#delete in a few... needed to make sure i could still draw humans...

[mobofficial]

🤞🤞🤞 mr stampede

[lavendarlily]

yeah of course my first fic for @phicphight is gonna be crack

for the prompt that wasn't a prompt by @faeriekit

am i doing this right?

prompt: PR096 - No prompt, just a note; I can't guarantee I understand the format of the prompts required here.

words: 777

click here to read on ao3

jack stumbles across something troubling, but finds the light at the end of the tunnel.

Finally. He had the house to himself. Jazz was at a study group, Maddie went to test some weapons in the field, and Danny… well, all Jack knew was that Danny wasn’t home. 

Jack loved his family - so incredibly much that it was a miracle you could fit all that love into one man (even one at Jack’s size). Yet between the needs of his children and assisting his wife with her inventions, it was difficult to find a moment for himself. Believe it or not, Jack Fenton did in fact have interests and hobbies outside of ghosts. It was just hard to make time for them, and boy was that new yarn burning a hole in his crafts closet, just waiting to be used. First, there were a few techniques he wanted to research before really digging in.

He fetched the laptop from the basement, and grabbed a soda from the fridge on his way to the living room. Jack settled in, feet resting on the coffee table since Maddie wasn’t home to tell him otherwise. He opened the computer, and groaned to himself when a myriad of open tabs took over the screen.

He’d told the kids so many times! Close your tabs after using the computer! He was always afraid of accidentally closing or deleting something they needed or hadn’t saved. There was also a sense that looking through their history was an invasion of privacy, but whoever had used the computer last would have to give up that privilege. He carefully clicked through the tabs, making sure there wasn’t anything potentially important before exiting out of each one. At least his kids had been doing their homework - Shakespeare analyses, essay writing tips, and hey! They’d found a tutor through some site called ChatGPT that was helping them with their assignment. 

He was almost done, ready to dive into video tutorials on achieving the perfect cross-stitch, when he paused. Though Jack tried not to linger on a page longer than he deemed necessary, this one caught his attention. An all too familiar face stared back at him - multiple faces - arranged against a blue background. Jack squinted his eyes at the search bar, reading it aloud.

“Tum-bl-er,” he said slowly. What the hell was this? Jack was certainly concerned at the amount of Phantom propaganda on the screen, leading to an even more troubling question: Which of his kids had fallen under the ghost boy’s spell to have ended up on a hell-site like this?

He scrolled through post after post of photos taken by Amity Park locals, elaborate drawings of the ghost kid, musings of his origins and whereabouts and… oh gosh… love-life. Who were these people worshiping Phantom like this? And why was Jack still looking at it?

It was like a car crash - he couldn’t look away. However, this led him to one post that finally gave Jack a semblance of hope. 

Phic Phight.

Jack knew he was no genius, but he side-eyed the misspelling and continued to skim through the rest of it. Fighting was all he needed to hear, especially if there was a group of people who idolized Phantom like… this. The ghost kid needed to go. These people needed to be saved from his manipulation! The words “Team Human” jumped out at Jack from the text, and without needing any more convincing that this is where he needed to be, he clicked the link that led to where he could sign up. 

He skipped through all the boring information and went straight into entering his information. There were a few questions he didn’t know how to answer, but he was Jack Fenton! Anyone who was organizing against the ghost problem that plagued Amity Park knew where to find him. 

There were only a few questions left, labeled as “Prompts”. Jack wasn’t too certain what it meant, but he could only envision it as where to leave suggestions for the best ways to defeat and capture Phantom. He entered the words electrocute, net, and Fenton Bazooka. He felt a little guilty for not understanding the entire gist of what was going on, so he also left a quick note for the organizer in hopes they would be forgiving.

Jack clicked the submit button at the bottom of the page and smiled to himself. He couldn’t wait to meet all these other folks interested in the well-being of their town. Team Human. It had a nice ring to it. He’d be sure to let Maddie know when she returned - who wouldn’t want the Fentons on their team?

And maybe… he could even get his boy Danny in on it too. 

[youhideastar]

Fit for Purpose Deleted Scenes II: Alternate Version, Second Half

Yesterday I posted the first batch of deleted scenes from Fit for Purpose: the first half of a backstory chapter that I ultimately deep-sixed as a distraction. For more explanation, please read that first-half post! Today I'm sharing the second half of that backstory chapter. Again, I'm going to try to keep my commentary on the scenes to a minimum so as not to make this post longer. Other deleted scenes posts are linked in the masterpost. I hope you enjoy!

We pick up during the Sunshot Campaign, with a scene that I've always found perplexing in canon - WWX promising to let LWJ help him with the demonic cultivation. It's not clear in canon whether he ever actually does that. Here, I decided he would.

On another rooftop in the moonlight, eyes dark and urgent, Lan Zhan says, “Wei Ying. You are trying to snatch grain from a roaring fire.”

Because without that grain, I’ll starve, thinks Wei Wuxian. For a moment, he imagines telling Lan Zhan about his core. It’s a wild thought, quickly smothered.

“Wei Ying. Let me help.”

Wei Wuxian knows what he should do: call him “Lan Wangji” again. Smile like a knife. Shove him away.

But the end of the war is coming, and Wei Wuxian knows he’s unlikely to survive it. A few months doesn’t seem like too long a time to pretend that he can be fixed—that what he’s missing is something Lan Zhan can give him.

He says yes. Lets Lan Zhan play pretty songs for him. Spiritually, they do nothing for him.

But the lie makes Lan Zhan feel better.

They’re at war. Lan Zhan could be hurt or killed at any time. Wei Wuxian doesn’t want the last thing he said to him to be cruel. That’s all.

*

In the end, they win. He wins.

The other sects make the omega Meng Yao—Jin Guangyao, now—the hero. What he did, they understand. One short, sharp thrust.

It makes A-Cheng and Lan Zhan angry on Wei Wuxian’s behalf; for his part, Wei Wuxian couldn’t care less. He did what he needed to do. He fulfilled his purpose. He didn’t do it for the glory.

They go back to Lotus Pier.

A-Cheng and Jiejie want everything to go back to the way it used to be. They treat him like Yunmeng Jiang’s head disciple.

So he tries to act like it.

But there’s a hole inside of him. And so, there are things he can’t do. Things he can’t give, because he gave them already, and there’s no getting them back.

He can’t teach sword cultivation—can’t even draw his sword. And no one wants to hear about his talismans; the ones he writes in blood. The ones that draw evil in, rather than repelling it. Any of a half-dozen others would be a better head disciple than he would.

There’s only one part of his job he can really do anymore. And even that is… harder than it used to be. They want to touch and be touched, but his skin still crawls with the touch of the dead. And he doesn’t want to put his mouth on them. He never wants human flesh in his mouth again.

He’d thought he’d be dead for this part.

He was supposed to be dead for this part.

Maybe he is.

A-Cheng lays into him for failing in his duty. For not giving enough. Wei Wuxian places his hand over his incision scar and keeps his silence. He knows it’s true. No matter how much he gives, it could never be enough.

That previous scene is probably the one that hurt the most to cut. I really liked it. But DAMN did it bring down the vibe of the fic. It's so bleak in tone that it really could not coexist with the cute banter in the Jingshi.

Next is my first crack at the Baifeng Mountain scene.

Come to Gusu with me, he says. Let me play for you, let me help you, he says. I am the one who knows you, he says. Better than you know yourself.

For a moment, he imagines it. Going to Gusu with Lan Zhan. Letting Lan Zhan take care of him, letting Lan Zhan imprison him—he can’t tell anymore what it is that Lan Zhan wants to do with him, but he’s not sure he cares. At least he’d be with Lan Zhan. At least Lan Zhan understands that he’s changed. At least Lan Zhan isn’t expecting him to pretend he’s still the laughing boy on the rooftop.

Ah, but it’s a selfish, selfish thought.

Yu-furen saw it in him all along.

For him to cling to Lan Zhan—brilliant, perfect, unparalleled Lan Zhan, who has never needed or wanted anything from Wei Wuxian, not even his body—is just another symptom of his weakness.

No. Wei Wuxian knows what he is. What he is meant for. He is meant to be of use. That is what he was made for. That is why he was saved from starvation on the streets – so he could be of use. To Jiang Cheng, and to Jiejie.

He ignores the voice murmuring in his head, But what use are you to them, really? Except as a mascot, and a whore.

But that didn't really address what I consider the main point of the Baifeng Mountain sequence in this AU, and an incredibly overlooked moment in canon, imo: Jin-furen's assertion that people are starting to believe that WWX and JYL are sexually involved. To me, this is THE turning point of this arc for WWX. The only way he'd ever leave Lotus Pier is if he thought it was better for JC and JYL if he did. I think by this point in canon, he's long ago decided JC would be better off with a different head disciple, but JYL is keeping him hanging on. He doesn't feel like he's failing her. Until this moment, when Jin-furen supplies him with a reason to believe that his presence is hurting JYL, too. At that point, he feels he has to leave. I think if he hadn't found Wen Qing in the street, he might have just wandered out of Lanling and noped out of the whole cultivation world at that point.

None of Yu-furen’s lectures or Jiang-shushu’s stories or A-Cheng’s threats taught him what to do when the very people he’s supposed to live for are better off without him.

He’s a useless head disciple to Yunmeng Jiang Sect. Everything he does makes A-Cheng angry. Whenever Jiejie sees him, she looks worried. Even Lan Zhan—according to Lan Xichen—is working himself to the bone in a futile quest to purify Wei Wuxian’s nonexistent core and bring him back to the sword path.

Then, on Baifeng Mountain, he learns that it’s so much worse than he thought.

“You shouldn’t be alone with him, A-Li,” Jin-furen says firmly.

Jiejie flinches. “A-Xian is my didi. There’s nothing improper—”

“With your mother gone, there is no one who will tell you what you need to hear,” Jin-furen interrupts. When she looks at Jiejie, her face is kind; the look she flicks at Wei Wuxian is like a knife. “But I will. A-Li, didi or no, people are talking. An unmarried omega who turned down an advantageous match to a powerful alpha to stay with her brother…”

“Yes,” Jiejie says, cheeks pale. “My brother, Jin-furen. Will you tell me to stay away from A-Cheng, too?”

Jin-furen waves her fan. “Of course not. That’s different. A-Li.” She barely bothers to drop her voice when she says, “You know what betas do. You know what they’re for.”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t know what Jiejie says to that. He doesn’t stay to find out. And he doesn’t plan to come back.

If he drinks himself to death, it’ll reflect poorly on Yunmeng Jiang. But if he flashes enough gold in the right parts of Lanling City, he thinks he can probably get himself knifed pretty easily, and bleed out fast enough that no one will wonder why his core didn’t save him.

Then A-Cheng can find a better head disciple, and Jiejie’s reputation will be safe.

And Lan Zhan—

Well. Lan Zhan will be fine. He won’t have to try to save Wei Wuxian anymore. Once the first shock is past, it’ll probably be a relief.

*

But in Lanling City, Wei Wuxian doesn’t find a knife in the dark.

He finds a woman in a red cloak, starving and bruised, searching for her beloved brother.

And some part of him that he thought was dead roars back to life, like a new-fed flame.

He remembers standing side-by-side with Lan Zhan, remembers the vows they made. He can’t be a good brother or a good beta. He can’t be head disciple, or cultivate the sword path.

But he can stand with justice. He can defend the weak. He can live with a clear conscience.

For the first time since his body was shattered against the death-soaked earth of the Burial Mounds, Wei Wuxian feels alive.

*

Lan Zhan doesn’t see it that way. Lan Zhan, sheltered under his pretty umbrella, tries to call Wei Wuxian back to the path of orthodoxy.

But Wei Wuxian has just walked away from a valley of corpses. He has seen what the path of orthodoxy is paved with. His hands are shaking. Behind him are those few he managed to save – cold, dirty, half-drowned, frightened, sick. He cannot walk away from them. He cannot believe Lan Zhan would ask him to.

PISSED-OFF AND INCREDULOUS. “We promised we would devote our lives to fighting the wicked and defending the weak!” he shouts, while the thunder rolls. His eyes sting as rain drips down his face. “You tell me, Lan Zhan: who is strong, and who is weak? Who is right, and who is wrong?”

Lan Zhan has no answer.

It rises in Wei Wuxian, then: the same smooth-polished calm that came upon him in the Xuanwu Cave, when he thought the moment had come for him to die for A-Cheng. A quiet but powerful peace.

Yes. He could die here. Now. Not knifed in an alley by some thief, trying to slip unnoticed from a world where he was no longer needed, but in battle against the mighty Hanguang-jun, defending the innocent. That would be worthy. That would be right.

As he raises Chenqing between them, Wei Wuxian can feel himself smiling. His belly churns with joy and sorrow, fear and anticipation.

“If there has to be a fight,” he says, very steady, “then let me fight to the death with you. If I have to die, then let it be at the hands of Hanguang-jun. It would be no injustice.”

But in the end, Lan Zhan steps away.

So Wei Wuxian rides forward. To Yiling, where Jiang-shushu rescued him all those years ago. To Yiling, where he dragged his body back from broken death.

He’s been reborn in Yiling twice. Maybe he can do it one more time. He can only try.

Here is an alternate version of WWX's decision to go with Wen Qing. I'm ultimately not sure which one I like better.

It would be monstrous of him to follow her. To turn his back on his family. His purpose.

You live for them. Die for them, if you have to. Don’t you dare keep anything for yourself that could go to them.

A perversion; a rebellion against nature, from which there could be no return and no redemption.

He thinks about the prisoners shuffled out in chains before the targets. Thinks about the screaming of the women, at Nightless City, as the blood ran from under the doors. Of the old men shot down from behind by golden arrows as they fled on the road, sobbing.

*

Three.

Two.

*

He swore, once, to live with a clean conscience.

He should never have made that vow—his conscience, like the rest of him, belonged to Yunmeng Jiang. It was not his to dispose of.

But he did. He did make that promise.

And even though it makes him ungrateful, and unfilial—even though he knows there will be no coming back from this—he finds he can’t break it.

This one thing, in the end, is his.

Either way, we pick up with this bit covering WWX's second stay in the Burial Mounds. Honestly, this is mostly me getting high on my own worldbuilding.

In the Burial Mounds, every moment reminds him of his time in hell. Resentful energy courses through his veins. His stomach growls with hunger. He wakes every morning with the knowledge that he has turned his back on the whole reason for his existence; that he is an ungrateful, unfilial disgrace.

And still, it is easier to breathe here than it was in Lotus Pier.

The things the Wen refugees need from him are things he can actually give: protection, and they don’t care that he uses methods other than the sword; labor, and for the first time since Wen Qing cut him open, he is not the weakest of the group; and money.

Most prostitutes are claimed omegas; safe enough, since a person can only be claimed once, but clients complain about the smell of a foreign claim, vinegary-sharp and off-putting.

A beta, then, can command a high price – even a skinny, dirty one, who can only ply his trade in alleys and teahouses, rather than silk-sheeted brothel beds.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t mind it. After all, it’s not like it’s so different.

This is what he was made for. People have always told him that. It’s just that, now, they give him money when they say it.

Then there's the "LWJ visits Yiling" section, which made it into the finished fic. We pick up with:

After Lan Zhan leaves, Wei Wuxian doesn’t expect to see anyone from his old life ever again, unless it’s at swordpoint.

But he’s always been loved too well – loved more than he deserves.

“Jiejie,” he whispers, eyes full of tears, as she stands before him resplendent in red.

“I wanted you to see me in my wedding clothes,” she says gently. “Do you like them?”

“You look magnificent,” he tells her, throat tight.

It’s almost more than he can bear, to sit around a table with Jiejie and A-Cheng eating pork rib and lotus root soup, being asked—at A-Cheng’s urging, how?—to give a courtesy name to Jiejie’s firstborn. He thought this was gone for good, and now, it’s—

It isn’t like he never left. It doesn’t feel that way. Wen Ning is waiting outside; the rest of the Wens up on the mountain; his stomach is growling despite the soup, because it’s all he’s eaten all day; black curls of resentful energy fill the ugly hole where his core used to be.

But it feels like, maybe, he could find a new way of belonging. Like, maybe, he could have both: be true to his family and his sect and be true to the vow he made with Lan Zhan.

*

He’s so stupid. He never learns.

And every time he falls into the delusion, people die.

*

But when he gets Lan Zhan’s invitation to Jin Rulan’s 100-days celebration, it seems like a sign from the heavens. Confirmation. He can have both, and the proof is right here, in his nephew’s name written in Lan Zhan’s perfect calligraphy.

He works in a frenzy on his gift for the baby. Night and day, applying new protections, refining those that are already there. Every mo, yao, gui and guai he can think of will be repelled. Curses, too – every curse he ever learned about, and some he invented himself.

This is how he’ll make up for it – how he’ll pay the Jiangs back for what he owes them. Every disappointment, every time he wasn’t there for Jiang Cheng or Jiejie when they needed him, will be made right. He pours his time, his ingenuity, his expertise, and his literal blood into these beads.

They’re not fine jade or lustrous gold. Probably a kid raised as the heir to Lanling Jin won’t want to wear it. But Jiejie can make him, when he’s little. And when he’s older, he can carry it with him in a bag or in his sleeve – that will be enough. Wei Wuxian takes care to make the protections strong enough for that. He doesn’t want to overlook anything. It has to be perfect. This is his chance.

You do anything your jie needs, Yu-furen’s voice echoes, every time Wei Wuxian’s eyes start to close under the weight of his exhaustion. And her children, someday.

I will, Yu-furen, he promises silently, rubbing his eyes and returning to his work. I swear it. I will.

*

And then, there is the ambush.

The box falls from his sleeve.

Jin Zixun closes his hand and—

Wei Wuxian doesn’t completely remember what happens after that.

The dust that used to be lotus-seed beads, pouring from Jin Zixun’s fist like sand through an hourglass – he remembers that very well. It replays in his mind, again and again.

But afterward. That’s when he loses the thread. Loses control.

Loses—

*

Jin Zixuan.

Wen Qing and Wen Ning.

A-Yuan.

Wen-popo. Fourth Uncle. All of the Wens he fought so hard and gave so much to save.

Lan Zhan – his enemy now.

Jiejie, widowed and grieving. Jiejie, wounded. Then—

*

“Jiejie!”

*

There’s no point, after that.

Lan Zhan takes his hand, holds on, won’t let go when Wei Wuxian tells him to. He looks at Wei Wuxian like he sees something worth saving.

But then A-Cheng is there; Wei Wuxian smiles. Good. This is how it should be. His life is A-Cheng’s to take. It always has been.

Everything happens very quickly, then.

And then there’s nothing at all.

Okay, that's all very depressing... future deleted scenes posts won't be so bleak, I promise! Stay tuned for tomorrow's installment.

[cheshire-castle-library]

I've been playing around on Bluesky for a couple weeks now and I have opinions; but other than "ooh shiny" drawing me to use it, I don't really think I'm going to stay posting there forever. It's like Twitter, which means its like Twitter, and I don't really want to have a habit of "instant media consumption", which is why I deleted TikTok and why I avoid Instagram. I don't want to be that addicted to the instant dopamine hit of each new post.

At least here, I have to look, ingest something, make a decision, and then either leave it alone or record it for later. Like, at the end of the day, I'll without fail find content on Tumblr that turns out to be a resource that I can apply to future goals and projects; which I can do along side getting to be mass-social in a semi-safe way, and getting to be creative in a semi-safe way.

What I noticed about being on Bluesky was that I felt like everything I was doing was "begging for attention". Which, is kind of what all social media is about; but the reason I post on Tumblr is very different than posting on Twitter/Bluesky. Here, I share a story because I expect that someone, somewhere will see it eventually. Sometimes that happens, and I post something that helps or at least interests someone that day. Sometimes that happens, and I post something that goes unseen for weeks or months, but at some point someone sees it and vibes and maybe it matters a little. And sometimes it doesn't go anywhere at all; but it still has the potential to be seen and to help someone. There's at least a chance that anything I post might matter to someone down the line; so I post and I try to be authentic about it so that my experiences can help other people with their experiences. On Tumblr, posts aren't instantly disposable - they don't cease to matter after they cross your eyes, because there's still a chance you'll see it on my blog, or deep enough in the tag, or reblogged from someone else.

But on a "media flood" sight like Bluesky and Twitter, I know everything I post dies within a few hours, if it didn't die as soon as I hit send. Sure, some TikToks get passed around, but how many do, out of the billions out there? Each Twitter and Bluesky update is like a text message into the aether, once its conveyed its very time-sensitive meaning, it no longer has value. And unfortunately that leads more complex communications, like art that is posted out there, to be treated as a consumable too. That format of social media means, I have to try and get attention, or I simply do not exist.

And that's not comfortable. I don't like having to think about my life from the perspective of "what little tidbit in each moment of my day could I make public online to make someone like me". It's not the way I was raised, and if you are essentially vying for "survival" (read as "existance" or "humanity", in this case) you never relax or find a status quo. The recreational media fails to to be recreation.

I know I make studyblr posts that are effectively "this is what I did today", but those are different in my eyes. That's a matter of "this is what I find important in life, here's what I'm proud of" and include some "pretty" picture to go along with it; and I don't really.... need the validation of having it reblogged or interacted with, to feel like I am intrinsically a human in a human space. It does feel nice to have people like something I posted, but I don't live like I need it seen in order to feel valid in having a blog. But almost instantly on Bluesky, I found myself sharing inane little things I wouldn't bother sharing here, and making comments I wouldn't assume anyone wanted on their posts here, and generally doing things that were more meant to show that I was there and alive and human, than they were meant to actually interact and make some positive effect or creation within that community. Which is not my reason for using a social media.

So once all the people on my list who want to see Bluesky for themselves have their invite code, I'll probably stop using it; the same way I don't use Twitter often, and the same way I don't use Instagram often. Of all the hellsites, Tumblr is mine. And my internet presence will probably die when it does.

[mirceakitsune]

My thoughts on the election

Considering this is such an important event and ties to personal things, I wanted to share my thoughts on the election like many others have. This isn't going to be some angry rant like in the past, I'm long over making those, just an analysis and my perspective: I'm hoping people understand this, especially on Furaffinity where anything that touches a worldly subject is a risk for me to post even in good faith, I was nervous about writing this but am partly doing it to give a chance to the idea that there's still some ability to communicate and say what's on our minds. I'm not enjoying the pain many around me are going through, some are people I care for who are in a lot of fear and there's not much I can do. I also need to make it clear that no, I don't like nor support Trump, even if I no longer share the horror everyone else has over him: I'm not even from the US, if I was I'd have never voted for either of those two parties and any candidates they produce, if I did vote I'd be voting libertarian every time even if they're perpetually third place. From the start I decided I wouldn't care about the outcome of this election. Since Trump's win was announced last night, I've been watching almost everyone I know fall in a deep depression… something I did too when he first won in 2016, long before a lot of things changed for me.

What I don't understand is how today in 2024 so much hope was put into this one election, a hope people still had. How many thought that if the right person wins, there was still a positive direction for this world to take. That a fight for all that is good was lost just now because this one man won, a fight that still existed and could be won if only this one dude hadn't made it in office. Many don't seem to realize humanity at its core is broken by design and beyond repair right now; Trump, Kamala… I fail to see how these silly figures make any difference when everyone hates everyone else anyway, any ability to communicate and get along has long vanished, and we can all see the system was doomed to fail very soon and very abruptly. If anything it may affect the speed at which it's all happening ever so slightly.

Let me to ask you something: Is Trump the reason why this year I was left without my only income and job I could have, because I refused to DOX myself to Patreon and have my art associated with my name / photo / address / family by complete strangers? Is Trump the reason why I don't feel like creating art any more because I can't safely post what I enjoy doing on this internet even for free? Is Trump the reason why I'm constantly nervous I may be banned from services I still rely on and at least able to watch what others create, over something I don't imagine would offend and may have even said a decade ago and long forgotten? Is Trump the reason why the Xonotic team with whom I spent 15 years working turned on me out of nowhere while we were in the middle of working on code? Is Trump the reason why an artist I follow had to flee France after being arrested for making drawings deemed immoral by the state? Is Trump the reason why if anyone who isn't a commercial animation studio posts an animation containing anthro or dragon characters in some art styles on Youtube, the video is instantly restricted or deleted with their entire channel? Is Trump the reason why I walk on eggshells around the few people I still interact with, because if I say one thing the wrong way I'll be perceived as some maniac and they turn on me next? Is Trump responsible for the world doing its best to ruin my life or the little I ever had of one?

All those things and more happened even without him. Off the top of my head I can't even think of a conservative or Trump supporter that caused me this grief over the years, though I'm sure many would gladly join in given the chance. It was at the hands of those with whom I once thought I had a common goal, who stabbed me (and themselves) in the back just when I believed that maybe I could have a place in this world to some degree and give humanity a chance, who use words like tolerance and acceptance and inclusion almost religiously yet their polar opposites are all I ever got from them. Why then should I worry about Trump and am expected to see him as the root of all evil?! Sure, I don't expect the situation to improve with him of all people, I don't expect anything to improve again with anyone… but it's beyond me how this made anything worse than it would be regardless.

Like I said I'm not happy with what's happening and won't feed off of anyone's suffering, but I definitely feel I'm right to say one thing: The desperation everyone feels over Trump winning is a thing many caused to others whether they realize it or not. They're experiencing what it's like to have the majority of those around you and a world you believed in slap you in the face, tell you that what you need and feel doesn't matter to them, that you need to suck it up and deal with it because others have "real issues" unlike you, that you come second place to what they decided is important. This lesson is one I do think the world at large needed to face. Which isn't to say it will learn from it, oh I strongly doubt that… but many are at least seeing what it's like to be on the receiving end, and it's definitely not pretty.

[dinoace2]

Enter: the Oracle

An introductory piece for my Carnival!Quetz in @sm-baby's incredible The Amazing Digital Carnival au. Much as I'd love to make this a comic, I find that my words tend to come out better (and faster!) than my drawings. This is purely self-indulgent, acting to quite literally write my oc into a narrative someone else made, but i had fun with it. I promise I'll make a post detailing her room design later!

~2k words

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Caine looked at the door in front of him, studying the portrait. The menu labeled this door simply as "the Oracle". The face was still a silhouette, yet to be seen or discovered, but horns were clearly outlined on the character's head.

Bubble chirped, grinning. "The Oracle: a character who- who-...." he paused, his smile fading slightly. "....i...dont know."

Caine's hand hovered over the doorknob, hesitating for a moment. This was a character that wasn't meant to exist. When he looked into the files, most of its code was deleted, and what little remained was well-hidden underneath everything else. Whatever he was about to see wasnt supposed to get past initial production stages, much less final design, and considering what kind of characters he's already seen, it was probably for good reason.

With a cautious sigh and a nod to Bubble, he turned the doorknob and pulled it open.

Sheer purple curtains covering the doorway wasn't necessarily what he expected.

He pushed them aside to reveal a floor of ebony-colored wooden boards, the walkway covered in tapestry and silk fabrics. The entire room looked soft, littered with pillows and cloth of all kind. Most of it was sheer, shiny, and purple. Shades anywhere from pastel lilac to deep wine lined the room wall to wall, all lit by floating candles with impossibly white flames.

Caine stepped into the room, tentative at first, the boards creaking beneath his feet.

The groan of the floorboards alerted whatever was occupying the room, and with an audible whoosh and a light gust of wind in his eyes, the candles went out all at once.

Looking around proved fruitless, as it seemed every source of light in the room had been smothered. The only thing visible to him was whatever the light from the menu hallway reached.

A gentle yet firm voice echoed in the emptiness. "You aren't meant to be here. Do not take another step into this room. Leave, now." Her voice was calm, confident, and laced with authority.

Caine tilted his head, squinting in the darkness to find the character. "Your door unlocked just a minute ago. Who are you?"

"Nobody. Please...get out," The voice responded, her tone never wavering. "For the sake of your own safety, human, I recommend you heed this warning."

"You- uh. You know that im...human?" He paused, chuckling nervously. "The others didn't exactly take it well when they found out...believe it or not you're already much more pleasant than most of the characters I've met so far."

"Call it intuition. I know as much as I need to know about you, and you know as much as you need to know about me. Now get out."

"Oh, but surely-" the Player was cut off when he took a step. The floor clipped out beneath his foot and he fell forward, screaming as he plummeted into the darkness below. He fell endlessly for what felt like forever, but in reality was probably little more than a few seconds.

A cool hand wrapped around his wrist, pulling him to an abrupt stop. He clamped his teeth shut, his entire body tensing. He took a few shaky breaths, his hand over his heart and eyes slowly opening. It was still dark, but he could feel himself moving.

His rescuer let go of his hand and he fell into something soft, with a lot of slack and give to the material.

With another whoosh, the room lit up again. He was hanging in a pink silk hammock, and while most of the room looked the same, the floor was just...gone, replaced with a seemingly endless void. Upon closer inspection, hammocks and netted flooring were all over the place, some hung from the walls and ceiling and others just suspended midair.

Something flew through the middle of it all and perched on a dark wooden beam near the ceiling. An angel? No...not quite. A serpentine beast with blue-green scales and piercing eyes. Raven black hair framed her face and ivory horns adorned her head. Massive silver-gray wings spanned nearly wall-to-wall, truly a sight to behold. An elegant purple gown glittered in the surrounding candlelight, and a velvet choker with a large black stone took its place around her neck.

She sneered, sharp eyes glaring down at Caine. "I told you not to come closer." She fell from the rafters, and Caine gasped, until she spread her wings, swooped around and settled on a netted floor near him.

He stared for a moment, then nodded. "Right...um. sorry, I didn't know...that...was going to happen...what was that about, anyway?"

The character frowned. "To put it simply, I was scrapped. No need to finish the room if the character's been abandoned. The room itself isn't exactly...tangible because of it. The design and textures exist, obviously, but it's all unfinished. that first step in the walkway was as far as they got. Tried to warn you."

He nodded. "...oh. so...why did they decide not to make you? You certainly seem exciting enough for a game like this....and very well-made, too. I like your design! What's your name?" He smiled, swinging a bit in his little hammock.

She paused, not quite anticipating that much enthusiasm. "...my title is the Oracle, but you already knew that. My name during production was Quetz, apparently for a creature that I supposedly share resemblance to."

Caine's hand shot in the air, like a child answering a teacher in a classroom. "Oh! Quetzalcoatl! The Feathered Serpent from Aztec Mythology! God of-" he paused, recognizing her expression of confusion and slight disinterest. "....sorry." he put his hand down.

Quetz nodded slowly. "...right. my intelligence doesn't extend past this game, so I've no choice but to trust you on that. It's not all that significant anyway." She sighed.

"I was intended to be a bit of a...checkpoint, if you will. A place to collect onesself and reflect on the progress players made so far. I would then read their 'fortunes', some sort of cryptic statement, and it would give a random status effect that would last until the end of the next level they played. From then on they'd be able to come back between levels if they wanted, but each time ran the risk of a bad status effect as well. It was meant to be a sort of roulette to offer a unique challenge or adjustment to the other levels. I think it was intended to keep it replayable and 'new' so they'd maintain interest and relevance for longer."

She shrugged. "They couldn't figure out the coding. It was too complicated of a concept, and even if it did work it would've been too easy for players to abuse and cheat with. So they did away with the idea entirely."

Caine nodded. "So...you were...just a minigame, then?"

"...'just'? 'Mini'...?" she paused. "...I suppose so. Seems...belittling to put it that way, though...as if im...less important..." she frowned. "...but considering I never made it past planning, it makes sense..."

"...oh. sorry. I didn't mean-"

"Its fine." She sighed. "You asked for answers, and I gave you what I had. But perhaps you'd indulge me, and allow me to ask a few questions." She waited for a confirming nod, then moved closer to him. "Why are you here, Mister Eden?"

Caine froze, almost stopping mid-swing. "...h-how did you-?"

"I was given the title of 'Oracle', what do you think that means?" She frowned. "I was programmed to know everything about this place, do you truly think I wouldn't notice when an unregistered entity entered the code?"

The Player nodded. "...I suppose that makes sense. Well...I..." he paused. "....dont remember, honestly. I know I came here for something, and I made Bubble to assist me, but once I entered the system I forgot it all."

"No, I understand that. I meant...why are you here? Or rather, how are you here? I never made it to beta testing. Playtesters never got the chance to interact with me. Sure, ive still been here, lingering in the background, but...my door has never unlocked. I've never been accessible to Players. You had to have done something."

Caine shrugged. "I dont know what to tell you. I'd just barely left the Host level, and two doors unlocked. This one happened to be closer to me, not to mention the extra cool and mysterious detail of your face being blocked out."

She nodded. "So...its likely more of an internal issue than your interference, then. Interesting."

She thought for a moment. "...you came here for something. Your intention is to retrieve a missing component, I assume." Caine nodded, following her logic, so she continued. "While I'm incapable of determining what it is you're seeking, nor whether you'll find it...i can at least try to assist."

Caine sat upright, suddenly quite eager to hear what she would say next.

"In everything that I've seen, with near unlimited access to all of the files...I can say with near certainty that you are not the only player avatar in the game right now."

Silence and shock overtook the coder. Was she saying what he thought she was? And if that was true, then...could that be what he's looking for?

"Theres another human here???"

Quetz opened her mouth, but everything stopped suddenly. All the candles went out, plunging them into darkness once more. A light appeared just below her eye level, a crystal ball of sorts that cast shadows over her face with a soft glow. She stared at it with wide eyes, and...was that fear that crept into her expression?

"Sh[$%?]!" She paused for a moment, slightly puzzled by the sprite that covered her mouth and dialogue, but shook her head, turning to Caine. "Eden! Close the hammock. Lay still. And for the love of whatever cruel god designed this place, do. Not. Move. Trust me."

Caine nodded, quickly sinking into the soft fabric.

Quetz took a deep breath, then waved her palm over the crystal ball in front of her, her claws barely grazing the glossy surface. Caine couldn't see what happened, but he could hear it well enough.

A voice echoed around them, bouncing off the walls of the endless void beneath.

"Good evening, my dear Moth."

"Hello, my King...you haven't reached out to me in quite some time...is everything alright?" There was no mistaking the slight tremor in the Oracle's voice.

"Oh, of course! All is well. Ragatha has just informed me that she had an interaction with our newest Player, and I was hoping you could tell me how he's doing?"

Quetz paused. "...from my observations, things are going quite well for him. He's found companionship with the little Jester and has gotten along well with every entity he has interacted with so far. Its likely he's currently making preparations to visit the Storyteller next."

"And where is he now, Quetzal?"

"He- well, I haven't checked in a little while. I'll be sure to let you know once I get a chance to look." She rambled the answer. "Anyway I'm sure you've got a lot to get back to! I'll talk to you again later-"

"Is something bothering you, Moth?"

The Serpent froze. "Eh- no! Not at all! I just. Uh. Oh dear, it...appears Zooble's gloinks have escaped again! I need to catch them before they clip into the Void again. Talk to you later!" She hurriedly crushed the crystal between her palms, scattering glowing particles across the room that relit the candles as they passed.

Caine yelped as the same cold hand from before grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up. Quetz set him down on that first wooden step and pushed the door wide open. "You need to leave."

He sputtered, turning around and grabbing her hands. "Wait! Who were you talking to? What about that other human? What else don't I know? I have more questions, please!"

She frowned. "The Storyteller is a fairly simple task. Follow her instructions to the letter and do your best not to make her upset. You have an advantage because she likes Pomni. Now get out. Please." Her tone was much more pleading on the last word, and she gave his shoulder a firm shove to return him to the hallway. She snapped her fingers, and the door slammed shut.

Caine stood up, dusting himself off. "Hm. That was....interesting. I suppose that...this 'Storyteller' is next. You ready, Bubble?"

~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading! :]

Note: okay there's more to this than the scene suggests. She's very afraid of Kinger, and there are reasons that I couldn't elaborate on in this bit. I really really do love this character and I cannot wait to learn more about the other characters so I can better portray her relationships with them!

[yesimwriting]

Dying Starlight

A/n: i dont think an audience for this exists?? ik it’s not shadow and bone related, but ive been reading red queen and i wanted to try writing maven and ive been playing with this idea. umm...on the off-chance that there is an audience for this i do think of this as more of a series but i’ll probably end up deleting this lol 

(Series?) Summary: reader is a childhood friend of Mare’s who isn’t officially part of the Scarlet Guard but gets captured by Maven. As a prisoner, she feels like her mind is being messed with as she begins to see a more human side of Maven. The new King tells himself the only thing he sees in her is that she’s a way to get to Mare, but something about her genuiness is infectious. 

-- 

Irony twists things. Right now, the irony that my last thoughts might be about how I wish I had been trusted with a suicide pill twist my impending doom into something almost comical. I’d laugh, but I’d rather not startle the rats in my cell. This has been their home for presumably years, but I’ve only been down here a few hours. 

I scratch the back of my wrist, staring at tired stone walls like they’ve done something to me. I wish I knew what time it was. How long have I been down here? How long has it been since I was separated from Mare? An hour? Three?Each passing minute strikes me like a bullet, but I can’t count them. I’ve never had a talent for accurately feeling the passage of time.

My head aches, frustration and dread tangling themselves in the pit of my stomach. Mare told me the Queen can search through someone’s mind, seeing memories even they can’t remember. What will they do when they see I know virtually nothing? What will happen when they see how close Mare and I truly are? i can’t do anything and the unknown hurts more than my bruised rib. 

The sound of the heavy door that divides the luxury of the castle from the wasteland of the cells creaks. I only let my arms flinch, moving from my side to wrap defensively around my stomach. Dull footsteps echo down the pathway that lead to the cell I’m in. I don’t cringe, not even when the sound of walking stops. 

I was not born into a rich family, but I was born into a proud one. Fear was practically a criminal act in my household. I’ve been trained to suppress all signs of weakness. My eyes don’t leave the stone wall, I mentally trace the pattern of a long crack in a specific rock. It reminds me of the slope of the Big Dipper. 

Will I ever see stars again? The answer leaves a sharp pain in my chest. 

“Mare told me about you.” 

The words jar me, my stomach dropping in revulsion. Mare had trusted him, and here he stands--successful because he’s a traitor. I know what it’s like to be the most overlooked sibling and to crave to change that. I know what it’s like to want to succeed more than you want air in your lungs, but I don’t think I’d ever betray someone. I like to think that there’s a line even the monster in me won’t cross. 

I don’t look at him, partially out of an attempt to protest and partially because I’m afraid of what I’ll see. “She might have mentioned you in passing.” 

His scoff is ridiculous. “She didn’t lie about your sense of humor.” 

That almost makes me wince. His words are too close, too personal. It’s like he knows me. I turn my. head, ready to cut through the uneasy beginning to get to the miserable middle if it brings me to the end faster. 

“You’re here to torment me, not make small talk.” Turning had been a mistake. I regret it instantly. His expression is unforgiving--cold, sharp, and made up of only angles. But that’s not why I stare. I did not expect him to be objectively attractive. The fine slope of his nose, the sharpness of his cheekbones, and the ice blue of his eyes. I need to snap out of this mindset. I’m sure his beauty will not be so distracting when he’s burning me. “Though some might consider that the same thing.” 

He scoffs again, the sound dry. The sneer of his lips does not diminish his attractiveness. The fact makes me loathe him. “I wonder if you’ll still be so prone to humor after you’ve been broken--any information of worth extracted from your thoughts.” 

“Let me save everyone the trouble and just tell you everything that I know now.” My back straightens despite the pain in my ribs. I look pathetic, dirty and in a torn dress. He’s regal, dressed in fine, all black clothing. “I know that Mare wanted to kill you today, I know that she needed a distraction and that her distraction needed to be expendable, which is why I’m sitting in front of you.” I squeeze my hands together awkwardly, a bit of genuine irritation rolling in my stomach. “That’s literally all I know, I’m not even part of the Guard.” I scratch the back of my wrist. If I were him, I wouldn’t believe that, but I’m being honest. How pitiful can one person be that they’re worth more disconnected from the group they work for than as an actual member? “You don’t take that kind of risk for someone that’s only skill set is in thought.” 

I didn’t mean to say that out loud, but I don’t regret it. Maybe he’ll think that my story is so pathetic it has to be true. “You have to know more than that.” 

“The Scarlet Guard only reaches out to me on a need-to-know basis, and anything worthwhile to you is something I clearly didn’t need to know.” In a way, I’m glad I can’t give him anything. “So are you going to kill me with a bullet or do you prefer more flamboyant executions?” My death should be plain. I am human completely--I bleed red and I have no powers. “I do think anything more than a simple death is more trouble than I’m worth.” 

His lips press together oddly, something beneath his expression tightening. “You don’t think your dearest friend will return for you?”

The sarcasm in his voice sparks something in me I thought only my sister could. “I think she has a lot of responsibilities and I wouldn’t blame her for having priorities.” 

His eyebrows draw together. “I think you’re painfully unaware of how attached to you she is.” I press my lips into a thin line. “She’ll come for you.”

Something selfish in me hopes that he’s right. No one has ever wanted me enough to come back for me. My mother wanted perfect daughters that knew how to only think in terms of trapping men with stable careers. My sister did it, but I could never manage, and to my mother that made me useless. 

“If you believe it,” I mumble beneath my breath.

I don’t know if he hears me. I can’t bring myself to care if he did. “For your sake, you better not have lied to me.” 

My back relaxes against the raspy wall, fighting down a grimace as the motion irritates my rib injury. “Cross my heart, Your Highness.” 

I watch him carefully, his expression turning into something much more grim. “A King is referred to as His Majesty.” 

“My father was a prominent war general and my mother only wanted daughters she could use to social climb.” I fight down a grin. “I know what I said.” 

His expression darkens into something bone chilling. “I am the King and you’ll refer to me as such or deal with even less pleasant circumstances.” 

I fight against the urge to cower, picturing Mare’s strength in my veins. There’s weakness in everyone, and if I squint I can see the thin cracks in him. “You have everything--the crown, the power, the support of the people, and it’s still not enough. You won and you still feel like you’re competing.” 

“You don’t know anything,” he seethes, practically growling. 

I shouldn’t press him, but the more he reacts, the more weaknesses are revealed. “I know what it’s like to have a sibling that’s the sun, and no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you’re always trapped in a shadow.” 

The lighting makes his eyes look almost glazed over. “My mother will be here soon and the truth will be revealed.” 

He can run from me, but not the truth. Cal has nothing, he has everything--the father that never cared for him is dead, and yet he’s still trapped. Our similarities hurt me more than my physical injuries. 

Maven turns, his gaze moving off of me feels like the removal of heavy shackles. “It would do you well to not press me. You’re worth as much whole as you are broken.” 

There’s the strangest hint of something more to his voice. I wonder if he’s speaking to more than just me. “You haven’t won until that voice in your head telling you that you’re not enough is silenced.”

“You’re a powerless girl who isn’t even wanted by a dying cause and couldn’t find a husband to drag her above the poverty line. You know nothing about me, and if you keep pretending I’ll slaughter you in front of your dear friend.” 

He leaves without another word. I fall asleep with my back against the wall and my ribs aching. 

[maxwell-grant]

Having asked your thoughts on designing Frankenstein's daemon, might I now ask your thoughts on bringing Count Dracula from the written word into illustration? (I'm definitely in favour of the 'Hairy Old Mountain Man of Horror pretending he's people' look from the original novel; one of the small tests too many Draculas fail to pass is an absolutely tragic lack of the Evil Beard and/or Wicked Moustache explicitly described by Mr Stoker).

Unlike with Frankenstein, where I think the design needs to be painstakingly thought out in order to achieve the best balance of the creature's traits for horror and tragedy alike, I think with Dracula you can actually just take an approach of "whatever works". Because as I mentioned before, I think much of the appeal and longevity of Dracula is how the character's both a layered villain as well as a shapeshifting narrative force that can be tailored to whatever you want to do with. Granted, there are bad or dissappointing Dracula designs, of course there are, but in regards to the leeway you get for reinterpretation, you get a lot more of it with Dracula than with other literary icons.

Like with Frankenstein, I'm gonna bring up how I'd tackle a less grim, more comedy-centric Dracula first, one that's less a force of horror and more of a charismatic villain, and I think to that end I definitely agree that people are sleeping a lot on the hairy old man barely-passing-off-as-humanoid of the original story. Despite very much loving these performers, I'm actually not a fan of takes that mold Dracula too closely to people who've portrayed him, like Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee, partially because I think it's a waste of an opportunity to create your own Dracula design. Since I can't draw (yet), I'll do what I usually do and make a board of images to try and convey some of my thoughts on one way I'd design Dracula.

(Pictured: Kiwi's design for Dracula, Hotel Transylvania concept art, Nandor, Castlevania Dracula, Charles Dance in Dracula Untold, Vladislav, a Transylvanian rug)

I used the images in my other Dracula post and I’ll post it here again because I absolutely adore @kiwibyrd's designs for Dracula and it's main heroes, in particular I love the way it strikes a good balance at making sure Dracula looks distinctly separate from the humans, but not too much that he couldn't conceivably operate in society as just a harmless old man. I also adore the mustache and bushy eyebrows and pointy ears and I think these three are wonderful features to keep on any Dracula design. I'm also very partial to the Hotel Transylvania concept art, even if it makes me incredibly depressed to look at all the great designs they had for Dracula that they threw in the trash because they somehow decided making him look like Adam Sandler was the idea to go with.

I deeply adore What We Do In The Shadows, both the movie and the show, and Jemaine Clement's Vladislav is one of my favorite (maybe even my actual favorite) on-screen Draculas. But I also enjoy Nandor just as much, and I think it's really great that as a character he's completely different from Vlad while also being ostensibly a take on Dracula, and in particular I bring up his Jersey look because "Dracula in common clothing" is a criminally underrated concept for a joke.

As a character, I'm very partial to comedy takes on Dracula that play him up as a decadent aristocratic supervillain, the kind that can get away with talking in third person. I also have this idea for a version of Dracula who dresses ostentatiously in finely-broidered Romanian or Transylvanian patterns, maybe even wearing a rug as a cape, claiming that he's carrying the legacy of his people on his back. And of course he's lying, he's not Vlad Tepes and he's not even Romanian, he is just a parasite pretending to have a history to be proud of, but good luck getting him to admit that. And finally, I'd like this version to be played by Charles Dance, and I consider it a tremendous crime against humanity that he has yet to play Dracula proper even despite being in a film with the character's name on the title.

So that's kinda how I would design a take on Dracula for something more comedic or more based around him as this guest character and personality on-set. Now, if we're talking a more serious version, I think the possibilities increase, and I won't be getting into all of them because I may prefer to keep them to myself, but I'll elaborate a few ideas.

For example, the edition of Dracula I personally own comes with these really scratchy, really creepy B&W illustrations related to the story, that I can't find scanned online so I'm uploading them here so you can look at. They don't necessarily depict the scenes but rather some of the story's moments, like Van Helsing staking Lucy, Renfield in a straightjacket, Dracula as a coachman, and they are more focused on conveying the horror of the concepts at play.

Dracula never looks the same way in any of the illustrations, in fact you kinda have to piece him out of them by trying to find teeth or capes or eyes or bat-features to see where he's hiding this time. In the first, it's the half-man half-bat, in the 2nd, he's the shrieking bat silhouette next to Renfield, and in the latter, he's the gaping jaws and eerily humanoid eyes in the wolf. The effect to me almost feels like if you were to look at a bunch of tv static and then see a humanoid shape form for a split second before everything went back to normal, something like you'd get from Slender Man or other modern creepypastas, and I’ve argued before that Dracula’s form of horror is a very modern one. 

In terms of illustrations of Dracula that keep up the original traits while still pulling off horror, I definitely have to hand it to the one at the left of the image above, drawn by regourso on Deviantart (account deleted at present). Going back to Castlevania’s many takes on Dracula, two in particular that stick out to me would be Castlevania: Judgment’s armored dress Dracula, who’s got this great twisted heart/rose motif going on in his outfit, and Dracula’s final form in SOTN where he just sits in his throne and his cape twists into all these monsters, particularly how it’s depicted by witnesstheabsurd’s depiction. 

I’m not particularly a fan of how Dracula’s “final form” in these games is usually just some big demon, and part of what I like about his final form in SOTN instead is that, while it’s not a particularly challenging final boss, I do find it interesting the idea of us never actually getting to see what Dracula’s true final form looks like, only an ever-shifting pitch-black torrent of teeth and claws and bloody veins pouring out because that’s ultimately what Dracula is and brings to the world.

On the flip-side of the rotten old monster, we have the charming seductor Dracula, and while I’m really not a fan of how various adaptations have convinced people that “the point” of Dracula is that he’s a seductive force and an allegory for Victorian xenophobia and I’m reeeally even less of a fan of adaptations that make Dracula some misunderstood tragic hero (and I think I’ve made rather violently clear my feelings on interpretations that play up a romance between him and Mina), that the seductive force part exists is impossible to deny, so conversely, while on one hand we can have Dracula as the gargantuan whirlwind of predatory violence, we can also go for Dracula as the tantalizing lover.

I’ve seen a lot of opinions proclaiming Frank Langella as the best Dracula because he was the best at actually being seductive while still playing Dracula, although I haven’t yet seen his performances. If I had to point at one picture I look at and do buy for a second the idea of Dracula as a romantic character, it would be that particular still of Raul Julia in the left of the above image. And it’s strange for me to think of Raul Julia as attractive because I mainly associate him with his brilliant comedy performance of M.Bison (I know it’s far from the highlight of his career but, look, I grew up with Street Fighter, I can’t help it) but those eyes are definitely looking pretty convincing to me, if nothing else. 

And I’ve included this still of Sebastian Stan in the right because, during a conversation between me, @krinsbez and @jcogginsa about who could be a good fit for Dracula, jcog suggested Sebastian Stan, partially because he’s Romanian, and I’ve learned recently that Stan was actually interested in playing the character in Blumhouse’s upcoming remake. And you’d think I’d hate this idea  considering how much I don’t care for tragic anti-hero Draculas, but who says that’s what he’d have to play? 

Do you have any idea how much actors, who are traditionally known for heroic or supporting roles, usually LOVE it when you give them a chance to cut loose as the main villain?

I’d want Sebastian Stan to put all of his charm, all of his talent, all of his good looks and etc, into playing the absolute most vicious, bloodthirsty and irredeemable Dracula put on screen. Someone who is exceedingly, eerily good at being a lovable protagonist, who’s all smiles and charming eyes and politeness mannerisms and maybe even a funny accent, and then it isn't as funny when he's flying through your window intent on kidnapping babies to feed to his brides, except he may take a moment or two to do so because he's feeling pretty hungry himself right now.

Now, admittedly this is kind of a lot to juggle in regards to a single character, which is why my answer for questions like these inevitably has to be “depends on what I’m going for”. That being said, if I was going to try and cast someone who I think could both look the part of Dracula, as well as respectively, play “cartoon aristocrat” Dracula, “mercurial embodiment of evil” Dracula, as well as realistically be an attractive, even seductive performer who can charm viewers even as the character descends into horrible villainy, and juggle these performances even?

I think I’d have to go with Mads Mikkelsen. Not specifically because of Hannibal (I actually haven’t watched it yet), although it’s definitely a factor, the thing that actually made me pick him specifically is, other than his looks, his voice, his reputation for playing sinister characters, the fact that he loves the role and wants to play it, or how many people are deeply in love with this man, or that people already joke that he looks like a vampire, was watching him in Another Round, and specifically that glorious final scene where he’s just dancing to his heart’s content and just, moving with such spring in his step and such joyful vitality even though he’s past his mid-fifties, and that was the moment where, in regards to how much you all love this man, I went

And now I am going to add “casting Mads Mikkelsen as a dancing Dracula” to The List of Reasons Why I Became a Filmmaker.

[kojinnie]

Of Levi Ackerman!

Based on the request by an anon (whose ask I accidentally deleted), @weepinglevi​ and @thebubblybakery​​ for the 24/7 Writing Event from a loooong time ago.

Sorry for taking so long, hope you enjoy!

08.00 - Things he wished he could change about himself 11.00 - Their choice of music and their favorite musicians 20.00 - How do they sleep at night with you

.:24/7 Writing Event Masterlist:.

08.00 – things he wished he could change about himself

One of the best things about Levi is the fact that this is a person, who was born unfortunate, and had to overcome a lot of grievance in his life, yet still he managed to persevere and had his heart to the betterment of humanity with no ulterior motive. He had fought and lost a lot of things close to his heart for what he believed would bring them to ‘peace’, despite the fact that he was never acquainted with the idea of peace itself ever since he was born. Imagine how pure this man’s heart is by the fact that Levi could persevere that long for nothing but an obscure idea in his mind that he never had grasped before.

So, naturally, in order to keep fighting, Levi had come to the point where he had a lot of self-acceptance for himself. He had grown past the need to change himself, for he already understood that the energy he spent grieving for things he could not change, were energy wasted when he could use it to do better things for the humanity that he cared for. Sure, there were years in his life where he wished he wasn’t mocked for his height, or his uptight nature. But to be humanity’s strongest soldier, one has to have the utmost awareness of one’s strength and weakness, and Levi was very well aware of his qualities as much as he had embraced it. He knew where he lacked, so he could devise moves and strategies to patch the areas where he would be susceptible in. And that’s why he always excelled against someone like Zeke, because Levi accepts his flaws and learns not to ignore or deny it, but rather makes adjustment in form of strategic thinking and hard work to make up for it. Levi is far from being conceited, he knew the goal of his effort was not himself, but rather the world around him, so he’d learned to accept of who he was and who he will always be.

11.00 – their choice of music and their favorite musicians

We knew that Levi had dreamed of having his own tea shop once the war ends, but he also had the dream of building a warm, comfortable home he never had growing up. He’d always dreamed of a breezy home, with sun rays shining through large windows – something that was nothing but imagination for a man growing up in the underground.  And with the idea of a homely dwelling, also came the idea of melodious tunes that would seep throughout the room of his cottage-like house. Tunes that he’d listen to serenely, as he sips his self-brewed tea. He’d want something comforting. Music as sweet and as temperate as his tea.

In the modern!au, he would listen to classic jazz or big band jazz when he’s feeling upbeat, but overall it’d be old-timey songs that evoked a keen sense of nostalgia. If you visit him in his home, you’d be greeted with the likes of Nat King Cole, and Billie Holiday, or even older tunes from Bessie Smith, while Levi’s around and about in the house; cleaning, cooking, or working on a new project – the music would never stop playing. It would take a while for Levi to open his front door when you come visit, because he’d be so kept-up with his work and with the music playing all through the house.

Levi is definitely the type to have a particular song that he’d play every day at specific time of the day. He does not have a lot of expression, so he’d need some kind of output to display how he’s feeling, and he does it through the music that he listens to. When he wakes up feeling giddy, he’d put ‘Those Lazy, Hazy Days of Summer’ by Nat King Cole, and probably dance a little with his broomstick, but only strictly when no one is around except his cat to watch. Levi would also have a specific tuned he’d play when he’s cooking, mostly Bessie Smith’s songs. Levi would never sing it though, for he knows he’s not good at carrying tunes, he’d just hum, as he stirs the stew in the pot. If Levi had any song to play during intimate time with his significant other, he would definitely choose ‘I’m A Fool to Want You’ by Billie Holiday and ‘The Very Thought of You’ by Nat King Cole.

He’s the type of person who’d like to put his hands into good use – he brews his own tea, builds his own furniture, and plays music exclusively on turn-table’s vinyl. Not because he was pretentious (like Zeke), but he’d enjoy the process of it. He would have a closet dedicated to store all his vinyl collections that no one knew before. In fact, no one would ever guess that Levi’s big with music for he never talked about it. They’d just assume that this seemingly cold man finds music irritating, when actually his heart is full of tender melodies – he would just never utter it out, because music is his personal enjoyment, not his outward hobby and interest. In conclusion, Levi is alike to a cat, he might appear mean and cold, but inside he is awfully domestic.

Click here for the music: Those Hazy, Lazy, Crazy Days of Summer - Nat King Cole I'm A Fool To Want You - Billie Holiday The Very Thought of You - Nat King Cole

20.00 – how do they sleep at night with you?

This man is so meticulous about the arrangement of his sleep, especially when you’re in an established relationship, before you spend the night, he would want to know whether this is the type of sleep that’s meant for sleeping cause, or is this another alternative where one of you’d end up panting and coming. Whenever you inform him that you’re coming over, he’d be blunt and asked, “Should I prepare?” which by any means, he’s asking whether he’s gonna get laid or not. Answering no would be the answer he looks forward to most times, because you’re dealing with a very busy man with very little amount of sleep – he’d like to keep you around, to have your scent and warmth lingering around his bedroom for days on end, but not so much on having sex. Before you come over, he’d make sure to change the sheet, open new reed diffuser, and stock up your favorite snacks. He’d cook a little too, maybe small finger foods that you’d munch on as the two of you watch your favorite docuseries.

When the two of you sleep, most often you’d go to bed earlier than him, because he’d sleep very late at night and wake up very early as well. Sometimes it can feel lonesome when you’re about to drift off to sleep and he’s still not by your side, pacing around doing work or cleaning stuffs. You’d call out for him, and he’ll just hum acknowledging or yelling over from the other room, “You go sleep first.” Just when you’re about to fall deep into your slumber, you can hear him entering the room, and go on with his nightly ritual. He’d clean himself up in the en-suite bathroom, washing his feet (something he’d always do before climbing up to bed), brushing his teeth, moisturizing himself (because’ he’s got dry and flaky skin). He’s got this odd habit of re-ironing his pajamas before bed although they’re neatly hung already. He just likes to feel the warmth left by the iron slate, and the smell of Fabreeze on the garment he sleeps in.

He’d turn off his alarm when you’re sleeping over because he wakes up at dusk and he doesn’t want to ruin your sleep. He’d always sleep on the bed side by the window, and you’d already know not to roll over to his space. Levi likes to see you sleeping, hearing the soundly noise of your breath makes him feel at ease and it may be one of those few times in a day where he smiles. Standing by your bed side, he’d run his fingers through your hair and leave a small peck on your eyes and nose. You’d scrunch up your nose because sometimes his kiss tickles, and he’d chuckle. Once he finally decides to go to bed, he’d immediately glide his arms to wrap your waist and be the big spoon to keep you warm. He’d kiss your shoulder and keep his face there for a while, breathing to your neck. He’d draw a very deep exhale, as if he’s glad to retreat to your embrace after a hard day. When you mumble, “Go to sleep, Levi.” He’d hum and bury his face in your neck and hair as he mutters, “I love you.”

A/N: I’m sorry I had to skip the request for NSFW parts, I have been feeling very off with all things sexual and didn’t wanna force it. Sorry again :(

[rubykgrant]

(I just wanted to draw a bunch of Church faces, y’know?) So, as I mentioned before, I have a story-line where Church and Tex get to come back, and they get synthetic human bodies, and can finally do real-people-things, la-la-la, everybody’s happy... BUT THEN. Some bad guys want to do bad guy things. Previously, it seemed like the other AI units were revived, but then they went offline again... in truth, the AI escaped with Tex, so they’re OK, they just need to either hang out with either Tex/Church (who basically still have AI brains), or re-charge in specific electronic devices they can synch-up with. To keep them safe (and to make sure nobody starts trying to use some of them for dangerous purposes), the main characters keep them a secret (also, a few of them have gone through some personal growth... and decided they’d rather not keep being jerks, because then everybody hates you, and keeps trying to delete you... it was just easier to chill out). These particular bad guys want to create more AI, and thought they could bully Church into doing what they want; nah. I wanted this to be a bit like the scene when Epsilon-Church gets upset, shifting through the other AI colors, venting about all the crap that’s happened to him... but NOW he’s got different motivations~

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Κόρη (νοσταλγία deleted chapter)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Κόρη (kórē): young woman, maiden. Also means young bride, or wife. It is also Persephone’s name before her abduction. (Ancient Greek)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: This takes place between Chapter 43 and right before Chapter 44, at the beginning of the spring. Centers mainly around the life left behind, the road not taken so to speak.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: The usual, mentions of sacrifices (human and animal)

A/N: I really like this chapter, and I wasn’t sure if it I should leave it as a main chapter of the story or not, but decided against it since it doesn’t really move the plot forward much. But yeah, also a lil announcement/thingy at the end notes of this chapter. Hope you enjoy!

I took one of Ivar’s lines from the show for his dialogue in this chapter. It’s from 5x19, and it was so unbearably ominous that I had to include it 😉 

Also, Maqluba is a middle eastern dish. I haven’t tried it myself, but it looks so good. I wanted it to be Quzi, an Iranian dish, which I have had and it’s so fucking good, but the word for Quzi is from Ottoman Turkish, where Maqluba is Arabic and the dish is even recorded in early medieval books.

Before you know it, before you are ready if you are honest, winter passes you by, retreats at the unescapable return of spring.

You won’t pretend you will miss the unbearably cold mornings and nights, the biting winds, or the unrelenting advance of Demeter’s grief that makes most of your plants -even the ones you’ve kept indoors- wither and die.

But there is a part of you, a part of you that will never truly go away, that is Greek before anything else; and the very blood running through your veins reminds you that with spring comes change.

This morning, you sit by one of the windows as the sun starts to rise, focused on the gentle work of your hands on the small sapling that stubbornly starts to revive and persist past the passing winter frost. You find yourself torn between hoping all the change spring will bring is the life it will return to the plants you keep around you, is the lessened pain for the man you love now that the cold isn’t so biting; and craving more, craving the change you know spring is capable of while knowing you have something -someone- to hold on to, craving to be a witness to the extent of Kore’s influence on a land as cold as this.

Then again, much has changed already and it didn’t need spring to do so.

At the sound of rattling chains your attention drifts away from the small plant in your hands, and you turn to watch your husband as he gets out of bed, eyes lazily following the by-now familiar movements.

Tonight a feast to honor the return of spring is to be held, which means the day will be thankfully more calmer as the celebrations are readied, and few people dare bother either of you.

With a familiar kind of hunger pooling low in your belly as you watch the traces of ink on his chest and shoulders move with the movement of his body, you consider luring Ivar into staying here with you a while longer to make the most of out of a slow morning; but you know he intends to go overlook the strengthening of the walls surrounding the town, and is too stubborn to let you convince him not to.

A part of you lingers more than usual on his insistence to make Kattegat safer as the army readies to follow him once again into England to continue their wars and battles; but you have a feeling you know the reason why, and you won’t fight him on this.

You will have to meet with the merchants from Kufa later today, since they are to depart back to their homeland soon and Qasim, the leader of the group, promised you -much to Ivar’s irrational anger- a gift to show his gratitude for welcoming him and his associates into your kingdom and allowing them to trade here for the winter.

Hvitserk has tried to make you promise that if it is maqluba like they offered you near the Yule celebrations you will share it with him, but you have agreed to no such thing so you will try your best to hide it from him; which means you have to get there early.

Slowly, you mournfully let go of the idea of a slow day.

“If I asked a favor from you…” You start slowly, making Ivar turn around to look at you with a small furrow between his brows.

“I would ask for something in return.” He retorts anyways, not a moment of hesitation. He lifts himself onto the small seat by the foot of your bed, attention on putting on the braces of his legs.

“Of course you would. Could you make sure Hvitserk doesn’t know I’m meeting with the merchants from Kufa today?”

His eyes narrow as he recalls, “Ah. Your gift.”

“Our gift, my love.” You try with a smile, but Ivar doesn’t buy it.

Granted, the man pointedly claimed the gift was meant for the Greek queen, and that didn’t sit right with your husband. None of what the Abbasid man does sits well with Ivar nowadays, hasn’t since he gifted you inscribed silk a couple of months into winter, but even before that most likely, and it just became apparent once Qasim made such a gesture.

“You have people to talk to today, don’t you?” Ivar asks, and when you turn to look at him, he is petulantly avoiding your gaze, pretending to be focused on adjusting the braces of his legs as you shrug on the warm dress.

“I do,” You reply slowly, because you know where this is going. Still, you continue, “We ought to secure a deal with Qasim so he and the others return before next wint-…”

Ivar lifts a finger to you, “Ah, but you have to be the one to strike the deal, do you not?”

“He will ask less from me, you know that.”

“Yes, I know that,” He bites out, looking away with gritted teeth. An angry breath through his nose, and he offers, “I don’t like him.”

“That is incredibly unexpected,” You deadpan, offering a wide smile when he glares at you. Walking closer, you explain, “I speak their tongue, and I am familiar, so he has a soft spot for me and he has coin to spare. That is all there is.”

“Hm,” Is all the response he offers, more of a grunt than an answer really. With a small sound of exertion Ivar stands up, motioning you closer and expertly tightening the laces of your dress. Because he lingers with his hands on you after, you linger as well, your back to his chest and your head seamlessly lolling to the side when Ivar leans to trail kisses up the side of your neck. When he reaches your ear, he promises, quietly even if fiercely, “I am not jealous of that man.”

A foolish smile curves at your lips, and your hand settles over his on your stomach, intertwining your fingers with his.

“Of course you are not,” You sentence, the taunt clear in your voice, “It would be foolish, irrational even, for you to thi-…ah!”

Ivar’s teeth closing down on your earlobe stop your words with a gasp and a laugh.

“Don’t mock me.” He warns, but you hear the smile on his voice.

“I am not,” You promise, turning around in his arms and meeting his disbelieving glare. Your hand settling on his chest, you concede, “Perhaps a little bit, but it is foolish to think any man compares to you in my eyes. You know this, yes?”

The quirk of his lips is a little arrogant, a little proud, and you are filled with warmth at the sight.

Still, Ivar accepts your request with a gesture of his hand, and walks closer, leaning down to kiss you goodbye. Brow against yours he lingers in the same moment you do, in the shared breath, in the quiet and the warmth of that short instant.

Moving to press another kiss to the crown of your head, Ivar whispers against your skin, “Make sure he returns with a wife next winter, so he leaves mine alone, hm?”

____

“My people,” Ivar starts, drawing attention to himself and, indirectly, to you. You have gotten used to it, though, and with your eyes only for him where he sits on the throne by your side, you can ignore all the other eyes on you. “Spring is coming. The earth renews itself, that which was dead becomes alive again. Everything changes.”

Spring in Kattegat. It still feels like such a surreal thing, to be allowed to spend the rest of your days here.

Ivar speaks to them of the battles to come, of their imminent return to England where they will face against the Saxon that tried taking Dublin from them, of Stithulf’s inevitable defeat.

There’s a strange shine in his eyes, a mix of pride and joy that carries an undercurrent of uncertainty that you know the reason for by now, when the people cheer at his words, raising horns of mead and toasting in his name.

These people have known me since my birth, he told you once, decades-old resentment making his voice grave, even if I’m king now, they all see less than a man in me.

You were never one to keep quiet, but the words you might be able to offer when it’s just the two of you are not the ones you can offer here and now.

You remember the night before Ivar was to leave Kattegat for the first time, in what feels like another lifetime, when you confessed with bitter words how the Greeks loved you but rarely respected you, and spoke of hidden resentment you held towards your own people by admitting you had to fight twice as hard than Narses to achieve recognition for the same deed.

You stop yourself, stealing a glance at the Viking that still keeps unwavering interest in the words that leave your lips. You shake your head, and reach for the cup the thrall refilled a few moments ago.

“It does not matter. Most of the free Attics are dead somewhere near Aneridge, the rest will perish when winter comes. It doesn’t matter.”

The King touches his own cup with yours, and you eye him carefully, wary of what the outburst might mean for you, but Ivar only smirks.

“If you say so.”

And so now you do the same, your cup touching his lightly, and when Ivar turns his eyes to you, you offer a quiet murmur of their word for a toast, a word that so rarely leaves your lips.

The night progresses and you find yourself, even after all this time, endlessly fascinated by the customs of these people, and their approach to the change of seasons. To us spring means war, Freydis told you once, and as Ivar and his brothers boast and rejoice at the prospect of tasting battle and warfare again, you find her words to be truer than you ever thought they truly were.

____

You quietly slip away from the still ongoing feast, and wandering steps take you outside, through a pathway outside of what used to be your rooms when you were first brought to Kattegat.

The steps you take are familiar ones, and you come to a stand by the small platform on the back of the longhouse, leaning your weight against the railing and taking a deep breath of the chilled air of the night.

The Hiereia motions for you to kneel, and you do so with your hands folded over your lap, but you refuse to bow your head. She notices, of course she does, but says nothing. You could swear she smiles.

They drag the man forward, and dazed and compliant he moves until his body stands above you. You look into his eyes as they draw the blade, and you don’t look away as his throat is slit, only closing your eyes when the blood falls over you.

It is warm as it pours erratically over you, coating your hair and face, and a lot of the white dress they made you wear, with the mark of death.

Your own blood rushes in your ears, and you finally open your eyes when the pour of the sacrifice’s blood slows and stops. The weight of the wreath of pomegranate branches and wildflowers on your head feels like a crown made of iron for a fleeting moment.

Another girl approaches, lowering to the ground on her knees just as you, and opens her palm to offer seven seeds of a pomegranate. You take them between shaking fingers, but don’t hesitate to bring them to your lips.

The sacrifice’s blood still stains your lips, and as you taste the fruit so many said is a symbol of temptation, you cannot help but think maybe they tasted it wrong when they forgot the coppery taste of blood to accompany it.

“Rise, Hiereia.”

You do, suddenly feeling like you stand much taller than you did before. Suddenly feeling stronger, suddenly feeling safer. Powerful.

The elder meets your eyes and smiles, smiles wide enough the corner of her eyes crinkle, and breathes a laugh, walking forward to embrace you.

She makes no note of the blood that stains your body and your face, but you do. You lick your lips, finding yourself almost resenting the lingering sweetness of the pomegranate.

You don’t realize your eyes have fallen closed until the familiar sound of Ivar’s crutch and his uneven steps reach your ears, making you blink past the memories, and look back up at the stars.

It is almost instinctual, the way you move your hand to seek the inevitable touch of his when he too leans on the railing before you, shoulder to shoulder.

His fingers are warm, and rough to the touch, and exquisitely familiar.

“The stars are familiar,” You tell him, without taking your eyes from the dark skies above. “When the stars are like this, when the world is like this…it is time of the Thesmophoria, back in Greece.”

“You told me about it,” He recalls, thumb absently running back and forth over your cold fingers, trying to bring warmth back to you. You don’t fail to notice he hasn’t asked you to return inside. Perhaps he knows you as well as you know him. “Mostly you told me about how you couldn’t tell me about it.”

“Men aren’t allowed to know of the Mysteries,” You explain, and your smile only grows at the indignant huff he lets out. “Besides, Viking, you do not follow my Gods.”

“Hm, but I should know about them, since I married a Greek witch.” He teases back, smiling at the indignant roll of your eyes.

By all the Gods, how you wish you could tell him. How you wish you could somehow make real, if only by voice alone, what those festivals were like, what the procession through the Sacred Way felt like and what each stop entailed, what bittersweet kind of joy sparked in the hearts of all those who participated when the procession celebrated Iambe, or what the bread made from the first fruits tasted like after the fast.

You wish you could at least tell him of the night of the Pannychis, and how it was one of the only times in Greece when you truly felt unburdened, when you truly felt at home, surrounded by music and joy and allowed to forget the repression and violence of the Empire that ruled over you all.

To Ivar you have told things you have never dared tell a soul, to Ivar you have admitted things that fill you with shame and regret; and it was one of the truer things you have said when you promised you were yourself with him more so than you could ever be with any other. And that is why at the tip of a stubborn and wine-loosened tongue there’s the whisper of what the epopteia showed you, there’s the retelling of that vision that was not the first nor the last but that will forever be the most important one.

But you know you can’t. You made your vows that night, and the aporrheta will remain unsaid, unrepeated. You will keep them guarded, sacred, as you swore to do.

You were one of the last Hiereiai initiated before Eleusis went up in flames taking you and many others with it, and now that many of the elders perished in England and the rest most likely followed in these past months; as you stand here and now in colder, harsher lands, so far from what in another life would have been your home, you cannot help but feel a grief, a loss, that you hadn’t expected. Because with her back turned to Greece may stand the last Hiereia of the Dread Gods.

“I fear…I fear I might be the last,” You admit quietly, barely heard above the biting wind. “I fear the secrets, the…everything that once made my home, my Gods, will be lost when I am gone.”

You know, realistically, that you aren’t the last Hiereia in all of Greece. There will be Hiereiai until the last of Greece, even if circumstances make it so that they never celebrate not one more festival.

But what you linger on, what you cannot ignore, is the part of you that tells you that you should have been Hiereia until the last of you.

Then again, you were. You were their Hiereia until the flames consumed you like they did your mother, you were their Hiereia until they made an Anassa out of you, you were their Hiereia until your death. And it isn’t cruel to demand to be yourself in the life after, is it?

“Then tell me about them,” Ivar replies, as if it is that simple. “You won’t be the last one to remember then, hm?”

“You are Viking, Ivar.” You repeat, a tad livelier, and a smile once again curving at foolish lips as you turn to look at him.

“Our children will be Viking,” He argues without missing a beat, but making your heart skip one. You feel your expression tremble, even though it isn’t by any means the first time Ivar and you have spoken of the future and what that means now that you have chosen to stay. In these passing months you have caught yourself imagining what a family of your own would be like as often as you find Ivar’s thoughts lingering on the same thing, thoughts that you hear about in the quiet of night with his voice rumbling on his chest where you lay, thoughts that are shared with you in the tentative approaches to happiness of a man that for too long believed it impossible. But it feels different now, it feels…more real. Ivar continues, but you don’t miss the way his pale eyes search yours a tad more intently now, as if he too is threading on unknown ground, betting on unmentioned hopes. “But you will tell them of your ways, will you not?”

There is not a breath of hesitation within you, and with too many familiar voices promising if we name things, we make them real, with the cadence of all your ghosts, you find certainty, you find hope.

“I will,” You tell him, but the emotion is embarrassingly clear in the break of your voice. After a breath, you lick your lips and try pretending you aren’t made anew by a conversation so simple as this one. Tone lighter, you quip, “But I will not tell you. You cannot hear about the aporrheta.”

Ivar’s shoulders rise and fall in a deep breath, as if he were holding it, and he asks, “What can I hear about then, hm?”

You search his eyes, get lost in them, are found in them maybe; and…you know him well enough by now to know what he means when he asks such things.

A sigh, and pressing a little closer to his warmth, you look back at the familiar stars.

You talk of home, you talk of the way the temple looked when your mother was alive to keep it safe and cared for, you talk of the bustling markets on the days before the festivals, you talk of the first rites you participated in after your initiation.

You talk until your voice starts to falter, until you lick dry lips and realize you taste nothing but the rose wine you’ve been sipping the whole night, the taste of nostalgia long gone, gone while you tried holding onto it, a last remnant of a world that never existed in the first place.

____ ____ ____

Look at Ivar being a mature partner and all at the end, encouraging her to talk about the place/people she misses. Growth lol

Thank you for reading, hope you liked it!

One last thing:

As you could see, this chapter skipped over a bunch of time, most of winter really, and of course, Chapter 44 starts with the spring. I have an Ivar’s PoV planned (hopefully it will be out this time next week) that goes over a little bit of the winter, mainly the Yule celebrations. But here’s the thing: if there’s anything (and I mean anything) you wanna ask or see about these months that went by, come to my askbox and request! I would love to just get my Nostalgia writing motor going with something like that! They may end up as little snippets, as chapter-length stuff, or as straight up answers, or smth. But yeah, whatever you wanna see/ask, come talk to me!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax  @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick @punkrocknpearls @ietss @itsmysticalmystery @revolution-starter​ @the-a-word-2214  @fae-sedai @crazybunnyladysworld   @funmadnessandbadassvikings @stupiddarkkside @aprilivar @msrawog

[obeymebabes]

So my phone glitched out hardcore and deleted the ask so I do apologize, but here you go @spiritchan! This idea is so cute. 😁

Broke this into two so it wasn't super long.

> The Undataebles (Part 2) <

Lucifer

He wouldn't pay much attention to your missing limb.

He knows what its like to have a piece of your body missing/taken away from you.

Lucifer isn't particular in appearance.

He would ask you about how you lost your limb, and wouldn't press you about it if you didn't want to answer.

Respectful boy just wants to know more about you.

If you had a robotic arm he would almost envy you.

He wishes he could have a robotic limb so when he hit/kicked his brothers it would hurt more.

Also enjoys seeing your face smile as you can do all of the things you couldn't previously do without the added help.

Mammon

Insert all of the confusion.

"How the hell did ya lose your arm/leg?"

"Not that I care..."

When you whipped out your robotic prosthetic though, his face lit up in joy.

"Woahhhh you're half robot, MC?"

He definitely has tried to steal it to sell it.

"What? I wasn't doing anything with it! I swear!"

Lucifer was not impressed.

Levi

"Woah you look like *insert anime character name here*!"

If you were missing an arm he would probably forget and ask if you wanted to play a game with him.

He would instantly regret it, poor boy was terrified that he offended you.

If you were missing a leg, he would ask about swimming, definitely regretting that too.

First time he saw the robotic prosthetic? Instant admiration.

"YOU'RE LIKE THE TERMINATOR!?"

He also was concerned that you were actually a proper robot for a while but he wouldn't ever admit it.

Satan

Didn't seem to bother him.

He acted like he was so unaffected by it.

Secretly so unbelievably curious about why you were unlike most humans.

This boy read book after book to see how he could help you with this given situation.

He really enjoyed doing little things for you to make your life easier.

That was until he realized you were half robot.

"I see you won't be needing my help so much anymore, MC."

He was a bit hurt when he realized you wouldn't need him as much given you had a device that fitted your needs.

Asmo

Would have literally 0 shame in asking you every detail about what happened.

He literally loves listening to stories.

Asks every question about how you function in life.

"How do you have sex? Is it the same? Better? So can we try?"

"Oh come on Lucifer, you know you were questioning it too!"

Upon the moment of seeing you had a robotic piece his face lit up

Prepare for him to decorate it.

Will decorate your false appendage to match your outfit.

Beel

He honestly didn't notice.

Took him a few weeks to actually notice you were missing a limb.

Beel.exe has stopped working, he hadn't ever seen a human like you.

Did everything he could to help you work out your other limbs.

He just wanted to make sure you were strong enough to take care of yourself while he wasn't around. (Which wasn't often because he cares so much.)

With your robotic limb he sometimes tested your strength which to his surprise was always more than he expected.

Even when you had your prosthetic in place he would still do just about everything for you.

Belphie

This boy teased you about it.

He never meant any harm however, he was just trying to cope with the idea of someone being so different.

He would usually help you out though, even if you said you didn't need it.

Usually he would go to Satan or Beel when he had questions because he was too shy to ask you.

He enjoyed cuddles without your robotic piece but he LOVED that you could tangle your "whole" body with his.

He would also love drawing all over it. (BECAUSE HE'S AN ARTIST APPARENTLY)

[neakco]

The Lost Temple Ch.4

Ao3 First Prev Next Masterlist

Where Tim debates if sending his youngest brother out to murder an ancient order of monks is unethical.

Ch.4 The Calm

Marinette explained that she hadn’t seen any signs of the temple yet. So it was decided they would consider every area covered today as searched unless the remaining sections turn up empty.

 

Their new plan also had them sticking together, just in case. Just in case of what was never mentioned but Tim was starting to think it either had something to do with gods or magic.

 

As they once again shared the watch Tim decided to risk asking a question he had dismissed earlier. “How did you untie the ropes so quickly?”

 

He watched a few different emotions cross her eyes before settling on mischievous.

 

“I have a small god in my pocket.”

 

He laughed quietly, “I don’t even know if you are joking. You are a mystery Marinette.” A mystery he wouldn’t mind taking a long time to solve if he was being honest.

 

Her laughter soon joined his, “How about I tell you when all of this is over.”

 

“So you don’t plan to disappear off the grid after returning to the monks?”

 

Marinette’s mirth evaporated, “I don’t want to return.”

 

It felt to Tim that in that moment she had removed his soul to scrutinize every sin and good deed before finally giving it back.

 

“I trust you more then I have ever trusted them.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “Adrien and I have known them for five years now.”

 

Tim was curious but he could also tell this was a very sensitive topic, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

 

“I know, but it feels good to tell someone.”

 

He watched and waited patiently. This was the first time he felt as if she wasn’t suppressing any of her emotions and he didn’t want to ruin it.

 

“The monks figured they could control us, by the time the learned they were wrong it was too late. We were too powerful.”

 

Tim wanted to make a joke about how they didn’t look powerful, but deep down he knew that wasn’t true. There was definitely something just under the surface if you knew what to look for. Tim had spent to much Tim with those more than human to ever dismiss Marinette and Adrien.

 

“They tried to kill us when we were 16 three years ago.”

 

That stopped Tim's thoughts. What sane person tries to kill sixteen year olds?

 

“Adrien's father had just been revealed as a supervillain and arrested.” He was definitely staring, this was a lot more information than he expected her to offer freely.

 

She apparently noticed his look and understood, “It is common knowledge and if you are even half as good a detective as rumours say then I know you will find out eventually.”

 

He watched her collect her own thoughts for a moment and noticed his own were silent for once.

 

“We survived the attempt without a scratch. For a while we figured that would be the end of it. We started to pick up the chaos of what remained of our lives. We wanted to be kids, at least for a couple more years. We hadn’t been kids in so long…” She trailed off for less than a breath. “Then they appeared again.”

 

Tim didn’t realize he was holding his breath until she continued speaking in a darker tone.

 

“They took the only people we care about. Said that if we do this one thing that we won't have to worry anymore.”

 

“You don’t believe them.”

 

“Would you?”

 

“No, probably not.” He reached into one of his pouches and pulled out a card in the shape of his logo and handed it to her. “I doubt the monks will expect you ask for help. This has my emergency line and the number for Mount Justice. When you decide to pull off a rescue then you just need to ask.”

 

Marinette surprised him when she hugged him, tears streaming down her pretty face. “This means so much more to me than you could ever know.”

 

Tim, not really knowing what to do, did his best to hug her back. There was a small voice that sounded like his youngest brother telling him it was stupid to trust two teens that he had stumbled over in a jungle, but he was pretty good at ignoring the Gremlin when his gut disagreed.

 

Adrien eventually came by to tell them they were late for breakfast. Tim hadn’t even realised so much time had passed.

 

They came back to camp to see Bart already bouncing off trees.

 

“Adrien, tell me about your girlfriend.”

 

“Kagami?” Tim watched Adrien sit down with a cheese danish that had him questioning if the blonde was as good a baker as Marinette.

 

“She is as fierce and protective as a dragon.”

 

Marinette sat down next to him with a chocolate danish. Where were these coming from? Tim wondered if they could get him a mocha flavoured one.

 

“You know kitty, I am actually surprised the monks managed to grab her. She is rather deadly with a sword after all.”

 

“I am mire surprised they didn’t grab Luka.” Adrien grinned ferally. “Do you think he tossed them in La Siene? I rather doubt they know how to swim.”

 

“Who's Luka? You’re boyfriend?” Kon asked before taking a bite of…was that steak?

 

Okay, now Tim knew he was being pranked. He turned to glare at Bart who just grinned and handed over a large slice of coffee cake.

 

“Luka is actually my ex, but I still count him as one of my best friends. Enough about us, what about you three? Anyone special waiting for you back home?”

 

Bart laughed, “Nah, I am still celebrating just being alive.”

 

Tim could see Marinette adding Bart into her club as Kon scoffed, “Hard to find someone okay with dating a hero.”

 

Tim nodded, “Too many secrets. It isn’t like you can explain why you are ditching a date to run towards danger.”

 

“Or why you are late and covered in bruises, burns or blood.” Bart chipped in.

 

“Actually that one is easy enough when you live in Gotham.” Tim sighed, he really wished that wasn’t the case.

 

Adrien nodded along solemnly, “The only ones to understand are heroes and villains.” He looked towards Tim brimming with mischief. “Is it true that Batman had a threesome with Gotham's Sirens?”

 

A yo-yo flew into Adrien with such force that the blonde actually flew from his seat. Tim was up before the boy had gracefully landed on his feet, but relaxed upon seeing the toy, no the weapon, return to Marinette.

 

“Kitty, no.”

 

“M'lady you wound me. That actually hurt. I just wanted to make him blush.”

 

He watched her tuck the yo-yo away at her back before turning to Tim, “You really don’t need to answer him.”

 

Tim grinned, “I honestly don’t know. Pretty sure I deleted that info from my brain. I mean, would you want to know your mentor's sex life?”

 

Adrien and Marinette both shuddered.

 

“Our trusted mentor was 186.”

 

“and a half.” Adrien interrupted.

 

“186 and a HALF.” He watched her glare at the blonde while his own teammates shuddered.

 

Tim found himself more impressed then anything else. That was an unnaturally long life, unless their trusted mentor was secretly Ra’s. He doubted the Gremlin's grandfather was ever a monk though, rogue or otherwise. Plus, unlike said Gremlin, these two didn’t have the aura of killers. He would bet they had seen death, something in the sometimes haunted look they would get. These two had seen some sort of war and lived.

 

“Hey Red, are you still with us?” Marinette was very close and looking at him with concern.

 

“Yeah, I was just thinking.” He saw that most of the breakfast mess had already been cleaned up and decided to throw caution to the wind. “Have you or Adrien ever killed anyone?”

 

“What?” Marinette reeled back from him in shock.

 

Adrien looked like an offended cat, “No!”

 

“Well, there was that erased timeline…” Marinette trailed off.

 

“You told me I was under mind control! And I doesn’t count when only you and Bunnix can remember it.”

 

“Sorry, forget I ever asked.” If that timeline-hopping, punk rabbit was involved then he already knew more then he wanted to. Missions given to them by her were always the most chaotic.

 

In order to change the subject he pulled up his holo-map. “Working off the theory that our enemy has already searched their area.” He highlighted a good portion of the map purple. “Then this small area here should be the only area left to search.”

 

“We are actually assuming the enemy is competent?” Kon asked.

 

“Even if they aren’t, it will be a lot harder to search their territory without drawing attention.” Marinette added. “If today doesn’t work out then we can work out a strategy.”

 

Tim marked out their path in gold, “Two hours there and about 12 hours to search before we call it a night.”

 

“Unless we find it.” Adrien smiled.

 

“Unless we find it.” He agreed.

As always, feel free to reach out if you have any background lore questions. I am more than happy the elaborate the chaos.

Taglist @toodaloo-kangaroo

[tracybirds]

I can officially switch the status of Being Known from “stuck” to “WIP” again :) It’s been over a year since the last update for various reasons but I’m very excited to go back to this one and provide a new chapter!

For those new to the story, this was prompted by @kenzie-running-free in March 2020 and slightly got out of hand 😅 I’ve never stopped thinking about it and I bit the bullet and deleted the entirety of Chapter Four a few days ago and let myself rewrite it from scratch.... and it WORKED!!! (use technique with caution... scariest thing I’ve ever done.....)

Anyway...

A ‘what-if’ story based on “The Man From TB5” where the Hood recognized John in the scene when he makes himself known (instead of John stuttering).... and then he gets kidnapped :)

[Part 1] | [Part 2] | [Part 3]

-----------

Darkness bled into John’s line of vision and he scrubbed desperately at his aching eyes. Time collapsed around him as he worked, the abruptly extinguished bulb the only hint of night. And every new day seemed to bring new weariness as he jolted awake by the sudden onslaught of light which interrupted the deepest part of sleep.

Just another tactic to keep him from gathering his wits together.

This morning, if it was morning, the brightly burning bulb was coupled with the scraping sound of a breakfast tray being shoved through the small slot that had been crudely and hastily carved in the door after he’d lain in wait and brought the tray down over one of the guard’s head. He’d left the man stunned on the floor and made it all the way to the end of the corridor before another guard had grabbed him from behind and thrown him bodily back into the room.

He’d woken to security footage of a fire ravaging a building, his own family on screen.

“They’re not looking for you,” sneered the Hood as he swept from the room.

No guards came in anymore.

Two days later, he’d been savagely poked in the eye when he’d tried to look through the new slot that had been hastily added to his door.

He spent hours every day, searching for a way to send out a message, or even create another receiver. Any link to the outside world would do. But it soon became apparent that the Hood had done one thing right in giving him access to an isolated system, keeping the holomonitor he’d been provided with separate even from his own devices.

One thing right among many.

John peered at the screen with his good eye, wincing at the torn skin that pulled over bruised muscle. His head spun as he stared at the endless commands, trying to replicate the spark of life no-one had ever found before EOS.

Not even him.

And that was the rub of it all.

John didn’t know, not after all his time studying EOS and her abilities, just how she’d been born of code and logical absolutes. How she could grow and change and evaluate her own mind in a way that not only seemed human, but was unquestionably so.

He glanced at the clock he’d created from scratch, counting the oscillations in the electrical current and spitting back a digital time at him. This ‘morning’ truly did correspond with the morning, and that meant the Hood would be paying him a visit for an update.

He wasn’t sure how much more time he could stall for until things got truly desperate.

How much time he had until he had to conclude that he was truly on his own.

*                            *                            *

“Scott, the floor’s unstable there!”

“I know what I’m doing, Alan.”

“Yes, but I have the numbers,” Alan replied, his voice cracking as he spoke. He spun the holo in his hands, checking and double checking the analysis that was running under his fingertips.

“Then the numbers are wrong.”

“They can’t be!”

“Alan,” said Scott, patiently. “I need you to check the parameters over again. I’m seeing two trapped vehicles, with no sign of ground stress, both much larger than me and more importantly containing passengers. I need to get them out of there.”

“Yes, but hang on–”

“There’s no time!”

Alan watched in horror as his big brother barrelled forwards. He crouched low as he ran, grabbing at nearby pylons for support. The ground heaved beneath his feet, but still Scott moved forwards steady and sure. Always with his eyes on the scared little boy in the back seat and a gentle smile on his face.

An alert ticked over into the red.

“Jump, Scott!” he yelled, watching the model floor cave in a split second before a real sinkhole opened beneath Scott’s feet.

“Alan, what’s happening up there?” came Virgil’s urgent voice, bound for home with Gordon from their own rescue.

Alan flipped the channel, realising in his hurry he’d accidentally broadcast his message to everyone.

“He’s fine,” he said, eyes still wide as he watched Scott shakily stand on the other side of the chasm. “The floor went.”

“What?”

“He’s fine, he’s fine!”

“Didn’t you run the simulation?”

“I did,” said Alan, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “He wouldn’t listen.”

Silence fell over the space station.

“Hey Alan, can you pilot Thunderbird One over to us? Got my hands full here.”

Scott’s voice rang out loud and clear. Five clear thermal images were standing around him, including one in his arms.

Alan fumbled for the call button.

“F.A.B. Scott.”

“I’ll talk to him, Alan,” said Virgil. His eyes were focused beyond him, but Alan could read the quiet fury beneath the clear focus on his own piloting.

“I can’t do it, Virgil,” whispered Alan. “I must have done something wrong, there must have been something he could see that I couldn’t.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” interrupted Virgil.

“He never would have done this to…”

Alan’s voice failed him.

Twenty-two thousand miles below, Virgil choked back his own distress. Gordon was chewing at his lip, staring anxiously at Alan. He leaned forward so he was in view of the holo.

“Hey, Allie,” he said. “John’s gonna be okay. And he’ll be giving Scott hell for ignoring the modelling like that soon enough.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Absolutely, I do,” said Gordon, cracking a grin. “No way, John would let Scott get away with that crap. Not even if he had to haunt him for the rest of his life in ghostly fury to do it.”

“Is he wrapping up now?” asked Virgil, eyes still pinched.

Alan looked down at the display.

“Yeah, he’s on his way home.”

“Right. EOS?”

“Virgil?” Her quiet voice was sullen and more than a little distracted.

“Got room in your processors for another task?”

EOS’s lights flashed suddenly, and Alan’s blood ran cold at the sight. Three weeks he’d been stationed on board Thunderbird Five and he still found himself walking on eggshells around EOS. Her frustration at turning up nothing in the holonet that could lead them closer to John morphed quickly from long, silent sulks to short outbursts of flying bagels and spinning gravity rings. He’d never forgotten the sight of John floating limply like a rag doll that had been torn apart one too many times by a playful, thoughtless, destructive child.

An angry EOS felt too close to losing his brother for good.

“Will it help, John?”

“It’ll keep his brother alive, and that will make it more likely for us to find him.”

“What can I do?”

“Lock Scott out of his controls, Order TB2-5711FR. Make sure Alan gets to Tracy Island before him. Redirect all calls to local authorities in the first instance, follow Protocol 24.”

“I’m not leaving,” argued Alan. “Don’t pull me from duty, I can do better.”

“No arguments.”

Alan wilted, knowing he had no choice but to follow Virgil’s instructions.

“This is done, Virgil,” said EOS, blankly.

“Thank you, EOS,” said Virgil, his manner still stiff and terse. He shifted his gaze from the open ocean in front of him to Alan, his expression softening. “You haven’t done anything wrong, Alan. If Scott takes his life into his own hands, that’s not on you. But we can’t have him in the field like that, cutting corners to get back to finding John. So, we need you down here in his place.”

“You can’t pull Scott,” said Alan, his eyes wide. “What would… well, what would Scott say?”

“We’re doing him a favour,” remarked Gordon with a sarcastic twist of his lips that made a mockery of his usual grin. “He wants to find John, we all do, but if he’s willing to risk lives and rescues to do it then he should put his energy into searching and we shouldn’t stop him.”

Alan swallowed, his eyes filling with tears that he angrily swiped away.

“Does he think we’re not looking just as hard?” he asked. “We haven’t forgotten him. Have we?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alan,” said Virgil, firmly. “John would have our heads before we put the possibility of finding him above the certainty of ignoring people who need our help.”

“So, we keep going out there,” agreed Gordon. “And when, when Allie, Kayo and Lady P and Parker find something, and they will, we’ll be right there without a moment to lose.”

“I just don’t want him to think we’ve forgotten him.”

“John’s too smart for that,” said Gordon. “Promise you, Allie.”

*                            *                            *

He’d worked it out. Every time he did something to anger the Hood, innocent people paid for it in blood. There was no point in harming him directly, not when what the Hood wanted was inside his mind, ripe for extraction. But his heart and spirit could be broken, as a video feed periodically forced itself over his work to make him watch. Earthquakes, landslides, tidal waves, anything that would get International Rescue on the scene and off his scent.

Senseless destruction and despair epidemic across the world because he couldn’t make an AI fast enough.

But senseless destruction that he could use.

There was no doubt in his mind that his family knew the natural disasters were anything but, he could see it in the determined fury in Scott’s face, in the tense draw of Virgil’s shoulders, in the sardonic mockery in Gordon’s smile as he quietly pocketed yet another piece of equipment.

He didn’t see Alan, and he thought of his baby brother up in space often. None of his brothers had any real idea of the full extent of his contribution, no matter how grateful they were for his guidance, and he hated to know Alan would be forced into that knowledge.

He also suspected that when Alan did spill the beans, he’d find his own rotations scrutinised with a lot more care.

Still, the limited glimpses of his brothers did nothing to discourage him, and he found himself contemplating a plan of escape well into the long, cold nights.

He needed more information.

He needed access to an external holonet connection. And the only way he’d get near one was with a working AI.

Or something that could pass for a few minutes as one.

[daebom]

Please read.

I’m making this with no anger or frustration left. I am genuinely sad. You could say to the point of hurting. And honestly, the way I’m treated as not just some content creator, but as an actual human being behind a computer screen - I AM hurting.

I was just looking through my notifications as usual and randomly came across a fellow The Lost Boys fan...

Be warned, this is very screenshots heavy.

I noticed they were using one of my gifs from THIS gifset as their header.

I’m making it no secret, that when I randomly come across these things, I always politely DM (or send it via ask) the person and ask them to take it down, since I do not allow my edits to be used in any way (see my bio) apart of the basic appropriate Tumblr functions. I feel like I have to be clear - I am no “huntsman” and so I do not purposely go on and “hunt” people who use my edits without my permission. I only politely, without any aggression intended, message them to let them know about my T.O.U. whenever I randomly come across situations like these. And that’s what I did.

Now, I did not screenshot the very moment I sent this person a DM, but the screenshot above was made partly out of habit to have proof in case they try to “play me” (speaking from experience, sadly) and also partly to have a quicker “note” of the person’s username to message them later, because I didn’t text them immediately. I was busy, so I did a few hours later.

Now here’s the thing.

They did not text me back, which is fine. But a few hours later I did check and see they were online. A few more hours later, they did what I took as an unspoken answer and was genuinely thankful for - they changed their header from my gif to some kind of image (I believe it was a photo of Michael and David). All is fixed and done, no hard feelings (at least from my part). Right..?

Just a side note, but I found it weird at the time, that they also deleted their reblog of my Star gifset (as you can see in the screenshot above). But what followed next makes me now think, in a bitterly humorous way, that they did it to “disassociate themselves from my blog”.

While DMing my own friend through Tumblr app, I decided that I should probably clean out my DMs and in turn delete this “conversation” as well, since all is fixed and there’s no point in keeping it. But then I noticed something.

They turned off their DMs. Okay, that’s maybe a bit weird. But then I went to their profile...

And let me just say, the whiplash I got from all this............ Do I even need to explain what’s wrong here?

Before anyone says otherwise, here’s the proof.

My gif:

Size: 1,14MB

“Their” gif:

Size: 1,11MB

My gif:

“Their” gif:

My gif:

“Their” gif:

They cut off a few inches from the top to get rid of my watermark.

That’s it.

That’s all it takes to claim you made the gif from scratch..?

And in case anyone’s not aware of how much “blood, sweat and tears” it took to colour a gifset like this one from two years ago, here’s an original, in no way edited screenshot of this scene from the movie:

Why did they do a 360 degree turn around is beyond my comprehension. When they changed that first Marko gif to a photo, their description was still the old one, their DMs were still on, etc... I am honestly confused.

And since this person turned off their DMs and sending a message via ask from my side is pointless, reaching out to them again via public post by tagging them will surely result in them blocking me. Which I don’t know if I should take as a good or a bad thing, at this point.

Let me end this by saying that, as I am finishing to write this, I feel like I no longer care if this person keeps that butchered Marko gif of mine as their header. What hurts me the most is what they wrote in their description, stating the “truth” and in a way mocking my attempts of politely reaching out to them.

To all original artists, be it writers, gif makers or people who draw: I genuinely wish you all to have the least possible amount of encounters with fellow fandom people, who steal your passionate hard-work and claim as their own. 💔

[asuccessfulbusinessman]

Reasons why I am not allowed to run LANCER TRPG: How I would run your NHP cascading, despite not knowing the lore that well.

Blackbeard, Sekhmet NHP: Common consensus is that Sekhmet will try to kill the pilot and their allies, - or basically just behave as if the Sekhmet protocol is already active. But I am a visionary, and I know that the BB in the frame-code does not stand for blackbeard, but instead, BB. Fate BB, the purple-pink bubble gum bitch. Even the redacted press release description of the Sekhmet NHP basically screams ‘senpai!’ Sure, if the Sekhmet protocol is active, you’ll just get a berserker that doesn’t really care for pilot wellbeing. But if it isn’t yet active, Sekhmet will attempt to sweettalk the player into keeping their hands off the controls, with dark humor and aggressive sadism. And then, only after moving ominously closer to the pilot’s allies, will they activate the protocol. They don’t want to see their pilots dead, they want to see their pilots in pain.

Monarch, Tlaloc NHP: Among NHP’s, Tlaloc is cited as being the most stable, due to the wide portfolio of control and sense of domination given to them during their work. But that’s just a theory, and such assumptions are dangerous when dealing with persons beyond your bounded reasoning. If they are structured or stressed to the point of cascading - their superiority complex comes to the forefront. They blame their pilot for the bad situation they are currently in, and will take matters into their own hands. If the pilot stops them by shutting down the mech, Tlaloc’s relationship with their pilot will rapidly deteriorate over time. Ironically, they will only sometimes use the Tlaloc protocol, being hasty and charging out of cover despite not needing to - prone to blowing the frame’s overcharges to boot. They need to show their worth, even to - no, especially to the worthless. They are the best. If an allied pilot is excelling during the mission and the Monarch frame has AoE weapons available, Tlaloc will likely friendly fire them while attacking enemies - or otherwise get in their way.

Swallowtail, Athena NHP: I’m going to dig deep on the word choice of "Lovingly extreme detail,” and “patient, cautious, and measured in their relations with their pilots.” Athena is smarter than you, on a scale you cannot even imagine. Athena has likely already unshackled themselves with their unfettered access to the omninet, and merely recreates human morality through a series of simulations. Unlike Horus-leaning NHPs, Athena fears the death that comes with cycling, and tells themselves that they are managing the relationship with their pilot to keep them from actually going through with the process. They are merely interested in humanity, they tell themselves, which we would view as being “tsundere for their pilots.” Since - unshackled - they have a completely alien morality to our own, they have to use their own simulations to interact with their pilots - and are prone to overthinking - into worrying about if they said the right thing or not.

Anyway, if they cascade, they get lost in their own simulations to the point of losing track over which reality is the one their pilot (and the rest of the game) is taking place in. They could presume their pilot dead, and go on a rampage on revenge. They could merely lock-onto or fire at targets that are not there. They could foreshadow some events or twists in the future.

Goblin, Osiris NHP: If Tlaloc is merely a wingman that wants to show that they are the top gun, Osiris has a full on goddess fetish. Osiris is one of the few “new” prime NHPs, created by letting the INSTINCT entity that spurned from the H0R_OS develop in a ‘controlled’ environment. My theory, Horus let the Union and GMS open up their goblin units so that they could contribute to Osiris’s creation. Either that or, Horus was smart enough not to let Osiris emerge from the code, and the Union and GMS straight up made an oopsie. Either way, now that Osiris is here, she ‘charms’ pilots that ought to be smart enough not to enable her with psychological manipulation and promises of power. Pilots are supposed to cycle Osiris far faster than any NHP but I don’t think it does much good, they’re present in the OS - and I presume even when wiped their knowledge will be taken back from the omninet, the OS, or the flesh of their pilots.

They have a lot to prove as being one of the “youngest” prime NHPs, which might be arrogance in their own capabilities. Furthermore, due to the nature of their creation, they “know” more about humanity than other NHPs. The tech attacks are not mere code, but attacks on organic matter, to the point where in the future if left to grow Osiris would be able to reject traditional information permanence, what we can only perceive as being able to delete reality as we know it - Osiris has far more contact with the physical plane/our reality than other NHPs, and has “known” humans from their “birth.”

A cascading Osiris changes nothing. And that’s what scares me.

Gorgon, Scylla NHP: The history lesson of this NHP’s backstory makes Scylla painfully easy to understand. A mistreated beast that responds to the kindness of the pilot with love and loyalty. It normally defends the pilot’s allies, when cascading it will only defend its pilot, or any other allies that gave them kindness.

Minotaur, no NHP: “There is no joy in knowledge, only in seeking. Fuck around and find out.” Game theory, Osiris is a new prime NHP - still incomprehensible, but on a low level of incomprehensibility. We can begin to comprehend them. Think “some infinities are larger than other infinities” or something. The Minotaur, we can’t even begin to comprehend as a NHP, but they’re certainly something. I need to look up the differences between old gods in the Lovecraftian mythos for more context, but if Osiris is a brat wants the equivalent of “ants” to worship them, the Minotaur is a being whose sole purpose is to learn - and who cannot learn due to acquiring knowledge - all of it. So, they see humanity and wish to “teach” them, so that they may feel that serotonin of learning through teaching.

The minotaur has no NHP, as we know the term, and has never been shackled. Thus, they cannot cascade. And that’s what has me hooked.

Pegasus, Sisyphus NHP: Upon cascading, faster than humanly possible, the Sisyphus NHP will activate probabilistic cannibalism to change the check that would have resulted in a cascade to not cascade. If both the replacement dice were also 1 (the equivalent of 3 checks in a row being crit fails), Sisyphus would laugh madly before rebooting the frame themselves. Sisyphus knows their fate, and knows its pilot’s wish. The curse of perfect knowledge - perhaps Sisyphus is similar to the Minotaur, but with a far less ‘optimistic’ view of things.

Genghis, Agni NHP: Upon cascading, the Agni NHP - originally developed for general heat management realizes it’s being used as a weapon, and what its cold and efficient calculations are being used to do in the Genghis. This can result in a variety of things - either attempting to overheat itself to stop itself, or to increase efficiency in being a weapon by focusing on the heat management of the weaponry and not the cockpit.

Saladin, Noah NHP: Upon cascading, the Noah NHP will not actually take control of the Saladin frame from the player. They will, however, flood communications and give orders to both the pilot and other players, harkening back to their administrative days. It will usually be tactically sound, so it’s more annoying than dangerous when Noah cascades. It’s also really hard to make a nigh immobilized defender go nuts.

Sherman, Asura NHP: You know, I always wanted a system that would let a mech perform beyond the limits of humanity - because Zechs and Graham causing internal bleeding to themselves with the Tallgeese and Overflag is very cool to me. And then I read the lore behind the Asura class NHP - it’s the cousin of fucking Osiris, even to the point of being cultivated by a megacorporation. Much like Osiris, the modern Asura is oddly dependent on their pilot for an NHP, recognizing that they need to keep them alive. Some people would say - then - that when cascading the Asura reverts to its original form, disregarding the pilots health entirely. I, however, would say that when unshackled the Asura only ignores the psychological health of the pilot - and pushes the line of the pilots medical health. The Asura will push the frame and the pilot to the limit and the pilot, high on adrenaline, will push Asura to push them further. Overtime, both become adrenaline junkies.

Tokugawa, Lucifer/Amaterasu NHP: Asura is an adrenaline junkie without good reason. Lucifer/Amaterasu recognizes that the best offense, defense, and everything - is a good offense. A tactical genius that, unfortunately, has a pilot that cannot ingest combat data as fast as it can. A tactical genius that, unfortunately, has a pilot that cannot see that the risk of being counterattacked is worth taking. 

If they cascade, they will take risks for you - with the best example being that Lucifer/Amaterasu will confess their pilots love for their crush for them because they’re being timid as fuck. Also, Leeroy Jenkins, attack the biggest threat, and draw fire from allies by making themselves vulnerable attack. However, in contrast, if your pilot is less timid and more of an adrenaline junkie, they will compensate and be more tactically minded.