#who are you mystery person

[spacetimeaccordionfolder]

Reading The Hero of Ages (Mistborn #3) and I feel like the Always Sunny in Philadelphia conspiracy board meme trying to figure out the little vignettes at the beginning of each chapter.

[letoasai]

do you get lots of asks? not lots of anon ones but in general. and how many followers did you have the last time you checked, before just now? (hehehehehe I'm on anon so you'll never recognize me)

Hello Mystery Person!

I maybe get one or two asks a month. Some people will leave their questions in the comments on Ao3, or more lately on discord. Either is super nice, i like answering story questions for people.

If i had to guess, i would have thought i had around 4 or 5 hundred followers but apparently i have just over thirteen hundred. No one is more surprised than me!

Thank you for asking!

[deltaruinedcoco37]

what is love baby don’t hurt me don’t hurt me no more what is love uahahahahahhdieooapozoeleelsslsdkddkddlddkdkekeeekdkslslslslsllslsls *proceeds to have a stroke*

i-

...i genuinely can't tell if this is someone from discord or an anon

[miiscreants]

How do you know it’s not just one anon? 😈

you’re right it could be two or three 😳

[azurityarts]

psmd but random vines/tiktoks

Happy 9th Anniversary to Super Mystery Dungeon!

[abyssruler]

POPULAR KID SCARA CANON?!??!

[iyohme]

and i know that you mean so well;

but i am not a vessel for your good intent!

("Tongues and Teeth," - The Crane Wives)

my serotonin got jetpack bursted into the stratosphere with this blurb by OP. Your brain is so juicy and moist and wrinkly OP. Godspeed. I'm not even into DC but the whole "Burnt out and neglected, and now a bunch of people driven by guilt guilt guilt want me back so they can feel less guilty?" just made the racoon in me rub its hands menacingly hoho

Just imagine not even living your best life; just a shadow in the lives of the illustrious Waynes, a ghost in a castle, visible only to the loyal servant and the occasional curious paparazzi who shrugs and looks away--after all, there was no mention of you in any occasion: must be the kid of in-house staff. How nice of Brucie Wayne to allow even the children of in-house staff the opportunity to study at such a high-end college! (The reporters chortle and snicker at your barely-passing marks, sighing at such a wasted opportunity. Oh well. And then they move on to the tabloid topic of the week, after the strutting socialites and the rich and the arrested Rogues.)

You gather things.

You gather pieces of a cracked dream, a single plastic teacup you had brought into the cavernous mansion the day you held Alfred's old, gnarled hand. Ears ringing and slippers still stained with your parent's blood as they were gunned down before your very eyes. You gather your things, what made you before you were "Wayne," so to say. Your mother's old cigarette box, smuggled from the crime scene, your one memento of the woman who you could not forget but never forgive.

A juxtaposition of love and hate, forever crucified. The image of the Virgin Mary inside the tin box seems to be a mockery of faith, across from her image lying cheap cigarettes.

You gather test papers, all barely passing and with more reds than blacks, and grind them up into strips with the shredder you had brought; just one time the black card Wayne had given you, and it left the bitterest, sourest aftertaste in your mouth. They burn so cozily on the school Bunsen burners, especially when sprayed with alcohol, immediately immolating like timelapse sparkler videos. You gather your name before the Incident, you cherish it, and you repeat the syllables in the dead of night, spilling past your mouth. Even if it was the name of a child-abusing monster, it was still yours, and it was still of use.

And use it, you would.

While they go and be a family, you work to begin yours.

You gather funds: it's easy to take on odd jobs when people do not suspect you. You tuck away that black card at the bottom of your study table drawers, forgotten there like scribbled-out pages of an essay, an unfinished drawing, and leftover candy wrappers. It's a bit-by-bit work, but you know the Waynes wouldn't even see it happening. Your brothers and sisters (an absurdly alien concept, as they don't even acknowledge you exist ninety-five percent of the time) are prodigies paraded around at every event. You are the unseen ghost flitting through their shadows.

Graduation comes and goes. It's laughably easy to falsify having lost your social security number and other documents--Gotham is that much of a shithole, you suppose. The man in the cowl notwithstanding. His efforts are admirable, but weak. Recidivism is common in this place, as if there were some sort of pull that incited the people in Gotham to cruelty, to madness.

It's absurdly Lovecraftian, in its own way.

You are not even living your best life, and yet you are free. Alfred knows; he always knows. If you are The Ghost, then the aged butler is a man one step between the doors of death, and he sees you every time you move. Your room is empty, and he raises an eyebrow at your satchel: all your items already stored elsewhere or given away.

("I suppose this was a long time coming, Little Master."

Tap tap tap. Footsteps on marble floors, setting sun.

You shrug. "Eh. The Waynes gave me a roof and education. It's all good."

You grunt. "Well, people change. Like you know, how kids being gifted stop being gifted when they grow older." You say, instead of 'Well, if a child doesn't get any praise or attention if they do good and probably even less if they were bad, why even bother?')

A pause. "Your academics were not so lackluster when you were younger."

You promise to try and stay in touch. (You crossed your fingers behind your back.) You leave, sunset on your face.

The nap you had in a dingy hotel with far too many odd stains and not enough locks you could put on was the soundest you've ever slept in years.

Freedom smells like summer air and the last rays of sun, followed by the cold blue hour.

It takes three months for an out-of-state college to accept you. It's far from Gotham. It has a dormitory. Excellent. While you were indeed a mediocre academic student, you had banked everything on band scholarships.

Who knew more than a hundred clarinet players had unclaimed scholarships yearly? Packing up your small life in bags, you take a train upwards to another state.

(Meanwhile, in Gotham, there is an odd sense of unease as Bruce Wayne stops by an inconspicuous door. It's relatively clean, as expected of his manor, but the worn out brass on the handle suggests that someone had lived there before. He opens the door. Steps in. A bed, a dresser, a study table. Bare bones.

The unease intensifies. But who?)

Someone had lived in here, yes.

[leahaart]

[doctorwhommm]

got silly with this one ◡̈

[blindlydancing]

Amren was right. They hate Elain because they ain’t Elain.

[a-memory-a-distant-echo]

i know that it's at partly just that i do not generally post when i ride, but fang duobing, bounciest boy on the screen at all times, posting incredibly dramatically, is very funny and charming to me. he really wakes up and is like 'fuck yeah, every day is leg day, work them thighs!'

like, sir. please. you're gonna die. how far are you riding. how can you possibly sustain that, you cannot, it is impossible. how will you walk when you get off that horse. your thighs will be of steel, by which i mean utterly incapable of moving.

[mamawasatesttube]

it's like, i really do enjoy most of the bats as characters and i really do like a lot of their comics. but also i am sooooo tired of them being hailed as better than literally everyone else. both in fanon but also in comics (modern ones are esp egregious imo, like WHAT was that shit about batman and the joker being the most dangerous men on the planet. hi. have you heard of lanterns? speedsters? supers? actually if i keep listing groups who could kick batman's ass we'd be here all day). they're like kudzu. that shit needs to stay in its native environment (funky little neo-noir detective stories) and stop being an invasive species (putting down everyone else to make them seem cooler). put bruce wayne back into a murder mystery setting that isn't about saving the world but is about saving one person or one family that no one else would've saved right now or so help me god. the whole invasive species cross contamination thing is unhealthy for both him And the other ecosystems he keeps getting transplanted into. please. it's so dark in here

[francesderwent]

trying to find a nuanced way of explaining that Arcane is not about how privilege makes you inevitably incapable of seeing injustice when it happens to people you view as other. it’s about the slow descent into selfish utilitarian corruption (Jayce) and fearful grasping of indiscriminate power (Cait) that happens step by step by step to people who were initially horrified by it. it’s about decent people who want to do the right thing suddenly starting to view those different from them as other because it’s easier, after everything they’ve suffered. it’s about how the bad things that happen to you can twist you beyond recognition if you let them—and it could happen to anyone. you could let the world turn you into a weapon. you could develop blind spots. you could lose the ability to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s the voice of your fears. and every instance of us-versus-them thinking makes that slope slipperier.

[medi-bee]

isat pokemon au, my liege?

my rambling in tags

[zazikels]

this game will literally tell you anything except acknowledge the thing that started morrigan's reputation. she's had more lovers than there are trees in the forest but she's NOT A HERO OF THE FIFTH BLIGHT OR ANYTHING.

[jadecantcreate]

in the whitchlite carinval. straight up “caking it.” and by “it”, haha, well. lets justr say. My chad

(some gideon exploration & little doodles)