#avatar retina

[heidi-lx]

[loudsilencecreations]

[megabuild]

imagine being ethos lab at your stupid ass fucking desk stupid fucking mouse pad from a defunct 90s tech store rotting from the inside out stupid kleenex box stupid sideways mouse bitch in the goddamn canadian wilderness on your dead decrepit amish farmland nobody around for miles except the occasional car crash lights all off monitor at 30 brightness illuminating your face opening a screenshot of your wild life episode one recording in ms paint and very carefully zooming in and cropping it to perfectly centre frame the minecraft avatar of the man you have been in a back and forth gay ass faux relationship for a decade the man who has said before he would read fanfiction of you both romantically the man who has called you his boyfriend so that everyone can see he is the focus HE is the focal point of the episode he is the call he is the main attraction and btw this matches his thumbnail perfectly did you even know that? did you see his thumbnail because you see all his videos and choose to mirror it purposefully or are you so linked in all you do it just happened . saving that image uploading it to youtube (WHICH YOU NEVER DO) and hitting publish and then just leaving your desk and going to bed alone like it means nothing and if you close your eyes the monitor burn into the back of your retina shows you his ghost

[rk1kincorrect]

ac as quotes my best friends have said:

ezio: whats that thing in your eye? your rectum?

altair: … your retina

——

desmond: i am not supportive and nurturing.

rebecca: yes you are … you literally are

desmond: nurturing? do i breastfeed?

——

kadar: its giving mittens… on ur feet

malik: … socks.

——

ezio: look at those crusty ass feet. concrete grippers

desmond: feet so crusty they could grab these butt cheeks….. omg im so sorry that was not meant to come out

——

desmond: do u bite or cut ur nails

altair: i rip them

——

desmond: altair try this

altair: no i cant im vegan (lying)

desmond: i just watched you devour a chicken salad

altair: no you didnt

——

lucy: lets go get teddy bear boba

shaun: what is that

lucy: … boba

——

malik: aw shit we cant go here. it’s for kids between the ages of 3 and 5

altair, genuinely distraught: oh GOD we are NOT between the ages of 3 and 5

——

desmond: he’s like a person from avatar if they were white

——

ezio, clearly a man: WOOOOAOAAOAOAO.. did u just say im a female girl.?? …… 🎶that boys a liar 🎶 ……

[delirantesko]

O que o exibicionista sente? (texto, 2024)

Sentir-se visto é sentir-se amado, desejado.

Olhares atenciosos, clamando seu nome, apelidos carinhosos, ou perverso-carinhosos pelo menos.

Por alguns segundos, minutos (até meses ou anos), torna-se o avatar do prazer, da fome, da ânsia, da vontade que não cessa, incendeia, que faz as pálpebras vibrarem, que turva o pensamento racional, que ativa o sangue em certas partes, antecipando um ato que talvez nunca venha a acontecer, a não ser nas mentes férteis daqueles com muita imaginação.

As imagens queimam retinas e criam padrões que podem ser vistos quando se fecham os olhos, quando se dorme, quando se pressiona os olhos com força procurando ver luzes coloridas.

Ser reconhecido, apreciado, rapidamente, não por atos a longo prazo, não pelo trabalho da vida ou histórico de conquistas, mas um reconhecimento imediato, animalesco, emprestando do código antigo de "crescei e multiplicai-vos" programação desatualizada, defasada, antiquada, que não serve mais para um mundo que cada vez mais tem seus recursos escassos e aprisionados por uma minoria virótica completamente sem utilidade para o universo.

"Suas formas geométricas são atraentes, fazem sentido pra mim. Você se torna um jogo de montar que se encaixa com minha imaginação."

Diz o voyeur, nessa transação financeira com o exibicionista.

"Eu exponho minhas curvas em troca do seu olhar, pisque como se estivesse arremessando notas de dinheiro."

Existe mais lascívia nessa troca de olhares do que em qualquer ato posterior. A presa sendo observada pelo predador antes do abate.

O voyeur viu o que gostaria, o exibicionista recebeu a atenção que queria.

[speyeralling-down-thy-majesty]

Y𖦹ur face¿? I'm n𖦹t sure if y𖦹u even have 𖦹ne, we never met. Has the Dark scrambled y𖦹ur braincells¿?

I know the eclipse is dark territory and we shouldn't like it and blah blah blah but that shit was cool and I liked seeing it

Manuela and whoever from the dark, I appreciate your work here, with whatever failed ritual today, keep it up

[suskindkore]

Arrêtez de passer par l'hébergeur de FA, voire de redimensionner nos avatars ! Ça fait franchement mal au cœur de vous faire des sets qu'on retrouve tout déformés et/ou avec une qualité dégueu sur les forums :( Utilisez des réducteurs d'url (ex : tinyURL) pour utiliser les avatars de tumblr (ou, si les créateurices l'autorisent, enregistrez sur vos pc puis hébergez sur imgbox ou autre) pour c/c l'url de l'image dans "Lier à partir d'un autre site", le forum ajustera la taille tout seul.

On finit par se demander quel est l'intérêt de se prendre la tête à essayer d'avoir des rendus nets et de créer sur un format adapté au HD/retina, si c'est pour que vous les portiez tout flou cracra mdr

[kalgalen]

(written during the Lightning Fic panel of Arcon 2024 from randomized prompts. I got Mike Crew & Manuela Domingez, in an art studio, featuring the body swap trope. enjoy uwu)

She wakes up. She wakes up, and the light streaming from the windows immediately burns her retinas - aggressive, uncaring, exposing every nerve of her body and flaying her alive. She groans, retches dryly; her eyes screw shut and she curls up to the side, taking a moment to try and remember how she got there.

It had been night time - that she was sure of. That damn Avatar of the Vast had given her this studio as a meeting point, supposedly a safe space for him, at a safe hour for her. Hanging high in the sky, nestled in the last few floors of a tall, monolithic London building, it would have been a perfect trap to take out Manuela, but the winter sky at three in the morning had been thick with clouds, snuffing out any natural light the moon could have provided.

Mike Crew, ever the book lover, had found a dark volume during his perusing of an ancient Scottish library. Manuela’s people had learned of this discovery - Noirceur de Suie d’une Mare en Automne, “Soot Blackness of an Autumn Pond” - and had known it was one of theirs, a book used to turn bodies of water into deep, dark chasms. Manuela wasn’t the only agent of the People’s Church of the Divine Host living in London at the time, and so she had no idea what had convinced her to go after Crew; but she had, and so there she is, wringing in pain on the floor of a dusty art studio.

She freezes when she hears a whine - then another. It doesn’t come from her, she’s sure of it. But it’s her voice. It’s her voice! How’s that possible?

With difficulty, she cracks her eyes open, shielding them with the palm of her hand. Her… hand. Is it really hers? It’s bigger, paler than the one she’s used to, and a network of white scars run across the back of it.

She looks toward the source of the pained sound - though she knows what she’s about to see.

Rolling on his back, Mike Crew blinks. His eyes are dark and hazy, long black hair obscuring part of his face. Manuela grits her teeth. This is her body writhing on the floor. Her body he stole!

Fighting another wave of nausea, she stands on all four and begins crawling toward the other Avatar. To do what, exactly? She isn’t sure yet. She can’t kill him - not yet, and not now, not with the sunlight beating down on her like this. But still her fingers itch to wrap around his - her - throat, to squeeze, to make him regret that silly little trick.

She’s almost reached him when Crew finishes recovering; his eyes flash with an unnatural spark as he sees her close, and all of a sudden -

The ceiling and the ground flip around, switching places; Manuela finds herself gripping the pigment-stained floorboard with all of her might, her short nails digging grooves into the wood. She garbles a swear.

“Stop it!” she spits out, glaring at Crew. He’s getting up, first to his knees, then to his feet; the swaying of his body betrays his actual disorientation.

“Shut - shut up,” he says, holding out a hand. “Give me a minute.”

“Why would I do that? What have you done!”

Manuela tries to convince her fingers to release their grip on the floor - without success. A glance down (up?) shows her the ceiling, in all its water-damaged glory, and she grits her teeth not to throw up.

Ignoring her, Crew wobbles over to a book discarded on the ground. He picks it up, flips through it. Manuela can see her own brows furrow.

“This isn’t - what is this?”

In a blink, the room is right side up again, and returning back to normal is nearly the thing that finally convinces Crew’s latest meal to make a comeback; Manuela clenches her teeth, swallowing back the bile, and after a few fortifying breaths she stands up on wobbly legs. Manuela’s own night-black eyes turn on her, and it’s obvious that Crew isn’t considering her a threat at the present moment, because he turns his attention back to the volume in his hands.

“This isn’t your book,” he says, not looking at her as she hobbles over.

“What do you mean, not our book?” she hisses. “You’re the one who brought it over, why are you surprised?”

He glares at her. “I brought the right book. This,” he says, tapping a finger on a yellowed page, “is not it.”

Manuela squints. “So, what? The books got switched? What’s that one about? Is it even a Leitner?”

“No.” Crew dryly closes the book and hands it to her. She opens it to the flyleaf. “This is just a normal old book.”

Manuela stares at the blank page as if looking at it hard enough will reveal the hidden Ex Libris. Then she drops the book; Crew looks as it falls to the ground, then up at her with an air of reproach. She resists the childish urge to stick her tongue out at him, and turns around instead.

“Where are you going?” Crew calls as she starts to leave towards the door.

“Home,” she spits above her shoulder.

“You don’t want your body back?”

Manuela slows down, comes to a stop. She closes her eyes. Give me strength.

“A body is a body,” she answers plainly. “And I’m curious to see how much easier life will be as a white man.”

“You don’t really think that,” Crew says - using her voice, her tongue, her lungs.

He’s right; she doesn’t. She wishes she did.

Whipping around, she stomps back towards him. He’s picked the old book up and is now holding it in his hands like it’s a sickly dog.

“What do we do, then?” she demands, ignoring the hint of triumph in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he answers. Manuela growls.

“You -”

“I don’t know yet,” Crew cuts her off. “If I had to guess, though, someone - or something - is playing a trick on us. Switching things around, books and souls - or whatever you people believe in,” he adds dismissively.

She rolls her eyes. “Fuck you. I will kill us both.”

“Mh.” He considers her. “Maybe. Although, wouldn’t you rather kill the thing that fucked with us instead?”

Saying this, he presents his hand, and Manuela looks at it. He’s waiting for a handshake, she realizes. She glances back up to his face. Crew is looking at her expectantly, but doesn’t look like he’s lying.

“Alright,” she says, and takes the hand offered to her. “I suppose you have a clue of where to start?”

A sly smile tugs at his lips. “Of course.”

She answers with a predatory grin of her own.

“Okay. Lead the way.”

[hoursofreading]

THE ONLY BOOTH that stood out was at the far end of the exhibition hall. A company had tented its little patch of real estate with an inflatable white cube that looked like a large, quivering marshmallow. Inside the cube was Keith, a soft-spoken man whose earnest features and round physique conveyed a gnome-like benevolence. Beside Keith was a large screen. On the screen was a woman. The woman had dark hair, dark eyes, and purple lips that endeavored a smile. Her shoulders rose and fell, as if to suggest the act of breathing, and though she looked toward me, her gaze was elsewhere. “This is Chatty,” Keith shouted over the roar of the blowers keeping his enclosure erect. Keith worked for SapientX, a company that makes photorealistic conversational avatars powered by ChatGPT. SapientX had custom-built Chatty for Project Voice. Chatty could answer questions about the conference agenda and show you a map of the exhibition floor, except she couldn’t do it just then, said Keith, because they couldn’t seem to connect her to the wi-fi. Keith was happy enough to walk me through the visuals. Chatty’s face was the collaborative effort of fifty different companies. A company in Toronto did the eyes. “There’s like eight guys and all they do is eyes all day,” he said. Chatty’s face was a composite of several different races. Her voice was a composite of several different women. Her voice still needed some work, he admitted. “Right now she’s kinda mean.” I picked up a brochure that featured a roster of “digital employees,” complete with their names, headshots, and “personality scores.” I wondered what industries might hire them. “They’re mostly for kiosks,” Keith responded with a tone of defeat. “Like at a mall or a museum. Also military training. Stuff like that.” Keith directed my attention to the exterior of the cube. A large banner depicted an older male, prosaically handsome, with a square jaw, a custardy dollop of silver hair, and pale, limpid eyes. This was Chief, said Keith. “He’s a navy guy. And he talks like a navy guy. We work in forty different languages. So if you’re training someone in Ukraine how to operate an American tool, we have that language built in.” Keith went back inside to rustle me up a T-shirt. He told me that the company was also breaking into health care — nursing homes, to be precise. Keith explained the vision. Your mom is old, and you’re constantly reminding her to take her medicine. Why not leave that to an avatar? The avatar can converse with your mom, keep her company, fill up the idle hours of the day. Plus, you can incorporate a retina scanner to check her blood pressure and a motion sensor to make sure she isn’t lying dead on the floor. “Say there’s an elderly woman with dementia,” he said. “Her avatar will look like she did when she was younger. So she has someone to identify with. Does that make sense?” I imagined a future geriatric Keith, lying in a nursing home bed, conversing with his younger self. Would such an arrangement appeal to him? “There’s not going to be a choice,” he said. “A lot of old people are going to be talking to avatars in ten years, and they won’t even know it. When I was touring facilities in San Francisco for people with dementia and stuff, those places are like insane asylums. But some patients still have some cognitive function, and that’s who the technology would be for. It’s definitely not going to apply to the guys that are comatose.” We stood in silence for a moment, and he faced Chatty, who hovered before us, drifting in her strange, waking trance. “I wish they could fix the internet,” said Keith. “I swear, she gets nasty. She like, looks at me bad.”

An Age of Hyperabundance | Issue 47 | n+1 | Laura Preston

[ell-arts]

Dark Mode Tumblr feels weird.

Its like my retinas are being eclipsed 0_0

Everyone's avatars and usernames look SO WEIRD being surrounded by flat black instead of the usual blue

[decrescxndo]

Je vais parler de l'accessibilité (encore ? Oui oui), parce que je viens de penser à un truc mais vraiment hyper bête : si ça se trouve, celleux qui n'augmentent pas les tailles de polices ne comprennent pas ce qu'on leur veut, parce qu'iels ont une résolution d'écran qui fait qu'iels voient les typo un peu plus grande ?

Je m'explique : je suis sur macbook pro retina écran 13 pouces pour mes hobbies, et au boulot j'ai un dell écran 15 pouces et parfois même un 24 pouces quand je suis au bureau. Et sur ces écrans, j'ai remarqué que tout était plus gros (surtout les avatars, c'est ça qui m'a marquée).

Donc si vous avez un écran plus grand que 13 pouces, que vous êtes sur windows (j'ai l'impression que sur mac de manière générale c'est tjrs petit mdr), gardez-ça en tête : vous voyez peut être tout un peu plus gros que nous.

(Je ne suis pas du tout une experte, mon taf c'est consultante édito, pas dev ni designer mais c'est peut être une piste que quelqu'un de pro pourra confirmer ou infirmer mdr)

[heidi-lx]

[loudsilencecreations]

[thatonebirdwrites]

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 7 THAT I POSTED EARLY THIS MORNING:

Early Winter 171 AG       Wolf Cove - 2 months and 6 days After Zaheer    

“Do you want to have a radio date?” Korra asked. They sat on the bench in Katara’s home. It had been a long, grueling seven hours for Korra in the healing pool. It was her fourth visit that week, and Asami’s third. Korra had been relatively quiet the past few days, but then how much of that was Korra's depression and how much was Asami's withdrawing, Asami wasn't sure.

For Asami, she’d work for a half hour on the stamina and endurance exercises with Kya every two hours. Then she’d rest, where she spent it studying the textbooks she’d brought with her for her research into prosthetics. A topic she hadn’t dared to bring up again around Korra since Korra’s outburst four days prior. Last thing she wanted was to have a fight with her, and she only had a partial plan on ways to possibly deal with it. In fact, she'd been so skittish about Korra's outburst, that she'd literally avoided going to their shared room for over two and a half nights.

*** Four Days Prior

Asami settled in the lounge with her sketching supplies, research materials, and a notepad. Being here alone while Korra was still at Katara's felt strange.

When she’d radioed Senna to be picked up early, she didn’t explain why, nor had she given any explanation to Katara, but she had been focused on Korra in the healing pool. Korra always looked pensive, her eyes not quite closed, and her lips tightly pursed. She never seemed comfortable. During Katara’s breaks for tea and a light dinner, Korra would lean against the pool’s edge and trace circles in the water. Asami would walk over and chat with her quietly. She'd show Korra what she was sketching, or give Korra something she’d made to cheer her up. By the end of the healing session, Korra often had a few drawings, some origami satomobiles, and a wound-up toy lined up next to the pool. All courtesy of Asami, who worked on them while she rested between exercises.

Today was different. Korra’s outburst in the satomobile hurt. It made sitting there after her exercises near impossible. Nor could she sketch anything coherent or craft another silly toy. Instead, she'd stared at her prosthetic until it burned into her retinas. Even reading didn't help. Korra's words kept bouncing around in her head endlessly.

So with Kya’s assistance, she’d radioed Senna, who immediately came to retrieve her. Kya promised to take Korra home herself once she was done. 

Guilt for leaving Korra there hovered in Asami’s emotions, but she feared what she might say if she stayed. 

The door to the lounge opened, and Senna stepped inside with a tray of tea and a large cup of soup. “I thought this could help.” She placed it on the table next to the sofa. “I can get the fire started. It’ll be cold tonight. A snowstorm is brewing and likely to hit within the week.” 

READ MORE HERE.

TO READ ALL OF SHARED MOMENTS, CLICK HERE.

[moinstar]

❗ OT3 content ❗  DiaMamMoin

Fluff Xmas fic gift from kaeaea_ko (from Twitter). Thank you so much for the wonderful story for them!  Added some drawings just to see how cute they all look together.

A peal of laughter rang down the corridor and into Diavolo’s office where he remained attending to all the perpetual duties that came with his position. Barbatos, positioned across the room and attending to his own tasks, did not even look up at the sound - but Diavolo paused and looked longingly at the closed wooden door, somewhat akin to a fornlorn puppy.

He’d long since opened his home for Moin to come and go as they pleased even before they were engaged, and then later down the line that offer had extended to Mammon too while in Moin’s company; while Diavolo could not empathize with the notion of having his loved ones around too much, he was sympathetic to the fact that Mammon was often on the receiving end of his brother’s over-eager... ‘teasing’. So had opened his castle and home to Avatar of Greed, more importantly - the dearest friend of his beloved. Barbatos still kept a keen eye on all the castle’s contents, of course...

Another outburst of jubilance, further yet from the studious pair, and the Demon Prince refocused on his work with a long sigh. The two visitors were generally very conscientious and rarely disrupted anything; but how could he begrudge interruptions like this? Moin and Mammon’s friendship seemed to bloom forth in a steadfast, wholesome joy. Diavolo remained quietly envious, a secret lament that he held deep within the recess of his heart. He’d never tell a lie - but there were some truths that would never spill free. And that playful, unburdened loyalty that Diavolo couldn’t hope to duplicate, forever conscious of all his duties and responsibilities at play.

More than once early on the demon had thought that it would be kinder to ‘let Moin go’ - free from his love, and an inevitably somewhat trammeled future. But at the root of it all, he was a demon,  and all demons coveted. Moin was his greatest light in a land untouched by the natural sun. He believed that he would let her go should the fates ever be as cruel as to turn her heart cold towards him - but while she did he would be holding onto them with all he had. That compulsion drove him to provide Moin with all that made her happy.

A cleared throat and Barbatos’ mild amused look pulled him back to the moment - refocusing on work indeed.

“Young master, are you quite well?"

Amusement bled into the butler’s tone too, and Diavolo huffed good-naturedly. “Oh fine, fine. I have reports burned into my retinas, but otherwise fine.”

“Hm. Perhaps a break is in order the? It would only be proper for you to go and greet your guests also, no matter how often they are here."

An unexpected encouragement that did not need to be expressed twice, and far exceeded the appeal of attempting an escape from his work via the balcony. Diavolo put his work down (or rather dropped it in a manner that had Barbatos straightening things in exasperation), followed the sounds, and found himself tat the top point of the staircase, looking down at the scene below. He did not announce his presence; acquisitive of the seconds he was merely a witness to. He’d go as far as to call the sight salubrious, mood and exuberance lifted by even this.

The foyer was adorned in Christmas decorations - another human tradition Diavolo wholeheartedly adored - and the heart of the display was the enormous tree decked with baubles, lights and tinsel, the latter being the apparent source of amusement. Mammon had pulled a rope of gold tassels from the tree and had wrapped it around himself, posturing and preening at Moin who sat on the large velvet couch, clapping and encouraging him. Despite the obvious and foolishness of the action Mammon still held himself in just a way, truly it was no wonder he found such success in modelling.

Unable to resist any longer he started down the stairs and called, “is this a new signature look, Mammon?”

Mammon’s face paled and he scrambled to return the tinsel to the tree, resulting in more of a clump of gold near the bottom than any semblance of order, and Diavolo was content to let him scramble while he and Moin shared amused looks. That smile he loved so much sent his way, his own wide one returned in kind. It would probably be quite the sweet moment were it not broken by what could best be described as a squawk.

“Hey Dia UH I mean Lord Diavolo! Just uhh, checking you had ya decorations on right! Looks erm...” Mammon seemed to trail off as he reached behind himself and awkwardly patted the tree, “yep all looks fine. Ya welcome!"

Diavolo shook his head fondly and descended the last of the steps. He stopped beside Moin and pressed a kiss into their hair at the crown of their head, leaving his large hand resting on a delicate shoulder.

“Oh? It looked to me as though you were parading about in the Christmas decorations. Haha, I can see why Lucifer calls you his cutest brother.”

Mammon turned a bright red at that comment, puzzling Diavolo slightly; was he still so sensitive to compliments? He didn’t pay it any more mind however as Moin was turning her face up towards him, sweet voice plying his attention with only a breath of his name. Without a thought he leaned down to press his lips against her pliant ones that opened against his with a gasp. Too quickly Diavolo pulled back, his own cheeks dusted in red. They were no strangers to intimacy in this home yet typically not so blatantly in front of company. He couldn’t say he was sorry, because that would be a lie. “That was inappropriate,” was verbalized instead, “I apologize.”

Moin laughed softly, glancing up, and Diavolo looked too; there above them hung a lush sprig of mistletoe, somehow in the perfect location.

“I’d better not be caught under there with anyone!!”

Diavolo could not help but laugh at Mammon’s indignant tone, his own contrite expression disappearing in his mirth. He looked at the younger demon again, and for reasons he could not hope to decipher he asked, “what if you were caught under it with Moin?”

For a moment the question hung suspended in silence. Diavolo could feel Moin’s eyes locked on him, yet he kept his own impassive gaze on Mammon. Motive aside, Diavolo could soundly say it was not impulsive. He’d seen how Mammon looked at Moin. It wasn’t anything Diavolo could hold against him; the Avatar of Greed seemed to go against his nature and remain content with Moin’s friendship, and Diavolo found himself wholly trusting of both of them and the bounds of their loyalty. And yet. Mammon looked at Moin with a consuming longing at times, and she seemed entirely oblivious of it.

There was even the chance that Diavolo was simply projecting - the notion of another being in love with Moin was entirely believable, they were, in Diavolo’s opinion, the perfect partner. Who would not yearn for that? Any potential feelings that Moin may have for Mammon outside of the realms of friendship the Demon Prince could not lay any claim to knowing, but he did know how happy the two made each other. Mammon was already such a fixture in their lives, and as surely as the lineage of Demon King flowed through his veins, Diavolo knew if there was any potential to increase her happiness, he would gift it to her without reservation. Diavolo was not immune to possessiveness; somehow this sudden errant thought did not incite that consummation.

Mammon was steadily paling again, terror building in his eyes - ahh, perhaps he had taken that comment as a threat? Quickly to rectify, Diavolo smiled wide, eyes crinkling into half-moons. “I wouldn’t mind. If it were you. If Moin wanted to.”

Another long pause; pregnant with anticipation and not a small amount of shock.

“W-what? I don’t wanna- I mean, Moin wouldn’t- what??”

“Hmm. Well I would never push anything of course. I know you two are beyond dear to each other. I hold you rather fondly too, Mammon, after all this time.”

It would seem his company were speechless. Why was he going down this road? He was more than content, more than happy in his relationship with Moin. What compulsion was this, to maintain this terse moment instead of breaking it with a joke, or an alternative comment-

“Moin. You are very quiet down there.” Attention turned solely back to his love, Diavolo let the silence draw out, no filling it this time.

“Maybe?”

“Maybe...?” Diavolo prompted back.

“Maybe I would like it?”

Moin and Mammon were both blushing to the roots, and Diavolo thought he almost deserved a medal for maintaining his own gentle but rather bland expression. Perhaps more of a prompt was needed.

Gesturing Mammon over, and who could deny the Demon Prince’s summons. The other demon stepped forward until his knees bumped against the couch, making him stumble forward and catch himself on the armrest and back, effectively trapping Moin against it, Diavolo himself still at her side. A squeak came from one of them, unclear whom, but Moin’s attention was ensnared by Mammon and Mammon’s by them, leaning towards each other like a timid gravity pulled between them. Barely a brush of lips, shy and fumbling, noses bumping - Diavolo knew that standing by and watching would not be easing this development in any way, yet if this were to come into being, he would need to be there, even if just a witness. Such a delicate thing, and Moin his to protect. No one could hurt you like the ones you loved, and Moin loved Mammon so very much. All that potential for heartbreak, all the more for undicovered happiness.

When no comment from himself interrupted, Mammon pushed forward again. His hands were gripping at the couch and Diavolo felt he could excuse the claws that he could see tearing into the fabric; amused and impressed that Mammon was so steadfastly holding himself back from holding Moin as he kissed them.

Soon, two quick breaths pulsed in the room. The mood hung charged and fragile. Diavolo winced apologetically when his DDD started ringing, Lucifer’s name flashing on the screen. A quick conversation with the other insisting on Mammon’s return to home, and he ended the call. Moin and Mammon were still pink, uncharacteristically silent, and staring at anything but each other. Diavolo felt as though his heart would burst from all the fondness he felt.

“Ah Mammon, unfortunately... Lucifer has called you back to the House. You’d best be on your way in a hurry.”

Mammon stammered his acknowledgement, Moin jumping to her feet too, with an aborted movement to hug the other demon before simply grabbing her hands together tightly instead.

“Oh and Mammon?” Diavolo called as Mammon was halfway out the door, “Moin and I are having a Christmas Eve dinner together tomorrow. Please join us?”

A quick nod, a slammed door, and Moin and Diavolo were left alone in the foyer. Softly and gently, Diavolo pulled Moin into his arms and pressed kisses atop her head, over and over. Her arms gripped him back tightly. Reassurance at this point was necessary, explanation could come later when they had worked through the moment. “Anything for your happiness, Moin. If either of you don’t want that, it will never be mentioned again. If you do want this, the door is open. You have my blessing; I know I hold your heart and I have no fear of losing it. But you deserve all the love you crave. I do love you so. Anything, anything, for your happiness.

... And you both do look so adorable with rose blushed cheeks.”

[tagaloak]

lo'ak visits the cove of the ancestors and its spirit tree, visit his brother, almost every day after the battle against mick scoresby's SeaDragon fleet. he visits at night, when no other na'vi are awake or aware. struggling to show his pain or vulnerability; guilty that he can not "control" his emotions the way most na'vi "men" can, the way his father seemingly can. in eywa, time is neither linear nor rigidly defined. the flesh-illusion melts away, and there is only the truth of his spirit. he only has to think. to remember. and lo'ak will never, ever forget neteyam. he held his brother's "fatalistic" wound in his palms, he had tried to stop the bleeding. felt the salted blood cake under his fingernails. the sensations and sights he had witnessed that day are burned into his retinas. he refuses to relive that memory. refused to accept that moment in time. instead, he visits neteyam in their childhood. in the omatikaya clan's dense, bioluminescent jungled territories. in the dreams and imaginations and alternate futures they have had, and shared. good memories. happy memories. sometimes, they would even be in the eastern sea, laughing and swimming with the spirits of awa'atlu. truthfully, lo'ak never realized how much he needed neteyam's guidance until his older brother was gone. he is grateful for eywa's miracle. he is grateful to the metkayina clan, to their spirit tree. and most of all, he is grateful to eywa. lo'ak never stops visiting the spirit tree (or, alternatively, the metkayina's tsahik: tsireya), especially when he feels that he needs eywa's wisdom. as he grows older, lo'ak wears neteyam's arm bands and necklaces, his bracelets and beads. they become a strong, proud member of the metkayina clan, protecting the eastern sea tribes with everything they have.

(according to news regarding an Avatar trilogy, lo'ak will be the new narrator for the 3rd installment of the franchise. i think that this is a cyclical narrative that reflects jake's past with his own late brother; both jake and lo'ak share a sense of survivor's guilt, as the sibling who lived while their sibling-soul was "sacrificed". lo'ak, like jake, now has a drive to live on and do better for their lost loved one.)