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Guinevere and Iseult: Cartoon for Stained Glass, William Morris. 1862.
#art#aesthetic#art history#historical fashion#historical art#women in art#victorian#women#pseudo medieval art#medieval art#1860s art#medieval aesthetic#guinevere#iseult#Isolde#arthurian legend#medieval fashion#1860s#william morris#stained glass#tristan and iseult#Arthur and Guinevere#king arthur#medieval legend#french medieval#welsh medieval#Irish medieval#engraving#cartoon#fashion
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the Baldur's Gate brain rot worm is real, there's â¨illuminated⨠fanart happening and everything
#listen i know the anatomy is wrong but i was at a point where i couldn't really fix it anymore#and also i feel like you can get away with this in pseudo medieval art#please note the owlbear
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Cover art for @shiftyarchfeyâs fic for the bingyuanminibang (on twt).
Check it out on ao3! (Also on ao3: this art)
Help! Iâm Being Abducted by the Demon King!
Shen Yuan has a peaceful life. Ever since leaving the castle, its rules and hypocrisies, he could allow himself to forget what could have been. His brother is after all the famous knight in shining armor and he merely the librarian. But once demons start invading, that life too is over. What are you supposed to do if you are being abducted by a powerful demon king? Read him stories apparently.
Bookworm Shen Yuan x Demon King Luo Binghe in a pseudo-medieval AU, dragons and knights galore!
Shen Jiu and Shen Yuan Qingqiu are Not the Same Person, Knights, Dragon | Dragon Monsters, Background Relationships, Naughty goats aka just normal goats, minor ocs to fill out a farming village, Slightly oblivious Shen Yuan, Shen Jiu as an overprotective brother, Neither Bingge nor Bingmei but something in between, What happens if he has Shen Jiu as a Knight to squire under but also refuge in a library, story ends in monsterfucking
(Currently rated M, though rating will increase in later chapters)
#bingyuan#svsss#luo binghe#shen yuan#bingqiu#bymb#shen qingqiu#lbh#sqq#sy!sqq#behold: I hand letter a title for the first and probably only time in forever#big bang#collabs
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Today marks the premier of #Pathfinderâs Triumph of the Tusk Adventure Path, so Iâd like to take a moment to discuss a relevant topic near and dear to my heart.
ORCS!
While Tolkien was drawing on some linguistic antecedents, Orcs in fantasy originate from The Hobbit & Lord of the Rings, where theyâre brutish soldiers of various forces of evil.
Initially lacking redeeming quality, Orcs have become a darling of pop culture, their thuggish nature explored from many angles across TTRPGs, video games, comics, novels, and more.
Now, when you picture an Orc, you no doubt imagine something akin to the Warcraft or Warhammer franchises: statuesque, green skinned humanoids with protruding underbites and looming tusks, often locked into a primitive, itinerant lifestyle, eschewing technology beyond what they pillage from other races.
Interestingly, none of this is in Tolkien.
In Tolkien, âOrcâ was essentially another word for âGoblin,â or perhaps unusually large Goblins. Far from statuesque, Gollum (a (former?) Hobbit) could easily be confused for one. The Uruk-hai, a new, stronger Orcish offshoot were described as Orcish in appearance but only as tall as a Man, not taller.
Tolkienâs Orcs are described as deformed, but nothing as specific as green skin or tusks is specifically mentioned (Tolkien saved in-depth sensory detail for trees, and occasionally beards).
Far from being savages, Tolkienâs Orcs wereâin his grand Romanticist narrativeâstand-ins for industrialization. They were destroying the forests to build grand weapons of war, and soot-covered Mordor evoked the smokestacks of 19th century london.
In many ways the conflict of LotR can be interpreted as Tolkien pitting the noble myths and tales he studied up against his real experiences in WWI.
(the thought amuses me of a firmly medieval fantasy setting, except when we zoom in on the Orcish Badlands theyâre all shelling each other from the trenches)
But while none of these traits are in Tolkien, there is a source where they are central.
The Green Martians, or Tharks, first appeared in A Princess of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs, published in All-Story Magazine from Feb-July 1912, well before any of the kids Tolkien decided to tell a fairy tale to were born.
The Tharks are described as 15 foot tall nomadic savages, favoring mighty beasts and weapons salvaged from the more civilized races of Barsoom. They have green skin and tusks, as well as six limbs (interestingly, the middle limbs are described as functional as either crude arms or secondary legs, but art always just depicts four arms)
Culturally, the Tharks are clearly meant as extensions of the Apache raiders encountered in the early chapters of the book set in Arizona; i.e. some California ranch-ownerâs idea of wasteland savages. Nomadic, inhuman raiders redeemable only when breaching their primitive traditions.
The parallels are almost uncanny, and Iâll admit Iâm honestly not sure where the crossover occurs. Early editions of D&Dâanother driver of fantasy trendsâdepict orcs as pig-people, which is probably how tusks became so iconic. They later added gray skin, which persisted officially until the current edition.
Somewhere between there in â74 and Warhammer in the early 80s is when the pseudo-Barsoom look took over in broader culture, and at this point thereâs no getting around it. Even the more recent Tolkien film adaptations canât entirely escape the expectation of modern Orcishness.
Turning back the clock a bit, Tolkien notably was never entirely sure where Orcs came from. His first idea was that they were molded from clay by Morgoth, a dark mirror to Adam, but being a Catholic at heart, he disliked the idea of Evil being a creative force.
He flip-flopped for the rest of his life, whether Orcs were corrupted men/elves/hobbits, uplifted beasts, even (according to one post I saw) soulless bodies remotely piloted by demons. He could never quite square the need for unfailingly evil mooks with his own feelings on Good & Evil.
Personally, I find particular resonance in the parallel between what D&D used to call an âalways chaotic evilâ race and the very Catholic concept of Original Sin. Was Tolkien merely dancing around the idea that the Orcs only needed to be Saved?
I canât say what Tolkien would think of modern Orcs, either their merging with an earlier, American space alien, or our attempts to humanize what was supposed to be fundamentally inhuman. But I think his insecurity speaks to the same source as our fascination.
Who among us hasnât struggled with what it means to be good? Or to be evil? And if we are made to be evil, what does it mean to strive against that purpose or to surrender to it? Can we abandon the precepts of predestiny? Or do we reject that they were ever there?
Stare deeply into that Jungian shadow and tell meâŚ
Is it green? And do you want it to be?
#orcs#orc#j r r tolkien#tolkien#pathfinder#pathfinder 2e#triumph of the tusk#adventure path#the hobbit#the lord of the rings#lord of the rings#world of warcraft#Warcraft#Warhammer#warhammer 40k#warhammer fantasy#orks#edgar rice burroughs#a princess of mars#barsoom#green martians#tharks
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post on one of the dev forums for disco elysium, titled "THE BENEFITS OF A MODERN FANTASY WORLD". text version beneath the cut
There's been a lot of art and tech talk so far, it's all kinda dry or saccharine. I think it's time to juice it up by throwing in a proper essay.
THE BENEFITS OF A MODERN FANTASY WORLD
The world of No Truce! (we do have a proper name for it, but weâre shy) is not what youâd call âa generic genre worldâ. It is not pseudo-medieval stasis, as Forgotten Realms was, nor is it Falloutâs campy barbarism with guns. It is also not a Harry Potter/Batman/vampire fantasy world, which is basically âour world with a secret/special world within itâ. Neither is it the tech-obsessed âpunksâ of steam and cyber. Itâs a modern fantasy world, a fantasy world in its modernity, which roughly corresponds to the middle part of our XXth century. Now that kind of thing opens up an array of new possibilities. It is a world with a promise of non-staticness, meaning, things appear undecided â they could go one way or the other. It is close enough to our own world for things to have meaning in it, it is a proper frame in which to explore themes relevant to our own society such as bigotry, power relations, politics, bureaucratic apparati, geopolitical relations, philosophy, ideology, religion et cetera. A pseudo-medieval world is not a proper frame for truly exploring themes of, for example, sexuality, for it lacks 1) a proper concept of sexuality, 2) an actual idea of societal progress and 3) a clear ideological dominant, which would be the place where values come from. All you can do in a static, societally unstructured world is give out-of-place shoutouts to present day communities for cheap popularity (âthis is exactly my sexual orientation, how did they know?!â).
We find the ideological dominant missing because the western world is traditionally culturally critical of ideological dominants â critical of both state and religion. Anyhow, a classic fantasy world would feature two main ideologies â the âgoodâ and the âevilâ, of which the former is selfless and compassionate, but the other one is selfish and cruel. The attempts to overcome that have given us the Grittywelt â a world in which everyone is an asshole and pessimism rules the day. Unsurprisingly, Grittywelt is also static as hell and meaningful change is foreclosed from it. It is a âprotection from false hopesâ. As such, it is heavily unrealistic. Much more realistic would be people living in super gritty conditions, but not looking the part, that is, not really noticing the abnormal harshness of their conditions, because they donât have much to compare them to, and being hopeful towards the next day, because surprise! This is how you do it. Survive, I mean. Being depressed is a luxury. In a way, Iâd say weâre trying to create the obverse of the Grittywelt â a world in which everyone is empathizable, sort of a hero of their own story.
The modern era is also a fitting vessel for anachronisms â do we not have actual cyborg limbs and donkey-pulled carts operating in the same world at the modern era? Capitalism can also contain little feudalisms in a way, in which a single man or single family controls the entire economy of a town or a village and profits from it. And at the same time, it can also contain little socialist utopias, scientist villages, in which everything is provided by the State. Aside from being a basic feature of reality (anachronism is nothing more than time failing to fit the stereotype about it), it is also a lovable creative tool, allowing for a plethora of what-if-scenarios. Imagine a modern world, only without television; imagine a modern world in which there never was a global war, imagine a world in which fossil fuels are less available. Now, if you will, imagine one which has forgotten its antiquity, and one, in which there is not just water between the continents, but something worse as well â an anti-reality mass we call âpaleâ (also more on that later). Now imagine one, which has a legitimate and operative âreligion of historyâ in place, which seeks for people it deems special enough to be the âvessel of progressâ. (This is not an alternate history thing, by the way. An alternate history takes place in our world quite recognizably and has no more than one divergence point from history as it happened.)
One might ask, why would we not create an even more modern world, if we wanted to maximise our possibilities? Well one of the answers is that it would have destroyed the necessary element of escapism, another is that we cannot create a good alternate Information Era because we ourselves fail to understand the Information Era (More precicely, we have the information era in its infancy and it works via radio relays). We are too close to it and it is too new to understand it, it is âin progressâ. The third reason would be that technology is not a fascinating subject for modern science fiction. Itâs become a natural part of our reality. We donât believe itâs going to save us anymore â it has failed to deliver for too long. I am of the belief that the themes of science fiction today are societal, political and psychological (one could maybe add aesthetical to it, for we also love the world for its beauty). All fantastic or sci-fi elements are means for best exploring those themes.
I have filled my page. Thatâs all for the time being. Thank you for reading.
Martin Luiga Writer
#posts#disco elysium#martin luiga#im looking for a specific thing from the devblogs so yall can get some highlights
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28: Cold-Blooded
art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises
you've known for years that your best friend nor comes from the most dangerous and prominent dragon crime family in town. you've never worried about it too much, but you probably should have.
->original work. explicit; contains non-con, graphic descriptions of violence, manipulation, murder, feral behavior, possessive behavior.
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Red flag number one: Nor shows up at your door two hours before the party. Thereâs a pair of plastic drycleaning bags slung over his shoulder and heâs dragging a suitcase behind him. You donât want to let him in but he does that thing you knew heâd do with his big, pretty tourmaline eyes and the saddest, most pathetic pout like a kitten begging to be rescued from a storm drain, and you cave. He waltzes right in like he owns the place and makes a beeline for your bedroom.
âThis should be everything,â he says, laying the drycleaning bags out on your bed before he kneels to get the suitcase open. âYours is on the left. Go ahead and start putting it on, Iâll help you with the ties in a second.âÂ
âYouâre kidding.â You very pointedly donât get a response. âYou said this was a normal party.â
âIt is normal,â he insists. âFor me.âÂ
The zipper shrieks apart and he spreads the suitcase open across the floor. Thereâs an antique wooden box inside that smells faintly of floral perfume, the surface carved with intricate looping symbols that wouldnât look out of place along the borders of a medieval tapestry. The hinges creak when Nor opens it. Small decorative jars of colorful glass and gold filigree sit in red velvet. There are brushes clasped by leather straps to the inside of the lid, ranging from broad, puffball bristles to very fine points.Â
âWhat does that mean?â
Nor looks up with a pleading expression. âIâll handle everything, okay? Thatâs why I brought all this stuff. And Iâll be next to you the whole time, I swear, I donât even want to go to this stupid thing but my dad wonât get off my ass about it. Weâll just hang out in the corner, eat some food, and slip out when nobodyâs paying attention.â
âThis is a family thing?â He nods pitifully. How can a dragon, in human skin or otherwise, look so much like a scolded puppy? âDonât just spring this stuff on me. I wouldâve gone if you told me from the start, you donât have to lie.â It wouldnât be the first formal event youâve saved him from and it probably wonât be the last. So why is he being so cagey about it? You pick up the drycleaning bag set aside for you and frown. âNor,â you say slowly. âWhat is this?â
He grins, showing off a mouthful of daggers. âItâs your outfit,â he says, knowing damn well thatâs not what you meant.
Red flag number two:the âclothesâ are a tangle of sashes and scarves that will show far more than they cover. You peel off the plastic and run the material over your fingers. Itâs nice for sure, really nice. Each sash is made of sleek black fabric thatâs velvety smooth but lightweight and flowing, decorated with embroidery in intricate geometric patterns. The stitching is luminescent and changes color when you look at it from different angles, shimmering in a prismatic cycle from red to blue as you slide it across your palm.
âWhat kind of party is this, exactly?â you ask.Â
âDinner party with lots of standing around pretending to be important. You know, the usual.â
This certainly doesnât look usual to you but you lose your train of thought when Nor suddenly undresses without warning or shame. He exhales slowly, pushing stark white hair out of his face and flexing the muscles in his back.Â
A line of jagged bone like a miniature mountain ridge juts from his spine, bloodlessly piercing a thin membrane of pseudo-skin. You can see his wings trying to form, an unsettling squirming in the flesh of his shoulders, but he keeps them tucked away for now. His tail snakes out at the very bottom, a lithe rope of solid muscle with stiff thorny protrusions along the top. What used to be a pair of little rounded nubs have grown into snaking upturned horns, brown and rough like tree bark. Skin hardens in glinting patches along his back and down his sides. Norâs scales are gold and nacreous silver. Seeing him shifted, whether half or whole, always steals your breath.
âI donât love this either,â he says, his tail flicking irritably. âBut it is what it is.â Youâre surprised that thereâs an identical outfit in the other bag. He puts it on with practiced ease, knowing exactly how and where to loop and tuck and tie each sash. The result is an elegant, form-fitting garment criss-crosses his body that accentuates rather than conceals. His chest is framed with black stripes over and under it, the scales of his hips on display in the gaps left at his sides. Long panels dangle in front of and behind his legs. Thereâs a strategically spaced gap left for his tail.
Looking him over, you realize itâs not quite the same outfit. His is plain. The sashes are undecorated, lacking any pattern or embroidery.Â
âDid you mix these up?â you ask him.
He looks at you, head tilted and pupils narrowed into long slits. âNo?â he says, sounding confused. âThis oneâs for family and that oneâs for a, uhâŚguest. We really need to get started on yours, by the way. Weâve got like a thousand pieces of jewelry to put on each and then I have to do the ceremonial markings.â He gestures at the bottles and brushes. You havenât even done anything and youâre already feeling overwhelmed.
âMaybe this isnât a good idea. I donât want to embarrass you. Shouldnât you bring someone, uhâŚI dunno, prettier?âÂ
âDonât ever say that again.â Your heart leaps into your throat when Nor lunges at you. You stumble back, pinned to the edge of your bed when he plants his hands down on either side of you. His eyes are wide and heâs baring his teeth, practically snarling at you. âWhat does that even mean, âembarrass me?â Youâre perfect. If I wanted someone else, I wouldâve asked someone else. I want youââ Youâre both startled by the sound of his claws ripping through your sheets and mattress. He backs off immediately, tail drooping and claws clutched against his chest like he doesnât trust them. âI want you to come,â he says sheepishly. âThereâs lots of people I could ask, but youâreâŚspecial. You always have been.âÂ
It makes you roll your eyes when he says stuff like that. Itâs not that Nor is never sincere, but his reputation as a heartbreaker is legendary. He was a menace in high school and youâve heard through the grapevine that he hasnât changed much since, still a pretty face with a silver tongue and habit of never calling back. The two of you were a romcom waiting to happenâa rich boy who never heard the word ânoâ in his life and the only kid who wouldnât kiss his ass, but things never went that way. You were the only constant in a rotating roster of fairweather friends who liked his familyâs money and lovers he couldnât be bothered to keep, the only one heâs ever asked to keep him company at these stiff family get-togethers.
You hold up the sash again, grimacing. âHow do you know thisâll even fit me?âÂ
âMagic,â Nor says, waving his hand dismissively. âNow come on, hurry up and try it on.â His tail swats your leg when you donât move fast enough.
Itâs not like thereâs nothing there. There always has been. Simmering just under the surface, thereâs this tension youâre both afraid to acknowledge out loud. Nor insists that you get changed in front of him and watches just a bit too intently when you undress. He stands behind you when he ties the sashes in place, his chest pressed against your back and his breath blowing softly against your ear. He stretches the fabric from your waist to your shoulder and runs his hand over it, smoothing his palm over your skin. You offer to hand him the next one but instead he bends over you, forcing you to bend with him, and reaches for it himself.
You can feel him against your back. His pectorals, the firm, lithe muscle of his abdomen, his cock nestled between your thighs with only the fabric of the sash keeping it from twitching against your skin. Heâs cool to the touch but he gets warmer the longer heâs pressed against you, absorbing your body heat. âNor?â you say, your voice quivering withânerves? Anticipation? Do you want him to stop or do you wish heâd keep going?
âYeah?â he says, low and husky. He tilts you back upright and keeps working like nothing happened, stretching the next sash across your body. You shiver when he secures a tie at your neck, the tips of his claws softly grazing your throat. âWhat? Did you want to ask me something?â The tip of his tail coils loosely around your ankle.Â
âDo I get a coat, at least? Iâm freezing.âÂ
He snorts. âDonât you remember what these are like? Itâs a dragon party. You can bring one, but you wonât need it when we get there.â
Norâs touch still lingers and sometimes grazes somewhere sensitive, but thereâs some distance that wasnât there before. He talks while he gets you ready, reminiscing on all the trouble you used to get up to together at these partiesâmore accurately, all the trouble heâd get into and youâd witness. Tearing holes in the tablecloths and knocking over very expensive floral arrangements with his tail, sneaking off to the kitchens and begging the chef to make you both an early dessert. She always did. Youâre not the only one that sad, soggy cat look works on.Â
The ceremonial markings take almost an hour all by themselves but Nor is surprisingly focused and patient when he wants to be. The symbols he draws are small and complicated. You canât see what he puts on your forehead or neck but the small shapes he draws on your arms and legs are repeating, interlocking shapes, something like broad, flattened diamonds. Scales, you realize. Theyâre a scale patternâNorâs scale pattern.Â
The brush tickles when it grazes your stomach. Nor teases you for squirming but he behaves for the most part. You try not to think about why that disappoints you so much. Tucked into a zipper compartment on the other side of the suitcase is a small fortune in gold chains, bangles, rings and necklaces. You donât want any but Nor insists. âGoing to be a little awkward to drive in all this,â you say.
âNo worries,â he says. âDad sent his driver.âÂ
Youâre in the backseat of red flag number three for a drive that is both excruciatingly long and far too brief. The driver is wearing a suit and tie. He calls Nor âsirâ and opens the door for you, then doesnât say another word. Itâs late and everything is shadow beyond the headlights and the faint glow of the moon on a winding country road. Nor wants to make conversation but youâre too unnerved to offer more than one-word answers and sounds of acknowledgement. âItâs like a business thing, but also just a fun thing,â he says, trying and failing to put your mind at ease. âA bunch of family friends come over and everyone catches up. Weâre nosy. Itâs a cultural thing. Youâre supposed to announce anything new youâve got going on, like if youâre going on a trip or getting mated.âÂ
âDo you have anything to announce?â you ask.
His hand rests on your thigh, thumb tracing the dried scale patterns he drew on your skin. He doesnât answer.Â
Norâs father lives atop a hill at the edge of town. To call it a house or even a mansion is like calling the ocean âa bit of water.â The sprawling estate has a forest for a yard, complete with a tranquil lake where Nor used to swim as a boy, the water glittering on his scales like morning dew. The home itself is best described as a castle, a three-story complex of gray stone spires. The car pulls into a circle drive with a fountain in the center. Soft orange candle light flickers behind the curtains, not on the first or third floor but exclusively on the second.Â
To your horror, Norâs father is standing outside. He watches the car pull up with a scowl on his face, waiting beneath the arched entryway. Heâs dressed like you and Nor but his sashes are far more numerous and extravagant, draped like a robe over his frighteningly tall figure.Â
âAm I supposed to be here?â you whisper. âWhy is he glaring at me?â You shrink back when the driver opens the door but Nor puts a hand on your shoulder and pushes gently.Â
âYes, youâre supposed to be here. And heâs not glaring at you, heâs glaring at me,â Nor says. He follows you out and grabs your hand, wrapping his fingers around yours. âItâs fine,â he insists gently. âDonât worry, okay? Just trust me. Iâm going to take care of everything.âÂ
You want to ask him what the hell thatâs supposed to mean but you never get the chance because his father walks over. Druezaghrath never makes himself more than half-human. He looms over both of you, amber eyes flicking back and forth in black sclera. His scales are gold and his horns are much larger than Norâs, but they arch straight back instead of curling up like his sonâs.Â
âYouâre nearly late, Norlathellios,â he rumbles.
Nor cranes his neck and looks his father in the eye without flinching. âCanât be late to my own fucking announcement,â he says. âWhatâre you gonna do? Start without me?âÂ
Druezaghrath narrows his eyes and smoke trickles from his nostrils. His tail thrashes, striking the concrete behind him hard enough to shatter it. His gaze flicks to you when you flinch at the sound and you avert your eyes. âSave your defiance. You have a challenger.â
âFine.â Nor squeezes your hand. You donât want to follow him when he starts moving. You dig your heels in. Something is wrong here, about all of this. Nor looks back at you with that sad expression but it doesnât work this time. âCome on,â he says, tugging your hand a little harder. âI told you, itâs fine.âÂ
âGo inside,â Druezaghrath says. âWeâll join you shortly.âÂ
Your stomach lurches in panic. This is so much worse. Nor doesnât want to go but he glances up at the cold stone and flickering windows with a solemn expression. âTheyâre already scared,â he says. âGo easy.âÂ
âNor?â you say, your voice pitched in terror. He lets go of your hand. You try to reach for him but Druezaghrathâs large, coarse claws close around your forearm and drag you to a stop. âNor, wait!â
He does, but only for a second. He looks back and his smile is bittersweet. âSorry about all this. Youâll get it, when itâs over. Itâll make sense. And maybe youâllâŚâ He doesnât finish the thought. His gaze flicks up to his father looming over you and he takes a deep breath. Then he turns on his heel, sashes fluttering, and disappears through the front doors. You try to follow him and donât make it even one step, Druezaghrathâs grip on your arm tightening to painful, bruising pressure.Â
âI need you to understand something,â he says. He turns you around and you see his eyes glinting like a predatorâs in the dark. âIf you run, Iâll catch you. You wonât get anywhere close to the property line. You donât want to waste my time like that, and you need to save your strength. Nor has been looking forward to this.â His grip shifts down and he holds up your wrist, examining the ceremonial markings. âI really shouldâve seen this coming,â he muses. âHe was always so particular about you.â Your trembling makes him exhale sharply in amusement. âHe didnât tell you a single thing about whatâs happening tonight, did he? That boyâŚâÂ
A whimper slips out when he starts moving and pulls you with him, far stronger than Nor and completely unconcerned with how much you fight and struggle. He drags you through a foyer so dark you canât see your hand in front of your face, then up a carpeted flight of stairs.Â
âMy son has requested an audience to witness his mating announcement,â he explains, ignoring your pleas and protests and begging. âSome say heâs too young. I was well into my second century before I considered such a thing. There are concerns that a mate at this age might affect his decision making and negatively impact the family business. He must prove two things tonight: that he is capable, and that you are compatible. It sounds like the first test is already underway.âÂ
You donât know what he means until you hear something in the distance, too muffled at first to make out. Something falling? Something hitting something? Candles flicker in wall sconces, lighting a long hall to a pair of wooden doors cracked ajar. You hear a low, rumbling growl like the grinding of stone and then a much shriller animal sound of distress that makes your blood run cold. Something crunches and splatters. Something hisses and wheezes, flailing against the hard stone floor.Â
Druezaghrath approaches the doors first. He nudges them open, peering inside. You donât want to look. Now everything you hear is wetâthe slick sound of sharpness parting flesh, liquid spilling, soft things squeezed and crushed until they burst. âIs heâŚokay?â you whisper. Druezaghrath looks at you like you grew a second head. You donât know why youâre asking, either. You donât want to be here. Youâre scared out of your mind. But the idea of him getting hurt, of those awful noises coming from him, makes the horror unbearable. âNor, is heâheâs fighting someone, isnât he? Is he hurt?âÂ
Norâs father tilts his head, looking at you as though spotting something he finds interesting, maybe even appealing, for the first time. His grip on your arm loosens, his thumb rubbing gently at the bruises he left behind. âYour mate is strong,â he says with quiet pride. âI hope to see you match that strength.â He pushes both doors open and throws you forward.Â
You mightâve caught yourself if the floor wasnât wet. You land badly on your hip and shoulder and everything stings for a moment, the room out of focus. Itâs red. You know that much. And itâs no mystery what all the red is because the acrid, metallic stench of it fills your nose. A circle of candles, mostly melted into puddles of wax, delineates what must have been the dueling grounds because the blood only rarely trespasses that boundary.There are people hereâdragons, a crowd of them, gathered at a distance. They stand beyond the reach of the light so all you can make out are towering silhouettes and glinting eyes.Â
No one speaks. Maybe this kind of announcement needs no words. Maybe Norâs face says it all. You see him in the center of the carnage, skin and robes drenched in clinging gore and viscera. A body twitches on the ground at his feet, more than half-dragon and covered in scales. Itâs disemboweled, an unraveled loop of entrails cooling beside a horrific gaping wound in its belly. It was clawed open. You can see everything inside from the curled bars of a ribcage to colorful organs. Nor holds a severed wing in his fist, clutching shattered, jagged bone and scrunched cartilage oozing blood between his fingers. The other wing lies on the floor, shredded and limp like a torn sail.
The sound of you slipping and falling attracts his attention. His pupils are blown wide and for a moment, you wonder if he even sees you. If heâs so lost in bloodlust that heâll attack you next. You flinch when he drops the wing. It lands with a heavy, squelching thud, tattered membranes leaking fresh puddles of blood. He kneels, gathering you in his arms with his staggering inhuman strength, lifting you up and standing in the same fluid motion.Â
âThis is my mate,â he tells the others. The cold sharpness of his voice makes him sound like his father. He pauses a moment, his eyes scanning the crowd. Looking for dissent, maybe. For someone else to tell him heâs too young to have what he wants. No one does. He lets out a breath that rumbles like a growl, exhaling smoke. âThen itâs settled,â he says quietly. He starts moving. Not towards the crowd or the door, but to the center of the circle of candles. To the corpse of whoever he just killed. You call his name but he doesnât hear you. Maybe he doesnât care. Heâs already come this far and nothingâs going to stop him now. Certainly not you.Â
Nor sets you down gently. The gesture is ruined by the disgusting sounds of the organs puddled under you. Youâre sitting in it. Thereâs blood and muscle and jutting bone and vein-streaked offal everywhere. It smears over your ceremonial markings and stains your sashes, turning the embroidery bright red. Nor kneels in the same mess. He reaches out and cups your face with his filthy, gore-covered hands. He kisses your forehead with bloodstained lips, then your cheeks, and then just briefly, chastely, on the mouth.Â
âI love you,â he says. âIâm so sorry.âÂ
You struggle when he climbs on top of you. You donât care how it looks or what it might mean to the people watching, if it ruins the whole announcement. You donât want this. But Druezaghrath was rightâhis son is strong. You had no idea because heâs never used that strength against you before. He doesnât care that you flail and kick at him. He flips you over and pins you down with one hand, forcing you flat against the sticky floor. His claws shred your sashes with such perfect precision that he never scratches your skin.Â
You get loose when he tries to line himself up with your entrance. You donât get far before heâs on you again, dragging you back into position with labored breaths. It suddenly hits you that he just killed someoneâjust fought someone to the death in the time it took his father to walk you up the stairsâand heâs still faster than you. Still able to force you back down and nudge your legs apart. You hear him moan quietly and the slick sounds of his fist working his cock before the tip starts prodding at you. You whimper and he shushes you.
âI know, baby. Iâll try to make it quick,â he murmurs. He lays himself over your back and youâre completely trapped. Was he always this much heavier than you? Or did he always hold back when you play-wrestled as kids? He moves his hips slowly at first, testing the waters. He pays attention to the noises you make. He doesnât stop, no matter how much you sob, but he listens intently to how your breathing hitches as his thick tip spreads you open. Heâs gentle. Heâs going so, so slowly. Itâs almost worse than if he were rough. Thereâs no pretending this is something else. Itâs him, itâs Nor, as sweet as heâs always been to you. This unspoken thing lurking between you is suddenly dragged up into the light and it hurts to look at.
Youâve always wanted him but not like this.
Nor thrusts his hips and more of his length sinks into your body. Heâs big. The stretch stings but heâs got a hand tucked under you and slipping between your thighs, fingers carefully working your sex. âYouâre so tight,â he whispers against your ear, kissing and licking the lobe. âI know youâre scared, but itâs all gonna be okay. Iâve got you. Just feel this.â Every shock of pleasure makes your head spin. You donât want to enjoy this, but Nor learns your body in a matter of minutes. He searches for the places that make whimper in a different way and then he teases them mercilessly.Â
One hand stays between your legs, dexterous fingers stroking with just the right amount of pleasure to make your hips buck against him. The other wanders, lingering anywhere sensitive. He never stops fucking you. Heâs pumping his hips now, sinking deeper and thrusting harder. Your hands slip on the floor in search of something to hold onto, something to anchor you. All you find is the dead dragon and everything that should be inside it piled outside, making a sound of mindless distress when you grab onto something thatâs still pulsating. None of Norâs sweet nothings soothe you but he doesnât stop trying. His voice is a constant heated murmur, only interrupted when he pauses to kiss and suck at your neck.Â
âYouâre doing so good, baby. So, so good. I want you to cum for me. Can you do that?âÂ
You canât. You donât want to. Not here, not in front of all these peopleâis Druezaghrath here? Watching this? You feel sick. You canât. But Nor doesnât let up. He mouths at your pulse, strokes you harder, fucks you faster. Youâre moving and you didnât even realize it, didnât mean for your body to move against his fingers and back into his thrusts. He pushes your legs even further apart and then he really starts rutting. The sound of flesh slapping flesh, your hips meeting, his balls slapping your ass as he hilts himself inside you over and over again, fills your ears.
âCum for me,â he begs you. âBaby, please. Cum on my cock. Doesnât it feel good? Iâve been practicing for thisâfor you. Itâs okay to like this. Just let go.âÂ
Practicing, he said. Is that what all of that was before? All those furious ex-partners, all those sobbing confessions, all those angry late night calls and texts that made him turn his phone off and go back to pretending he was cuddled up against you in a totally platonic way? Just practice for the person he really wanted?Â
âI love you,â he murmurs. You hate that it makes you tighten around him. âYou like it when I say that? Iâll say it as many times as you want for the rest of our lives. I love you, baby. Fuck, I love you so muchâŚâ He keeps saying it, keeps whispering his devotion until the sounds mean nothing. Eventually, it happens. You donât want it to but he nips at your neck and grinds his cock deep inside you, and you scream. Itâs the worst and best orgasm of your life. Nor drags it out as long as he can, fucking you through your shuddering gasps and whimpers until youâre limp underneath him. He pulls out but your relief is short-lived.Â
He turns you over onto your back. You barely recognize him. His eyes are different. Wilder. Glazed in pleasure. The blood has dried to his skin, dark red smears on his chin, his chest, his arms. His gaze rakes your body and then heâs reaching for you again, lining his cock up with your aching entrance again.Â
âAlmost done, baby,â he rasps. âJust a little more. Just gotta make me cum and itâs over. Donât think, okay? Donât think about anything. Just feel me. Feel this.â You canât. You try to tell him that but your voice is hoarse and weak. You let out a strangled whine when he pushes into you again. He tells you he loves you again. He apologizes again. He kisses you with ferocious hunger and your legs wrap around his waist. He moans against your mouth, a hand stroking your thigh.Â
You cum before he does, back arching, arms wrapped around him. Nor keeps saying just a little more, just a little more, praise and promises. Eventually, you take his advice without even meaning to and stop thinking about anything at all.
#rotpeach writes#goretober#original#super late one and im about to pass out so sorry in advance if typos i'll give this one a look first thing in the morning#i'll try to give all of these another pass at the end of the month lol
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random, but would you consider making a chart/guide to yours ocs? I've been following your art for years but feel like I still don't really know your characters. I'd be very curious to know more about them and who's who
god I feel using the word 'OC' is like, an appropriation of fandom culture ha ha. as in I have a p dumb approach to writing & I don't think that much abt characters aside from like their goals and feelings in the context of whatever story they're part of if that makes sense?
(a very dark part of my soul wishes there was a m. john harrison critique of world-building essay (which I only partially agree with but found helpful at the time after online fantasy writing advise paralysed me with the feeling I needed to understand medieval economics & agriculture before writing about dragons or w/e) but for like. you don't need to know a person's favourite colour, 'love language' etc before writing about them. & I've seen a lot of ppl online building pseudo-fandoms before producing actual works & then if/when they do it's written as like fanfic of itself w the assumption the reader wants charming banter, character trauma dumping etc w/o a story & context to make you care? anyway end rant. not giving examples everyone is trying their best I think & again I'm a weirdo & not the target audience for anything)
...anyways I should do character sheets for Iica & the nameless wanderer those are prob the closest thing I have rn. or the hell pit ppl but since I haven't properly gotten started on that it's still very vague
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Zadakiel, Archangel of Jupiter â Talon Abraxas
Zadkiel, the Archangel of Jupiter, is one you may not have heard of before. Unlike Michael or Gabriel, his images don't often adorn the walls of art museums or stained glass windows. But among all the Planetary Angels, his name gives the most suggestive evidence that there's a long tradition linking angels and planets.
In Hebrew, the name for the planet Jupiter is "Zedek," which translates as "righteousness." Righteousness conveys the sense that one has been "justified by God" -- something that has integrity, is true, or in alignment with the cosmic pattern. One who is righteous can see clearly, and is therefore able to act with justice and mercy, as well as to reveal the truth or prophesy. These happen to be some of the oldest associations with the astrological Jupiter.
Angel names often end with the suffix -el, which simply means "of God." There's a tradition of appending -el to other terms to signify the angel associated with the word. Consequently, in Hebrew the angel of righteousness, or the angel of Jupiter, would be called "Zedek-iel"
Zedekiel, or Zadkiel, or one of its various spellings, is found mentioned in some of the earliest references to angels. The earliest Christian compilation of the seven archangels, written in the 5th Century by Pseudo-Dionysius in his Celestial Hierarchy, incudes Zadkiel among their number, as does Pope Gregory's list from the 6th century (spelled either Sachiel or Zachariel.) In his 12th-century writings, the great Spanish-Arabic scholar and scientist AverroĂŤs (Ibn Rushd) named Zadkiel/Sachiel the archangel of Jupiter, a tradition that was copied by authors in later Medieval and Renaissance magic and angelology.
As an angel of mercy, some Talmudic texts claim that Zadkiel is the unnamed angel who stays Abraham's hand, preventing him from sacrificing his son Issaac. (Because of this Zadkiel is sometimes shown holding a dagger.)
Given his association with Jupiter, it's not uncommon for New Age authors to associate Sachiel with rituals of abundance and prosperity. The modern astrological sense of Jupiter is a bit like the planetary Santa Claus, the jolly generous giver of gifts. That's not too far off, if you remember that Santa "knows when you are naughty or nice," and gave gifts accordingly.
The Archangel Zadkiel brings abundance and prosperity when we are acting with justice, fairness, and generosity ourselves. He teaches that when we are in right relationship with the cosmic order, our needs will be met. Or, if we have a need or a lack, as the Archangel of mercy, Zadkiel will aid in our efforts to obtain what we seek when we ask for his assistance. Zadkiel also brings us luck, when we are doing our best, and forgiveness, when we've fallen short of the mark, in order to start again.
As the Archangel of Jupiter, an auspicious time to make request to aid from Zadkiel is Thursday, Jupiter's day.
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the reason why delicious in dungeon is "subtle autistic rep" is because this is a pseudo-medieval setting and characters talking about such a modern concept would be tonally jarring, but a lot of english art focusing on neurodivesity readily accepts such atonality, and thus that's what people have come to expect
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Since you did a modern/au fashion on Velargirls, I wanted to ask you if you could do the historical (like actual timeline) version of it, you said you collect pics of clothes, both historical and modern that you can imagine them wearing. I know Jace often wears Sunfyreâs palette, Joff wears mostly red and black Targ colors and Luce is in Velaryon colors. But perhaps their signature styles or some pics of what you imagine them wearing would be nice like you did it with the modern!au version! If you'd rather not do this one, that's completely alr! I just wanted some pictures of their clothing to imagine the dresses they would wear when I read the books.
Disclaimer: GOT/HOTD is a pseudo medieval setting, so not everything about the fashion I choose is 100% accurate to the Western European medieval era.
I took a lot of cues from the official GOT costumes book, where the designer talks about how she was inspired by clothing from places like Japan. I also like Bernadette Bannerâs video explaining how in GOT (or the earlier seasons at least), costuming tried to be historically accurate according to the rules of its own universe, not ours.
HOTD has different costume designers than GOT. I have a very amateur interest in historical fashion, but it seems to me that GOT was a bit more exploratory with its fashion (like Cerseiâs kimono dresses) while HOTD generally tries to stick closer to more Western European medieval styles (with exceptions, like Aemondâs Hugo Boss coat). So I have a headcanon that in the 170 years between HOTD and GOT, more and more Essosi fashions come to Westeros, which leads to the changes that we see between the two shows.
In my series, these fashion trends are sped up quicker than in canon. One of Jaceâs goals is to be a cultural icon at court, so her fashion choices (which are heavily influenced by Rhaena, who spent her childhood in Pentos) spread among the other highborn ladies.
Jaceâs wedding gown is based off Margaeryâs purple wedding gown, with some differences, e.g. gold color scheme.
Jaceâs wraparound dress that she wears to the feast announcing the pregnancy is based on Cerseiâs early season dresses.
Other outfits that give me Jace vibes:
Luce is tricky because most days at Dragonstone and Driftmark, sheâs stomping around in really plain dresses that she can get messy. But at public events and in KL, she has to dress according to her station. Maybe some of her gowns are secretly pants underneath.
(Danyâs Qarth dress is by far my favorite reference photo for Luceâs outfits when I get art of her.)
Joff, to nobodyâs surprise, is the most Targ-coded in regards to her wardrobe. I tend to reference Rhaenyraâs outfits for Joffâs. Joff is definitely hoping to inherit Rhaenyraâs clothes one day.
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Out of all the animes youâve watch what ones are your favorites
...you know what, you get the serious answer. I used to track my anime watching, so out of the 450+ completed ones on my list, here are some of my top recommendations! (In terms of quality, more so than what I've spent the most time dwelling on.)
. . .
One Piece â I haven't technically watched all of this one, but after falling back into the fandom after an 8-ish year break, I really can't understate the quality. One Piece's story is amazing, and I'm consistently impressed by the author's characters/worldbuilding.
Dominion Tank Police (1988) â I have FEELINGS about the villain in this one... Overall, 80s sci-fi vibes mix with themes of ethical responsibility and societal peacekeeping, and the "don't you just want to go apeshit? :)" protagonist (who's also extremely aromantic-coded) is a hilarious, yet wonderfully earnest little menace!
Kyousougiga â I've been rewatching this one recently, and the sheer detail in every scene is STUNNING. I keep having to pause to mentally scream about the symbolism, and tbh, knowing the plot from my original watch is only improving the experience.
Tekkon Kinkreet â This one's a movie, not a series, but SKLJKHS IT HAUNTS ME. Absolutely chilling, by the time the big plot twists roll around... Beyond that, the overall aesthetic/vibe is impeccable, and the exaggerated, messy art style only adds to that.
Kemonozume â Monster/human forbidden romance with stunning art and a great soundtrack. The plot started out a bit confusing, but all of the scattered story elements came together nicely in the end!
The Tatami Galaxy â The "get your shit together and start enjoying your life" anime. It's plenty good as just a story, but I got some excellent life lessons out of it too. Solid mix of comedy, drama, and charismatic-yet-extremely-bizarre characters interacting.
Monster â Excellent slow-paced, psychological horror packed with ethical dilemmas, traumatic backstories, and so many Extremely Depressed Men. In other words, there's a very good reason why Johan Liebert used to end up on so many "best anime villains" lists.
Paranoia Agent â I have nothing but praise for Satoshi Kon's work, in general, and Paranoia Agent has been my favorite of the ones I've seen so far. Compared to his movies, it really benefits from the extra space for plot development, and the big emotional twist hits hard.
Revolutionary Girl Utena â A true classic. <3 There are enough tumblr essays about this tragic yuri masterpiece that I won't go into detail myself, but yes, it's every bit as good as you've heard.
Black Lagoon: Roberta's Blood Trail â The entire Black Lagoon series is excellent, but Roberta is my special girl. Unfortunately, the OAV adaption compresses the manga's version of her arc pretty heavily (and the altered ending is kind of dumb), but I still have to recommend it. Babygirl's breakdown is a REAL mess kjshghs
Claymore â Excellent pseudo-medieval fantasy with badass female characters, lots of body horror, and top-tier monster design. The manga is MUCH better than the anime after a certain point, however.
Kuuchuu Buranko â An episodic series about an eccentric psychiatrist interacting with his troubled patients. The mixed-media animation style and bizarre characters are what sold it for me, along with the exploration of mental health through storytelling tropes.
Cannon Fodder â An artistic short movie that's twenty minutes of aesthetic experience and fascinating worldbuilding implications. I love the vibe, and the "one, long horizontal frame" style is neat.
Flowers of Evil â The art style. The VIBES. The whole thing is incredibly eerie and off-putting, with a plot that's pretty much: "congrats! two shitty teenagers are tearing each other's lives apart!".
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Ophelia, Alexandre Cabanel. 1883.
#art#aesthetic#ophelia#hamlet#hamlet art#art history#historical art#Victorian art#1880s art#Ophelia art#hamlet aesthetic#Victorian hamlet#1880s#gilded age#gilded age art#Iâm so used to the Millais painting so this is a nice fresh alternative#shakespeare#Shakespeare art#Shakespearean art#pseudo medieval art#neo medieval art?#not sure what to call imitation medieval art lol#women in art#medieval art
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re: the post below. fantasy vs reality
a discussion in the notes got me thinking about the recent trend (perhaps not the right word, maybe âtendencyâ) of communist/marxist bloggers on here, especially those concerned with decolonisation (as we all should be), to blanket-condemn all media which âromanticisesâ pirates, cowboys, knights, outlaws, and other âhistoricalâ (in quotes because, letâs be real, itâs more legend than history when we talk about the modern portrayal of these lifestyles) morally dubious yet immensely alluring occupations. thereâs been this discourse spreading: the idea that somehow indulging in art which presents these figures in a generally positive or fun light is the same as being uncritical of manifest-destiny expansionism (i.e. the notion of the âwild westâ and an âuntamed frontierâ is colonial), christian imperialism (since knights participated in the crusades) or even an apologist of the slave trade (because some pirates engaged in it).
to which i say, plainly, bollocks. if youâre 16 or younger, your critical thinking faculties are an untrained muscle, your media analysis capacity not yet switched-on, then yeah, youâre allowed to be susceptible to the inability to distinguish between whatâs cool in fiction and whatâs permissible in reality. any older than that, i start getting doubts. i question the frankly patronising notion that an adult with a basic understanding of history and politics is incapable of recognising when something fictional doesnât map one-on-one onto the modern world, whether that be the mechanics of a story, the interactions between characters, the beliefs and goals which drive them, or the social mores and cultural norms (hierarchy of gender, race, nobility etc) which they accept as fact.
you should be able to hold (more than) two truths in your head simultaneously. you should be able to cheer when the knight pulls the sword from the stone and reclaims his long-denied royal heritage to become a well earned leader, and, at the same time, recognise that we live in the 21st century where monarchy is a long-obsolete, unjust and inhumane system of government. same as youâd readily accept that somebody in a novel can cast a spell, but you wouldnât believe that a real guy could set a tree alight with his mind.
all fiction is fantasy because we donât live in history. yeah, we have sources, but theyâre not perfect. even the author attempting to be as accurate as possible will inevitably sneak in some tiny anachronisms, even if in language alone. medieval europe didnât have potatoes. you will find potato stew boiling in every tavern in the fantasy pseudo-german towns your protagonists take a rest stop in. thatâs fine. thatâs normal. pirates in reality were mostly cruel hardened criminals with no respect for human life, which is why they gladly partook in slavery as well as pillaging and looting, anything for profit. pirates in a show can be kind, considerate, a rag-tag team of outcasts and freedom fighters with views that most correspond with modern anarchism. as long as you know the difference, as long as youâre not pretending that this fantasy is how historical events actually happened, itâs fine. youâre good. go watch your bridgertons.
make sure to stay prudent and always tell the difference, though. never ever fall into the trap of wanting to âretvrnâ, and that goes towards ever cottagecore homesteader. let fiction remain fiction, and work to better the world.
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Pulptober 23rd - Hero With a Harem - Garrett, P.I.
There's barely an installment of the Garrett series that doesn't involve him getting into bed with the lady of the hour. Sometimes multiple times in the same book, which frequently causes him a good deal of trouble. (a brief aside, the covers are by Tim Hildebrandt but they, in the grand tradition of fantasy paperback art, do not at all resemble the actual stories. Garrett himself is described within as dressing similarly to everyone else in his medieval fantasy milieu, and not like a transplanted Philip Marlowe. If this rant is familiar it's because I did it last time I used the Garrett series. Definitely still read 'em, they're really fun hard-boiled fantasy detective fiction, just don't expect the weird pseudo-isekai the covers promise)
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can you explain the michael psychosomatic kittens curse to me please it's been bothering me for upwards of a week
it would be an honor. it's kind of a long story but luckily I'm at work.
1. I was drawing pictures of Mike and Peter on zoom with my bestest friend Cal and I was drawing their beautiful 70s long hair as I am wont to do. A thought occurred in my head that the color of their hairs together would make a beautiful tortoiseshell cat. This prompted me to say aloud: "They would have beautiful kittens." Which of course raised questions. I wasn't even really thinking about kitten pregnancy at this point I was just thinking about their hair. But kitten pregnancy sprung forth none the less.
2. The household has been on kind of a Phyllis kick lately because I have a 73 slide long PowerPoint on the Monkees that I have been workshopping into a sort of combination stand up comedy/performance art piece. Our second focus group (the cast of rocky horror) said that they liked it but wanted more interpersonal drama. So I added Peter and Davy's fight and a "wife timeline" so we've been thinking about Monkee wives and I recently read Mike's book and Phyllis I think we can all agree is one of the most interesting and under-examined people in the whole Monkee cluster fuck.
3. So Mike is pregnant with Kittens. Because he and Peter would have beautiful kittens. And we all agree that being pregnant would be a good thing for Mike Nesmith. On a physical level it would suit him but also from a sort of pseudo feminist perspective where he is forced to take on the burden of """"womanhood"""" we feel it could help to facilitate understanding to what he's putting these women through.
4. So it becomes sort of body horror, where he is forced to confront the physical and emotional labor that he has been foisting on Phyllis and then neglecting her but in becoming pregnant he understands her and their relationship blossoms. We decide that Phyllis sort of has a mental break and convinces herself that she's going to trick Mike into thinking he's pregnant so that he understands just for a moment what she's going through. We try to come up with ways you could try to convince a man he is pregnant (this is difficult).
5. We realize we have lost the kitten plot. But Riley (who has been here the whole time because we share a room but I didn't want to introduce to many characters into this) has been taking a class on monsters and the monstrous and there is this medieval medical belief called "the maternal imagination" which is basically the idea that if you are pregnant and get scared by a mouse your baby will be born mouselike. Or if you are looking at a picture of a man who is not your husband while you conceive a baby the baby will look like the man in the picture, not it's actual father. It's a very interesting sort of belief.
6. So we decide that Mike stumbles upon a sick kitten one day and brings it home and is positively doting. Phyllis and his real life children remain secondary. He's about work and this fucking kitten. And so of course it becomes the object of Phyllisâs ire. And she hates that right? Because it's a sick and tiny kitten. And really she should hate Mike (but she cannot hate Mike this is a fundamental truth of her character). But she decides that she can make him understand. By making him think he's pregnant. And she goes to bed that night and has a dream that she gives birth to kittens.
7. Of course this is totally delusional he's never going to think he's pregnant but weirdly, he starts to ... act pregnant? In ways that she would have absolutely no control over. He's got that glow and he's gaining weight and most of all he's happy and is spending a lot more time at home hanging around. And she starts to get all doting excited husband on him. And their relationship is a lot more tenable now that their roles have subtly shifted. Because she is the responsible one right? But previously she'd have to defer to him and he had to perform this masculine patriarch role and neither of them are brave enough to challenge it but they both feel wrong fulfilling those roles. This is just right. But it's also very fucking wrong. Because Mike is pregnant??? And it's getting pretty undeniable. It is also clear that whatever is in there is not a baby. Phyllis has had babies and this is four little squirmy things. And so eventually Mike has kittens and it is not clarified how physically this happens but it does and it fixes him.
Sorry. I know this is pretty much batshit insane but it is the story.
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Can you tell us more about poppy au?? Like how this world works or how is the other characters of fnaf sb are here??
I swear I haven't forgotten this au or been ignoring this ask, i just have been obsessed with the new wow expac and also figuring out how to answer this
my knowledge of fnaf lore isn't the greatest, i watched the movie and i listen to @sinnabee talk abt it, but i'm not exactly a wiki on it and im kinda avoiding going on a wiki dive bc then i start getting way too loyal to lore to do aus oops
but the main concept of it is that Afton is the king's inventor, and he's made some animatronics to entertain the king and his court (this is freddy and the band). but he's Obsessed with Poppy (who is a lady in the court, the daughter of Duke Steelwall, who is the general/commander of the king's army) and so he builds her two animatronics as a gift to her (technically they are jesters for the king, but they are for poppy, who is actually terrified of them but is too polite to tell afton that some of his inventions are scary). unfortunately he puts so much of his obsession with poppy and need to possess her into building sun and moon that thru dark magic, they come to life/become independent in a way that the other animatronics aren't. and they are just as obsessed with poppy as afton is :)
sun and moon aren't under afton's control (tho afton is not exactly advertising that he's lost control of two of his creations), and are trying to protect poppy from him. not that their intentions are the most pure of heart either
(ramblings abt the world under the cut)
the world is a rather generic pseudo-medieval fantasy world, not particularly specific to a general time. poppy's silhouettes are more inspired by early-mid 1600s (western european) fashion, but the colors are more loosely regency rules (early 1800s). Poppy is always wearing pastels, with little to no jewel tones, since jewel tones/deeper colors would be inappropriate for an unwed lady (but married women and widows are a bit freer with being able to wear deeper colors).
then just bc i love symbolism, when she's drawn with afton, she's entirely in pastels, where she's perfectly a lady (she's well behaved with no interest in afton, who is not of a status where he has a chance to marry a duke's daughter). but with sun and moon, there's going to be deeper colors, because she's not a perfect lady around them. there's a bit of corruption happening, she does feel desire toward them that isn't appropriate for her. sun and moon are pretty much entirely in darker/brighter colors bc they will be the ones to corrupt her
but it isn't all regency rules, for example it's perfectly fine that she wears her hair down, she just has to keep it covered (obvs not entirely covered tho, if you look at the art).
there is magic, which i'm still kinda figuring out the rules for/how prevalent it is (i kinda make shit up as i go along and adjust accordingly to make things make sense). but at the very least there is a very taboo dark magic that afton uses.
i'm unsure how/if i want to incorporate afton's kids, while i have the overall plot figured out, there's some side characters im unsure abt
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