#lava lamp posting once again

[stargrillzz]

Hostage

summary: He confesses how much he wants to keep you close — maybe too close — and for the first time, he lets himself be vulnerable.

note: Wrote this fic inspired a little bit by Hostage-Billie Eilish. xoxo

You didn’t mean to stay so long.

At first, it was just the post-mission high and a tired joke about granola bars. But now the lamp was the only light left in the room, and the city outside his window was blurred like watercolor. Stark Tower was unusually still. And Bob Reynolds — the Sentry, the Void, the man with the sun in his chest and the end of the world at his fingertips — hadn’t let go of your hand in almost an hour.

He was quiet, and you let him be. He wasn’t a man built for silence, not really — it settled on him like too much pressure. But here, now, he wasn’t fighting it. He was… soft. The gold in his eyes had faded to something warmer, more human. And the air between you felt like a string pulled tight.

You watched the way he kept glancing at your fingers, the ones curled around his. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were still here.

“Your room’s not what I expected,” you said quietly.

Bob looked over at you, lips twitching. “You expected floating candles and dramatic portraits?”

“I expected you to have at least one lava lamp.”

He grinned. “Okay, now I’m offended.”

You bumped your shoulder into his. “C’mon. You fly, you glow, you monologue in poetic metaphors when you’re mad. I thought for sure you were hiding a beanbag chair in here somewhere.”

Bob looked like he wanted to argue, but his smile betrayed him. “I had one. Once. Void ate it.”

You laughed — that sudden, surprised kind of laugh that made him close his eyes and lean into the sound like he was soaking it up.

And then it happened. That little shift.

The one where something in the room changes, and even your breathing feels different. Still. Waiting.

Bob’s gaze dropped to your mouth again. Lingering.

“Why do you let me have this?” he asked, voice so quiet you almost didn’t catch it.

You blinked. “Have what?”

“This,” he said, eyes flicking down to your hand in his. “Peace. You… let me feel peace. I’m not used to that.”

Your chest tightened.

“I don’t let you,” you said gently. “You’re the one who gives it to me too, you know.”

He looked like he didn’t believe you. Like maybe he wanted to, but the thought was too big.

You shifted closer. Just a little. Just enough for your knees to touch.

“I’ve had a long week, Bob,” you said softly. “And you’re the first person I came looking for when it ended. That’s not an accident.”

His breath hitched.

He tried to say something — opened his mouth, then stopped. His brows drew together, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” he admitted.

You leaned in. “You don’t have to do anything. You just have to be here.”

Bob was quiet. But his hand gripped yours a little tighter.

Then, after a beat:

“Okay,” he said. “But I’m not sharing my granola bars.”

You smiled — small, but glowing. “I’ll allow it.”

He exhaled — half relief, half laugh — and looked at you again, longer this time.

And you knew what was coming. You saw it in the set of his jaw, the way his thumb brushed across your knuckles like he was grounding himself.

So when he asked it — “Can I kiss you?” — your heart was already saying yes before your head caught up.

The kiss was quieter than you expected. Not rough, not desperate. Just… honest.

His lips were warm, a little hesitant at first — like he was scared he’d ruin it by needing too much too fast. But when your hand slid to the back of his neck and your fingers curled in his hair, he made a soft, helpless sound against your mouth and leaned in like gravity itself had shifted.

He kissed you like you were something fragile and powerful all at once. Like touching you too hard would break the world open. Like he’d dreamed this moment in infinite timelines and never thought any of them would be real.

And when he pulled back, he was breathing like he’d just surfaced from underwater.

“I’d keep you here forever if I could,” he whispered, voice trembling at the edges. “Not in a weird way. I just… I’d lock the door, turn the world off, and just—stay. With you. Like this.”

You touched his face, thumbing gently across his cheek.

“Not creepy,” you whispered. “Just intense. And beautiful.”

His brows furrowed like he couldn’t understand why you weren’t running away.

“You don’t want to leave?” he asked.

You shook your head. “I never wanted to.”

He swallowed, looked down, then back at you — like he was bracing for impact.

“Then stay,” he said. “Tonight. Here. I don’t— I won’t try anything. I just want—” His voice cracked. “I want to fall asleep knowing you’re here.”

Your chest ached in the best way.

You smiled. “Alright. But I get to steal one of your hoodies.”

Bob blinked. “You—really?”

You were already getting up, walking toward the small wardrobe near his bathroom. “I will pick the ugliest one.”

“God, you’re impossible.”

But his voice was shaking. And when you turned, hoodie in hand, he was smiling so wide it looked like it hurt.

[solitarystarrywitch]

💫witch tip💫

because i once again forgot to add this to my list post, but have something that breaks up the stagnant energy in your rooms. like an analog clock cuz it's hands are always moving. or a lava lamp, or wind chimes.

something to keep energy moving in the room instead of letting it settle and build up

or you can be the movement. nowadays a lot of people are prone to doomscrolling. i personally believe that's a form of stagnant energy or gathering stagnant energy. i hold your hand when i say this (because im not immune to it either) but get up and interact with your space, acknowledge your space, appreciate your space, show some love to the items that surround you because they're there and pixels aren't tangible.

[nereidprinc3ss]

lava lamp

in which spencer reid comforts gn!reader when you find yourself contending with a sudden bout of depression

fluff

warnings/tags: established relationship, reader has depression, task paralysis, spencer reid can't cure your depression but he sure can't make it worse

a/n: this is most definitely not inspired by the pink lava lamp in my room. it has nothing to do with that. extremely short and sweet, WC <800

The room is awash in hot pink. 

It’s interrupted only by dark shadows cutting lines across the floor and the furniture. The blinds are down over the window so moonlight can’t seep in—assuming the moon is in fact out now. You’re not actually sure. You don’t know how long you’ve been lying here like this, studying the soft glow of the lava lamp where it sits on the bedside table, watching the blobs of orange separate and conjoin and float around each other like they’re dancing in the suspending liquid. 

The sound of keys in the front door, of it scuffing against the floor as it opens and squeaking shut and the lock clicking back into place, inspire the tiniest spark of joy inside you. For a few moments you remain in solitude—listening to the sounds of the kitchen sink running as Spencer washes his hands, a glass being set down on the counter, the soft rustle of fabric on fabric as he takes his coat off. Maybe you have really excellent hearing. Maybe you’re just imagining the sounds because you’re so familiar with his post-work rituals. 

Finally the bedroom door opens, catching your legs in a triangle of yellow light, and sounds cease—Spencer is surely standing in the doorway, surely surprised to find you sprawled on the bed, staring vacantly at the lamp you’d purchased last winter from an antique shop. 

The door closes again, encasing you in an amnion of pink warmth once more. 

“Hi,” he says, quietly enough. 

You don’t respond. Not for a lack of affection. Just for a lack of energy, really. Spencer is used to you, and he doesn’t let your heavy mood stop him from moving to sit on the mattress behind you. The heat of his hand is a comforting weight as it finds your back, slowly rubbing up and down. There is always so much love in the way he touches you. 

“How’re you feeling, honey?”

A quiet moment passes in which you’re gathering the energy to speak for the first time in hours. Spencer doesn’t rush you. 

“Tired.”

More quiet. 

“What kind of tired?”

But he knows what kind of tired. 

“I tried to fold laundry,” you mumble, lacking even the gumption to move your mouth much as you speak. You tap the laundry basket with your toe where it sits on the foot of the bed. The laundry inside remains very much unfolded. 

“I can handle it.”

If you had any more vitality you’d say, you shouldn’t have to, you just got home from a full day’s work, I’ll take care of it—but the truth is, you can’t handle it and you can’t take care of anything—not even yourself. All you can do is watch orange bubbles float in radioactive pink liquid. 

“I don’t know what happened,” you whisper. A few tears take you by surprise as they roll down over the bridge of your nose, though your face remains stony. “I’ve been here for hours.”

Spencer’s hand remains steadfast on your back and you wish you could express how grateful you are for it and for him and for his gentle voice, always. 

“Maybe nothing happened. Maybe some days are just hard.”

You sniffle. The answer is unsatisfying, but so is life, sometimes. And you know he’s right. 

“Yeah.”

Time passes. A few minutes, maybe, of listening to your own ears ring, to the haunting frequency of the old building, of the upstairs neighbors walking around and snatches of music coming from cars on the streets below. 

“You know, I sometimes have days where I just want to lie down and stare at the lava lamp too. I think a lot of people feel that way.”

You turn your head just slightly and finally see him, cast in the soft lambent glow, smiling down at you in that unconscious, serene way, that is little more than a curve of his lip. Just seeing his face makes something in your chest unclench.  

“Really?”

The soft arch of his smile flickers momentarily wider. 

“Metaphorically speaking.”

He’s perfect. 

You reach over your own waist to grab his hand, and he interlocks your fingers, running his thumb over yours. 

Spencer knows it, but you tell him anyway. “I love you.”

He leans down and kisses you, so softly it’s like medicine. 

You know it, but Spencer says it back anyway, sweetly against your lips, heads pressed together. “I love you.”

And you much prefer this view to the lava lamp. 

[americaine-noces]

under the bleachers ⋆˚࿔

what starts with one stolen glance across the soccer field turns into a secret-laced spiral of late-night drives, under-the-bleachers kisses, and the kind of love that makes you reckless. in a town that doesn’t understand girls like them, they find freedom in each other—and maybe something like forever. ⟢ a/n : i know that ts is so short but pls bear w ME💜

it’s friday night. the kind that hums with leftover adrenaline—halftime lights fading, the smell of sweat and soft pretzels still hanging in the air. your team lost. not by much, but enough to sting. you still smiled for the pictures, still did your high kicks and pyramids and fake-laughed at locker room jokes.

but now you’re home. in your room. showered and sprawled out across your bed in natalie’s jersey. it’s too big, drowning you in blue and yellow. the number’s faded. it smells like grass and bonfire smoke and her stupid vanilla shampoo. you’re chewing the inside of your cheek, watching the ceiling like it might blink first.

you haven’t heard from her.

you texted her twenty minutes ago:

you: snacks or no snacks? i got chips & that gross blue slushie you like

no reply.

you try again.

you: unless you changed your mind.

still nothing.

you sit up, hug your knees, and curse under your breath. the jersey falls off one shoulder. you don’t fix it.

it’s past eleven when you hear it—the soft clink of a pebble against your window. you freeze. then another. and another.

you slide the window open and look down.

natalie’s there, hoodie half-zipped, cigarette tucked behind her ear. she looks up like she’s been caught red-handed, but doesn’t seem sorry.

“forgot how high up your window is,” she calls up. “my aim sucks.”

you bite back a grin. “you could’ve just used the front door like a normal person.”

“but then i’d have to talk to your dad. no thanks.”

“he’s asleep.”

“even worse.”

you sigh. “get up here.”

she climbs the trellis like she’s done it before—like muscle memory. you step back as she slips into your room, landing with a soft thud. her shoes are muddy. you don’t care.

natalie’s quiet for a second. she takes in your room, your posters, the flicker of a lava lamp in the corner. then her eyes land on you. or maybe the jersey.

“you really wore it,” she says.

you nod. “a deal’s a deal.”

she laughs under her breath, a little breathless. “we lost.”

“still worth it.”

you don’t mean for it to come out so soft. or so honest. but it does.

natalie’s eyes flash like she doesn’t know what to do with that kind of kindness. she walks over, sits on the edge of your bed, and pulls something out of her pocket. a cassette tape, half-labeled in smeared sharpie: van’s mix, vol. 4.

you blink. “you actually brought it.”

she shrugs. “van made me swear on her cat’s life. apparently this one has a song that ‘might make you cry.’”

“great.”

natalie leans forward, pushing it into your old tape deck. the static is immediate—then music. low, fuzzy. acoustic guitar and female vocals. it’s a little off-tune. a little too real. you don’t recognize the song.

you lie back. she does too. your arms brush.

you think of asking her what’s been on her mind. why she didn’t reply. why her eyes look heavier than usual. but then her hand slips into yours, and she squeezes—once, like a question.

you squeeze back. answer.

you fall asleep like that. not tangled. not kissing. just… next to each other. like maybe that’s enough for now.

outside, the town’s quiet. the cicadas are gone. replaced by the soft whir of a neighbor’s sprinkler. inside, natalie dreams of being someone who doesn’t ruin things. and you? you don’t dream at all.

you already have what you wanted.

at least for tonight.

⟢ a/n : edi sorry kung natapakan yung pagka love team niyo!!!!! anyway ill post pt4 soon because i love u guys so much💜 part two ⊹ ࣪ ˖ part three ⊹ ࣪ ˖ part four ⊹ ࣪ ˖

[ckret2]

So...

what was your first impression on Demongo and how did you react when he reappeared in season 5 of samurai jack? (I love this blue raspberry demon boi sm lol)

new follower btw

I post ridiculously long headcanon posts & i lure in new followers. once again my evil plot works

I don't remember my first impression specifically but it was probably something like "lmao silly voice." this isn't a knock against demongo, I love a good silly voice. I love a good pointy vampire too, which is definitely what his design evokes; PLUS a lava lamp. Hard to top that.

it interested me that he got hyped up like few other of Aku's minions ever did. Most of the assassins he sends after Jack that we spend any time getting to know are hired mercenaries or insentient robots. Demongo's a rarity in being specified as under Aku's employ, and his greatest warrior, at that.

and his gimmick also intrigued me. He's called one of aku's strongest minions—and all his strength is stolen from warriors more talented than him. He must have some skill of his own, to have caught the first one, even if it whatever he has isn't combat skills—unless that first warrior was offered to him as a freebie by Aku. Like a starter Pokémon.

But either way, the more warriors he collects, the less he has to use whatever initial skills he might've had.

And it makes him feel like a very Aku sort of minion, in comparison to the random bounty hunters and such we see. Jack essentially calls Demongo a cheat for acting like he's the skilled warrior when he's got enslaved ghosts doing the work for him, and Demongo acknowledges it; but Aku likely considers Demongo one of his top minions because he's a cheat, because his modus operandi is stealing and using what doesn't rightfully belong to him. Of course Aku rewards someone who got their skills via dirty theft rather than good honest hard work.

anyway i think my reaction when he showed up in season five was "LMAOOO BITCH WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE??" I wonder if he escaped, or if Aku kicked him out and told him not to show his lava lampy face again until he'd picked up enough slaves to make himself useful.

Given the mood Aku's currently in and that he's probably been in it for a while, it might've been a bit of both: Demongo finds the baby gate on the Pit of Hate unlatched, nervously creeps out, asks Aku if this means his punishment is completed; Aku's boredly channelsurfing his window to the outside world and says yes fine sure just go away.

[nostalgiclittlespace]

Wishlist Ideas for Closeted Regressors

So, it’s a little early to be posting holiday stuff, but I wanted to get this out there so since I know a lot of people start their holiday shopping around this time. So, If you’re looking for agere gear as a closeted regressor, or you just want something that’s subtle, here are 12 ideas-with pics. Note: pics are not mine, they are screenshotted from Amazon. prices are in USD, as Im American. Happy regressing and happy holidays!

1.Kawaii water bottles, specifically in the style below. The straw on most of these is a lot like a sippy or bottle, so if you can’t have/don’t want one of those, then these are a great alternative! Just look up ‘kawaii water bottle’ on Amazon and a whole bunch will show up. Most are between $15-25 USD

2. Funko Pops. I actually use mine as action figures and play with them (just be gentle with them if you do this!) so they can be great agere toys and decor! You can find just about any character and any fandom too. The prices very greatly, depending on what character and where you buy from. Black Friday deals on Amazon and Five Below are great ways to find them for only a few dollars.

3. Fidget toys; they can make great Agere activities! Because they are designed to stimulate your senses, many function similarly to baby toys. Note: when buying in bulk packages, the quality isn’t great. So consider whether you want to invest in better quality or quantity. Most bulk fidget packs are about $25 USD on Amazon. Dollar stores often have similar products as well, though once again the quality is unknown.

4. Fleece throw blankets. They are super cute, soft, and cuddly! Not only can they keep you warm, but I like to use mine as a playmat. Once again, price can very greatly; typically anywhere from $10-30 USD

5. Coloring books. I think this one is pretty self explanatory, as lots of regressors love coloring. If you’re worried about rousing suspicion, then just ask for an adult coloring book; these often have more intricate patterns, but if you ask for a fandom themed one, it’ll still have some awesome characters to color! Typically around $5-10

6. Silicone night light. These are available in so many colors, animals, and foods—and they are appropriate for any age, thanks to their kawaii esc appearance; they usually cost about $15.

7. Snack boxes. If your dietary needs allow for it, then these can provide some really cool little space snacks. They’re all pre packaged and come with a wide variety of things, ranging from crackers to cookies. And if you want something unique, you can try snack boxes that feature food from other countries. Prices will vary greatly, mostly dependent on the size

8. Lava lamps. These are just cute and make for a neat visual stim. Plenty of colors to choose from too! If you wanted, it could be used as a sort of substitute as a baby mobile since it’s very colorful and relaxing to watch. These can go for anywhere between $20-40

9. Microwaveable plushies. Super comforting, and for any Littles with cramps or chronic pain, they can be disguised as heating pads. Many of these also come with a scent, typically lavender, though you can find them without too. Cost around $20-40, depending on brand.

10. Scrapbooking materials. Kind of a random one, but they can be used to decorate a journal, you can make a physical photo album like many of us had in our childhoods, etc. Just a fun craft project you can consider! Typically, scrapbooking kits that include some paper, washi tape, and stickers can be around $10-15

11. Onesie pajamas. Lots of options, and are great if you live somewhere cold! Usually $25-40. These can be animal shaped, character themed, or more subtle like a plaid pattern. Very comfy and make for great little space clothes.

12. Glow in the dark stars. They are cute, fun, and aesthetically pleasing. You can get them in a who,e bunch of colors too! Typically $5

[birdie-in-arcadia]

In Our Wake

Chapter 7 is ready to go! I know it seems like I'm posting a lot, and fast, but I already have this entire twenty-nine-chapter, 32k word work finished. I've just been debating on whether or not to post it. So now, I'm trying to figure out pacing for posts. I'm thinking once a day is good? Let me know if it's too much or if I'm spamming, thank you!

CHAPTER SEVEN — QUIET TIES 

(IV’s POV) 

It’s strange, watching things fall apart in silence. They think I don’t notice. That I’m the quiet one, the one too polite to intervene. Maybe even a space cadet of sorts. And maybe they’re right, maybe I am too polite. But it doesn’t mean I’m blind. She’s changing. I see it in her eyes. When she first joined us, she was soft-edged, curious. Everything seemed to catch the light for her, even the chaos. But lately... she moves like someone trying not to take up too much space. She smiles, but it doesn’t quite meet her eyes. 

And he III, he burns too hot. Always has. I used to think it was just his way. Passionate. Intense. Maybe even admirable, in the right light. But now, the fire doesn’t warm her. It scorches. 

Today, she finds me in the green room of the venue after soundcheck. She’s wrapped in that oversized jumper again, sleeves pulled down past her hands. Her hair’s a bit damp from the drizzle outside, and her cheeks are pink with cold. She looks younger like this. "Hey," she says. I set down my guitar. "You alright?" I ask her. She shrugs. "Thought I’d hide out in here a bit. He’s... moody today. Again." I nod, and she sits beside me on the sofa. There’s a quiet between us that doesn’t feel awkward. I think she likes that about me; that I don’t fill silences with useless noise. Her and I have that in common. "You don’t talk much," she says after a while. "I talk when it matters." She smiles faintly. "That’s fair. I’m glad I know someone else who can do that besides me. It all just gets too much sometimes, y’know?." I nod in response, giving her an understanding glance. 

We sit there for a long time. I pick up my guitar again, playing something soft, almost lullaby-like. She closes her eyes and leans her head back. "That’s beautiful," she murmurs. "Thanks." She doesn’t open her eyes. "IV... can I ask you something?" I pause. "Course." "Do you think I’m stupid for... staying? For trying so hard with him?" 

It takes me a second to answer. "No. I think it takes strength to care that deeply. Even when it’s not returned the way it should be." She finally opens her eyes and turns her head to look at me. There’s that ache in her expression again; the one that shows up when she thinks no one’s looking. "You’re a good listener," she says. "I’ve had a lot of practice." I reply. A small laugh leaves her lips, but it’s hollow. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, hands folded. 

"Sometimes I feel like I’m slipping under the surface, and no one notices. Like... I’m vanishing." I set my guitar aside. "I notice." She looks at me, startled. And maybe I shouldn’t have said it, but it’s true. I do notice. Every shift, every silence, every time she bites her lip instead of speaking her mind. "Thanks," she whispers. 

And then she does something that catches me off guard. She rests her head on my shoulder. Just for a moment. Just enough to ground herself, I think. I don’t move. I let her stay there until someone calls from the hallway, breaking the quiet. She pulls away quickly, mutters something about needing to check her phone, and leaves the room. But I can still feel the weight of her, lingering like an unfinished song. 

It breaks my heart seeing what III is doing to her and knowing that she’s still devoted to loving him. 

__________ 

(Vessel’s POV) 

The dressing room is dim, lit only by the red glow of an old lava lamp in the corner. It doesn’t match the rest of the venue’s sterile aesthetic, which is probably why I like it. I sit in the farthest chair from the door, hood up, mask on, letting the quiet pulse around me. This is the only time I feel still. 

There are footsteps in the hall, hers. I know the rhythm of them now. Hesitant. Not unsure of herself, but unsure of how she'll be received. There's a difference. She peeks in. "Hey." I nod. "Hey." She closes the door behind her and walks in like she’s carrying ghosts in her pockets. "Mind if I sit?" She asks almost timidly. "Course not." I tell her. She settles into the sofa opposite me, pulling her legs up beneath her. She looks exhausted. And heavier, somehow. Like she’s wearing more than just the day. "You always hide out before shows?" she asks. "Not hiding. Just... listening." I reply. She cocks her head. "To what?" She questions. "To everything." She doesn’t press. That’s something I like about her. She lets silences stand. 

A few minutes pass. Then she says, "III and I had a row." I shift slightly, not surprised. "He got upset over something small," she continues. "A text. My tone. Who knows. But it blew up. And then it was flowers, and apologies, and how he couldn’t live without me." She looks down at her hands. "It’s getting harder to tell what’s real." My voice is low. "Do you feel safe?" She looks up, startled. That catches her off guard. Which tells me more than I need to know. She swallows. "I think he means well." That’s not an answer. I nod slowly. "You deserve peace. Not penance." 

She doesn’t speak for a long time. Just watches the lava lamp bubble and shift. I can feel her thoughts from here. "You're different, y’know that?" she says quietly. "So are you, and I appreciate it." Another silence. She fiddles with the strings on her joggers, her eyes cast down. All I want to do is move close to her and take her in my arms, but I have no right. She deserves better than his treatment. Than his version of love that’s hardly even love at all. Why can’t she see that? 

I can feel the antsy need to touch her crawling down through my arms and to my fingertips. Before I can impulsively reach out for her, I stand. I step over to the corner where the red glow spills over the floor and kneel beside the amp case there. I reach in and pull out a worn cassette tape. I hand it to her. She takes it, puzzled. "What's this?" "Something I made. For you. To listen to when things feel too loud." 

She turns the cassette over in her hands. Her thumb brushes the fading label. "Thank you." I meet her nearly wistful gaze. I wish I could take the mask off; not just the one on my face, but all of them. Let her see everything. But that’s not how this works. Not yet. "You matter more than you think," I say. Her eyes shine. But she doesn’t cry. She never does. Not when people are looking. 

[kitzuukts]

More MCD headcanons for the rewrite!!

Kim is a medium who briefly falls for Laurance before realizing he is with Garroth and Aphmau. As a medium, she soon learns that the Divine Warriors are all present at Phoenix Drop, she's aware of Malachi's former death, and at one point allows Dante to speak to his parents after they pass.

What the Fuck is the celestial cannon. Like seriously there is no way something that high-tech would have been made thousnds of years before MCD, when they barely have redstone lamps and shit. That doesn't exist

The "relic maker" is on the Nether. When Irene sacrificed hers and Shad's daughter, as well as the others to make the relics, Shad tried to sacrifice her there and died falling into a pit of lava.

Kul'zak was the dad of the group. He cared fiercely for each member, completely devastated when Shad died.

Irene lied about how Shad died.

Aphmau has innate healing magic, Aaron is immune to the Nether, Lucinda is a jack-of-all-trades witch, Garroth can manifest shields, Laurance has heightened agility and charisma, and Travis has access to a magic grimoire and a demonic form.

Travis only flirted with Aphmau because he doesn't know how people work and wasn't surprised when Laurance tackled him down. He eventually wins over Katelyn but genuinely has drunkenly confessed that Zane was a little hot in his Jury Form.

Zane's motivation was wanting to be loved, admired, praised. Garroth was the golden child, he needed to prove himself. He needed to be better.

The Ultima curse should have died with Shad and his daughter, but it didn't. Every time he reincarnates, it inflicts the curse once again, and then he either is incarnated into the line or starts a new one.

Laurance was not born a meif'wa. he was cursed into one by the Maxima. His family was, too, but they didn't survive. Cadenza found the baby crying in a floating cradle doen the river.

The Maxima, mentioned in my previous post, was a were-meif'wa. Potentially, this is Michi/Mikai, and Aphmau and Katelyn were temporarily cursed the same way they are in canon.

Katelyn hates water. Maybe it's residual from her time as a meif'wa. It also rusts her armor, which is her excuse.

Leona is Zane and Kiki's daughter, heir of O'khasis. She is not Bodolf's. She was, however, turned into a lu'pine by Aaron during a rage caused by Ein.

Lowell and Leona partially grow up together as Kiki left Phoenix Drop during the seven years. They are often pressured by the pack to marry each other once they're grown.

Logan getting bitten is terrifying for Ru'an. They thought they werewolves were extinct. They thought the ultima was killed in a religious crusade.

Lu'pines do not care that "dogs" (in quotations because most breeds resemble wolves more) are pets. They find it amusing when it makes humans uncomfortable.

Roxy (Nicole's fox) and Thorgi become absolute best friends. Inseperable. Thorgi lives with Nicole in Scaleswind, passing shortly after reuniting with Aphmau.

Phoenix is the only of Aphmau's dogs to follow her to the Irene Dimension. Aphmau regrets this. He practically raises Celestia.

Malachi keeps his magical ability to induce nightmares. He accidently does this to Kyle, Zoey, Alexis, Levin, and Dante often after the portal closes.

[angel-with-paper-wings]

The Magician’s Prelude

This is a gift for @erik-carierre posted with permission! Many thanks for your feedback and support!!

Summary: Erik’s morning routine while working as a magician in Russia prior to his recruitment by Nadir. Based on Kay!Erik.

Cover art and title by @erik-carierre

Content warnings: PTSD-like trauma flashbacks, bloody/gory imagery, slightly graphic descriptions of violence, body negativity (Erik is an angsty teenager)

Now on AO3 here!

Blood. There is always blood.

It oozes around the shards of mirror buried in the skin of my hands…it drips in thick crimson blobs onto the bundle of golden fur…it spatters in hot torrents against my chest and sticks to the open buttons of my shirt…

And it is there again that night. In the rooftop garden, I stand paralyzed staring at the gap in the crumbled balustrade. My chest feels hollow—I cannot breathe, I cannot scream—all I can do is watch as the gap yawns before me, pulling me closer. Against my will, I peer over the edge to view the sight I know is there.

I wish I could blink. I long for even the tiniest respite from what lay before me, but all I can do is look. Her body is small amidst the shattered rubble, her thin delicate limbs laying at odd angles, her soft barley hair matted with flecks of blood and gore. And her eyes…her pale eyes snuffed of all fire that had once bubbled inside of her like smoldering lava. They stare blankly up at my unmasked face, looking but not seeing.

All she ever wanted was to look at me…and now all I can do is look. Look at what I have done.

I awakened with a jolt, my eyes flying open and clenching the thin woolen blanket to my chest. One skeletal hand flew up to my face, and only once I felt the smooth hardness of the mask did I relax. After a moment of composure, I opened my aching jaw and heaved out a sigh of annoyance. The nightmares were as persistent as they had always been.

I sat up in bed and fumbled to light the oil lamp on the nightstand. I had no difficulty getting prepared in complete darkness, but I simply preferred not to after a night of haunting visions. A small clock beside the lamp told me it was early in the morning—earlier than I typically rose, but I was already resigned to the fact that I wouldn’t be sleeping any more if I tried.

I flung the woolen blanket to the side and felt the floor creak beneath my bare feet. The inn’s modest wooden room was comfortable enough for my needs: a bed with sheets, a chamber pot, a pitcher and washbasin, and most valuable of all, privacy. There had been a mirror, but I removed it soon after arriving.

I yanked off my nightshirt, letting the room’s warm air graze the scars slashed across my back. Russia had intriguingly hot summers; the books I had read as a boy only bothered to describe the harshness of the winter months, so I confess to being slightly bemused upon my arrival three years ago to a city with a climate only moderately cooler than the one I had left behind in Italy.

Her twisted body flashed before me again, the broken masonry wet and crimson from the split in her skull… I closed my eyes and angrily shoved the image back into the shadows of my mind. No. No more thoughts of that place. I poured water from the pitcher into the washbasin and dunked in a bar of perfumed soap. Once it had worked up a lather, I soaked a clean cloth and derisively began to wash myself.

The dawn of my body’s maturity had proven to be a dismal affair. It took my bones the full extent of my nineteen years to finally cease their growing, leaving me wretchedly gaunt and pitifully covered in pasty yellow skin. I had the strength of a man twice my age and triple my weight, but my frame still refused to resemble anything but a corpse. In my frustration, I scrubbed harder at my own flesh, attempting to cleanse it of its rotten color. But it remained as it always had, pulled tight over my arms to display veins and tendons, with the only thickness found in the old silvery scars adorning my wrists and hands.

Once I had scoured myself raw, I slung the cloth over the rack of the washstand to dry and stared down into the bottom of the basin. Silence screamed in my ears and my stomach twisted with dread. I turned my head to glance at the door behind me; the lock was securely in place, but the familiar prickle of eyes stung my skin all the same.

With trembling fingers, I removed the mask. Warm air rolled across my bare skin like a caress, or what I imagined a caress to feel like. I set the white sculpted shard aside on the stand, and after a heavy sigh, I bent over the basin and scooped handfuls of water over my head, scrubbing the soap’s lather deep into my thick black waves of hair. Droplets ran down the edges of my face, as if even they were afraid to touch the horror that was there. But I forced them to touch it, rubbing the water into the cracks and distorted furrows of my skin, smearing it around the protruding bones and into my eyes��� sunken pits. I braced myself with a grimace before carefully wiping the dried mucus away from the edge of the hole that was my nose.

The torture ended when I finally buried my repulsiveness in a towel. I held the soft cloth against my face as my other hand reached for the mask, slipping it back into place with a relieved sigh. I squeezed my dark hair free of water, then picked up a comb and worked it through the curls until they attained sufficient softness. I laid the towel and comb to the side and stepped over to the tiny wardrobe, withdrawing one of many black satin shirts and slipping it on. After dressing myself, I left my room and slinked down the stairs as a soundless shadow.

The empty tavern on the first floor simmered with the savory scent of shchi. This early in the morning, the only other soul awake was the ancient innkeeper preparing the first meal of the day. I scattered a handful of kopecks onto the bar, letting the clattering sound echo into the kitchen. A minute later, the shawled woman doddered forward and set a steaming bowl of cabbage soup and a chunk of crusty bread before me. No words or glances were exchanged, no questions were asked, as was our routine.

I suspected she found me strange—indeed, I have yet to encounter a soul who didn’t—but she seemed to tolerate me well enough. After her defective coal stove found itself repaired the day following my arrival, I was able to convince her to let me use her inn’s far room as a flat for several months. Unlike my fellow tenants, I paid precisely on time, never returned drunk or belligerent, and there was no risk of women being snuck into my bed. After all, what woman would be desperate enough to lay with a corpse, regardless of the payment offered to her?

With this bitterness lingering in my head, I ate my meal quickly and slipped out into the morning’s haze. It was a rare day; the air was pleasantly cool and the clouds had chosen to don a color besides their usual dismal grey. I assured myself that no one was watching before I lifted my head to admire the way the branches of trees cast their dark silhouettes against the paling sky.

The western quarter of Nizhny Novgorod was largely deserted, making it easy to dart through the city’s shadows unseen in my black attire. Once the day hit its sweltering peak, the cobbled streets would resemble the Volga river with rushing currents of wealthy merchants and colorful travelers from Europe and India and Persia. By that time, I would be waiting for them in my magician’s tent, where they would be shown more wonders than their feeble minds could possibly comprehend.

I rounded a corner and walked along the silent boulevard, until the trees bordering the street gave way to a wrought-iron fence. Beyond the fence, majestically imposing against the northwest horizon, stood the blinding white structure of the Spassky Cathedral. Pink wisps of sunrise stretched across the sky and barely kissed the golden spire atop its great dark cupola.

As I so often did on clear mornings like this one, I felt compelled to stop and gaze up at the splendid piece of architecture. My eyes danced over its fine pillars and elegant façade, admiring the expert carving and delighting in the exquisite use of symmetry and proportion. I had snuck inside once in the dead of night to glimpse its interior—what beauty! It lacked the scale of greater cathedrals, but in golden grandeur it did not disappoint.

There was a time when I had imagined building such great works myself. Beneath the creaky bed back at the inn lay several journals filled with sketches of the spectacular monuments I saw when I closed my eyes. The pages overflowed with details of magnificent marble façades and great towering pavilions, gilded figures in copper and bronze, ornate mosaics with details that dazzled the imagination. My architectural creations would be shrines of worship, not to any one god but to all forces that stirred the spirit and awakened man’s deepest emotions—art, geometry, magic, and most of all music. Oh, how I missed music.

Often this fantasy crossed my mind, and with every day and every kopeck in my purse, it seemed less and less like a child’s dream. After all, I was still very much in my youth…perhaps that day was still to come.

Once I had admired all I could bear, I tucked my masked face back down between my narrow shoulders and trudged off through the neighborhood of shops and teahouses. A smattering of humans were beginning to converge on the street that I walked: small groups of traders bickering in foreign tongues and leading wooden carts filled with wares to sell. Like me, they trampled up the soggy road to the shadow of the large red and yellow stone building, beyond which lay a great courtyard overlooking the bank of the Oka. It was here in the summer months that the great Markaryev Fair was held, where tradesmen and entertainers alike earned their gold.

I proceeded underneath the building’s archway and entered the city’s courtyard. Vendors were already busy erecting tents and unloading their goods in designated sections around the square. Past cotton bales and crates of tea and spices, I spotted the oval shape of the familiar black yurt tucked in its corner, untouched as always. I never worried about the tent’s safety during my absence, for a rumor of a deadly curse had found its way amongst the traders that effectively warded off potential burglars.

As I walked, a warm breeze wafted through the market’s open air, carrying a strain of musical notes to my ears. My heart jumped and I whipped my head towards the sound. On the other side of the courtyard sauntered a muzhik fiddler, beard scraggly and legs stumbling as if drunk, the bow screeching as it was dragged across the rusty strings. A couple passing by threw a few coins into the hat that lay at his feet.

Under the mask, my lips pulled back in a snarl. How dare these fools reward such a tuneless, insolent mockery of music! That drunken bastard did not deserve the right to place his filthy hands on an instrument and spoil its sacred beauty for the whole city to hear. My bony form seethed beneath its black clothing, but I successfully fought back my fervid rage and stomped off towards the yurt. I clenched my shaking hands at my sides, imagining the feeling of the man’s throat beneath my fingers; a sharp snap from his neck and those dreadful notes would finally fall silent.

A crunch against the stones. The heavy tumble of rubble against the ground dampens the sound of her skull cracking open…

I entered the dark tent and pulled the fabric flaps closed behind me, blessedly muffling the horrid noises. A deep breath steadied my hands, and with practiced precision I navigated the small space and lit candles tucked in little red lanterns, banishing the darkness and revealing the blood-red of the yurt’s interior. Swooping red curtains hung from the concave ceiling; samples of shyrdak hangings formed the walls, weaving in swirls of black and gold into the otherwise scarlet room. I kicked off my shoes and felt the luxurious softness of the thick Persian rugs buried beneath velvet cushions.

I ignited the small charcoal stove to boil water in the samovar for tea. While it brewed, I reclined back against the cushions and turned my attention to the long wooden box tucked near the back of the tent: the trick casket. My fingers deftly pranced over the mechanism to open the box, and I withdrew the materials for my magician’s performance: decks of cards, stacks of silver coins, hand-carved trick dice. I arranged them all in neat rows upon the central rug with a small grin.

I struck another match and lit a few sticks of incense to flood the space with their heady, sweet fragrance. I had learned over time that it was beneficial for the minds of my audience to be stripped of their defenses—that way, they found my tricks more dazzling and dropped more rubles into my bony hand. Sometimes this state of enchantment would make them too bold, and bring out their insatiable nature that they otherwise hid from their gods during prayer in the temples and cathedrals. They became ravenous, foolishly curious; they would grope for my mask and demand to see what lay beneath…

All she wanted was to see me.

My hands curled upon themselves, extinguishing the match’s flame between my fingertips. The wretched visions played through my mind again and numbed the burn on my skin.

A mirror shard clenched between the tips of tweezers…bloody hands furiously digging at the grassy dirt…the heavy clunk of a knife’s hilt as the belt dropped to the floor… It was difficult to understand why I remembered certain details so clearly, while others merely faded into murky shadows.

Over the course of three years, the girl’s living face had become fuzzy in my memory. Indeed, I had only dared to look at her a handful of times while living with the master stonemason. Every time I did, my chest would fill with an uncomfortable constricting sensation, and I would be forced to look away or else stop breathing altogether. Her eyes had a heat that scorched all the way to my soul. She was fire—bold, passionate, all-consuming—and I knew better than to risk being burned. Or perhaps I was afraid.

But it was the moment I finally gave her what she pleaded for, the moment I ripped off the mask—her expression of pure horror, anguish and primal fear, grief for love she had never truly felt. That image would always remain in my memory perfectly in focus.

I slowly opened my hand, and I stared down at the two spots of black soot left upon the pale skin of my thumb and forefinger. Temporary scars, easily washed away. That’s all these dreams were to me…but still the pain they carried hurt more than the deep wounds left on my body.

With a harsh huff, I flicked the remnants of the match away and reached over to the samovar to pour myself a cup of tea. The earthy liquid seared down my throat and revived my senses, kicking the brooding memories away in favor of my present enterprise. Outside my tent, I heard the growing clamour of the fair coming to life—my audience awaited me.

A familiar pang prodded at my heart. Was this all? Would this pitiful life, shrouded away in a performer’s tent, forever be my purpose? In my heart, I longed to use my skills to create the majesty that filled my mind: grand palaces, ingenious machines, symphonies without equal. If I had to be confined to mindless magic tricks for greedy imbeciles, then they would be the best magic tricks ever conceived. In a way, I thought to myself scornfully, I had not left that traveling fair…perhaps I never would. But at least things were different now. I was my own master, and no one would ever cage me again.

As the incense swirled its sickly-sweet aroma through the air, I slipped further back into my tent and drew a sheer red curtain across my masked form. I laid back in my trick coffin and heard several soft clicks as the mechanism closed the lid and cloaked me in darkness—the one place I have ever truly belonged.

Long ago, I had accepted my place as prince of darkness, and I would reign over my realm with proud finesse. So let them in now, the merchants and peasants from all corners of the world. Let them think they are the kings and I am their fool. Let them believe they know what it is like to be afraid.

Let them in, and let them look.

[technovillain]

I swear I made a post about this before but I can't find it!! So I'll say it again... there was some cut dialogue from Milla's level where she was saying mundane house party lines to.... I don't know who, it was definitely just meant to be passive dialogue talking about different flavors of chip dips and lighthearted gossiping. It felt just really cozy by comparison to her brain as we see it for her level, and I was really fond of it.

So I was thinking that when her brain isn't a playground for a bunch of 10-year-olds, its resting state isn't quite so complicated. Her usual dancefloor is more of a little living room, and it's more of an intimate party with her mental figures sort of helping her sort through her thoughts.

Along this line of thought I was curious what it might look like inside her mental world when Milla is using the mindswarm technique, and I thought it was really cute to picture her in this simpler version of her mind, a living area/small hangout spot with a conversation pit and a bar and couches and blinking lights and lava lamps, and there's just a lot of doors around the room. Her connecting with the minds of others is represented with their mental worlds sort of floating in on the edge of hers (like we see with Oleander/Raz's brains when they're being separated and little Oly floats away into the void) and there's a knock on the door like someone's there when she makes a connection. I picture there being a lot of Millas at once inside her mind when this happens, and each Milla exits through a different door and "visits" people's brains, getting a loose, undetailed version of their mind without direct connection until she decides to delve deeper.... the setup ends up looking like people are knocking on her door showing up to her party, and she can bring information like gifts back to her space for analysis.

[junipernight]

The Quirks of Being a Ladybug

Chapter 3: Like a Moth to Flame

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14679969/chapters/33916653

***

Lights. The photographer’s studio was full of them.

As a designer, Gabriel Agreste was keenly sensitive to color, texture, shape, lines, flow—

But in his recent collections, he was all about lighting. 

“Natalie,” he murmured, “make a note to center sequins in the new spring collection.”

Natalie hesitated. “.... Sir, the board wanted you to focus on expanding into the business professional sector next quarter.”

Gabriel waved her off. “Polished platinum accents then. Buttons and lapel bars for the boring men and women in gray suits. But sequins for the daywear line, and crystals for the evening wear.

“Of course,” she said, already tapping away on her tablet.

“Juliette!” Shouted Gabriel. “Shoot that sequence again, but with the blue accent lights. I want the organza overlay on that skirt to glow. Give post production a rim light that they can work with.”

There was a flurry of motion as, all around them, the photographers assistants rushed to rearrange the various lamps and reflector screens and flash umbrellas in the studio. Other, more junior assistants came to pick up the flower petals scattered on the set floor (these would need to be collected into a basket, so they could be dramatically thrown in the air again)  while hair and makeup descended on the model—Tatianna, or Trisha, or something like that. She was a ballerina—to make little fixes in between takes.

Just about the only people in the studio who weren’t in motion were herself and Adrien. The boy was quietly tucked into a corner with a textbook, something he often did when he had to miss school for modeling shoots.

The staff finished their preparations.

“Places!” shouted Juliette, the photographer. “Pietro, easy with the flower petals this time, I don’t want to stop to pick up flowers every three  shots. Tiffany, on the count of three, relevé and cambré. Okay, un, deux, trois!”

Click. Click. Click.

“Fling the skirt out! Look over the shoulder!”

Click. Click-click. Click.

The photographer was shooting little glances at Gabriel in between poses, trying to gauge his approval. 

Natalie looked over at her boss. He was staring transfixed at a strobe light. She elbowed him.

“Uh, that’s beautiful, beautiful Juliette. But I fear that we’ve flooded the scene with too much light. We’ve lost the contrast, the intrigue, the shadow. Let’s have the lighting all come from one direction… think Rembrant and Vermeer, not Bouguereau. Also, Pietro, let’s leave the flowers on the floor, and throw glitter for this next one.”

“Glitter.” Juliette said flatly, already scowling. Her expression was mirrored by the model.

“Glitter,” said Gabriel firmly, leaving no room for argument.

The studio was thrown into a flurry once more.

Natalie sighed. She wondered if anyone else had caught on to the fact that Gabriel was toying with them. Not in any malicious way, but rather literally using the studio and its staff like a toy. This was the third lighting change Gabriel had requested, just for this dress; she had lost count of the number of additions, adjustments, and outright changes he’d made to the last six sets. Not that anyone was going to question the great Gabriel Agreste, especially when he’d pushed his last photographer to do work that ultimately won a Sony World Photography award.

Natalies supposed that playing with lighting during photoshoots was more productive than installing a light-show-and-water-jet fountain at the Agreste Mansion (something Gabriel had briefly considered and had her look into) even if it did end up eating extra time out of everyone’s schedules. 

Maybe for Christmas, Natalie could buy her boss a lava lamp. 

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

Hallowtober 2024 Day 3

Sleep Paralysis Demon

Summary: Set in a Modern AU, Reincarnation AU, Ghost AU. At 8 years old, Hiccup has gotten the diagnosis of "sleep paralysis" slapped on him, but he knows the things he sees in his room are real.

Warnings: Mild Gore

Rating: Mature

Words: 641

Prompts: Ghost (Hallowtober), Ghosts (Post-July Break Bingo)

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Characters: Hiccup, Astrid

Pairing: Minor Hiccstrid

Author's Notes: Yaaaaaay, I finally get to introduce this new AU of mine!

Enjoy!

-XOXOX-

“Sleep paralysis” that’s what the doctor called it. When Hiccup kept complaining about waking up at night seeing things and being so scared that he would find himself unable to move, that was the diagnosis they slapped on his problem.

Sure, on paper it looks right, but when looking up the symptoms online, he can’t help but feel like it doesn’t fit. He can’t move out of fear, that doesn’t mean he can’t move at all. Often enough, when he has these nights, he curls up in a tight ball underneath the covers with his stuffed dragon toy clutched to his chest and then hopes that whatever is in his room disappears. Fear clutching his heart and quietening even his sobs. He can’t call for his father, he never believes him about the monsters in his room.

It’s past 3 am. When Hiccup dares to take a peek over his covers to see if tonight’s thing has left him alone, he spots a woman standing at the foot end of his bed.

She’s entirely black, a palpable shadow and he wants to shriek and cry out for his dad to come save him. She’s dripping on the carpet with a liquid that could almost be blood, so dark with a deeply red tinge to it. It’s all coming from a wound on her abdomen, which almost appears to sever her lower half from her upper half. Despite this, it’s not like either part of her is uselessly flailing about or dragging behind her. Even at his age, he realizes how wrong she looks. From within dark tendrils that should pass for hair, piercing blue eyes stare at him.

Hiccup dives back under the covers with as subtle moves as he can make. Once more, he searches for the stuffed dragon toy to squeeze to his chest, it’s rather large for an 8 year old and looks like they do in the storybooks.

Except it’s missing. Somewhere in the night, before he woke up by the sheer presence of the thing in his room, it fell out of bed and now it’s gone. No way he can reach out and grab it, that means she can grab him!

Hiccup can’t help the tiny shriek when it feels like his covers are being pulled on. It’s because he lost his dragon. He was careless and it fell out of bed and now she’s going to get him. She’s probably going to eat him and his dad will be angry and upset.

He can feel the cold air on his face that all these nightly monsters have, he can feel her eyes burning on his skin. She’s looking right at him. He whimpers, lip trembling, he wants to cry.

When long minutes of nothing pass, Hiccup dares to open his eyes, hoping beyond hope that maybe she disappeared.

Only to find his toy dragon staring him in the face with its friendly little smile.

Hiccup is surprised. But he’s not floating in the air somehow, its in her hand. Dark fingers, nails caked with dried blood that leave no prints on the toy, dig into his back.

Frozen, mind and heart racing, Hiccup simply stares. More minutes pass, until the woman moves. Hiccup whimpers again when she does, but all that happens is that she places it down with him, the dragon’s head on his ear.

Briefly her cold dead skin touches his living warm one and there are images. The sky, an island, a bird-like creature, a man. They make no sense to him.

His hands take the toy and when he looks again, she’s gone. As if released, Hiccup rushes to his knees and turns on his nightlight, a color-changing lava lamp. The woman is nowhere to be found and there is no sign that she was ever there to begin with.

[sinnohelitefourlore]

Sinnoh Elite Four Headcanons Pt 2 since you guys liked my Pt 1 post so much:

Aaron:

- is the youngest of the elites, only eighteen, and because he is a Teenage Boy he’ll literally go from “shut the fuck up you have no idea what’ve been through” to “sometimes i still sleep with a night light on.”

- didn’t get diagnosed with ADHD until he was 20. he actually realized this because of flint whom we’ll get to in a minute.

- went to jublife city’s trainer’s school and was mentored by one of the best bug-type specialist’s in sinnoh.

- cries. a lot. he’s actually extremely sensitive (rumors spread that he was whitney’s long lost brother). but he also has moments of impulsiveness because again - Teenage Boy.

- rambles about bug types a lot, and is a typical bug geeky nerd. one day when he was seven his father yelled at him to be quiet, and for the longest time, aaron didn’t speak much until he was accepted into the elite four where they let him talk as much as he wants about bugs.

Bertha:

- has a connection with all of the future elites in some way before they became elites. she’s known lucian when he was a teenager because he challenged the elite four multiple times and constantly lost to bertha. she goes way back with flint’s parents, being apart of an organization with them before she joined the e4 in their 20s. in fact, bertha had held flint three days after he was born around her 30s. after she became an elite, she hardly saw him as much. when visiting the trainer’s school in jublife city, though she didn’t interact with him directly, she took note of the little boy with green hair in a corner playing with his bug pokemon. (in later years, she affectionately refers to all three of them as her boys)

- bertha has never been so happy when cynthia became the first female champion, because when bertha started as a league member she was the only woman. no gym leaders… no elites… none. she was the first female league member in that region. sinnoh has come a long way from her early years. she’s also thankful for cynthia because though she loves her boys sometimes they’re a bit much when they bicker.

- has planted a garden that makes all the other leagues jealous.

- single handedly took down one of the sickest, nastiest criminals in sinnoh in her younger years, which resulted in her being considered for an elite position which she got.

- like yes she is definitely a Mom but DO NOT FUCK WITH HER she can be just as menacing as agatha (no relation) however it's presented entirely different. the kanto elite is known for having an explosive uncontrollable temper with screams that will rival a teapot kettle, but if bertha's voice is low, cool, and even that's a sign for you to run - unlike agatha, bertha's anger is completely collected and controlled, and she doesn't have to raise her voice once.

flint:

- had been diagnosed with ADHD at seven. his family is wonderful about it, because his mother, twin sister, and little brother also have it as it runs in the family. he takes medication for it. later he sees similarities between himself and aaron, and he helps aaron out with coping techniques he uses (which usually involves aaron stealing one of his fidgeting toys, but flint doesn’t mind)

- is superstitious about his hair. if he’s having a bad hair day, he’ll assume that challengers will pass by him easier. he is mostly right.

- flint has made many stupid decisions in his life, but adding lava lamps in his chamber room has got one of the stupidest. when he told his fellow colleagues he wanted this, lucian walked out of the room.

- when he was a teenager, he wasn’t a bad kid, per se (definitely not one of those sunyshore hoodlums) but trying to get a fake ID to purchase alcohol was not one of his fine and dandy moments. especially considering it was the worst fake ID that sunyshore has ever seen. (“chester nutballs? really?”) volkner laughs at him about it to this day.

- is a regular customer of morty’s hemp business that is sold overseas. as long as flint wasn’t high on the clock, cynthia would look the other way.

Lucian:

- has undiagnosed autism. his parents didn’t believe in autism, so they assumed that any issues he had only had to do with him being a psychic. nevermind that he didn’t speak until he was three, was hyperlexic, and often spent time in solitude and genuinely didn’t understand social cues.

- he could finish a six hundred page novel in a single setting. on days off from the league, sometimes he would lock himself on his wing of the castle and would read for hours.

- has the natural gift of stringing up the most eloquent, versatile, majestic sounding insults you’ll ever hear in your life. the fact that he could do this without yelling or using a single swear was borderline criminal.

- he doesn’t mean to be cruel - most of the time. sometimes he genuinely doesn’t know when he’s being insulting until bertha/cynthia flashes him a look. some days he cares, some days he doesn’t - because really, he gets overstimulated easily.

- butts heads with flint frequently and thinks he’s annoying, but if anyone outside of the league insulted him lucian would be one of the first people to jump to his defense. he has a soft spot for aaron, because aaron sometimes does things that reminds him of his younger brother will (yes, that one) and he’s off in johto so he doesn’t see him as much. bertha was more of a mother to him than his own mother was, and cynthia… well 😉

cynthia:

- is autistic and i’ll fucking die on this hill. infodumps about mythology any chance she gets. her first birthday at the league, bertha gave her a weighted blanket.

- she actually came into the league a little bit after lucian did. entering his chamber room, she spotted a book he was reading and marveled it was one of her favorites. they talked for seven fucking minutes until the champion at the time yelled at them to start battling already. as you know, she won.

- really gets into the christmas spirit. loves christmas. will not shut up about christmas. will spend hours decorating the league from head-to-toe in christmas ornaments.

- maybe she can’t read as fast as lucian, but no one in sinnoh can match her in terms of contextualize a book like she could, especially if it’s mythology.

- her grandmother is the only person cynthia can’t say no to.

[mourningmogaicrew]

-fluiere

A suffix that indicates that an identity is fluid, fluctuating, changing in essence, and vast.

This suffix is different from -fluid and describes more complex shifting labels. Instead of fluidity, the quality of -fluiere orientations is fluienity. (Pronounced flee-N-it-ee or flew-N-it-ee)

It was originally designed for orientations but someone could also be genderfluiere, label/pronounfluiere, etc.

These identities may seem to ebb and flow like bodies of water, and feel like they're almost constantly changing (quickly or slowly). The base identity remains the same while everything about it shifts and moves. These orientations work like lava lamps in that they are moving and changing colors (feelings) while still having the same container (label). They are impossibly large but also small.

These identities may feel difficult to describe using traditional concepts and may rely on metaphors or hyper-specific scenarios instead: they are like a planet in the vastness of space, constantly moving and spinning while staying in the same orbit. They are a moth's wings fluttering, the colors and patterns of a kaleidoscope shifting, plasma moving, a flower growing and blooming, everything and nothing at once, the cycle of the tides and the phases of the moon, a 3d shape rotating, etc.

(Sorry for getting so metaphorical. But I guess it kind of shows what I mean about this being hard to describe)

Some people may feel that they’ve given up on describing themself because every time they find a label their identity seems to slightly change again. I’m not forcing anyone to identify as -fluiere but I think this term may be helpful for people with similar struggles!

Flag IDs in alt text. I also made flags for bi, pan, poly, nonbinary, trans, agender, catgender, genderfluid, spiritine/kenochoric, androgyne, demigender, aro, ace, aroace, polyam, and pronoun- fluiere and hopefully I'll get around to posting them!

[thatstonedwriter]

Thoughts on the newest episode? 👀👀 lmk what y'all think!! I'll leave my opinions under the cut if you're interested 💛

I've only watched once, so these will be rough bullet points

Positives:

Animation and music was fucking awesome. Fave songs were "Fuck You" and the Clown one (can't remember the name)

The kiddo Fizz spoke sign language to???? I'm fucking deceased. That was really cute

Love seeing more of Ozzie and Fizz and seeing some of the issues within the relationship. Love the complexity shown in a healthy relationship!

Insight into the exploitative nature of the entertainment industry (I'm sure the team used some personal experience as reference)

Comedy was great- the physical gags and insults were well-executed and fucking hilarious

Little Fizz and Blitzø were adorable. Already seeing posts psychoanalyzing them, and I'm eating that shit up

Neutral/Negative

Wish the sisters had a bit more character. I understand they're competition, but they didn't bring much to the table imo

Asmodeus and Fizz's relationship with Blitzø feels a bit rushed. I get Asmodeus says that Blitzø protected Fizz, and that Fizz did t want to hold a grudge for 15 years. More time could be spent on the relationship, but maybe that's something the team is saving for later

I've only watched once so far, but the other two songs weren't as memorable. They're not bad, they just didn't stick with me like the others did

I think Mammon's design could've been a bit better. His and Bee's designs feel somewhat under-utilized. I like Mammon's multiple arms (grabbing at everything) and Bee's ears and the lava-lamp torso, but again, they're under-utilized and a bit lacking for the Deadly Sins.

[skell3]

RP Muse: Michael Shelley

Up next is a character I see a -lot- of variation on. Michael is my 'baby' muse... in that he's particularly soft, easy to bully, and a bit clumsy.

Michael's about a year or two before The Great Twisting, roughly. It's a bit difficult to determine timelines (and admittedly, how I've written him has been in that weird time crossover bit I mentioned in Jon's post, so it's all wibbly-wobbly at best.)

Once again, info below the cut and I'll do my best to write him out.

Michael Shelley stands at about 6'1" and has a fairly thin frame, almost slightly underfed though he's quite healthy. He has a couple of freckles and a slight gap in his front teeth he's very self-conscious about. His long blond hair is more wavy than curly, but still holds a couple of ringlets on its own just after a shower and drying it all out. He usually keeps it down if only to hide behind some of it, though when he's very busy working, he will pull it back with a colourful scrunchie.

Michael's eyes are heterochromatic, meaning he has two colours in them. They look fairly blue at first until you look toward the pupils, which blend into almost an aqua-green. He gets a little self-conscious about those, too, and doesn't like to make eye-contact often.

The clothes he really enjoys wearing tend to be vibrant in colour, like a bright yellow jumper or something multicoloured and fun. Michael also really likes floral patterns, so his favourite jumper is an oversize soft lavender with stitched in flowers and a bee making a path around the lower hem of it. It's so long he likes to wear a belt over it and just some fitted jeans, though occasionally oversize also means his hands disappear and he has to be careful with that at work. He was gifted a multicoloured scarf, striped with blue, yellow, and purple bands.

Home life is a little uneasy- Michael has a roommate who isn't particularly nice to him, but they pay the rent on time and usually leave him alone when he is actually home (so long as they don't have guests over). He usually sticks to his room anyway, which has a cool lava lamp, a tv/vcr combo so he can watch movies, a couple of brightly-coloured bean bag chairs, and a lot of blankets and pillows for his bed. There's a lot of posters and pictures and things on his walls, which help make it look a little more home-y for him despite the abrasive environment it's in.

Growing up, Michael was the unfortunate middle child that got a little bit of love early on and then was mostly left to fend for himself when his younger siblings were born. Always having been a quieter child anyway, he picked up on doing things by himself, and doing his best to stay out of trouble (because punishments were particularly harsh). This has made Michael relatively mousey as a person, especially working under Gertrude, but he's a people-pleaser and doesn't think too highly of himself so he does his best to do his job and not cause problems. Because Gertrude also has looked out for him more than once, this makes him particularly loyal and it isn't often that he questions her.

At work, Michael is really good at organizing, cleaning up the office and maintaining files as to Gertrude's specifications. If there isn't anyone in the office, he tugs on headphones and ends up listening to ABBA, Queen, The Beatles, etc.. Very occasionally, someone will walk in on him grooving and the moment he notices, he stops and flusters hard, settling back in to things with the music a lot lower and no dancing. (Honestly, he's so very Lonely-coded, working alone is sometimes the best times for him, though he also doesn't exactly enjoy being alone)

In the timeline I've been writing him in, Michael's BFF at work is the young Elias Bouchard, who works in artefact storage but comes by to bother Michael or avoid work. Otherwise, a lot of the folks who work upstairs tend to pick on Michael about stuff, and he primarily sticks to interacting with only the Archives group. This timeline we also have overlapping with Eric Delano being there, and Michael has a crush (but knows it's never going to happen), and it makes for a lot of flustered moments.

So yeah, this poor baby, so awkward. Hits his head on things a lot (like when he's hiding in a closet to escape Feelings). Eventually he'll get a little bit more spine, but by then it'll be probably 'just the right time' for Gertrude to take him on his last little business trip. He's great for soft scenes, but also awkward tension and maybe a bit of dramatics and anxiety.