#do I have any proof for this

[8thparadox]

Turns out Wonder Woman's 1930s design is somehow closer to how the ancient Greeks depicted Amazons then most "greek-inspired" WW redesigns from the 21st c. This was inspired my me going "Hold up... why is Diana always depicted as an ancient Greek when the Amazons were specifically... NOT the ancient Greeks.

[cowboyemeritus]

I Will Make You My Angel (Papa V Perpetua/Reader)

“So, you feel like causing problems tonight,” he asks, which, in the language of your play, translates roughly to, “Ready to suffer?”

You just roll your eyes again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bring it.”

tags: brat taming, slapping, spanking, use of a belt, aftercare, daddy kink for a split second... dw about it

Read on AO3

Notes: this started out as a stream of consciousness post i made like a week ago... how did we get here

First, you didn’t give him a good morning kiss. Strike One.

Then, you didn’t hold his hand in the van to the arena. Strike Two.

Now, you’re ignoring him. He’s just wobbled his ass off in front of thousands of people, and you’re fucking ignoring him.

Strike Three. You’re out.

It’s late by the time the after party wraps. It’s even later when you arrive back at the hotel. Perpetua’s nerves are shot, worn thin by the long day and all the challenges it has presented. Logistical issues, technical difficulties, misbehaving ghouls; the silent treatment is the very last thing he needs. He would have liked to have had you on his arm tonight, to show you off to the sleazy music execs that had come to kiss his ass, but you’d chosen to be selfish, setting yourself down in a corner and scrolling on your phone for hours, hardly paying him any mind.

Your Twitter feed better have been interesting.

He flops down on the bed, a groan wrenching itself out of him as the tension in his body is finally allowed an escape route. You don’t acknowledge him, checking your phone again before setting it down on the nightstand and shuffling over to the closet. With your back to him, you start undressing for bed, and his blood boils just a little hotter. If you won’t engage with him, he should at least be allowed to ogle you a bit.

He should also rest, prepare himself for the next ritual, but the itch has taken hold of him and won’t let go. His skin crawls, thinking about everything that’s gone wrong today and everything that will go wrong tomorrow. This new life of his, it’s more than he ever could have dreamed of, but it’s just so much, all the fucking time. And he doesn’t ask for a lot, just that you show up, be present, give him a little support when he needs it. You’re normally so, so good for him. He doesn’t understand why-

Every racing thought in his head comes screeching to a halt when you unzip your dress, a sexy leather thing that hugs your curves just right, and pull it down. Perpetua watches carefully, pulse quickening, as the action exposes the purple silk and black lace beneath. The set is new and, as he suspected, it fits perfectly, the bustier giving your tits the perfect amount of lift while the garters and stockings make you look like something out of a 50s centerfold. It’s old-fashioned refinement; the good shit. His cock throbs at the sight, and for a fleeting moment he’s able to take pride in his excellent taste. He knows what suits you, often better than you do. Then, that feeling is replaced by seething rage.

You have the gall, the audacity, to wear his colors after how you’ve acted today?

“What is that?” He asks, heartbeat thrumming in his ears. At long last, you notice him, turning your head in his direction.

“Um, my underwear?” There is disinterest, even a little judgement, in your gaze, like he’s some old pervert creeping on you at a bar. Anger pangs in his stomach, like hunger.

“Yeah,” Perpetua says, trying to sound casual. “Looks good on you.” No response. “I wonder where you could have come across such a thing.” At this, you give an exaggerated roll of your eyes.

“I found it,” you state, the words barbed with sarcasm. His jaw tightens.

“How?” You blink at him, confused.

“What do you mean, how? I just-”

“Found it,” he questions, “with your eyes glued to your fucking phone all day?” Now you turn your body towards him, revealing more of the getup. Perpetua wants nothing more than tear it off and have you now, but there’s something to be said about taking his time, about making you really earn the punishment he so desperately needs to dole out.

“What are you, my dad?” You scoff, turning your attention back to your dress, putting it on a hanger and racking it next to a neat row of his shirts. “I don’t know why you’re being such a dick. The show didn’t go that bad.”

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s up, stomping over to where you’re standing. He grips you hard by the shoulder, spinning you face him.

“So, you feel like causing problems tonight,” he asks, which, in the language of your play, translates roughly to, “Ready to suffer?”

You just roll your eyes again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bring it.”

In an instant, his gloved palm is connecting with your cheek. It’s hard, but not enough to leave a mark. Still, your head jerks violently to the side as he completes the stroke, the clap echoing off the walls. A heavy silence falls over the room, and it’s only then that he considers what this might sound like to a concerned neighbor. He doesn’t have time to dwell on that, though. You hang your head for a beat, take a few, steadying breaths, and then look back up at him. Your pupils are blown wide, and the way you’re pressing your lips together tells him you’re fighting back a grin.

This, of course, had been your plan all along: to get him riled up and then let him blow off the steam. You’re far too smart for your own good. You know him too well, can read his moods too easily, and like a little pixie, you use this talent to make mischief when he most desperately needs a distraction.

“That fucking hurt.”

He’d be lost without you.

“It did?” Still in a vice grip, he marches you across the room, throwing you down on the mattress. Delight curls in his gut at the sound you make, the breath knocked out of your lungs. “On your knees. I’ll show you hurt.” You remain motionless, glaring back at him. “Come on.” He grabs you by the hips, manhandling you into the desired position. His mouth waters as he takes in the sight of you, decked out in his colors, your ass in the air like it’s a prize and your face in the sheets to shut you up. “It’s late. You think I want to be doing this at two in the fucking morning?” You shake your head sheepishly. “Yeah, of course not. But if I don’t deal with you, who will?” He peels off his gloves and then reaches for his belt buckle, noting how your thighs press together. “Who will do a fucking thing if I’m not around?”

You smirk. “Heavy is the head that wears the mitre, huh?” As he’s pulling the band of leather through the loops, you let out a little laugh. “You know, you could always switch with Copia if you don’t think you can handle-”

The belt cracks against the back of your thigh. You jolt, crying out, and it’s as much an exclamation of pain as it is a moan. Perpetua looks between his hand, knuckles blanched around the leather, and where he’s just struck you. The skin is already welting up in a fat, pink streak, a few tiny, red dots blooming over broken capillaries. It’s such a captivating image that, for a split second, he forgets he’s supposed to be angry. Then you shift uncomfortably, giving him an expectant look, and he has to fight to come back to himself.

“Don’t-” He so badly wants to kiss that bruising flesh, to soothe the wound with his tongue. It takes a long, deep breath to steel him. “Dirty your mouth with his name again, and I’ll make you wash it out with soap.” He teases the folded end of the belt up your other thigh, brushing over your core, and you shiver. Princes of Hell, you’re already soaked through. “Got that, follettina?”

“Yes, Papa.” Perpetua scoffs.

“Now you feel like showing me some respect.” He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and encountering the warm metal of the mask. With his free hand, Perpetua reaches for the clasp at the top of his head, then, seeing you watching, decides against it. He glowers at you as his hand instead finds his scarf, pulling it loose, before undoing the top few buttons of his shirt. Beneath the layers of fabric, his skin is overly warm, bordering on sweaty.

“We go until I say we’re done,” he states, bringing the belt back to your buttocks. “You can still keep count if you’d like.” At this, you swallow hard, shuddering, and it fills him with a perverse sense of pleasure, heat flaring at the very base of him. He knows you’re just the tiniest bit afraid; in moments like this, it’s hard not to be, even when there’s desire in it. What he loves about you, though, is that you trust him, letting him guide you through the fear to the pleasure at its conclusion. That you’re willing to put your body and safety in his hands is an intoxicating feeling, and swept up in it, Perpetua finds that he’s done holding back.

He brings the belt down on your ass. You bury your face in the mattress to stifle a moan. He does it again, and this time it’s a scream. He strikes you one more time before the itch takes over and he no longer cares to keep track. Then, its blow after blow, the sound ricocheting off the walls like gunfire. His treatment is imprecise, uneven, striking wherever meets his fancy, until your ass and the backs of your thighs are red and criss-crossed with welts. You take each hit like a champion, hardly moving save for the arching of your back and an occasional buck of your hips.

He’s listening closely for it the whole time: miserere, the hard stop. You’ve never tapped out before, but maybe this is it. Maybe this time he’ll overdo it. The worry is always there, lingering in the back of his mind despite your assurances. But you’re resilient, far more so than he, and even when your yelps and moans turn to sobs, you don’t bend. You never do. You take it all, his rage, his pain, and you swallow it. You transform it into focus, productivity. Even now, his head already feels clearer.

You’re a martyr. Perpetua ought to have you canonized.

“That’s enough.” His chest is heaving, sweat beading under the mask. He’s so hard it hurts, every nerve alight with pleasure. It feels like he’s vibrating. It’s exhilarating.

You flop onto your side with a groan. You’re panting, sniffling, twitching a little, but there’s a blissed out look on your face, a grin spread wide across it. Tears stream down your cheeks, taking your makeup with them.

“Papa…” It’s all you can manage before breaking out into a fit of laughter. Oh, he’s gotten you good. You reach blindly for him, and in spite of the scene his heart skips a beat.

“I’m right here,” he coos, taking your hand and planting a gentle kiss on your knuckles. It flops back down when he lets go. Shakily, you bring the appendage closer to your face, cracking an eye open to examine it. There’s a smear of his black lipstick on your skin, and with a pleased little hum, you press your lips to the mark.

If he had a soul, surely it would leave his body.

“Oh, my love, look at you.” You’re utterly ruined. Unable to resist, he palms at himself through his pants. This does not go unnoticed, and you let out a needy whine. Perpetua snickers. “Yeah? You’re not done yet? You need me to fuck you, too?” A hungry look in your eyes, you nod. At this, he clicks his tongue, though he’s already reaching to undo the laces restraining him. “After all you’ve done today, you think you deserve that?” Your eyes go wide, then well up with fresh tears, and he feels his cock kick as he works to free it.

“Please,” you whimper, suddenly coherent again. “I’ll be so good tomorrow.”

Perpetua imagines you’ll spend most of the day recouping on the bus. There’s not much trouble you can really get into there, unless you rope the ghouls into your schemes. Lucifer save him if you do.

He lets out an embellished sigh. “How is it that you can be such a little shit, and yet I still let you walk all over me?” At last his cock springs free, flushed an angry red and pulsing with the beating of his heart. “You’re spoiled.” He gives himself a few slow, teasing strokes, making a show of pulling back the skin to reveal the head, already slick with precum. “Absolutely rotten.”

The despair on your face quickly transforms into a smug, satisfied grin. You giggle, batting your eyes coquettishly. “I know.” Perpetua just grunts, planting his free hand on your hip and shoving you onto your stomach. He makes quick work of unclipping the garters, then hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties and tugs them down. You shimmy a little, assisting him in the endeavor. Letting go of his cock, he drapes himself over your prone form, planting his knees on either side of your body, and you hiss a little as the coarse fabric of his pants rubs against your skin. One hand threads into your hair, pulling your head up off the mattress, while he holds the other to your lips.

“Spit,” he commands. “It’s all you’re getting.” With perfect obedience, you probe around in your cheek with your tongue, gathering as much saliva as possible, before letting it dribble out into his palm. Perpetua takes his shaft in hand again, slicking himself up with a few lazy strokes, then adjusts his position so that he can drag the tip through your folds.

“Baby,” you whine. You try to spread your legs enticingly, but you’re trapped under the weight of him, pinned to the bed like a butterfly. “Plea-” Perpetua cuts you off, burying himself to the hilt with a single, punishing drive of his hips. The sound that comes out of you cannot possibly be human, halfway between a moan and the yowl of a cat in heat. Still, he gives you no quarter, no time to adjust, before he begins jackhammering into you, chasing his pleasure with reckless abandon.

“I’ll fuck you, alright.” He tugs on your hair and groans, feeling your cunt ripple. Somehow, even after all this time, he’s still never quite prepared for the way you two fit so perfectly, like puzzle pieces clicking together. “But don’t think for a second that I’m letting you finish like this.” You let out a delicious sob, your entire body convulsing beneath him. Even through his clothes, he can feel the heat radiating from your mortified flesh, and the mental image of what your backside will look like in the morning is like a punch in the stomach. Pace faltering, he comes to the jarring realization that he’s not going to last very long. You must be able to sense it as well, because you press your ass into him with each thrust, trying to meet him halfway.

“God, you fucking-” He groans, gut twisting as you clench around him. “You little fucking whore, always causing problems.” The day’s events rearing their ugly head again, Perpetua feels his temper flare. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he takes a deep breath, the sweet scent of your hair grounding him. “I missed you tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” you pant. “I’m so-” A particularly brutal thrust has the head of his cock punching into your cervix. You gasp beneath him, fists balling in the sheets.

“You should always be by my side. Always.” There’s never a moment when he doesn’t want you near. It’s maddening at times, how badly he craves you. “You looked so fucking good tonight. I wanted to take you right there, in front of all those fucking imbeciles, but you kept yourself from me.” He’s rambling, as he tends to do when his end is closing in. “How dare you. How fucking dare-” Suddenly, he’s tumbling over the edge. Hips jerking, his vision goes white, the ecstasy searing down his spine as he spills into you. It’s like every negative feeling he’s had over the last twenty-four hours is purged at once, leaving blissful nothingness in its wake.

He really, really needed this.

When the world comes back into view, Perpetua heaves a sigh. The fatigue in his bones is making its presence known again, a heaviness washing over him as the last traces of his climax ebb away. Feeling wobbly, he disengages carefully, rolling onto his back so that he doesn’t collapse on top of you. He lays like that for a moment, eyes shut, hands folded over his stomach. Fuck, what a night. What a day. What a week. What a life. He knows he needs to get up, drag himself to the bathroom and get the ointment for your ass. He needs to wash off his paints and the sweat that’s accumulated under the mask before he breaks out, but he’s so fucking exhausted, and sleep is already wrapping it’s velvety tendrils around his consciousness, pulling him down, down, down…

Your lips ghost against his hairline, and then the tip of his nose. Perpetua cracks his green eye open and finds you hovering over him, smiling gently as you brush a few locks of his hair away. He’s just beaten your backside black and blue, but there’s nothing in your gaze but adoration. Your eyes are still puffy from crying, your makeup smudged and running down your face, and he swears you’ve never looked more beautiful.

“Feel better?”

What you’re still doing with a nasty, selfish old thing like him, he’ll never know. In the beat silence that hangs between you, he thanks the Old One, any power that feels like listening, that you’re here.

“I do,” he says, propping himself up on one elbow to press his lips to yours. It’s the first time he’s properly kissed you all day and it hits him like a drug, a newfound energy coursing through his veins. “Thank you.” You chuckle softly, leaning in for another kiss. Your hands find the clasps at his temples, and under your experienced fingers they click open easily. When you pull the mask away, placing it gently to the side, it’s like a weight has been lifted off Perpetua’s shoulders. With you, he doesn’t have to perform, to be Papa. Himself is enough.

“Of course.” Another quick peck on his cheek. “Now, let’s get you to bed.” You start to get up but he quickly stops you, one hand finding the back of your head and pulling you in again. He nips at your bottom lip once, twice, before he’s licking into your mouth with a pleased little hum. You groan, squirming next to him on the bed, and when he ultimately pulls away, there’s a thread of saliva connecting you.

“Not just yet,” he purrs. You swallow, eyes darting over to the clock on the nightstand, then back to him.

“It’s late, babe. You don’t have to-”

“What kind of man would I be if I left you needing like this?” He barks out a laugh. “If the Clergy found out, I’d be excommunicated.” Perpetua sits up, putting a hand on your shoulder and guiding you to lay on your back. Then he slinks down to the ground, kneeling on the carpet as he grabs your hips and pulls you a little closer. “Relax. Let me take care of you.”

You nod. “Okay.”

Satan below, your cunt is a sight to behold, all slick and pink and throbbing just for him. His arousal echoes distantly at the sight, and for a moment, he laments the limitations that come with his age. A rivulet of his spend is already leaking out you, and the animal part of his brain screams that this is unacceptable. If he were a younger man, he could easily fuck another load into you, but those days are long gone. Time has given him experience, though, and he has other ways of keeping you full.

With his hands on your knees, he parts your legs a bit wider. Finally, he touches the tip of his tongue to your clit, giving it an experimental, little kitten lick. Your entire body tenses, like you’ve been shocked, and it sends a thrill through him.

“Oh! That’s…” He doesn’t give you time to finish the thought, sealing his lips around the bundle of nerves and sucking. Your hands fly to his head, fingers twisting in his hair as your hips buck up into his mouth. “Fuck, that’s good. Fuck, baby.” He doesn’t need the encouragement; the taste of you — both of you —  has him hooked already. Perpetua draws a few circles around your clit before he descends, prodding at your opening to coax out more of his seed. With his tongue he scoops up the mess, and when his eyes flick up, he finds you fixated on him, your lower lip caught between your teeth. Grinning, he opens his mouth, letting you see the evidence of his climax, and you shudder. Then, he works the appendage inside you, fucking his cum back where it belongs. The tip of his nose bumps against your clit while he does this, and the noise you make will surely result in a complaint, but he couldn’t care less. Anyone who takes issue with this can eat shit and die.

Eventually, he replaces his tongue with a finger. Your body accepts it greedily, pulling him in like you’re trying to become one mass, and so he gives you another. He crooks the digits just right, delighting in the way you sing for him, heady and full of want. You’re fluttering already, the cocktail of pain and pleasure helping you along nicely. A lock of his hair falls into his face, and before he has the chance, you brush it away for him. Perpetua’s heart swells. It’s a simple gesture, but the gentleness of your touch stands in such stark contrast to the earlier violence, it makes his head spin.

“You perfect thing, taking it so well. You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?” You hum an affirmative that quickly turns into a moan. He plants a sloppy kiss on the inside of your leg, leaving a smear of cum, spit, and paint behind. “My darling girl. Sei la cocca di papà, vero? Say that you are.” For all the needless bullshit the Clergy has put him through, he will be forever grateful to them for making him learn Italian. It’s become his secret weapon, a surefire way to have your toes curling in a matter of syllables. As expected, your back arches off the bed, thighs squeezing around him.

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “I’m your girl.” He rewards you by attaching his mouth to your clit once again, suckling and teasing it with his tongue while he attacks your sweet spot with his fingers. Your manicured nails dig into his scalp a little harder, battered legs quivering. “Oh, fuck. Fuck me, fuck-” With a breathy cry you come undone, thrashing wildly against Perpetua’s face. He works you through it, unrelenting until you tug on his hair, whining. One last kiss on the softest part of your thigh and he pulls away, his knees protesting as he gets up off the floor. Your chest is heaving, beads of sweat sparkling on your flushed skin, and Perpetua suddenly wants to take back his earlier declaration. The sight of you like this, a beautiful, fucked-out mess, should be for his eyes alone. Not even the Devil, he thinks, is worthy of such a privilege.

Your tired eyes flutter open once your breathing finally evens out. Catching his gaze, you smile, eclipsing the sun in your radiance. You start to sit up, but Perpetua is quick to push you back down.

“Stay here,” he requests. “I’ll be right back.” You nod, flipping onto your stomach while he tucks himself back into his pants. Then, he shuffles to the bathroom and gathers the necessary equipment: a wet washcloth, a glass of water, your makeup wipes, and the healing ointment. When he returns you’re naked and half asleep already, the rest of your undergarments strewn about on the bed. The bruising on your backside is beginning to set in, decorating your flesh with splotches of deep blue and purple. He stares at it for a few moments, face pulled into a grimace. Maybe he did take it too far.

“‘M just fine,” you mumble, reading his mind. “Really.” Snapping out of it, he makes tending to you the focus of his remaining energy, lest he spiral further. He hands you the glass and you accept eagerly, draining it in one long, slow sip. Then you take the wipes, attacking what remains of your makeup while he gets to work on your lower half. With the washcloth he cleans the mess of his release, paints, and your slick from the inside of your thighs. He’s overly careful, as if you’re made of glass, reluctant to inflict any more pain now that the scene is over. When that’s done he takes the tube of ointment and squeezes a generous amount onto the tip of his index finger, the herbal scent of it filling the air. You start a little with the first touch, but quickly relax as we works the balm into your skin, sighing with relief as it takes effect.

By the time Perpetua is finished, you’re asleep. He’s about ready to collapse next to you but forces himself up, dragging his feet back to the bathroom. He does a half-assed job of removing his paints, his eyes still rimmed with black as he strips off the rest of his clothes. Both of you (him especially) reek of sweat and sex, but a shower can wait until the morning. You have to hit the road early, but he’ll be a diva and make the whole crew wait if he has to. He has his priorities.

You grumble a little when he moves you to the head of the bed and tucks you under the covers, but otherwise don’t stir. After hanging up his shirt and jacket he flicks off the light, stumbling in the dark to join you. He’s finally able to indulge in the closeness he’s wanted all day, pulling you into his arms. The weight of you on his chest is a comfort after the long day you’ve both had, and soon, he’s slipping into the realm of sleep as well.

Without a doubt, tomorrow will have its own set of challenges, new problems for him to deal with. For now, though, he’s content, knowing that whatever comes his way, you’ll have his back. You always do.

[screwpinecaprice]

Alternate timeline where she didn't meet Steven. I may be exaggerating lmao

Yapping under the cut because I'm waiting on a line rn

Okey, so. Entertaining the thought: An introverted feral kid and a girl who gets a sort of high off adrenaline; but was taught to be polite and proper. You know, all that perfect girl stuff. We would also consider how her empathy level is questionable, based on how she just casually suggested cutting off his arm when it got stuck. (Still not sure if immediately being excited seeing swords is just amazement or 'OOH How convenient!') So perhaps she would learn to understand empathy in a practical (not sure if that's the word I'm looking for) way rather than in an emotional way.

Thankfully she was coaxed out of her shell and she had outlet early on. Also, to have genuinely learned friendship power! 😊

But what if she never got that outlet. 🤔 I mean, she could have gotten out of her shell in a different way. But, like. Imagine if she had to bottle it up all these years. It could go south or she'll be able to manage it because it ain't as bad. Just fun to think about the former.

She would be like: This thing I'm reading is SO morbidly interesting! I wonder what it feels like in a personal level though? Could I do it? Could I do it better now that I have the knowledge of foresight? But what if I still mess up? I can't have a negative record! And the curiosity and the adrenaline just mixes up together. Lol

Haha I'm not really seriously headcanoning that is exactly what's gonna happen. I mean at least not to an intense extent. It's so fun to think about.

[immortaledd]

Why are we listening to Charlie and not THE GUY WHO LIVED WITH THE VIRUS FOR 40 YEARS??

Please read this in a tone of someone screaming behind a glass window in a straight jacket - not as an authoritative guardian scolding you. I am tweaking out, not crashing out

“Eclipse is acting weirdly because he’s already violent, so it’s turning him into the opposite.”

this isn’t an Opposite Virus, it’s a Ruin Virus, a Virus specifically made to turn people violent to unleash a large kill rate.

The Virus stems from Patient Zero, Ruin.

Ruin- when they were Sun and Moon, is supposed to be a kill-bot to fit The Creator’s goals. The Creator created DCA’s to be murderers. The Virus that stemmed (OUT OF THE CREATOR’S CONTROL) was LIKELY created BECAUSE OF THAT CODING.

Montgomery Gator is ALSO a violent animatronic. He is not CONSTANTLY aggressive or angry like Eclipse is, but he is probably the most violent-by-default we have seen affected by the virus. He is quick to conclusions, revenge, insulting or degrading, but typically to people he believes deserves it. For example, the time Montgomery tried to KILL RUIN when Ruin was “cured” in TSAMS. He only became MORE. VIOLENT.

THAT’S WHY IT’S SO WEIRD!!! THAT’S WHY RUIN’S SO DAMN CONFUSED! THAT’S WHY RUIN HIMSELF IS SCARED!

You can NOT be taking the opinions from CHARLIE.

She is a child, she has no idea what she’s even dealing with, she has never had prior experience to The Virus or even her own MAGIC before, and Charlie has VERY OFTEN created these ideas that were PROVEN to be false. WHEN SHE PROPOSED THE IDEA that “it affects everyone differently”, she was IMMEDIATELY PROVEN WRONG THROUGH HER OWN CONTRADICTIONS!

Stepping away from in-character, from a writer standpoint -

Davis created the Virus narrative, Davis created Ruin’s story and the character himself, Davis knows what’s going to happen and why things are going the way they’re going.

LISTEN TO “THE DIRECTOR”’S CHARACTERS. Whoever is CONTROLLING THE STORY is the actor you pay MOST ATTENTION TO!!!!

[dailyimpulsedoodles]

im gonna start this off by saying my annoyance is not aimed towards this person, or really anyone else in specific. i am just using this ask to yap about this situation because its getting really annoying to be and im having a shit week so i cant keep up being all neutral and not saying stuff bout it

those are both official impulse things where he says his socials. DO YOU SEE HIM LISTING TUMBLR?

yes theres an acc called impulsesv. but can someone please tell me how do we know that this is the actual impulse

wheres your proof. come on, show me. proof. give

IF YOU HAVE NO PROOF, STOP GOING AROUND AND SAYING ITS IMPULSE!!!! IF WE HAVE NO PROOF ITS HIM WE ARE JUST LETTING THE IMPOSTER IMPERSONATE EASIER

anyone can impersonate anyone they want on the internet!! it is not that hard!! look around at how many people have done it, didnt impulse have his name stolen on bluesky too at first?

IF THERE IS ACTUAL PROOF THAT PEOPLE HAVE OF IMPULSESV HIMSELF SAYING ITS HIM (outside of the tumblr acc!!) SHOW ME! AND IF THERES NO PROOF THEN STOP BELIEVING ITS HIM UNTIL IMPULSESV TELLS US WHAT THE ACC IS

[npd-vriska]

i am not joking when i say trolls have gotten shittier at what they do. successful trolling and flamebait is a lost art. nowadays they just send you an ask like "it's really problematic that you did XYZ" expecting you to get angry and defensive. and thats because most people have honestly really failed to adapt to this kind of trolling? it keeps working, they keep doing it.

if an anon criticizes you all like "im a lesbian and-" or "im a trans man and-" or "im a poc and-" or whatever thats your queue to disregard everything they say. because you cant verify that. you have to internalize that it's in your best interest to treat all annoying anons as being sent by the same white middle class american cishet guy named kyle, and he just has a lot of free time and no friends.

"but what if it's not kyle! what if theyre actually a lesbian/trans man/poc/&c?" well theyre not looking for open discussion, if they were they wouldnt send an anon ask. so it literally doesnt matter, treat them as if theyre kyle anyway. and remember youre not a public figure youre literally just blogging, you dont need to be "held accountable" for anything.

and same goes for "thoughts on [controversial topic]?" and "why did you do [accusation]?" type anon asks. thats kyle again, hes just gotten bored with claiming every marginalized identity under the sun. if they wanna prove theyre not kyle all they gotta do is uncheck that box.

[bucephaly]

It's kinda shocking to me how few people seem to know how prevalent the 'my great grandmother was cherokee' myth is and how it's almost never actually true, especially when it comes with things like 'never signed up' or 'fell off the trail' or 'courthouse burned down destorying the documentation' etc etc.

People just don't even seem to know the history like.. when the Trail happened. My great great great grandfather was 2 years old during Removal in 1838, so peoples 'my great grandmother hid in the mountains!' is so clearly wrong. And we have rolls. From before and after removal, rolls done by cherokee nation and others by the government, rolls that were not stored in one random flammable courthouse. It's not difficult to find the actual evidence of ancestry.

And just.. there are lots of ways those family stories get started. It was a practice during the confederacy to claim cherokee ancestry to show one's family had 'deep roots in the south' that they were there before the cherokee were removed. Many people pretended to be cherokee and applied for the Guion-Miller payout just to try to steal money meant for cherokees - 2/3rds of the applicants were denied for having 0 proof of actual cherokee ancestry. [We even see lawyers advertising signing up for the Miller roll just to try to get free money.] And the myth even started in some families in the cherokee land lotteries, where the land stolen from us was raffled off, including the house and everything that was left behind when the cherokees were removed. We have seen people whose families just take these things stolen from the cherokee family and adopt them into their own family story, saying that they were cherokee themselves.

If you had some family story about being cherokee and you wanna have proof one way or the other, check out this Facebook group run by expert cherokee genealogists that do research for free. Just please read the rules fully and respect the researchers. They run thousands of people's ancestries a year and their average is only around 0.7% of lines they run actually end up having true cherokee ancestry.

[charleemoon]

do u think will really loved molly??? i think there gotta be some part of him that had a fondness for her (i even think that part of him favoured her over hannibal but i appreciate that my truth may not be everyone else’s truth😭🙏)

i think you could say will loved molly if you think will loved abigail.

he didn't. but he believed he did. more importantly, he wanted to. he loved them for what they stood for, for what they could be to him, for what they could mean about him. he loved molly selfishly, and expendably. he held a fondness for her, because she was perfect for what he wanted to make her into. a good wife, for a good husband. a world where he could be her sweet man, kind and unscarred. she was a walking ideal, a molded lie, with sun-kissed blonde hair and a smile with no crooked teeth

i believe the mask will projected as the man he pretended to be favored molly over hannibal. the cling to normalcy, an appeal to traditional goodness, and the endless guilt that festered in his heart. she was perfect, what he should want. everything he should be. it's why it hurt so much to not want her. it's why it was so easy to come home to hannibal. the man he created that held fondness for molly died when he accepted himself. shed his skin, and allowed himself truth

because will had known for a long time that he was long past a normal life, he was more darkness than goodness, more truth than lie. molly was a last fleeting attempt to try and convince himself he was anything other than himself. he was always, always going to go back to hannibal.

i believe they are equally guilty of using each other. their marriage, inherently, was a sham. two people in grief, running to someone they didn't truly know, and most likely never bothered to. molly must've known who will was, the things he had done. will knew he picked her because she would survive hannibal, she could survive what he knew he was going to do to her. they let themselves enthrall in a fantasy, doomed to fail

i don't believe he loved her, and i don't believe he ever tried to. he respected her, he chose her. to survive the brunt of their hurricane. another piece in the game. another vessel of will's projected goodness, his bargaining with god to prove himself a good man while growing ever closer to the eye of the storm. to hannibal, and the nature of their love. not good or evil. it is natural, and it destroys

[wildstar25]

While it goes fairly similarly to how it would in game, there's a lot of backstory related nuance that kinda shifts the entire vibe of their reunion... this is fairly long so im putting it under a read more

When the Exarch told Arsay her next destination would have her hopefully meeting with Y'shtola, Arsay was beyond excited. After the twins, Y'shtola was the next person on Arsay's list that she really, really wanted to see. She rode that enthusiasm through the entire trip into the Great Woods. Not even Emet-Selch's pompous attitude and unwanted presence could cut through Arsay's cheer. Which was likely for the best, had she not have her best friend to look forward to she'd likely have wanted to rip the ascians head off rather than entertain conversation with him.

They found themselves surrounded. Arsay's humour was NOT appreciated by Thancred 🙄. Emet made a show about leaving them to their fate. And then she heard it, the voice Arsay had been wanting to hear all day, though called by a name not her own.

It took a moment for Arsay to process it all: The new look, the fact that all these people seemed to be at her command, her intense hostility... Still, it was Y'shtola! Y'shtola through and through! Arsay's heart nearly jumped into her throat once her brain caught up to her other senses.

(I love how from far away the pixels make it look like Arsay had a big open mouth smile. She was so excited to see her friend! Were she not at multiple arrow/magic staff point she'd be running up to give Y'shtola a hug.)

Arsay thought perhaps this was a prank? A little unlike Y'shtola but then again she did have a darker sense of humour. Plus Y'shtola knows Arsay likes a good gag now and again so maybe...? But sadly Y'shtola again seriously insisted they were sin eaters so that couldn't be the case. Arsay was at a lost for words- a rarity for her.

The mere suggestion that Y'shtola could have forgotten Arsay... her heart deflated like a balloon, all the joy it once held rushed out in an instance. Personally I think Urianger was covering his ass here trying to mask his knowledge of the light corruption. Still there was no way he knew just how devastating his words were to Arsay.

No, Urianger couldn't have known that Arsay had spent much of her life believing herself to have been forgotten by her parents as they left her in the south seas for greater adventures. That they wrote her but a single missive, where in which they promised to write more. He couldn't have know how, when no other letter arrived for her, she took it as a sign of being unwanted; not worth keeping their word for. He wouldn't have known much of what Arsay does, she does in hopes to touch the life of another in such a way that they might dare think of her from time to time, even if only in passing. Urianger wouldn't have a single clue how a simple notion spoken in whisper could send Arsay down an immediate spiral.

Arsay stares at Y'shtola, hands held firm in the air, praying for Urianger to be proven wrong.

Once before has Arsay's soul been knocked clean of her body, and had it not been for the absence of said body in her immediate vision she would have sworn it had happened again. She felt numb. Any other word spoken after "The one I know not." was static to her. There was no rational thought happening behind those wide eyes. Not even a slim chance that Arsay could be considering that something was perhaps wrong with her. All she could think about was the immense and sudden heartbreak she was actively experiencing.

Meanwhile, Y'shtola struggled to come to terms with what she was hearing versus what she was seeing. Before her was a figure so immense of light aether, how could Urianger words possibly be true? She knew Arsay's aether. Such brilliance was not something she'd readily forget. In fact, she'd go as far as to say it's image plagued her mind despite her best wishes along with equally inconvenient and unsavoury thoughts. Y'shtola had been awaiting the day Arsay's aether came into view once more for gods know how long. Yet he insists that this unknown figure before her is that very same person; that this was her Warrior of Light. As much as she did not want to accept it what other rational explanation could there even be?

Y'shtola stood aback, her harsh tone wavered as she stammered in disbelief. Again she scrutinized the strange light infused aether. Though she could discern that it vaguely held the form of a person any potential detail was obscured by an intense glow that radiated from it's core. She supposed perhaps she could picture her memory of Arsay slotting into the blurry silhouette... oh by the twelve. A chill runs down her spine. Y'shtola has never been one to panic, yet if this is truly Arsay before her then that can only mean terrible, terrible things.

With the initial shock worn off things begun to come back into focus for Arsay including Y'shtola who's gaze was fixated on her, clamouring for answers. As if on cue her voice returned to her. Despite this not being the reunion Arsay had imagined, out came the words she would have said regardless.

Not a hint of resentment carried through her tone. If anything, she sounded as if she was amused by the situation. As much as it hurt to think that the person Arsay considered to be her best friend had forgotten the appearance of her aether (something she understood as being unique to her); Arsay couldn't help but feel like she should have anticipated it. Sure, it had only been a month for Arsay, but it was three years for Y'shtola. That's quite some time to be apart. More than enough for Arsay to no longer be relevant enough to be recalled from time to time in Y'shtola's daily life. The irony of it stung. Arsay had only just begun to believe she wasn't as forgettable, as insignificant, to others as she feared... Funny how things turn out. She felt foolish to have overestimated the depth of their friendship. Guilty too for burdening someone she cared for with her own lofty expectations. Arsay only had herself to blame for this outcome. One would think she'd learn her lesson by now. What a laugh. Compelled by this joke only she was privy to, a short chuckle escaped from her lonesome smile.

The familiar voice rang through her ears and stirred her heart. There was no denying it. Her friend was finally here ...And Y'shtola welcomed her with an ambush. Delightful. She breathed out a heavy sigh. This was not at all how Y'shtola had wanted their meeting to go but she'd not let herself be vexed by such things. She pushed the tinge of dissatisfaction to the back of her mind. Arsay of all people would understand the things one must do to protect others. This greeting would be water under the bridge to her in but a tic. What mattered most is that the Night's Blessed were no longer under any (immediate) perceived threat. Her dear friend's aether on the other hand... Her head began to swirl with questions. Questions surely the Warrior of Darkness could soon help her attain the answers for. The thought alone brought it's own sense of relief. A smile tugged at the corners of Y'shtola's lips. There was no denying how happy it made her knowing her wait was over.

The tension in the air settled along the fur on Arsay's tail. She gave Y'shtola nod of acceptance, mindlessly forgiving her when in truth the apology felt hollow to Arsay. It wasn't at all what she wanted to hear but it wasn't as if hearing anything else from Y'shtola would help ease her nerves. It is what it is. At the very least, she was happy that Y'shtola looked to be in good health. Best focus on that for now.

--

Arsay and the rest followed Y'shtola from a distance quietly through the woods. Even through the canopy strong light polluted the forest floor. It gave Arsay a headache, much like everywhere else she had been to on the First. She often relied on her headband to block out the worst of the sun's rays back home but it did nothing to defend her light soaking eyes from the ambient brightness. She had been getting used to it but for some completely and totally unknown reason it began to feel worse.

Now and again Arsay would spot Y'shtola looking back over her shoulder towards her. Each glance had Arsay suddenly anticipating, hoping, that Y'shtola was about to call her over, and when that did not happen it made Arsay like a fool all over again. Foolish, and then frustrated. A degree of frustration that could be easily alleviated were she allowed to wander off and drive her knives into whatever foul beast first crossed her path. Alas, Arsay had to stay with the pack and sit with her growing bad mood she was not supposed to have. Her cheeks began to feel weary from the smile she kept plastered on her face.

~

Y'shtola guided the scions along the path to Slitherbough at a steady pace. Though she maintained a lead on them by no means was she walking fast enough that Arsay couldn't catch up should she want to do so. That's what Y'shtola had come to expect from Arsay; if the opportunity presented itself, Arsay would not hesitate to encroach on Y'shtola's personal space. It was a habit Y'shtola was not all that fond of initially- it was overwhelming for someone who more often kept to herself- but in due time Y'shtola found herself yearning for Arsay's touch. A terrible yearning which only grew stronger in its absence. Though she tried with all her might not to, Y'shtola would quickly glance back at the group only to be disappointed that the insufferably bright glow of aether was just as far from her as it way before. For Arsay to be so unlike herself... perhaps it was not only her aether which has been afflicted. The thought gave Y'shtola pause, the roots of worry began to sprout within her.

She also had to admit there was the slim chance that being held at weapon point and accused of being a sin eater had upset Arsay. But, It could have been worse. At least Y'shtola didn't frame her for regicide. Y'shtola's brow furrowed. There was no way Arsay could actually be mad at her. Y'shtola has given her colder shoulders than that in the past and Arsay had brushed it off without issue. It had to be something else.

--

Be it her worry for Arsay or due to her general dismay of the earlier happenings that she could not seem to shake, Y'shtola was no longer in the mood to let sleeping dogs lie and Thancred had made the unfortunate decision of opening his mouth. She'd not been a fan of how he had been conducting himself to say the least. Nor was she willing to let his inability to move on rob a young girl of her autonomy. Tongue as sharp as ever, Y'shtola made her opinion clear and sent the man running with his tail between his legs. Minfillia too sulked out not long after.

~

Arsay, bearing witness to this, felt just awful for Minifilla (as she called her). The smile she had held onto dropped the instant she heard the cave doors close. While Arsay is usually in favour of Y'shtola's tenancy to speak her mind so openly, all the aggravation that had been stewing inside her had now suddenly come to a boil. She had to lash out. She wanted to be mad at Y'shtola, for anything, because Arsay still felt deep down like it wasn't right to hold her responsible for the thing she was actually upset about.

"Really, Y'shtola? You had to bring that up just now?" Arsay crossed her arms, unimpressed. "You're the last I'd consider to come to Thancred's defence." Y'shtola's eyes narrowed, "I am not indifferent to Thancred's troubles. Nevertheless, I will not apologize for holding him to a higher standard after all these years. He has ever been a man of considerable resolve, and that is what I will continue to expect." "Then I best warn you: expectations only lead to future disappointment." The accusatory tone in Arsay's voice made Y'shtola tail twitch. "Excuse me? Arsay, what has come over you? You've not at all been yourself. Pray tell, have you felt any considerable changes since defeating the light-" "Perhaps, Y'shtola, you should be more concerned with how you have changed." Arsay cuts her off with a hiss.

Silence. You could the tension in the air with a knife. Arsay turns on her heels, "I-." she stops herself when she heard the crack in her voice. With a click of her tongue she flees out through the cave doors as fast as she could.

Urianger, who had been a fly on the wall for their heated back and forth, clears his throat. "Should thine wish be to give chase, thou can entrust in me the beginning duty of reviewing the tablet." Y'shtola let out a sigh. "I realize I am not as I was on the Source, but I cannot say I regret the decisions that allowed me to come this far." She proclaims largely for her own sake before turning to Urianger. "Allow me a moment to settle this. I shall return shortly."

--

All of that finally leads into this scene which actually the first time I ever tried to pose and write a story type scene. So excuse the slight jank of it (and the fact that Arsay's character voice has absolutely shifted some since then. Also ignore the fact that Arsay is wearing the darklight bracers in that old pose. It was taken at a point before I was using mods and I was still figuring out Arsay's shadowbringer glam- they were a hold over from previous expansion's glams)

the director commentary for their make up is Y'shtola finally accepts that Arsay is mad at her but is still defending her actions because it was the right call at the time. Again she tries to explain that Arsay's aether is fucked up in a way only to be cut off by Arsay airing out one of her deepest insecurities- her begging for validation. It's only then that Y'shtola realizes what exactly Arsay is upset over- and that her friend had absolutely 0 clue as to the light corrupting her aether. In a moment of absolute kindness from Y'shtola: instead of explaining then and there of Arsay's suspected light poisoning, she tells Arsay exactly what she wants and needs to hear. (And its this act of kindness that later becomes the catalys for Arsay realizing how much she loves Y'shtola upon learning about the light corruption and putting two and two together that Y'shtola was way nicer to her then she could have been in that moment.)

This is like maybe the 1st time Arsay has a public-ish breakdown and it really is "out of character" for her. But I cannot stress enough how much this shit triggered her and how bad she is at handling negative emotions. Like she really has a problem of not letting herself feel bad about anything and all that pent up stress gets funnelled directly into fighting. Its super cool and normal if you think about it and totally healthy if you ask her. When she cant channel that rage through her knives it escapes other, less productive ways. She did immediately felt awful about snapping at Y'shtola. Even if she wanted to be mad at her it wasn't right and Arsay knew this. Literally hearing that Y'shtola cared about her and thought of her was all she needed to put herself back into order. Y'shtola, still worried about Arsay's aether, was more than willing to move past this awful reunion of theirs and continue on just as they had been back before she was sent to the first.

And from there everything is pretty much normal! They made up, Arsay caught up to Minifillia and Runar, Y'shtola went to work on the tablet, story stuff happens, Arsay has her oh moment, they get together and so on.

Thank you so much @darkmadorz for giving me the excuse to write about this!

[vaguely-concerned]

ingellvar must have so many strange off-putting little personal habits in their day to day life that they don't even realize come across as weird, especially if they haven't ever dated outside of the watchers much. in rye's specific case I think lucanis has a capacity for such immaculate 'sure my life is already so fucking weird this might as well happen' energy that I believe he'd be able to roll with the punches admirably given the time, but it really would be a situation like

(what was going on there was that rook was placing down some experimental wards, by the way, it's what he does to calm down before bed and if he wakes during the night. what with the necropolis itself being a liminal space of lf sorts on a cosmic scale, watchers take the additional liminal space between wakefulness and dreaming extremely seriously b/c they know there are things drifting through that would just love to get their foot/tentacle/conceptual spores in that particular half-ajar door that should not be allowed inside. or outside, I suppose, depending on your point of view. rook and lucanis are also experimenting with whether solid wards can help any with lucanis' weird post-spite dreams even if they can't do anything for the more mundane ptsd ones. third reason because in my worldstate they still live in the lighthouse after the game: unless gently dissuaded wisps will sometimes drift by while you're asleep and hover over your face curiously as they sense your mind doing stuff in the fade, and no one likes waking up on an eldritch sneeze with a well-meaning yet terrified wisp zooming about the room. important watcher novice 101 lessons.

blessed mental image of rye cross-legged on the floor, barefoot in his PJs with his hair down and no makeup, peaceably tracing out elaborate geometric shapes that somehow make your eyes scared when you look at them* while lucanis sits on the bed and reads out loud to both him and spite and occasionally sneaks some carnal looks at rook's fully unleashed curly hair and bare wrists & throat...... okay I think I've found the thing that will help me through the day thank you for coming on this journey with me)

*what is the paint he's using made out of and why is it such a deeply unsettling colour? don't worry about it! :) patented mostly well-meaning yet also borderline condescending mortalitasi hand wave of 'don't worry your sweet little non-nevarran head about it we both know you don't actually want to know. do not ask questions lest you learn the answers, especially if you're going to be annoying at me and freak out about it. let the things man was not meant to know stay unknown. unknown by you I mean I'm built different'

[sieglinde-freud]

one thing i never realized bc i always either pair chrom with olivia or make him gay is that not every sibling calls lucina “luce” and its making me crazy. inigo and brady call her “luce” for short. cynthia calls her “lucy” (MY FAV), and kjelle and morgan just call her “lucina.” why did they make this change across supports. “to add personality” you say and to that i say YES obviously but also. potential of telling us more about how close lucina was with each potential sibling? maybe. what im getting at here is chrom!kjelle and lucina maybe suffering the most in terms of feelings of inadequacy and having that slight strain that keeps them from being close. this does not apply to morgan bc i chalk his up to memory loss BUT. you could also say that lucina never let him get close because she’s wary of him. hows that. and if you read closely what im actually saying is that i need an au where all six of them are siblings and not all of them have the brand of the exalt

[isfjmel-phleg]

😶

[nomi9006]

Replacements

557 words

“Do I remind you of Silena?” Asked Piper. The question surprised Annabeth, having not expected it.

It was dark, they were on the porch of the Big House. Annabeth, too stressed to sleep with Percy still missing, had found Piper still up and invited her to sit with her.

Usually they'd have to worry about Harpies finding them and getting in trouble, but Annabeth suspected Chirion was being extra lenient on her, even more than usual.

There were still so many mixed emotions Annabeth felt when it came to Silena. None of which she wanted to get into.

Annabeth took a second, pondering over the question. She couldn't deny Piper and Silena had some things in common, both were kind and were willing to fight for what they believed in.

But they also had their differences, where Silena was soft and gentle, Piper was more crude and rough around the edges. Silena had been more than willing to embrace the classic Aphrodite role while Piper was more hesitant.

Silena had been as good as a sister, always looking after her, even when Annabeth was difficult about it. Annabeth Piper looks after me too, Annabeth thinks. But not in the same way Silena did.

Piper had been a quiet support since she came to camp. She didn't have the same expectations or built up image of Annabeth the others did. Between that and her emotional intelligence, Annabeth found herself opening up and being vulnerable with her.

It was a trait Annabeth secretly envied. As a child of Athena she prided herself on her intelligence, unfortunately it didn't extend to emotions, it usually didn't. After all, most children of Athena believed emotions got in the way of making smart rational decisions. It wasn't until she met Percy that maybe listening to her heart wasn't the worst decision.

Gods she missed him.

She looked back at Piper, she seemed deep in thought. Annabeth almost wondered what brought the question on, but she knew it had been due to the ongoing fued between her and Drew.

“Not really.” Annabeth finally said.

Piper looked towards the older girl, she had a vulnerable look on her face.

Silena seemed to haunt the Aphrodite cabin, no one was as over her death or apparent betrayal as they acted.

It wasn't Piper's business, but she couldn't help but feel like she was being unintentionally placed in the girl's shoes.

It shouldn't bother her as much as it did, she hadn't planned on making camp her new home.

But a part of her wanted to, but she wasn't sure how she could do that if she couldn't find her place here, if her only place was to fill in the gap Silena left.

Piper saw the look in Annabeth's eyes, she could tell her and Silena we're close at one point. She felt a bitter feeling rise in her chest at the thought.

But her saying she didn't remind her of Silena gave her hope that she wasn't just a replacement for her, that Annabeth actually liked Piper for Piper.

Of course Piper knew Annabeth liked her for her. Annabeth wasn't the type to be fake, but she couldn't help the insecurity get to her.

“Is that a bad thing?” Piper asked.

“No, I don't think so.” Annabeth respond

Piper thinks that's good enough for her.

[worstloki]

love the concept of the 8 other realms being very well-known throughout the wider galaxies but Asgard is considered obscure knowledge that even if someone has heard Asgard then the name is all they know

[moeblob]

Ohiwe

After Oh is split into two, their power is halved/divided. But! Other traits are not necessarily divided evenly. So she holds all the romantic love (unrequited) for Ymber. She also has the rhythm/ability to dance while the other half cannot keep a beat for the life of him.

[klayfruit]

hi i really hope this doesnt come off as like. Ohh theres rtvs drama i need to add MORE and show these guys need to be Cancelled!!!! boiling down the crew’s immature response to being criticized as racist as just, Drama and controversy, is really shitty. what i wanna say next is just something completely unrelated to that, i just felt more Encouraged to say it at this time because i feel less afraid that im gonna get called silly for it.

ok so my main point is, i am concerned with how often rtvs (mostly specifically wayne, i cant recall anyone else in rtvs doing this) still uses ai in their stuff. by this i’m talking about the recent-ish novelai stream and to an extent the songs in the bbvr stream. i absolutely love the bbvr stream and i do appreciate what wayne’s said about the songs themselves, that theyre more comedic than meant to be Actual Art—same with whatever novelai writes being nothing but comedic and not actual art—and i agree with that partially. ai Can be funny as fuck in a very specific kind of uncanny and disgusting way that cant really be achieved by humans. but, by using that ai to create jokey stuff, you are still feeding the ai to be used by people that are genuinely serious about using ai. and whats most important to me is the environmental damage that comes with using ai, which i have not seen anyone in rtvs mention at all.

one thing thats kind of made me scared to talk about this is when i mentioned this on twitter (though admittedly i brought it up in a very Dumb way, it was me being afraid that scorpy’s section in the pizza tower stream was written by ai bc it just felt really convincingly nonsensical in the same way ai writes stuff, but now i know i was just Straight up wrong thats just how scorpy writes), scorpy qrted me without really addressing my concern and led to lots of people in my replies. again, what i was concerned with really Wasn’t as major as i was worried it was + my response to it was silly because i wasnt expecting so many eyes on a tweet i made just for my followers, but it would have seemed a lot better to talk to me directly about this instead of not even giving me a solid answer.

i am a minor so i cant go into wayne’s discord to talk about this/look at discussion (and i hope me being A Minor doesnt also diminish my opinion as well), so i’m sorry if im regurgitating stuff thats already been talked about by the crew!