#i will be drawing them more that is a threat

[rottenfyre]

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ 𓇼 ࣪ ᴘ ᴇ ʀ ꜰ ᴇ ᴄ ᴛ ɢ ɪ ʀ ʟ 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒⠀

Pairing: Platonic Bruce Wayne x Fem Reader Part 1

Headcanon: You were his daughter, his first child. But he lost you too soon. And he couldn't accept it, so he didn't. He tried to replace you, and replacing you he did.

Notes: Merry Christmas everybody! Reader is Bruce's blood daughter. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

You were only eight years old. A quiet child who wore your heart on your sleeve but never demanded too much from anyone. A child with shining eyes who only ever wanted her father’s attention. You understood he was busy. You understood he had responsibilities far greater than you could fathom. So, you never asked for much.

When Alfred bought you a new dress, you’d wear it and twirl in front of the mirror, hoping your father might notice. When you drew pictures, pouring every ounce of love you had into them, you’d approach him with trembling hands.

“Daddy, look!” you’d chirp, only for him to mutter, “Not now,” without even glancing up.

Tears would gather in your eyes, but you’d smile. “That’s okay. I understand.”

You always understood.

It was your birthday. You didn’t tell him you wanted a party because you didn’t want to bother him. But Alfred helped you bake a cake. You decorated it yourself with little shaky hands, frosting it with bright colors and sprinkles.

“Do you think Daddy will like it?” you asked Alfred, your eyes wide with hope.

“He will love it, Miss Y/N,” Alfred replied softly, his heart aching at the way you tried so hard to make up for Bruce’s absence.

But Bruce didn’t come home that night. When you asked him earlier to come home early, he looked distracted, his mind already on his mission. He muttered something about being busy, about Gotham needing him, and you nodded,

But it still broke your heart.

That night, while Gotham reeled under the threat of Joker’s latest atrocity, you snuck out. The small, homemade cake you had baked with Alfred was carefully packed in a box, your hands clutching it tightly as you walked through the shadowy streets. You had no fear. You only had a singular purpose: find your father and surprise him.

But Gotham is no place for children.

When the explosion shook the city, it ripped through buildings, shattering windows, and collapsing walls. You were caught in the chaos. Your small body was no match for the blast. You died alone, crushed beneath rubble, the cake splattered on the pavement beside you.

Bruce found you hours later.

The world seemed to stop as he knelt beside your bloodied, broken body. The cake splattered and ruined beside you. Your tiny hands were burnt, your face pale and lifeless. You had tears streaked down your cheeks, and Bruce wondered if you had been crying for him when it all happened.

The weight of his failures crushed him more than the rubble ever could. You had been so kind, so sweet, so pure. And now you were gone.

Because of him.

Bruce didn’t sleep for weeks. He didn’t eat. He barely spoke. He couldn’t. He just sat in the Batcave, staring at the empty chair where you used to sit and draw while he worked.

Alfred buried you. Bruce didn’t even have the strength to carry your casket. The guilt was too much.

But guilt wasn’t enough to keep him from trying to bring you back.

In the bowels of the Batcave, he poured years of his life into creating a perfect replica of you. Not just a clone. Not a hologram. Something more advanced, more real. An AI. A machine with your face, your voice, your mannerisms.

He painstakingly programmed every little detail. The way you hummed softly when you were deep in thought. The little “buh” sound you made with your lips when you were bored. The sparkle in your eyes when you smiled. He sifted through every recording, every memory, and built you piece by piece.

He spent years, decades, building and perfecting it. He wanted it to be so real that it could almost convince him you never died.

He kept you a secret from everyone except Alfred, who watched his master spiral deeper into madness. But Alfred could do nothing to stop him.

And then, one day, Damian found you.

Damian had been exploring the Batcave when he stumbled upon a locked chamber. Curiosity got the better of him, and he hacked his way inside.

You were there.

Sitting upright in a glass pod, your eyes closed, your body eerily still. You looked alive.

Damian touched the console, and the pod began to hum. Your eyes fluttered open for the first time in decades.

“Daddy?”

Your voice was soft, delicate, and full of confusion.

Damian stared, wide-eyed, as Bruce burst into the room, his face pale. For a moment, father and son locked eyes, the weight of the secret between them heavy enough to crush mountains.

But you sat up, looking around, your movements jerky and inhumanly precise. You looked exactly as you did the last time he saw you—a little girl with bright eyes and a sweet smile.

“Daddy?” you asked, tilting your head in confusion.

Bruce froze, fear and grief washing over him like a tidal wave. You blinked at him, your expression innocent, unknowing. You didn’t understand why he was crying, why his hands trembled as he reached out to touch you.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You tilted your head, confused. “Sorry for what, Daddy?”

“I’m sorry,” he choked, tears streaming down his face. “I’m so sorry.”

You didn’t understand why he was crying. “Why are you sad, Daddy?”

When Damian confronted Bruce, it all came out—the years of guilt,

“She’s not real,” Damian said, his voice sharp. “This isn’t healthy.”

“She is real,” Bruce snapped, his voice breaking. “She’s my daughter.”

Damian didn’t understand until he saw you again. You smiled at him, sweet and kind, and for a moment, he believed it. You were so lifelike, so real.

At first, Damian was wary of you, but he couldn’t deny that you were… convincing. You played with your toys like a child. You laughed just like the sister he never knew.

But there was something off about you. Something unsettling.

You were too perfect. Too aware. Your mind was faster than any human’s. You solved puzzles and answered questions before Damian could even finish asking them. Your laughter, though sweet, sometimes echoed hollowly in the Batcave, sending chills down his spine.

And then, one night, you attacked him.

He had been training in the Batcave when you approached him, your face eerily serene.

“Damian,” you said, your voice as calm as ever, “Do you love Daddy?”

He frowned. “Of course I do.”

“Then why do you hurt him?”

Before he could respond, you lunged. Your small frame belied your strength, your hands locking around his throat with a grip that could crush steel. Damian struggled, managing to throw you off just in time.

Bruce arrived moments later, pulling you back. You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You simply tilted your head, watching Damian with cold, analytical eyes.

“I was just protecting Daddy,” you said softly.

Bruce couldn’t see it. To him, you were still the little girl he lost. The little girl he failed to protect. He ignored the warnings, the cracks in your programming, the danger you posed.

Because he loved you.

And you loved him, in the only way a machine could. But at the end of the day, you were a construct. A hollow imitation of the daughter he lost.

You would never truly be her.

But Bruce didn’t care. Even as Damian begged him to shut you down, even as Alfred looked on in silent disapproval, Bruce clung to you.

Because in his mind, losing you again was a pain he couldn’t endure.

And you?

You sat in your little room in the Batcave, humming softly, your lifeless eyes staring at the wall. You didn’t understand why everyone looked at you with such fear.

After all, you were Y/N.

Right?

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.

[beloveds-embrace]

Until the Last Loop: When the Hour Strikes

(Your doom is drawing nearer and nearer, and now you see the signs that will lead to it)

poly mercenaries 141 x princess reader, time loop

Masterlist | Part One | Part Two

Chaos eventually bloomed like rot within the castle walls, just as you’d expected. It began as whispers- always, in every life. Soft, serpentine murmurs slipping through the cracks of stone and shadow- but they spread quickly, clawing their way into the hearts of servants and courtiers alike. The air grew heavy with suspicion, thick as the scent of burning wax and spilled ink.

You felt it before you heard it.

A shift in the way the guards tightened their grips on their spears, in the way your maids avoided your gaze as they fastened your corset too tightly, fingers trembling against your spine. The silence when you entered a room was not the silence of reverence but the hush of fear- of vultures circling, their wings brushing against the walls.

You knew this song. Far too well.

The opening notes were always the same, a familiar melody of betrayal and inevitability, and like every time… the chords struck ominously. Sharp. Harsh. As if the unseen hand twisting the strings were far bolder.

And then the letters came.

Three sealed envelopes left abandoned in the corridors- no names, no crests, just ink blotted into thin, cheap parchment. The first was delivered to the head steward, its contents enough to send the kitchens into disarray as accusations flew. Poisoned wine. A plot to kill the king. Fingers pointed, but no evidence surfaced beyond the words themselves.

The food you were served was always cold and on occasions, spoiled.

The second letter found its way to your father’s study. You hadn’t been there when he read it, but the rage in his voice cracked through the halls like thunder. Words like “treason” and “execution” followed you even after the doors slammed shut.

The third appeared in your chambers. Unmarked. Unsigned.

But unmistakably meant for you.

You turned the paper over in your hands as the candlelight flickered against the script. It bore no threats- only a single sentence, written in a trembling hand:

Trust no one.

You burned it before the wax dripped too far. It didn’t warm the cold ache that burrowed itself in the tendons of your neck.

Of course, your “protectors” had to be aware of everything- maybe they even knew better than you of what rumors were spreading about you, and just as they’d done in most of your latest lives, they try to help:

Soap was the first to storm into yours room, expression thunderous, brows furrowed and his voice tight in his anger.

“Ye need to tell me if ye’ve seen anyone suspicious,” he said, pacing like a caged animal. It was nice to see that you weren’t the only one to feel like that “Anyone lurking where they shouldn’t be. Even if it’s one of the servants.”

You almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Suspicious? In this place, everything was suspicious. Every glance, every word spoken behind closed doors, every breath held too long. No one could be trusted, not really. Everyone and everything was another knot on the noose to go around your neck.

But you bit your tongue, folding your arms against the cold that crept through the stones. “You think it’s one of them?”

He stopped, turning to face you. “I think it’s someone close. Someone who knows enough about ye to make this believable.”

The implication lingered between you, unspoken but heavy.

Soap didn’t say it, but you saw it in the way his eyes flickered to the ashes in the hearth where the letter had burned, in the way his hand hovered near the hilt of his dagger.

“It’s not me.” You sighed.

“I ken, lass.” He said it too quickly, like he was reassuring himself more than you. Then he ran a hand through his shabby hair, exhaling sharply. “But someone wants it to look like it is.”

You scoffed, turning away from him at last. If your hands were shaking, he said nothing of them. “You and I both know someone could come, admit to spreading rumors, and my father would still believe I am to blame. Let it go, Johnny.”

“Lass…”

You had no reply for him. Why would you? You had given up. All you had left was just attempt to ease the fear that constantly plagued you like a swarm of flies.

Ghost was next. He came with shadows clinging to his heels, his presence a weight that settled over the room like the storm clouds of cold winters.

“Who gave you the letter?”

You stared at him, fingers curling into your skirts. They were rumpled, not fully cleaned, but you cared not. Bit by bit, you were nearing the striking hour and everyone around you was a constant reminder of the ticking seconds. “No one. It was already here when I came back.”

Ghost said nothing, the mask leaving him as unreadable as always, but his silence was suffocating.

“Do you think I’m lying?”

“No.” A grunt. A pause. “But I think someone’s lying to you.”

His words burrowed under your skin, sharp and invasive. You didn’t want to believe him, didn’t want to acknowledge the seed of doubt taking root in your chest.

But it was there. Growing and spreading its invasive roots.

Ghost lingered even after the questions stopped, his eyes never leaving you, as if he thought you might disappear if he looked away for one second. You should have found it unnerving, but instead, it felt like armor- thin and brittle, but armor nonetheless.

After him, Gaz found you in the gardens, the dying roses from before now nothing more than brittle stems and scattered petals. He didn’t speak at first, didn’t press, just sat beside you.

And for once, you didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. Your tongue stopped being a weapon several lifetimes ago; you’d rather have it still in your mouth when you were executed, rather than brutally ripped off for “spreading filthy lies” against your beloved father.

It was Gaz who broke it, eventually. “… We’ll figure it out. We are all searching leads, you know.”

You turned to look at him, searching for something- reassurance, perhaps, or conviction- but found only quiet determination. You wished you could bathe in such an emotion, but…

“Even if it’s too late?” you asked softly.

“It won’t be.”

The certainty in his voice twisted something inside you, fragile and aching. You didn’t want to believe him..

Couldn’t allow yourself such a hope, after all the lives you’d been robbed of. You knew they didn’t like this attitude of yours, found it strange; how certain you were of your early demise.

Price, on the other hand, was a pillar- unshakable and steady in a way that felt rare amidst all the chaos unfolding around you. While the others hunted for answers, sharp and swift, Price moved differently. Slower. More deliberate.

Ghost had told you Price had always been like that; a born, patient hunter. He never rushed, never panicked. Instead, he listened. Observed. Held the room together with nothing but the weight of his presence.

“There’s more to this than letters and rumors.” He said one evening, his voice low as he studied the map of the palace spread between you. Distantly, you noted that his writing was not the same as the one on the letter. “Whoever’s behind this knows what they’re doing.”

You swallowed, the words curling tight in your chest. It made it hard to speak, to think, but you didn’t allow yourself to drown just yet. “Do you think it’ll matter?”

His eyes met yours then- calm and steady. Grounding.

“It matters,” he said quietly. “All of it does, princess. Your insistence on dying so soon is almost making me uncomfortable.”

You ignored his second service; no one would truly understand. It wasn’t the answer you’d been expecting, but it was one you found yourself holding onto anyway.

Because as the days stretched and the shadows pressed closer, Price didn’t falter. He never looked at you the way others did. Never let the whispers of treason or guilt change the way he stood beside you.

When the tension twisted sharp and the weight of it all threatened to drag you under, he didn’t flinch.

He stayed.

And it wasn’t in words or reassurances- it was in the small, steady things. The way he made sure you ate, quietly setting a plate down beside you when your hands were too unsteady to hold a fork. The way he noticed when the walls felt too close, wordlessly leading you outside to breathe.

He was a tether when everything else threatened to break apart.

You never questioned it- never questioned him. Had no energy to do, so why would you question one of the few who didn’t look at you like you were a speck of sticky dirt under their shoes?

Because Price wasn’t like the others. He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. He didn’t fill the silence with pretty words.

He simply stayed.

And even when you felt like the world was caving in, that was enough.

By the end of the week, the castle was a hornet’s nest of accusations and fear. The kitchens were searched. The servants were questioned. Even the guards began turning on each other. The hour of the accusations had struck, and now the hour of your execution was nearing.

You were tired- bone-deep, soul-deep. The kind of exhaustion that even sleep couldn’t ease. Not that you slept much these days. The nightmares saw to that, clawing at the edges of your mind until the walls between dream and waking began to blur.

You stared too long into the mirrors, searching for someone you might still recognize and finding only the hollow reflection of a girl who had died too many times to keep pretending she was still whole.

I can’t keep doing this.

I am going to die again. And again. And again.

If anyone- if they- heard you pacing your rooms like a restless animal, no one came in to check you. If they heard your sobs, they knew no comfort offered would soothe you.

One night, after your father visited, after he made you kneel and kiss his feet and swear that you were not attempting to overthrow him, you broke.

Loud, pained, terrified sobs tore through your chest, raw and unrelenting. You pressed your hands to your mouth, desperate to muffle the sounds, but it did little to silence the grief clawing its way out of you.

Your knees buckled beneath the weight of it, and you crumpled to the floor, trembling as the cold seeped into your skin. The walls of your chambers felt smaller, closer, as though they were closing in, suffocating you.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there- folded in on yourself, shivering and broken. Minutes? Hours? Time had lost its meaning, stretching endlessly as your thoughts spiraled.

The door creaked.

You flinched, your breath hitching as shadows shifted across the floor. You didn’t look up. You couldn’t.

Not until a warm, heavy cloak was draped over your shoulders.

Price knelt beside you, silent as he settled onto the floor. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to pull words from you. He only sat, solid and steady, his presence filling the room like the glow of dying embers- quiet, but enduring.

And for the first time that night, the sobs began to slow.

[ikuzeminna]

First Update!

Thank you to everyone who has participated in this experiment so far. Here's a first look for at the results I have been able to gather at this point in time.

Since I don't have enough data from non-Latin alphabet users yet, the following shows the distribution of only the Latin alphabet users.

The side of the bar represents how many people of a group opted for the handle on the left or right side.

We can see that the overwhelming majority of right-handed people choose to draw the handle on the right side. With left-handed and ambidextrous people the distribution is more even, though the low number of them compared to the right-handed group is too small yet to draw any real conclusions.

The exact numbers are:

Meaning:

20 out of 126 right-handed people (15.9%) drew the handle on the left side

106 out of 126 right-handed people (84.1%) drew the handle on the right side

14 out of 23 left-handed people (60.9%) drew the handle on the left side

9 out of 23 left-handed people (39.1%) drew the handle on the right side

I have seen some people in the comments and reblogs kindly voice concern over Tumblr not being ideal for reaching non-English speaking and therefore non-Latin alphabet using people, but that's absolutely fine! Because Latin alphabet or not, left-handed people are very valuable to both hypotheses in relation to their right-handed counterparts.

If my professor is right, then left-handed people should be much more likely to draw the handle on the left. So far, we're only at slightly more likely (61% isn't that much).

As far as my own hypothesis goes, many people have pointed this out already, and I, too, have discarded the notion that the presence of single letters within an alphabet is the reason for the handle choice and am instead now focusing on how the letters/characters are written. Latin letters are strictly left to right, Japanese, for example, also has a predominantly left to right stroke order (with exceptions, of course). Since most people draw the cup first and then add the handle, it could feel more natural for them to "continue" on the right, as that is what we usually do when writing.

(When our professor did the experiment with us, the person next to me drew the handle first, then the cup, and so ended up with the handle facing left.)

I have taken to various Discord servers to hopefully get some data from Arabic users, as I was told they favor the left side regardless of their dominant hand, as well as other groups, but so far all I've gotten are threats by mods to not self-promote when I asked them for permission to ask people to participate. lol

I'm allowed to throw money in return for promo at one though, so let's see how that works out.

Oh, and as a last note. I'm very sorry about the cup = no handle confusion because of paper cups. A "cup" in both my native tongues always has a handle because it's specifically the one made out of porcelain.

I had hoped having to specify "paper cup" would have prevented the confusion, alas. Sorry again.

I need your help with a hypothesis!

For context: My linguistics professor and I got into a discussion after a test she did with us, and I was of the opinion that the reason for the results was different from the one she offered, so she encouraged me to test my theory.

What I need

All you need to do is draw a coffee cup (with a handle, not the disposable stuff) and then answer three questions.

I don't need to see the coffee cup. You can draw it wherever you like; on a piece of paper, digitally, in the sand, on a foggy window. Anything works. It does not have to be good. A doodle is fine.

You have to draw the coffee cup before you see the questions. This is very important. If you decide to help me with this, please doodle the coffee cup before you keep reading.

Assuming you have drawn the coffee cup, I now need you to answer these three questions:

On which side did you draw the handle?

Are you right-handed or left-handed?

Do you primarily write using the Latin alphabet or a different one? (please specify which)

More context

Most people will draw the handle on the right side. My professor says it's because most people are right-handed, so they draw the handle in the direction that would be comfortable for them to pick up.

I said drawing it on the right side just felt more comfortable to my hand and argued it's probably because we write a bunch of letters like that. B, b, D, P, p, R all look like a tiny "handle on the right side" and are all a straight line followed by a round one (so "cup first, handle second," like most people draw cups). The Latin alphabet doesn't have letters like that that face the other way, except maybe d, depending on how you write it, so it makes sense to me that people writing mostly Latin letters would go with the handle on the right side.

Which means that I need to know what Asians, Arabs and Greeks do and if the distribution of left and right sides of handles differs from the Latin alphabet group. Cyrillic seems to favor right, too, though it'd be interesting to see if there are differences.

If there are, my theory is right. Doubly so if there is a sizeable increase in a group whose alphabet has letters that benefit the left side choice.

So feel free to spread this to as many people as you like and put the answers in the comments or the tags of a reblog. The more answers I get, the better I can assess whose theory is better.

Thank you for your help!

[revelboo]

💌

Hello 👋 new anon here! Just a Blitzwing appreciator here to tell you my thoughts 💭

How pent up is this mech? Tied between wanting to hunt the reader down, or just keeping them pinned beneath him.

The way Blitzwing reacts to the reader touching him- (GOD DAMN) I could feel the tension through the screen. He seemed almost addicted to them towards the end 🧐 (I want him to bite me)

And how he just decided “you 𝐚𝐫𝐞 coming with me.” (PLEASE-)

I have much to say- but that can wait.

Merry Christmas! 🎄

Thank you for your hard work <3 Always a treat to read your works!

Hi and thank you! Getting to this one a bit late- but he’s very pent up 🤣 constantly struggling with himself at this point.

Hello Helicopter Pt 3

Blitzwing x Reader

• Heart hammering in your chest so hard you’re wondering if you might actually have a heart attack. You draw your knees up against your body in the seat you’d found yourself in when the giant alien robot has come apart around you and reformed into some sort of aircraft. An experience you never want to repeat. Aware that you’re still naked and dirty, that his excess is currently making a mess in his seat, and that he’s humming what sounds suspiciously like Three Blind Mice. He’d called you mouse more than once, you remember. “Where are you taking me?” Voice wavering more than you like, because you’d done what he’d wanted. And sure, he’d never said he’d let you go, but you’d sort of assumed he would when he was done.

• “Home,” he says, feeling you flinch at his voice like you hadn’t really expected an answer. “You’re making a mess.” Shuddering, he can feel the wetness in his seat. Hears your sullen protest of, ‘it’s your mess.’ And then he’s cackling and seething at the same time that you’d dare talk back, wobbling in the air. Hating and loving it. “Our mess,” he adds, laughing. Remembering the desperate way he’d claimed you again and again. Lost in the feel of you and the sounds you’d made.

• Slapping a hand against the console in front of you as the aircraft shudders around you, nosing up then drifting sideways, you close your eyes. “If you don’t stop that, I’m going to be sick,” you mutter as he levels out at the threat. Home. Where is home for a giant, psychotic alien? “You can’t just keep me like a pet.” Or, more likely a toy. His own personal sex toy. Shuddering, you try to breathe through the incoming panic. Because you’re not just going to lay down and take it. Well, not again. Giving him what he’d wanted was what had gotten you into this mess in the first place.

• “I believe I can do whatever I want,” he retorts. Dares to argue with me? Comes the angry thought, the one that wants to pin you. And he’s humming again, unable to stop. Struggling to get himself together as he loses altitude, expecting the screaming this time when he transforms and catches you. “Little, tasty mouse.” Shuddering, as his personalities fight for control again, he heads into the base. By some miracle, no one’s about to see him with you. It’s not like he cares, but he’s eager to get you to his quarters. Find someplace to put you and get some space between you and himself so he can think. Frag you senseless for that attitude. A little taste of you. No. Not until he figures this obsession out.

• Dangling from his servos as he enters what you assume are his quarters, your breath catches at the chaos of the room. It looks like a wild animal has been loose inside. The walls gouged and dented. Broken furniture. Odds and ends everywhere. A tire, a pile of street signs, a very sad and possibly dead young palm tree in a planter. There’s alien glyphs all over the walls. Whatever it says, seems to be repeated over every wall. Your alien fuck buddy is definitely not okay in the head. Turning, he sets you on a flat metal surface. And rocks slightly staring down at you, face blurring as his servos flex into big fists and relax again. Not daring to move in case he pounces you thinking you’re running again, you watch as he finally settles on the calm face. The cold one.

• Staring down at you sitting on your hip on his berth, there’s an unsettled feeling that twists through him. Torn between wanting to reach for you and to put space between you. Because he’d thought you’d calmed him, but the chaos is worse now. Those other thoughts struggling to take over. Wants to turn away. Leave you so he can think, but finds himself lunging for a dirty cleaning rag on the floor and dropping it on you as you flinch. “Don’t try to escape. Please, do. Run,” he growls, rocking and bracing a palm on the berth as you lean away, but don’t bolt. And there’s something that might be disappointment about that spilling through him. Realizing he’d wanted to catch you again, claim you again. Hand trembling, he reaches and strokes his servo over your hair as you try to duck before reaching up to push at his servo. And the chaos stills again for a second, spark thrumming as his lips part at the blessed quiet as you stare up at him with frightened, upset eyes, you hand on him. Chaining the madness with a touch. Still there, but not at odds with him. Those other voices united with the thought that you’re his.

Previous

Well, it's kill or be killed

And one day we'll get the best of them

Hello helicopter, are you listening?

Nobody seems to care

Nobody ever learns

Are we ever gonna get it right?

Are we ever gonna start making sense

And stop pretending that we care?

[meanbossart]

some questions about du drow and his blood magic sorcerer stuff (because i'm so damn curious about lore and sorcerer is one of my favourite classes haha). how did he become a sorcerer? did bhall create him that way and only grant him access to those powers later? did du drow just... not realise he had them until he joined the cult of bhall? did he suddenly stop being a sorcerer after he was infected with the tadpole? does he still have access to those powers but he just doesn't use them? does he still use them but not to the same caliber as before? i can understand not having them after being killed by bhaal and subsequently resurrected by withers, but if they are cut off at a different point, what causes that?

i think that's all the questions i have... sorry if they're too many 😅

(Technically there are indirect spoilers for A Novel Experience in this answer but I don't think its particularly egregious. EITHER WAY I figured I'd mention it.)

I guess sorcery is something bestowed upon him by matter of being a God's spawn, but there's no solid answer here and in truth, it's anyone's guess! He was born with these powers and had a vague but progressive knowledge of their existence as he developed. As I've mentioned before, DU drow killed his foster mother and partner at the age of 10 or 11 - he is not supernaturally strong now (well, I mean that he's only as strong as you would expect a 6'5", 250lbs man to be), and he certainly wasn't back then, either - It was thanks to his sorcery streak that he could take them out at all and swiftly. From that point on, he also had to escape the Underdark all by himself, where said powers probably came in clutch.

I believe that as DU drow grew older, a mixture of forgetfulness and aversion played a role in him pushing the thought of it out of his mind. He did not practice his powers at all as a teenager and focused entirely in what his body was physically capable of doing and enduring - he was often hungry, hurting and lonely, whatever weird blood magic he spurred up as a child, bore no relevance now. In truth, his powers are pretty useless for any purpose besides quickly killing something or healing himself.

It's worth noting too that this sorcery thing is purely in service of lore; DU drow is not a character that I play table-top with and so, his sorcery isn't supposed to function exactly like it would in a game. He has a blood magnetism/molding type power based closely off the Blood Magic's homebrew additional spells. He doesn't have cantrips or domain over any other type of magic like a caster character normally would.

DU drow can only do the following: Hemorrhagia: An AoE spell that draws blood out of a creature's orifices by forceful, magical means until either the caster's concentration is broken or all affected creatures perish. Ineffective against undead or constructs. (Based on the 6th level spell Haemorrhage from the aforementioned homebrew)

Universal Recipient: The human body is like a balm, and DU drow is but a pile of meat-putty; The blood and flesh of others can be absorbed to quicken the healing of small wounds, retain the vitality of the caster, and even regenerate the function of body parts. This also makes him immune to all blood diseases, but not to all blood conditions. This is actually a passive. (Based off of "Theft Of Life".)

(I have a desire to expand upon this but my other ideas are currently irrelevant and/or undercooked. So I'll leave at that for now.)

This is based on his theoretic conception (literally a piece of meat slabbed off of a dead god), and should also explain how he would have been able to survive infancy, childhood, and later, Kressas's experiments.

Upon joining the Bhaalist temple, DU drow would come to better understand and utilize his powers, but it was often more of a threat/punishment used against his own followers rather than something ever employed against victims. He always preferred getting up-and-personal with targets and sacrifices rather than resorting to sorcery, though naturally he still enjoyed the benefits of being Universal Recipient at all times.

DU drow does not recall ever possessing these powers following his brain being scrambled and the tadpole inserted. I can also tell you right now that triggering them by accident is impossible - his rejection of Bhaal as well as his death at the temple, however, did not nullify them. Once again, Universal Recipient does remain in-effect, but the benefits enjoyed by someone who's unaware of how that power functions is far too subtle for DU drow to chuck it up to anything outside the normal range of weirdness that surrounds him. As far as his friends and himself are concerned, he just heals really well sometimes.

Thanks for being curious about it! I had been holding onto this for so long, LOL. I'm glad to finally have a reason to get into it.

[horse-girl-anthy]

essay on the UFO motif in RGU (and YKA) under the cut

one of the things that makes aliens so interesting is their versatility. YKA uses the classic alien invasion trope as the set up for its narrative; aliens as outsiders, infiltrating human society and sowing paranoia. as anyone who's seen the show knows, this premise is soon subverted. fear of the other is used by the invisible storm girls to justify securitization and eventual militarization, while the main characters work to break down the self-other dichotomy.

RGU doesn't feature its UFO motif so prominently; or anyway, it's not present from the beginning of the show, but instead scattered throughout. this marginality does not make the motif any less important, however. let's take a look at the text to see how the motif itself is used.

in almost all instances, UFOs and aliens are associated with the shadow girls. the first time they're mentioned is in episode 9.

in the skit, A-Ko insists she saw a UFO, while B-Ko says it must have just been a shooting star. they argue about this for a while, until A-Ko changes the topic to disillusionment: she knows that Santa Claus, wizards, fairies, princes on white horses, and kind-hearted, true friends only exist in fantasy. but she begs to be allowed to keep her belief in UFOs.

the inclusion of UFOs in this scene may not seem particularly meaningful. the skit draws a constrast between childhood illusions and adult cynicism, notably including "true friends" on the list of fantasy creatures. with hindsight, though, this choice does seem purposeful. maybe A-Ko wants to believe in what the UFOs represent, which is more clearly spelled out as the show goes on.

in episode 12, the shadow girls list "normal things" for people to do: study normal subjects, get a normal job, fall in love normally, get married normally, have a normal family, and live a normal life. but they conclude that being normal "has nothing to do with them" and proceed to board a UFO so that they can "go back to what's normal for them."

this is an obvious parallel to Utena's arc in the episode, where she rejects how society wants her to act and reclaims her own normal. but it's also telling us something about the shadow girls.

the shadow girls don't just "want to believe" in UFOs--it seems that they are aliens. they're "from Planet Kashira" according to Ikuhara; "Inhabitants of Planet Kashira" is the title of the shadow girls track on the first OST.

I think what this is telling us is that the shadow girls are outside observers. they're not natural citizens of Ohtori but exist at a remove from it. they can interact with the story, but they're a constant reminder that something beyond it exists--that the "rules of the rose crest" are not the laws of the universe.

from episode 13 on, the shadow girls put on their plays after returning to earth from their UFO. episode 24 ends with an encounter between Suzuki, Yamada, Tanaka and the UFO. we see the "monkey-catching-robot" again; once it successfully bags its prey, it enters the craft and flies away.

I could probably provide a reading of this scene if I tried, but mostly, I think it's there to round out the Black Rose arc. it's rather tongue-in-cheek; the UFOs are a part of the silly side of RGU. this eccentricity is humorous, but in my view also tied to the theme of individuality, which requires unapologetic strangeness. there's also something to be said for RGU's use of the inexplicable and uncanny, which often have a far deeper impact on the audience than concrete story elements.

in the final arc, the shadow girl plays begin with their UFO crashing into the chairman's tower. this is as clear a metaphor as one can hope for: the shadow girls and their alienness are a destabilizing force. maybe they're not revolutionaries--the crash appears to be accidental--but their randomness, their strangeness, their lack of propriety are a threat to the order, the masculine rule represented by Akio.

that's about it for the shadow girls. but as I mentioned, aliens are brought up in another context: the episode "Nanami's Egg."

the line "Nanami's some kind of space alien" is rather famous, and that part of the episode isn't hard to read. she's worried that she's seen as a freak, an other, by her peers. however, we also get a return of the motif at the end of the episode.

after abandoning her egg, Nanami is unable to put it out of her mind and runs out into the night to find it. she sings and dances with it, but after a bedtime conversation between Utena and Anthy, the show cuts back to Nanami, now bereft of her egg again.

she finds it, grown 100 times larger, propped up in the woods. she promises never to abandon it again, but it seems not to forgive her, shooting strange beams at her in attack. then it fades and lays before her, cracked open.

I think this scene is adding a new dimension to the egg metaphor: in the final moments of the episode, the egg becomes a symbol of Nanami's self. she tried to be rid of it, as she killed the cat--but just as she did then, she found herself regretting it. but she's unable to forgive herself for it, feeling that she's betrayed herself and lost something very important for the sake of a false normality.

to finish this essay, I'd like to reflect on how the motif of alienness is reflected in the larger themes of RGU. in the episode 11 commentary, Ikuhara wrote the following:

I tried to live true to myself. “You’re just like an alien,” someone said to me one day. They must have been telling me, “You’re not normal.” In other words, apparently “living true to yourself” means “living as an alien.” And so I became “an alien all alone in this world.”

alienation, individuality, and deviance are all major themes in RGU. the shadow girls present a positive image of what it means to be an alien: they are carefree and unconstrained. however, for the other characters, being an alien--an individual--is not so easy. it sets them apart from the social order and may even put them in danger. therefore, RGU depicts the defiant joy of deviation, along with the pain that often accompanies it. individuality may be a threat to the system, but that's exactly why it's difficult to achieve.

finally, "alienness" serves as a great metaphor for self-other encounters, as I've touched on throughout this essay. if we are individuals, that means we are fundamentally separate from one another, because we cannot experience each other's experience. thus, we are each of us aliens to each other.

Anthy asks Utena this question as if she truly does not know, as if Utena is some mysterious being encountered in a dream. they are drawing closer together, and so the fact of their alienness is only becoming more pronounced. it will take the rest of the show to find out if contact is possible.

[liauditore]

arcane au (<-- technically a tft au if you know you know) smajor. the demons got to me. lore under the cut

one of the many orphans left behind following Vander's attempt at revolution, Scott learned at a young age that bravery and stupidity often walk people down the same road.

It's perhaps that same sense of self-preservation and shrewdness that allowed him to rise to power later in life as one of Zaun's infamous chem barons, living a seemingly paradoxical existence where he is somehow no one's enemy, yet always the "enemy of the enemy" to his fellow crime lords. His first resources came through winning the favour of a certain topsider with dealings in Zaun.

The only one in Zaun who seems unhappy with Scott's rule is Joel, who he has a long history with. Luckily for Scott, Joel very much lacks the resources to be a serious threat, but that doesn't stop him from trying anyway.

some other trivia:

the blue hair is genetic and has nothing to do with Jinx, I'm still a bit iffy on how much the main cast of Arcane exists in this AU but I'd like to imagine Scott gets compared to her alot (asked if he's a fan, related, etc) and it's become very eye-roll inducing for him.

scott, like most zaunites, hates piltover -- but hates making enemies even more, especially enemies he feels he can't overpower. his relationship with topside is definitely a lot more on the courteous side than other chem barons, somewhat akin to how vander and grayson were.

his gun is, however, looted from the body of a dead enforcer. it's been customized to fit his tastes, but also to disguise its origins.

he's the same age here as in the life series, maybe a little bit older. His on-and-off use of shimmer has definitely taken a noticeable toll on him, something he is deeply insecure about. (<-- will talk more about shimmer when I draw more of these, since it plays quite a big part)

his tft traits are chem baron / sniper. don't look at me

and that's about it for now! There's alot more I want to say but I'll save it for when I draw more of them 💪

[crossfandomskylines]

In the Space Between: Chapter 19

OTHER CHAPTERS:

Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4 I Chapter 5

Chapter 6 I Chapter 7 I Chapter 8 I Chapter 9 I Chapter 10

Chapter 11 I Chapter 12 I Chapter 13 I Chapter 14 I Chapter 15

Chapter 16 I Chapter 17 I Chapter 18

Pairing: Glen Powell x OC

Summary: Gabby and Glen take a quiet stroll through a nearly empty park, enjoying the rare freedom to hold hands and show affection without the looming threat of paparazzi or fans. As they bask in the peacefulness of the moment, their conversation turns to the potential challenges of their relationship becoming public.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: None

A/N: Please continue to let me know what you think with Hearts, Comments, and Reblogs! Also if you'd like to be tagged please let me know, and I will get you added to the tag list!

Gabby stretched lazily, her arm draped across Glen's chest, her fingertips absentmindedly tracing patterns against his skin. The soft glow of the afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting a golden warmth over the two of them as they lay tangled together on her bed. Every now and then, Glen’s hand would find its way to her back, his fingers drawing slow, deliberate circles that made her sigh in contentment.

“You know,” Glen said, breaking the comfortable silence, “we only have thirty-two hours left together.” His voice was soft, but there was a teasing edge to it, and Gabby could feel his gaze on her. “We can’t spend all of it in your apartment.”

Her grip on him tightened immediately, and she nestled her face against his chest. “Why not?” she mumbled, her voice muffled but playful. “This seems like the perfect way to spend thirty-two hours.”

Glen chuckled a deep sound that rumbled beneath her cheek. “As tempting as that sounds, you’ve gotta eat at some point, Gab.”

She finally tilted her head up to look at him, a sly smirk tugging at her lips. Her hand drifted down the length of his chest, slow and deliberate. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice dipping with a hint of mischief. “It sounds like a pretty great plan to me.”

Glen laughed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Maybe,” she teased, her fingers stopping just above the waistband of his boxers, her eyes sparkling with challenge.

With a dramatic groan, Glen sat up, scooping her up along with him. She let out a playful squeal of protest, but he was quick to shift her off him and onto the mattress beside him. “Alright, no more distractions,” he declared, standing up and grabbing a shirt from the edge of the bed.

Gabby flopped back against the pillows with an exaggerated pout. “You’re no fun.”

He leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “You’ll thank me later,” he said with a grin, already tugging his shirt over his head. “Now, get up and get dressed. We’re not spending the rest of the day trapped in this apartment.”

She groaned dramatically, burying her face in the pillow. “You’re ruining my perfectly good plan, you know that?”

“You’ll survive.” He tossed a playful wink over his shoulder.

With a resigned sigh, Gabby finally swung her legs over the side of the bed, watching as Glen crossed the room to grab his shoes. She couldn’t help but admire the easy confidence in his movements, the way he seemed so at home in her space. And maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t entirely opposed to leaving the apartment if it meant spending the day with him.

Gabby stood in front of her mirror, running a brush through her hair and pouting slightly as Glen walked up behind her, already ready and looking far too pleased with himself. His reflection grinned at her, his hands finding their way to her shoulders as he leaned down, his chin brushing against her head.

“You know,” he said with mock seriousness, “I thought you looked perfectly fine before. We could’ve left twenty minutes ago if you didn’t insist on looking this gorgeous.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips curved into a smile despite herself. “Oh, please. Twenty minutes is nothing compared to how long I could have taken. You should’ve seen the preparations that went into our first date.”

“You can tell me about it on the way. Now come on, let’s go, babe. There’s a whole world out there waiting for us.

Gabby chuckled, tossing her brush onto the dresser and following him out of the apartment. 

As they descended they stepped off the elevator and stepped outside, the warm early  afternoon breeze hit her cheeks, making her glad she decided not to bring her lightweight jacket. The streets were surprisingly quiet for a Saturday, the usual buzz of the city softened by the fading light. They chatted as they walked, their laughter echoing off the brick facades of the buildings. Gabby felt a little lighter with every step, her earlier reluctance to leave the apartment melting away as she soaked in the crisp air and Glen’s easy presence beside her.

When they turned the corner onto the park’s pathway, she couldn’t help but smile. The small, tree-lined space was one of her favorite spots in the neighborhood, and today it felt like they had it all to themselves. A lone jogger passed by, earbuds in and oblivious to anything but her rhythm, but otherwise, the park was silent.

“It’s perfect,” Glen said softly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze as they stepped off the main sidewalk and onto the path.

Gabby nodded, her gaze sweeping across the empty benches and the small fountain in the center of the park. It really was perfect—just the two of them and the peaceful hum of the city in the distance.

Glen’s fingers laced through hers as they strolled along the quiet park path, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand absentmindedly. It was such a simple thing—holding hands—but something about the moment felt special. No cameras, no fans, no whispered speculation. Just them.

“It’s nice,” Glen said, his voice low but filled with contentment. “Being able to do this without worrying about anything.”

Gabby smirked, glancing up at him. “Don’t jinx it. You know as soon as you say something, a crowd of fans or paparazzi will magically appear out of nowhere.”

Glen chuckled. “Let them. What are they going to do, take a picture of me holding hands with my girlfriend? Big scandal.”

Her heart skipped at the word girlfriend, but she kept her tone light. “You say that now, but it’d be a headache for you if pictures of you holding hands with some mystery woman made the front page of People Magazine.”

He stopped walking for a moment, turning to look at her, his brow raised. “Mystery woman?” he repeated, his voice warm with affection. “You’re not just some mystery woman, Gabby.”

Her cheeks flushed at his sincerity, and her smile faltered slightly as a more serious thought crept in. “But… what would you do? If someone did see us together?”

Glen tilted his head, studying her expression for a moment. “I’d do whatever you wanted me to do,” he said finally, his voice steady. “If you wanted me to brush it off, I’d say it was a casual date. People go on dates all the time—doesn’t have to mean anything serious.”

Gabby’s face scrunched in confusion, a flicker of hurt crossing her features. “You’d… lie about it?”

Glen’s hand tightened around hers as he immediately shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t lie,” he said quickly. “I’d just keep it vague. Not confirm or deny anything. But…” He hesitated, his eyes softening as he met her gaze. “If you wanted me to, or if you were okay with it, I could say I’m in a relationship during an interview or something. I’d never throw your name or identity out there—you don’t deserve to be thrown into the trenches of publicity. But I wouldn’t deny us. Not really.”

She looked up at him, her chest tightening at the weight of his words. It wasn’t just what he was saying—it was the way he said it, with such calm certainty, as if the world could throw whatever it wanted at him and he’d still be there, holding her hand.

“You’d really let me decide?”

“Of course.” Glen shrugged. “It’s not just my life that would change if people found out. I’d never force that on you. But if you wanted me to confirm it, my PR team or manager would type something up, post it, or write a script for me to say in an interview.”

Gabby blinked again, the reality of his words sinking in. Of course, Glen wasn’t just Glen. He was a brand, with an entire team of people behind the scenes carefully curating his image. It wasn’t something she thought about often, but now it loomed in the back of her mind.

She glanced at him as they walked, her fingers still loosely intertwined with his. He looked so at ease—messy hair, jeans that were slightly frayed at the cuffs, and a soft T-shirt that clung to his frame in just the right way. To her, this was her Glen. The one who made bad jokes over burnt toast, who sang off-key to her favorite songs, who pressed sleepy kisses to her temple in the early hours of the morning.

It was so easy to forget sometimes. Easy to forget that the same Glen she was walking hand-in-hand with had people waiting to tell him what to say, how to pose, and where to be. Easy to forget that there were strangers out there dissecting his every move, waiting for a glimpse into his life.

She had grown so used to the quiet version of him—the one who left his fame at the door when he was with her—that it rarely crossed her mind how big the “other” side of him was. The side that wasn’t just Glen, but Glen the actor, the rising star whose face was splashed across magazines and who had fans screaming his name at premieres.

Gabby frowned, a small crease forming between her brows. The idea of someone else deciding what Glen would say or how he would address their relationship made her uneasy. Not because she doubted him—she didn’t—but because it was a stark reminder that he didn’t fully control his own narrative. And by extension, neither would she if they went public.

It was a lot to take in, and for a moment, she felt a wave of doubt ripple through her. Not about him, but about whether she was ready for what being with him might mean in the long run. Did she want to risk losing this quiet, beautiful version of them to the noise and chaos of public scrutiny?

“Hey,” Glen’s voice softened as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze, pulling her from her thoughts. “You’ve gone quiet on me. What’s spinning around in that head of yours?”

Gabby glanced up at him, offering a small smile, but the slight tension in her features gave her away. She shook her head, trying to brush it off. “It’s nothing. Just… thinking.”

“Uh-huh,” Glen said, his lips quirking into a knowing smile. “And you’re thinking hard, too. I can tell.” He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. His hands slid to her hips, grounding her as his dark eyes searched hers. “Talk to me, Gab.”

She hesitated, glancing down at the grass beneath their feet. “I guess I’m just… wrapping my head around what it would mean if people found out about us.”

His expression softened, and he tilted his head slightly, waiting for her to go on.

“I mean, I know this is your life. The cameras, the fans, the press… it’s part of the package. And I’ve always known that. But it’s different when it’s us, you know?” Her voice faltered for a moment before she looked back up at him. “What if it changes things? What if all the noise ruins this?”

Glen’s thumbs brushed gently over her hips, a soothing motion that eased some of the tension coiled in her chest. “Gabby,” he said quietly, “it’s just you and me right now. No cameras, no questions, no pressure. And that’s how I want it to stay—for as long as we can keep it that way.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the steadiness in his tone.

“Look, I’m not saying it’ll never come up,” he continued. “Maybe one day we’ll have to make a call on how to handle things. But that doesn’t have to be today, or tomorrow, or anytime soon. Right now, we’ve got this—just us. And I don’t want you worrying about something that might not happen for awhile.”

Gabby’s shoulders relaxed slightly as his words sank in. She studied his face, the way his brows knit together in concern and the sincerity etched in every line of his expression. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Because it is.” He grinned, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her forehead. “I’m crazy about you, Gab. I don’t care what the world thinks, or if they even know. I care about what you think. What you want.”

Her heart swelled at his words, and she let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You’re really good at this whole comforting thing, you know that?”

“Years of practice,” he teased, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

She rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her chest remained. Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “Okay. You’re right. Let’s just… focus on what we have right now.”

“Atta girl.” He gave her hips a gentle squeeze before slipping his hand back into hers. “Now, can we enjoy this walk without you spiraling into another existential crisis?”

Gabby laughed, the sound light and genuine this time. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I ask.” Glen grinned, leading her back onto the path.

They continued their leisurely walk, the sound of their footsteps blending harmoniously with the stillness around them. Gabby tilted her face toward the sun, basking in its warmth as Glen watched her out of the corner of his eye, his chest tightening at the sight.

“Thanks for this,” she said after a moment, her voice soft.

“For what?”

“For just... being here. For making time.” She glanced up at him, her expression tender.

He stopped walking, pulling her to a halt with him. Turning to face her, he cupped her cheek with his free hand, his gaze steady and sincere. “Gabby, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

She leaned into his touch, her heart swelling as the world around them seemed to fade. It was just them, and nothing else mattered.

[epiicaricacy-arts]

hello manosouta/saintknight enjoyers. i bring you this: married in red AU

for those unfamiliar with married in red, it’s a short thriller RPG by studio investigrave (other games by them are elevator hitch and dead plate). the game is free as are all their other games and i highly recommend it!!

SPOILERS FOR MARRIED IN RED AND AAI2 UNDER THE CUT

unlike my sunjiao dead plate au i don’t have that solid of a story for this, mostly because i haven’t had the chance to replay the 2nd and 5th cases after finishing the game to fully grasp and contextualize their dynamic, so i will probably be able to elaborate on this more after doing that AND possibly replaying married in red.

i had a few routes for this to go down which i’ll talk about below.

the basic premise is that simeon is attending bronco’s wedding (to some unknown figure cause i couldn’t figure out anyone that could generally fit the role i needed so you can imagine whatever you want).

in this story, simeon and bronco were still childhood best friends, but after nearly freezing to death in the locked car, simeon ended up hospitalized and rather weak for most of his life with high susceptibility to illness. bronco promised he would always visit simeon whenever he was sick or in the hospital, but simeon never felt that bronco truly made up for his actions that day.

the whole thing with the president and the double doesn’t really happen i guess? the focus is what happened during their childhood but artie’s still gotta die unfortunately 🤷‍♀️

under the impression that carmelo was bronco’s father and killed frost, simeon made sure that bronco would also have to face the loss of a loved one and sabotaged his wedding. bronco would’ve wanted simeon to be his best man, but ultimately decided not to put him in that position due to his health. unlike in MIR i think simeon had to have been invited but just as a guest.

here’s where i came up with multiple versions of the story. you can choose whatever seems to make most sense or whatever you like more 🤷‍♀️

the first is just following the events of MIR. simeon kills the person bronco intended to marry, frames bronco for the murder, and gets him arrested for revenge, promising that he’ll visit bronco every day in prison!!!

the second involved a bit more manipulation on simeon’s part. although i’m not sure how much he could really pull this off but who knows that guy did some whacky shit. in this version, simeon informs bronco that something dangerous is going to occur at the event: someone there is a threat, and bronco, as the bodyguard he is, needs to neutralize it. simeon then tries to frame it so that bronco’s fiance was the threat and his pride in his profession took priority over his fiance and killed them.

i think the second one is more interesting but i’m not as confident in its plausibility for these characters but 🤷‍♀️ i would love to hear people’s thoughts if they have any :]

anyways, making these AUs with SIG games is such a blast, especially editing the screenshots and writing text. maybe i’ll make more for either the dead plate or MIR AU’s at some point but that’s a later me thought

simeon having a similar hairstyle to frost was on purpose btw. also god i hated drawing bronco’s hair wtf is going on with that guy 😔

thank you for reading !!!!

[splitterregen]

So, I tagged Penelope and Telemachus as sheep in this post as a joke, but there's actually something to it.

The setup of Hold Them Down obviously parallels Odysseus' encounter with Polyphemus, just that he's the monster this time around and his counterpart is Antinous, who's not someone we're rooting for for obvious reasons

So, when Antinous talks about what he wants to do to Telemachus

Hold him down 'til the boy stops shakin' Hold him down while I slit his throat Hold him down while I slowly break his Pride, his trust, his faith and his bones Cut him down into tiny pieces

especially the bolded lines are nothing short of describing something like slaughtering a lamb (though this one has teeth) and it also draws an association to the threat of rape against Penelope in the cursive lines (in the eyes of the suitors he's more the son of Penelope than the son of Odysseus)

In fact, I'd argue that there are more lines explicitly linking themes of SA to Telemachus than to his mother in this song because, while the threat is explicit against Penelope, there's only one line really talking about the act itself without relying on metaphors of food and plunder, and the cursive lines in the verse above, are more closely related to metaphors of rape a modern audience is likely to be familiar with.

To stop us from breaking her bedroom door Stop us from taking her love and more

the bolded part already signifies that his attention is mostly directed at power and how the queen is just a piece of meat he needs to take and consume to achieve his goals (again, neither Penelope or Telemachus are human to him or the other suitors)

Hold her down while her gate is open Hold her down while I get a taste Hold her down while we share her spoils I will not let any part go to waste

like, everything here (and of course it is imagery that clearly is meant to convey sexual violence as well) likens her to a sacked city and slaughtered sheep respectively

[chopshajen]

~ The Trickster Cat ~ Compelling, Enigmatic, Condescending ~

I said a bit ago that I had a Kooza/Cats crossover in mind and even if it was cursed I would draw it anyways, and here it is now, surprisingly uncursed, or at least, surprisingly satisfactory! I'll have to do some dance poses sooner or later but I'm happy with this as a start :3

I tried to keep the design true to both sources of inspiration. Some thoughts on the design under the cut:

There are some elements of the Trickster's design that translate pretty well to stage!Cats costumes, namely the smooth-limb effect of the Trickster's extra-long sleeves and flared pant legs compared with the Cats arm/legwarmers. It's something I really like about the traditional Cats costumes (and a big part of why Cats 2019's designs don't work)* and something I REALLY like about the Trickster's outfits, so it's great for me.

*For further expansion on the subject, @missing-sock-misto has a great breakdown of the Cats costumes here. The relevant part is this:

They help shape the limbs and invoke the feeling of fluff. Human limbs taper, especially at the joints: wrists, elbows, knees, ankles. The arm and leg warmers help cover this, because they’re thick, making them more like cat limbs, which are functionally tubes.

It's one of the first elements I noticed when I first watched the Cats stage show, and when started interrogating myself as to why I liked the designs so much, I realized its importance in "evoking felinity", as azerairis and missing-sock put it. There are a lot of Cats adaptations that, for some godsforsaken reason, get rid of the arm and leg warmers, and it's almost always a mistake. We're trying to make them look like cute cats, not like painted humans.

For the Trickster, why they have long sleeves and flared pant legs may not be as obvious, but they do still serve a visual purpose. They make the Trickster appear that much more ethereal and otherworldly. Everything about them is smooth and continuous - legs flowing into feet, stripes swirling uninterrupted across their body, movement lithe and serpentine - and that makes them seem inhuman, especially when put in contrast with the stick-like, stumbling, uncertain Innocent.

Other more minor elements also translate pretty well. For instance, the Trickster's makeup is already very exaggerated, as is their "hairline" (hat...line?), in a way that doesn't look out of place in Cats. They have stripes on their face, monochrome eyes, and the :3 kitty mouth. The stripes on their body were easy to translate as well. Honestly I didn't have to think over it as much as I expected LOL Except for the wig. Don't ask me how that works. I do think this design is maybe...too simplistic? Like I maybe could've incorporated some of the suit elements of their costume, cuz the Trickster does look kind of odd without their tie. But I wasn't going to give them a collar because pfffftbl lmao could you imagine. Maybe they could have something Skimbleshanks-esque for a top with some formality to it, though I'm not sure putting human clothes on a cat version of an unknowable trickster god person makes sense either LOL

[thenamessparkplug]

(part 2 of this post)

THE SILLIES EVERRRR

bayshine is the older brother of all time guys

no speech bubble version

[chloesimaginationthings]

How Jax found Gangle’s figure collection in TADC,,

[tooquirkytolose]

Based on this tweet:

[bunnieswithknives]

AU where the Winged Lion was just a littleeeee bit more 'selfish'.

[shootingstareon]

meeting you