#anyway of course like. I WRESTLE

[itspileofgoodthings]

shout out to the quote tweet of an edit of the Taylor and Travis first game that said “you are all experiencing mass psychosis”—-made me SCREAM-laugh

[gothicrepetitions]

I’ve often seen with children who live in households where they feel helpless and without any autonomy in their households, they tend to verbally lash out for a sense of control, especially in situations where the adult exerts their authority or power over them (such as demanding they do something or making decisions for them without regard to their own wants). Very true for Sam Winchester (from what we know in pre-series and what we see in at certain points of S1) but imo this often gets misunderstood and misconstrued both by fandom and by other characters

[vanityangel]

[the-kipsabian]

@giftober 2024 | Day 11: "orange"

[funsosfunzone]

gender swapped stanley and stanford pines where they're butch lesbians and their designs are almost identical to their canon ones

[thistledropkick]

I just wanted to say, thanks again to everyone who likes, reblogs, or adds nice tags to my translations on here. I never intended for this to be a translation account, but it kind of happened by accident anyway, and I really appreciate everyone who has encouraged me to keep sharing translations.

I know that the kind of stuff I'm interested in has a pretty small English-language audience (which is why no one else has already translated it, and why I felt the need to start studying Japanese in order to read it)

I tend to think "no one cares about this but me, so why post a translation of it" but it's good to be reminded that there are other people in the English-language side of wrestling fandom who are interested in the same stuff I'm interested in, and who want to read the stuff I want to translate.

I don't always have the time or energy to write proper translations for everything I want to, but as long as people keep showing an interest, I'll keep sharing what I can.

[leviathiane]

Franklin's comparative analysis of Gon and Uvogin reflects in a not-insignificant notion to how Gon and Killua work together versus how Nobunaga and Uvogin worked together–– though with caveats, of course. Killua at this point in the story (and the majority of the story, CAA not included) was and is physically stronger than Gon. He doesn't need Gon's protection. Gon doesn't feel the need to provide it, either. He holds complete trust in Killua's abilities and strength, and so lacks the same sort of support power-up that Uvo got when fighting alongside Nobu.

This both humanizes Uvo, furthering his post-mortem characterization, reinforces Gon's characterization, further establishes the dynamic between Uvo and Nobu, and provides set up for future shifting Gon-Killua dynamics, the Fast-Approaching Killua style abuse mental breakdown included.

[wishbonemotel]

whelp. got my last art fight attack in with literally 35 seconds to spare

[obstinaterixatrix]

mom was saying how she wasn’t good at getting gifts and was like “I don’t even know what to get you :(” and I was like. no mom. I’m the problem here.

[githvyrik]

see the thing abt me is I take the roleplaying in video games so seriously that I just start making shit up about the character I play and their rich inner history and complications and motivations and hobbies and quirks. so basically I made up too much of a backstory and personality for my bg3 character and now I don’t even wanna finish the stupid game I just wanna play this character in a dnd campaign

[idk-i-want-mcl-content]

🍯beeeeeee movie

[draconym]

You’ve been called upon to plan drag to perform tomorrow. What are you doing? Go into as much detail as you like!

My drag persona is going to be be Him/Herwin, Alligator Wrestler. I'll wear the standard khakis, but with fishnets and heels (and much shorter shorts). Or stiletto hiking boots, if such a thing exists. You get the picture.

Anyway, I'll introduce myself, compliment various members of the audience on their plumage or their defensive camouflage or whatever, then launch into "Down Under" by Men At Work. Halfway through the song, someone offstage will throw an inflatable alligator at me and the music will transition to "Maneater" by Hall and Oates, which I'll sing while wrestling the alligator.

At the end of my act, after I've pinned the alligator, I'll ask an audience member to help me tape its mouth shut so I can safely transport it to a golf course for release.

[hardrockshrimp]

Waitlisted for an art market yet again...

[idiopathicsmile]

School Gymnastics: A Tragicomedy

So one day when we were in third grade, our P.E. teacher divided us into girls and boys. (I don’t remember what the boys had to do. Wrestling? Tackle football? I don’t know, probably not at age nine, but that’s not the point. Gladiatorial combat? I still don’t really understand kids’ sports.)

What matters for this story is that all the girls had to do gymnastics. Now—and I suspect this won’t surprise you if you know literally anything about me—I was always terrible at any form of school athletics. I am intensely, almost impressively uncoordinated. This doesn’t affect my life much at 36, but it was often a miserable way to be a kid. The only playground game I liked was playing pretend, because when you are playing pretend, you don’t have a bunch of people ostensibly on your side screaming in your ear, “Pretend faster! Pretend over there! Pretend with greater accuracy!”

Anyway, gymnastics and my clumsy, doughy little body. I couldn’t do a cartwheel. I couldn’t do a backwards somersault. I couldn't do any of it. We had an entire unit on this business and I literally did not learn how to even safely attempt a single move besides the log roll (lie flat and roll sideways on your belly). In retrospect, this seems like maybe it was in part a teaching problem, not a me problem, but that’s actually not the point either.

The point is, at the end of the unit, we were told to divide ourselves into little teams and choreograph a group gymnastics routine. My group, faced with my long list of limitations (more limitation than girl, really) decide my role will be to just forwards-somersault around the rest of the group as they do their moves. (This is itself kind of embarrassing but trust me, it is but the appetizer.) My friend Ashley has the Lion King soundtrack and we all agree that it is a great choice. The movie has only come out a couple of years earlier, and it of course features some funny, peppy options. 'Hakuna Matata'? 'I Just Can't Wait to Be King'? It's all coming together.

Carried on a wave of youthful enthusiasm, none of us even think to double-check which track Ashley has picked. Foreshadowing!

So the day of the performance comes. Another group goes right before us. They had picked “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls, which was a huge hit at the time. I mean, it still is because it’s a classic, but then it was big and new. They step onto the mat and immediately begin to do choreographed dance moves, which they have worked into their routine. We had not thought of this. Oops. Dance moves, of course! So they incorporate the necessary gymnastics, it goes over really well, the energy is high, and now it’s my group’s turn.

I take my place at the edge of the mat, the mat we are required to stay on for the length of the piece. Ashley cues up the track she’d chosen.

A song starts up. Instantly, I recognize it from the movie. It is the very slow instrumental music that plays when Simba realizes his dad is dead.

‘Well, this is not optimal,’ I think. I've been on this planet for nine years; I can see that much. But it’s too late to change the track, and so I tell myself, ‘It’s okay. I’m a performer. I can sell this.’ I put on an extremely solemn face and begin to execute a series of the world’s saddest somersaults.

Friends, when I say “sad” I mean it, in every possible sense of the word. Picture a nine year old with the gravest possible affect, determinedly doing somersaults to the slowest, most serious music she can imagine, in a careful ring around her friends who have actually learned any gymnastics whatsoever. Okay, now as the music starts to pick up and get more hopeful, imagine she gets real dizzy and in front of everyone, she rolls all the way directly off the mat, careening dangerously towards the assembled students.

Somehow, I roll myself back onto the mat, we survive what feels like hours of humiliation, we stagger away, and I blessedly avoid adding “puking my guts out in front of all of my peers” to my very short list of gymnastics tricks.

Later, I asked Ashley what in the world possessed her to choose that song.

“It didn’t have any words,” she said.

(There was absolutely no rule against using songs that had lyrics.)

Anyway, that’s why being an adult is better than being a kid.

I may have to do laundry and make my own dinner and wrestle with more complex existential angst, but you know what I haven’t been asked to do in like 26 years? Somersault for three minutes straight to the musical shorthand for “this cartoon lion cub has no choice but to process the weight of unimaginable grief for his dead dad.” And you know what? If I live another 50 years, I can be pretty confident nobody will ask me to do it then, either.

[leupagus]

I decided it's funnier if Finch is in the cast lol:

So, take and use Thy work

Grant lay on his high white cot and stared at the ceiling. Stared at it with loathing. He knew by heart every last minute crack on its nice clean surface. He had made maps of the ceiling and gone exploring on them; rivers, islands, and continents. He had made guessing games of it and discovered hidden objects; faces, birds, and fishes. He had made mathematical calculations of it and rediscovered his childhood; theorems, angles and triangles. There was practically nothing else he could do but look at it. He hated the sight of it.

"You don't like it."

Gabriel Finch looked up from the book in his lap to blink at the woman stood in the doorway to his hospital room. She wore a fashionable wool coat with a sable ermine hat perched jauntily on her impeccably coiffed hair, and she was looking at him with a mixture of triumph and trepidation. She was Mrs. Griselda Clement, and she was altogether unexpected.

He had been the guest of St. George's Hospital now for almost a week, and much like Inspector Grant, he had already grown to hate the ceiling — the ceiling, and indeed the walls, the floors, and everything within them. He'd lived for more than a half-century thinking himself quite immune to boredom, but until now he'd never been under its yolk in such an interminable, dreary way. He didn't even have the satisfaction, as his fictional counterpart had, of acquiring his injury in the line of duty; instead he'd merely been the humdrum victim of a humdrum car accident at the corner of Shaftesbury and Charing Cross Road.

So here he was, with a broken fibula and a "strained" tibula (in the words of his doctor, a harried-looking young man half Gabriel's age who had dark circles under his eyes and a pen that leaked ink into his breast pocket) and very little to do. He'd managed to send a telegram to Jane a few days ago, in the vague hope that she might tear herself away from her garden and come visit; instead he'd received one of her absent-minded letters tucked into the pages of The Daughter of Time — clearly her own, well-loved copy, complete with Jane's shameful habit of dog-earing and spilling tea on the pages.

P.S., the letter had concluded, I shall send along something more useful in a few days, I promise. Though she had once provided a valuable insight to a case Jane and Gabriel had worked on, "useful" was not the first epithet one might consider, when considering Mrs. Clement.

"I knew you wouldn't like it," continued that worthy, as though he'd replied and not merely blinked at her owlishly. She strode into the room and plucked the book from his hands, tossing it on the visitor's chair, where it promptly slid off and fell to the ground with a papery smack. Seemingly unaware of what she'd just done, she sat down in the very same chair, her handbag still dangling from her arm. "I said to Miss Em, 'Miss Em, the poor darling's got a broken leg, the last thing he's going to want to do is read a book about another inspector who's got a broken leg.'"

"It was very good of Jane to send it along," Gabriel protested, for all the good it would do — Mrs. Clement was the sort of person who earnestly intended to listen to whatever one was saying, but could only rarely manage it.

Sure enough, Mrs. Clement realised halfway through his comment that the book had fallen onto the floor and dropped to her knees to retrieve it, her handbag's contents spilling out as she placed the book (now somewhat dusty) on his bedside table. Gabriel, hampered by his cast (though unlike Inspector Grant, he was at least not in traction), was unable to provide assistance other than pointing out where a lipstick had rolled into a corner.

"You star, I've been looking for this everywhere!" Mrs. Clement exclaimed, waving it triumphantly as she sat down again. "You wouldn't think lipstick would still suffer from rationing. But she's absolutely potty about Josephine Tey," she said, with the blithe confidence of the truly beautiful — that no matter how much their conversation might veer to and fro, their companion would keep faithful track of whatever they said. "Or whatever her real name was. She practically went into mourning when she died, the poor dear. Ashes and rended garments, I can tell you. So of course she thinks nothing can soothe a savage breast — or at any rate a breast that's confined to hospital — like a bit of detective fiction. It's really quite adorable, don't you think? Though you oughtn't tell her I said that."

"I give you my word," Gabriel responded gravely. Now was the natural point at which he might make his own inquiries, such as what she was doing here at St. George's Hospital at two in the afternoon. But though he'd only met the vicar's wife a handful of times, he'd long since learned that she would only rarely respond to direct questioning. It was better, as Jane  had told him once, to let her meander along toward her own point.

"Oh, thank you, Gabriel, I knew you'd be a dream about it." She clapped her hands and stood up again. "Well, Len's got the car downstairs, so I suppose the next thing to do is to find a wheelchair."

Then again, some questions might be in order. "A wheelchair?"

"Yes, of course," she said, looking surprised. "Unless you can hop out of here under your own steam, which of course I don't doubt for a moment, or perhaps with crutches, but a wheelchair would be much easier, and I daresay more comfortable. And you needn't worry for a moment about me pushing you, I'm terrifically strong. Comes from heaving three boys about every day, and—"

"And I'll be the one pushing the wheelchair," announced the Reverend Clement, coming into the room with that very device. "I love you more than life itself, Griselda, but I doubt very much the inspector wants two broken legs."

"That would be nice," said Gabriel hesitantly. "But—"

"Are you implying," said Mrs. Clement to her husband, irately giving him a peck on the cheek, "that I would run him into something?"

"You ran Henry's pram into a tree just this morning," the reverend pointed out with the patience of a man who had married well above his expectation.

"Yes, well, there was a very friendly spaniel that needed my attention. I can hardly be blamed for that, can I? A friend to all animals."

"And a menace to her own children," said Mr. Clement fondly, before turning to Gabriel. "Sorry for bursting in on you like this, but Miss Em can be quite emphatic, and we're the only people in the village right now with a big enough car for you and your cast."

"And where is it exactly that we're going?" asked Gabriel, noting with growing alarm how Mrs. Clement had grabbed The Daughter of Time and the various other objects on his nightstand.

"Griselda hasn't told you, then," said Mr. Clement with a sigh.

"I've hardly had time to get a word in edgewise," his wife countered, dropping Gabriel's watch for the second time. Impatiently, she affixed it to her own wrist as she turned back to Gabriel. "You're needed in St. Mary Meade, Inspector," she said, with enough relish to make Gabriel suspect she'd been practicing her lines on the trip up to London. "There's been a dreadful crime committed, and Miss Marple said you're the only man with the job. Mostly because you're in a cast and can't drive off the way Inspector Slack keeps doing," she added, which rather ruined the effect.

"A dreadful crime?"

"Well," said Mr. Clement practically, as he helped Gabriel sit up and swing his good leg over the side of the bed, "Miss Em thinks it's a crime. But until someone deputises her, she's got to have someone official to make the arrest."

"It's too romantic," sighed Mrs. Clement as she tried to put Gabriel's wallet into her handbag, missed, and dropped it on the floor.

🧠💻 💭!

🧠 What’s an idea you have that you can’t quite call a WIP yet?

Oh man - I still want to write a sequel to the Miss Marple fic I wrote, but the actual plot hasn't really solidified yet. I just want it to be a sort of Rear Window type situation, except instead of a murderer they're on the trail of like, someone who's been stealing milk bottles in St. Mary Meade. Not sure if it's funnier if Miss Marple or Detective Finch has the broken legs, so feel free to weigh in in the replies here.

💻 Do you do research for your fics? What’s the deepest dive you’ve done?

I do so much research and honestly there've been so many weird embarrassing deep dives that I can't keep track of them all. I will say that for the new GOT fic series I'm writing, I've done a truly ridiculous amount of research on wool harvesting in polar regions. It's not great bob.

💭 What is a headcanon you have about your own work?

That in a kind of dwell and welcome, Trent named his daughter after Serafina Pekkala from His Dark Materials.

[invoncible]

i was watching glee with my sister and puck reminded me of mohawk mark, so... (f!reader) cw. loosely based on glee so cheating, implied sex/loss of virginity, unplanned pregnancy & you keep it, toxicity

somewhere in mohawk mark's dimension, when he was still in high school . . .

high school was not for the weak. popularity was the only thing that mattered, and you could only be popular if you were a cheerleader or a jock.

thankfully, you were popular by proxy being the cheerleaders' manager. you choreographed all their routines and organized their trips—they owed everything to you and you avoided the pressure to be passed around the football team. that was until mark caught wind of you.

he pursued you relentlessly, much to the chagrin of the actual cheerleaders. forbidden fruit is much sweeter, after all, and he was sure you'd be the sweetest of them all.

"leave your boyfriend."

you slam your locker shut, turning away from him swiftly. "go away, mark."

"he sucks for you anyways." he grunted, smelling like sweat and musk from his morning practice. "i can tell."

"yeah, how so?" you replied dryly, hustling through the halls.

he matched your pace without breaking a sweat. "you look miserable."

"that's cuz i'm talking to you."

he laughed, throwing his head back. "funny." he did not find that funny. his arm curled around the handle of your backpack, halting you in your tracks.

"mark, seriously—"

"shhh, don't be so stuck up. i'm just trying to help you." he grinned, slipping your backpack off your person and slinging over his free shoulder. "can't i do that for my girlfriend?"

you glared at him. "i'm not your girlfriend."

he walked ahead, dismissing your concerns. "yet."

as much as you hated to admit it, he was right—you were in a relationship for the sake of appearances, nothing more, nothing less. mark was a welcome splash of spontaneity in the push and pull of your monotonous relationship... being popular was so stressful sometimes! :(

everything changed at a house party where the lines between relationships got a little blurry. everyone at school was going to be there, so of course the cheer squad and the football team had to pull up. despite the wine coolers being made with the lowest amount of alcohol possible, everyone still got drunk.

"hey." mark mumbled as he scooted closer to you. he was wasted too, crawling back to the only comfort he knew in this room full of losers.

"ugh." you groaned half-heartedly, feeling like absolute shit. you scaled the couch, wrestling with the pillows to get comfy. you desperately needed a nap.

"stop trying to run from me." he pouted, following you onto the furniture and hovering over your body. "all you do is run from me."

"what are you even talking about?" you scoffed, exasperated. the pounding in your head didn't leave much room for tolerating his whining.

"leave your boyfriend." he demanded, laying his head on your chest and tucking his arms underneath your back.

"this again?" you sighed, but made no move to throw him off. it felt... right. was this cheating? this had to be some kind of cheating. but you ran your hands over his shoulders anyways.

"please." he snuggled closer as if trying to rub your scent into his very skin. he shifted up, pressing his lips to the curve of your neck. "stay the night."

what you did next was definitely cheating. you didn't even regret it. waking up in mark's arms in a net of sweat and skin was nothing short of euphoric, second only to how expertly he handled you in the hours prior.

your boyfriend left the party without so much as a text goodbye or an offer to drive you home, didn't text to see if you were okay the following morning, and had the audacity to brush you off at school. mark was right—he does suck. you broke up with him then and there. serves him right.

naturally, you started to date mark. he was the perfect boyfriend: fun, sweet, and always put you first.

you grabbed your bag from the passenger seat of your car, turning off the engine and grabbing the handle of your door. the regular amount of force didn't swing the door open, though... not with mark leaning at the side, peeking into your window.

you jumped when you saw his eyes staring back at you through your tinted screen. a smile spread on your face as you rolled the glass down.

mark bent at the waist, slapping his hand on the roof of your car as he ducked to eye level. "when are you gonna let me drive you to school, baby?"

"when you stop coming an hour late." you giggled, craning your head up to see him.

"i'm here, aren't i?"

"only because they'll kick you from the team if you miss another day of school."

he rolled his eyes. "whatever. i'll pick you up tomorrow."

"that's nice, but i'm like twenty minutes out of your way—"

"that's nothing, pretty girl." he hummed, opening your car door for you and offering his hand. when you took it, he helped you out of your seat and took your bag from your hands. "i don't mind." he kissed your knuckles before intertwining your fingers and walking into the building.

things were perfect for a few months. but you found it weird when you got a headache almost every day... the nausea that followed was also out of place... and no matter how much sleep you got or water you drank, the sickness never went away. with a simple test, you figured out it wouldn't leave for nine whole months.

you were pregnant and you didn't know what to do.

you stayed up the entire night, staring at the stick that marked the start of your ruined future. you weren't going to tell your parents. they were horrible and would surely disown you! and mark—what would his reaction be? you wanted to believe he'd be supportive. he hadn't given you any reason to think otherwise.

when you went to school the next day, he gave you about ten different reasons. something big had changed; his demeanor held a newfound superiority and he was out of it all day.

"mark," you sighed, calling his name for the sixth time.

"what?" he snapped, finally looking at you. you frowned, put off by his tone but loving him enough to give him some grace.

"i've been trying to talk to you all day." you complained, your heart speeding up at the thought of telling him the truth.

"sorry, baby." he grumbled, running a hand out of his face. "you wouldn't believe what happened yesterday."

you wouldn’t either… you laughed nervously.

he explained how he had developed superhuman abilities—powers of flight, strength, endurance; he was related to omniman, who had plans for earth.

"what plans?" you were almost scared to ask. almost. you firmly believed mark would never hurt you.

his eyes darted between you and the surrounding walls. "just... plans. don't worry, it'll be good."

"mhmm." you responded unconvincingly, your confidence wavering in light of this uncertain development. you opted out of telling him.

it only got worse: he stopped picking you up, dropped out of school altogether, and was short and impatient with you when you did hang out. it icked you out so bad you ended things with him. viltrumite powers stole your sweet boy and replaced him with this abrasive conqueror-in-training.

he was largely absent from your life in the weeks after your breakup, so your blood ran cold when you opened your local clinic doors and saw him sitting in the waiting area.

"hey, milf." mark's tone was clipped, masked by the tight smile on his face. "funny seeing you here."

you backed away. "mark..."

"who's the daddy?" he pressed. "it'd be weird if it was anyone else's since you told me you were a virgin when we did it. and there's no way you slept with anyone after me."

your brows furrowed, frustration bubbling in your gut. "how can you be so sure?"

"i'd hear about it." he retorted.

"there's a first time for everything." you scoffed, rolling your eyes as you walked passed him.

he shook his head in disbelief, a wry laugh on his tongue. "well, call the vatican, we got ourselves another immaculate conception—!"

"mark!" you hissed, grabbing his arm and pulling him to the side. "what the fuck?"

"when were you gonna tell me?" he whispered, eyes narrowed he boxed you against the wall. he didn't give you the chance to respond, continuing, "huh? i'd take care of it, you know. you, too." he promised lowly, almost bashfully as he looked away.

in that moment, you were reminded of how sweet he was and the love you had for him. you sighed, hands tightening over his bicep as you battled the pros and cons in your mind.

"just... you can stay if you shut up." you snapped, passing him a warning look as the receptionist emerged from the back.

"yes, ma'am." he gave you a lopsided grin, stupidly happy that you hadn't let go of his arm yet.

the receptionist passed a weird look between you two, their tone defensive as they addressed mark. "and who might you be?"

"i'm the father." he answered giddily, exchanging an excited glance with you.

with the cat out of the bag, mark wasn't letting you go. in his mind, you were dating again—in fact, you never stopped. you were always his and he was always yours.

if anything, this only emboldened his conviction: he had to kill his parents, murder all heroes, get the world prepared for his reign, and tame the viltrum empire. he had a family on the way!

he was sure you'd love being empress. you were already prom king and queen, what's another solar system or two under your belt? you and his daughter (he was sure it was going to be a girl) would want for nothing; he'd make sure of it.

you’d be desensitized to all the horrors eventually, anyway.

i love mohawk mark :((( I LOVE HIM.

© invoncible