#it's short but I hope it makes sense

[vyoongi]

"Dondus, Caesar's Companion"

In Caracalla's fifteenth summer, when the sun was setting like liquid gold on the streets of Rome, the young Caesar, still without a crown or lead in his soul, found something that would forever change the course of his life. The fair of exoticisms brimming with exotic treasures from distant lands beyond the Mare Nostrum, was alive with the sounds of joyous shouts, the thrum of drums, and the roars of caged beasts. Majestic elephants, brilliantly colored peacocks, and serpents coiled like living jewels entertained the crowd. Yet, amid this symphony of wonders, Caracalla's keen, steely blue eyes were drawn to a small creature with dark fur and a spirited glint in its gaze.

"What is this creature? " Caracalla inquired, his voice resonating with authority and a hint of burgeoning command.

"A capuchin monkey, my lord" the merchant replied, bowing deeply, his tone laced with the nervousness of one addressing the future emperor. "A female monkey that hails from the jungles of the Africa Province. "

"Did you ride with the elephants, little creature? " he whispered, his Latin awkward yet soft.

The diminutive monkey, small enough to nestle in the palm of Caracalla's hand, met his gaze with an intensity that dismantled his defenses. In that moment, the young Caesar sensed an uncommon connection, as if the creature had seen through the barriers he meticulously erected in the presence of his twin brother, Geta, who was his constant shadow.

"Look at how she observes me, Geta!" Caracalla exclaimed, turning to his brother. "It’s as though she possesses more wisdom about this world than the two of us combined. "

Pragmatic as ever, Geta crossed his arms and countered, "What purpose does she serve, brother? If she cannot fight or obey, she is merely a distraction. "Yet Caracalla was undeterred. His heart, more guided by impulse than reason, had made its choice.

He named her 'Dondus', deriving the name from a term he had overheard from a numidian slave.

From that day forward, Dondus became his steadfast companion. They crafted tailored tunics for her, tiny garments adorned with intricate golden embroidery, and adorned her with a necklace of gems that rivaled the treasures of Jupiter's temple. But Dondus wasn't destined for a cage or for performances meant to amuse the Senate. Instead, she resided in Caracalla's chambers, sleeping on his marble bed and sharing meals from the same plates as the young Caesar.

To Caracalla, Dondus was more than a pet. She was a refuge,a sanctuary. On nights when the weight of his lineage crushed him, when he remembered his father's cold stares and the unjust punishments he received for his disobedience, he found comfort in the soft purr of her little companion. Sometimes, in the quiet hours when Rome lay in slumber, he would confide in her softly, as if she were his most trusted confidant.

"Dondus, do you not see it? At times, I am as the gladiator, ensnared within an amphitheater without exits, the eyes of all upon me, yet none perceiving the weight I bear. Geta, in his way, strives to grasp it, but even he falters, as all men do. Yet you, in your silence, gaze upon me without reproach. Is it that you cannot fathom war or dominion? Or is it, in your smallness, you have already gleaned the truth—that such things are but shadows, fleeting and without substance?"

Over time, the bond between them grew stronger. During lavish banquets, while senators adebated about territories and conquests, Dondus would sit on Caracalla's shoulder, drawing nervous laughter from those present. "A monkey dressed better than a proconsul'' they would whisper under their breath. Yet Caracalla remained unfazed by their remarks.

At the amphitheater, when blood stained the arena and the people roared for more, Dondus stood by his side, still, as if she understood that her master found a strange pleasure in chaos. Yet even in those moments, Caracalla was more docile to her than to any other human being.

"It amuses me'' Geta once said, his voice edged with irony. ''You would command the deaths of a thousand souls without so much as a blink, yet when Dondus casts a cluster of grapes to the ground, you hasten after her like a slave chasing his dominus.'' Caracalla inclined his head, a wry smile upon his lips. ''Perhaps'' he replied, ''it is because she asks nothing of me—save that I remain as I am."

As Caracalla grew into his imperial duties, Dondus remained by his side. She was dressed in miniature tunics crafted by the palace seamstresses, a spectacle that delighted the court but sometimes enraged Geta.

“You make a mockery of the empire” Geta spat one evening, finding Caracalla feeding Dondus at the dinner table.

“And you make a mockery of life, brother, with all your brooding” Caracalla retorted, his smile sharp. “She loves me as no one else does.”

In truth, there was a part of Caracalla that knew he was difficult to love. His temper, his hedonism, his love of blood and spectacle—it set him apart from Geta, who charmed the Senate and the plebeians alike. Yet Dondus never turned from him, even in his darkest moods.

Maybe it was because she, too, was a creature out of place. Just as Caracalla felt alienated in a world that demanded his perfection, Dondus had been torn from her jungle home, a shadow lost in the brilliance of Rome’s marble halls.

Years later, when the throne of Rome became a pool of blood, when Caracalla's hands were stained with the red of his own family, Dondus was still there. During his ascension as sole emperor, the little capuchin was named his first consul, a mockery of both the Senate and the gods.

In those darkest hours, when Rome burned from within and conspiracies were the order of the day, Caracalla took refuge in the company of Dondus, seeing in her black gaze the echo of the days when everything was simpler. He didn't remember, or didn't want to remember, that his own hands had brought about his brother's end. In his broken mind, Geta continued to care for him, as he always had.

As the empire faltered, Caracalla stroked Dondus's soft fur and murmured, ''You and I, Dondus, are all that remains of Rome. Let Jupiter cast his judgment, if he wills it. I have all I need."

And in the little capuchin, with her bright eyes and silent loyalty, he found the only fragment of peace his lost soul could hold. She didn't understand his words but she stayed.

Always, she stayed.

[inkskinned]

for a while i lived in an old house; the kind u.s americans don't often get to live in - living in a really old house here is super expensive. i found out right before i moved out that the house was actually so old that it features in a poem by emily dickinson.

i liked that there were footprints in front of the sink, worn into the hardwood. there were handprints on some of the handrails. we'd find secret marks from other tenants, little hints someone else had lived and died there. and yeah, there was a lot wrong with the house. there are a lot of DIY skills you learn when you are a grad student that cannot afford to pay someone else to do-it-for-ya. i shared the house with 8 others. the house always had this noise to it. sometimes that noise was really fucking awful.

in the mornings though, the sun would slant in thick amber skiens through the windows, and i'd be the first one up. i'd shuffle around, get showered in this tub that was trying to exit through the floor, get my clothes on. i would usually creep around in the kitchen until it was time to start waking everyone else up - some of them required multiple rounds of polite hey man we gotta go knocks. and it felt... outside of time. a loud kind of quiet.

the ghosts of the house always felt like they were humming in a melody just out of reach. i know people say that the witching hour happens in the dark, but i always felt like it occurred somewhere around 6:45 in the morning. like - for literal centuries, somebody stood here and did the dishes. for literal centuries, somebody else has been looking out the window to this tree in our garden. for literal centuries, people have been stubbing their toes and cracking their backs and complaining about the weather. something about that was so... strangely lovely.

i have to be honest. i'm not a history aficionado. i know, i know; it's tragic of me. i usually respond to "this thing is super old" by being like, wow! cool! and moving on. but this house was the first time i felt like the past was standing there. like it was breathing. like someone else was drying their hands with me. playing chess on the sofa. adding honey to their tea.

i grew up in an old town. like, literally, a few miles off of walden pond (as in of the walden). (also, relatedly, don't swim in walden, it's so unbelievably dirty). but my family didn't have "old house" kind of money. we had a barely-standing house from the 70's. history existed kind of... parallel to me. you had to go somewhere to be in history. your school would pack you up on a bus and take you to some "ye olden times" place and you'd see how they used to make glass or whatever, and then you'd go home to your LEDs. most museums were small and closed before 5. you knew history was, like, somewhere, but the only thing that was open was the mcdonalds and the mall.

i remember one of my seventh grade history teachers telling us - some day you'll see how long we've been human for and that thing has been puzzling me. i know the scientific number, technically.

the house had these little scars of use. my floors didn't actually touch the walls; i had to fill them with a stopgap to stop the wind. other people had shoved rags and pieces of newspaper. i know i've lost rings and earring backs down some of the floorboards. i think the raccoons that lived in our basement probably have collected a small fortune over the years. i complain out loud to myself about how awful the stairs are (uneven, steep, evil, turning, hard to get down while holding anything) and know - someone else has said this exact same thing.

when i was packing up to leave and doing a final deep cleaning, i found a note carved in the furthest corner in the narrow cave of my closet. a child's scrawled name, a faded paint handprint, the scrangly numbers: 1857.

we've been human for a long time. way back before we can remember.

[twinstxrs]

idk if this is accurate but i’ve felt like in previous seasons riz & gorgug have been one of the inter-bad kids dynamics we’ve seen the least of & this season has been so great in that aspect. gorgug having helped make some of riz’s magic gear. riz helping gorgug with his studies. the shared birthday party. gorgug’s gift to riz being something he himself made to protect riz. riz’s gift to gorgug being something he illegally grabbed to protect gorgug. gorgug who utilizes rage to put his body on the line for his friends & riz who will take deep levels of mental stress for his friends. even though it was within the context of a joke, riz calling gorgug an “absolute sweetie.” like yea they might not be in a band together or both part of a presidential campaign team or owlbears teammates, but they’d go to war for each other, because they’re best friends.

[elodieunderglass]

Would you like to be sent other people's Killie headcanons? I wasn't sure if that would be welcome or like stealing your toys.

(Killie the jockey oc)

Thank you so much for asking! I’m going to say something wild - that it’s fine if you understand the risks and agree to the conditions. Sorry for writing an essay about the conditions, but it interested me a lot - I want to welcome this spirit, and am also conscious that published authors don’t do this (however, I don’t want their job.)

Long story short: you can, but it’s not legally advisable, but fuck it, we ball.

Grownups share toys, and Killie exists to be rotated - and, when he achieves sufficient velocity, thrown briskly into an obstacle. Sharing this burden with others pleases me. I’ve already said an emphatic GO AHEAD to fanart and AU fanfic, so worrying about this too much would be a case of shutting the barn door after the horse has eaten it. We do a lot of riffing and yes-anding each other, which is the ENTIRE fun of talking about Killie, and is the ONLY reason he’d get a book anyway. And my approach to intellectual property is more collaborative-Goncharov than the inciting published-authors-shouldn’t-read-fic-incident (1990s drama with Marion Zimmer Bradley.)

Killie’s intended to have a little self-published, non-commercial book that isn’t written yet. If I was already planning to do something similar to your ideas, it might lead to awkwardness for both of us. I’m not saying it would - we are too mature and kind - but that’s the risk I don’t want you to take unknowingly. I do mean to create 1 piece of fixed canon material (plan for that here), for which I plan to charge sufficient money to reimburse the cost of the editor I plan to hire for it. So you would have to decide whether you’d like to risk your headcanon being canon. I will say upfront that there is zero risk of Killie being commercially viable (CAN YOU IMAGINE) so there’s no chance of anyone (including myself) getting paid for anything; it’s more about the idea of intellectual property. Your headcanons belong to you, and by kindly sharing them with someone who hasn’t written the canon yet, you risk a lot more than someone writing about a closed, distant work.

You don’t need approval or permission for headcanons. You don’t need approval from anybody to enjoy them.

Of course, half the pleasure of sharing headcanons is sharing them for connection and communication ARGH.

It would be great if you could share them somewhere else, without worrying about me being involved, but Killie’s entire fandom is the 20 of us, currently housed here, in my living room.

I do want to encourage you to do that (posting without telling me/discussing with other people). you don’t need my permission, and are welcome.

But I do understand Killie’s fandom is housed in my living room at the moment. As much as I intend for him to move out in the future, ideally into a small kennel in YOUR living room, it’s very natural for current observations of him to take place in my living room.

(Could he please move into your living room, the kennel is very small)

Thus, here is my policy:

If you send me a headcanon, please understand that you are voluntarily and freely releasing your idea, in the spirit of willing sharing. There is a very slight risk that your headcanon will overlap with something in the unpublished Killie book, so you’ll have to agree that you understood this risk - and that I don’t owe you anything, if it’s similar.

If you have a very good idea that would be absolutely load-bearing, I’d like to reach out for a mutually consensual permissions statement to use it. You would have the ability to decline. Agreeing to its use would involve you getting full credit for the idea, my warm thanks for sharing it, a link to your blog in online material, the admiration of everyone reading the credits, and probably nothing else will be in my power. Payment is unlikely. Co-authorship is not on the table, as I can’t write checks I can’t cash (I.e. I can’t promise to pay someone with credit on a product that might not happen.)

submission of writing prompts is done freely in the tumblr context, and I’m going to make the formal statement that a prompt does not grant co-ownership of the resulting work. Submission does not mean co-ownership - if you submit a prompt, you’re giving me permission to use it in any way I like, with or without credit. At the moment, it’s all on tumblr and attached to usernames, but if the inspired work moves to another platform (I.e I include a comic in Killie’s book) I’ll endeavour to keep the credit to your tumblr handle. I plan to thank everyone who makes the work so possible and so delightful!

Once Killie has this completed piece of work out (working title Throw Your Heart Over) he’ll be fair game. Literally hunt him for sport with my blessing 👍

I would then put him in a hamster ball and kick him down the stairs step back a bit because I think it could be a bit oxygen-smothering when creators are TOO involved - I’d like to respond to asks, but would not want to know what people were saying elsewhere- but once moved out of my living room, Killie will no longer be my personal problem.

Death of the Author voluntarily. Pls.

I was thinking of licensing him as Creative Commons anyway, but he still needs to move out of my living room and get his own address for that. At any rate, then, it will be chill for all of us to do whatever. Intellectual property WHOMST. The only thing would be I don’t want him sold without permission.

The intention of Killie is mental freedom and growth of identity; if I hogged him all to myself, I’d break that intention, and he’d rightfully stop working for me.

In conclusion, by willingly sharing a headcanon WITH ME, you agree that you get: small but high-quality connection, engagement, my admiration, hoots of amusement, tears, maybe a comic in response.

You do not get paid, you don’t get co-authorship or have any ownership.

If your headcanon accidentally matches a canon statement that I haven’t publicly made yet, you’ll have done very well by guessing foreshadowing, but unfortunately receive nothing. Guessing canon in advance does not mean that you gave me the idea, and you have agreed that by sharing it willingly.

If your headcanon solves a plot problem, I might reach out for permission to use it, with the conditions that I can only realistically offer credit for the idea. You’ll have the right to decline, and the paper trail showing that you did.

You will have no way of knowing if I am lying, and by freely sharing headcanons, you accept that risk. (I don’t intend to steal and lie - I’m a goddamn grownup with a day job, I think we’re friendly and trust each other, I’m writing a novel as a present to you, specifically, @thethirdromana - but the risk can’t be ignored.)

If you share your headcanon with other people, I don’t need to know, and don’t need to be invited.

Once Killie’s published, you can eat him for breakfast.

Hope this all makes sense, and I’m sure published authors would be gnawing their nails in horror reading this, which they won’t, because it’s 20 people in my living room and won’t make any money.

Regardless of what you choose to do, I cannot thank you enough for joining me, sharing your heart and attention, and for the gift of your support.

[myokk]

from my oneshot, note-taking 🫶🫶🫶

[moon-n-night]

The russian moomins have some weird design . When I first saw duck Snufkin he looks okay then I saw Moomin and goddamn he looked unpleasant, the side view is okay looks fine then they front view good lord it looks like a jump scare.

[stealingpotatoes]

ok 1. sorry for decapitating your ask like this, i DID read the whole thing dw and 2. I imagine in the Republic, Jedi had a pretty well-rounded schooling, like most of it DEFINITELY focused on force and jedi stuff but come on you've gotta know maths and physics for all that wild force shit and do literature and history to understand ppl n cultures.

the new jedi order is at a disadvantage bc it's made up of 3 ppl who dropped out of school ages 17 (whose education got shitted by war), 12-13, and 7 respectively and only one guy who actually finished school -- and he went to school on Tatooine of all places. I imagine a visiting Leia, who had the best tutors/went to the fanciest schools on Alderaan, is probably the one to be like hey this is a school you guys-- are you guys teaching them like, stuff that isn't weird force techniques and immediate survival skills?? please say they know maths and literature outside of jedi texts?? which probably devolves into "Cal Ahsoka and Ezra have to sit there while Leia tries to teach them basic high school classes"

[vikanightlightcomic]

Dark cream week 2025

Day 2

Cross Sans by @jakei95

Shattered Dream @galacii-gallery

Dark Cream week by @zu-is-here

[spiderziege]

Who is the oc on the right? I want to know more about them 👀👀

hmm. he grows up with a group of travelling showmen/circus, but has to leave it relatively young and ends up working just kinda whatever job he can get as a teenager. he eventually meets the other oc, strawhat girl, when she's burning down a huge sawmill thats being build to clear out the forest she lives in, helps her escape and both of them end up wanted for it. few years later theyre both living deep in a steppe under different names where he works as a post rider/courier. he's a fun guy and a pretty skilled acrobat and rider. dreams of performing again at some point but he's still technically a wanted criminal on the run so thats a bit difficult. i might change his outfit a bit tho im not super happy with that lol

[liketolaugh-writes]

More Like Home - Timeline

Present:

Bruce - 44

Dick - 28

Jason - 25

Cass - 24

Tim - 22

Duke - 18

Danny - 16

Damian - 15

History:

22 years ago (DP) - Vlad has his accident

19 years ago - Batman (age 25) begins, Dick (age 9) is recruited

17 years ago - the Justice League is founded

15 years ago (DP) - Vlad begins accruing wealth illegally

13 years ago - Dick (age 14) runs away to form the Teen Titans, Jason (age 12) is recruited

10 years ago - Jason (age 15) dies

9 years ago - Tim (age 13) is recruited

8 years ago - the Metahuman Protection Act is passed, No Man's Land happens

7 years ago - Jason (age 18) returns to Gotham

5 years ago - Damian (age 10) is recruited

4 years ago - Bruce is lost in the time stream

2 years ago - Duke (age 16) is recruited

2 years ago (DP) - Danny (age 14) has his accident

1 year ago (DP) - Danny (age 15) defeats Pariah Dark

Six months ago (DP) - the Anti-Ecto Acts are passed

[defectivehero]

Villian (hero's lover) locks up injured hero until they get better, hero was injured many times before and would always convince villian that they were fine, this was the last straw.

i am allergic to explicit romance (or romance at all), so i'm skipping over that part haha

"Well, isn't this fun," the villain remarks, raising their brows as they study the hero's form. They've been waiting for the hero to arrive. After all, the villain's misdeeds are never ignored for very long. And the villain has enough experience to know exactly how to unsettle and unnerve the hero—how to get them running over in five minutes; how to summon them without so much as a single word or action. They are the puppet master and the hero is their faithful mannequin, bending to their every whim.

Yet the hero has been running about with loose strings recently. Surely that is the only explanation for their current state: as they stand unsteadily, blood spattered across their clothes and bruises and scrapes nearly everywhere. It looks like they're favoring their left ankle over their right and there's a dazed glaze in their eyes, as if they're fighting off fatigue. "Just what makes you think you can take me on in such a state?" The villain asks lightly.

"Shut up," the hero hisses. They take a step forward—evidently intending to fight them—only to fall to the ground in a crumpled heap. The villain chokes on a laugh; after a few seconds, they walk over and look down at their enemy, clicking their tongue.

"This is embarrassing," the villain remarks. They lightly kick at the hero's side and the hero groans, flipping to lie on their back. The hero squints up at them as the sunlight evidently burns bright spots in their vision.

"Just... leave," the hero bites out. It's clear that their pride is wounded, if they're admitting that they can't fight. If the villain were a kinder person, they would leave the hero be. But they have never been kind, so they laugh instead.

"I don't think so," the villain says, regarding the hero with mild interest. "You were the one to seek me out, remember?" Indeed, the villain got here first, and the hero arrived shortly after. The villain stares down at the hero's form for a long moment, a plan quickly taking shape in their mind.

"What are you plotting?" The hero asks, breaking them out of their thoughts. The villain must've had a smirk on their face. They raise a brow and the smirk returns. Something in their expression must betray their intentions, because the hero immediately tries to back away on their elbows. "Don't touch me," the hero spits.

"Sure," the villain remarks easily, ignoring their request and instead bending down and picking the hero up into their arms. They're sure their rival wants to resist, but they're evidently much too injured to do so. Regardless, the hero looks positively murderous. The villain takes a deep breath and closes their eyes, until the familiar feeling of darkness encompasses them and they visualize their intended destination: their laboratory. Within moments, the villain is standing in the center of their lab with the hero.

"What the fuck are you doing-?" The hero spits, blinking rapidly as they recover from the quick teleportation. A person who is teleported against their will can experience dizziness, blurred vision, headaches... The list goes on. The villain supposes these side effects only further aid their current plans, making the hero pliant in their arms.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" The villain asks quizzically, walking mechanically towards the glass enclosure near the edge of the room. They feel an amused smile growing on their lips. "Taking a walk in the park? Honestly." The motion sensors activate and the door to the enclosure slides open. The villain walks to the corner of the space and unceremoniously drops the hero onto the ground. Their enemy groans at the

The hero is hardly able to move—they will not be able to escape. The villain watches as that realization crashes down on them, as they're forced to accept their sudden captivity.

"I don't understand-" They mumble, looking around the space with a sort of dazed confusion.

"You really do talk too much." The villain murmurs regretfully.

"I-" The hero sputters. It seems they've never been told that before. That is really a shame—they need more honest friends, the villain thinks to themself. "This isn't- I could die in here!" They stare up at them with panic.

The villain pointedly looks at the adjacent wall and the hero turns their head to the side. Their reaction is incredibly amusing—so much so that the villain wishes they had the foresight to record it, so that they could watch it over and over again. The hero regards the water machine with a truly nasty glare, as if the machine did something to personally offend them.

"You're joking," the hero seethes. "What is this, a fucking hamster cage? You're missing an exercise wheel." They scoff, looking around the rest of their new cage. "...And food."

"You know humans can survive for three weeks without food," the villain remarks helpfully. "And I've always wanted to test that theory..." They smile, clasping their hands excitedly.

"Seriously?" the hero hisses incredulously. "I'm not a fucking guinea pig for you to experiment on."

"You aren't?" The villain asks, slipping on a mask of genuine confusion. "Then why did you come when I called?" The hero stares at them in irritated disbelief. The villain hums in satisfaction. The hero's anger and confusion gives them immense joy. "Maybe now you'll learn to take better care of yourself," they murmur patronizingly, crouching down and placing a hand on the hero's cheek.

"Don't touch me," the hero repeats like a mantra. The villain isn't sure if that remark is meant for them or the hero themself. They don't think it quite matters.

"This is your own fault, you know," the villain whispers, standing back up. The accusation sinks heavily into the air and the hero must know it to be true, if the way the light in their eyes briefly flickers and dims. "if you hadn't come to me in such a state, this wouldn't have happened."

The hero looks to be considering their next words thoughtfully. It's clear they want to beg or plea, but they must know that their efforts will be to no avail. The villain has never bowed down to the hero's desires, and they don't plan to start now.

Evidently discouraged, the hero switches tactics. Their composure promptly shatters, as it is instead replaced with raw, unbridled fury. It's clear that they've come to one inevitable conclusion: they will be trapped here until the villain wishes to release them (if the villain wishes to release them). "You can't do this to me!" The hero screams, their eyes wide and their voice unsteady.

"I believe I just did," the villain says with a slight smile. They take a step backwards. "See you in a few days. Try not to die. Or do—just don't make a mess of it." They walk out the door and it slides shut behind them, leaving the hero caged in walls of glass. The villain sits down at their desk and busies themself with their newest blueprints. Their enemy's agitated screams and desperate shouts are a pleasant hum in the back of their mind as the villain resumes their work.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

me typing: "raw unbridled furry." me: wait. fury. i meant fury.

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[kerizaret]

On souls and love

[sword-wielding-sapphic]

Recall the tale of Icarus.

Choose to be Icarus.

Linda K. Hughes, Text and Subtext in "Merlin and the Gleam", p.166 /// Alfred Tennyson, Merlin and the Gleam /// BBC Merlin, The Last Dragonlord (2x13) /// Natalie Wee, Patroclus Dreaming /// Hozier, I, Carrion (Icarian) /// BBC Merlin, The Wicked Day (4x03) /// Hozier /// Natalie Wee /// BBC Merlin, The Disir (5x05) /// Alfred Tennyson /// Hozier /// BBC Merlin, The Diamond of the Day: Part 2 (5x13) /// Natalie Wee /// Alfred Tennyson, The Passing of Arthur /// BBC Merlin, The Diamond of the Day: Part 2 (5x13) /// Hozier /// Alfred Tennyson /// Natalie Wee

[mammoth-clangen]

Is it ok for us to make OCs from your pleistocene big cats?

Of course!! (It's really cool that people want to tbh 🥺 )

Homotherium, Smilodon and Panthera (leo) atrox are all real, extinct animals, so I don't have any ownership over them!

That being said, I do own the worldbuilding and lore of Kindred of the Mammoth as a setting+ some of the names/terms the different species use in the Species Sheet and in-comic!

So if you want to make a "Fleet Fang" rather than a "Homotherium serum," I would appreciate credit, at least the first time you post them! ;v;

Also this probably doesn't need saying but I politely request you don't make money/adoptables using my headworld and lore! Designing Fleet/Ice Fangs/Tuft Tails for yourself or friends is 100% fine though c:

[brucie-baby]

Eldritch Batman who finds Jason's corpse and uses his own blood to put his son back together and bring him back to life.

bruce who gets his power from gotham, and the farther he is the weaker the connection is. he holds jason's body in his arms, still and quiet and bloody and bruised. he's never done this before. never had to bring somebody back. never thought he could. but he looks at jason's body, looks at jason, and something inside of him screams that he can. that he should. he doesn't quite know how he knows what to do, but he does it anyway. he grabs the first thing he finds in his belt, doesn't pay attention to what it is beyond the fact that it's sharp, and he slices his arm. his blood is different to most humans, because he is different to most humans. it's deep and dark, almost black, but there's also something bright about it, something hard to explain, something hard to see unless you're looking for it.

the deep, dark, bright blood pools on his arm, sliding slowly down until it drips drips drips into the wound on jason's chest, right above his heart. bruce can feel the blood leaving his body but it doesn't feel like a loss. it feels desperate and right and like it's working, like jason is about to open his eyes any minute and he'll be fine and they'll be okay and--

nothing happens. the feeling fades. he tries to chase after it but how do you reach for something that you were never meant to grasp?

his boy is gone. he couldn't save him. all he has left is a bloody batarang and the body that used to be his son's. what else is there to care about?

it doesn't matter what he does next. he doesn't like to think about it.

later there's a man in a red helmet. he's got these skills and this knowledge that jason never had but always had the potential for. he's got a smirk that's just a little too bitter, like a smile that's been burned, that's been scarred. but it's still his smile. it's still jason's.

and bruce doesn't know how. he goes to everyone he knows has been resurrected, tries to find out what brought his son back when he couldn't do it, when he failed.

and then his other son might be dead, blown up just like jason was, and if bruce couldn't save one then he has no hope of saving the other. bruce doesn't know what to do and then suddenly jason is holding a gun to the clown's head and suddenly he's counting down and suddenly bruce's arm is raising and suddenly there's a batarang soaring through the air and ricocheting off a pipe and--

and jason bleeds.

bruce has seen jason bleed before. hazard of the job, he tells himself. he's seen jason bleed, but never like this. never quite so deep and dark, almost black, but with something bright about it. something so very bright.

all he has left is a bloody batarang and a body that might still be his son's.

he doesn't know what to do next.

[invalidname19]

Daddy long legs ( aka cellar spiders)