#obsessed with how shaped they are

[punk-lucifer]

something im really appreciating, watching the olympics, is that while all the athletes are demigods that are absolutely at their physical peaks for each sport NONE OF THEM have instagram face. despite the homogenous nature of social media that’s been creeping into all media since the late 2000s all the athletes look so different. noses! jawlines! lips! eyes! everyone i see on tv looks like a real person and i am LOVING IT

[visions--of--collisions]

1, 2, 3 by @plzdldl

[sotiredmostnights]

i know everyone likes to put tharja in the "yandere goth girl" category but tbh i feel like pigeonholing her into one specific archetype does a huge disservice to her character. is she obsessed with curses and robin? yes. is she constantly shoved into a fanservice role by intsys? absolutely.

but i think a lot of people forget just how impactful a lot of her supports are...there's something about tharja that makes nearly everyone who interacts with her divulge their deepest secrets and points of anxiety with her. we see this with libra, who tells her of the abandonment he endured at the hands of his parents. we see it with nowi, whose cheerful demeanor slips off as she tells tharja of her missing parents. and although tharja is not the only one lon'qu confides in regarding ke'ri, their support is notably the only one in which lon'qu divulges that there was romantic involvement between he and his childhood friend.

and despite her antisocial exterior, she always listens mindfully and offers to help! she even goes out of her way to discreetly help the shepherds (getting virion to do odd jobs that benefit civilians, interrogating henry to make sure he bears no ill will towards ylisse, etc).

a big thing about tharja is that she IS kind. she IS considerate. she just also has a reputation to uphold as a dark mage and that (paired with her overall awkwardness ofc) makes her true nature hard to see at first glance

[coldturkeybabe]

just a little man

[nevertheless-moving]

unable to stop dwelling on the discworld trouser leg of time where, in the penultimate fight scene in Nightwatch, Carcer manages to kill teenage Sam Vimes.

Which means that the future that Duke Vimes came from can no longer exist, which means he can’t go home. Meanwhile you’ve got a bunch of history monks with stored up temporal energy, a prepared space outside of time, and the need to do some desperate damage control before the Auditors get involved. Death shows up, reality is unweaving, Sam is reading Carcer his discworld miranda rights because what else is he supposed to do.

and finally, with little other option, the monks de-age Sam so he fits the time period and send him back out into the fray.

(they didn't call it deageing of course. His memory is hazy, splintered during that terrible in between moment, They....took the time out of him? Sanded away the edges of his self for a terrible, workable fit? It...wasn't a good feeling.)

Just—damn. Sam Vimes having to live his whole crapsack life over again, but this time as his disillusioned-reillusioned, unwillingly-character-developed, noir-epic, Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes self. 

Younger (Older? He's never felt so Old, His steps so Childlike, reality twisting in his gut like one of Dibbler's pies) Sam Vimes walking around in a haze after the revolution. Desperate to go home, knowing he can’t. Wanting to drink. Knowing he can’t.

The whole precinct feels pity, he really took Keel’s death hard, hardly speaks except to do his job. Eventually he has to grit his teeth and start being present, because what else is there to do?

Resists the urge to drink until Colon takes the whole watch out to celebrate because -he’s going to be a father!

Come on Sammy, one drink won’t kill you— and after the first drink he’s cracking jokes and after the second hes smiling and after the third hes honestly the life of the party and sometime after that he’s crying about how he was going to be a father and my wife would be ashamed if she saw me drinking like this and— 

Oh shit, Did anyone else know he had a wife?? A PREGNANT wife??? What—aren’t you like 12—no you're 17 now aren't you but when did—

You guys n’ver met ’er—oh gods none if you ev’n know ‘er, is jus’ me...

What—when did you lose—

I lost her the same damn day I los’ ev’rythin else, whadya think...bleeding Carcer...the fuckin revolution...

So! That! Sam only vaguely remembers the night, but rumors travel faster than light on the disc, so by the next day the whole damn city knows about poor Sam brung low by the loss of his poor, tragic, pregnant wife, so young to be a widower, and the Seamstresses nod because they already knew, don’t ask them how, somethings you just have to know in that trade.

And his mother—I don’t know, sue me, I’m a time travel fiend but there’s something deeply intriguing about a man meeting his dead parent, who is somewhat younger than him, and stepping into the old relationship like a badly fitting thing that's supposed to fit well. She would know, right? How would she deal with her son’s impossible grief? Maybe she wouldn’t know—he spent most of the time out of the house, running with different street gangs, maybe he avoids her until she dies and lives with the guilt twice over. God, we don’t even know her name. There’s just so much narrative and emotional potential that I don’t even know where to start.

When he’s on duty, which is most time - it’s agonizing because at first he remembers cases, saves lives that would have been lost. But the more time passes, the hazier his memory because in the original timeline he was becoming an alcoholic. Fuck! A kid dies and he could have saved her if he hadn’t been such a drunk, if he had just remembered where the asshole lived, but it’s all a haze, and he wants to drown out his guilt, but that’s what caused this in the first place.

Good young Sammy, who spends his rare off-time in dusty libraries (and yes, the irony that he’s apparently Carrot now is not lost on him) reading gods-only-know.

It’s not like he can ask the wizards for help, cutthroat and vicious as they are now in the not-so-distant-past.

Good young Sam, who...talks to the Broken Drum’s pet Bouncer like he’s a real person and not a dumb rock? That’s a bit weird, but he’s a bit of a funny guy.

Good old Sam, who believed the testimony of the dwarf who said the humans were trying to rob him and let the dwarf go??

the PROBLEMS this man would cause, good grief. Can you imagine a moderately progressive middle aged man with some degree of begrudging diversity and equity training that he did, for all his sins, pay attention to, suddenly going back to like, 1990, going back just 30 years, and going...oh damn this is kind of fucked up, no man you can’t say that, holy shit.

Except Sam’s lived through even more rapidly shifting social moroes! There’s no seamstress guild, there’s no women allowed inside the university, there’s no black ribboner’s society. People hunted trolls for their teeth! But Sam can’t just unlearn everything, and he can’t shut up, and he has no real luck and anyway he would absolutely get himself (temporarily) fired.

FUCK. Sam has no idea what to do with that. None. Zero clue. Wanders around in a haze until that dwarf he saved from police brutality finds him and insists on repaying the debt. No, he insists, do you have any idea what debt means to a dwarf?

“Sort-of?” he replies hesitantly, and that honest admission of incomplete knowledge shows a hell of a lot more respect and understanding than any self proclaimed dwarf-expert ever did.

Gets a job as a surface man, hauling rocks into the city. It’s backbreaking work, but, in true Discworld fashion, it’s also one hell of a workout (again the irony of being Carrot is not lost him. he freezes for a minute while hauling a rock cart, when he remembers he's technically Lost Nobility too, in a strict sense, but someone curses at him in the street and he's comfortingly grounded)

And here is where this au slides into a SPECTACULAR romantic comedy, BEAR WITH ME. Because in his time on the Watch he’s already done noir, action adventure, war story, detective who dunnit, psychological horror, but guards guards only allowed him to be a romance protagonist in an extremely limited context.

Give me righteous, twenty-something-looking, can’t-say-he-doesn’t-have-style, young Sam Vimes, not an alcoholic,  being fed three square meals a day by his dwarven forced found family, hauling rocks. He is startled to find him bumping his head on a low hanging bar that he doesn’t think used to be there, eventually realizing that he’s an inch or two taller than he remembers. Huh. Guess all that bearhuggers really did stunt his growth.

Still doesn’t get what some of the looks from women he’s getting are about, sure, he’s dirty but so is everyone else. Fine, he took his shirt off, but it’s hot out, there’s far wrinklier than him hauling heavy loads, get a life. 

Happens to glance in the Ankh one day when it’s particularly slow and shiny and is startled to realize that he might be turning heads for a different reason. Oh. Right, not that he was ever a heartbreaker, but he did alright for himself... when he was a younger and his face hadn’t been broken so many times. Which...it isn't now.

Is mildly disturbed by the revelation.

Especially once things blow over at the precinct and what with high mortality rates, he ends up with getting hired again. The boys are delighted to have him back, nevermind that he’s an odd one, noone is ever quite in your corner like Vimsey, absence makes the heart fonder, no one else works that hard, and he’s not even competition for promotion. All around great guy, we should set him up with somebody and just, no.

It just keeps getting worse! He’s literate! He’s a feminist! He believes abuse victims! He’s got a tragic backstory! He’s unreasonably good in a fistfight! He’s kind to animals! Word gets around that there’s a good man on the watch and he’s just waiting for a good woman to come snap him up. The widower excuse doesn’t hold people off completely, and for some it’s its own sort-of appeal. 

Things REALLY become stressful after he rescues that carriage full of noblewoman.

What’s he supposed to do? Let them get robbed? Or worse? Chasing down and beating up 10 goons is as easy as beating up one, when they’re that stupid, getting separated like that, drunk and distracted, and he knows these streets better than anyone, really it’s nothing. And oh lord he’s Modest too.

I mean, they were genuinely greatful, as genuine as people like that are capable of being, the skill having grown rusty. And then there is something...magnetic about the man. An air of command.

So, soon enough you get Lady Marigold of Marigrave calling on Treckle Road for that gallant young officer who rescued them, she really needs to thank him. And Viscountess Elanor Thitzferal specifically requesting that he guard her at her next soiree. And Baroness Julieta van Shoeholten insisting that he come to her home while her husband’s away, for... manly protection.

Aaaah just zero sympathy from the guys. None. 'It’s become a competition, they’re just trying to see who can get me into bed first, it’s like I’m a piece of meat, you can’t send me sir, the Marquess greeted me in a nightee last time you made me go to—' and 'small gods Vimes are you even listening to yourself, shut the hell up'.

Simultaneous to this, (again this is several years into the timeline) swamp dragon accessories come into style. Which means abandoned swamp dragons scrounging on the street. Vimes takes one back to his apartment, blows his paycheck on dragon medicine, and eventually, heart in his chest, brings it to the Ramkin estate. The sunshine orphanage doesn’t even exist yet and he’s just standing outside the gates like an idiot, what is he thinking. Turns around, but her carriage is pulling up and—

well. they meet. it's cute. he's never felt so young. he's never felt so old, too old for her, too poor—

and certainly her thoughts linger too long on the awkward, kindly, handsome young commoner, but is it any wonder she doesn't quite connect it to the stern, dangerous, sexy young guard the ladies seem to be in some quiet, cuthroat competition over?

i have this gorgeous, absurd scene in my head in which Vimes is strong armed into standing guard at some high society soiree and one of the pushiest ladies insists he dance with here, or, if he prefers, if he's not confident about his skills, he can dance with her in-private at her home and he’s like [grinding teeth, looking for a way out, seeinf one] “I would be honored to dance with you.”

Steps right into some ultra-complex dance with multiple partner swaps (she never thought he'd pick this one, devilishly intimidating to one not strictly trained, and you barely spend anytime with your first partner).

But he does alright. Better than alright, for a common man, sometimes misstepping but his hands and feet always end up where they need to be. Raises several eyebrows part way into the song because he's throuwing in some slightly scandalous, no innovative, extra lifts and twirls that wouldn't become fashionable for another decade or two. Who even is that guy? Some out of towner? No, no he's in a guards uniform...how very strange.

Gets to Sybll and she's used to embarrassment during these dances, she tries to get out of them when she can... but can't always. Men awkwardly skipping the lifts, or worse, trying and failing. But him — oh it's him, the one who helped little Erold, and looked at her like—like—well like she was someone beautiful. And he's doing it again, and he's strong and there's a quiet moment where she's in the air, they lock eyes, and the rest of the room melts away.

And then the partners change again, the moment ended.

Just...living throught it all again. To the left, a dance he almost knows the steps to, throwing others off balance with erratic moves , honest mistakes, and delibrate stepping on toes. Improvising. Ruining. Improving. Getting far, far too much attention.

Hes almost excited when the first assassains start coming after him. It's like a hobby.

Everyone tells him he should get a hobby.

Interactions with young vetinari...I don't have the energy to write it all down, the slow circling in on each other, both burning with the need to fix the city, save it, their city.

needless to say he ends up fired again, life under real threat after offending some high lord.

Conveniently enough he has an employment opportunity- bodyguard to fucking Vetinari on his 'grand sneer.' The bastard knows vimes isn't what he seems, though sam is pretty sure that he doesnt know the exacts.

Vetinari hypothesis:(the ghost of keel? Keels son, with some hereditary curse? Or a larger spirit of justice possessing a string of unrelated souls? He knows things he shouldn't- mind reader? Fortune teller? Havelock once arranged for a wizard to bump into him on the street, the magical fool gave an odd double look and then muttered something about destiny looping in on itself giving him a headache. Destiny? Lost noble? And hes far too familiar with sybyl, one of the few bearable noblewomen in this city. And his thoughts on guilds, when havelock can trip him into speaking... Most of all, if hes reading him at all correctly (for all the mystery hes not that hard to read, unless thats a very clever cover) then it seems that behind those dark haunted eyes is Respect. Loyalty. For vetinari. What an interesting man. A puzzling asset. An intriguing threat. )

Did I mention the timeline is changing, healing slowly around the place where it was torn? Healing enough around scars to perhaps get some flexibility back, with some painful stretches and...massaging of said scar tissue?

And hes heading to unresting uberwald, a place where a werewolf pack still hunts humans and, truely unrelated but perhaps equally exhausting, an eldritch spirit of vengeance just might be looking to stretch its legs in a hapless vessel?

Opening drabble Vimes Vetinari Meta (Unwell) Scene from the Uberwald Grand Sneer

[veerbles]

Kaz's attic rooms in the Slat

(canon notes under the cut)

All canon descriptions of Kaz's attic rooms:

"The Slat wasn’t much [...] crowned with an attic and a gabled roof." -> most likely a room with slanted walls.

"The attic rooms had been converted into his office and bedroom." -> the attic is partitioned into two separate rooms.

"The [office] room was mostly taken up by a makeshift desk – an old warehouse door atop stacked fruit crates – piled high with papers." -> the office isn't large; considering the dimensions of a warehouse door, and that it takes up most of the space, the room is VERY ROUGHLY 4x3m (13x9 ft).

"...he walked through the door to his tiny bedroom. [Inej darted] a glance at him through the open doorway [as he] dipped a cloth in the wash basin." -> (1) the office and bedroom are separated by a wall and door. (2) the bedroom is even smaller than the office - around 4x2m maybe. (3) assuming Inej was standing in the middle of the office, she had a line of sight to the wash basin through the bedroom door.

"Whenever he sat down to try to get some work done, he’d find his eyes straying to the window ledge." -> the window has enough room to sit, and there is a direct line of sight from kaz's office chair to it.

the slat is pretty clearly modeled after amsterdam's canal ring houses. I based the room's overall set-up and position within the house on this incredible post by @arany-studio.

furniture designs and bedroom features are inspired by 17-19th century rooms. I didn't try to be very specific with the style because (a) Ketterdam is not really a direct adaption of the early 19th century, (b) Kaz is a barrel rat and his furniture just came from wherever he could get them, including the street, abandoned buildings and mansions he robbed.

there are probably more things in the room that aren't depicted. I didn't want to crowd the drawing.

[dykesevika]

I’m actually fine with the complete lack of sevika merch/content because my possessive dyke ass cannot handle the thought of other people liking her, let alone owning something of her 😭

MEN DNI

[toxooz]

anyway not saying I'd climb him like a tree squirrel but I would climb him like a tree squirrel

[15minlatewithbatbucks]

"Sometimes I forget they're gone."

Bruce looks up from work - a crossword he's doing to pass time until the gas chromatography finishes - and over to where Tim is rolling back and forth in front of a secondary terminal. The steady squeak of his chairs back wheel was almost meditative in a way. He stared up at a blank screen, face only illuminated in profile by the gentle glow of Bruce's own terminal.

"Who is?" Bruce asked when Tim didn't elaborate. For all that this was functionally his home now, the boy had a tendency to occupy space in a way that made Bruce's jaw ache from biting his tongue.

"My parents." Tim stopped rocking and the Cave was as silent as a grave between them. One grave in particular. "Like, something happens and I think, oh, Mom would love to hear about this. Or Dad would get all huffy and rant over something silly and it would be fun to listen to."

Tim, who loved his parents and, arguably was loved in return. He spent most of his time in his room or the Cave, exploring other rooms in the Manor like his parents did archeological sites. Interesting to him, but not a place to be.

"Sometimes I pick up the phone and get as far as putting in their international number, you know?"

Tim, who was parented through phone calls and post cards. Tim, who spent so much of his life in boarding schools that an actual home looked more like a museum than a place to live.

"I'm sorry, bud," Bruce murmured. There wasn't much else he could say, aside from reminding Tim that his father was still alive. Comatose, hanging in limbo, but alive.

Bruce thought it would be easier if Jack Drake died with his wife. Bruce also hated himself for thinking those kinds of things.

"I just keep thinking about Mohenjo-daro," he continued. "We're learning about it in school this unit and I keep remembering- I keep remembering that Dad said he's been there. I can't keep the dates right in my head and he would have helped."

"I can give it a shot," Bruce offered even though he knew it was the wrong thing to do now just as it had been the wrong thing to do when he offered to find a Romani language tutor for Dick when he realized he was forgetting things.

It would solve one part of the problem, but it would never replace the help a father could give.

Tim turned towards him, pale face washed out in stark relief under the light from behind Bruce. He wondered if Tim could even see his face in the relative darkness and found a cowards courage knowing he couldn't.

"He told me a story about it once," Tim said. "I can't remember the ending. I can't remember what he told me. Why didn't I listen better?"

Bruce had no answer for him. He set his paper aside and opened his arms.

Dick would have thrown himself at Bruce, taking comfort where and when he could. Jason would have slunk over and did his level best to press close enough to cave in Bruce's chest and make himself a home.

He was, in hindsight, too good at that.

Tim always hesitated. Weighting the pros and cons? Overthinking a simple comfort offered freely? Bruce never knew.

Still, Tim slowly abandoned his squeaking chair. He let Bruce tug him in for a hug.

Tim was older than Dick had been, around the same age as Jason. Even so, in moments like this he seemed immeasurably younger. Tim, cast off in a prestigious boarding school, had lived comparatively untouched by life's hardest lessons. He signed up for the work, but he couldn't have known how hard it would be. Bruce never should have let him in, but what could he do now? Tim came to him when he needed a partner the most and he was so, so grateful even as regret threatened to choke him.

A beep, then. Bruce's eyes drifted upwards.

"The drugs we lifted from the Iceberg Lounge?" Tim asked against Bruce's neck.

"Yes."

"Show me."

Bruce let Tim out from the protective circle of his arms and did so. The moment lay broken behind them, like so many others.

[chronurgy]

It's the modernization it's the mechanization it's the way the old world has to die for the new world to be born and by killing gortash you've slowed it down but you haven't stopped it because ideas can't be stopped and the industrial world that will destroy your way of life is coming and you can't stop it by killing him any more than the luddites could stop it by smashing up a few factory machines

[averlym]

smth smth red queen ?

[maukiki1]

my son and his uncooked pasta bit-beast

also heres th lineart bcs the lineart was especially laborious lol

[anthonyzoxide]

Save me solarpunk farmer Pearl... Solarpunk farmer Pearl save me... (Design by @applestruda awesomest character design I've seen in my life good gorsh)

[queen-mabs-revenge]

there is something so exceptional about the audio form and the kind of...meta-narrative (?) of horror it creates that really leapt out at the end of this re: dracula episode (25 Sept).

seeing the runtime of each episode sets the scene - 27:06? ok, i'm in for something here -- we have a few, uhhhhh, long-winded characters in rotation so it might not be an eventful something, but at this point in the story, we've already been gutted by episodes with longer runtimes so just glimpsing the runtime already sets the scene for heightened dread. you might set aside time to experience the dread instead of maybe quickly listening to a minute long episode wherever/whenever you are.

i luckily got to listen through without interruption and so i was only vaguely aware of the passing time in that approximate way one's body clock ever is. so as this episode came to a close, and mina asks van helsing to not reply if he agrees to meet for breakfast, the dread spiked

i didn't know how long was left in the episode -- the music was still lingering. how much time has it been? 27 minutes? it feels like it could be 27 minutes, but it also feels much shorter? can't be sure. and even if the runtime is nearly elapsed, we know from previous episodes that a telegram can take mere seconds, a journal entry just a few words. is van helsing going to be called away? is he going to cancel the meeting? is mina going to be left alone again with no answers and no friends? with the count and the 'bloofer lady' closing in? how long has the music been playing? holding my breath for the morse code. holding my breath for van helsing's voice. holding my breath for 'letter by hand'. holding my breath for 'letter unopened'...

"this episode featured..."

relief

when reading, you have the unread pages in your hand constantly telling you the story of the progress of the narrative's shape. unless every piece of ephemera of an epistolary story is set on its own separate page, you can see the next item in your eyesight. sure, even if they are on separate new pages, you can see through the printed page the shadows of the text on the next, giving you a subconscious hint of expectation.

with a film, you lose the tangibility of the physical object informing the narrative, but you have other sensory cues - something like a fade to black over the lingering music can manipulate your expectations of narrative completion (and either follow through or subvert them). if you're watching on a device, an accidental activation of the screen or cursor might give you a glimpse of the progression bar, again changing your narrative perception.

with an audio drama you're left with just the one sense as your guide. unless you're actively watching the progression bar as you're listening or actively watching a clock, you just don't know beyond your own imperfect perception of time what you're in for and fuck me the added anxiety because of that is just

whew

[starlooove]

No one is asking you to like cops IRL, not even the show. If you look at Arcane and what you see is copaganda, if you look at Cait and only see PoLiCe OfFiCeR and not the character, the problem is YOU.

1. I never said anyone asked me to like cops irl

2. I know that’s what I said.

[age-of-moonknight]

Phases of the Moon Knight (Vol. 1/2024), #1.

Writers: Erica Schultz and Benjamin Percy; Penciler: Manuel García; Inker: Sean Parsons; Colorist: Ceci de la Cruz; Artist: Rod Reis; Letterer: Cory Petit