#savage bios

[pelucies]

.·:*¨¨*:·. .·:*¨¨*:·. .·:*¨¨*:·.

LIKE A PRAYER.

[twice-lover-t]

𝗮𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗮 𝗯𝗶𝗼𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁𝘀𝗮𝗽𝗽 ! 💭

𓏲࣪ ִֶָ i'm on the next level 🚀 ̸ ᵎᵎ ˖

𓄹𓈒 𓏲 ๋࣭ naevis, calling ˖ ࣪ ! 📞 ꫂ

¸࣪ 🌪️ ⴰ we them girls ! 𖤐 ᵎ

⊹ ָ࣪ ˓˓ don't you know I'm a savage? ؛ ָ ꒷

𓍢 ๋࣭ ⭑ welcome to my world 🌍 𓏲ᵎ ٬ ᤷ ៶ 𖥨

[cxyzmahalina]

idk if this is match, it's my first time to make moodboard lol. but hope u guys like it !! ^^

profile picture !!

cover photo !!

featured photos !! ↓

[evilhorse]

The Dragon’s profile

(Savage Dragon #30)

[miabrown007]

"Looking for love in the trash; if I hadn't, I wouldn't know how to keep it."

~ my ESL ass, apparently, listening to As Good As It Gets by Little Hurt

[magnoliamyrrh]

first day of my class on global south feminism and i love the professor already xjdkdk

[cherub-bite-mark]

Blue people cancelled FOREVARRRR!!!

[the-6-eared-shadow-girl]

OK, not only do I love the fact that Rumble and Savage make an appearance but I also love the fact that Macaque is finally accepting MK calling him mama!!! 🥰

Macaque is theater kid right? I like to believe the shadow peach boi parents that if mk doesn't want to go sleep, Macaque put on a show and Mk falls sleep:3 -> I love my boi<3

[It would be funny if Macaque would kick wukong out the room and be like only theatre kids allowed to wukong but mk would be like noooo, let him in]

When no one is watching the TRUE Mamacaque comes out.

Shadowpeach Bio Parent AU (PREV / FIRST /

When I was imagining this whole Un-divorce Arc, THIS Song was the main sountrack for it. It would be pog if you can listen it while reading.

I also kind of in a way answered to this ask? But given the context I switched the position of characters.

[infectedzoology]

file 001 :// subject: the scientist

EVELYN DIANE EDWIN is an enigma, a riddle wrapped in a sweet, innocent-seeming package. Given her initial appearance, one may assume nothing of this seemingly " sweet, innocent " persona, but underneath those big doe eyes and gentle-seeming demeanor lies a highly intelligent, observant, and vengeful genius. She keeps her past under lock and key, only revealing bits and pieces here and there, mentions of a father and a brother, animal friends in the woods as a child, growing up in Sleepy Hollow, and a bachelor's in zoology from UPenn.

WITH A DEMEANOR similar to that of an awkward fawn or a startled rabbit, Evelyn's mannerisms tend to be meek ; keeping her head down, usually only speaking when spoken to, avoiding eye contact, fingers curled and arms kept close to her body. Her wide blue doe eyes always scan her surroundings, looking for any potential threats, anything that could be a harm to her safety.

ONCE ONE BEGINS the grueling task of winning her trust, as time goes on, she'll begin to open up more, and that true personality comes out -- unhinged, fascinated with animals, blood, gore, and the true intricate horror of Mother Nature and her laws. If one bothers to listen, they may be subjected to long-winded infodumps about woodland creatures, the social structure of wild dog packs, or even the ocean's ecosystem and how everything is interconnected.

[neil-gaiman]

Neil can you please write my senior year theater bio for the program. I got the lead in the play The Curious Savage” but I don’t know what on earth to write. Help me. PLEASEE. I’m begging you. I already asked Michael and got no response.

Ex. This is **************. They are a senior at **************. They play Mrs Ethel P. Savage. (What ever you write for me) they hope you enjoy the show.

P.s. this can be complete and utter bull crap, bios at my school are always just nonsense! Please write whatever but try to make it

I think this is one for crowdsourcing. Okay crowd, pour on that special source...

[sullyfortress]

BEEN A WHILE

I thought I’d post an older piece. I started designing this OC Annie Arbour 2 years ago and never got around to posting her so here she is! I had this whole idea that she is Grace Augustine’s niece who comes to Pandora in the wave of human colonists during the second movie. Of coarse the ‘narrative’ on earth is that savage Pandorian indigenous killed all the scientists including her Aunt, so she at first is team RDA.

ALSO BIG NEWS!

I am design a website will all my commission info, just because I think it’s hard to navigate the blog posts to find pricing for most people. 😅

I will be sharing the link in my bio soon. I plan to have a gallery that shows all my past commission work. I will of coarse include watermarks and credit the person who commissioned the work via their tumblr tag or whatever social they contacted me with. IF YOU ARE SOMEONE WHO I HAVE DONE WORK FOR IN THE PAST AND YOU DO NOT WANT YOUR WORK FEATURED, PLEASE LET ME KNOW!

[youngbounty]

I’ve heard some criticisms of when this could’ve taken place and Damian having forgotten his pets. Something to understand is that the comic itself isn’t entirely blaming Damian. The narration is clearly speaking about the Bat Family as a whole. In the line, “They mean well, but their lives are complex,” it is talking about the Bat Family. Damian just happens to be the only one taking responsibility when his dad and family should’ve taken equally responsibility for letting Damian down.

It’s also clear this is an apology to the fans. When a comic apologizes to its fans for anything, it recognizes where the story went wrong. It only fails when it never did. So, let’s first ask the question: did any of the recent comics neglect to mention all the pets seen here? Yes. Even with their appearances lately, it’s often been Goliath during two separate occasions by Joshua Williamson.

The second thing to recognize is how these pets get into this situation. According to the comic, they were taken to a farm on the outskirts of Gotham. It clarifies that “Our people in Gotham rarely had time for us.” Again, the Bat Family (not Damian specifically), didn’t have time for them.

Next, it says that those at the farm spoke about scientific value before sending these pets to a bio-tech company. The people at the farm were likely those The Bat Family thought could be trusted. If we go by past continuity, we can likely assume the Bat Family that put the pets on that farm was likely Bruce or Dick. This is because during the events of Gotham War and Zurr Failsafe, the Vandal Savage buys off the Bat Cave and nothing is ever said about the pets. Even Batman leaves Jason alone after lobotomizing him.

Claiming this story is placing full blame on Damian is completely unfair and ignores any subtlety. It also ignores the terrible storylines that would have placed Damian in this situation. Damian would not have been able to care for his pets properly. The Bat Cave wasn’t there, he was being thrown between his father and brothers, his father was being possessed by Zurr-En-Arrh, Failsafe was making a mess of things and Damian had to depend on his family to do what he couldn’t at the moment. Is it fair to call it negligence just because that’s from his pets’ perspective or because Damian is the only one taking responsibility.

This storyline is creating a parallel to what happened with the pets and what’s been going on in DC. The name of the Bio-Tech, Morrison Bio-Tech, gives us a much deeper meaning to this apology. Just as the Bat Family have complex lives, so do the writers and artists at DC. We don’t know what goes on in DC and it’s easy to place the blame of bad writing to one writer instead of recognizing the whole DC company. If Damian represents the writer/artist and the people at the farm that sold his pets as DC heads, then this demonstrates that negligence over the DC story and characters aren’t often on the writers/artists alone.

I enjoyed this storyline personally. The only criticisms I’ve heard are the ones I’ve explained. Thankfully, it’s from a small minority, but still nitpicky to me.

[satoshy12]

Batman vs the World!

CLONE DANNY OF EVERY HERO AND VILLAIN BUT THE BATFAMILY.

Danny was created like a Bio Android, think of Cell. Kind of like Amazo but more in a biological way, then mechanical. While they search for ghost and making sure they are not ghost... Don't ask how they were just able to do it.

As example how miscellaneous the choices are: It goes from Lex Luthor, Reverse Flash, Harley Quinn, Ares, Hawgirl/man, Scarecrow, Circe, Wonder Woman, Vandal Savage, Geo-Force Prince Brion Markov, Killer Frost, Count Vertigo, Prometheus, Black Canary, Martian Manhunter, Cheetah, Poison Ivy, Black Adam, Aquaman, Queen Bee, Deathstroke, Mera, Lois Lane, Killer Croc, Brainiac, Vixen, Black Manta and Green Lantern.

Just not

Klarion and the Whole Batfamily any Child heroes and the Joker. Even the Fentons are not that stupid to be near him.

+

So while Danny was kind of unhappy how his life was going, it had not gone better. He wished that his parents would understand his problems.

Well Desiree heard his wish and granted it, his genetic parents would learn what he has been through. With letters or a dokucment. From his portal meeting, his bad Christmas and every event of his life and the enemy fights, from. From the fanatical ghost hunter parents talking about to torture his ghost half, about the billionaire who tortured him and cloned him, the hunter who wants to skin him alive.

At first it was a really confusing moment for the parents, till they understood what had happened! Over the time they got only short text what was new and when something special happen like a danny build a invention or had a new power. Or was hurt by a fight.

The parents started to form groups to find him, quarrels too as it was so many. So they fought each other or worked with each other, but all accepted he should be taken from the dangerous place he was. It goes from the royals for the young prince, the criminals and powerful people and even the Gods.

Danny never learns about it, he thought Desiree failed as his parents said nothing and just lived his life.

Here Comes in Bruce Wayne, after so many of his friends wanting him to find the child. He finally found him, and Bruce left to check on him before telling the rest about him.

It took Bruce a bit to find the young boy, Danny Fenton. He notice he was new and showed him around the town. And be even saw his hero from, looks like most of the DNA had gone to his transformation.

….Well He has black hair and blue eyes, it's JUST DIBS. The rest should accept it. He found him first.

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

☈ your bones singing into mine ii

one - two

nikto x gen!bio-weapons engineer reader (no use of y/n) 3.4k words cw: honestly just the relationship being dysfunctional, also like warlord sugar daddy overtones, but that's just how this cookie is gonna crumble Nikto has swept you out of the darkness, and into an intact world burning full of ugly lights. He meets your every need as you work to create weapons to supply him an armory of shock and awe. He buys for you a place in Bruges, a rowhouse right on the water, and your only desire is a romantic dinner with him. He does not have it within himself to deny you.

Nikto brings you out into a world that is bright and burning, but mostly whole. He tells you that things are tied on a shoestring of balance, that any strong enough blow of breeze could tip the whole house of cards, and he has a look in his eyes that names himself typhoon. 

He is one of the most complex and deeply locked men you have ever met in your life, and you have met a great many men with secrets that could turn cities into subatomic particles in a blinding flash of a second. He wants to father a new world, a savage paradise, and, yet, he holds you in the palm of his velvet-covered iron fist as his finest treasure.

Penthouses are cleared out for you–places high in the sky, in any number of cities, so far away from the ground and the dark. He pours money into your comfort like hemorrhaging, and he cares not that his funds bleed, because he can always dump more into the wound. 

It’s a wound he wants to sustain, because he likes to see you clean, and comfortable, and sparking electricity as you work. He provides makeshift, mobile labs for you. Thousands upon thousands of dollars for computers, and programs, and security. Though he lifts you into the light, he makes you a small space of darkness, allowing you to run and return to your work.

He begins to call you Spider, or Pauk, depending on whether his English is dropping your name like a threat, or if his Russian is soft and trying to entreat you.

There is a place in Bruges, right on the water, that he pulls together for you. It is smaller than your other hideaways, cozier. Bulb-lit with warm wooden flooring and tall walls. He walks stiffly through the halls, watching for your reaction, and his shoulders relax when you turn from the window watching boats on the water to give him your cracked grin. 

“It’s out of a book,” you say, “the buildings are such bright colors. How is this real?”

“It’s always been this way here,” he tells you. He shuffles a moment, bringing his clasped hands from his back to his front, before he adds quietly, “We���re glad that you…find it acceptable here.”

Surely he is remembering the blocs he grew up on, all the colorless brutalist construction from the Soviet era. Houses for workers, starvation in the streets. You wonder if his place had heriz rugs all over the floors, to insulate sound and cushion steps and provide color. 

You press your fingertips into the cool glass, looking at him, wondering about him. You’d like to see his face, though he’s told you that it is a nightmare. You’d like to kiss him. You know he loves you, just as you love him.

“It’s perfect. I’m going to like it here,” you tell him, and your heart swells and patters when his shoulders raise a little bit, proud of himself for his pick. With his hidden face, you’ve become an expert in his body language. All his little tells become clear to you, the more time you spend with him.

He is slow with you, cautious. Not as if approaching a wild animal, he would never treat you with such base suspicion and wariness, but as if he is the animal, well-aware of exactly how powerful his bite is. He treasures you too much to damage you. 

Such brutality is held within this many-faceted man, vast and damning. He is a gentleman though, through accident or practice, and he puts that hardwork into effect with you.

It causes you to make the first move most of the time. 

“I want you to have dinner with me tonight,” you say, tapping your fingers against the glass, feeling the condensation cling to your fingerprints. 

He shakes his head. “Your value is too high for us to allow you out of the flat, Pauk,” he says gently, misunderstanding, as if reminding you. There are so many beautiful homes he has carved out for you, but you’ve never stepped foot outside of them. 

He thinks you want to, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. The reality is that you are brimming with hatred at the fact it still stands. That your suffering was for nothing, and the apocalypse still lies dormant but rumbling, a stalled birth. You love your closed spaces and your blackout curtains that hide the world and your tall walls and bright lights.

“We can have something ordered and brought to you,” he continues, trying to soothe the blow that never landed.

A grunt of annoyance snaps out of your throat, hand pressing flat to the glass. “Nooo,” you draw out, turning to face him in full. “I want you all to eat here, with me. Only us, none of the guards making all that fucking noise with their heavy boots. And I want to pretend that we’re all just having a nice night. And there are no contagions or stadiums or belt-fed guns.”

In shame, his head drops a degree, arms tightening in front of him. The supple leather of his gloves creak. “Apologies, Pauk.” His head remains that one slice lower, but his eyes flicker up like a bird’s from beneath his rippy lashes. “We…” he pauses, trying to formulate the words, “we will put that together. For you. What do you want to eat?”

Your hand comes away from the glass, and you press your palms together like a prayer, holding the sides of your hands to your lips. “I want something bloody and buttery. Something good made by someone that doesn’t love me.”

A small noise like a laugh sounds behind his heavy mask, and his neck relaxes. It puts together a picture of thought: it’s a good thing we do not cook for you, then. “We will find something.”

+

Neither of you cook. It’s a sad reality. You were too built up for epidemiology and plague-practitioning to have the room or time to learn the skill, and Nikto readily admits that he’d long ago lost his sense of smell. “Nova gas,” he explained, funnily enough. “That was your grandfather’s work, yes?” It was. He and his team. You are a legacy leper-making, just like God and all of his followers.

The sun has settled fully in the city of Bruges, and the light of street lamps, the running lights of boats on the water, and fairy lights around shopfronts make the water glitter. It is warm here, with all the brick and cobblestone soaking up the yellow light, and for once you are fine with the curtains open.

Nikto has spoiled you rotten with clothing, all of it fine and soft and rich. You dress comfortably, beautifully, and wander the flat, looking over things leftover from past tenants, waiting on his return. He always leaves you with a guard when he is gone, and tonight it is a short but sturdy woman from Montenegro who does not speak. She sits on the small leather couch in the living room, reading a book with horses on the cover, rifle across her lap. You do not bother her, but you cannot wait for her to leave.

When Nikto arrives, it’s with yet another guard, this one in plainclothes, carrying two large paper bags in their arms. It’s always seemed funny to you that he just goes out in the mask, nightmare beneath it or not, and that people must have reactions in public. But, you don’t think Nikto travels anywhere that people would dare comment on it. He has lackeys for embarrassing, mundane duties. 

He takes the bags from the second guard, and dismisses the woman on the couch, letting you approach to lock the deadbolts on the back of the door when they’re out. It is your comfort and your right, he will not interfere with it.

Meeting his eyes, you grin a cracked grin at him. “Smells good. What is it? What was the restaurant called?”

He makes another laugh-noise, looking skin-close to bashful. “We do not know. We sent Dejanović to get it, he knows the city.” He peers into the bag. “He said foreign dignitaries enjoyed the place. We don’t feel like that always speaks well to quality.”

You try to take the bag into your hands, but his arm tightens. He does not like you doing menial tasks. He likes it only when you are free to tend to your work and whims. It is much preferable to him that your needs are met, and he is glad to tend to those tasks when he is with you.

“If it’s all rot and garbage, we can make zakuski instead, and wash it down with vodka,” you tell him, swaying a little, hoping the promise pleases him. “Tahumi brought me a can of caviar, and even found a mother-of-pearl spoon for it.”

His eyes grow hard at the mention of Tahumi giving you a gift. That is another thing that heckles him. He does not like others knowing about you, much less providing for you. That is his honor, and an honor he thinks it is.

Your mouth starts to curl. “Don’t eat yourself with knots,” you instruct him, but his eyes only grow harder, his posture stiffer. “I wanted it, and Tahumi saw it, and he bought it. He did it to please you, because you are so here-and-there with your underlings. Your favor can’t be curried because it doesn’t exist.”

“They are warm, walking corpses, and nothing more,” he says, stone-solid, cold. “We don’t need them for anything more than catching bullets and carrying out orders. You are not a tool to buy their way into security. There is none, and you–you’re–” 

He turns his head and breathes out hard. His body is held so tightly it paints pain on the walls behind him. His molars squeak as they grind together, trying to collect himself, but he is upset.

“Andryu,” you say, pulling his diminutives, trying to pluck the chords that will bring him back to you. You bend your body to swerve, attempting to capture his eyes. “Andryusha.”

There is a little break in the armor, a crack where you can push your fingers in, to find contact with him. There is a little light in his eyes. “We cannot allow you to be taken advantage of. Your wholeness is…” he trails off, struggling, and you provide him the territory to prowl, find his words. He turns and meets your eyes, and there is his passion. “Our last shred of warmth is you. If you are pained, or used, or discarded–it is a blow that would destroy the last human thing in us.”

And, here, your scant humanity answers his. You fold, slope, ease. You nod in agreement. “I know, Andryu, I do. But all of you know where my loyalties lie. You know I wouldn’t hesitate to find you if I felt targeted.” You want so horrendously to reach out and touch him, but you don’t. You have to allow him to initiate, otherwise he cannot handle it. “My lot is in your lot. I go where you go. Everyone else is a corpse that forgot to lie down and die.”

Using his language in ways that he understands it unlocks him to you. His gloved hand comes up, hovering just to the side of your jaw. But he doesn’t touch, he only traces the air in a line down the bone structure. 

+

He allows—or, rather, you give him no in allowing you to stand in the kitchen as he unpacks your meals to plate. It could be call an awkward affair, if either of you had the social graces to register that feeling in your minds. 

He’s taken his gloves off and swatted at your hand trying to take the paper bag for recycling, giving you a sharp look borne of the love he holds. Again, not allowed to lift a finger. 

There are faded Cyrillic characters tattooed across his knuckles, the black ink bloated and faded to blue. SOS across three fingers: either spasi, otets, syna or Suki Otnyali Svobodu. Save me, father, your son. Bitches robbed my freedom. 

He’s never told you which in specific, though he’s offered both as options. Tattoos are carved into so much of his skin, and he’s given you brief walking tours of them when he’s stripped down enough for them to appear. A warping on Russian prison tattoos, repurposed for the Spetsnaz. 

Epaulets on his shoulders—horses die from work. Devils just below those, oskals, hatred of authority. ‘I Fuck Poverty and Misfortune’ in Cyrillic, riding his Adonis belt. A lighthouse on his forearm, yearning for freedom. His skin tells his story, hard-lived, a language known to few. 

His plating skills are what cause him minor self-consciousness. He’s not an artistic man, and he has no eye for aesthetics. The blood-rare ribeyes are just placed and pushed to one side of the plate, crumbled blue cheese dumped artlessly on top. Creamed potatoes end up slopping over roasted asparagus, and he growls in his throat, frustrated. He is trying incredibly hard to make it pleasing. The more he moves it around, trying to be careful, the worse it looks. 

He wouldn’t care if it was solely for him. His frustration is because you will not be eating something pretty. In his mind, the only things you deserve are pretty and perfect. 

His hands stop fussing, resting on the edge of the counter, glaring down at the plates. “It looks like shit,” he renders his verdict. It sounds like he is considering throwing it away and ordering something else.

“Pelmeni look like shit. So does poutine. But it all tastes good, so we still eat it,” you push back. “No one eats shiny plastic or tinsel.”

He grunts again. “People eat shiny plastic and tinsel all the time, because they are fucking stupid.”

“If any of you are insinuating that any of us are fucking stupid, you’re being a fucking child.” Despite the content of your words, it is not said with heat. It is an olive branch, trying to reach him across the expanse of his dissatisfaction. You’re not sure you’ve made contact until his fingers start tapping on the counter, and he hums Krokodil Gena’s Birthday Song deep in his chest. He is calming, rectifying reality with himself. 

After a few, long moments, he picks up the plates, nodding at you, and carries them to the dining table outside the kitchen. It is situated in front of a set of big picture windows that he honestly does not like you standing near, ever, but it is for the sake of the evening. He sets your plate down, and pulls out your chair for you, before he seats himself. There are already sets of silverware and water on the table. A bottle of vodka, and two small glasses to drink from. 

You start by pouring two sips of vodka, offering him one. A toast falls out of your mouth, unthinking, and he clinks your glasses together in agreement. When you put your shot back, he hands you his glass, and you shoot that, as well. He has not removed his mask. He will not. But he overturns his glass next to yours.

It’s an odd affair, how the meal goes. Conversation picks up, on plans and your work, on the state of the world as it stands. That will run out, and you will both turn to other topics. Books, movies, cars. Oh, Nikto has such a soft spot for cars–he could talk about them from dusk until dawn. Luxury cars, supercars, performance and rally cars, working vehicles, even an astonishing breadth of consumer cars. He has opinions that stretch the globe, and you soak it up like a dry sponge. 

The oddest thing is that you eat, and he does not. He keeps his hands resting on either side of his plate, guarding it as if he was a prisoner, but he does not once touch his silverware. He won’t eat in front of anyone. He can’t, not without taking the mask off. It’s something he didn’t have to explain to you, you just understood it by studying his patterns. It’s something that made him even softer toward you. 

You finish, part of your steak left–you intend to slice it up and put it on some grilled crusty bread with piles of caramelized onions later–resting your fork and your knife on the edge of your plate. “That was good. Despite the dignitaries and dog shit. I want a copy of their menu, to tear up and eat bit by bit. I want all of you to have more dates with me, this one dripped romantic. All the seams were splitting up, and it went drop by drop by drop.”

“Date?” he queries, looking at you across the table as he reaches for your plate.

“Date.” You nod once, emphatically.

He shudders, smothering something that sounds like a sigh, averting his eyes. “We…will make sure there is a menu for you, next time,” he starts, unphased by your request. “Roses, if you like.”

You shake your head. “No use for roses, they wilt and die. Flowers all-wilted smell like the dark parts of the bunker, and my stomach eats and eats away at me because of that smell.”  You send an apologetic look across the table, thinking. “I’ll take tokens in trinkets. Whenever you bring me jewelry, I don’t take it off.”

As if in example, you pull up your sleeves, showing him the bracelets he’s brought you, left for your discovery on desktops and dressers. Next, you tug at your collar, showing him a pile of necklaces. 

His fingers twitch, looking at you helplessly. Not even he can prevent the swallow that goes down his throat, when he sees that you hoard the fine things he brings back for you.

Another long moment passes, and he is hoarse when he agrees, “Jewelry. We will bring you jewelry, then.”

In as much of a rush as you’ve ever seen him, he collects your dishes, and the bottle of vodka, storming back through the kitchen door. It doesn’t latch behind him, and you know he will be a while. It feels dirty, destructive and found and deceitful, but you sneak up to the crack, wanting to watch him.

His back is turned, his mask removed. Hair so deep in darkness it shines white under lights sticks up from his head at all angles, some of it missing from the side of his skull, along with an ear. He eats quickly, in clipped bites, gorging himself, stopping only to tip back the vodka bottle. It’s almost an ugly display, brutal necessity, and you know as well as you know the own pounding of your heart that he is uncomfortable, that he hates this. He hates to be bare.

You cannot see his face, and you would not try to see it. You want to see it someday, and that will only happen when he is ready to show you. You will not steal that freedom from him. You will not sneak looks when he is unawares. It is the same courtesy he has afforded you, and you are hellbent to pay it back in kind.

With that prickling your skin, you back away from the door, allowing him his needs. 

When he returns, sitting next to you on the couch, he is warmed-through and softened by the alcohol and food. He takes hold of your ankle, pulling it into his lap, rubbing the knob of your bone with his bare fingers. His masked head tips back, resting against the back of the couch, and he heaves a heavy sigh.

Your stomach clenches, and your heart races. There is so much love between the two of you, so impossibly massive that it cannot ever be feasibly dealt with, and that is something you are fine with when his eyes meet yours in a crinkled smile. 

Perhaps your union will kill the world as it stands, but you don’t particularly mind. His hands are warm against your bones, reaching deeper than any other human possibly could, and he looks at you as if you are his only purpose in life, even if that is not true.

“Andryusha,” you greet him quietly, turning your leg in his touch so he can have more skin.

Another small noise, pleasure, and he rubs deeper, followed by a soft, heartsick request, “Say it again, Paukya.”

[tylermileslockett]

POSEIDON

“I begin to sing about Poseidon, the great god, mover of the earth and fruitless sea, god of the deep who is also lord of Helicon and wide Aegae. A two-fold office the gods allotted you, O Shaker of the Earth, to be a tamer of horses and a saviour of ships!”  

(-Homeric Hymn, translated by H.G. Evelyn white)

POSEIDON(puh-SAI-din) is the God of the seas, earthquakes, droughts, and horses. Pulled along in his seashell chariot by half-horse, half-fish creatures called Hippocampi, he holds his sacred trident high, bringing a tumultuous storm behind him. Standing beside him is his sea nymph wife, Amphitrite, who is the eldest of fifty nereid daughters of Nereus; the “old man of the sea.” 

Amongst the waters are the god’s faithful followers. The half-fish, half-man creature at bottom right is Triton, herald son of Poseidon, who uses a conch shell to calm the waves and announce the God’s arrival. In the middle is a Nereid, a female sea nymph, typically portrayed as a maiden riding a dolphin. Bottom left is Palaimon, sea god and protector of sailors, sometimes depicted as a boy on a dolphin. 

The god of the sea is known for his savage retributions. One fascinating episode involves Poseidon and Athena entering a competition to become the patron god of Athens. Upon the Acropolis, Poseidon produces a salt water spring for the Athenians, while Athena wins by creating the first olive tree. The sea god, in his anger, sends a flood to punish the mortals. In the odyssey, after Odysseus blinds Poseidon’s son, the giant cyclops Polyphemus, the god causes havoc and disaster for the hero and his crew as they attempt to sail home. Poseidon sends Cetusthe sea serpent to punish QueenCassiopa for her hubris in comparing her daughter Andromedato the nereids. And, he sends a bull from the sea to terrorize Theseus’ son Hippolytus’ chariot.

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[applebuttercringe]

Episode 5 immediate thoughts

Spoilers ahead!

-Oh hey it's the big guy who used to be on Caitlyns strike team.

-Get em Vi

-Jinx is betting on Vi's fights

-Average lesbian breakup experience

-Did she dye her hair black? Or did she just cry enough eyeliner onto herself that it turned it black?

-THE SISTER REUNION

-Vi is reminded by the shimmer tear that Jinx isn't fully in control of herself.

-Proud of Jinx though for being able to be in Vi presence without a breakdown

-Last time they saw each other Vi was fully ready to kill Jinx. Most brutal fight in the series. Now they can work together? Thats kinda rushed.

-Caitlyn using her detective skills again!

-"Peacekeeping operations" Yeah right Caitlyn.

-Caitlyn is full on racist

-Full on fascist

-The Caitlyn stans are gonna be fighting for their LIVES trying to defend her.

-This is the first time we've seen Mel not collected, or at least put together and considerate.

-ELORA!!!

-Mels brother?

-Mels brother!

-Well Vi got over basically all the Jinx stuff pretty quick.

-I mean this is basically what both of them really wanted, to be a family again, and it was achieved with very little ceremony.

-Did Jinx find out the mushroom aren't toxic by eating them? Does she eat every new thing she finds just to check?

-If Vi thinks this is Jinx lying why would she follow her?

-"BITCHMITTENS"

-Typical sibling behavior

-Vi is a child hitter confirmed. Considering Jinx's lingering trauma from Vi's reaction to the explosion in S1 Ep3, I'de think she would have a worse reaction to Vi hitting Isha.

-Whaarwhick is more savage than any beast in Noxus? Knowing Noxus from league I find that hard to believe.

-Wait, did Silco kill Vi and Jinx's parents? Is that why they split? I need to rewatch this frame by frame.

-Singed holding his daughter

-Singed real name is Dr. Reveck

-If Mel and Kino are surprised Ambessa has a love child, were they her hatechilds?

-Mel herself is a magical maguffin for the cult running a foreign nation. I thought she was just a super cool girlboss.

-Jinx is a jacket sniffer.

-Was Vander in love with their mom? I thought he was their adopted dad, has he been their bio dad the whole time?

-Vi defending Jinx 🥺

-Is that Singed daughter on the record Felicity is playing.

-Oh no young Silco is hot

-Felicity sounds like Jinx when she says "working up the nerve"

-That one tweet was right, Arcane music is horrifically literal.

-I don't care if it's rushed. This scene is straight out of a feel good fix it fic and I love it. Happiness and family for the Zaun sisters!

-Is this Salo after being healed by Viktor?

-Knew it

-Jayce, where ya been buddy?

-Viktor broke Jayce out so he could come see him. I mean it is probably not Viktor, it's the hexcore taking people over, but still.

-And once again the dynamic is reversed

-Just leaving Ekko and Heimerdinger in their huh?

-JAYCE STRAIGHT UP MURDERED HIM! HOLY SHIT! WHAT!?

-I THOUGHT HE WAS JUST GONNA BONK HIM TO KNOCK HIM OUT!

-WTF HAPPENED TO HIM!

Overall: Ok, so this felt rushed. The last 4 acts have been tearing these sisters apart, entirely centering on the traumas and outside forces that keep them from being a family. Then Jinx shows up and it takes one sentence to get Vi back, granted Vander being alive is big news, but Vi thinks Jinx is lying to her. Why wouldn't she be mad at Jinx?

Jayce straight up murderred a guy, I wish we got to see more of how he got to this point.

Caitlyn is still as much of a dictator as she has been all, but she does get consistently worse.

Mel is in a totally different story now.

Things are only looking up for Jinx and Vi.

Even with it being rushed I do like Jinx and Vis story here, I want happiness for them , sue me. But I don't see how they could possibly meaningfully redeem all the other characters in the 4 episodes left. Which means I think Arcane season 2 might not be peak anymore, entertaining? Yes. Interesting? Yes. Exciting? Yes. Peak? Maybe not. I still love it, but the cracks are showing.