#not 100 percent accurate

[there-are-many-ways-to-smile]

I bought a custom Yellowjackets varsity jacket off Etsy and here's the result

The patch is exactly like the one from the show which is one of the things that I wanted and why I didn't like the official one from Paramount, and the coloring looks a bit weird but I think it's just the lighting. The font and material for the wording on the back isn't tv show accurate and that bugs me a bit.

The cost was about the same as the official one, and the etsy seller added like 2 inside pockets which is cool. All pockets can fit my phone which is an Samsung galaxy s20 FE.

[pookiethebloodsucker]

guess what i just became obsessed with!!! it's these lads!!!! i love their dynamic so much, and am obsessed with this injoke of theirs.

[upwardmeowvement]

look at my session dawg we’re doomed

[askblueandviolet]

MK was having a race with Mei, but he got distracted and almost crash with other vehicles, so he turn the direction of his tuk tuk crash, and used his staff to get out from it before it crash.

But in the process he ended up crashing into someone's window and ended up in a kitchen...

The kitchen where mayor and macaque at...

With the dead body over the counter...

And blood everywhere...

What are MK and Macaque and Mayor reaction be?

[peppered-moths]

imagine you were born hungry. imagine you were born with a hole in your gut that can never be filled, that is always writhing.

you are a mirror. you were born a mirror, surrounded by mirrors. the first thing you ever know is that you are not human. the second thing is that you are not him. you are a reflection, with his face and his voice and the people who loved him. you can mimic him, pretend so well that you are not anything else, but you cannot escape the aching hunger in your stomach, in your mouth.

he cared for the other one, the you-but-not-you. you hear that you died in his arms once. you don't know how to feel about that; you don't know him, don't care (because you're not him even though you want).

nevertheless, you are drawn to him. maybe it's the way he looks at you, guilty and frustrated and awe-struck all at once, a complicated mixture of feelings that has you shying away and inching closer, bit by bit. you decide you like the way he looks when he's happy, though you'd never say it to his face.

that's probably why you don't say anything, when the world twists, soft graphite and watercolors. because you like seeing him happy.

this world is good enough. it doesn't matter if it isn't real, it can be good enough. you can be alive. he can love you like he loved him be happier here, without the pressure, without the fear. isn't that good? why can't it be good enough for him?

you know you don't matter to him, not like the real you. you know that when he looks at your face, all he sees is the other one. he doesn't understand. it's not fair. it's not fair. you want something for yourself for once.

he says he'd die, if that's what you wanted. standing on the precipice. his heels slip over the edge, hanging in space. you want. you do not want. you want, but not like this. you imagine his body below the city lights, arranged like he's sleeping, a halo of red seeping into his hair. you wonder what forever looks like with him, what it might look like without him. he would die for you. you have never been so afraid of that.

he pulls you over the edge, hands entangled.

you are the only one who can stop this. you are the only one who can save him.

(part of you doesn't want to. part of you is selfish, and aching, and hungry.)

(what would he have done?)

you catch him. save his life. it feels like the worst thing in the world. you hate yourself, just a little bit, for not wanting it. the hunger coils in your stomach.

you leave for a while (because of the severance). you don't want to talk about it. the far shore has waves that beat endlessly against the sand, and you fell apart and shivered back together- and you don't want to talk about it.

you tell him to take you somewhere. anywhere. somewhere nice.

(a nice place to die, you think. you're too much of a coward, too much of a monster, to say it.)

it's beautiful, and he's smiling, and there's a gaping emptiness in your gut. you feel yourself shaking apart, skin to bones.

you tell him you are hungry, the words ripped from your throat like the awful truth they are. and he just looks at you, the way he always does.

and then he kills for you. not human, not yet (you wonder if he would), but it still screams as it dies.

he holds the heart in his hands. you are hungry. from here, it just looks like meat. it drips, plip-plop-plip, black blood splatting on tile. you are hungry. he offers it to you.

(despite everything, you sort of want to be human. despite everything, you sort of want to be dead.)

you close your teeth around his fingers instead. like a feral dog. like somebody who is not (has never been) human. his blood is red, and you are terribly, painfully hungry.

you tell him you are a lost cause, a monster with a pretty face and nothing behind it. that he should give up, should leave you alone, should let you die (should kill you himself, really).

he cries, salty and miserable, shoulders shaking. he cries. for you. because of you. all you can do is stare.

the heart drips on the floor between you. you are hungry.

(he does not look like an angel, or an icarus, or a savior. he looks like a fourteen year old boy in love with a monster.)

you have always been selfish.

you have always been hungry.

[p0stscrpt]

buncha chibis

[funkle420]

spontaneous sexile stick-n-poke saturn

[spirithunter-deathmark]

I wanted add/make an addendum on some information I shared in a previous post but now I have more context and knowledge! So now that it's confirmed Moe is the protagonist for chapter 7, her text and dialogue will be in blue! So while I still feel pretty confident in both screenshots shown here roughly translate to "He's the detective's assistant. Hehe, isn't that cool?" its either Shou referring to himself and I got the pronouns wrong or it's a different person talking here that is not shown. Oh and Moe's dialogue options on the right when having been asked if Shou being Mashita's assistant is cool to her she can say one of 3 things (again my rough translation): 1. "I don't believe it."

2. "I'm so jealous."

3. "It doesn't suit you at all."

[aiura-stan]

SaiTeru and SaiAi are both like Unstoppable Force meets Immovable Object: the Ship and I feel like nothing would ever quite go right with either, which makes it really fun.

[zeemczed]

[altairtalisman]

For my 2700th post, I decided to add myself in the backdrop of Six as well as add a little bit of lighting for ✨aesthetic✨

On a serious note, last night's show was so amazing! I've been waiting for five fucking years for it to come here and they finally came!

I even get to record Megasix, though the quality isn't great as you can see below

I'm just going to post my ramble summary below

I almost laughed when they asked if we have heard of them on the history channel, I'm pretty sure a good portion of the country probably don't know who Henry VIII is, let alone his six wives-

It was so funny when Aragon tapped on her earpiece when asking Henry if he had anything to say-

Boleyn's Wearing Yellow To A Funeral ended off with her nearly saying 'cunt' and I love how that term was used because it can easily be cut off and the audience can just fill in the blanks

Seymour... Well, I've never been a fan of her song but the vocals killed it-

Haus of Holbein was absolute chaos and it's really amazing! I think its success can also be attributed to the music which was really loud and you can feel it in your bones-

Cleves' Get Down really said 'fuck this I have money and a fancy house and horses and-'

Absolutely loved how Howard's voice wavered towards when the hands touched her during Henry's bit, and her having an absolute meltdown from Thomas' connection reveal onwards was just 🥰

Parr... today was the first time I actually listened to her song so...

Was a little disappointed that Aragon's 'okay' didn't really change much tone-wise which made the emotions that she wanted to show fall a little flat if I didn't have prior knowledge of the musical though

As for Boleyn's Don't Lose Ur Head, it would've been nice if she was a little more explicit with the double-meaning when saying that Henry 'liked her head'. Then again her moves were very X-rated so it was probably easy enough to assume what kind of head Henry liked-

[nedsseveredhead]

TAGGED BY @numbaoneflaya -- OC Time!!!!!! With this picrew :>

Donquixote Rena | Orion Mahariel

Wither | Dmitri Raskolnikov

I'll tag @alienbrainwave @the-stray-liger @spidercrimes @vicekings and anyone else who wants an excuse <3

[gravecircuit]

Finished watching the Aeon Flux series.

10/10.

[tricksterlatte]

The Online Fandom 7 Deadly Sins

sloth: complaining about how no one writes the tropes or pairings you like and bashing what's already out there, while refusing to create anything you desire yourself

greed: zine and other finance-related scandals with zero remorse for those negatively affected

gluttony: spending rent money on merch, experiencing buyer's remorse, then repeating the same process next month

wrath: anon hate over literally everything under the sun, even harassing official writers and threatening them if they don't make your ship canon

pride: devaluing other's characterizations and ships to praise yours as better, whether through a canon perspective or a moral perspective, when neither matter in the long run when it comes to your own enjoyment

envy: trash talking others' fandom creations or saying you won't bother creating anything because it'll never be as good as them

lust: fighting over who tops or bottoms because of your personal preferences when one, both, or neither could happen, especially when most of these characters never even kiss canonically nor have most people fighting done any of these things irl themselves

[sailforvalinor]

I…um…had thoughts and made a thing, here

[inktasticmagic]

(Wrote for fun!! May have more chapters??)

Chapter 1

Oliver still remembered when he first heard of the name 'L’Manberg.’ The memory still slipped into his mind like a letter slotting through the cracks of his brain. Though the envelope was ever-so-tempting, the contents themselves were mundane. After the fourth or fifth time, the words dulled into one scramble of letters. Yet, every time, he still opened the letter, grasping at the sheer concept. That’s what happens to a mind so scared, you cling to that semblance like a lifeline. The wondrous sense of hope for better days washed down in the pitter-patter of the rain. People alike basking in freedom, they were set loose from the chains that had bound them into submission. Oliver had been travelling for a few days, with only a map and his thoughts pushing his little legs forward. Trees had welcomed him with waves of the wind, though their once fresh leaves were now dry shades of red and orange.

Oliver tried to keep a reasonable pace, even when his feet stung from the idea. In a similar fashion to a prey making themselves larger, he’d puff his chest to swallow the last breath of the wild. Oliver pushed back the tangled locks of his bramble-like curls of dark hair. Adjusting his glasses to his rounded features, he felt a cold tickle from above. The feeling made Oliver shudder, his gaze away from his scribbled mess of a map to bear his eyes above. From the entangled leaves above, little droplets slid down. An inquisition wandering through the wild lands beneath their clouded homes. Small, yet mighty. In a sense, like him in the metaphorical sense. Oliver wouldn’t call himself tough per se, but he was mighty in his. Writing? Though he was glancing at the sketches of a map, perhaps they were less fitting than he thought.

To avoid the cold breath of the wind, he had to be swift. The threat of the chilling, cold winds loomed over his hunched back. It was already late autumn, and the effects were to be noticed. The night was risky, meaning Oliver had to spend whatever day he had more wisely. His ragged parka clung to his stick-like frame as the frequency of the trees decreased. He thought as he stared at the crunched grounds that his simple source had led to. At least, to Oliver’s wishful thinking, the sources he had been given were secondhand at best. Word of mouth. That was a few humble months ago, it had been mentioned a newly-made nation built by two underdogs— two brothers from unlikely backgrounds. Though it sounded like it came straight out of a fantastical novel against the odds. After some chatter, he found a surprising truth to its merit. Now, Oliver looked to such a legend for his own freedom. If they could find freedom, perhaps so could he. In a land with a taste of independence yet still bound to some rules and regulations. That’s what drew him in; it seemed like a perfect balance. Somewhere, he could perhaps belong. In the distance, he saw a hint of something ahead of him—a stark contrast to the natural foliage that hung on the arms of wooden trunks. Was this it?

Quickening his steady pace into a dash, his legs still trembled from the tickles of droplets. As Oliver halted in his steps, a tingle trickled like the stroke of rain sliding off his weary body. He was here. Despite this long journey and the tireless efforts to track such a strange location, he was unsure how to feel. What if he wasn’t allowed in?

A land like this would allow a clean record like his own. He’d brought enough identification to ensure he may pass through. What stood against his odds was his youth and lack there or a guardian by his side. Though one of the founders was merely a few years older than Oliver, surely it would be fine? Hopefully. For all rights, he could be wrong, but as Oliver saw the buildings, he swore he heard of a wall circling this territory. Has it been a metaphor? Dark walls made of black stone keep the newly formed citizens safe in the large barrier of stone. It did strike him as strange. Though his feet still followed the small nation, it struck him in a way he couldn’t quite place.

As Oliver slipped through the thick figures of trees, he pulled his hood up with a shaky sigh. At this point, he would certainly seek refuge from the rain; he threw such thoughts in the tussling winds.

Oliver moved forward with a low head and a beating heart. He knew he was closing in now, which became ever more telling as the crowd of trees became distant and quiet. Tickling at his cracked vision, raindrops slid off the screen of his rounded glasses.

Whatever entrance or security, wasn’t the greatest. He’d search around for some case point to offer his identification. Nothing, no buildings in the outskirts offered such security checks. Could anyone walk to and from? There was no way to register himself. Though he had seen posters and newspapers about the new nation, it seemed some things must be still in the works. In light of it all though, seeing it truly in person. Well, it was a whole different bag altogether. Land built by the people and for the people themselves. Though no one else wandered the streets now, nation, he heard the bustling of a speech underway. The microphone muffled and choppy, the speakers bounced in through the city streets.

Naturally, Oliver would follow the commotion of what seemed to be underway. It was odd walking through the city. It had been so long since he sensed the mixture of smells hitting his nostrils. The cracked cobble grounds showed its battle scars of fights long before. The smell of the street. There seemed to be businesses and such nestled in the line of buildings, some statues, and more. Following the noise, Oliver pondered if one of these buildings held a little library. There are new stories for him to get his fingertips on. He found what looked to be a stage, two figures stood on the wooden platform. As much as he had planned, he still felt a sense of uncertainty tickle in the back of his mind. Other than the rambles of a hoarse voice speaking to the microphone, it was quiet. While this group sat in the rain, the podium was nicely shaded from the drops that came from above.

A high stage that stood atop the masses. From the details Oliver could unravel, the man had thick, dark brown hair and a rugged beard. Seemed to be a ram from the twisting horns that held on that ivory head. Wilbur certainly looked very different. He hadn’t visualised a gruff figure. Well, this seems to be Wilbur, right? According to Oliver’s own assumptions, he had fluffy, dark brown hair and a rather tall build. The man’s features sank like a deflated balloon slumped up against the wooden lectern. It seemed to be a gathering, too large to be a full on festival. People came to and from, slipping past the crowds with some caution.

“People of Manberg, as you know, I have made strides to become even greater.” He coughed “we've made the impossible choices to insure the nations.”

A pause, heaving his irregular breath. The goat man lifted his head with a rugged expression: “Prosperity.”

The secondary figure that stood was a dark-haired light toned man. A smirk emerged from his lips and a beanie stretched onto his head. Formality contrasted the casual wear, a suit and shades made him look like a secret agent of some accord.

Such a head was definitely a contradiction to the spitting weather. Though the two stood relatively close, he could stretch and identify the goat as being Wilbur. The taupe man in a suit and tie certainly wasn’t Tommy.

“Prosperity is thriving—not just the crawling survival but so much more. As emperor of this nation, I am ashamed to say some have tried to break that link of peace.”

Emperor, no, no, that seemed wrong. As Oliver glanced around warily, the faces of the people looked uncertain to a certain extent. He just needed to focus on a seat, and then perhaps he would gain some context.

Lifting the weight of his head up, the goat made an attempt to push his body in an upright stance. His sunglasses partner attempted to subtly help the goat to his own dishevelled trousers. A misplaced grunt came from the microphone as unintelligible mumbled could be heard. The ram pushed the hastily support away, ignoring the attempt in an attempt to show strength.

People sat on wooden chairs beneath the glare of the podium. Oliver scouted his grey eyes, he looked for somewhere to sit down; the chairs stood like a Roman army in formation. Still, it was as if Medusa herself had cast a sheet of stone over their skins, forcing them into blind submission. Wooden desks with oak chairs, styled as if the rows of seating were seen at church. Pushing people's shoulders together, snugging them into space. Oliver spotted an empty seat near the back, tightly swung between the rest of the sitting bodies. He knew it would be respectful to sit himself down, so he cautiously tiptoed his way to the back row. Oliver found himself hastily apologising for the tight squeeze. The seat was located in the centre row, which meant a shuffle through the deck of legs in the narrow passage.

“Sorry, sorry,” he grimaced, finally finding the little chair.

The man continued to say, “I won’t name the exact people, but you know who you are.”

As if at that moment, he felt the best of a stare on his olive face. Had he done something wrong? Oliver shifted in his seat as a few heads swirled around. The beating of his chest became louder, the silence piecing a swift knife through his head.

He let out a pathetic gulp from his trembling lips. Shooting his gaze away from the burning eyes, that’s when it hit him like a rock. They weren’t looking at him, but rather, his seating neighbour sat by Oliver’s left side. A girl, unlike him, kept a level-headed expression. As the man soon turned his gaze away and rambled to the nervous crowd. The wheat curls of her hair were unkempt, and her eyes held dark purple weights beneath her brown eyes. He could see that familiar glint in her eyes. The uncomfortable silence between the crowd and the goat broke by a few claps of praise for his words.

The ram smirked, though annoyed at the underreaction, and his pride was chuffed. As he listened to the speech, his mind drifted to this controversial neighbour. A mix of concern and confusion.

Quietly questioning, Oliver asked in a hushed voice, “Miss, are you okay?”

He tried to keep his voice down as much as possible, and the two met each other's gaze. Unresponsive but forced a smile. He sighed, it was all a stranger like him could do, her grin was comforting. The scratchy voice of the suited ram continued.

“Taxes will be going up by a higher percent; an influx of new people will demand a higher standard of living and keep up with the demand.”

The mark of the statement made the jingle of coins in his bag feel lighter than before. It seemed fair to keep up with the demand.

“Those who have bent out of line, these numbers increase for the track record.”

The payments could go back into the country: the buildings, the food, and the resources. A silver lining for a country that seemed not as free as he first believed. At the same time, 10 percent would be a lot, no matter what the number had been before

“Manberg promises to bring a brighter future, and as my decree as emperor of this nation, these taxes will be beneficial to all of us.”

Oliver thought he missed it at first; he’d blink twice before it settled in. That didn’t sound like a mistake.

“Emperor-“ Oliver blurted in a hushed breath, yet with the silent crowd. Any word would be noticed. He felt a sudden hand on his mouth, and the sudden touch made him almost jolt.

As gentle as her grip could be, the girl shushed his loud mouth from uttering any more. More confused than anything, he pulled her hand away and mouthed

“I-I’m sorry.” As much as the sudden touch took him by surprise, he didn’t argue against it. He wasn't trying to say anything wrong with that, right?

“Hey, it’s okay, just follow along with the crowd.” She frowned, her voice a bitter whisper, her eyes betrayed what she informed him. Taking a deep breath, she then added . “No matter how foul his words are.”

Oliver nodded without a line of protest. The request seemed more ominous than anything. What would have happened if he had spoken more loudly?

When he moved back, she shifted her position to another neutral blurs of faces in the group. Nestling his chin deeper in the furs of his oversized hood, Oliver avoided drawing too much attention to himself.

Looking down at the group of people who came to listen, the president scoured the crowd—a tough crowd to please these days. He began to lose track of time; the ram’s tone was informal, and he stumbled. If he counted the time in the amount of raindrops, well, his coat was certainly soaked.

“Ugh..that’s it.” The man stumbled haphazardly away from his tight grip on the podium. The rectangular pupils rolled away to look back at the black-haired person standing beside him. “Quakity, can you end it off for me?”

Like a toddler taking their first few steps, the man waddled away to let his partner even it out.

Quakity glanced back, his expression hard to gaude beneath the dark pits of the sunglasses. He’d take his step to the podium, reaching for the little microphone.

“Thank you all for listening, these taxes will be out in the following week.”

He’d gather his next words, “We have great challenges to refine this nation to its fullest potential, your support has been crucial in our efforts.”

With that, Quakity flicked the microphone off and placed it atop the little lectern. Stepping a few steps backwards, he’d open his arms to await the applause similar to what his associate got.

A single cough seemed to be in the front of the crowds. Quakity closed his opening arms and pulled them back to his sides. With a half smile, he’d wave the crowds one last time before disappearing from the stage

And with that, the crowd started to gather their bearings and rise from their seats. Some sagged and groaned among the group. As people trickled their way out and into the streets, Oliver remained. Well, this was certainly an introduction. Swirls of grey lay sluggishly in the cold air; even the wind fell into silence. He just needed to build his own house; it didn’t need much, for him and himself.

Soon the groups became less and less. He rubbed his temples, in thought to process that unexpected development. A figure by his side spoke; though she was holding her bearings by now, she still stood by him. With a furrowed expression, she glanced around before turning her attention to him.

“Hey..If you don’t mind me asking, where are your parents?” It seemed she had picked up on the fact that though other people left, he hadn’t gravitated towards a figure. Now, thinking about it, it looked strange that a 13-year-old kid wandered into a political event. In his defence, he hadn’t exactly come to meet a speech.

"I, um,” he froze. He knew he wouldn’t be here if his parents were still around, stumbling on his words. “They are by the fountain.”

Oliver tried to avoid her warm gaze. He hated lying; he could barely swaddle his words to begin with. But, he didn’t want to worry someone over him. He could stand on his own two feet; he wouldn’t want to be a stick in the mud for someone.

She reassured, “...I know I’m a stranger but if you need help finding them” She trailed off before asking in simpler terms.

“Would you like me to take you to your parents?” She offered

It took a moment to think of a response; her voice was as sweet as honey. More genuine than it had been while watching the speech.

“I’m fine. I’m sure I can find them. They are at the..” he replied “Fountain, yeah..”

As if reading his mind, she replied, “Oh, are you sure?”

“Mhm, yup.” Bobbing his head up and down in agreement, Oliver dodged eye contact. “Just by the fountain.”

“Okay..” It seemed she accepted that answer. There was some hesitation in her expression, but she decided to believe his words. Standing up, she asked him, “What’s your name?” “Oliver, Oliver Athene.” A plant of guilt tended in the gardens of his mind; she seemed so nice to him. His stomach turned, yet he didn’t blink an eye.

“Well, Oliver..I’m Nikki. If you get lost, my bakery is by the corner; you can’t miss it.”

Offering a hand to shake the nice lady, Nikki opened her mouth ajar as if she wanted to say more. Nothing came from her but her quiet breath. “You know where to find me, alright?”

Getting up, the light shades of her sweater were a bright contrast to the cold buildings. She waved, walking to, presumably, her little shop. He needed to get going as well; he’d kept his bag securely behind his back, he had nothing he needed to grab.

Oliver knew If he had a house outside these lands, well, he could face all sorts of problems. From the uncertainty of mobs to self-isolation, it could proceed. No matter how quaint it seemed, he’d read the same pages for far too long. He held his little book collection as the last reminder of home. Oliver had read so much that he could speak each line and chapter by heart.

He had found this place for a reason; he needed to find a place to settle. This place, no matter how different it was from his original thoughts, had to be his home.

He decided a wander around might do him good, though Oliver’s legs wanted to settle a moment longer. He had to keep moving.

Trekking through the streets, the rain began to do more than spit. It was like Zeus himself sent a hurtling lightning bolt through the sky. Weeks he had been wandering in the forest, books helped him navigate. Knowledge of plants secured a good enough food line for the moving body. Yet, here, no book has described something like this.

People brushed by his shoulder, some harder than others. Instead of the tall trees that he’d grown so familiar, it was the strange faces of people Oliver was yet to know. As if still in that speech, the voices of those who passed were hushed chatter passing by. Whispers of talk flooded through the sorrowful streets. The city buildings, though impressive, loomed over his short frame. Even with a furred parka, his body shivered. The foggy warmth of his own breath coated the inside of his glasses. He heard the odd chatter from time to time. It was a peep. The wind grew in strength, making up for the lost noise in the air.

Oliver had planned the journey itself in detail, but this left him perched on a judicial bench. The reaching roof of the building added a canopy to his seating. People passed by like trailing shadows across the streets. Most have by now welcomed themselves to the warmth of their own homes. Home, something so familiar to some but a word that ached his own heart.

Everyone had a home once in their long lives. Whether it be one of the buildings in town or nestled among the lonely trees of the woodland, everyone has one. Expect Oliver. Raising his right hand from the grasp of his picked nails, Oliver leaned forward. Water was the element of change, from unpredictable to the source to flourishing life. Even though it was afternoon, it was dark enough to be a shadowy nightfall. Like fumes had enveloped the skies above, tthe shades of monochrome blended with the dark blacks of the sky to deepen its stormy watch below. Puddles lay lazily atop the cracks of the stoney pathway. He missed home.