#or maybe control. that was an idea I had

[stars-obsession-pit]

Following an accident, Danny wakes up in Gotham City in a DC universe. Lacking any forms of ID or possessions beyond the clothes on his back, he’s forced to commit some crimes to survive. Minor crimes, but still.

And then he gets caught.

During the court proceedings, they come to the mistaken conclusion that he’s a Meta suffering from some psychiatric issues such as Cotard’s Syndrome (a real rare condition where a person holds the delusional belief that they’re dead/don’t exist/etc).

Thus, between his “need for mental treatment” and the concerns about housing someone with his unique physical traits, he is sentenced to spend time in Arkham Asylum. He’s under pretty low security aside from the anti-Meta stuff and has more freedoms than some other inmates, but it’s still not a great experience. Even at the best of times, Arkham is hardly a nice place.

Some of his fellow residents are decently chill all things considered, but lots very much aren’t.

[acerobot]

How to deal with a terrible breakup? Easy! You don't. Everything is okay in the fantasy sitcom suburb land where you control everything ever.

Silly goofy au hours. More crack than serious, but I enjoy it. I worry the three(3) episodes of Wandavision I watched and a Don't Worry Darling plot synopsis changed my neuron pathing for the worst.

[slavhew]

DO YA THINGKU

for a twitter trend of redrawing miku as album covers!! i wanted to do one of my favorite single from gorillaz. Cover-accurate ver + closeups:

this was definitely the biggest thing ive drawn this year!! and a good chunk of it on stream. thank you everyone who tuned in!! it was loads more fun to make in company :]

[the-judicial-assistants-notebook]

not enough discussion about the gavins' complicated relationship with feminine-coded/beauty products, i don't think.

[wyyvoren]

How does one even angst cumplane

well it’s simple. you put them in a situation.

[worm-fanon-polls]

she did make a nuke one time if that changes your answer

*since poll options have a character limit, I had to cut off the following sentence: "her power uses precognition to guess what guns and ammo she will want in the future and makes them from scratch at a more normal speed with a head start"

Make sure to tell me what you think and why you think it!

[robinson-graves]

[sits up suddenly from my coffin] anybody fuck with my super danganronpa 2 x guy who didnt like musicals au

[corvus-frugilegus]

The way my heart drops every time I visit Minrathous after saving Treviso. The sorrow in Rook's voice, the destruction, the way the resistance has been so brutally dismantled. The absolute horror in the streets of dock town presented so matter of factly by the game. They don't need to put a spotlight on it or show us a cut scene of the brutality because it's everywhere. You're immersed in the sheer scale of violence every step you take in dock and hear so much about the atrocities in the ambient dialogue. Walking the streets of Venatori controlled Minrathous feels awful.

The very obvious rise of facism that has been simmering beneath the surface in the magisterium all along. The dragon gave the magisters a chance to throw off the veneer of civility and stop acting like finding a middle ground with dissenting voices was something that mattered to them. Finally, they had concentrated power to an extent that they could inact their vision for Tevinter out in the open. (Probably if it weren't for Elgarnan taking over, reclaiming Tevinter from the Venatori would have been a monumentally difficult task).

If this isn't an Excellent social commentary and reflection of the increasing polarity in Western Politics I don't know what is. The rise of hard right leaning leaders epousing a return to traditional values when really their priority is the interest of capital and the ruling class is exactly what the Venatori represent here.

A criticism I've seen of the games writing a few times now is that the problematic elements of each faction feel either defanged or glossed over. And while I don't disagree that there are definitely some deep tensions and polarities in each of the groups Rook works with, I don't necessarily think it's poor writing to not talk about them here. It's just not the scope of the game- and I think actually underscores a very real issue we have in real world organizing and progressive spaces. If the Crows refused to work with Rook because they work with the Wardens who happen to keep terrible secrets (and so on and so forth about every faction and their tensions with one another) the gods would never have been stopped. In the case of the gods the people representing these factions and Rook's comapnions all recognize that their common cause is more important than their disagreements. Not working together because the Veil Jumpers rightly have qualms about the Lord's of Fortune pilfering elven ruins only lets the gods win. Working with someone who see's the world differently is a tension everyone in the veilguard has to hold. And it's a tension real-world progressives / the left very often struggle to hold.

Realizing that the common cause is more important than individual differences is a very real theme in Veilguard.

[liedownquisition]

Yeah somehow I'm not surprised this is OP's mentality lmao.

[vytels]

Hi everyone, I wrote something for the Mech AU based off of this post. (Pssst @keferon some angst for your au?? Which I just have to say I’m devouring every morsel of at a concerning rate)

please forgive any spelling mistakes, I wrote this in a rush

<——>

Drift Medical Implant or DMI

The DMI is a medical device that sits between the brain and skull. The size of the DMI is roughly a cubic centimeter and placed against the inside of the occipital bone, adjacent to the Drift-Neural Link Site (otherwise known as DNeLS) when a helmet is worn. This allows the DMI to connect directly to the DNeLS through the skull of the pilot.

The three major functions of the DMI are as followed:

1. Increased Drift Compatibility between pilots with the and their mecha

2. Injection site for Drift Medical Networks (otherwise known as DMeN)

3. Physical protect from surges through the DNeLS

All pilots have been required to have a DMI since the creation of Mecha 7. Various versions have been created over the years, each more advanced than the last. The DMI varies depending on the nation of origin and biomedical makeup of the pilot, but all have the same three functions and must be approved by a Chief Medical Officer before being implemented…(read on).

<——>

Everything is fine, but it wasn’t.

As Roddy gazes down upon his hands, he imagines— no remembers— them flexing out of his control and reaching forward across the controls of his mech. How cool organized breath flooded his mind, sparking at the back of his head, at the back of his helmet, before whipping across his consciousness and strangling the edges. Electronic, cold, lifeless, and so unlike anything he’d ever felt before, as it ripped him away from his body and shunned him into a corner.

He’d been a passenger in his own body, thrown onto some kind of fucked up roller coaster with no end in sight. Arms moved without his commands, but he could feel the phantom touch, the sharp brush of controls through his gloves, he could feel his heart beating. He couldn’t look away as his body moved, as it commanded his mech, as destruction sprang in its wake.

Every second was displayed to him, like a sick and twisted dream.

Even when the cockpit of his mech opened, when his body stood from its seat and stepped out into the inferno it created. A harsh determination filling his tongue, fury like no other, but Roddy knew it wasn’t his own.

“You understand, Ratchet,” He’d said, his voice sounding nothing like his own, “I’m doing this for him.”

And he’d seen the horror in the medic’s eyes as the words bounced across the room, as they seared into the scene. That very moment haunts him, digs its teeth into his mind as fear sits upon his tongue to spill guilt down his throat. He sees Deadlock’s blood, his energon, spread across the floor as the mech balances on his knees. Servos pressed against a wound in his side, a scorching smear disgracing his helm.

And Ratchet standing between them, between Deadlock and Roddy, between victim and attacker.

Yet… he flexes his hand, curling them around his knees, and they listen. His fingers dig into denim jeans, nails scratching as specks of dirt, and his lungs suck in air. Then he kicks his feet, curling his toes as his teeth bite into his lips. Roddy’s mind jumps hoops, tumbling down a list of commands.

His body listens.

But his anxiety whispers, it didn’t then.

Roddy isn’t stupid, he knows what happened and he knows the facts. Someone had drifted with him and shut his mind away in a small little box, so that they could use his body like a puppet. He had felt their thoughts at the edge of his mind, his body bludgeoned with their rage and pain. And they had wanted Deadlock, they needed him, and…

Someone had drifted with him.

Roddy’s hand shoots up to his head, fingers gliding over his skin before combing through his hair. It searches and searches before it dashes over a bump and doubles back. His nails catch over raised skin, over scar tissues, before they begin to pick and pick and pick. Thoughts reel through his head, contracts and procedures bouncing behind his eyes.

The DMI.

A little box in his head.

A little box he’d been shoved into.

A little box that had let another person drift with him, through his body.

Not just his mech.

Their mind stains his thoughts, running through his nerves and searing through his fingers. Hands reach into his own, become his own, and push him forward. They grasp onto his reality as he falls back and back into the void of space, into the passenger seat, into the box and—

He has to get it out. Now.

Fingers dig and dig, nails scraping and pulling as warm blood seeps against his fingers and trickles down his skull. That warmth dribbles down his neck as he curls fingers, pushing his nails further, tearing at the scar raised on the back of his scalp. His hands and fingers run rampant over his skull as his mind spirals, questions flinging their way through his thoughts as panic clutches at his throat.

Who would do this? Why would they do this? What do they want? What if they make me kill someone? What if they make me—

“Damn it, kid!” A deep voice cuts through his ears as hands grasp onto his wrists, yanking his hands away from his head. His eyes jump open and he realizes he doesn’t remember when he closed them, but they jump to Ratchet’s form immediately and soak in the concern and anger like a sponge.

Ratchet clutches his wrists, eyes narrowed and mouth thrown into a frustrated grimace that Roddy has seen a hundred times. It’s backdropped by bright yellow optics, staring through the darkness of night, with the same amount of concern crushing them. It is not his two friends that catch Roddy’s mind, but the blood dripping from his own hands, his fingers, and spreading over the medic’s pale skin. It rockets him back into his own body, even if he can’t feel the pain.

“I need it out, Ratchet,” Roddy finally gasps, air gulping into his lungs, “They put it in me, they knew, they— I need it out!”

“I know what happened, but you don’t know if the DMI let it happen,” Ratchet grumbles, eyes drifting from the mech pilot’s face to blood soaking into his hair.

Roddy protests immediately, “It did! I know it did!”

Ratchet’s brows narrow, lips falling into a purse and Roddy almost expects the grump to agree until he says, “Let’s get you fixed up.”

His tone squashes any arguments before they could tumble from Roddy’s lips. With the grace of experience and the rush of frustration, the old CMO herds the younger man across his home. Roddy doesn’t even get the chance to ask where the medical kit is again before it’s already in Ratchet’s hands and a stool has been placed before him, Deadlock’s small services.

Roddy doesn’t even get the chance to run or complain.

The giant alien robot leans forward, kneeling with his head ducked toward them and one servo hovering to their side. Concern radiates from him, as clear as day across his face: optics intent on the scene before him, lips creating a concentrated line, optic ridges furrowed. It’s like he wants to pick them both up, hold them close, but knows that he can’t.

Fuck, Roddy thinks, I didn’t mean to make Deadlock nervous.

Then hands rest over the sides of temples and tilt his head, forcing him to look downward as Ratchet peers at the back of his head. It’s gentle, warm.

More gentle than the perpetrator had been when they entered his mind.

“You do realize you wouldn’t have been able to claw through your skull?” Ratchet grumbles and moves, grabbing something from the medkit before turning back. “This was incredibly stupid.”

“I know, I just…” Roddy swears his tongue feels numb. “Need it out.”

Ratchet's voice falls icy. “And killing yourself would have been worth it?”

“If it meant they couldn’t use me to kill you or someone else…” Roddy’s words trail off as a sucked in breath fills the air, loud and revving. Deadlock’s reaction.

“No,” Ratchet sighs, voice softer, “Don’t be so idiotic, you’re not.”

Somehow Ratchet’s disappointment stings more than his anger, but Roddy understands. This isn’t just about what happened, not for the medic, it’s about everything that has ever happened between them. And he knows Ratchet’s views on self-sacrifice already, so it shouldn’t be a surprise.

He feels Ratchet’s fingers against his scalp, the way that they freeze for just a moment and a mental countdown begins in the back of Roddy’s head. Five, six, seven…

“What is the DMI?” Deadlock’s voice finally enters the conversation and relief glides through Roddy as his best friend saves him from Ratchet’s incoming lecture.

Instead the medic sighs, fingers beginning to move again, and he says, “It’s a medical device that pilots have. It’s a brain implant that helps them connect with their mechs and protect them from any surges.”

Deadlock hums, and Roddy knows that hum— the overgrown metal cat is pretending that he understands, before he asks, “Then why do you want it out, Roddy?”

“Because someone had to drift with me to control my body,” Roddy replies as another wave of relief lands on his shoulders. He tries to find Deadlock out of the corner of his eye, careful to not move his head lest Ratchet yell at him again. “It felt like I got shoved into a box and whoever was controlling me could do it easily. The DMI helps me drift, it connects technology to my body. If anything could help the neural link conjoin more than just minds, but also bodies, it has to be the DMI.”

“And how are you supposed to get it out?” Deadlock asks, and Roddy thinks Traitor! because he’s bringing Ratchet back into the conversation in the perfect way for the man to lecture him.

“Medical professionals are supposed to do it,” Ratchet’s voice is heavy, aimed right at Roddy’s being, “It requires a surgery, an incredibly risky medical procedure, that only the utmost qualified can perform. Not trying to rip your own skull open with your bare hands.”

Roddy tries not to grimace.

He definitely deserved that remark.

And he is ready for more when Ratchet sighs, only for the medic to ask, “Deadlock, can you…?”

“Of course,” Deadlock practically purrs back to Ratchet before gears turn and metal sings: the telltale sign of a transformation. The Cybertronian sits in his alt-mode now, engine revving before the passenger’s side and driver’s side doors swing open.

For a moment Roddy wonders if he’s third-wheeling for some weird date-thing between Deadlock and Ratchet, but the idea races from his head as Ratchet finally lets go of his head and steps away.

There’s still blood on his hands, Roddy’s blood, and he can only imagine how much blood has dried to his neck and hair. Head wounds bleed so much.

“Go get cleaned up,” Ratchet orders him, “We’re going for a drive.”

That’s enough to get Roddy off the stool, back to his feet, and scrambling across the room. He barely registers Ratchet’s call of, “Don’t pull my damn stitches!” As he careens into the bathroom to wash the blood away. The thought of getting to ride along with Deadlock is too great of a deal to pass up.

And that is exactly where he finds himself a few minutes later, saddled into the passenger seat with his head tilted toward the open window. Happiness jolts from his chest, content and joyous, as they glide through the night. The world passes by in a faint blurr of shadows and light, wind rushing over his face and pushing back his hair. All while Ratchet drives, taking over for the alien car as Deadlock skips through radio channels every few minutes with small huffs of static.

It’s warm and bright, it sinks into the young pilot’s skin and straight into his memories. It reminds him that he isn’t alone, he’ll never be alone, and he can face anything to come. As long as he has his friends by his side.

<——>

Drift Medical Networks is just all the injections and toxins that are given to pilots to make them drift compatible/etc.

Also as I was writing this and remember how much head wounds bleed, I thought Deadlock must have thought that Roddy was going to die with how much blood there was and I just— AHHHHH

[theaxolotlkween]

lol au where Rex and Noah were friends during the Nanite Project.

[sundial-bee-scribbles]

Let us pray for [y]our salvation.

and here's two views of the window w/o geki b/c i spent way too long on it lmao:

[eyestrain-addict]

Every time I start thinking about how we don't know who louis truly is because he doesn't even know who he truly is, I go a little more insane.

[science-lings]

I have very specific thoughts about Bruce's 'childhood' and how he tried to do things differently with Dick than what happened with him because of how badly it affected him. He knows what it's like to have everything change so fast and to be so angry but too young to actually do anything about it.

I can see him making sure Dick doesn't get too close of a look at his parents because Bruce remembers being stuck with his parent's corpses until the police got there, all alone with no other way to call for help than screaming. I can see him hiding Dick from the flashing cameras and hiding any newspapers about the 'story' so that Dick doesn't have to see how the press spins everything. Bruce has that picture of himself sitting shellshocked from the ambulance on the front page and he knows how violating that felt, how publicized his trauma was, even if he can't completely prevent it for Dick he can do his best to make it hurt less.

Bruce suffered being helpless for years, being so angry at Gotham and the world and not having a good outlet for it, he had no control over anything that was happening with him, so with DIck he knows how important being Robin became because he knows how becoming Batman felt for him. Bruce got into fights because he couldn't hold his anger in and had to turn that anger inward in fear that Alfred would get sick of him and leave too. Robin was a productive outlet, even if it was a dangerous one, but who knows what would've happened to him if he didn't have it? He already got that taste of freedom and feeling like his intervention could actually make a difference that Bruce took years and years of stewing in trauma to find.

The most important thing to Bruce is that Dick doesn't become another Batman.

[dynamitekansai]

WWEonFOX: Roman Reigns laughed at the idea of Solo Sikoa becoming Tribal Chief 👀

[prythianpages]

me resisting the urge to not come here so I can rant about a new fic idea I got