#really fuckin weird

[beep1ss]

the spin and elena problem (＃°Д°)

if you've read night speakers you know that spin and elena are implied to have crushes on each other, and if you didn't pick up on that, i IMPLORE you to go back and check!

if you cannot be bothered, here's a small summary of times one (mainly spin) has pined for the other (or someone else mentions it):

spin creates a whole fake scenario with him and elena being goofy on the plane together

spin mentions how the world is ending and the person he's thinking about is elena hickson

tima constantly teasing elena for having a vampire boyfriend

spin noting elena was pretty in night raiders (also him calling her a 'cute girl')

spin feeling regret for the first time when seeing how horrified elena was when he bit matt

spin going to see elena at the end of night walker and her being so overjoyed he was himself again

swing scene. the fact that elena thought that spin was totally crushing on her (he was literally just being attacked by the sun)

i thiiiink callie asks if spin is elena's boyfriend?

there's probably more, meowth would certainly remember most of them, but those are just a few times. we could definitely be reading into it too much, but we definitely aren't. when you piece together all of the evidence it's clear ali really wanted to try get across that spin and elena have some kind of... thing going on.

take how tima and jamie interact in night terrors, for example.

there's maybe 1 mention from jamie's uncle or grandpa about tima being his girlfriend, but other than that, it's all rather friendly. no crushing or nada! i think jamie does call tima pretty, but from the context given it was just an observation. no constant thinking about tima or anything... unlike someone (cough cough spin with elena couogh cough i swear every time he brings up the night speakers he brings up elena cough cough)

anyway, that leads me to what i call the spin and elena problem.

you see, at the beginning of night speakers, elena is said to be in year 8.

for my non-uk friends, that's about 11-12.

now, let me quote page 155 of night speakers, which describes spin for the first time.

"Elena felt her eyes stretch wide. She froze, staring up into the face of a young man."

WHAT

WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOUNG MAN

but then she sees him in better lighting and I GUESS it gets SLIGHTLY BETTER???

"In the better light she could see he wasn't much older than she was - maybe 15 or 16. He could be in Year 11 for all she knew."

okay, like, sure, better than a YOUNG MAN but... no. absolutely NOT.

the mental age gap between 11/12 and 15/16 is too much. sure, 3-5 years isn't bad when you're an ADULT but if there's this thing going on between someone who's NOT EVEN A TEENAGER and SOMEONE NEARING 18 it's just bloody weird don't you think???

night raiders is when the crush thing between elena and spin really picks up as well, and it's only been a few months since the first book. matt's in year 10 now, so that would mean elena's in year 9, but she's still only just turning 13. and then spin is turning either 16 or MY age. NO SANE 17 YEAR OLD WOULD CRUSH ON A 13 YEAR OLD LET ME TELL YOU NOW

sigh

so uhh...

meowth and i fixed it.

we never liked that whole situation with their ages. so we fixed it.

this goes for all of the night speakers actually, because why not!

the solution (^◕.◕^)

yeah we just aged them up and kept spin the same

it felt right to have matt be around the same age as spin, so he's like 16 and then tima's 12 and elena's 15 while spin is 16

it's a small change, but a big enough difference to make it all seem more normal

see i wouldn't age a kid up so it was okay to ship them with someone, know like i wouldn't age tima up all the way from 10 to 16 just to ship her with matt that's weird

but since elena and spin were like 🤏🤏🤏THIS close to being socially acceptable we just headcanon them to be socially acceptable. because they sure do have chemistry. OH they have so much chemistry it HURTS because canon!spin IS AUHUEHUAHFU OLD

so uh... yeah.

all spelena content posted will be bp!spin (beepiss spin) who does NOT crush on 11/12 year old girls

if you don't agree with aging characters up, fair enough, i don't usually either. it was just this one time really, because in the books its never explicitly stated that they like each other but it was still noticeable enough to make it feel... weird.

no ones in this fandom anyway, so my word is basically gospel :,)

on that note, spelena content coming soon! oh, and matt angst. tima will get some love too!

[generic-sonic-fan]

While I absolutely adore Shadow speaking with 50/60s slang, I equally love the concept of him and Maria and maybe like the five other total children (high estimate) aboard the ARK coming up with their own slang and then Shadow just assuming that slang is universal once he gets to Earth. Catch him saying shit like "don't count the guinea pigs until the testing is over" and Sonic and co. look at him like "????? Shadow what the FUCK are you talking about ????"

[inkskinned]

"it's so embarrassing you like that popular thing" "oh ew that geeky/strange thing is so cringe lol" "oh it's kind of weird you get excited about that harmless shit"

dude i love how ironic and jaded you are and that's so cool and sexy of you. and i am so so glad to tell you - you won!! we all had a meeting and we decided that you won, and we are writing your name on the inside of a burger king crown. the marker smeared, sorry, but we knew any form of real effort is ugly to you. but anyway. congrats! you are officially the coolest, most ironic, most jaded person in-the-world-right-now. we would throw you a party but you would think it was totally boring - and besides, we're weird so we wouldn't have been coming. we would have brought our love of beetles and of baking and of little canapes. we would have brought our artsy videogames and pages of writing. we would have written a poem with you, our hands covered in ink, and spread out a canvas to dance on, the night so lurid and pink.

but do not worry. we will not throw the party. we will just get you a ringlight and that crown i mentioned. it is a nice crown, except for where one of us dropped it.

the vote was a really hard one because we had so many cool ironic people to pick off the shelves. all of you have hands that rot fruit, how strange is that - you can't look at something without destroying it for other people. you like it when you can squeeze a person into a pinpoint - all us small ones scampering our little feet around our ugly joys. the vote was also a hard one because we kept our voices down because you don't like it when we talk too loud. you were on your phone at the time, talking to people other than us. you are a ghoul of every moment - half in, half out, you resent us for being here without shame or embarrassment.

so good news! we have invented an island for people like you. you get to go there and speak into the air things like if you still like watching harmless twitch streamers in 2023 you're fucking boring. you will say things like liveplay podcasts are fucking ugly and it's kind of awkward they try to make everything gay. on the island we made you, all of your words will have weight. they will form in the air like icicles, large white behemoth letters that will crumple in anvils around your feet. maybe we will send someone there once in a while to sweep, but honestly you might be there for a while, alone, waiting. we are busy being outside looking for mushrooms and flapping our hands and humming. we are busy kicking our little heels while we watch cringey tv. we are busy - sorry! as an apology, we have pre-filled the island with every bland, mediocre, unscented thing we could find. the island has the texture of american cheese. the island has an ocean that never gets angry. the island is perfect for you, trust me. you will be so happy there - as happy as you can be, ironically.

we want to say we are sorry for doing harmless things that you find annoying, childish, or unappealing - but we are not sorry. we thought we could help you, because we don't mind laughing at ourselves, but it turns out you are allergic to color and noise and atmosphere, so this is the best that we can do for now. we are all making a big shirt that says i voted in the ironic monarchy. we got you one that is just a fast fashion buttondown. i am so excited for you and this island and the big life you have won. you have a cool jaded grey life and miles of irony to roam. i love you! be well.

now leave us alone.

[sakuraspoke]

"phantom of the opera and ONLY phantom of the opera"

😭😭😭😭😭

just in case i couldn't already love it enough ffs

[dukeofthomas]

Do you see my vision

[vaggieslefteye]

CHARLIE MAGNE from HAZBIN HOTEL (2019): Pilot - "That's Entertainment" ↳ "So, I've been thinking: Isn't there a more humane way to hinder overpopulation here in Hell? Perhaps we can create an alternative way to change souls through... redemption?"

[lovelyrotter]

ill probably delete this in a minute but ive just been fuckin boggled by what ive seen across tumblr in the last few days in particular. its why i havent really been around. like holy fucking shit, its really like some of yall just dont want a chunk of the trans community to exist. like some of yall are thisclose to saying it verbatum. way too many already have. 'shut up sit down be quiet and smile for us' type shit, gee where have i heard that before. oh yeah my entire life cause i was forcefully gendered as someones daughter. shock horror i know. you might be surprised to remember and/or learn that very few trans folks know theyre trans before we're 5, or even 10, and that that gendered experience stays with all of us in both/either small or large ways. either bc we literally dont have a solid identity yet (bc we're very small children), dont have the words, we're repressing it out of fear from how others will treat us, we're actually enjoying or enjoyed being another gender in our childhood, or we just genuinely didnt fuckin know until shit lined up later in life. weird isnt it that transmascs dont pop out as 6'1 brick shithouse cis men when we're born so yall know for certain that we're confused lost girls/women oops i mean big dangerous scary men. its almost like we're transgender too. none of yall actually know what intersectionality is or means

[eyestrain-addict]

Making Demetrius my babygirl solely because of the disproportionate amount of hate towards him and also thats he's so autism coded

[bamboozled-distress]

my favourite creature

[rynfloros]

yo can yall stop this bs. never in my life have i seen a post ab any ship involving either darius or ben without a benrius shipper screaming in my ear how their ship is "superior" 😭

[secondbeatsongs]

when you're into the Big Ship™ in a Big Fandom™, you have the luxury of having an OTP - a real One True Pairing, where you can read about just them for ages, and you will never run out of fics, and everything is perfect and beautiful and nothing hurts

but when you go to a smaller fandom, you'd better pray to whatever god you worship that someone else in this room ships the same thing that you do, and that if they do, they're writing more than late-night crackfic, because you're on thin fucking ice!

and how small is your small fandom? is it less than 100 fics? maybe even...less than 20 fics?

welp, then it's time to make peace with that god and either open up a text document or learn how to ship everything, because it's swim or drown babey! and your ship is sinking fast

anyway all of this is to say that after hanging out in small fandoms and shipping less-common pairings for a while, going back into a Big Huge Fandom™ is wild because suddenly it's like...wait, why didn't I ship these people again? I don't remember. why was I only sticking to one ship in this fandom?? boring of me, honestly. these guys should make out.

[front-facing-pokemon]

[moipale]

Haustorium, Amygdala

a danny phantom fic, for ecto-implosion 2024 written for the lovely @pricklenettle's artwork

In the Realms, three humans take a pit stop on an island haunted by a gnarled mass of plants, so tangled they appear near-indistinguishable. One of those humans carries a burr from it back to Earth. In the Realms, all dead things that blossom into afterlife are gifted a core, which is a sort of mind. Minds, famously, think. And feel. Both of these things have consequences.

Gen, rated T. Body horror, POV nonhuman, parasitism/possession, and lots of plants.

Read "Haustorium, Amygdala" on Ao3 here, or see below the cut for a preview.

Cultivator!

O, Cultivator! Thank you!

You—tall-form, pollinator, self-locomotive, primate with hair like raven feathers and crocus-purple stems-of-walking! Cultivator, thank you for bearing Us sunward!

—

It had been so long since the Growth last felt life.

Or, not long at all, for some of its pieces; there are always things dying, always things afterlife-resurrecting, and thus, always newly dead plants twining with and becoming part of the Growth. But when considering the sum total of its pooled existence without life… well, it had been unfathomably long, indeed. The Growth had missed it: the breeze, the soil, the silt and sun.

The Growth had lamented its capacity to miss. Had lamented lamenting, although it could only do so in that distant way of planthood—that is, the halfway, imperfect imprint of emotion that the Realms “gifted” it, that which it gifts to all those who did not before think. Not that it knew this. This was the only sort of emotion it had ever endured. In life, consciousness was so simple: utilitarian signals and feedings and warnings bounced between each other, when growths were still distinct. Now—now it missed. For a time well past, it longed.

And in its longing, it was rewarded.

Three strange beacons of life passed through the Realms.

Eyeless, earless, the Growth did not see them so much as it felt their disturbance: how the Realms shivered and displaced, death recoiling from that which it could not touch. All the Growth’s collective attention sharpened. Immobile, it could do no more than reach a lurching vine here and there toward the ripples, looking for more, wondering—and then it froze. For the strangelifes, pulsing, un-dead, were coming toward it.

The Cultivator was the only one of the three which descended from the strangelifes’ moving metal hollow. She stepped from it onto the island of the Growth. She made contact with the land, let her ankles brush through its undergrowth, stepped carefully, did not trample—she was like a breeze more than a creature, caused less breakage, even, than the ghosts which floated and did not step. The Growth was fascinated. It readied its burrs and pollens. Clad in leathers and nonskins, the Cultivator had so many places on which to find purchase—so the Growth reached out and clung.

It wasn’t an intentional bid for life-again. The Cultivator, in her nondeath, was a curiosity to be sure—but the Growth did not imagine she was anything but lost, that she could possibly bear it home to soil-and-sun. It could not have known. When she rose again from the island, it was a mere few miniscule pieces of the Growth that clung to her: curious, sure—but merely hoping for another island to disperse to. As with every host that wandered close enough, the Growth reached out and latched on with one goal in mind: to find another home for it to occupy, another place to assimilate, another ward against extinction. So—it did not imagine the direction she was heading was sunward. It could not have known. And it would have been blindsided when they reached that precipice anyway, but before they did, before the depth of this opportunity became apparent, something else shocked it from curiosity into complete captivation.

The Growth could not take the Cultivator as a host.

The Growth had always been able to take self-locomotive things as hosts.

Not the rock of its islands, not the metal of the strangelifes’ hollow; these surfaces were too inert to parasitize, the metal too smooth for even lichens to cling to. Those self-locomotive dead who touched down on the islands of the Growth, however? Yes. All of them. They proved excellent dispersers, once the Growth learned how to pilot them to new islands, spread new Growth. None lasted all that long—but long enough. The Growth populated much of the Realms. The Growth had wormed into creatures plenty, and from their eyes seen, from their skins felt, from their ungravity flew. So why not her?

Her body rejected it. Simply and utterly. Perhaps because she was still living? As a test, when the Cultivator leant forward over the shoulder of another strangelife, the Growth hopped to him and attempted to dig in. And—success. Yes, this one could be seeded; the Growth would be able to parasitize him fully when the seed took root. So why not her?

The Growth redoubled its efforts. The Growth tried to seed her. But nothing! It could cling to her surface, could ride with her, could even dip beneath her skin and explore inside—but to no end! A barrier remained between her and it; integration was impossible, assimilation a dream. The Growth was fascinated. Curious. Captivated. Frustrated. It had been curious before, and it lamented that curiosity, cursed it—the Growth, limbless, was not meant to crave, to seek—but this was all the more consuming. It had not before known frustration. And from the frustration of unsated curiosity rose a bubbling new emotion it had never known, was caught up in the froth of: excitement. Like a berry stepped on, or a bloom punching open, the Growth felt liable to burst.

And then—life!

That piece of itself upon the Cultivator, which the Growth’s main mass communicated with, crossed from death into life, and the shock of it reverberated across that link. All the Growth shuddered. Islandsfull of leaf-and-vine rustled, curled, feeling. Life again! Life, air, soil, sun!

Or—not quite sun, yet. The Cultivator had emerged from death into but another metal casing, the air stale. But present! Oxygen: how the Growth had missed it! It tasted different now, admittedly; the Growth no longer needed it as it had in life. But it was so nostalgic. Another foreign feeling.

The strangelifes scurried about. They emerged from metal into less-stale air, and spent time there refueling: chewing, swallowing, that gory unphotosynthesis of animals. And then Seeded-Strangelife shooed the others away, and the Cultivator acquiesced to the shooing, and passed through a threshold, and there—

There was the sun.

[Continue reading "Haustorium, Amygdala" on Ao3 here.]

[inkykeiji]

I feel like Sunday would enjoy leaving marks on your body and then admiring his work, tracing the bruises left on your body. He would normally put them in places only for his eyes, but from time to to time he would leave a hickey on your neck or another visible place, only covered by a piece of clothing that equally shows his claim over you, like a choker etc, just in case you feel like removing it, there will still be prove of who you belong to underneath.

oooh honestly i think sunday really enjoys marking, too!!! i genuinely think sunday has this like...sadistic side to him, but it’s so covert you almost need to know exactly how to decode him to see into what it truly is.

i could also see sunday leaving marks in spots that are just barely hidden. he gets a thrill at the thought of someone catching a quick glimpse—nothing more than a second-long instant; a rapid flash of mangled purple braceletting your wrists, or a fast peep of snapped capillaries crushed to a deep navy blotting your collarbone—and thinking about it for hours afterward, questioning what they saw, if they saw what they truly think they saw, and if yes, why you’re so battered and bruised.

i love love love the idea of sunday admiring his work afterwards, and i think he purposefully takes his sweet, slow time with aftercare to do just that. a standard cleaning procedure that should be quick and painless takes him a laughable amount of time, a tender finger tracing the edges of the contusion after it’s been cleaned, only to have to clean it again. the process is meticulous, as most things with sunday typically are, and ridiculously precise, and by the end you’ve growing fidgety and restless, muscles beginning to ache from sitting still for so long. but he always makes you wait until he’s finished, eyes alight with stars of reverence as he tends to each wound, and he always seals them with a kiss—each and every one, no matter what.

and don’t even get me started on how this whole process is so long and so tedious and so insanely overblown that it does more harm than good to the wounds, because that’s part of sunday’s plan, too. in fact, that’s the bit he loves the most.

[allthepandasintheworld]

nothing will be funnier than the fact that as a cult member, narinder is shorter than lamb (i think it's just bc all the followers are shorter than lamb, by design, but it's still funny to think about)

[2700k-moogie]

Milk ref sheet done yaHOOOOOOOOOOO lookit my big beautiful baby they filled with joy and happiness