Fortunately for his peers he could be easily tricked or bribed with sweets. 

Whereas Sleet took up inventing and sewing, Dingo loved throwing his weight around and exploring the great outdoors, wrestling every beast he came across and scaring vacationing campers late at night by pretending to be a Mobian-eating monster. 

In pursuit on foot, Dingo is bad at maneuvering sharp turns. His topheaviness and clumsy feet have cost a number of hunts. 

He has a sweet tooth. One thing he appreciates about the aristocracy is their love of extravagant desserts. 

He is very naïve and trusting. It was worse when Sleet wasn’t in the picture to talk him out of things. A country boy in the big city, Dingo was scammed out of a lot of his Mobium when he first arrived in Lower Mobotropolis. The shell game was just too alluring. 

Dingo is not so oblivious that he can’t rebuke Sleet’s gratuitous blaming. He can be sassy. Those who’ve had the displeasure of working with them can attest that, when tensions are high, they have the propensity to bicker like an old married couple. 

For someone who was raised in Tralius, he is unusually afraid of spiders and other crawly arachnids. He doesn’t enjoy turning into insects either, finding the overall sensation, in his words, icky. 

Transformation is typically painless. He tends to be sore after taking on the more abstract forms. If the strain is really bad, he will go to Sleet and ask to be massaged. Sleet used to refuse, but he has since humored him, asserting that he’s only doing it to check for signs of molecular decay. 

Dingo can morph without the assistance of the transmogrifier, though the process is slower. It depends on how distant taxonomically-speaking the chosen form is from his mammalian base. These transformations are not too pleasant visually or audially, so the remote is preferred.

Dingo’s mutant abilities have some drawbacks. Because of his rapid healing, his body will try to stop him from getting tipsy and keep him on his A-game.  He has to drink by the barrel to feel even the slightest buzz. Additionally, being stuck in one form for too long can leave him achy and disoriented, and if he changes too frequently his molecules buckle and unravel. It’s not a pretty sight. Sleet even theorizes that if he’s in a form for over two hours, he will get stuck that way. They have had close calls before, where after finally being turned back from a Mobini, some behavioral traits of the animal lingered.

Before meeting Sleet, Dingo could only morph if he remained focused, and those transformations were generally simple, such as limb multiplication or extension. The transmogrifier effectively glues his molecules together, meaning he doesn’t have to exert his concentration anymore. Colors are still somewhat of a challenge, tinted with his default orange. Nevertheless, he fools the untrained eye. When tasked with disguising as another Mobian, Sleet coaches him and will always supply him with a hidden microphone. 

After an especially big transformation, Dingo becomes so drowsy he can hardly stand. All that molecular stretching and rearranging, it’s draining. When he wakes, he is insatiably hungry. Which is saying a lot because Dingo already packs food away like it’s nothing due to his bulking regime. 

His accelerated metabolism often manifests in odd cravings, such as tuna and peanut butter sandwiches or pickle and pineapple ice cream sundaes. Sleet wishes he’d partake in his experimental cuisine somewhere else. Preferably out of the Red Whiptail’s cockpit—he gets crumbs everywhere. Despite being an extreme omnivore, Dingo cannot handle spicy food.

When he’s not making unusual combinations, and in turn making Sleet’s stomach churn, Dingo’s a decent chef. Messy, but decent. He’s the more culinarily adept of the two and makes dinner when time allows. 

He likes scrapbooking. Dingo has more stationary and cute pens than he knows what to do with. Unfortunately he’s heavy-handed, so many of his supplies are worn with love. He keeps mementos of every successful hunt. Little knick knacks and trinkets, maybe the occasional tooth from a beaten adversary.

Not necessarily a couch potato, though does spend most of his downtime lounging in front of the TV. He enjoys playing video games, although he’s not very good at them on account of his itchy trigger finger skipping past tutorial levels.  As long as he can shoot or smash things or toss chubby penguins off cliffs, he’s happy. He watches mainly big loud action movies, corny rom-coms, and slapstick cartoons. Sleet believes his screen time will rot the little left of his brain, though he has shown some interest in the historical Delmontian dramas Dingo skips past while channel surfing.

Has been known to boast quite the sailor mouth. It doesn’t happen often, the most foul only invoked for particularly painful offenses like stubbing a toe. Sleet doesn’t know what half the Trailian swears mean and at this point he’s afraid to ask.

Dingo does not like shirts. He especially hates the tuxedos and dresses Sleet makes him wear whenever there’s a bounty on an aristocrat. He tries to keep his grumbling to a minimum because dressing up makes Sleet happy. In casual settings, if more than his shorts is outright necessary, he’ll wear a quippy graphic tank top.

When they go out of town, Dingo always hits up a tourist trap or two, no matter how blatantly overpriced or mind-numbing. He’s a big fan of carnivals and amusement parks. Dingo’s demolished many strength tester games and would most assuredly be banned if he wasn't one of Robotnik's hirelings.

Not the sharpest tool in the shed, true, but he is definitely the more emotionally aware of the duo. When it comes to personal matters, he’s a good listener.

He has a twinge of separation anxiety. It’s not super debilitating, he just gets restless if Sleet is away for long. He can be possessive. This proves a problem whenever Sleet goes Casanova Mode to retrieve information from targets. It’s worth noting Sleet has moments of jealousy too when Dingo manages to hit it off with others, though he’d never admit it.

The hedgehog triplets are aware of Dingo’s crush on Sleet. To catch him off guard, they’ll sometimes slyly allude to it, much to a flustered Dingo’s chagrin.

Finds Sleet’s voice very soothing. It’s so soft and muted. He could listen to it all day. Often he does since, while certainly less exuberant than Dingo, Sleet can be a chatterbox when it comes to aristocratic gossip and comparing blaster models.

Despite being certifiably canine, Dingo makes all manner of noises. He snorts and huffs like a bull when upset and can unleash fearsome, leonine roars. When happy, he rumbles. 

Excitable. Liable to break the nearest object in vicinity from pure exuberation. 

Dingo can’t see well without his glasses. Despite the swanky look, they are in fact prescription. If they’re misplaced or knocked off by a meddlesome hedgehog, his clumsiness is increased tenfold. He is gentle when handling them. 

Dingo wears a bracer on his right leg. In a comedy of errors, he injured his leg as a pup while playing with a slingshot. For reasons unknown, his healing factor neglected to kick in. His knee aches at times. Dingo mostly wears it because he finds it cool and fashionable. 

His fighting knowledge is limited to the concept of hitting, hitting hard, and hitting dirty. He has no formal training, relying on instinct and what he’s seen on television to best enemies. His moves are sloppy and unrefined, but no less formidable. As a mutant shapeshifter, he’s also granted a number of potential forms. Even without Sleet’s transmogrifier, his elasticity allows him to grow in size and turn his arms into whipping tentacles or his hands into mallets. He could finish fights before they even start with this power, however Dingo prefers to milk his battles for all their worth. Some Freedom Fighters have reported seeing him actually play with the battered and unconscious like they’re dolls. 

He is actually well-kempt all things considered. Dingo enjoys bubble baths and singing—or caterwauling, as Sleet calls it—in the shower. His fur coat is soft and surprisingly dense, especially in the winter when it grows out. He sheds and has to brush himself fairly often. If he’s in a good mood, Sleet will help. The mastiff-like skin folds around his neck also have to be cleaned regularly. His mane is naturally bristly, akin to that of a wild boar. It softens somewhat after a good shampoo.

Dingo makes the first moves. He is usually the one who initiates. Trouble is, if it doesn’t involve flexing his guns or pulling a smoldering expression, Dingo’s bad at flirting. His word choice is . . . unique. Lummox that he is, his compliments come across more like threats. Turns out Sleet does not in fact appreciate being called small, fragile, and edible among other things. He’s since tried to alleviate this by writing down pick-up lines on his hand. 

Dingo’s definitely the more doggish of the two. He wags his tail, something seen as uncouth in aristocratic social circles and immature in most other places. He’s wounded himself on occasions by wagging so hard. Dingo also barks when he gets too excited or surprised and, due to his muzzle structure, is predisposed to drooling. If Dingo is proving particularly stubborn about going into a death trap or being used as bait, Sleet can convince him with a scritch between the ears. 

Additional Information

Their partnership was bumpy at first. Their differing personalities clashed and sometimes led to physical altercations. Nothing too dramatic of course, they are still cartoon animals after all. Dingo pulled his punches. Sleet might have been a nag, but he didn’t want to see him hurt.

Sleet and Dingo are both bisexual. Dingo has a slight preference towards men and masc folks. Sleet is trans. He performed his top surgery himself. Despite the quality of the tools he had at the time, his scars have healed remarkably well.

The two are very competitive. Before being hired by Robotnik, on particularly uneventful nights they played board games. They’re both cheaters so they went around in circles for hours. Lots of yelling, finger pointing, and eventually falling into a heap on the floor because they stayed awake all night trying to psyche each other out.

When they manage to squeeze any free time out of their schedule, they enjoy going to arcades and stealing prizes from kids. They also like to take potshots at the irradiated wildlife on the outskirts of Robotropolis and do prank calls—the Robotnik Intelligence Agency being a favorite victim.

Dingo believes that Sleet’s love language is mockery. That might not be too far from the truth. Sleet genuinely doesn’t know how to express himself. He doesn’t altogether know if he wants to. Sleet’s trained himself to think the worst of everyone so he’s not disappointed or hurt in the long run. In truth, Sleet appreciates acts of service. Dingo’s love language is considerably more simple, as things regarding Dingo so often are. Dingo’s huggy, nuzzly, altogether physically affectionate.

Sleet snores terribly. It’s not so much the volume as it is the whistling his nose makes. He’ll never admit to it, and gets flustered whenever Dingo tells him. Fortunately the walls of Robotnik’s fortress are thicker than those of their previous abodes, giving Dingo the chance to rest easy.

Dingo doesn’t understand mirrors. Sleet, egotist that he is, rather likes mirrors. He hasn’t owned any since the incident. It’d be a hassle to clean up glass and find a replacement everytime Dingo popped his head into Sleet’s quarters. Sleet has explained how reflections work to him several times before, yet it never seems to stick.

In his default state, Dingo has a strongman build. Sleet is a beanpole. Without his boots and shoulderpads, he’s slightly shorter than Dingo.

As far as affairs of the heart go, their relationship is unspoken. Dingo’s doing all he can, Sleet pretends he doesn’t see it, as on principle he believes love is for fools. There may or may not have been some wild nights where he had too much wine and slurred a few things suggesting otherwise however. He’s softening up to the idea, even if he doesn’t know it yet. In essence, he’s perpetually stuck in a “I Won’t Say (I’m In Love)” loop.

[lakesbian]

how do we feel about aisha knowing what taylor’s ass looks like because she watched her and brian. why did she do that

she didn't WATCH don't slander her!!! she Walked In, Accidentally, during an honest attempt to check on her severely traumatized older brother. and then spent the next 2 years of her life being all surprised_pikachu.jpeg every time using her power to make ironic creepy jokes or jumpscare people leads to everyone assuming she's actually unironically into being creepy with her power. her great agony is shes always accidentally walking in on shit she shouldnt see but because shes unnoticeable she never gets to experience the catharsis of the embarrassment being mutual and she cant bring it up later without everyone assuming shes being weird. even if she drops her power in the moment it just induces "how long were you there" questions and there's no way of proving she really did just walk in. its her god given right to #cope by making fun of taylor and brian w/ alec about it. sucks 4 her that he bit the dust bc now who is she supposed to tell about all the capes shes caught picking their nose