#>VERY WEIRD

[jelloapocalypse]

Hi! I guess it’s ask time? Just wanted to say I think you’re one of the funniest people on YouTube; I have a playlist called ‘Emergency Funny’ and like half of it is just your videos.

I’m wondering, when you’re cold-reading a line, like in those streams of voice acting a video game while playing it, what are the small details, if any, that you look to to figure out how to read the line? I’m continually amazed how you manage to have near perfect delivery while never having read the line before. Sorry if this is worded confusingly I legit don’t know how to phrase it

This was sent months ago, but it's actually a very good question and talking about this might help people who like to voice games on stream get better at doing that.

For context, this is about our "fully-voiced" game playthroughs where we cold read an entire video game out loud.

One small thing I try to do that helps is pressing the "advance dialogue button" when the person speaking is about 65-70% of the way through their line. That way, if the next line is from the same character the actor has a chance to read it smoothly as though the lines were not separated at all.

If it turns out to be a different actor's line, this gives the new actor more time to skim the words as well as extra time for them to realize they're about to be speaking so they don't get caught off guard.

Doing this is actually kind of hard because every actor we work with reads at a different pace and the person actually playing the game has to keep that in mind. Oz, Vixen, Arim, and I can sight read most lines almost instantly. I've seen Oz and Vixen in particular read entire text boxes that were only onscreen for a couple frames. But, obviously, not everyone is that fast, so everyone gets different "advance the dialogue" speeds.

Ideally, if a game is well-written and the characters you're playing have a strong voice, you'll slowly fade into the character as you read them. You begin to feel the things they're saying rather than just reading words on a page. Once you hit that flow state, it becomes easier to process what they might logically say next. If you notice one of us make 2-3 errors in the span of just a few lines, it means we're probably not in that flow state.

Some games are also much easier to scan than others, usually because of their character poses.

A game like In Stars and Time has such incredible character portraits that you can usually tell the tone of the accompanying line within a few frames of a portrait change.

Loop (above) is an extremely suspicious and weird character, but voicing them was so much fun because I could always rely on the portraits and the font changes in the text to give me direction on how to play them accurately, even though I didn't actually know what their deal was until about halfway through our playthrough.

Coffee Talk also has very strong portraits that react in real time to the lines of dialogue. The framing can push characters smaller or larger in focus depending on how upset or meek they are, so it's very easy to react on sight and adjust accordingly.

Every time a game developer takes the time to painstakingly add portraits that match every single line, every time they add SFX to accentuate certain words, every time a font wiggles to tell you someone is speaking in a sing-songy way, that's all direction that the game's creators are giving you.

Another thing that helps is just media literacy. I think everyone on the channel is pretty good at that because, speaking frankly, I don't like hanging out with people who have bad media literacy, lmao.

The more media you consume, the easier it becomes to know how a story is going to go. Even a really well-written mystery usually has only 3-5 real options for an ending, and while you're reading games aloud it's a good practice to consider all of them equally so your reads make sense no matter what. You'll notice it's pretty rare something takes us entirely by surprise in a read-through.

Also, of note, it's much easier to notice specific foreshadowing and word choice in dialogue when you're reading it aloud as opposed to silently skimming.

A solid example is our fully-voiced playthrough of Trails From Zero, which actually happened on SurpriseRoundRPG a few years back and not my own Twitch or YouTube.

Minor spoilers, but the character above, Ernest, has some antagonistic interactions with your main party over the course of this game. He wants Ellie, the white-haired party member, to quit the police force (that's your group) and go back to working with him in the Mayor's office.

When Arim played this game solo he didn't really think much of this guy. However, when he played the game for us and we read it out loud, having lines like the one pictured above spoken aloud makes it kind of impossible not to notice that this man is a freak. Mo, his VA, ended up playing him as a manosphere incel weirdo because that's the vibe he was putting out, and, lo and behold, that's pretty much exactly the character he turned out to be.

There's a running theme on our channel where commenters are often surprised to see the game "play into our bits" and how we "accidentally predict things".

What's really happening is the reverse.

It's very, very rare that we decide to make up a bit from absolutely nothing. It's not a hard and fast rule, but I find we only make jokes and play up aspects of characters based on things that are already there. Hence that one time in Miles is a Robot when I said something awful and sexual as Ray Shields, Oz groaned, and I said "Hey man, I'll give him a different joke when the game gives me somethin' else to work with!" I didn't choose to make Ray awful and sexual all the time. That's just how he is, so that's the well we pulled bits from.

Because we only extrapolate from existing content and our "silly" versions of the characters onscreen are just exaggerated versions of what's really there, whenever the game gives us more info about them, the new stuff tends to be very in-line with the bits we've already been doing. It's not us being psychic. It's us being consistent!

It also helps that almost all the regulars on my channel have done professional voice work and have been doing some version of this for literally 10+ years. Practice makes perfect!

[the-fabled-void]

Headcanons I've written in my discord server over the span of ~10 months 

Warnings: Lust mentioned at the very end, will be under a cut, The last part of Horror's section is also under the cut for an implied ED, and emetophobia

Misc/AU instead of Sans related, multiple at once: 

All actual Sanses have the same birthday, but they celebrate their creation days as one too, if they know it most Sanses talk in sans-serif type fonts  Only Classic talks in Comic Sans  Dream, Nightmare, and Fresh don't talk in a sans serif font at all Error's* font is also different Outertale: When you're in a quiet spot, you can actually hear the stars twinkle (hc inspired by a part of my comfort MLP fan animation Snowdrop) AUs have cultural differences, and I'm not talking about stuff that's obvious like Underfell You know how some creators speak more than just english? What if it's because their underground is located under a mountain in a different part of the world Not only do AUs have different languages sometimes but also different accents

Classic

Classic doesn't have inside or outside clothes, he sleeps with the clothes he wears outside He'd love Weird Al's music Would absolutely wear crocs  Smells faintly like books and chemicals even if he hasn't been in a library or lab recently Do you think he washes that jacket if it's not stained? Absolutely not  Sci: smells like plastic wrapped books that have just been opened

Killer

is really good at pretending to be sober when drunk (In the more fanon bad sanses dynamic) forces the rest of the bad sanses do take stupid BuzzFeed quizzes Smells like handwritten books Stage 1/2 has a lot of quiet moments where he just analyses listens to Set It Off

Cross

listens to Nightcore music & Set It Off

hogs blankets

Cross, I love you...you use axe body spray

Absolutely illegal that people think Cross is taller than Dream, he's shorter

Any time Cross and Epic are in a room together, they're glued to each others side even if theyre currently arguing

Nightmare

has a high alcohol tolerance, you can't tell me those apples weren't rotten enough to be alcoholic would talk in the Money Penny font

Ink

The star sanses go to cafes and judge people's outfits jokingly, as if Ink with his toeless socks can judge anyone

Their  alcohol tolerance is highly dependand on what vials he drinks before 

sends either an insane amount of small voice notes or one really long one, no in between

They're strong enough to pick people up but it looks so funny because they're so short

Ink, as a parent, would be the exact opposite of those 'Beige moms' 

He refuses to deprive his kids of sensory input like that Would be fascinated by Killer's soul

They sneeze like a dad

Coffee has no effect on them

We all agree his vials are like mental illness medication right? 

Error: 

Can hear Undertale's soundtrack sometimes and it drives him wild 

*His font is partially comic sans, partially other sans serif fonts

Gets headaches very easily

Smells like comic books, especially those that smell more like printer ink

We already know Error's eyesight is shit, but it's especially horrible and close to nonexistent on his smaller eye

Geno 

Soul beats very unevenly

gets drunk really easily bc he's constantly bleeding, so there's less alcohol-free blood in his system for it to filter out (cough cough CPAU)

I feel like he would die from a sip of energy drink

Once he gets to the surface, he'll suffer from chronic headaches and other pains 

He would would drop his backstory exactly the way dads drop Dad Lore (if you know, you know) 

Geno looks like a coffee drinker but drinks tea

Smells like old books, specifically dry basement ones

Reaper

has haphephobia that stems from his death touch

At the same time, touch starved af

He drinks coffee despite having tea drinker vibes to people

Fell

Sometimes he just imagines random shit happening that would make him angry, and then gets angry over that

His summer outfit is the exact same but a sleeveless sweater under his jacket instead of a normal one

can only make 3 recipes and burns those sometimes too

giggles after getting kissed (he will deny this) 

Uses Old Spice deo 

Short king short king

has shoplifted before

Swap/Blue

gets hungry really fucking quickly

(I have a huge hc list specifically for him)

Dream

is a coffee drinker

He gives me the vibes of old people trying to use modern slang, but doing so incorrectly

sucks at modern technology

Once he finds out about emojis, it's over for everyone

is into astrology

the opposite of a Disney princess. Animals don't like him

Dream's insults hit harder than Nightmare's, he just knows what hurts you 

High alcohol tolerance

Ccino 

exhausted

has a Morning Special he makes himself before working at his cafe. It has way too much caffeine in it

One day Dream walked into his cafe, Ccino took a good look at him and gave him his Morning Special™

Only certain people can drink it though - this means both that only some tolerate it, but also that Ccino only gives it to some

Dust/Murder

Soul beats faster than others' souls

has absolutely horrible posture

jumps to conclusions easily 

Dust hated Swap as soon as he first met him 

I mean, Dust doesn't like himself much for he did, ESPECIALLY to his brother

So a Sans who acts kinda like a Papyrus? Nuh uh 

Is this the basis of Dustberry? 

Anyway

Smells like an old, slightly burnt book

Concept: Phantom Papyrus but he used to be a hallucination that turned into an actual ghost somehow -> Phantom and XChara can see each other

Horror

doesn't like horror movies much

he's seen enough shit

Likes chickens 

Hc for fanon horror: cooking for the bad sanses, at first didn't trust anyone else

Canon Horror probably can't cook very well 

Faint smell of damp books

TW ED, TW Lust

Horror has moments where he binge eats and then regrets it later

Lust

Is like the only Sans who enjoys warm weather

Infertile, compromises by being a cool ass babysitter

Loves flowers

A tea drinker

Transatlantic accent

Listens to Mitski 

When he's looking at something he likes/loves, his eye lights turn monster soul shaped instead of heart shaped

[wolfgirlboyjester]

KHOC Week Day 1 - Introduction

(Day 1 - Day 2 - Day 3 - Day 4 - Day 5 - Day 6 - Day 7)

I'm excited to participate in KHOC Week ( @khoc-week ) with Lamia, my favorite bristly emo boy in the whole world. I am currently in the process of writing a very lengthy and ambitious fic about them and the connection they make with a certain weird old man with an eyepatch. Lamia means a lot to me, and I'm so happy to have an excuse to show him to you all :]

The Day 1 prompt was a good excuse to finally nail down a design for them. I've struggled a bit in the past because there's a pretty big difference between the way I design characters (imagining what decisions they would make about their appearance based on their personality) and the way Kingdom Hearts characters are designed (what looks cool, and what is communicated about them to the audience based on their appearance). However, I think I struck a happy medium here!

I'm gonna spend the whole week infodumping about him, but there's more Sweet Sweet Lamia Content over on my main blog. (Be advised: I'm keeping my KHOC Week posts pretty PG, but there is more mature content in the links below!)

For more art: lamiart tag

For more Lore: lamiaposting tag

Text description below the cut, partly to keep the image alt text short, partly because the font might be difficult to read for some people:

Age: 25 (at the end of KHI)

Pronouns: he/him, they/them

Height: 5'8" (173 cm)

Homeworld: Radiant Garden

Keyblade: ???

Wields a broken, seemingly dead keyblade from the Keyblade Graveyard

Auxillary Member of the Hollow Bastion Restoration Committee

Father was a scientist in Radiant Garden before he vanished, along with Lamia's mother, during Maleficent's takeover

Has had chronic insomnia due to horrific nightmares ever since he was a child

Almost no magical ability

Swears like a sailor*

Doesn't eat much but has a massive sweet tooth

Autistic, trans

Scar on his lip came from a run-in with a Radiant Garden guard when he was a teen

*Strong language will not be present in KHOC Week posts

[choupiee]

Mike Schmidt and Abby Schmidt Headcanons!! (Because I am so impatient for the Fnaf movie)

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

- They barely connect or try to talk, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t care about each other. Mike has told Abby more than once that she is very welcome to sleep in his bedroom with him if she ever has a nightmare or if the harsh weather scares her

- Mike continuously feels guilty that he doesn’t give Abby enough. But he doesn’t know that Abby is actually very grateful that she doesn’t have an older brother whose mean to her

- Their fridge has loads of magnets on them, and lots of artworks that Abby has made. Mike makes sure to marvel at them in his own way (he frames some of the artworks that Abby feels very proud of)

- Abby’s main source of comfort is hand holding. She often doesn’t feel safe or comfortable in some places or situations and she often clings to the closest thing that she can get her hands on for some sense of comfort

- Mike figured this out when she desperately held his hand when she saw a classmate who bugged her at school when doing some grocery shopping. Now it’s a routine, whenever they’re both somewhere which feels overwhelming, they tend to take each other’s hand

- When they both have nothing to do, they have some drawing time together, and they do little competitions and beg each other to draw random things for each other. Their dining table is just scarred with crayon dust and pencil lead at this point

- Whenever Abby gets in trouble at school for something that either is or not her fault, Mike doesn’t scold her like a strict parent. Instead, he listens and offers advice after some comforting. Abby tends to take this opportunity to vent out her problems. After all, Mike knows how it feels to not be heard

- You best believe Mike teaches Abby at least some self defence. He teaches her about the boy’s vital points, it makes it easier for each other since Mike is a male so he know’s how effective it is. So whenever there’s a weird guy, or a bully, or someone who messes with Abby and Mike isn’t there, she’ll beat their ass (quite effectively)

- Abby is pretty self aware at times, Mike notices this and tries to make her act like her age so she doesn’t grow up to be a ‘tall child’ when she’s older

- They don’t realise how much Mike’s habits tend to inhabit on Abby. Their snarky remarks, doodling habits, introverted selves, the need of plushies by their side, creativity and their self awareness. It’s like two entirely different fonts but with the same writing

- Abby sometimes feels left out in school since the only guardian figure she has in her life is just her older brother, no mother or father. Sometimes she feels lonely, but also really lucky, she has seen and heard the struggles of having two parental figures and mean older sibling scenarios. Sometimes she gets reminded that even though both her and her brother are quiet with each other, they have no problems with each other

- Abby seems to be a chatter box type, but only to her brother. Mike sees her as some innocent young girl whose curiosity and chatty manner is over the roof, when really she only seems to show that side of herself to her brother. She just side-eyes everyone whose a stranger to her and scribbles some drawings out

- They’re both wiry but strong. Mike may be short but he can really kick some ass (fountain scene). As well as Abby (I don’t actually think it’s canon but I always imagine her to have some quite effective hits when she’s really angered)

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

[bratdotcom]

It Had To Be You

( Best friend!Scout x ftm!reader - watching a cowboy flim with your best friend reveals more than you think )

before you read: this fic is EXTREMELY self-indulgent and somewhat angsty. Also, this is my first tf2 fic! Be nice to me, please ♡

"Keep actin' like this, and it's gonna get you killed."

Your words ring through Jermy's ears as he tries not to react too much to the strong sting of alcohol on the bridge of his nose, his right hand balled into a fist to keep his pain to himself.

He got into another fight again. You'd think growing up with seven older brothers would teach him a thing or two about starting fights. "I'm here now, aren't I?" He questions you as you dab more of that weird, strong smelling stuff onto the cut in between his eyes.

"You are." You look away from his face to grab a bandaid from the zippy pouch you kept your bandaids in. He remembers buying that for you at a pit stop on the outskirts of town. "But," There was always an exception with you. You continue on your tangent as you place the bandaid on his nose.

"How're we gonna watch Danger in the Badlands if you have a broken nose and a bruised up eye?" You ask, a smile growing on your face when you see his face begin to light up.

Even though it hurts to smile, Jermey smiles anyway.

"Tell me you didn't."

"I did."

The back and forth between the two of you continues, and a smile spreads to his cheeks.

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did."

And that's when you had him sold. He wraps an uninjured arm around you and pulls you in for a hug.

"I owe ya one, bud." He says quietly, just loud enough for you to hear as you pull away.

You pat his shoulder lightly as you get up. "Gonna get popcorn. Pop the thing in for me, will ya?" Jeremy responds with a curt will do as he gets up from his spot on the couch.

His finger traces over the harsh, rugged font that titled the VHS tape. "Danger in the Badlands, huh? Can't believe ya got this with your work money." He says to himself, as if you were there. Jeremy saw you run into the bathroom to put your bandaids and all that medical crap you had lying around away. He genuinely didn't know when you had the time to buy all that stuff.

He pops the tape in with one finger. Awkwardly, he grabs the remote in his right hand, flicking on the TV.

"Yo uh, dude?”

"Hm?" You poke your head out of the kitchen, looking at him over the countertop. "How much money did you spend on this thing?" Jeremy asks, sounding a bit guilty. He felt bad for making you spend your own money. Weirdly enough.

"I rented it for a day or two. So about..five bucks? It's an old movie." You say as you toss a bag of popcorn into the microwave. "You like your popcorn burnt?" You ask in an amused tone, making the other man groan.

"You're weird, man. Nobody likes their popcorn burnt. Freak."

You roll your eyes, walking back into the living room with a bowl of not so burnt popcorn.

"What's this movie about again?" Jermy asks while you watch the movie, dipping a curved hand into the bowl of popcorn nestled between the two of you.

You give him a look in reply. He stuffs his face with popcorn as you hold eye contact with him. You love him, you really do.

"Just watch the damn movie." You say, in the most endearing tone you could muster. This shuts him up, his head leaning against the couch closer and closer to your shoulder.

Every time you glance at him, his eyes glued to the screen in awe, your own soften.

Jermy was a very expressive person, every gunshot and cock of a shotgun makes his eyes go wide as he eats up half of the popcorn bowl. You barely got in a couple of bites yourself.

He winces when the main character gets a knife twisted into his back by his supposed right hand man. His Sancho.

You were watching him more than the movie itself.

Every now and then, his shoulder would brush up against yours. Every tilt of his head brought the side of his face closer and closer to your own.

It was tempting to kiss his bruises. To hold his cheek. Tell him that everything will be okay, even though you weren't certain about that yourself. You'd get out of this town together. You wouldn't die wondering what life would be like without being surrounded by people who look at the two of you, like strays in the checkout line at the grocery store.

Tell him that you love him, idiot. Like they do in the movies.

“Promise me ya won't do me dirty like that bozo back there.” Jermy points at the screen, completely unaware that you've been staring at him this entire time.

The movie was on a still frame of the main character, bleeding out on the desert floor. A cowboy ballad plays in the background as the camera zooms out, revealing that the man was just barely on the outskirts of the town he and his Sancho promised to reach together. So close, yet so far. It felt oddly familiar.

“I promise I won't.”

The screen fades to black as the credits begin to roll. You see your own reflection in the blackened background, your face blank. That's all you could say.

Maybe one day, those words would come easily to you. Like how they do it in the movies.

[chiropteracupola]

now that I have finished watching All The Sharpe That There Is, we have made a Tier List of our Very Strong Opinions. behold.

further (condensed) commentary from yours truly and usual partner-in-crime @sailorpants under the readmore:

S: Eagle, Company, Battle

Eagle: 'the plot of this one makes sense,' 'it really does show (well!) that this was the first book,' 'one of the ones we rewatch,' 'a good episode of television!'

Company: 'Pete Postlethwaite is a great actor -- Hakeswill made me want to throw up,' 'the lads and also the horrors,' 'genuine emotions were elicited,' 'well-established team dynamic at this point'

Battle: 'bad men! good men! beautifulest ladies!,' 'if Perkins must die then at least he gets a really cool death and to be bridal-carried by Harper and mourned by everybody,' 'the fucked-up love square,' 'plot hangs together well,' 'this episode has the most women of any Sharpe episode: four,' 'I have watched this episode three times', 'these rewatches were with lust (for the beautifulest ladies)'

A: Enemy

Enemy: 'decently written,' 'all the lads are there,' 'type of enemy Hakeswill becomes isn't as compelling and the inconsistency brings down both his episodes,' 'egregious women-tossing,' 'it is cool that there are other women; however Sharpe would not do That,' 'French people allowed to be interesting as a treat,' 'Sharpe and Teresa SOULMATES quote [screams]'

B: Rifles, Honour, Sword, Siege, Waterloo

Rifles: 'bit of a rough start,' 'the first half is good and then it gets Weird... phobias of sorts are In There', 'TERESA!'

Honour: 'extremely cool fights in this one,' 'Ramona!!,' 'some of the best Chosen Men banter in the whole series,' 'fake-Sharpe's-death plotline is quite well done,' 'unfortunate nonsense'

Sword: 'epic Harris moments cannot earn this episode a better ranking,' 'good casting and the background characters are cool,' 'the Lass deserved much better than this episode gave her'

Siege: 'oh, the chemical warfare episode,' 'they've learned to workshop their plans since Honour,' 'made me believe that Sharpe and Jane's relationship could have worked out, 'plot hangs together well (rare in a Sharpe episode)'

Waterloo: 'the scale of it doesn't quite sit right,' 'pretty good episode,' 'Paul Bettany is uncanny and I don't like whatever it is is going on with him,' 'getting the gang back together for one last Lads Adventure!'

C: Regiment, Mission, Revenge, Justice, Challenge

Regiment: 'more time with the Chosen Men could have saved this,' 'Company was a better 'the army sucks' episode,' 'the wet soupy episode'

Mission: 'it takes me two minutes to remember what happens in this one whenever I think about it,' 'again epic Harris moments cannot save this episode,' 'quite a high SCUM score,' '[impact font] MARK STRONG'

Revenge: 'ehhhhhh,' 'Lucille's nail-gun is the only thing that is cool and fun,' 'weird vibes about it,' 'Ducos' Bond-villain stuff is needless escalation,' 'Frederickson's ending is fun'

Justice: 'he's a cop in this one,' 'don't like Hagman's mustache,' 'Jane plotline no good, '[from sailorpants] when I actually watch this one I'm gonna have THOUGHTS'

Challenge: 'would rank this higher but I do have receipts on the fact that I was having a Bad Time throughout,' 'Toby Stephens makes this worth watching,' 'almost everything else about it is bad,' 'high points in every SCUM category,' 'four whole named plot-relevant speaking-role-having women! haven't had that many since Battle!,' 'TOBY STEPHENS CUNTSERVACIOUS LITTLE OUTFITS'

D: Gold, Peril

Gold: 'we don't need to discuss why we are ranking it like this'

Peril: 'the secret good Peril that lives in my head is so cool but unfortunately it is not real,' 'they are trying to have Themes and it is not working,' 'casting director is now finding conventionally attractive men instead of weirdguys with interesting faces,' 'Daniel Deever should have his own entire show but unfortunately this is a show about Richard Sharpe (I would write about him so much if I felt that I could do him justice but therein lies the Research Pit)' 'most important point is that he has a locket with Antonia's picture but the rest I could take or leave and I will probably leave it'

[satorisoup]

erm hi fwendss ^_^ this is gonna be like… a bit of a question but also a wittle bit of a rant… m’ confused ehehe T^T in tha small font cuz… s’ embarrassing for me… sniffles sosbsbs !!!!

b4 i start here are tha main components of da topic at hand : talks of little space, mentions of toxic ex bf, lots of typing quirks, some selfship stuffs, and wanting to feel more comfortable in my space without makin’ anyone else weirded out… needin’ advice methinks /nf

so like… i didn’t know that it wasn’t necessarily considered “normal” (?) to like… wanna be treated like a child sometimes… ?????????? (՞߹ - ߹՞) n e ways…

i’ve avoided dis topic for shosho long bcuz… i didn’t wanna be viewed differently n’ i didn’t wanna lose any of my cutie mooties or sumthin’ :< … but sometimes i rlllyyy wanna post how m’ feelin at tha moment but i don’t want anyone to be liek… “ lene never posts stuffs like dis” or “ why is lene talkin’ like dis” or “ lene is actin’ weird” yeah…

yeah n’ like… the thing i imagine tha most with my f/o’s is… them holdin’ me & rockin’ me like a baby or something… cuz s’ just so comforting :< n’ i want them to take care of me… and stuffs… and do fun tingsss like !! i wanna watch my favorite cute show wif them and ramble about it while they nod their head and tell me m’ so smart… MWUEHE dis is so embarrassin’. omigoodness…

which dis also might explain why i usually type wif lots of cute little quirks if anyone was wondering abouts dat… right now i’m feeling extra cutesie so m’ usin’ LOTS & LOTSSS ehe !! ^_^ it’s very comfortin’ to me so… yeagahshdb !!! :,>

dis alllll leads to my question… what would this be considered ?? :”0 is this weird… fwieeeeendsss :< i dont know wat to dooo… someone hold my hand or something i might cry T^T

when i was datin’ my ex (bad, yucky guy… nunu…) i do remember feelin’ little (?) at times… n’ wanting to feel comforted in a way that he couldn’t provide mefinks… like. sumtimes id hold two of his fingers wif my hand and he’d shake me off n’ stuffs… or when i wanted him to cuddle or hold me at all, even in a way dat was “normal” he wouldn’t… ehe… n e way… he did lotsa stuff that kinda made me feel wantin’ to be comforted more… but he was the cause of me feeling sad and i didn’t know what ta do… m’ very glad he’s gone :> there was too much pain in dat relationship… i wasnt ever comfy… n e way. i know kou wouldn’t ever dream of doin’ that stuffs to me… but i want to cope like dis… it makes me feel happy T^T

if i started typing more like how its comfortin’ to me… or if its a bit more quirked… would you be mad :< not all da time… but ya… ive always held back on it cuz… i didnt wanna seem weird or nuffin… sigh </3

will probs delete this tomorrow but !! i wanna know what ta do for realsies… this isn’t considered little space right ?? what is little space… :0 cuz if its when you feel younger than you are at times… yeah *nods* i fink. m’ sho sorry is this weird of me… :,< i dont wanna make n e one uncomfortable or something… oki. anyways…. WAHHHHHH !!!!!

any ways— to distract myself from dis ramble… look at my pwetty kiri (っ⸝⸝⸝ <) i wuv his hair like this shosho much… i just wanna smooch his cheeks :> nomnomnom !! (*ᴗ͈ ̫ ᴗ͈) his teefies… ehe :,> he’s so manly n’ strong… i want him to hold me mwuehe !! :3

sometimes i js wanna post abouts how much i wuv my sweetie pie shoto… n’ how i want him to smooch m’ cheeks ehe… or about kou :< my precious kou… s’ also why in all my selfships my nickname is usually sumfin’ along the lines of “baby”… ehehe ^_^

n’ i really want katsuki to hold me n’ rock me to sleep… s’ that weird ?? it might be out of character but… i like to imagine it mhm mhm :,>

or sumtimes i wanna play wif satoru… n’ be silly while he feeds me sweets n’ calls me his pwetty sweet princess :< andand there would be lotsa cakes !! and strawberries !! m’ favorite !! >//<

n’ i rlly love imagining gettin’ all dolled up in pwetty sundresses n stuffs dat choso likes :> n’ havin’ him hold my hands in his… ehe

ohoh !! and… holding two of sugu’s fingers wif my whole hand… :< n’ makin’ pinky pwomises… ouh… how cute… m’ kicking my feetsiesss !! ^0^

or ume holdin’ me like a princess… n’ lettin’ me watch as he cuts his veggies to make me a snackie… cuz he knows i wuv veggies… mhm :3

m’ sorry… gots a bit distracted thinkin’ bout all the stuffs i’ve wanted to say b4… ehe….. (つω`｡) i couldn’t help it !!

anyways, goodnight friends :> if u see dis & i delete it… yeagh… comments or askies r definitely appreciated sniffle :> im supa curious EEEK !! m’ shy excuseee me >//<

[smiles-ocs]

This story has always put me through a loop but I changed the story a TON and I kinda like how it is now!

The setting I’m going for some kind of technological world that meets this tribe that does things the old fashioned way. Tanisha goes to her local college and she feels completely self conscious and bad about herself. She doesn’t feel like she’s very motherly or understanding or affectionate like her older sister, but she doesn’t feel confident or charismatic like her younger sister. She’s just this awkward and sometimes rude person that no one likes to be around. She lacks confidence to say the least. She finds herself meeting this mythical tribe that was said to be either not real or extinct, and she’s taken prisoner because this tribe does not allow outsiders. Obviously this tribe has pointy ears so it’s easy to know who’s an outsider and who’s not. Normally outsiders are executed, and obviously Tanisha is upset by this cuz even tho she feels like her life sucks she doesn’t want to die, especially after her parent’s death and the stress it put on her older sister. Bo guarded her cell and got to know her, and he eventually grew to care about her and tried to convince the tribe to not kill her. He came up with an idea of some memory erasing thing that they could make (I’ll get into this tribe later) so that she wouldn’t die. They agree to give it time (his mother is the co-chief so that helps) and Bo kinda keeps an eye on her. She gets involved with their tribe and does physical training with him, and she gets pretty strong.

This tribe is called the Iraise tribe and it focuses on two things: the mind and the body. When you’re a kid, you grow up being involved with physical and mental training, and when you reach 12 years old, you go through an “opening”, where your third eye is opened and the color of your spirit is revealed. This tribe are the only people who have magic, hence why they’re so against technology cuz they feel it’s disrespectful to magic (but they’re also the only ones who can use magic lmao). Anyways, a yellow spirit is stronger in mind. Those with a yellow spirit strengthen the intellect and memory and study math, science, and other things to strengthen the tribe. They’re kinda involved with everything. While blue means body, and those with a blue spirit strengthens their bodies obviously. They’re the protectors, hunters, and gatherers in the tribe. I have so much crap for this tribe but I’ll move on from now.

Bo was trying to get the minds to think of some other way to deal with Tanisha that didn’t involve her death, so they’re doing that while she follows Bo around. It’s a lot, Tanisha gets stronger and gets more confident with herself as a result (no I am NOT projecting (I am)) and eventually, the two chiefs and tribe make a decision: to follow through with executing Tanisha. To make something that could erase memories would take a lot of time and it’s extremely volatile. Memories are CRAZY and they could end up erasing all of her memories, give her amnesia, or fail at altering her memory in general. They find that executing her would be a better and more ethical way to deal with her. Bo of course is distraught cuz he’s really grown to care about Tanisha, so that night he takes her to a train that he knows (he’s a curious fellow) and sends her on her way. Yes this will have consequences :)

Anyways huge tangent. It was really hard to find a good font for this story cuz it… has a weird aesthetic. Idk, I’m still figuring it out but I want to do something with Tanisha more cuz I love her sooooo so much

[vergeltvng]

Thanks for reading my guidelines. I go by the mun-alias Midnight (she/they), early millennial, living in the CET timezone. English is my second language. My activity level is medium to low, my reply speed is slow, please don’t rush me. I'm still learning about Tumblr rp etiquette and guidelines, please be patient with me. If you see me doing something unusal or weird feel free to correct me at anytime but be respectful about it.

01. GENERAL BLOG INFO. Besides being a roleplayer I am also a hobby gif maker, therefore personal blogs are welcome to interact with my posts. Basic Tumblr etiquette applies: Don't steal, repost or edit my gifs. If you want to insert a single gif into one of your posts please use the gif search function. If you are a personal blog make sure you don't reblog or comment on rp content which includes tag games, writing examples, headcanons, threads and answered asks. Speaking of asks: I will generally react in-character whenever possible but I am not an IC ask blog.

02. DISCLAIMER AND CONTENT WARNING. To interact with me, you have to be 18+ (personals and rp blogs, mun and muse). I am not affiliated with The Boys, its creators or the actor Karl Urban and I don't own the character Billy Butcher. I claim ownership of my own written headcanons and texts only. The Boys is an R-rated series and this is a general trigger warning for mature content such as — strong language, graphic violence and gore, physical and mental abuse, mention of sa, mention of child abuse, alcohol addiction, mental illness, terminal illness, trauma, sexual content, weapons, drug use, political and social commentary, sick humour, satire and overall rude behaviour which can be expected from this muse.

03. MUN ≠ MUSE. It should go without saying but at the same time cannot be stressed enough. This is a morally grey/villainous character. If you are easily offended we're likely not matching well as writing partners. Butcher can be tremendously rude and aggressive, he swears excessively and is quick to insult your muse if he dislikes them or feels provoked. Make sure beforehand that you can handle interacting with such a muse and do not take anything from him personal or too serious. If we started interacting and, for any reason, you feel discomfort please communicate it. I’m always willing to take a step back and sort things out.

04. INTERACTIONS. Best way to interact with me is novel-style written text from the get-go. It doesn't have to be long, it's just way easier for me to reply to than ic talk. I usually drop smalltalk after one or two messages or won't reply at all, I'm sorry. For long-term text exchanges I prefer sideblogs over Google Docs since I'm not familiar with the latter (I'm willing to learn though if that's your preferred option). I'm also very open and curious to try threads, I'd love to have some writing on my blog. Feel free to hit me up if you're interested and are comfortable with doing any sorts of public threads.

05. WRITING. No godmodding, power play or meta gaming. I also don't like forcing or rushing certain dynamics that don't feel like natural character progression. Plotting beforehand is welcome but not mandatory. If it ever feels like being stuck we can pause the writing and have a small plotting session between scenes or even for the same scene. I am a big fan of the "yes, and" approach, give me something to work with. I don't have an estimated length for texts, it always depends.

06. FORMATTING. I don't do a lot of formatting. I have an icon border and prefer small font, my writing is usually continuous text with no line breaks for dialogue. Let me know if this is difficult to read for you and I will adjust, no questions asked. Generally, feel free to format your text as you wish but here are some things I have issues with: Excessive spacing between words (triple space and higher), excessive bolding or italicizing to a point where it distracts me; all caps, text from font generators (captions and highlighted phrases are perfectly fine but I can't read a whole text in those fonts).

07. SHIPPING. I'm multiship and multiverse, meaning every ship takes place in its own verse if not communicated otherwise. I personally enjoy shipping a lot if there's good chemistry but Butcher is difficult to ship and due to his background pretty much unavailable for romantic bonding. It's not impossible though. I'm also interested in any setting where I get a chance to write him as an unhinged villain and diverge from the canon more liberately.

08. FOLLOWING. My approach to curating my dashboard is quite different, I would say, compared to what's considered standard. I follow a lot, and I mean a shitton, of people (4500+ blogs as of August 2024). I follow every blog out of interest and curiousity but please understand that it's impossible for me to interact with everyone. Don't get offended or take it personal when I follow but forget to reach out and also never feel obligated to follow me back. If you softblocked me in the past and I refollow you it's accidentially. Please hardblock me if you don't want that to happen again, I won't take it personal.

09. ACTIVITY. My blog is labeled low activity for a reason. Yes, I am here for rp, but I like to do lots of other things on Tumblr, too. There's periods of time where I don't have the energy to work on drafts or talk to anyone. Rest assured that you never did anything wrong when I disappear for a while. What I'm not willing to do is constantly giving activity updates on a schedule. I might make a post on current stats occasionally and if I go on hiatus for longer I will highly likely make a post about it.

10. DON'T BE A CUNT. I have zero tolerance for homophobia, transphobia, racism, ableism, sexism, hateful comments in general, out of character drama, gossiping, constant negativity, passive aggressiveness, vague posting, guilt tripping, gaslighting and other similar behaviour. Just be a decent person and we're fine.

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

It Might as Well Happen! Life is Already So (Old) God(s)damn Weird!

(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about Cruz here. You can find more information about Penn and LeviathanPat–who is only mentioned here, but he still gets the clarification because I said so–here. EldritchPlier and Illinois belong to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe.)

(I wrote this as a birthday present for my amazing friend @sammys-magical-au! So, of course, we’ve got another special guest appearance by their badass OC! Please go reblog Sammy’s ideas, check out their Wattpad, and show them some love for being such a great writer!)

(Also: the awesome @inkbedou has created some lovely artwork of the main character here! Please go check out their stuff and give them a follow!)

(Trigger Warnings: body horror, implied murder/death, blood/gore, knives/blades, implied animal death, occultism, mentions of ritual/sacrifice, mentions of eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.) 

(If you’d like to use distorted fonts like the one you’ll be seeing in this story, then I recommend going here).

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Anything and everything came with its own sets of Give and Take. A lot of people—more than your mental health would probably be prepared for—had trouble understanding that sometimes, but not Cruz. 

For example: it was difficult to hear crimson splattering over the notes of his violin, but the small pool of blood at the head of his room was very much noticeable. There was that strong, infamous metallic scent of course, but it’d also be pretty hard to ignore how droplets were slowly but surely floating up to give his ceiling an impromptu polka-dot paintjob.

(Which, to be fair, was pretty damn cool to watch if you were in the right headspace. Yeah, it’d be so much harder to clean, but still.)

Honestly, this blatant middle finger to gravity wasn’t even the strangest thing that had happened tonight. Or even several past nights, in fact. 

The more time you spent with sentient crimes against reality, the more reality warped around you. 

Especially the creature Cruz was waiting for right now: among his many horrific titles, he was nothing if not the personification of Fuck You I Do What I Want.

The blood began boiling and churning on its own accord. It was a little louder than the dripping chorus, but that still didn’t quite break through the violin’s voice. 

And then. . .the red started to drain.

The blood itself wasn’t drying up, the puddle wasn’t shrinking or evaporating at all. 

No. That rich, organic color started seeping out of the fluid, slithering into the air past the veils of rising steam, leaving the small pool to resemble liquid silver. . .or the skin of someone who was just about ready for putrefaction. 

The red seeped its way under that tiny gap of space between the floor and the bottom of Cruz’s bedroom door. It then spread to outline the door from the other side entirely, a white-hot glow mixing into it. The new light was impossible: dark and vibrant at the same time. Almost like an eclipse.

A low, echoing growl rumbled from the other side, announcing the arrival of the same guy Cruz had made a bargain with a few years ago.

It quickly evolved into a guttural, keening roar that made the door shake in its threshold and the air feel like it was blistering. If not for how much time and effort Cruz had put into adjusting, his ears would’ve started to bleed. 

Always up for collaborating, Cruz pulled the bow across his violin’s strings at a new angle, eliciting an evil HSSSSSS from the instrument. 

After about fifteen seconds, the monstrous cry transitioned into a voice, deep and smooth and tinged with grating, surreal venom.

“Heͪy͉ͬ͝ t̄̊he̖̪̬r̹e͍̽͢.̬ͥ Ho͈ͣ̂w͂̓ h̑̀a͖̖v̪͈̽e thi̷̾ͨng͖s͢ ḇͭ̉eͬ̇͞en̶̢?ͮ”

Cruz offered both a nod and a shrug, knowing that the abomination could see him through the wooden barrier. “Pretty alright. Can’t complain.” 

The voice hummed thoughtfully. “W͕ͧ̀el̲̑l̜͑ͯ,̖̿ I don't̾̈ͦ mea̲̓n̾ ṯo ål͈a͊͡r̭͖m̬̅̕ y̬oͤ̊̓u͚ͦ,̋͛̋ b̎ͮut̺̹ͅ th͇̗er͔̔eͪ'̶s͐ͅ s͗̓o̘ͧ̃m͙e̘o̞̼͆n̖ͥ��eͥ ś̚tͪ̕and̋̓͢í̈́͞n̘̔g̃͊̚ o̅n̶͒ͤ t̏͑͝h̳͑ͮe f͗r̦o̓n͠t͍ p̩͗̚o̗r͛ch.ͯ́”

Cruz felt his hackles ever-so-slightly rise—

“O̘̼ṙ, d̴̎id̼͒̈ y̶ȍ̗̺u_̫ aͮ̓ļ̲ȓ͓̏e͒a̫̘͐dy̋ kn̻̹͗o̦͗̄ẇ̊ thͬa̷ͩͧt̉?̑ͥ” The voice continued. “I m̰ͅean,͈ͬ̀ iͮͨt_̨'d̙ͬ̿ b̩͋eͫ̔̒ pȓ͕e̒ͣ͞t͊ͯty̰̠ͬ ha̕͟r̭̺̃ḋ t͔ͦ͛o̴̫͎ mí̼̭s͚̈s̼ͧ him, ŵ̙h̛̄a͘ţ͍ͨ w̛̥it̖͖͠h̝͋ t̬h͙̊̽e̷͔ ća̜ͪͣmͮer̢̚a c̴̃͞r͜ȩw aņd̍̒ t̓h̨̫̾aͦt̯̚ u̯̍͢n͇̊n͈̱eͫ̄c̵̝͘e̢s̪̮̒sͦa̅ri̩͑͆l͗ý̛̅ lạrg̜eͤ c̀h̢̔ͯeͯc̦̓k͖̫̭ i̵n̚ h̠̎͗iş h͋̚͟a͔nḋ͓͝s͉̓͟.́̈́̎ . .̏̀͆”

—and almost immediately flatten back down. Cruz sighed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah-yeah, sure-sure. We both signed that contract a long time ago. You know you don’t have to keep trying those tricks on me, right?”  

A booming chuckle rattled through the house, carrying the scent of sulfur. “Aͥ͋h͗ͯͪ,̧͚͌ c̢̍'m̸͔̼on̤. I͞t̨͔̔'̙s̤ͪͅ go͇͓ỏ͎̿d̨͚ pr̲ͨa͇͜c̥̤̈ti̚_́c̗͖͞e͋ tͭ̅͊o̥ k̝̭̅e̩̙ep̮ f̯̥o̢͊͛l̹l͍̀ow̳̘e̛͔r̊̌s̿́ o̥ͥ̾n t̅̒́h̳̖̀ei̮ŗ͒̑ toę̳s̝.̵̦ B̺͗e̹͘s̶id͖͠e͌s̭̋͌,̰ o̥ͮld̃̇̽ h̾̋ä͔́ͭb́ͩ͗i̤t̛͔͟s j̝us̯t die̾́ h͑a͠ȓ̴̚d͖͂̋.͍”

Exasperation lingered in his features, but Cruz’s energy had never left. “And speaking of dying, you see what I put together?”

“I doͅ,ͯ” the abomination–whom Cruz had learned to call Plier, as it was the only part of his title that could be pronounced by a human tongue—replied. A faint sloshing noise followed his words; he was inspecting the large, ornate bowl that Cruz had prepared with tonight’s offering not even half an hour ago. 

Cruz nodded, grinning. “Everything should be nice and fresh. I mean, apart from the blood, since you said it's better when it’s aged a little.”

A thoughtful hum oozed under the door and into Cruz’s ears. A slick, grotesque, near-bubbling sigh came along, the type of sound that could only come from a (once) internal organ as it was sliced apart by something with razor-sharp edges. 

“W͖��e̖ͪl̨l,̽ šo̅ f̀́͡ar, n̤͕ͫo̢ͪ̽ v̧̩ir̠̾g̱ͪ͢in͉̍͋'̧͔s͚͜ t̪é̤͂à͑rs oͮ͘͟r͊ ć͘͠a̧̰̥pt̩͢u͒̐r̼͊ed mo͈o̸͉nͦl̿i͕͒g̟͖h̰̎t̠ i̪͌n̠̔ h̏e̶re.͆ O̵r̽, a̫̳͂t l̪͍͠e̹a͔̒̓ŝt, n̨̉ot̖̟ͦhing I wͮͯoͧͮ͋u̦lḏ̈́̿ ć̄å̹l̻͔̋l͍ a m͆o̲̚ṙ̶e̎̄̀ sͨ̔͛p̕į̩ͥrituaļͫ iͅn̰̼͆gre͙ͯd̪͆ͯi̫̾̑enͮtͪ͐͊.̀͞,” Plier announced. “M̬ayb͓͉̚e y̡où'̋̀v͙̈́eͩ̔͛ l̜os̘t̃̀ y̳̌ó͖̾ȗ̮͙ṛ̙ͅ t̥ouc͌h͚. .̨ͫ̕ .͜”

Cruz raised an eyebrow, unable to keep from sputtering a bit. This was done in jest, of course. He’d been working for Plier long enough to have built up some genuine trust; he knew how to dissect the monster’s words, how to tell what he truly felt or thought about things. 

For a centuries-old Stephen-King-wet-dream-come-to-life, Plier had a typical juvenile meanstreak. Sure, he saw most other humans as pitiful little playthings, but when it came to the rare few he found interesting enough to be worth his time, he was big on unconventional motivation.

His critical and condescending jabs were meant to be taken as a challenge, an open invitation to keep going and impress him.

At least, that’s how it was half of the time. . .

“M̛̀̐ȧy̨͇̬beͬ̅ y̼̰ou'v̥̍é̱ l̐̉ọ̔͑s̈́̈́t y͕̝͈our̎̌̕ touch̴̫͋,̠͊̈” Plier repeated, raising his voice just a bit after pointedly clearing his throat. “T̀ͬ̾his̝̆͡ d_́o̱eş͎̍n'̡ͨt̀ h͖̕ͅa̩vë͟͠ e̎̂ve̮̘n̒ h̗̞av͋ͧe̎ͪ aǹy̛͊̇ w̸̦a͘ṭͬ͞e̮ͨͪr͝ th͖͂ͭã̤̕t p͞ëo̯̦̽p̝ͧ̆l̜̂ͯe̞ͧͭ d̝͙̱ŗ̥̌o͟wn̬ed̔ i͔̳n!͟”

“Oh, you’ll get some in the future. Count on that,” Cruz assured, folding his arms across his chest.

Plier hummed again in a way that just screamed of how he was pursing his lips and mutilating those lips in the process thanks to the multitude of too-long, too-sharp teeth in his maw. But then, it wasn’t like pain was really a problem for him, considering he’d had a hand in creating pain itself as a concept.  “I sh̋oͩ̍uͥl̷dͤ gͤͭī̀ṿ̩̎ẹ̽ i̵̧ͅt t̿́̕ḧe̯ b̒ͧe̲ͪnef̧̛̖ịt o̿f t̗̃h͙̭e d͗ǫ̶̩ù̢btͦ. Ẃ͉oͥ͟ul̛ͬdn͖̆'̏͡t̺͟ w͗ȧ̖̒nͯt̄ t̾͗̓o͊ͤ̐ h͊_̹u̓ͫrt͛ yo̘u͉̝r̠͘͢ f̠r̈ag̵̑̎i͟le hum͍a̖n fe̷̵e̩͗_li̍ͬň̎gs.̷̼”

. . .And the other half was him just being a facetious asshole because it wasn’t like any mortal could dare try to stop him.

Cruz clicked his tongue, a dry chuckle seeping through his gritted teeth.

And with that, a mind-bending symphony of crunching bones, snapping tendons, and tearing flesh filled the air, all leaking through the door.

Cruz rocked back and forth on his heels.

After a moment, Plier gave pause with a bitter, sickening gulp. “Oh̯͔͟, g̈́o͆̆͌atͨsͧ͞ a̪͍̎g̒̃͢a̍in̞̔̈.̤̰͇”

“I thought goats reminded you of the Wars,” Cruz said, tilting his head to the side.

In fact, he knew they did, since Plier had regaled him with so many tales of the days when he’d first started climbing the eldritch hierarchy, of abhorrent conquest, of the streets in twisted cities in various dimensions running red (or green, or blue, or whatever colors non-mortal blood could be). 

“I̽́̚ s̴ͦ̈ee̴̵͆m͔̟̈ ẗ́͐͊o r̦e̟m͔͢e̜m͛ͯbe͌ͮ͟r̻͙̣ y̧̬ͬo̹u͘̚ te̍l͔̣͞l͂́͊ing̒͢ m͉͌̍e t̷͂̈h̨̎a̓ͮ̈t͚̖͊ I c̷̋oụ̬͠ldͥ̎͋ exͣp̷e̵̼͢c͍̀ͮṯͤ̚ ṡ͉o̢͘ͅm̤͘eͨ h̛u̙m̷̸a̷͕n̪ ř̫em̍̚ͅa͉i̸̬̯n̷͎ś s̒o̯o͍n̸͋,̧̠̟” Plier mentioned. A steady drumbeat murmured as he spoke–those had to be his claws tapping against the hallway’s floor. “P̰̕lͩuͣͦs̠̀̿,̢̞͐ ǒ̧̤b̅͌v̓îo͆us͍̯̫ḻ̆̽y͊̍ a͘ ni̒͜cë̳́,̨̞ raẁ͔ so̢ú̠̒l͉͙͡ to hạ̻̌r͂v̮es͕͐ͣt o̢͙̒n t̯o͓̾p̩ of͎̀͑ ț̊ͮḣ̿aͭͫ͗t̶͍.̈̏”

The upcoming retort died a quick-yet-brutal death on Cruz’s tongue. He chewed at his lip, then heaved a sigh and trudged across the room to flop down onto his bed. 

This elicited a startled, layered mrowh! from one end, where a vaguely cat-shaped creature with five piercing eyes and dark carmine fur that almost looked fluffy. . .almost, so long as you were a safe distance from it. When the small monster got to its paws and stretched before wandering over to its owner, it became more and more clear how that “fur” was a coat of spikes that could easily flare up at a moment’s notice.

Fortunately for Cruz, plenty of bonding time had passed by now, and so Macaroon was content to just nudge at his forehead and stick out a disturbingly long forked tongue to give him a classic kitten-lick.

Cruz reached over to gently scratch his pet’s tattered ears. He knew Plier was still watching him, still waiting for an answer. “. . .I tried, okay? I really did! I lined up five patsies for this month’s initial plan. Five! But for whatever reason, none of them ended up taking the bait! And after that, the goats were all I could afford to get!”

A long-suffering sigh echoed from the door, doused in oil and disappointment. “Y͐ỏ́u̶̡'̈́v͌̍ͨe̾͐́ t̘̿͢r̈́i͌̎ck̾̇͜ē̶d ḑ͙̓o̪ͮ̇z̛eͣͯnsͤ̄͐ ô̩̠f m̜̗o̵̬͐rͧt͆a̼͙ͥlͨ͠s̙͛ͨ,͓ Ċruz͚.̜̹ Wh̩ǎ͓͢ţ̎͟ c͐͛͞o̧ͥuĺͦ̇d'̢̐ve pͮ͑ǒ͘s̜̹͝s̻̃i͈̟̔b̑l̪̦̃y̫̞ b̻̆̽e͗͞en͊ so d͎̃i̵f̌ͦf̹͇͢ę͚̓rͬe̹̊nt̬̔ a̮b͗̚o̜ͤut̀́ t̫̽h̺ͨ̐ośe͊ o̓ṅ͙es̴̯ͫ?̠”

“I don’t know!”  Cruz threw his hands up in empty air. “I have no idea how or why it even happened! I acted my ass off for all of them! I thought I’d given more than enough charm and last-minute-guilt and likeable awkwardness!”

Memories of the recent past came rushing through his head. The quartet of nights he’d spent in a cheap motel just a few miles away, using the dingy little bathroom mirror as a makeshift scrying station. 

The phone calls he’d made each night to five “friends” he’d recently made, each one hailing from a different cleaning company; the way he’d requested they stop by this very house, one after the other, to tidy up on his behalf. 

The way each of them had just. . .not. Doubled. Back, even though human survival instinct was pRETTY MUCH ALWAYS IGNORED IN FAVOR OF CURIOSITY BUT APPARENTLY NOT THESE TIMES BECAUSE SCREW ALL THE PLANNING AND LURING AND EFFORT CRUZ PUT INTO HIS PROJECTS!

“Aͤͤ̉ndͤ̒ y̸̮̱óu̅ s͚u̓mmö́ͥͪn͕e̳͆d a̠̙ Mả̰nͣͣè̸ foͧr͂ͥͮ t̶̘ẖ̐̒a͓̬ͪtͥ,̳” Plier added coldly. “O͔ͫn̸ͨe̩ͭ o̿̑ͤf̨̌͜ t̵͎ͨḫ̷͠e̙͐ͯ Te̜̭k̗̿e Teͦ̈͆kͮe v̦͖̬a̙̓ȑ̋̄i̖̺anͬt͐ͦͮșͯͩ,̕ ri̋͞͞g̛͋hͮt̮͚̆?̺̲̒ W̆ė̽ak a͎s̭͖ͦ t̩͂̇hey͚ aͤr̢͂͘e͕̽͜, th̥͢os̨͛e t̍y͖̑p̛��͟es̵̰ͨ a̝re̽͝ s͍̘̾t͈̙i̞l̊̀͟l̬͋̈́ pr̰̔e͋ͬ͢t̟ͯt̪y͗ d̩à̘ͬmnͪ ŗ̯ͬar̡͕̒e̤̪͈.̕”

“Don’t remind me,” Cruz begrudgingly agreed, muttering a few colorful phrases in Portuguese under his breath.

 Manes were the lowest of low in abyssal environments, but they were never in short supply, so they could still be somewhat useful for anything demon-related. So long as you were ready to deal with their tantrums or the invisible bile that drained through their pale skin like sweat. . .(The fluids that had leaked from the exposed, dangling guts of the one Cruz had used hadn’t really helped.)

“Y̭oͨu c͚̫̕o̙u̘̚ldn̻̗'t͇̣́ h̓͑ä͂̕v̝̆ȩ͍̮ j̲̉ͬù̽̄s̟̺ͫt͈̃͢ c̝ͨ̾a̜p̟̐̕t͠uŗ̮͟e̘͂d i̠̝t̊̈ aͥ͐͘n͋dͫ̔ͤ h̶͐ȇͥľ̬͘ḏͩͅ i̟̊͂t f͚͔ȍr̫̟ͮ t̡̯o̍͐n̨͊͗i̖͍̳g͉h̸͍̽t?ͯ͘ F̨la̐y̛͑̐ingͮͮ it́ͅ wŏ͖ͣȕ̓̕l͉d̴͇̄'̤́̅v̫e͟ b̈́̈ȩ͎en s̀u͖̲i̤taͩ͐b͐l͇̪̄e̽ en͈̉͜t̽͘̚e̮̪̒rtai̓ņ̣ͯm̂̓͛e̛̽nt̞,͔ s̯͘in̛̛͘c̶͔̾e͞ t͟h̺ͨͩẽÿ̰́͞'r̭̈́̿e â̮lwaÿ̯s̝ ŝ̤ͯǒ̴̟ d̉͘e͕̐͟s̡͔p̀͘eͫȑ̐͡a͋͟t̽e̽͜ t́̋o eͯx͒iśtͅ.”

“That was my Plan B!” Cruz insisted. “I knew it would do if I couldn’t get any people, but. . .”

He trailed off, cringing in spite of himself. 

“B̤̠̬ut. . ?̹ͫ” Plier echoed in the deadpan to end all deadpans. 

“. . .One target in particular sort of. . .scared it off,” Cruz reluctantly finished, remembering the last of his intended victims. A tall, lanky man in his thirties with fair skin, chocolate eyes to match his hair, the aura of a not-so-new father, and a Midwestern accent with a laugh that could only be described as the most adorable goddamn thing. 

He hadn’t done the task alone: throughout the staged cleanup job, a ginger-haired friend had followed along, chatting so brightly and casually. 

Loathe as Cruz was to admit, it’d almost made for a pretty wholesome little spectacle. . .well, until Mr. Dad Reflex had realized that Cruz kept two different types of trash cans in this house. Or, from Mr. Dad Reflex’s perspective, trash cans and hampers, the differences of which he had vehemently ranted about for at least five whole minutes.

The Mane, as they usually were, had been brazen enough to show itself. . .only for Mr. Dad Reflex to nearly smack it upside the head with the mop he’d brought along from his company’s storage warehouse. 

Hell, it’d gotten to the point where Mr. Dad Reflex had even found the bloody mess of Cruz’s summoning ritual for that particular exploit, only to clean it up and give a worrying amount of legit knowledge on cleaning bloodstains.

(As well as rant some more about how the wax residue from the candles was a bigger issue and. . .something about cleaning knives?!)

So, yeah. Even if Cruz had only gotten to know the basics in order to gain some of Mr. Dad Reflex’s trust, he now had a feeling that Mr. Dad Reflex would’ve been a powerful enemy that he decidedly did not want to make.

Plier was silent for a very long, very uncomfortable couple of minutes, no doubt reading Cruz’s mind to validate the claims for himself. Cruz didn’t bother trying to shield his thoughts; he’d read every single term of that contract. Letting Plier see into his head was just standard business. 

Eventually, Plier heaved a groan. Outside the door, the floors creaked and the walls trembled as the monstrosity shifted in place.

“Y͇o̪uͨ'̷ͥͯre̊ lu̓c͓̿͞k̭̣̇y̷ͪ th̄ͫ̽á̝̉t̻͂͐ yo͎͜uṛ̯ͣ ḿ̵ͪi̴n͇̊͛d̼͉͞ h̷̩ͭa̦s s̙̞͋o̮̿ͣme̓ a̦̖c̣̤͒t̆ͪṳͥ̈́aĺ͉ ș̔̉ù̥̙b̊́̎ş̏t̥́a͐́n̆ce͈̥̕.̟͝ O̺ͣt̛͕ḫ̺́eͧr̘̔͒wͥi̱͑̊se̾,ͪ̎̇ I̵̾ w̑ó̫̦u̇ͭ̈́ld'̻͘ve͇͚ jụ̵s͂͛t̤̒̅ tà̴̒ke͠n̟ tͥͯ_h̢ͣoͬse̫͆͠ p̅̇r̢e̴̬͘t͚͠ṱ̱̇y̸͖ l̀i̪t̸ͯt̅le̯̗ ē̾͌yẻ̢ͨs̸ of͛̾ͫ y_̩̀ò̧̅u̙rs̪ a͇ͩn͇̆d ȑͨe̶p͊l̠͕̬a͍͐c̨eͯ́ͨd̛ the̯_̘m wiͬ͢t̏hͥͪ ba̽͌͠by h̡̍ͤe͎a͌ds͓ s̡̿͠oͨ͒ I͗͡͠'͖͗d n̫̍ẹͩ̒v͓ͭ͌ȩ͡r̓̀ͤ h̠ͧ͠a̵ͤ͆v̪̀͜e̙̞͊ t̞o̭̱ l̦̭̺i̇͠s̲͟teǹ t͈͆o w͉̣eir̢̹͝d̺̲̑-̞͔ͬa͝s̑s̺̄ ẽ̳͡xc̝ͬus̡̏ͩes lͭ̋ik͎̩e ťhͬ̑i͔͜s̬̃.”

A smile etched its way back onto Cruz’s face. He lifted his head, fluttering his eyelashes in a very theatrical manner. “D’aww, you think my eyes are pretty?”

“Do̢̰͜n'͛tͩ p̷͛̈́u̳ͮͫshͧ̌ i̘ͮt͕,” Plier warned, but the new calmness of his voice betrayed him. The gnashing and chewing chorus resumed; he was focusing on Cruz’s offering again, greedily eating the corporeal parts and harvesting whatever emotions lingered from the goats’ departed souls with gusto.

Cruz sat upright, relief washing over him. Even with his and Plier’s contract, eldritch wrath was nothing to sneeze at. Besides, entities like Plier tended to have very special and very serious diets.

Cruz may or may not have learned the hard way that if even a spoonful of spleen-juice was missing from tribute after the stroke of 1:45 AM, the ensuing migraine from the consumer would quickly graft itself onto the offerer.

(Please read migraine as a literal tiny demon appearing out of nowhere, wielding a literal tiny ice-pick, and trying to crawl under your eyelids to reach your brain unless you add a layer of tinfoil to your ceremonial protection mask.)

A plume of fleshy-looking steam curled from under the door, gliding around Cruz’s violin from where he’d left it on the desk before fading into nothingness. 

“.̋ .̸ .̣̐̚Y̌ou̚͘ c̆̐͐aṅ k͙̉eͅe͕p̙̘ͅ p̹l͕̦a̼y̻̪̅in̸̓g̰ͫ if͉̌͘ y͇ͪ͋ou͇ wa̲ǹͅt̓͟,̇” Plier mentioned around all the horrible snaps and crackles and pops going on between all his teeth. He then huffed and hurriedly added, “Ah͚,̂ j̔̂̾u͖̼͍s̗̆t̞̤̐ s͞ơ͒̚ th̝i̚n̞̂ͥgs̨ a̷͋r͞ẹn'̄t̐͆̓ s̀͋o̺ͬ͝ d̸̏͘aͮm̯ͪn̡̗ͩ a̕wk̩̘̗w͍a̮̎̉rd̶̟ͥ to̸̹ͯni͌g̈h̞̊͠t̅̃.̹ Ca̝͘n̮̊̓'t͇ b̀̎͘eli͌_͛e̵̘̓v̏ͪe͡ yóu̡̱ t̪ͨhi̊̿nk I͕'ͭM̎ g̜o͕͝ṅͨ̿n̳̺ͭḁ̰ d̰̏o͚ all t̊hͤē̵̬ co̙ͩn̎vérsá͉̄t̷ì̝oͩn̎ͫͬ-̈c̙̜͟a̱ŗry̑͛į̑͒nͪͦg̣̽ h̗̽e͢rͤ̇e.̘”

“Right, right. How dare I,” Cruz chuckled softly, knowingly. It was just nice to know that even abominations beyond comprehension appreciated music.

He hardly even felt the violin’s weight against his collarbone as he started pulling the bow back and forth, back and forth. Once he found the right rhythm, he settled on “Mx. Sinister.” He still couldn’t believe it’d taken so damn long for him to discover IDKHOW, let alone all the covers of their songs. It was hard to download stuff onto his trusty mp3 player, but that was the price to pay for having a device that couldn’t be tracked. 

Cruz began absent-mindedly pacing the floor, swaying in time with his notes. Macaroon watched curiously, pawing at the air and trilling to the tune, the pitch of his meows a bit all over the place. 

Plier made for a mostly courteous audience. He listened to the beginning, then hummed along as he sucked the marrow from glistening bones at the bottom of the bowl.

He even murmured the lyrics of the last chorus in his hideous native tongue. . .at least, until he cut himself off with a loud gasp. A subsequent thump called from outside the door, rattling on much longer than it probably should have. 

The music came to an unsteady halt as Cruz froze, his eyes snapping back open.

“What? What is it?” 

“S̙͞h͡ù̆̚t̲̊ͧ u͍p̩!̹͇” Plier snapped, his voice suddenly so much more hollow than Cruz had ever heard before. “I n͈̪̓e͋ed to̷̞ c̜̗o̠͇̿n̩̿͋c̰e͊n̳̆t̻ͨr̝aͥͩ͢t̟ͩe!̹̲̓”

The air itself quivered and went numb; any sort of heat or coolness was drained right out of it before Cruz could even register the change. A vein tried to burst somewhere under the skin of his face, but years of adjustment pushed that natural response aside. 

Macaroon’s head jerked up, ears flattening and spikes puffing up as he let out a low, cautious yowl. That made something clammy grip at Cruz’s ribcage.

Obviously Plier’s senses were far more advanced than his own, even with all his practice, but Macaroon was a simpler creature. Yes, he had his own type of monstrous power, but he was still a cat at the bottom of each of his six (or was it seven? Cruz had such a hard time remembering) hearts. If he was picking up on something and responding like that, then it had to be serious.

Cruz approached and sat back down beside Macaroon, carefully stroking his pet’s back. Macaroon’s only response was to lean against him, still shivering as his too-long, too-elastic tail wrapped around his waist. 

It felt like an hour had passed before Plier finally piped up again, his voice now much louder and sharper than before as he seethed.

“Ḧ́̾ E̡ͩ '̓̚ Š͑͡  B A C Kͥ̚ .ͦ”

Cruz swallowed a lump in his throat, hesitating before he wondered aloud, “. . .Who?”

Instead of an answer, he got to watch the pool of color-drained blood blink out of existence, no stench or stains or anything left behind. Not even the spots on the ceiling remained. 

“Pǎ͈̩cͦk ỳ̳̍o̢̎ū̩͢r͕ͧ̑ t͕̑ͦhi̵͆ń̛̥g̤͓̓s̶̗͢,̨̲ͮ” Plier demanded. A cacophony of scraping and scuttling pounded at the walls around him in the hallway outside. “Y̘̑͘ȯ̹̹ŭ͕'̇͠r̴e̋ mo̕͢vͧiṇ̸̿g̳ͭ̔ ou̘t. Rͯĩ̪ǵhͣ̃̀t̝ͬͅ no̻̞̿w̆.”

Cruz fidgeted in place, a shiver racing up his spine. While he was no stranger to home-hopping—you could never afford to truly settle down and get attached to a place when you did the stuff he did—there was something in Plier’s tone that he didn’t recognize. And, as open to change as he was, he did not like it. Not one bit.

“But. . .wait, hold on—”

The air around him rippled again, and his lungs suddenly felt like they were melting from the inside. Cruz shook his head, grinding his jaw as he steadied himself. 

“I̸̔ s̑a͜i͍͌͛d,̲̐�� S̪̾H̸UT̸̘ͪ U̖̽͑P̬ͪ,͈̲” Plier hissed. “T̘h̼̪eŗ̼̌eͯ̑'ͣs̢͚͊ nͭͭ̍o t̵̢̛i͌m̗e̩ͫ̓ t̹o éͪxͬ̃͋p̸͓̓lͦ͜a̢̗͑in̤̎͠, a͒nd̝̖ͥ ḙ̥ͩven̥ if̄ t͟h́̎͌er̸̨͊e̽ w̠̎͑ä̼̟s, I̞ w͓̞ǒ͌̇u͌_̡l_̵ͩd̼̹n't̩̱́ h̵͙a̷̬v͚̚e tͭo̚.̯ Yȍͧ͡u'̒ḻ̐l̪̄͝ f̷̌ö̫́̈́l̰͓l͛͛o̹̰ͩw̒ a̓̀̚lo̎n̖g̝̞ ḁ͇ͤn̲͂dͨ k͒̿̕eè̩ͬp͚ ȕp wį̪t͕̙h ṁe.̖̓ Ğot͔͊̿ i̅t?”

Cruz nodded, and the melting sensation vanished from his chest. 

“Gọ̑o̤͟ḋ̫͟.̛̱͌ No̴̰ͤw, y̶̡o̩̞͊u n̯ȅ͈ed t͙́ͨo͇̒ get͇ o̱ͬ͡u̮t o̴ͮf̑̆̚ h͎eͤͮr͎e A̲̍̃Ṡ̗A͎P̻ͦ.́͊ I alͅr͔e̾ady̡͂̋ hä͘v̪̋ͧe a ne͗w͐ pͣ͝l̡ͭa̸̐̐ce̞ f͍o̢̞ͦr yo̠u̡̖̰ t͂o̫ g͟o̜̜̍.̾ O͋̕n̡ce̥̅ ýo͂ǔͫͬr̤͆̃ car̸ͨ ì͎͞s̏̓ lo͉a̴͗͌d̆̀e̢͓͜d̗ͬ u̞p,̮͒ I̶̱'ͬ̓ͬl̽͆̚l ğ͇̀ui̺̤d̉̃e you th̩́̿e̴̫ͤrḙ.̫̙”

Unlike many times before this, there was no snark or unconventional chipperness to be found on Cruz’s end. He was quiet and efficient, fishing spare boxes from his closet and filling them up with everything in his collection. 

All the old books with yellowed pages bound in slowly-decaying leather, all the various artifacts he’d managed to buy on the Dark Web that reeked of old blood or curses or pieces of stubborn spirits. It didn’t take long before the trunk of his car was full. The bare essentials—his mask, his robe, toiletries, etc.—were quickly crammed into his leather messenger bag, which soon found its place in the backseat.

The driver’s side door was halfway open when Cruz froze, sentimental panic wracking his stomach. Cruel irony, like the absolute bitch she was, struck. Something important was missing, and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember where he’d put it even though he’d been holding it just a few minutes ago!

Cruz was just about to turn on his heel, to rush back into the house and tear it apart from the inside out. . .when a muffled yip rang in his ears. He glanced back at his car to find Macaroon sitting in the passenger seat, the well-worn fabric handle of a violin case between his jagged teeth. 

Cruz just about collapsed right there, a helpless laugh leaking through his lips as he got in and buckled up. 

“Thanks, buddy,” he said, reaching over to tuck the case back with his other bag. “You’re a real lifesaver.”

Macaroon rolled his shoulders, raised a paw to preen at his ears with a very smug air as if to say, Damn right I am.

And with that, he was off, making sure to keep his headlights out as he left his latest burner-house behind. Macaroon rose up on his hind legs, bracing his paws against the window to watch the world pass by. 

True to his word, Plier’s voice was in Cruz’s head the entire time, nearly palpable as a tumor as he gave directions. 

Hours came and went, but Cruz never felt tired. He’d grown accustomed to a more nocturnal schedule anyway, but right here, right now, it felt like volts of electricity were thrumming in his blood. He just kept driving, kept following instructions, kept telling himself that things would (hopefully) make sense again sooner or later. 

The stars were still glinting when Cruz blinked and found himself pulling into a parking lot. If not for the distinct lack of bars or casinos nearby, he would’ve assumed he’d driven all the way to Las Vegas.

The building now in front of him was enormous, decorated with patterns of blinking lights. They all gave off a red-tinged glow; some were darker—like rusted metal lying just beyond a campfire. Others, meanwhile, were a much brighter, pale-yet-warm…fleshy hue—almost reminiscent of how a flashlight’s beam could still manage to shine through your skin if you pressed it hard against your palm. 

Large posters adorned the outer walls, set in metallic frames and too far away for Cruz to make out any details in the pictures. Plus, they were all so glossy that the various shades of red illumination from above glared against them.

“Ȧ̜a̷͍̎a̱̾͞aằ̖à͇̥a͠n͙ͤͩd͓ h̍͠ẽ̱͐reͣ wͫ̚e a̵̐͟r̯̦e͈!͊” Plier crowed. “Tr͕̳̉y͉̣̘ n̵̘ͭo̬͑ͅtͯ t̮̬͈ó t̖͔ä́͞k̘̚é̷̤ i̘͠tͫ a̟ͮ̕l̼l̛͚̔ in̠͇ at̖͎̽ õ̩n̍c̖͢e̴̵̛.” His voice was still comparable to molten lead as it poured into Cruz’s mind, but it was a little more calm than earlier, so he took this as a good omen.

“Where’s here?” Cruz asked, squinting. 

At the very front and foremost spot on the roof, glaring down at everything, was a sign outlined by glowing wires and cables. They all worked together to form the shape of a sphere—no, a planet. A crater-lined planet that shone with a pinkish-white color as it hung over a body of scarlet water. 

Cruz immediately thought back to all the times he’d gotten a chance to stroll along a beach during sunset, to watch the moon slowly rise out of the horizon and climb its way into the sky. 

But as he kept looking, he realized that the sign was not depicting something so simple and natural. The likeness of that planet wasn’t just floating and casting its reflection against that crimson ocean. Rather, it was actually sitting in the glowing water—no, not water. 

Blood, a voice in Cruz’s head insisted. It was just too red to be depicting water, and too dark to be depicting wine or anything somewhat less sinister.

In fact, the crimson waves seemed to be in the middle of wrapping around the planet, trying to pull it under, staining all its craters so much that they resembled open wounds. 

Underneath the huge picture, deep scarlet words set in a sleek, intriguing font: THE DROWNED MOON

Just below the name, slightly smaller: Horror/Thriller Cinema

And lower than that, another luminous sign stood to the left of what had to be the entrance: COME AND WATCH WHEN SLEEP IS HIDING FROM YOU

And on the right, another greeting(?): CONSUME AND DREAM WHERE THEY CAN’T FIND YOU

“T̩̄h̞̔͢e mͯa̫î̥̈n pͬar̦t̳ o͘f͕͎̿ mŷ te̸̚ṟ̆r̖̚i̘̪t͉ͥ̎o͚r͈y̡͛ o̲̜̐n͛̚ È̷̤arͥt̤h,̨̮̏” Plier explained, pride boiling. “Ȉ̮t̕ u͞sͧ̔͜éd͙̯̂ to b̜eͣ ḁ̳͞ t͊̑h̻eateŕ̘̹ t͍̉͝h̖̬at̊͒ s̨pecif̗ͨ̎i̠c̸̾a͟l̝ͤl͌y̤ s̍̓ͯho̮͚̓w̟̅e̐d͛ͧ́ à̛̺l͖ͧl̉̚ s̛͙or̸͇̉t̛s͔̍͠ o͑f̤ͪ c͇u̚ḽ̈́̈́tͨ c̣͓̑l͉ͧasͅsi͚̜ͤc͐ͪs̳̐͊,̴̐ p̖ͭ͠lu̵̗s ťͥh̛ͫę̢͝ ẅ͆͞ĕ͉͐írd̙͂͗ u̩p-̢ͪa̠͍͙n̶̗d͆ͩͦ-͉̓ͤco̦̘m̈́i̓nͨͨg̃́͞ f͕_̈il̮̹mͧ p̎ͤ͞ro̧j͎̟̣e͘c̲t͖͕ͥs͢ ṭ͔̽ȟ͡a̟͙͜t͌ th̛ͦ̈ë̵́͌ l͍̙̈a̍r̃gͯ͢͝ĕ͝ṙ̢̇ c͜ȯm̛͎paͧn̷̢i͎̦ͯe̕s̼ a̦r̵͓͢e to̻ỏ̱͇ b̆it̅c͊̏̀h̖ͬy̵̮ t̳͢ơͮ͗ ac͞c̥̉ep̫̉̂t͜.”

Cruise nodded, humming. “And ever since you got your hands on it?”

A shrug was evident in the monster’s tone. “O͛̏h̨ͯ,͋ it̸̲̐'̹s b͑̔͠a͚̽s̸͛ic̲̚a̦ͭ̐ll̤͗y̌̿ t̤h̸́ḛ̠ sa͆͑ḿ̙̹e̺ͧͪ t̛̑͞hin̑g̶.̲̖ I̚ jù͈s͞t̰̰ maͬ͂͠d͙͌͡è͉ á͘ͅ fe͈̣w.ͪ .̼͌̓ .̒s̷ͥ͒p̫͠e̜c̰͈̑i͙̥a̗l re̿_nnov̸̰̆a̷͕t̳̑̀io̡nͨs,͉ ĺ̡et'ͨs̡̎̾ s̵̏a̷͈̐y.̼”

A sinister chuckle slithered around Cruz’s skull.

As soon as Cruz parked, the glass doors at the front swung open. A small group of people filed out, walking with a stiff-jointed gait. 

Acting on instinct, Cruz tightened his grip around the steering wheel, but Plier only laughed again. 

“R̰̥͊ȇ̎l̷ȃ̖̖x̗.̢̤ͧ T͍̂h̎͠i̲ͬ̑s pͫ̃͡l̙̥̘a̱c̓ĕ̆ d̺̉͡o̍ͪu̴̧͔b̬̊͐l̏é͗̔s a̢̖͗s̀ a̵̯̞ hò̏l̛dḯ͇̃ng̘ pͫ͞ȩ͟n f̖̓͞ǫ̵̪r͌ s̩̼̎ome o̤͐͊f̷͉̚ m͇̲͕y̮̓̓ ṭ̉͂h͈ral̑lͬ̎͑s͔ͪ̀. T̘h͔ͨ̇ĕ̏͡y c͑a̛̗͛n'̗t h̳urt y̦͞o̳ͅu u̶ͥ͌n̛̐le̙̐s̼̽́s͉ I̪ t̥̿e͂͟lḽ̄͒ t̝h͒͡eͯm_ ṫ̼̅ọ̬_,̼ͤ ạͪň̒d y͋o͑u͇'ͨ͘r̐e͙͎ s͌t̡̀̆i̶͐͢lͫl͝ to͔̍̕o̷̜ͥ uͦͥș̇͠e͔f̒ul fo͕̰͈rͪ an̷̢̚y̷t̿ḧ̖̽i̜̜n̲͎g l̅͗ike̝͆ th͜_à̵̝t͖̏.̯̫”

Cruz pursed his lips and offered a half-nod. Even if Plier always insisted on mixing potential threats and potential promises together, it was still nice to know that, by process of elimination, he still didn’t (completely) consider Cruz a puppet who needed an internal lobotomy in order to work. 

Cruz hopped out of the car. Macaroon followed suite, quickly growing to the size of a large dog. He stayed by his owner’s side, tail slowly lashing and shoulders arched in a protective warning. 

The thralls barely even seemed to notice; their eyes still blinked and moved and saw, but whatever was behind them had been dead for a long time. The wide, unmoving smiles on their faces didn’t do them any favors. One of them popped Cruz's trunk, allowing the others to each take a box and wander back into the building. 

Cruz hummed, taking his messenger bag and sliding it over his shoulder. Keeping a gentle hand on Macaroon’s head, he trekked along behind them, approaching the now wide-open doors. For all the glow and glam on the outside, it looked like there were only a few flickering lights on further inside. 

“Y͐̿òu͖ l̛͈ỉ̤̂ve͎ h͛e̻ře͈ͣͅ n̬ͦǫ̽w,” Plier declared. “Y̜̮o͍͖u̴̻ cͬǎ̛̹n̤ͤ sͧt̘͆ȉ_l̺͟ĺ̿ f͎͋ind̫ d͈ͥ̉eĉ̷o̔yͤ p̛ͩ͝lͣaͣͦ͞c̽̒e͛̽͝s̤ͥ̂ f̪̰ͅor̿ ce͎̚r͛ṭͬ̏ai̯ͪn r̙͞it̎u͍͙̓al̮_̈ş if y͗́͡o̬͒u_͌ l̢i̗̦ke,̐ bu̙ͩ͞tͯ t̵͊̍h̸͐̕i̛̫̊s î̛s p͉ͥͣe̓̇ͅȓ́̕m̤e͉͞n̮͛ā̱̄nt̒ͬ.͗͢ I͉̋f͝ y͙͋ò͈u'rͯe̪ ģo͟ͅnn͠a̤͐ w͚ͤͣơr̶͎k͆ ḟ̯ǫ͕r̢͜ me̡͉̘,̠ t͇͡h͢en̴̤̿ y͑͝o̟u͡ m̝͓i̛ģ̴̈́h_̾t̙ ás̆ weͪll be͚ a l̪̕itͣ̓t̘͈͎l̫ḛ̵̡ c̎lo̗͆͟s͗̄ͅe̤̥r. Fͅor͊ m̼o̟ṟ̛̙à͖̩l̂éͤ.͚”

Cruz stopped in his tracks, his heartbeat suddenly thundering in his ears. “. . .Really? You mean it?”

“I̾͆ m͙e̒a͐n iͭ��t̝̝.” Plier’s voice was suddenly softer than silk, having tapered down to a whisper. His smile was evident: malevolent yet, somehow, genuine. “Y̾o͡u̢͐'̮̽r̢e̖͍̽ ǹͩ͐o̴t͠ q̛ũi͇͐t͜e̼ͮ r̷̭̐e͂̏͜ady͇̗̕ f̝orͪ t̉he ne͇x͖̦́t̥̄ͅ st̝ͩe̜̼̖p̷̧̀s,̧̢ b͐ut̛̯̃ y̔̎̕o̡ͣ̒ŭͤ̉'̖͉ͬr̅e gé͚́tti̘̣̠n̗̊g̣̫͠ t͐h̝̄͠e͞r̼͇e.̺ͤ́ It̷͕ͮ'̩ͥs̙ o̠nly̵̅ a m͊at̼̅ẗ̡́e̪͐ȑ̬̣ ǫ͔̞f t͚ͧi̵̅͐m͛e.͂_”

Cruz’s eyes wandered up to the full moon. For the next couple minutes, all he could do was stare at it. In fact, the longer he did, the more its cold, pale glow seemed to shift, just barely lifting a veil to reveal. . .something else. The illusion was gone in an instant, but Cruz could’ve sworn he’d seen veins, seen an iris, seen a pupil. . .

“Thank you,” he breathed, his lips stretching into a new, excited, hopeful grin. “You won’t regret it.” 

“Y͡eą̢͝h̤̀,͚ w̨͔ẽl͈͐l, y̸̻͒ou'ḓ͊͐ b͐́et̸tẻrͪ n̽ot m̗áͬͧk̦͉̰e͟ me̼̿,̣” Plier snorted. “Ñ̦_o̽̈́ͣw̿ hu̸͔r̯ry u̧̫p and̎ g̩ͮe͇ͥţ ì̤͠n̸ͧs̺̔̂i̭de͍̞̍.ͯ́̚ W͚͛ë͔̹́'v͙̎̀e st̼̄īl̨̑l̜̉ got́̚ s̥̬̈́om̫e͈̤ͧ w̨͍͖o̢rk̅ͥ͘ to̻͕͘ dͬ̒͂o̶.́”

“Yes, of course.” Cruz quickened his pace.

As he took the first steps into his new home, all the anxious joy buzzing through his head dredged up something else. 

“Hey—” Cruz blurted. “It looks like there’s a little more breathing room than earlier.” 

That seemed to catch Plier a bit off-guard. “Ú͉̻h. . .̵̮̑Ȋ͖̹ g̜ͭue̦ss t̠̙ͬh͗e̜͙̓r̞̹ͯe i̟s̻̈́.̖ Ẇ̧̇hy?͉̺”

“Well, can you tell me anything about what happened now?” Cruz inquired. “You said that someone was back. So. . .who are they, exactly? How do you know?” 

“O͕ͣh̲͡. R̫i̼g͍̋̾hͨ͜t͡.̡̯͘ H̒ I͐̑ M̴͒ .” Plier seemed to growl deep in his throat, aggravation sparking into a flash-boil. “T̅͟h̳a̵̓ͪnk͙̋s,ͯͫ y̩̅̀o͜u ĵ͢ủ͓̂st̶̹̘ H̾A̭D to_ ru̥in my̶͈ mo̩͊̌o̦̿d̢̛͒ a̺̪l͕͍͟l̢̓ o͘v̪ͭeṙ̻ äg̺ą̎ī̯̃n.̖̀̾”

Cruz held up his hands in a defensive lame gesture. “Hey, it’s only a question. I just feel like I’m owed some explanation after all the rush, don’t you think?”

“Ma̞ͤy̒b͝e,̪̙̍ ma͔̫͝y̋b͜è no͆ͅ_t̟͓,ͧ̃” Plier snipped, his cryptic nature watered down by how obvious it was that he was now sulking. “L̗ͅo͓õ̹k͎̿͋,̈ t̢ͨh̨a̫͎̕t̞̦ͤ'̖̱s̑ a̻̽ͨ w͜h̤̠ͤol̝͖ë̢-͖̔a͞ss s̥t̂̓̆or̻͎͗y̴͝ fͦ̚or̍̂ a͐n͘otͭ̔h̶̫̙e̹ͩ̚r͊ d̩̓͘a͑y͕͡. Ri̭͖g̥ͨh̬t͉͉ ň̠͡o̮w̸̹͝,͖̠͝ ả̵̏ll͖̱̾ ÿ́̍̇ò̮̾ư̼̇ n̳̣e͎̘̐ȩd͎̞̓ t̷̓o̎ k̥̺̀n̼o͂ͅw is̽ th͋͞at͛ an old ri̻͞v͖̾à̢͈l̶̈́ o̱̕fͦ̎ ṃ̣͜iń̰e i̘s̓ A͑P̞̂̔PͬḀͧͅR̶̤͊E̶̵N̯͆̓TL̬̻ͪY̶͇ͦ o̤̰̊u̳ͮt̿ o̵f h̍̓ib̆e̝ͧͫȓ̑͆n͎aͩͤt̿̕io̒n̡.̧ͨ”

He paused as though wondering if this rival in question could hear him. Cruz sympathized, since there was a decent chance that really was the case. 

“Ạn̵̘͓d̓̊ a̒l͍ͬ͟s̲̀̌o̬͚͎ t̸ͤha̩̳͑t HͮEͮ̇̕ C̎A̝͇͊N̪̿͡ S̗͋ͧÚ̢C̮ͮK A̺ͨ VHOC̪̐T͎ͬ͜Ȍ E̞͓̿G̽͂Ġ̥ͨ!̷̸͟”  Plier added, raising his voice enough to make ancient church bells crack. “A̭̮͔ W̹ͪHÔ̸͙L̦̥E CL̡̻U̢̞͛T̅ͨĆ́H̙ͣ O͖̿̐F̰ͨ '͐ĘM̦̼̺,ͥͦ Ș̸͖O̚ Ḭ̗̼ C̨A̪͇Nͭ W̯͐ͦA̛͎̫T̋ͭͥCͦH̱͠ H͚̯IMͪ T͈R̙͞ͅỲ͈̐ T͐O Ṟ̷ͦU̮̙̺N H̷̛͔IS̈ M͌ͫO͇ͣU̘͗TH̘͜ WĨT͜H͟ H̯̏͠I͓S̞̀̆ B̡͌UĻ̓͂L̤̃S̀͗H̤Į̛̺T̳ P̮Ŗͯ̊O̷P̦̋̚HͭE_C̗͎IES W̄̿͞H̞͟E̝̣͘N͡ T͕Ḫ̌E̤̎ S̸͝H̴͉̳E̠͓͑L͇͚͜L͜S M̭͇͍AKE H̴̝̪I̜̮̊Ş̑ TƠ̭͝N̒̚G̤̋͟UÈ͓̙S̗̏ ŚHR̴I̙ͪVE̥̓Lͤ́ U̔̀P̑̆!̤”

“. . .Well, alright then,” Cruz murmured, now digging through his pockets in search of his mp3 player.

___

As adaptable as they always tried to be, Sam Ryder was not in the best mood right now. 

To be completely fair, not many people would be too thrilled at having to track energy signals, drive day-and-night to some middle-of-nowhere desert, sneak into a motel at the heart of some rest-stop town and lockpick their way into a specific room only to hide out in the darkness of its little lavatory and wait for what felt like FOREVER for the occupants to return. 

Ah, yes. Just another questionable charm of the industry built on stealth and secrets that most people were probably better off not knowing. 

Sam shifted from side-to-side, muscles tense, bored and impatient from having to be so still and so quiet. But this current, last-minute mission was important.

If those energy spikes the team back home had picked up were anything to go by. . .if there was even the slightest possibility that something out here was related to the Rift—

The door swung open.

The room’s main light clicked to life.

Two figures trudged inside, their movements exhausted yet shaky. 

Sam held her breath as the duo passed by without even glancing in her direction. She could hear them shuffling around the room, hear something heavy and solid being dragged along the floor, then lifted up and plunked onto a mattress. 

She set her jaw, cracked her knuckles as quietly as possible, and then waltzed out like she owned the place. There were a precious few more seconds for her to study the duo, as they both still had their backs to her. 

That changed the very millisecond she cleared her throat.

“Professor Jenkins—” she greeted, looking at the one with raven hair that nearly tickled his shoulders and features that seemed to point to some kind of Asian background. 

She glanced at his companion, a brunette man with fair skin and warm eyes that quickly grew to the size of dinner plates. “ —and Doctor James, I presume?” 

Part of her had expected a scream or two, but the most they were given were strangled gasps, as well as flinches so bad that her own stomach almost started churning with that cold, infamous type of shock.

“H-How. . .how do you know—?” Dr. James asked, stammering badly as he held up his hands and backed away, clearly trying to put something, anything between him and this surprise guest. 

“What, you think cable is dead or something?” Sam rolled her eyes. “Your reputations proceed you, and all that jazz.” Indeed they did. While she honestly preferred YouTube for entertainment these days, she could remember catching a few news stories about ancient tombs being explored, as well as at least three new species of dinosaur being discovered. 

All accompanied by respective photos of the men who stood before her. 

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” Prof. Jenkins demanded, quickly moving to stand beside his companion. 

“That’s not important right now. Don’t try anything stupid, and you might get a little information for your trouble.” Sam took a few steps forward, making sure the authority was clear as crystal. “I have some questions of my own for both of you, actually. And you’re going to answer them. Honestly. One way or another.”

The two archeology buffs exchanged concerned glances. Prof. Jenkins’ brow furrowed, but confusion shifted into understanding at breakneck speed. The same went for Dr. James, though he started shaking again, mouth opening and closing with no words coming out. 

That made Sam pause. Now that she could finally see their faces, it was clear how they’d both been wracked with fear long before she’d surprised them. 

They’d both already seen something. 

Something very, very bad.

Sam couldn’t help but cringe at herself. This had to be handled carefully.

You caught more flies with honey than vinegar, after all.

(Even though she’d definitely laughed very hard at sentiments like that more than once in the past.)

“Listen, I’m not looking for any trouble. I’ve just here because I got word that whatever is underneath this area might be extremely dangerous. And, unfortunately, it seems you guys have gotten way too close to it,” she reiterated with a sigh. “I can tell that something big happened around here today, but that’s just it. For the sake of my work, I need to learn more.”

As they listened, the duo seemed to ever-so-slightly calm down. Their adrenaline and fear was still very obvious, but it looked like they were at least considering trusting her now.

Sam spotted a desk near the corner of the room. She slowly approached and settled down onto the swivel chair set before it. She motioned for her two new conversation buddies to take their own seats. “As long as you cooperate, nothing bad will happen. I promise.”

Another moment of painfully awkward silence dragged by. But just as Sam was about to add a little more force to their elevator pitch, Prof. Jenkins heaved a sigh.

“It’s a bit fucking late for that,” he announced, hesitantly crossing the room and sitting down on the corner of the other bed; that must’ve been the one he’d claimed after check-in time.

Dr. James’ face kept twisting with stress and anxiety, but he, too, eventually took a seat on his own mattress. “Not sure how things could get any worse,” he agreed, reaching up to knead at his forehead, his hand still trembling a bit.

“Nice job tempting fate,” Sam said with a mirthless chuckle. She glanced between them. “So. What’s apparently worse than anything right now?” 

“. . .We’re not entirely sure ourselves.” Prof. Jenkins fidgeted in place. “There’s a few underground cave systems just half-an-hour away. The only reason we came out here was to check one of them for fossils, or gems, that kind of stuff. We—we didn’t mean any harm.” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ve seen shit that would turn anyone white, but. . .he was something else.”

Sam blinked, brow furrowing in confusion. That certainly didn’t sound like anything to do with the Rift, but they’d been wrong before. “I’m sorry, ‘he?’ You’re saying you found a person in one of those caves?”

“Not a person,” Dr. James argued, fear quickly spilling onto his features all over again. “A monster! A goddamn monster! O-or a demon, or a spirit, I have no idea. But whatever he was, he was not human! And now he’s somewhere out there and no-one else can go into that place and it’s all our fault!” 

He curled in on himself heaving a combination of sob and sigh. “So many teeth and eyes and moving skin. . !”

Prof. Jenkins was back by his side in an instant, grabbing one of the paleontologist’s shoulders to help him stay steady.

Sam, meanwhile, felt their heart sink. While they were now at least eighty-five-percent sure that the team didn’t have to worry about the Rift. . .it looked like different-yet-just-as-horrible option was on the table.

After a long few seconds, Dr. James straightened his back again, though his eyes were still so full of pain and panic. “I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just been such an awful day. One traumatizing thing after another.”

Sam nodded, a generous dose of empathy worming its way into her features. “Well, that’s a good summary, but it’s still not quite enough.” She sighed again, then leaned back in the chair. “Start from the beginning, please.”

@sammys-magical-au @inkbedou @mostlyghostly42 @safe-hayven @sunny011387 @heichoublack @m0naca @beomjunniz

[thewebcomicsreview]

souper-slingsubmitted tothewebcomicsreview: Could you have a look at my friend’s webcomic and give your opinion of it so far? https://frankyfierro.thecomicseries.com/

Okay, let's take a look.

Not super fond of this first page having a big text dump. It is good that the text dump is broken up into paragraphs instead of being a brick, but maybe if you're doing a wall of text you don't need the pretense of all the word balloons, since the dialogue makes it obvious Franky is speaking in the first person here. That's me being nit-picky, though. I do like the actual text itself, which establishes Franky's character very fast.

Actually, y'know what? I'm kind of coming around to the text dump opening. It's not what you're "normally" meant to do, but it's short, it's flavorful, and between that opening and this title page I feel like I have a impression of what this comic is about already: Jimmy Neutron meets Serenity Rose. Let's see if that impression is accurate!

I like this art, and I like that the narration box is passive-aggressive (since it's established that Franky is the narrator), but man I do not like that lettering. The pixelated font may or may not be a fit for a comic about a machine-maker, tbd, but there's no excuse for left-justifying the text.

Like, this art is really expressive and charming in a cartoony way, but the sterile artificial lettering kind of doesn't support that tone. I presume "Frank ,let" is a typo, but...what's with all the ellipses? Am I meant to read it as "I thought I told you (pause) not to call them toys!!!"That's kind of weird and doesn't seem appropriate to the scene? Is that intentional?

The dialogue generally has this slightly surreal feeling, which I feel uncomfortable criticizing since I'm not sure if the creator is a native English speaker and maybe I'm the asshole here.

So I'll just note to maybe run your dialogue through a spell check at least, because there's a lot of typos, like "figth" there.

Like, I'm pretty confident that the principal is meant to sound wacky, but I'm not sure if Frank is or if that's just typographical errors.

Lest I sound too negative here, by the way, the art is very strong for what this comic is doing. There's actually a lot this comic is doing right, it's just the dialogue that's hurting it.

"I seem to have hit you with the doors again this month" is weird but in a funny way, and I laughed at it. Why "this month"? That's so weirdly specific, like she's accidentally hit him with the door once a month for the last eight months or something. I'm not sure if that's intentionally the joke or not, but I did laugh.

Because, like, this announcement doesn't make sense. "The president of our wonderful student council...Simona Garfunkel Stradivari" and then suddenly the next word balloon has an entirely new sentence even though the old one didn't finish. I'm confused. Is that the joke? Is it weird on purpose? What is this? I don't understand. Is it modern? Or is it just a mistake?

(Also, it should maybe be "The wonderful president of our student council" instead of "the president of our wonderful student council", since the story is all about Simona the villain getting undue praise, and none of the other council members matter)

(Also also that's a pretty expressively drawn speaker, with the scrunchy lines look. I like it)

This is a good panel that demonstrates the point I'm trying to make by harping on the grammar. Here, the ellipses in the second balloon "She's gonna be fine...maybe" reads like she is pausing. Except there are a million ellipses all over the place so I don't know if that's intentional, I just kind of have to assume that's what the author means. (Also "Shorty" is improperly capitalized, which I presume doesn't mean something)

So, here's the thing with this comic. The art is good. It's very good, it's wacky and expressive and cartoony for a wacky and expressive and cartoony comic. The plot, which I've skimmed over here, is perfectly cromulent. The characters are strong. The stakes are clear. It has a lot of mid-2000s anime energy, which is what your friend seems to be going for. The comic's really only got one problem, and I feel a little bad harping on the one thing the comic is doing wrong instead of what it's doing right...but that problem is omnipresent. Cleaning up this dialogue would make a massive difference. My recommendations are:

Run the dialogue through a spell check to make sure there are no typos

Read the dialogue out loud after writing it. If it's supposed to sound wacky, fine, but if it's not meant to sound weird it shouldn't. Have someone else read it out loud if you need someone to check it for you.

Just a little bit more attention to making sure the dialogue works, and this comic could actually be pretty solid! It's so close, there's just this one last layer of polish that's needed!

[sterlingarcher23]

Flying W - Wonder Woman.

The Winnebago RV used is from 1972 - The logo is called "Flying W" (and in 1986 the Winnebago RV industry established the Flying W program in to recognize select dealers for service excellence and superior customer satisfaction.)

I don't know about you but the version of this one in particular reminds me a bit of ...

They even shot her standing there with this logo in her back. And it's a "Flying W" like "If you want to stop One you will need to fly" again making a connection between One and Max or better: Max is One. One of the good Ones since there are only three Ones in the show: 00I and 0II.

Theres no doubt a strong connection towards Wonder Woman been made in the show.

That's issue 326 > 3+2+6=11.

The first issue of The Legend of Wonder Woman (the comic Lucas is reading to Max in the script if I recall correctly) was released in May 1986. Weird, did they want to push Will's birthday to May (Birthday gate) allegedly because it better fits the lip movement? - I doubt that this is an oversight and they didn't use it because it was released much later but another clue left in the script that March and May are interchangeable and there are potential timeline shenanigans in the show.

And since the Duffers like Upside-downs/inversions, just have some fun and invert Max's initials ... Or just the Wonder Woman logo.

And note that Mike offers El some M&Ms (because he didn't get his break...I mean KitKat) while Max is right there in the background. So MM=Max Mayfield. And certain fonts especially in the Wonder Woman logo once inverted give us different initials.

I guess reflections/Upside-downs/inversions/mirrors are all just a coincidence. There's nothing like this in the show at all. There's nothing to see here, folks! Or is there? That mirror shots are btw like a Stranger Things version of the Sherlock mirror.

If Henry's shadow is Vecna(Edward?), then Max's mirror is...El. The walkie talkie isn't very subtle. Seriously, I wouldn't do/talk about this if there weren't inversions and mirrors etc in show and it's not even very subtle. Many parallels people talk about are actually mirrors. (Even literal mirrors like the one 00I gets thrown through which then switches the alignment of the shards to give us a mirror of him and the "Zoomer"-El that fights back.) It was the first thing that I noticed and that's what started this.

Oh, and shall we guess who's in room 110? (Just saw it, so take it with a grain of salt but this looks like Maya behind the window.)

Mirrors: 011/110

So, MM=WW because as pointed out in the comic reading scene Wonder Woman has another name, alias or "alter ego": Princess Diana. Like Peter Parker is Spider-Man. Clark Kent is Superman etc etc

All you need is simple math. 5'6 / 5 6 =??

Nah, just imagining things.

................................................................................

I do have an idea what the blue hair tie and yellow watch do resemble and mean as an allegory that totally fits the narrative. And yes, it's Wonder Woman linked too.

Had a post some time ago about the Lasso of Truth - and remember the poster for "Dear Billy"? It says "No more lies".

That Unbreakable is an inspo is obvious (and official) and David Dunn's weakness is water. (You know the whole rabies/fear of water thing which I likely will address in another post.) Nonetheless, the superhero coding is there.

[thekuraning]

Late 4 ship meme uhhhh guzma x cyrus AKA parental issues/we need therapy the ship

i had to think REALLY HARD about this one grkjhgld this is the first time ive ever considered this ship!!! which is funny because i have gone down the guzma/giovanni rabbithole beforef hriuehge

please excuse both my handwriting and the weird font, i turned off my tablet and was too lazy to turn it back on again

i feel like i should explain myself for this one too

so like yeah therapy??? they meet in therapy maybe??? like. state-mandated therapy for both of them for their Crimes. And guzma comes in acting like the Big Man in the room like a completely hardened criminal like yeah man im in a GANG i was a GANG LEADER we took voer a TOWN and messed shit up hahaha whatre you here for nerd? >:) and cyrus looks him dead in the eye and says "i summoned an eldritch beast and almost rewrote all of space and time in my image." and guzma doesnt believe it first but then like one day nanus just like yeah no thats basically what happened

anyways they like. get coffee together afterwards while they wait for the bus. and i dont really see them having a big huge romantic affair or anything. im not sure if theyre ace or aro or demi or what but for them as characters i dont usually envision them really getting physical often unless its with very specific people. but i think they would form a very strong bond over their experiences with their families, the isolation they've felt in their lives and so on, and guzma's not the most book smart but despite being loud and wild he's very dependable and like. stable when he's given room to be. especially as they're both very forthcoming characters and guzma isn't afraid to speak his mind to cyrus, and will take genuine interest in cyrus's hyperfixations.

idk they have a lot to bond over i guess :thinking emoji: guzma will always be impressed by cyrus's big brain and cyrus will always be impressed how guzma can be the world's biggest dumbass but also like be very grounded and worldly about some things.

also its not so much that guzma borrows cyrus's clothes, it's more like cyrus kind of insists on him having Decent Clothes to wear when hes hanging around Team Galactic as though they do not all look like galaxy quest rejects

[cooking-pokemon]

So I went to the lab this morning to learn about battling. The professors were out, but an assistant named Hop was able to help me out. We spent a few hours on a crash course of things most people learn by the time they turn ten apparently, things like types, moves, what the Pokemon League is and what it does, etc.

Then he insisted on a ‘practical lesson’ by having Blueberry battle against on of the lab pokemon. Hops normal pokemon were apparently way too strong to consider giving us a fair fight.

Before the battle, he handed me something called a Pokédex and told me to scan Blueberry so I could find out her moves. I’m not entirely sure how it worked but a light came out of the eyes on the back and scanned over Blueberry, and then her information showed up on screen. Electric/Flying Swablu with the moves Peck, Growl, Disarming Voice, and Thundershock. There was a little blurb about the Swablu species and in large black font it said “NOTE: Swablu are usually Normal/Flying types. You have something pretty unique here!” I kind of already knew that Blueberry had a weird typing though. I was about to show the screen to Hop but he shook his head with a smile. Apparently it’s part of battling to learn what your opponents moves are along the way and have a flexible enough strategy to account for surprises.

The battle itself was against something called a Chewtle. Hop told it to use Water Gun but Blueberry dodged fairly easily by just flying out of the way. I figured Chewtle must be a water type because of the move and how it just looks like a turtle so called for Blueberry to use Thundershock. It was amazing to see the crackle form in her wings and a little arc of electricity form between the yellow markings on her head feathers. It was a little scary to watch the Chewtle shriek at the shock.

It looked pretty hurt but it didn’t go down. Blueberry flew around in circles chirping happily at her success. Hop seemed extremely surprised but shook it off and ordered Chewtle to do another Water Gun. I called for Blueberry to look out but she was distracted with her little celebratory swoops so she got a good soaking but seemed more annoyed than hurt. I was afraid to do Thundershock again so I called for Disarming Voice instead. Blueberry let out a high pitched, very loud sound and a pink wave of energy came from her beak and slammed into the Chewtle knocking it out. I was pretty worried about it but Hop just recalled it into one of those pokeball things and said it did a good job.

Then Hop and I had a long discussion about Blueberry. Apparently pokemon with unusual typings are extremely rare but not unheard of. Usually only experienced trainers ever take one on. I explained how when I first got here, the professors got me in touch with @belamew , a daycare somewhere in the multiverse that had recently had some Swablu that needed homes.

Hop went on to explain that Blueberry might be a bit more difficult than the average Swablu to take care of just because the unusual typing can have strange effects on a pokemons normal temperament. I haven’t had any trouble with her yet though so I hope I don’t have to worry about that.

I told him why I was wanting to know about battling in the first place, that I was looking to get a job at the new Battle Cafe in town. And apparently I have to get a Trainer License to work there so… I guess I’ll be getting that tomorrow.

Blueberry seems extremely pleased with herself, constantly puffing her feathers and giving happy chirps and dances so. I guess she likes battling. Yay.

I asked to see the Chewtle, just to see how it was doing. Hop let it out and it seemed pretty tired and a bit dirty from the battle but otherwise fine. It didn’t even seem upset at Blueberry, letting her ride on its shell while it stomped around the lab dramatically!

I asked if there’s any pokemon who don’t like battling… and I was surprised with Hops simple “Oh, sure.” I asked what happens to those pokemon. He didn’t seem to understand the question at first but eventually said “Then we don’t make them battle. They’re just our companions, or they’re just living their life in the wild, or whatever it is they want to do.”

After that, I could finally feel myself relaxing a bit about the whole idea of an entire society run on pokemon battles. There might be some outliers, but it seems like the norm is people genuinely caring about their pokemon and whether they even like battling. So, tomorrow I’ll get my Trainer License, register Blueberry as my ‘starter’, and go interview at the cafe!

[lumilasi]

In relation to the snow witch/cat lesbian duo, here are the said witch's dads. The first one, Marcus is AGES OLD character I've had for a decade that I still love a lot, and I actually didn't change his design from the old one almost at all? I simply drew him better now, thanks to having my drawing skills improve at least somewhat in the past decade.

Lethas is an amalgamation of an entire family of old dragonic deity characters squished together. I'll draw his dragon form sometime later.

...The font I'm using is kinda not matching for the fantasy vibe, but I really didn't feel like doing graphic design so to speak rn lmao

Fun Facts below:

Marcus is a Romanian noble in heritage, though local villagers rarely see him, and think of their count as bit of a weird hermit. Pleasant and polite enough, but odd.

Marcus doesn't have human staff, he uses his powerful ice magic to create icy entities that act as servants.

Marcus' Patron Deity is Jack Frost

Irina was abandoned at his doorstep as a toddler, and he was initially hesitant in taking her in, but saw potential in her already strong magic, and was admittedly kind of lonely living there alone

He and Lethas are in a mostly platonic, non-sexual relationship, but they do come off like an old married couple that bicker constantly, and clearly have a very strong emotional bond between one another.

Marcus is gay (and basically anyone who meets him can tell he's not straight, there's no way lol) and Lethas basically has no sexual/romantic drive whatsoever given the way his kind are born. (So he's Aro-ace if you apply human labels)

They started out as rivals, but overtime kind of become each other's only company (up until Irina showed up)

Lethas was actually frozen as a statue in dragon form in front of the Vasile castle for almost fifty years, and was released accidentally by Irina when she was 8.

She thought he was going to eat her dad, only to see the two start bickering and head inside for tea, as if him being frozen by Marcus for five whole decades wasn't unusual. (It was an accident, Marcus actually thought he'd accidentally killed Lethas and was relieved to find out that wasn't the case, even if he doesn't show it openly)

Lethas is a soul dragon, a being born from the lost souls of dead warriors perished in wars. All his weapons are formed from soul fire.

Lethas was born sometime around the age of the roman empire, though can't remember exactly when. Marcus is couple hundred years old, but he did spend about half of it on ice literally, hence he actually appears younger than he should. (Long story, he met Lethas because the dragon released him from ice accidentally)

Lethas breathes fire like average dragons, though his soul fire is immensely powerful and can't be put out in any other way, except essentially powerful exorcism magic or a soul eater's devouring of it.

Lethas immediately took into his role as the more strict and responsible dad, the first thing he did when waking up was to pick Irina up in his dragonic form and place her gently on the balcony of her room, patting her head, before turning around to bitch at Marcus.

The swirly pattern on Lethas' cloak doesn't just glow in soul form, but they move and swirl around too.

Split hair and coloring with Lethas symbolizes the duality of life in all its forms; life and death, sky and earth, fire and water, war and peace, etc. or that's what Lethas likes to claim anyway. Marcus suspects he just thinks it looks cool.

Marcus' coat turns into hues of blue and white when he fully activates his powers. The snowflake/star design on it is actually the center of the Warlock sect symbol for this world's Arcane Council (body that governs primary magic users, I.E beings whose main thing is magic, rather than the magic being result of being some sort of mythical being)

Technically, you're not supposed to remove parts of the symbol if you wish to utilize it, but Marcus didn't like the hostile looking spiky eyes surrounding the central star pattern, so he didn't include them + made the colors more to his taste.

[aita-blorbos]

aita for being sensitive? I'll try to keep this short.

(oc)

I am very sensitive. I have a list down below, but if you're impatient, you can just skip to the next time the font is this size for convenience.

I don't eat much, but when I do, I have a very strict diet, one that a lot of people feel grossed out about. People call me a leech or a bloodsucker--this isn't necessarily true. I also have dietary restrictions: salt makes me feel very ill, and I can't have garlic, either. If seeds are involved, I usually end up counting them instead of actually eating (it's called arithmomania).

I am sensitive to sunlight and get sunburned very easily. I can't touch silver or cold iron because of sensory issues. I don't really like touching holy water or crosses either because of things that happened in the past--it makes me feel like I'm burning.

I have poor circulation that makes me feel cold to the touch, and makes me look kind of dead. I have more robust canines that I'm very self-conscious about--I feel like I can't see the real me in the mirror. I also have a fast metabolism.

I use a lot of more 'old fashioned' slang, and people keep making fun of me for it and my mannerisms. But surprisingly, though I feel nervous, I don't get physically anxious about their comments--I don't feel my heart beat much. I also have old fashioned objects--quills, Victorian nightgowns, books that haven't seen the light of day in a hundred years.

I have an affinity for bats, cats, frogs, and other creatures, and I get kind of upset when people say that that's too weird. And what's worse is that people keep treating me like a monster. I don't understand why. My friend keeps telling me not to attack, maim, or kill anyone.

I do have some upsides, though.

I'm very fast and strong. But even when I'm not, I've managed to survive some pretty whacky things. I heal relatively easy.

I have a hypnotic personality. I feel like I know what people are thinking, and I'm usually right.

I always know who's coming to greet me, and people can't sneak up on me easily. It's like I have almost...enhanced senses.

Here's where the problem really lies.

I met a really pretty girl, who we can call 'A' (idk her age) a while back, and I fell in love with her at first sight. We slowly grew closer, and closer, until we were inseparable. I was thinking about A one day, and I realized that I noticed some strange behaviors from her.

One night, I was in my backyard, and I saw an odd-looking wolf...turns out A's a werewolf. I still stayed with her and supported her, and I still love her so, so much.

Anyway, I was talking with A the other night, and I told her some things about myself, and she came up with the idea that I could be a vampire.

I don't think I am, but I do think that it's a big probability--I survived an attack a while ago from my ex (500F). I didn't tell her any of this, however; I told her that that would be insane, and that would never happen to me. We got into a pretty big fight, and there's a lot of space between us now.

AITA?