#latin is my favourite language

[tiredlostwriter]

Tonight I m thinking about Polybe, who was a greek soldier taken hostage by Rome, and who after his liberation fell so thoroughly in love with it that he devoted his life to writing its praise, compiling its history and politics.

He saw Rome as the looming giant of war, got swallowed in its maw, and still fell for the beast.

And the beauty of it all is that all of his love letters, wrapped in clever words and cleverer ideas, changed it forever, and so the beast got changed by the man it devoured.

The city swallowed his culture whole, and so he brought his home to the city, not through war as Rome did, but throught love and written words.

The beautiful irony of the eternal city bringing the greeks to their knees only in the end to be marked forever by the awe one soldier held.

And how tragic and yet beautiful for him to still love it after wearing its chains and tasting the iron of its blades.

And what more fitting fate for his words to be some of the first to give us today a clear image of some of Rome's aspects.

Rome, through his hand, is taught to us with the love of a man who had all the reasons to hate it.

[blackghostm2o]

Man… I fucking love Petronius.

So today we did and exam on Petronius’s Satyricon (basically translating Latin to Italian and answering some questions regarding the grammar of the text, probably fucked it up because I suck at it) and that story was hilarious.

The text was one of the 5 stories with a second grade narrator: the narrator here was a Liberto (a man who once was a slave and now is free) who probably was wasted on wine; in the story he and someone he knew (who was a solider) where outside late at night and there was a full moon. The two then went on a cemetery and the solider started pissing on some gravestones while the narrator was sitting and singing, then the solider went crazy and started undressing himself, pissing on his own clothes and then became a fucking wolf and run away. The narrator was so scared that returned home while swinging his sword and there all the sheep were killed by said wolf, which was hit in the neck. The next day the narrator went to the house of said solider and saw him getting medicated on his neck so got the fuck out and stopped meeting him.

The way this is narrated makes it much better also the fact that you usually don’t expect to study stuff like that at school makes this better.

Also the episode in which Trimalchio, while they are talking about death, brings out a whole ass skeleton made of silver and with working joints and throws it on the table where they where eating is great, lmfao.

Also the story of the protagonist who is in love with another man and then another dude comes out who loves the second dude and then also another one comes, all this chaos is so freaking funny, pure chaos and parody of your usual ancient novel (a FAITHFUL etero love story)

I really enjoyed those snippets of the Satyricon, maybe I’ll read all of it, but I need to find a good translation.

I also love how his death is described (not by him obviously). If you studied a lil bit of Roman history you know that Nero wasn’t a really good fella, after finding out of a plan to take his power he obliged some people to kill themselves (like Seneca and Lucano). Nero did the same with Petronius, but Petronius didn’t just hill himself: he slit his wrists and then opened and closed his veins whenever he liked it while talking with some friends about erotic stuff and then, when he wanted to, let himself die. He didn’t even do this to show courage, he just wanted to fuck with Nero and I love this soooo much. Maybe it’s not true, but I really like this story.

Sorry for the long post

[cupidswurld]

its not fair that cum has prepositional, temporal, causal, and concessive uses

[thatfrenchacademic]

A list of my favourite legal latin expressions + what they mean

(aka latin is cool in specific legal contexts and we should keep on using it because it commucates what we mean more efficiently that if we had to find a way to say it in modern languages, BUT ALSO latin should not be a barrier to understanding legal language, the law is SHOULD be understandable and non elitist)

Erga Omnes / Inter partes : " we are making this EVERYONE'S BUSINESS" vs "this is a you-problem, so you get a you-solution"

Ex tunc / Ex nunc : "let's all pretend this has always been the rule" vs "cant do shit about the past, this is only for the future"

Nulla poena sine legem / nulla poena sine culpa: "no punishment without a rule being broken" / "no punishment if there wasn't a fuckup of some kind on your part"

Pater is est.../mater siempre... : "let's ... assume the daddy is the wife's husband, for now" vs "we all SAW where/who that baby CAME FROM"

de lega lata / de lege ferranda : "I'm saying that's what the law IS, tough luck" vs "I'm saying that's what the law SHOULD BE though"

Obiter Dictum : Court decided it had an opinion, and it wasn't going to be stopped by the fact that this opinion had nothing to do with the case

Fraus omnia corrumpit: Fraud. Corrupts. All.

Ex officio: No one asked, but i'm gonna do it anyway

Nemo auditur...: No you can't benefit from your own fuckup

Clausula Rebus: we agreed during specific circumstances... unfortunately, circumstances have changed.

Usucapio: I've been calling dibs on this for so long, at this point it's legally mine.

Ad nutum: because I WANT to, no I don't need to explain or justify that.

Sui generis: it's... it's its own thing.

Intuitu personae: this is based on THAT person - if it's not THAT person, all bets are off

Pacta Sund Servanda : you fucking SIGNED THE THING so now yes you gotta DO THE THING

[volturissideslut]

Hello! I just had a thought about the Volturi king Aro! I was thinking to myself about the Volturi kings (as I do because I love them) and I was thinking of Aro a lot I was thinking about what he would do if his mate LOVED to hear him speak Italian and when he would speak Italian his mate just stare at him like "WOAHHHHHH" You know? I was wondering what you think the kings (and others in the Volturi) reaction to their mate loving it when they speak Italian would be like? Feel free to ignore! This is just something cute I thought of! Much love and support!! :3

𝕬𝖗𝖔 𝖁𝖔𝖑𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖎

short and sweet for one of my fav repeat askers <3

Aro can't deny that he loves a little bit of attention, he loves a little bit of fuss

The fact that you so dearly enjoy something that comes so easily to him almost sends his brain into a frenzy.

Yes yes, give him that awe struck in love look when he says something romantic sounding in Italian, look at him as he he hung the moon and the stars in the sky when he calls you 'Cara Mia', and give him all the affection that you can when he mumbles incoherently when he's annoyed or upset.

It melted his heart when you first hear him, looking up at him like he was your favourite person on the planet and making it a big deal.

If you ask him to teach you then he would be so so down, but he kind of enjoys it more knowing that you have no idea what he's saying, that it's so mysteriously foreign and impressive to you

He's about to show off and bust out all the languaages he knows

Theres some greek and latin pet names headed your way, as well as some Turkish and Arabic compliments whispered to you,

you really do make him feel loved and appreciated for the simplest things (simple to him at least), and it makes him fall back in love with the very idea of love

(He's gonna do a restock of some romance novels and plays in all the languages to he can translate them for you or steal some ideas)

[cryptocism]

I got some questions if that’s ok? lol

1: has Thad ever admitted his feelings to Kon? (Probably not lol)

2: let’s say Thad does, what’s Kon’s reaction?

3: got any headcanons/triva stuff for Thad?

4: what about Bart?

oh boy ill do my best to give decent answers!

1: hmm i think it would depend on the circumstances? but overall ur right probably not haha. Thad navigating new and terrifying relationships in an absurdly neurotic and dramatic way is one of my favourite avenues to take his character so if he ever DID it would have to be extremely embarrassing for everyone involved

2: ppl may have gathered im a big fan of unrequited/onesided romance lmao so 90% of the time id say Kon tries to let him down easy

3: ohh Thad headcanons...

i mean piggybacking off of the konthad discussion i do think of Thad having a crush on Kon as a very puppy love/hero worship kind of crush. like i can't really see them in a real relationship bc im too attached to Thad putting Kon on a pedestal lmaoo. like here's this guy who is also a clone but still has his own identity/life/friends/interests outside of Clark and yet also has an amicable relationship with the guy and his family! it's all Thad has ever wanted!!! and with the rose-coloured lenses on he doesn't clock all the ways Kon actually really struggles with basically all those things.

yall already know abt my goth Thad propaganda which is based on very little except that he'd likely want to differentiate himself from Bart's appearance and a vibe that he's naturally drawn to a darker/edgier aesthetic (based on his palette-swapped black Impulse suit and the needlessly dramatic cloak and the look CRAYDL goes for when they inhabit the technoplasm monster)

^this is a little in conflict with another canon-adjacent headcanon which is Thad's hyperactive level of social awareness. i do think he wants most people to like him unless he's deemed them an enemy, so he fronts a very amicable sociable young man when he's around strangers or people he wants to impress. im reconciling it with the countercultural goth aesthetic by saying he can contain multitudes :P (also i think of Thad as having a delightfully dialectical brain that both desperately wants to be unique and special but also instinctively tries to comply with societal expectations)

not based in canon at all but i think he should be into the kinds of animals people find weird/gross/strange. #1 rat/snake/spider/insect defender he should have a pet snake named cornwallace or something.

4: aand Bart headcanons!

i really like how into video games he is especially in his solo and i would love to see that explored more as a genuine special interest. he tops speedrunning leaderboards and finds the insane easter eggs and secrets. his username (which is either his full legal name or an inscrutable series of numbers and letters no inbetween) becomes infamous in several online circles. ppl beg him to start streaming but Bart doesn't care he's in it for the love of the game

i really enjoy Bart having an eclectic aesthetic big fan of the grunge skater stuff he was wearing in the 90s and in sprinkles throughout the 2000s. one thing abt modern comics that makes me a lil sad is how everyone seems to have the same general sense of style :( (which is more a fault of tight deadlines and lack of characterization rather than the fault of the artists lbr)

the man strikes me as a collectibles guy he likes the fun of tracking down rare trading cards/action figures/etc and the satisfaction of a complete set. i think he would use facebook marketplace worldwide and have endless frustrations trying to communicate with the sellers

i want his having read a whole library to actually have an impact on things so i do think he has a grasp on most latin alphabet languages (having read every X to english dictionary) so his vocabulary is awesome but his grammar and accent are Trash (like he can read signage but struggles to hold a coherent conversation)

[scaredpigeons]

Deus Auri

Zhongli x reader (gn)

Word count: 1.04k (smol)

CW: sfw:) mild spoilers for Neuvillettes voice lines about Morax, he calls him Deus Auri, which is god of gold in Latin— might just be a title but any little tidbit of Morax we get I just gobble gobble up. Flirting, zhongli calls you my dear, darling, vixen. No pronouns or other gender specific language used. Some kisses and allusions of wanting more.

Enjoy!

“Deus Auri.”

You can nearly hear the crack of Zhongli’s neck as his gaze whips towards you, but you keep your gaze trained on your book as if you hadn’t seen its comical swivel in your peripherals. 

“I’m sorry my dear, could you repeat that?” He said, though there was an edge to his tone. 

“Deus Auri—God of Gold. What can you tell me about that name?” You said, index finger gliding down the edge of the book. You were no longer reading, but still kept your eyes trained on the pages to pretend like you weren’t vibrating with excitement at his reaction. 

Zhongli was naturally very stoic, a well maintained facade to those who weren’t interested in looking deeper. 

You had been plenty interested, taking one look at him and instantly knowing he was no ordinary man. 

Now the better part of half a year into your blossoming relationship, he still hadn’t outright told you, but he’d grown comfortable. 

You’d catch glimpses of his wrists, normally covered— deep onyx with veins of pure gold. Though this only happened in the safety of his home— there was a time he had to remove his gloves to help you in the kitchen, and his perfectly pale, human hands had distracted you the entire time. 

The glamor he kept up in public slipped a bit when he was more at ease. 

To the eye that was actually looking, zhongli really wasn’t subtle about who he was. 

“Well, why don’t we start with where you heard such a name?” He asked. 

“I was with the traveler last week, helping she and paimon with a commission in Fontaine.” 

You can see the minuscule wince he gives out of the corner of your eye. Just a twitch of the brows as he blinks, so graceful, but you catch it because you’re looking for it. 

“I overheard a conversation she had with a lovely gentleman over there, though I didn’t get to introduce myself. He mentioned the name when the traveler was asking him about Rex Lapis.”

You closed your book, finally turning to look at him, though you kept your gaze coyly through heavy lids, peaking demurely at him through your lashes. 

“And you know, I thought that was very strange, her asking him about Rex lapis, when she could learn anything and everything about him from our resident expert.” 

“The traveler has not visited liyue to see me in some time, darling. And I'm sure there are others who’ve studied the gods. I am not the only knowledgeable one in Teyvat.” 

“I know, I know.” You chewed on your lip a bit for effect, looking puzzled. “So who is this Deus Auri? Is it perhaps another one of Morax’s many names?” 

You looked at him expectantly, grinning as he grew more stiff in his seat beside you. A mere foot of space between you on the couch and he looked like he was ready for you to pounce on him. 

You wanted to, you have wanted to, but he so chivalrously insists upon taking it slow. 

Hand holding in the harbour. Chaste kisses good night. You wanted so badly to break through his barriers but you knew he was holding back.

“You are…” he let a puff of air through his nose. “Correct in the knowledge that Morax was known to have many different names. Unfortunately that is all I can say on the matter.” 

“So cryptic.” You squinted at him. He often shut you out when you pried like this, poking and prodding in places you know you shouldn’t be, but he was always kind and straightforward about it—so you usually dropped it as soon as he denied you. 

“Do you think he had a favourite name that he went by?” You pushed a bit more, hoping to get him to give you just one more crumb before you played your cards. It was time, you were getting tired of hiding it.

He smiled thoughtfully, relaxing into the couch once more. “I’d like to think that he enjoyed the name Rex Lapis, the name given to him by his people. I’m sure it brought him a great sense of pride.” 

You grinned, soaking in his expression and words. Knowing what you know— gods. He really was so cute sometimes. 

You open up your book, stilling your grin to prepare for what was next. 

“Really? I’d like to think Zhongli is his favourite. Retirement is a good look for him.” 

You expected denial, perhaps his neck snapping back to you like it did when you first mentioned the ancient name. 

What you didn’t expect was to be tackled to the floor, a gloved hand supporting your neck instinctively as you and your book tumbled along the floor with the blur of rich oranges and browns that took you down. 

When you finally settled, you were on your back with him looming over you, pining you to the ground. 

“You little vixen. How long have you known?” His eyes were wild, hair a mess, cheeks flushed and breathless. Disheveled.

He looked more beautiful now than you’d ever seen him before.  

“From the moment you opened your mouth.” 

He kissed his teeth in a quick tsk, ducking his head in embarrassment. “Nothing escapes you, does it? I knew I would be in trouble with you.”  

You cupped his face in your hands, pulling him back towards you. 

“And yet you kept me around regardless.” You smiled, giving him a quick, teasing peck on the lips. 

“How could I not? You have an inescapable magnetism that I am completely captured by. I’m afraid to say that you’re unraveling me even as we now speak.” 

You grinned at him, face feeling just as flush as his. 

“How much more unraveling do I need to do to get you to let down those walls you keep around you?” 

“They were gone the moment I saw that you knew the truth, my dear, you should have said something much sooner.” He tilted his head with a soft grin. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him ever closer. 

“Kiss me then, you old blockhead.” 

He gave a rumble in his chest that sounded very much like a growl, and it set your nerves on fire.  

“Behave.” He said sternly. 

“No promises,” you said as you kissed him. 

[sfthvnfanpage]

Translating SFTH’s Letters 💌

Letters is one of my favourite games. It’s surely fun to watch, but it can be challenging to translate.

Needless to say, English and Vietnamese are very different, even from what count as a “word”. Unlike other languages using the Latin alphabet, we separate our syllables with spaces:

“Economy” is a word with four syllables-bles. “Kinh tế” is a word with two syllables-bles.

If you play the one-word-at-a-time game in Vietnamese, technically a player is allowed to say “kinh tế”. But that’s not how people would play this game, there would be debate on if something is one word or two, because sometimes it’s ambiguous.

Even though sometimes it’s impossible, I still try my best to let the players say one syllable at a time. The most difficult one so far must be the Letters to Germans:

That’s 3 more syllables than I’d like, but this sentence can’t be shortened without losing some of the meaning. Lucky me, it still counts as one-word-at-a-time in Vietnamese. My success rate on making it one-syllable-at-a-time is around 90-95%. However, it’s still impossible to make it one-word-at-a-time 100% of the time, I can only get to 98-99%.

Another difficult thing is the sentence structure: In Vietnamese, nouns come before adjectives. We don’t say “a beautiful girl”, we say “a girl beautiful”. In this game, word order matters: Sometimes the “punch word” just comes at a different point:

If I put “eyes” first like a normal sentence, it would spoil the fun (plus Luke’s expressions were priceless). So I had to compromise by putting a blank in there:

Mother won’t look at […] me. Mother won’t look at eyes me.

This is a neat little trick that I use quite often.

Letters seems to be intimidating at first, but after a while, it turned out to be easier than other games SFTH plays. There is less dialogue, and not as many word plays. Letters quickly became one of my favourite games to translate.

Should I share specific challenges I’ve had with each Letter? Would that be boring?

[yukinohiko]

Moon Orchid | Itoshi Rin

✧ A/N: My second (and a half) tribute to period pieces, and I enjoyed it every much as its preceding pieces in the regency verse I’m creating. It was really this idea that inspired the concept of expanding my Blue Lock fics within a mini regency universe. So I hope you enjoy as they fall into place in indulgent historical romances.

✧ Synopsis: Rin’s place in society as the second son of a Viscount has been one that he’s had to adapt to. With news of his older brother swirling around the ton, Rin only learns this fact when he, himself, is faced with a florist and a bouquet of damning flowers. Of course, the language of flowers is one you speak fluently — and one he cannot speak at all. But when you have luck (common peony) and luxury (orchid) in play, what could go wrong?

The second son. It isn’t a title that ever particularly bothered Rin most of his life. His elder brother, the scion, the heir to the family’s Viscount status and responsibilities, held that role handsomely.

But when his brother fails to return from his time abroad, sending home letters that bear Madrid’s seal and smell of peaches and carnations — well, Rin’s opinions change.

He doesn’t take the mantle easily or out of any real desire, either. He completed his studies in etiquette and decorum, in fencing and horseback riding, in Latin and financials. Not because he cares much for his estate’s affairs, or because he seeks his father’s approval or his mother’s admiration.

If anything, he does it to catch his brother’s. To force Sae, wherever he might be in Spain, to take note of Rin and his work here in London’s ton.

He’s blinded by his single-track pursuit of acknowledgement. He’s always been that way — something he’ll soon realize applies more to than just his ambition, but in matters of the heart, too.

He’s always been prone to impulse. As much as he pretends otherwise, masks his temper under a facade of composure that always came so easily to Sae, it fits uneasily on him. Like glass encasing magma.

When his mother is fussing at a florist shop one day, he stands aside, staring idly out the window. It wouldn’t have been proper for her to be dallying about unaccompanied, and his father was away on business. She had insisted on his companionship over the maids today, though he doesn’t particularly care to know why.

If he had asked, in hindsight, perhaps things would not have gone so awry.

As he drums his knuckles against the wooden paneling of the window, wondering idly if the clouds outside were hinting at an incoming storm, he faintly hears his mother’s voice rambling on to the florist.

“Yes, I’m very excited,” she says, “he hasn’t been home in oh, so long. Why, I dare say it’s been four years? Perhaps five.”

Who the devil is she talking about? Rin wonders. Father’s never left home, and Rin feels as though he was constantly visiting home even during his university days.

“It’ll be a well-awaited day in the ton, then,” another voice replies.

Warm, amiable. He turns slightly, out of bored interest, and sees you. The florist, tending to his mother with an easy smile as you compose her flower arrangements.

“Indeed, indeed,” his mother goes on. “I imagine the young ladies of the court will be vying for his attention.”

“Perhaps roses to celebrate the occasion?” You offer her red roses, twirl a few pink. “Or orchids?”

Rin can admire your cleverness, if nothing else. It’s clear you’re experienced in the ways of upselling your flower shop’s customers. Quick and pleasant, your cheeks dimpling with a smile as you hold up different flowers for his mother’s approval.

“Orchids have always been my Rin’s favourite,” his mother preens, finally looking back at him.

He holds back a recoil, tensing only slightly as she plucks and smooths the lapel of his shirt and fusses with his coat.

“It’s fine, mother.”

“Oh, of course, darling. But orchids have always been your preference.”

He withholds a sigh, looking away. “I don’t particularly have any preference when it comes to flowers.”

“No?” He shifts his gaze at the voice. Not his mother — you. There’s something almost impish about your expression, eyes bright and sly. “Surely, sir, you can tell the difference between the common peony and a well-bred moon orchid.”

You hold up the flowers, as though to prove your point. He stares. Perhaps, if it were Sae, he’d be able to tell the difference more calculatingly. If it were Sae, he’d coolly note that the coral blush of the peony petals were abrasive and an eye sore compared to the silky white of the orchid. If it were Sae, he’d stroke the blossoms’ leaves and stems and be able to tell which had been grown in common soil and which had been cultivated in prestigious gardens.

But Rin is not Sae. And he never has been. The common peony looks no different to him from the moon orchid. If they were planted together, re-rooted into the same pot, housed in the same home, they would look fine together.

He meets your gaze, winter eyes like the tundra frozen over. “They look no different to me.”

You pause. Look from him to your flowers, then back to him. At his fine, dark hair, glossy in the faint sunlight coming in through the window. The clouds are coming in outside, though in the brief break of light, he appears almost angelic. Pale and dark in equal terms. His tailored clothes, fitted like a scion. Aloof, though you catch the trace of something more.

“I see,” you say softly, perhaps misreading his words. But in a florist’s humble attire, your dress marred with plant trimmings and fertilizer, your hands scratched with thorns and briars, the difference between you both has never been clearer.

Despite that, there is a clearness in his gaze that tells you he is assessing you on your words alone. Your actions and little else.

Before you can say anything more, his mother says cheerily, “But the occasion calls for carnations! Peonies and orchids will have to wait, I fear.”

“Carnations?” Rin furrows his brows, finally looking to his mother. “Why carnations?”

Something about them rings a bell. Something about them makes him care more about flowers than he normally would.

“Why, dear, you simply never listen to me,” she scolds, “I’ve been telling this young woman since we arrived at the shop. I received the letter just earlier today, it’s why your father is so busy with preparations and couldn’t accompany me here himself.”

“It must’ve slipped my mind,” Rin mutters.

“Oh, dear, you really should be more attentive —”

“Why carnations?” he presses impatiently.

His mother looks vaguely fussed about his tone, though it isn’t her who finally answers. It’s you, wrapping up the bouquet of bright red carnations in a white ribbon and handing them to him.

Outside, there’s a roll of thunder.

You say, with an innocent smile while dealing words that send an arrow through his heart, “Your brother is returning to the ton, my lord. Congratulations.”

He accepts the flowers on instinct. His brain feels as though it’s lost the capacity to process. Your hands brush his, and he reacts on reflex. On impulse alone, as he’s always been prone to.

Your warm fingers against his own cool ones. He feels every print as vividly as a petal on his lips.

Lightning flashes across the sky.

[goodmode]

scholarly bug digifake! pulling together several of my favourite themes and tropes to hopefully settle on a digimon partner after all these years :^) info + name origins below the cut!

LARMON

Level: In-Training/Baby II | Attribute: Vaccine | Field: Virus Busters | Type: Larva

A Larva Digimon that hides in its cloth-like outer garment, using its long antennae to listen to the world around it. This Digimon's movement is limited, so it hitches rides by quietly attaching itself to the backs of larger creatures, which can cause an ominous feeling to come over the host as they mistake it for a haunting. This effect seems completely accidental, however, as Larmon themselves tend to be quite sweet-natured and encouraging if they can overcome their shy nature. Overwhelming situations can cause them to give a nasty bite.

Attacks

Phantom Nip - Gives a nasty pinch from its small mandibles.

Night Light - Produces a soft golden glow from its marking and tail that gently repels those of violent spirit.

Namesake

larva(n.) - 1630s, "a ghost, specter, disembodied spirit" (earlier as larve, c. 1600), from Latin larva (plural larvae), earlier larua "ghost, evil spirit, demon," also "mask," a word from Roman mythology, of unknown origin; de Vaan finds a possible derivation from Lar "tutelary god" (see Lares) "quite attractive semantically." Crowded out in its original sense by the zoological use (1768) which began with Linnaeus, who applied the word to immature forms of animals that do not resemble, and thus "mask," the adult forms. [source]

Lares(n.) - Roman tutelary gods and household deities, worshipped in primitive cult rites, Latin, plural of Lar, a word of unknown origin. Infernal, protective of the state and the family, they could be potently evil if offended. Their shrine in the home was a lararium. [source]

---

PUERMON

Level: Rookie/Child | Attribute: Vaccine | Field: Virus Busters | Type: Insect

An Insect Digimon with the self-imposed task of infiltrating Virus type groups and strongholds, and using its unique undercover position to learn everything it can, training itself to be able to restore peace and defend the just. In this way, Puermon is sometimes considered a "pest" infesting the networks of Virus Digimon. Highly industrious, Puermon takes its work very seriously, and can lose its temper with anyone who interferes or risks blowing its cover. Its crystalline sceptre is made of all the data Puermon has absorbed, its helix shape slowly building towards Evolution.

Attacks

Lucidate - Holds its staff high, casting a bright golden light that makes evil Digimon lose their fighting spirit and want to move away, and gives focus and sharpness of mind to those with good intentions. The light from this staff can also help make sense of such things as computer code and Digimoji. Puermon may also call out the name of this attack before simply giving someone a punishing bop on the head.

Namesake

pupil(n.1) [student], late 14c., "orphan child, ward, person under the care of a guardian," from Old French pupille (14c.) and directly from Latin pupillus (fem. pupilla) "orphan child, ward, minor," diminutive of pupus "boy" (fem. pupa "girl"), probably related to puer "child" (and thus probably from a suffixed form of PIE root *pau- (1) "few, little"). Meaning "disciple, student youth or any person of either sex under the care of an instructor or tutor" is recorded by 1560s. [source]

puerile(adj.) 1660s, "youthful, boyish," a back-formation from puerility (q.v.), or else from French puéril (15c.), from Latin puerilis "boyish; childish," from puer "boy, child." The depreciative sense of "merely juvenile, immature, lacking intellectual force" is from 1680s. [source]

---

AXLAMON

Level: Champion/Adult | Attribute: Vaccine | Field: Virus Busters/Wind Guardians | Type: Insect

An advanced Insect Digimon that has picked up some high-level programming language. Though lacking the formal training of Witchelny, it reached this level of sorcery through necessity and instinct. Because of this, its reflexes and quick thinking put it almost equivalent with the likes of its Witchelny peers, and it spun itself a similar outfit to lend itself credibility as a sorcerer and to hide its true face beneath its cloak.

Its staff has hardened into the shape of an insect's horns, the light of its gathered knowledge kept between them and giving it strength. This staff can be ridden like a broomstick, letting Axlamon hide its new wings inside the sleeves of its cloak.

Despite its outwardly solitary and ascetic temperament, it appears this is simply a mask over the same shyness it had as a Child-level Digimon, and its secretly-passionate heart can be counted on to uplift others and balance the odds at any cost when things look grim.

Attacks

Kindle - Raises its staff to shine a brilliant light. Allies find their best strengths amplified and their wounds healed, and blackhearted foes are weakened and driven back from the holy beacon. This attack can also make sense of computer code, Digimoji, and sometimes things spoken or written in code.

Sacrosanctuary - Stands its ground and casts an illuminated shield of immutable truths and promises around itself and its allies. Its commitment is equal to the strength of its shield.

Opine Flare - Burns off some of its absorbed information data, converting it to a missile of pure energy to strike with. Some data is lost in the conversion, making direct attacks costly.

Namesake

In entomology, "alate" usually refers to the winged form of a social insect, especially ants[2] [source]

alate(adj.) "having wings, winged," 1660s, from Latin alatus, from ala "wing, armpit, wing of an army," from *axla, originally "joint of the wing or arm;" from PIE *aks- "axis" (see axis). [source]

axis (plural axes or (rare) axiis) - (geometry) An imaginary line around which an object spins (an axis of rotation) or is symmetrically arranged (an axis of symmetry). / The centre of attention within a process (e.g. the axis of investigation). [source]

---

uhhh if you read this far thank you for the interest! maybe someday i'll do their Perfect/Ultimate form or beyond but for now i ran out of steam so this lil guy's future is mysterious...

please don't use this fakie without permission, but if you do wanna borrow him for a roleplay or something please don't be shy of asking at least, i'm pretty chill

[cherry-shiftss]

random facts about me in my fame dr

i speak 7 languages: english, french, scots, russian, latin, greek, italian and I'm learning irish

i tab and annotate my books and they're all colour coordinated

i've never had my natural hair colour since the age of 15

my favourite food is lasagna with cheesy garlic bread

i love keeping plants but i tend to end up accidentally killing most of them

august isn't actually my real name, it's my middle name but i've been going by it for years with my friends

i read so much and when i get a big house with my boyfriend, we have a whole library room

although i play guitar as my profession, my favourite instrument to play is the bass

my favourite animals are puffins

i own 1 pair of shoes which are the same ones i've had since the age of 13- a pair of doc martens with roses embroidered on them and rainbow laces

if i could bring back one person from the dead, it would be freddie mercury

my favourite tv show as a child was horrible histories and i still quote it on the daily

i collect vinyl and my prized possession is an original pressing of queen's live at the rainbow concert from 1974

[chrisevansonly]

𝐚 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

✯charles leclerc x latin!female reader

✯when charles wants to learn some more spanish, he knows he has the best teacher around

✯no warnings v fluffy:)

✯this was requested!! it’s a little short but i hope i did it justice! i cannot speak much spanish, i only really speak english, italian and french so this will probably mostly be written using a translator😅🫶🏻

You looked at Charles, almost wanting to giggle at how sweet he looked, mere moments before this he’d come over asking you if you’d help him with with Spanish. You’d moved to Monaco from Colombia almost 6 years ago, your father expanding his business to the rich and wealthy of Monte Carlo. Of course being a motor sports fan you attended the grand prix in the city a few times, which is where you met Charles almost 2 years ago now.

“You want me to teach you spanish mi alma?”

Charles simply nodded

“What, Carlos can’t teach you?”

“I mean he does, but I’d rather learn from you…”

You couldn’t lie hearing him admit that made your cheeks flush, after thinking about it you nodded, patting the spot on the sofa beside you

“Well you know some at this point, I’m not sure what you want me to teach you”

Charles thought about what exactly he wanted to learn before smiling

“Maybe something about racing, about the cars and you know..”

Now that made you laugh but you obliged

“okay so, el coche se sintió bien hoy, that means that the car felt good”

Charles nodded

“El coche de sintió bien hoy”

You smiled

“You can use that in an interview if you want, something else you can say is estoy orgulloso de correr para Ferrari”

“So something something Ferrari?”

Laughing you hit him gently, knowing he didn’t let you translate first

“It means I am proud to race for Ferrari”

Charles smiled before repeating that back to you once again, his eyes watching yours carefully and meticulously so he wouldn’t miss any tricky words. In reality part of the reason he asked you to help him touch up on his Spanish was because he loved listening to you in your native tongue. He found the language intoxication when you spoke, yet he still struggled if you and Carlos got into heavy conversation: conversation he wished he could be apart of.

“Te amo mi corazón” (i love you my heart)

Smiling you leaned forward to gently hold Charles’s face, pressing your lips to his

“Te amo mucho mi amor, para siempre” (i love you so much my love, forever)

Pressing a kiss to your lips again Charles couldn’t help but smile, you were truly his everything, even if he couldn’t keep up with your language all the time, he made damn sure to make the best effort and get lessons from you.

“You know I might start charging you for Spanish lessons baby…you never know”

Charles laughed, his eyes squinting like they usually did when he smiled or laughed, one of your favourite things about him.

“What my love for you is not payment enough?”

You paused pretending to think about it as Charles placed a hand on his heart

“Chérie tu ma blessé!” (darling, you hurt me) F

If there was one thing you loved about Char it was how dramatic that boy could be, but it didn’t stop you from placing kisses across his face, getting him to smile once again, even if it was his plan all along

“Oh my poor Charlie, how will you ever survive”

“Un beso per favor…?” (a kiss please?)

Smiling you cupped his cheek gently, his eyes watching you intently

“Cómo podría decirte que no.” (how could i ever say no to you)

Happy when your lips met his, Charles knew right then and there you’d be the only person to ever teach him Spanish again.

Especially if he got to request a little extra loving from his favourite girl in the world.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 7

A/N: Right, this might get a little confusing, but you know how we (English speakers) kind of went from Latin, to old English, to Now English? I’m substituting those for the Old Language, ‘Middle Language’ (the transitional phase—completely made up), and whatever the common tongue is for Prythian? Yeah, sorry about that!

Warnings: none…? I don’t think…?

Word Count: 5,587

-Part 6- -🌌🌠- -Part 8-

You stare at the page, heart in your throat.

Stare at the page, and reach for a pen.

Who is this?

Ink stains the white paper, and stupidity heats your features. He probably left it as a taunt. It’s not like he’s going to respond. You groan, setting the pen down, covering your face with your hands. Mother above. Definitely not your smartest moment. Reach to flip the paper over—not wanting to be reminded of your naïveté.

More ink has appeared, just below your scribbled question.

You may hide your intelligence around your family, but that won’t work with me. Smarten up.

The words burn your features. Scowl at the paper.

Forgive me for not anticipating the paper to talk back, Eris.

It vanishes the second you’ve written the sentence, leaving you blinking at the empty space on your desk. Winnowing isn’t possible within the House of Wind—you’ve heard both Rhysand and Feyre say it before. Yet note passing seems completely acceptable, for some reason. You suppose no harm can derive from simple exchanges.

You’ve been surrounded by magic for nearly two years. It’s shameful to still be taken aback by its multi-faceted ways.

A reluctant smile gilds your mouth. That’s Eris alright. Readjust your hold on the pen.

And it’s embarrassing to rely on stupidly long words in attempt to prove your intellect. Just say it’s versatile.

The parchment disappears, then returns. Nothing’s been added.

Amusement brightens your mouth, raising the writing instrument, poising it to attack. The words dance on your tongue, weapons to provocation: You have a bad attitude to being spoken back to. But you shake your head, instead choosing compromise for your next reply.

Did you want something? I doubt you simply dropped in to say hi. Unless this is your way of making sure I got the book?

Perhaps it was my way of seeing where you fall in this alliance.

Brow draws together. He obviously means the alliance between the Night Court and him, but where do you fit into it all? How does this show your placement? What does he even mean, where you fall? Take a deep breath, release it. It will do you no good to fall for his own provocation.

I hope you were satisfying enlightened, then, you write back.

Quite.

Stare at the neatly scripted response. He’s leaving the conversation for you to direct. First thoughts go to where he acquired the book, but somehow you feel that’s not the direction he wants you to take this in. So, sighing, you stumble straight into the trap he’s laid out.

Why haven’t you told anyone?

Paper vanishes again. Takes a minute to reappear.

It’s pretty blackmailing material. Why waste it in common conversation?

Lips purse together as you read his reply. Manipulative indeed.

Whatever you think you’ll be able to extort from me, I can guarantee you’ll end up disappointed.

Not the family favourite?

Blink at the speed of the response. Like quicksilver. Vague amusement warms your chest—how clear the mockery is. Disconcertingly comforting to know he doesn’t change. The same in every form. Precious constancy. Lower the pen to parchment.

I suppose you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?

And I suppose you’ll hide beneath the guise of observation, now?

It certainly isn’t warfare. I’d think you’d be practiced at spotting pretty, bladed words.

Again, the parchment vanishes, leaving you in the silence of your own room. Feet tap anxiously upon the clear wood, leg vibrating as you wait on him. Realisation smacks you upside your jaw—you refuse to sit here wasting precious seconds for whatever nihilistic response he carves out for you. Instead, you turn to the anthology, flicking to the index, peering at titles. Searching for one that will catch your eye.

I’m flattered—you’ve sharpened your tongue since we last sparred.

Roll your eyes. Lips quirking at the inherent Eris-ness of the response.

Wooden swords will only serve me for so long. Why not experiment with steel in a controlled environment?

The parchment vanishes, and takes its time to reappear. Time you spend scanning titles, pondering their contents. Maybe you should ask why he gave it to you in the first place. Certainly not out of the kindness of his heart.

Paper reappears.

You think merely because there are entire courts between us that makes you safe?

Peer at his reply—try studying it. Does he want you to be wary of him? It seems unlikely, somehow. He wouldn’t be able to get anything from you if you’re afraid of him. He should be encouraging you to feel at ease speaking with him if he wants something.

Do you make a habit of being as unpleasant as possible to every person you encounter, or am I just lucky?

A smile warms your mouth as the paper vanishes, fantasising how irritated he might become. From your words! Exhilarating!

Eyes land on a title that piques your interest: Movement of Light. Brow narrows with interest, flipping to the registered page number eagerly. Upon the parchment, beside the tightly knitted words, lays a neat diagram. It appears to be of a rectangle with two small holes punctured through its thin mass. Interesting…

Do you make a habit of keeping secrets from your family?

Lips purse. Cutting to the core, again. Manipulative as he may be, he’s certainly skilled at finding the right bruises to target. You wonder if it’s a skill he’d been taught through books or word of mouth, or if, perhaps, it was a nastier kind of education. Shake your head free of thoughts, pulling away from the book.

Having no secrets at all is stupidly idilic. Are there any other misconceptions you would like me to clear up?

You’re surprisingly cynical for your age.

Strange how having one’s mortality ripped away will do that to a woman.

Even you can hear the bitterness bleeding through. But the words have been written, and the paper has disappeared, so there’s no use trying to take them back. Even if you’re mentally cursing yourself for allowing that kind of opening. Surprised at how easy it is to be caught up in conversation with him. Or sparring, as he so eloquently puts it.

Wonderful immortality not treating you well?

Again, with the taunting. Amusement and something else prickles beneath your fingertips. Irked.

I’ll admit, it’s not quite as spectacular as I might’ve thought once upon a time.

That seems measured enough.

I thought humans were raised to hate us.

Observe the words—how they sit on the parchment. The contrast between your short scribbles and his elegant font.

Might a deer not wish for a wolf’s strength?

Parchment again vanishes. Once you’ve counted to three, you turn your attention back to the book, scanning the passage of writing. Brows narrow at the leap in language—words you’re unfamiliar with. A photon? Maybe it would be better to start from the beginning. Where’s a damn glossary when you need one?

Paper reappears—you take a moment to pull away from the volume.

Have you always been in pursuit of grandeur?

Brow narrows at the question.

I’d say I’ve always been rather passionate about not starving. So I suppose I did once think having three hot meals a day would be utter luxury.

I would have rather rotted away than be forced to live amongst vermin.

A surprised laugh flutters from your chest, amusement sparking within you again.

You’re much too stubborn for such a miserable end, Eris; too bitter to resign yourself to such a fate, either.

Parchment vanishes. One. Two. Three. Return to the volume, start at the beginning. Where your eyes were intended to land. Sighing, you scan the title: The Foundations of our World—Stuff. Brow narrows, lips quirking upward at the vagueness of it. Stuff. Such a lack of precise articulation, yet here it is, in an anthology of noteworthy discoveries. Somehow, this piece had been selected as important; important enough to be the base for the entire book. Strange…

Eye roll across the tightly stacked letters, mind pulsing as words soak into your brain, thumping dully as blood rushes through your ears. Take everything at it’s basest nature, reduce it down to the fundamentals, and what sort of building blocks are you left with? What makes up the world as we see it?

‘Take the prefix a- from the middle language, and combine it with the Old Language verb to cut, creating the name for the indivisible: atom. The smallest bits of matter that can exist independently.’

Intrigue returns with crushing force, making it near impossible to tear your eyes from the volume when the parchment reappears. How long has he been writing? Maybe he was preoccupied.

And yet I understand it was the youngest of you who took up her weapons and headed out into the wild. For how adamantly you protested against my lack of action regarding something I could easily correct, you seem to appear quite the hypocrite. Why didn’t you go out into those woods?

Blink away the memories of frost. Of sweat-stained clothes, and matted, knotted hair.

Getting a little personal with the questions, don’t you think?

Writing to me at all is much more personal than you should ever be getting—I’m sure your friends would agree. Yet there you are, pen in hand, thinking up your next counterattack.

The reply comes with surprising swiftness, allowing you only a brief glimpse of the following passage. Just as you’re beginning to grasp the core of what the essay is talking on.

You write with the confidence sight, you reply, eager to return. Yet he seems to have put his own distractions aside, as the response follows promptly.

Magic is a wonderful thing.

Blood ices in your veins, limbs stiffening, tongue turning leaden.

You’re lying. The House is fortified with wards; practically impregnable.

Yet here we are, corresponding. Does your High Lord know what you get up to behind closed doors?

Heart spikes in your chest, fingers trembling just a little as you lower pen to paper.

You clearly want something; you’re not going to get it if you spook me away, so quit the games.

Very well, but I’ll admit I indulged in the thought of your discomfort.

Release a heavy sigh—he doesn’t somehow have a window into your room, able to watch every move you make. Surely that would be too far, even for his manipulative ways. Skin prickles at how easily he slid beneath it—fingertips brighten.

You share that delightful, sharp-written humour with your youngest brother, you know that?

The parchment vanishes, then reappears in a matter of seconds. You laugh to yourself.

Touchy subject, Eris?

The second you dot the question mark, the door swings open; you yelp, jumping in your chair, shoving the parchment away. Vanishes again a blink later, slightly crumpled from the violent rejection.

“I knocked…” Feyre supplies, features tightening with concern. “Did you not… Oh.” She blinks, peering at the door frame; the threshold. “I suppose it must have been set up to block out exterior noise, too.” Sighs. “I’ll get that fixed at some point. Seems a waste to have a sound barrier up if you’re unable to hear what’s going on outside.”

Swallow heavily, trying to look normal. Like you weren’t knowingly communicating with the heir to the Autumn Court throne. Blue-grey settles upon you, fingers fidgeting in your lap, shifting in your seat to get comfortable. Everything feels unsettled. Her brows arrow, “you’re… What were you doing?”

“Nothing.” You reply, quickly. Far too quickly to be normal.

Lips quirk. “Writing to Bas?” She teases.

Heavy sigh whooshes from your chest, deflating a little. “How do you know about him? I haven’t even mentioned him to ‘Lain,” you say lightly. Something flashes through her eyes, too quickly for you to decipher. “Az mentioned you had someone after you,” she laughs, stepping into the room, door closing behind her. “I had no idea it was so serious,” she smiles, the happiness so inappropriate with the context you have.

Shake your head in denial, “he’s just a friend. There’s nothing else going on.” She gives you a look to say she doesn’t believe you. “I’m serious,” you insist. “There’s nothing romantic going on.” That part’s true, at least.

Feyre laughs again, then shifts on her feet. A strange quest seems to overtake her. “You know things are different here,” she begins softly, “to how we lived as humans.”

Heat flushes your features, making you groan. “Oh my gods, Fey. I am not having this conversation with you.”

“I’m just saying, if you want to get out there…see the world…maybe a few males, too… That’s fine. That’s stuff we can do, now. Well, you can do.” She amends the last part. After all, she’s the youngest, and already has a mate, a husband, and a child. An entire family. The epitome of womanhood.

Shake your head adamantly, “please, stop.” You grimace. Her lips quirk, mischief in here blue-grey eyes. She’s so lively…spirited. Bubbly? But calm, too. When did she become so adult? She seems to have aged in the blink of an eye.

(Why didn’t you go out into those woods?)

She shifts again, peers around the room—it’s a superficial move. She’s buying time, building up to something. “Your floor’s clear,” she notes, nodding to the clear wooden boards. Nod in response, trying not to wring your fingers. You were doing nothing wrong. He had spoken first. Nothing to be guilty about; no one got hurt. It’s fine.

“About our last interaction…” she begins, quietly. Spine stiffens, heart spikes. “I wasn’t trying to find something wrong with you; I’m sorry it came out that way.”

Exhale softly, shoulders lose their tension. Smile easily, waving her off. “Oh, don’t worry about it,” you laugh. “I understand. I’m sorry for lashing out at you, it was unfair on my part to act that way.” Her eyes narrow on you. Keep up the smile. “Is this your way of saying you just don’t want to talk about it?” She asks, softly. Blue-grey shimmers with sincerity.

Lips begin to ache with the stretch. “What are you talking about? We’ve made peace, there’s no need to exacerbate this.”

“Do you not want to talk about it?” She reiterates, keeping calm and quiet.

“What is it?” You laugh, turning to face the desk, eyes flitting to the volume. Scan the page; absorb nothing. “What you said last time. About being a burden.”

Body stiffens, breath catches.

“Fey, I’m getting tired,” you excuse, voice steady.

“You’re tired a lot,” she replies, quietly. Still watching. “Maybe Madja should take a look at you.” Sigh. Lean back in your chair. Tilt your face back, peering at the ceiling. “I’ve had a long life,” you murmur up to the white wallpaper, “I’m allowed to be tired.”

“You’re barely twenty-two.”

“And a lot has happened. I’m allowed to be tired.” You repeat, not looking at her.

Silence stretches between you. Gentle, but taut.

“How about you?” You ask, shifting the conversation over. Turning to peer at her. Your younger sister. Feyre blinks, then nods her head. “Good. Wonderful.” Watch her silently. Mark the lowness of her lids. “Nyx still waking you up?”

Nods again, smiling faintly, traveling somewhere distant. Somewhere foreign to you. “Eight days a week,” she laughs quietly. “Rhys and I are taking turns looking after him during the nights. Despite his work-load.” Sighs, pushes hair from her cheek, tucks it over a pointed ear. “He’s been great. Supportive, attentive, perfect. I keep trying to get him to let me handle Nyx, but he’s insisting it’s a joint effort. Wants to be there in a way his father…” she trails off, eyes misting.

Nod your head slowly. “And I suppose you want to be there in a way our mother…?”

“Yeah,” she replies thickly. “I guess that’s part of it.” The quiet turns viscous, coagulating into something almost translucent.

“I read some things…” you begin gently, “about the turbulence of motherhood.”

Her features lift into a smile, “oh, don’t worry about me. Rhys and I are working through it. It’s difficult, but everyone’s there when the strain starts to set in.” You blink away subtle surprise. “Mor’s always up for taking him off our hands for a day or two. It’s the same with Cass and Nesta,” she laughs fondly. “Amren…well, she’s Amren. And Elain’s great at making little treats here and there. Smiley faces out of his breakfast and things like that—he loves it.”

You nod slowly. Blink. “That’s great.” Again the silence creeps in.

Then she’s shifting on her feet, and. You just know—

“What kind of person is Bas?” She inquiries, not at all subtly. Nosey.

“He’s my friend, and nothing else.” He’s much more than a friend, but there’s no way to explain that without an entire Court’s worth of misunderstandings and uncomfortable questions. Still, she nods, but remains in your room. “And he… His intentions?”

“Feyre,” you scold, incredulously.

Your younger sister doesn’t flinch. Keeps her gaze straight. “Okay. Okay,” she sighs, holding up her hands in defence. “I’m wary of him.”

“Please, you can trust me he’s harmless. To me, at least. I’m sure if someone swung at him he’d be the type to swing back, but that’s besides the point.” You leave out the part that you’re fairly certain he would be the one to also somehow provoke a fight. He can be pretty provocative when he wants to. Not always in a bad way…

(…a hot, male body that’s pressing you into the wall.)

“I just want you to be careful,” she says quietly, eyes misting, going somewhere far away. “Males…people can be unkind. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Amarantha, Tamlin… You nod your head, “I understand. But Bas…I can trust him. So please don’t doubt him; please don’t doubt me either, in this decision.”

Feyre nods again. Silence stretches, then she straightens. Pats the doorframe. “Well, I’ll have this fixed as soon as possible. It’ll need to be disabled, than I can remake it—so you’ll be able to hear people coming. It’d be awful if you got yourself hurt from being startled by one of us.” She gives you a sweet smile, then disappears out into the hall, door clicking shut behind her.

Unsure if it’s her silent feet or the sound barrier that prevents you from hearing her disappearing footfalls.

————

Skin is itching, fingers burning. Heart spiking.

Burning, burning, burning. Hands on fire.

Vision blurs, floor spinning. She’s on the ceiling.

Crash into a wall, bone crunching. Stumble to the kitchen.

Water. Where’s water. Burning skin. Charring fingertips.

Liquid drips down cheeks, splashing onto knuckles.

Scraped raw, searing pain. Bone splintering, nails peeling.

Cool water fills the sink, drown her hands.

Sweet strangulation, dulcet deprivation.

Lovely oblivion.

————

Breath eases in and out, soothing your lungs. In and out. Slow and steady. In. And out.

Chest deflates, keeping your body straight but relaxed—imagine sinking into the mattress. Cheeks puff up with the exhale, calm and quiet. Sit silently. Allow the world to fade. Tension seeps from your shoulders, muscles relaxing the way you’ve practiced. Now to make sure you don’t drop off instead.

Empty out thoughts, settle into the silence. Float away on a breeze. Imagine hands being set aglow. No. They are aglow.

Eyes remain shut, tight. Picture the radiant green seeping onto your skin, setting it alight.

Fingers twitch, bones itch. Teeth grind. Nails heat.

Eyes open in time to catch the glow as it fades, sinking back into your skin. A flicker of Starfall, then nothing. Sigh heavily, back slumping, shoulders sloping. It’s something; most importantly, it’s progress. Day three of fourteen. Slow movements, slower response. Gently stoking the flames.

Remove the light from your world, lids closing, return to the darkness. Seeking solace. Breath eases in and out, soothing your lungs. In and out. Slow and steady. In. And out. In. And out. Fingertips warm, but eyes remain closed. Don’t acknowledge it. Can’t look or feel for it. Allow it to grow in the back of your mind, allow into latch into your blood; flourish. Swirling and billowing, gaining momentum until it can move on its own, until it can function without nurture.

Keep your back turned to the power, allow it to remain unseen. Pull it upward; hear as it cracks and fizzles in your head. Rapidly dividing…splitting at high-speed…multiplying until it boils and bubbles. One cleaves another in two…into three…nine…

(…Twenty-seven, eighty-one, two-hundred forty-three…)

(…two-thousand one-hundred eighty-seven, six-thousand five-hundred sixty-one, nineteen-thousand six-hundred eighty-three…)

(One-million seven-hundred-seventy-one-thousand one-hundred forty-seven.)

Heat burns your fingertips, flashing pain blaring so rapidly, sparking like lightening across your palms, splintering phalanges…down into the carpal bones, nearing your wrists.

Vision blasts into view, pupils contract to tiny dots, shrinking away from the pale green light that’s blazing from your hands, barreling up your forearms, crackling past elbows, bolting up, up, up… Muscles seize, contracting against the hot itch scrambling your flesh, twisting at sinew. The blinding light dims, eyes peeking open as it dulls to a quiet luminosity, tinting your skin. Feels like poison ivy…the nettles by your old estate.

Swallow, staring at the radiance. Almost mesmerising enough to block out the burn. Throat itches, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. Deep breaths. Ease in. And out. Deep and easy. Calm and quiet. Collected.

Slowly, warily, you rise from your bed, door swinging open on the house’s command. Silently pad down the hallway, arms and torso concealed well by your dress, cardigan hiding the faint incandescence of your wrists. Hands—no way to hide them. Ignore it for now, you need a drink. Deep and easy. In. And out. Calm. Quiet and collected.

A glass waits for you on the table, walk steadily forward, fingers tremble as they clutch the cup. Water vibrates inside, tiny ripples fluttering across the surface. Effervescent bubbles shimmer at the base. Grow larger, swelling into compact air, fizzing up. Simmering in your hands. Tension coils your shoulders, brow dampening. Liquid heats up, boiling into a volatile mess. Bubbles pop at the surface, scalding water splashing onto your knuckles.

Scream as glass shatters, burning your bare feet as the liquid sprays.

Heart spikes, glowing brighter, inching up your arms, over your shoulders. Crawling across your collar bones. Muscles knot, tangling over themselves as they seize in terror. Power coils closer, snaking toward your throat, slowly…slowly…

“What—”

Hazel pierces into you, flicking over your hands, marking the shards of glass. He appeared in a flurry of darkness, shadows pulling back once he’s materialised in the doorway. Eyes already scanning for the source of distress. Fix on the slow spread of toxic green as it tip-toes higher. Hits a barrier. It’s a small hesitation—but it’s enough. Magic flickers, recoiling from your clavicle, enough hesitation to be quashed. Like a weight sinking down, an avalanche of rock crushing vermin, bones crunching beneath the pressure. Incandescence shoved away, dripping down your arms, cut back to your fingertips.

Sweet relief washes over you, waves of coolness cresting from your forehead to your toes. Lovely reprieve. Exhale heavily, spine nearly collapsing beneath the strain, leaving a slight glimmer to your fingertips, nails curved and warped from heat. Stagger back as he silently moves toward you. Scarred hands reach out, wanting to touch; wanting to steady.

“Are you—”

“Don’t,” you bark, snapping your arms closer to your body. Feel their unnatural heat as it singes the fabric of your dress. His nostrils flare, scenting the charred material, shadows flicker.

Call breath into your lungs, soothing. Deep and easy. In and out. Calm and quiet. In. And out. Calm and collected. A familiar scent has hairs raising at the back of your neck, eyes flicking up to lock with hazel. Closer than before. Despite the heat.

“What was that?” He asks, the deep roughness of his voice curling across your breastbone, soothing the heated skin like a balm. Swallow heavily, keeping your hands tight to your torso. Turn away; move to the sink. The tap turns on independently, cool water sizzling as it washes over trembling hands. Cold metal mollifies your skin, a comfy weight around your neck. The tiny barrier your magic had hit. Tripped up on.

Azriel doesn’t make a sound, but you can feel him nearby, standing at your side. Watching silently as the water fizzles and hisses, the last of the glow dimming from your fingertips. How close he’d come to touching the blisteringly hot skin. Slowly, the cold begins to souse into your digits, running smoothly over your hands, no longer bubbling or evaporating on impact.

The house has already cleared away the shards of glass; dried the pool of scalding water by the time you’ve dried your hands. Flaky, and ashen. The smooth, creamy texture seemingly been ravished by the heat. Yet all you felt was a slight itch to begin with. You don’t make any attempts to conceal how quickly you want to escape the room, but you’re kept where you are. Waiting…waiting for him to change his mind about keeping your secret. After what he’s just seen…

Feet are pinned to the boards, muscles unwilling to obey your mind as you explore them to turn and leave. Arms feel leaden, stiff and immovable. Wait for the compromise to be retracted. Hands tremble, teeth faintly bite onto your tongue. Wait for the condemnation. For being so foolish; stubborn.

“Are you hurt?” Words thud dully against your ears, keeping your hands as out of sight as possible, hidden beneath the sleeves of your cardigan. Nod dutifully. “I’m okay,” you murmur. Lips are numb, mind buzzing faintly. Floorboards spin ever so slightly, blurring in and out of focus. Deep breaths. In and out. Slow and steady. In. And out. Calm and collected. In. And. Out.

Boots appear at the top of your sight, just a little way from your own. Far enough not to be intimate. He holds out a scarred hand, palm facing upward. Almost expectant.

Blink away the dizziness. Flesh tingling…wriggling beneath your skin. Nails itching.

Wait silently to see what he’ll do.

Continues holding out his hand, waiting patiently to see if you’ll offer up your own. Remain rooted to the spot, numbness crawling beneath your sleeves. Mind buzzing with confusion at the outstretched palm.

Slowly, he begins reaching for your wrist, as if to inspect the results of the experiment. Analyse the consequence. Examine.

It topples you into motion.

Turn on your feet; quietly scamper off down the corridor. Behind the safety on your door.

With the wooden barrier in place, plus the sound block on your room, you can truly feel forgotten for a while. Like time’s stopped.

————

The shower had your blood moving again, temperature cooling to a regular heat. Mind working again, mentally cataloguing every thought you had, every twinge of unusualness that could have been the signposting you should have noticed to prevent that rapid surge of…burning.

Peer down at your hands, almost absently. Aside from the slight roughness to your skin; the chapped dryness to your knuckles, there’s nothing to show for the bone deep itch that had manifested within your flesh. Just the texture becoming sandpapery. Flaky.

A dark blue towel is draped over your shoulders like a shawl, preventing the damp ends of your hair from saturating the changed dress.

(What was that?)

It stopped almost out of nowhere. One moment, steadily spreading throughout your body, the next, it seemed to stumble. Like hitting a bump of some kind. Something that disturbed its momentum. Peer down at the necklace that’s sitting comfortably around your throat, resting just above your collar bones. In the dip of their joining point.

The small, glass pendant hanging from the bronze chain sits innocently on your person. Fingers brush over the map in wonder, curiously feeling. Cool metal contains the accessory, lead encapsulated within a gleaming polish. Even the underside has a pretty finish. Lead, bronze, and glass. Maybe some ink, but that’s all it is. No secrets carved to its base, no hidden compartment. Just a simple ornament, yet something about it disagreed with you. Thank the Mother.

Fingers play with the charm as you take a seat at your desk, reopening the volume. Rusty red leather creaks as you turn to your page, more than willing to submerge yourself in learning. The candles flicker as you ease out a breath, taking in the familiar scent of parchment and something pleasantly spiced. Maybe it’s an Autumn Court scent.

Crumpled paper lands on your desk, settling comfortably between the two large pages of the anthology.

It may surprise you to learn I have better things to do than spend all my hours writing to you.

Stare at the neat, elegant script. Debate the merits of responding willingly. Returning to this strange sparring match would be acknowledging your interest. There’d be no way to talk your way back to innocence. Putting pen to paper will mean…

And yet here you are, Vanserra, writing back to me.

Oh, you hope that irritates him. Hope he sends back something vicious. Something to make you spark awake again. To light up the numbness that’s turning your world monotone.

Would you like to tell me where these wrinkles came from?

Lips tug at the edges, but remain set in a dull line. Lower your pen to the roughed-up parchment. Fingers dry and somewhat cracked in the low light.

Nonsense, Eris. You don’t look a day over thirty.

Picture the way his sharp caramel eyes blaze with ire at the brazenness. Maybe his palms also heat when he’s in a mood. It’s a little comforting to remember power probably didn’t come naturally to him. Maybe. You’re making assumptions, though.

And you don’t dress a day over fifty. Considering Rhys’ wealth is at your fingertips, you have the fashion sense of someone who’s still destitute.

Mouth parts as you read the response. Brows flicking up your forehead. Harsh…

A smile quirks the corners of your lips.

I’ll have you know I dress for comfort. You’re the one who cares so much about prettification. Maybe I could visit your personal beauty parlour sometime, Eris?

Parchment vanishes, allowing you time to peer down at the diagram before you: a small rectangular table. There are various squares left blank, while others are filled in with one or two letters. The boxes that do contain letters attached are numbered, correlating with asterisks further down the page, displaying a full title.

Who would ever accompany you? It’s bad etiquette to visit a tonsorium on one’s own.

The smile fades after a few moments. Who would go with you if you wanted to visit somewhere? Elain? Feyre? …Mor? Shake your head, pushing away the dismal thoughts he’s brought to your attention. Divert elsewhere.

It’s worst to not entertain your guests. What a miserable (and sour) host you would be. I think I’m actually quite glad to not be visiting anytime soon.

Try to return to the anthology; find yourself awaiting his reply. Leg tapping against the floorboards. Minutes pass while you attempt to absorb more of the text, but nothing’s sticking. Like there’s a fog passing through your brain, stopping you from taking in the wonder of the world. More minutes tick by—the sky a solid dark blue the other side of your window. A few other candles gleam alight, and you murmur your thanks to the House. Flame flickers in response. Oddly comforting.

Eyelids start to feel heavy, weighing into your vision.

You don’t realise you nodded off until you wake from your nap. The desk is still void of a reply; you wearily peer around your room, attempting to orient yourself. Knuckles itch to be scratched, still rough to the touch. Gaze settles on your door. Perhaps it’s a little scary that you wouldn’t know if something was lurking directly the other side. Wouldn’t be able to hear any heavy breathing, or the scrape of steel. Deep breath, because there’s nothing there.

Stand to draw the curtains, but hairs stand on end. Remain still for a few seconds, centring on the feeling. Is it fear? Is it loneliness? Brow knits in concentration, absently drawing the curtains, turning back to face the entrance to your room.

(The only exit.)

Sigh in frustration. It’s not good to give into your…however you’re feeling. It will only encourage your mind to exacerbate whatever problem its fabricated. Still, you find yourself opening the door, peering down the well-lit corridor. Nothing there, no strange feeling, no lurking presences. Just your mind finding something to react to, creating a madness to subject you to. Deep breaths. The House of Wind is secure. Safe, and secure. You’re safe here. Nothing bad will happen; you won’t get hurt.

Deep breaths, heart lowering its pace.

Move to bring the door to; notice something on the ground, beside the frame.

Crouch down to pick up the small tin. Bring it inside, door swinging shut as you hold it up to the light.

Peer at the neat label. Pop open the lid; look inside.

It’s a small pot of hand cream.

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[sleepisoverrated]

My headcanons about Dick Grayson

Dick Grayson is smart.

Like I hate it when they make him a dumb bimbo, he's hot yes he knows it, but he also has been hacking into the Pentagon for fun since he was ten, survived Spyral and several almost apocalypses. I know it's cannon since no Bat is dumb, but some fics, SOME FICS, make him look like he never went to school.

Dick Grayson knows so many languages.

I assume due to the fact that he grew up in a traveling circus he already knew a lot of languages(even if his english was bad when his parents died), but due to being robin and Bruce Wayne's ward he learned basically all major languages on Earth( and some alien) like Romani, German, French, Russian, English, Italian, Greek, Spanish, Irish, Finish, Japanese, Mandarin, Cantonese, Indian, Latin, backwards speech(Zatara), Tamoranian(i think that's how you spell it), Kryptonian, speedster(when speedsters talk super fast) and so on.

Dick Grayson has at least some immunity against Fear toxin(Ft), Joker venom(Jv).

And most of the other poisons due to constant exposure since he was 9, also when he was younger there were no antidotes for Ft and Jv so he learned how to ride them out without a sound. (You can't tell me it hasn't fucked him up somehow, like a 9 y/o being constantly exposed to these things HAS to have some consequences and while he has his immunity I also think he has extreme anxiety( like all the bats a.k.a. Bat paranoia) and constant panic attacks(next headcanon))

Dick Grayson is a master at controlling his body.

Besides the fact that he probably learned acrobatics before he could walk and was a stage performer(always smiled even if the performance got off the rails) I also think he has taught himself complete control of his body due to far too many close calls. He learned to control each muscle individually for combat under high-stress situations(where he most needs that control). This had a side effect of him being able to control his face muscle/expressions and body language. He became the best actor there will ever be, because he can keep a smile on his face even if he is in excruciating pain, he can look completely calm and relaxed even though he is having a panic attack and the opposite is true as well he can look completely terrified even though he is amused. Because of this you need to know him extremely well to tell if he's in distress(the only people so far are Alfred, Damian and Slade(he's obsessed))

Anyway if you want more of the headcanon's just say, Nightwing is one of my favourite characters I can rant about him much longer.

[estcaligo]

*super loving and lighthearted towards everyone*

Kinda linguistic post. Because I love bilingual puns:

My favourite jp fandom pun is when they say: "Nice body" but it's just a comment about card's buddies lol. Like "nice buddy", it sounds the same

For the reason I can't tell you yet, I translated Sebek's name into Hungarian and😟

Do Idia's fans from Poland get excited on Wednesday? You know, because.....środa........

German speaking Vil fans hear 'Beauty' every time they mention him and that's beautiful

Nothing specific, just "Riddle me this" joke all the time (I'm trying to get Riddle of this kind of humor🤡)

The whole Heartslabyul is a dorm of puns tbh

Imagine Yuu, a chemistry/Latin enthusiast - calling Silver "Argentum" all the time

Meanwhile ORtho is kinda a golden boy in French...(why don't Rook call him like that lol)

Speaking of Rook....he would have Smokey eyes, but only in some languages.

Why is Azul so pathetic? Because Azul backwards is Luza.... 😔 (and the Tweels are so Cheel all the time)

If Jamil were into racing, his car of choice would be Dodge Viper (I know this is so bad sorry😅)

If Lilia owned a vehicle it would be a red van (sorry this one is even worse)

Back to jp puns.....Jamil without H is just Prefect (according to Floyd at least) (I like this one)

An exclusively jp pun - Leona's last name 😀

In Italian, Ruggie has holes instead of spots :( (but also some delicious pasta :) )

"Go" and "I" is just Idia in Russian lol

It's been said enough about Malleus' name, still always funny

[rayclubs]

Which languages have your favourite words for "Bone", "Skeleton", and "Skull"?

NOW THAT'S A GOOD QUESTION LET'S SEE

English:

"Bone" - very nice sexual innuendo, fun to say, not crunchy though, 8/10

"Skeleton" - spooky scary but too many syllables, 6/10

"Skull" - very shaped, crunchy, succint, a solid 10/10

Russian:

"Кость" - a beautiful girl, very crunchy with a side of gambling, 10/10

"Скелет" - baseline, solid but lacks a spark, 7/10

"Череп" - interesting but ultimately unmotivating, 6/10

Romanian:

"Os" - yeah okay discount Latin, 5/10

"Schelet" - I don't like the "ch", it feels unnecessary, otherwise solid, 7/10

"Craniu" - what the fuck. 4/10

German:

"Knochen" - why is it "der Knochen", it should be "das" like all the other words that end in "-chen", 9/10

"Skelett" - the doppel-T is what really does it for me, 10/10

"Schädel"? - had to look this up, huge if true, top five things to call my beloved, 10/10

Feel free to suggest more, cheers