#most of its there but some of its missing or incomplete

[staysafedontdie]

anime style filler episode content?

beach episode when? swimming/the beach was mentioned multiple times with multiple companions in multiple contexts

I don't want Baldur's Gate 3 DLC I want Larian to keep adding in unfinished scenes and finishing dropped quest lines and open up the upper city and give us all the anime style filler episode content we can handle for eternity until they run out of updates to give

[kthologue]

happy wife, happy life  — gojo satoru

synopsis. not fawning over his wife may prove to be harder than gojo thought.

contents. fluff, gojo is so whipped for his wife and everyone is tired (whats new), ooc gojo?

notes. this was pure self indulgence. i wanted to slander and coddle gojo all at once and this was it teehee :3

the first thing you hear when you stand up to leave the staff meeting is a wolf whistle.

“looking good,” satoru looks you up and down. you roll your eyes playfully, your husband’s behavior is not foreign to you. he taps your upper thigh, dangerously close to your butt as you take your leave. however, the others in the room don't take kindly to the action.

“highly inappropriate behavior gojo,” utahime mutters under her breath from across the table. beside her, nanami is giving your husband a hard stare. 

satoru pays no mind to them though, smiling up at you as you walk out of the room. you shake your head when he continuously blows a series of kisses. he ignores your rejection, opting to mouth crude comments instead.

the moment the door shuts, the strongest sorcerer immediately deflates, disinterested in whatever matters the rest had to discuss about. 

“i don’t know how she puts up with you,” utahime takes a long sip out of her cup of tea. beside her, shoko snorts.

“probably for his body.” shoko is not unfamiliar with satoru’s antics, having witnessed it since his rowdy school days. she applauds him for coming far with you, but it was still fun to tease him.

gojo crosses his arms, emitting a disgruntled sound. “and my golden personality?”

nanami sighs, “ieiri’s conclusion is most likely right.”

the limitless user wiggles his finger playfully. “nanamin, how scandalous of you to fantasize about my body! i’m a married man y’know~” 

nanami looks like he has eaten something sour. unlike you, nanami’s attitude towards gojo has not softened as the years passed.

“i’m surprised she’s still with you.” utahime snickers. “she’s a sensible woman and you’re–” 

satoru frowns at her statement.  he’d never thought about how you felt about his behavior. perhaps that was his fatal flaw. gojo satoru had a nasty streak of negligence. and the last time he failed to notice someone dear to him —   

“well i’m glad she ended up choosing me, yeah?” his frown is quickly covered up by the wide smirk on his face. he leans back on his chair that’s starting to feel less comfortable by the second. the chair creaks under the weight of his body. honestly, how old are these old wooden things? “as much as i’d like to keep chatting about my lovely wife, i’d like to get this meeting over with so i can see her again.”

the rest of the meeting ensues as usual.

“sensei has been weird… right?” itadori offers his hand after knocking megumi down during a sparring match. the black haired boy grunts as he is pulled up.

“if by weird, you mean normal.” megumi glances back at you and gojo who are watching intently at the first and second years practicing close combat on the training field. it was a bit peculiar to see satoru not throw himself all over you. gojo without pda is like a jigsaw puzzle missing its most essential piece, leaving the overall picture incomplete and lacking the electrifying energy that defines his existence. 

“i feel like i should be happy, but it’s unsettling to see him not initiating some misconduct. do you think they’re fighting?” nobara is panting on the grassy floor. she raises her hand in surrender when maki leaps in to take her head off with a spear.

maki retracts her blade, turning back to observe you and gojo, “nah, gojo would fold at her command.” 

“salmon.”

from across the training field, you turn to your husband nervously, “why are they staring at us?”

satoru hums, his blindfolded gaze focuses on the field in front of you, “hm, maybe they’re admiring their very beautiful [name] sensei.” the blindfolded man pauses. compliments should still be okay– right? satoru can’t imagine a life without lavishing you with love, yet he will content himself with gently sprinkling you with affection. 

you smack his shoulder playfully. to your surprise, your husband doesn’t reciprocate with some form of physical affection. you tilt your head, perplexed. 

quickly dismissing it, you yell at your students to continue their training.

you don’t notice the way satoru clenches his fists, keeping his eyes trained anywhere but you.

the next time satoru is tempted by your presence is when he comes back home after a mission. it was a walk in the park, but the heavy stack of paperwork that followed it had depleted his energy. all he wanted was to snuggle in bed with his wife, selfishly keeping you all to himself.

and you’re not making it easier to resist with the way you warmly greet him with a smile in nothing but a small cotton tee and those tiny pajama shorts. eyes up, eyes up, eyes up, satoru mentally chants.

he thinks he might actually die.

“toru!” you abandon the book you had been reading to pay your husband taxes (kisses that satoru demands he must have). “you’re home awfully late.”

“mission… paperwork,” his clipped response is mumbled as he hurries past you and to your shared bathroom, avoiding your touch. satoru silently prays to the heavens that you don’t notice his suspicious efforts as he makes his way to take a much needed ice cold shower.

you stand in your spot in confusion, letting your husband go. slowly, you start to connect the pieces of satoru’s strange behavior from his refusal to touch you to his sudden responsible disposition. gojo satoru never does paperwork– not unless you bribe him with a dozen kisses. speaking of kisses, you don’t even remember the last time he had demanded one. something was definitely wrong. 

without missing a beat, you quickly follow your lover’s trail into the bathroom.

to your delight, your husband had failed to lock the door. in the hush of your silence, you can hear the subtle rustle of satoru's garments.

his sky blue eyes go wide when he sees you walk through the door.

“toru… is there something wrong?” your voice is careful. 

the white haired man in front of you nervously laughs as he covers his bare chest, “geez, ask me out to dinner first.” 

“gojo satoru.”

your husband winces at his full name being used, but he puts on another mask. a faux smile plays on his lips as he shrugs. “i don’t know what you mean, gojo.” 

your heart drops at his insistence to shut you out, but you stand your ground. with sheer determination, you walk up to your husband, closing the gap between the two of you. you cup his cheek with a hand while you start to lean closer, your lips nearly brushing.

satoru shuts his eyes, inhaling a deep breath to regain composure. he even sucks in his lips, making him look utterly ridiculous. despite the dangerous allure of your proximity, he resolves to stand firm.

"you won’t even kiss me anymore! satoru, this is absurd. what's happening?" you distance yourself, seeking answers.

despite his towering stature, a snort escapes you as satoru resembles a mere child when mumbling something under his breath.

"come on, use your big boy words."

"i don't want to drive you away," he avoids making eye contact now that his blindfold is off. "i know i can be a bit overwhelming at times."

upon hearing his excuse, you snort loudly, “seriously?”

“seriously.”

“i can’t believe i married such an idiot.” you huff, wrapping your arms around his neck.

satoru pouts, “you’re breaking my heart wifey.”

your lips softly kiss the corner of his mouth. like it was muscle memory, satoru’s lips chase yours even after you pull away. you smile.

“for such a genius, you really are stupid ‘toru.” you flick his forehead. he whines and you know it didn’t hurt, yet you entertain him by leaning up to kiss his injury. “believe it or not, i married you for reasons beyond your pretty face and body.”

“you think i’m pretty?” his eyes shine bright as they lovingly gaze into yours. you take one hand to cup his cheek. he nuzzles his face into it.

“of course you’d say that.” you laugh softly. “but honestly, i’m offended that you thought i would ever be annoyed by your affections. might i remind you that we have been madly in love since our youth? i found myself captivated by your ability to love effortlessly, and the way you hopelessly pined for me for years? i knew i was a goner. that… and your bank accoun–”

satoru kisses you with an intensity that leaves you feeling blissfully lightheaded. lost in the haze of the moment, he showers the rest of your face with tender, wet kisses, and you stand there, surrendering to the sweet assault.

upon withdrawing, satoru wears a broad grin. "i was an idiot today, wasn't i?" you nod, breathless. "how about i make it up to you tonight?" he proposes, drawing you close. you are all too familiar with that feral grin adorning his face.

[eepy-cookies]

Characters: Shadow Milk Cookie x G/N! Reader Content Warning: Angst, Hurt/Comfort Spoilers for Beast-Yeast episode 8 of the finale Disclaimer: If the characters are ooc, remember that this is made for fun. (ngl its been a while since I type a fanfic, but I am still rusty on that so bear with me, plus I found a post on twitter that SMC could also be Blue Moon Cookie but its just a guess.)

After the defeat of the jester that got away...

There was a memory in the distant past, WAY before he himself was created. Surely you have heard the tale of the first five cookies that were made before they become the beast cookies, a cookie one of the beast fell in love but...

The witches had to hide a terrible secret that if a cookie has the most missing incomplete ingredients, that said cookie is sick and cannot live until old age.

??? Cookie: "Um... Are you sure that there is a way to create a cure?"

??? Cookie: "There is a possibility I believe, as a fount of knowledge I will find the cure. But if I kindly ask"

(I remember the first meeting we have (Y/N) Cookie, it pains me to know this...)

That unfortunate cookie named (Y/N) Cookie has an incurable illness, due to the Witch's mistake, The Fount of Knowledge was desperate to find the cure for (Y/N) Cookie, the very first friend who greeted the pre-corrupted beast in a kingdom that was now long gone. One of them falls for that unfortunate cookie, their kindness, patience, and confidence they had charmed him even if he was at his lowest. He knew the pain in the future and yet, he yearned for more.

They both get along well, it was peaceful for them. He never felt any happier just being by their side, but not all happiness last much longer.

One day he was about to give (Y/N) Cookie a gift, a love letter that will never be opened and read.

???: "(Y/N) COOKIE?!" ???: "PLEASE WAKE UP!"

He stood there shocked, (Y/N) Cookie was on the floor struggling to get up. He knew (Y/N) Cookie was sick and yet their own health is getting worse by the minute, in a act of desperation he decided to look further into knowledge casting a spell on (Y/N) Cookie to keep their health in check, but as the years go by madness took hold of him and decided to cast a spell on them.

???: "My love...I am sorry...."

Madness CLEARLY took a hold of him.

Shadow Milk Cookie: "I can't afford to lose you! So I will make you as one of my puppets! Hehehe... HAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!"

And yet...

Tears fell from his face, he drops down to his knees leaning closer to them.

He can't do it.

He can't harm the one he love dearly.

Leaving only behind a kiss on the forehead, and the unread love letter in their hands. He casted the spell that would last much longer in hopes to find a cure while he is away. After all he will just lie to himself that he killed them, it's no big deal.

----

Pure Vanilla Cookie: This must be the place.

Wizard Cookie: A coffin? Why this place?

Gingerbrave Cookie: !!! Look a cookie is inside!

Strawberry Cookie: Are they...still breathing?!

Pure Vanilla Cookie watch as the sleeping (Y/N) remained in the coffin, sleeping peacefully. To which he now understands why Shadow Milk Cookie was trying to preserve some of his energy, casting a life lasting spell was taking a toll on him even if he was sealed.

Pure Vanilla Cookie: I hope this spell allowed you to wake up...

With no other explanation another spell was casted, pure healing magic was casting on (Y/N) Cookie. Pure Vanilla Cookie witnessed this tragic memory, and yet he had to secretly admit, he is evil but his capability of magic was greater far from what he had imagined.

But all that's left was silence, and yet...

Everyone: !!!

??? Cookie: ...W....Wh....

Gingerbrave Cookie: Look their awake!

Pure Vanilla Cookie: (Y/N) Cookie..... are you awake?

(Y/N) Cookie: ...H...hung.....r..y...

Strawberry Cookie quickly pull out an extra supply of royal bear jellies and gently feed (Y/N) Cookie as the others watch in concern. In the corner of Pure Vanilla Cookie's soul jam they aren't the only ones who witness a miracle that was tragic yet so real.

---

Arriving at a safe in (Y/N) Cookie was put on a wheel chair carefully eating the jelly soup one of the cookies made, they themselves were confused knowing that they would pass on and yet here they are somehow alive, still sick but still living, as if someone was carrying the burden off from their shoulders.

(Y/N) Cookie looked at the letter that they kept and had not opened and kept it close to them at all times. They need to know what happen, what year is it, and most importantly...where are their only friends?

...

..

.

That night when everyone is asleep, (Y/N) Cookie wheeled their way to the balcony watching the stars holding the letter close to their chest. Wondering where did their friend go, glancing at the letter that was remained fresh despite how many years has passed. They opened the letter carefully just to give it a read.

But before they can actually read it...

??? Cookie: ...(Y../N) Cookie?"

That recognizable voice from behind, (Y/N) Cookie looked to see that what was once the one they knew was in a different appearance of a jester. They were supposed to feel fear and yet...

(Y/N) Cookie: ...Are...you.... Blue Moon / Blueberry Milk Cookie?

He walked closer to see if they are actually alive, (Y/N) is still sick but cannot walk properly. Their hands reached out to him, gently touching his cheek. His face was unreadable and yet...

Shadow Milk Cookie: Are you....awake? (Y/N) Cookie?

There was no voice is mischief or anything, just pure vulnerable voice he has left of them. (Y/N) Cookie nodded as he kneel on the ground gently yet carefully hugging (Y/N) Cookie hiding his face to their chest. (Y/N) Cookie gently hugged him back remembering the usual scent that they personally love.

His own body shaking which (Y/N) was crying in turn, wondering to themselves what happened to him when they are asleep for SO very long?

[wheelie-sick]

Limb Difference Basics

Everyone loves to talk about us no one really knows about us

What is a limb difference?

A limb difference is a structural and visible difference in a limb. This includes limbs that formed incompletely, formed differently, or are missing entirely. There are two major categories of limb differences

Congenital limb differences: Congenital limb differences are limb differences where the variation developed in utero

Acquired limb differences are limb differences where a limb is lost (partially or completely) due to illness, injury, or medical treatment.

What isn't a limb difference?

Missing or different facial features (such as microtia- underdeveloped ears) are not limb differences, they are facial differences

Differences in how a limb moves (such as hypermobility) are not limb differences

Differences in how a limb feels (such as limbs with chronic pain) are not limb differences

"Limb difference" exclusively refers to structural differences in appearances of a limb.

Just because an aspect of a limb varies from "typical" doesn't mean it is a limb difference. Limb difference is a specific and narrow category.

"Limb typical" is a term that refers to someone without a limb difference.

"This sounds like differently abled"

This is so rude to say! We get to define ourselves however we want to. Beyond that, this term was created to be both more inclusive of the many types of limb difference as well as to escape derogatory terms like "deformed" and "disfigured." The terms are reclaimed by some of us but they have a complex history and not everyone is comfortable with them- hence limb difference.

Additionally, originally the only term to describe limb difference was "amputation" and "amputee" which do not remotely cover the vast experiences of limb difference. It leaves even people with congenital limb reduction in an awkward spot. "Limb difference" is far more inclusive of the variety of people who find themselves in this community.

Disability and limb difference

Not every limb different person considers themself to be disabled! Despite popular misconception, this does not come from a place of internalized or externalized ableism.

The decision made by some limb different people to not identify as disabled does not usually come from a negative view of the label. It generally comes from people with congenital limb differences or other people who have lived with their limb difference from a very young age. In the same way that a limb typical person knows exactly how to navigate the world with their typical limbs, so do limb different people with our own limbs.

The viewpoint of some limb different people is that they can navigate the world exactly as a limb typical person would because they know their body and how to move it. They view their limb (or lack thereof) as something that differs in appearance rather than something that disables them.

Some limb different people reject the pathologization of their body entirely, declaring that they do not have a medical condition and instead exist as natural, non-disordered variation.

While most limb different people embrace the label of disability it's important to respect and acknowledge those who don't.

The umbrella

Limb difference is a huge category that many people fall under. Many disabled people read about limb difference and ask themself "could this be me?"

If you're asking this, the answer is probably no.

One of the defining features of limb difference is its notability to others and yourself. While many limb different people are not handed the term "limb difference" on a platter by a doctor the realization of this term's existence tends to be a definitive lightbulb moment- a word that finally describes all those experiences you've had up to this point.

Medical neglect happens and people are diagnosed with limb variations later in life (hell, that was me! victim of small town healthcare ✌️) However, even before receiving a specific diagnosis, limb different people tend to notice that their limbs are, well, different from other people's.

If you do not feel absolutely sure that you have a limb difference and if you do not have a difference in the appearance of your limbs visible to the naked eye of a stranger, you should not be calling yourself limb different.

A non-exhaustive list of limb differences

General

Achondroplasia and many other forms of dwarfism

Amputation

Arthrogryposis

Limb length discrepancy

Skeletal dysplasia

Arm and Hand

Cleft hand

Clinodactyly

Macrodactyly

Madelung's deformity

Polydactyly

Radial longitudinal deficiency

Radioulnar synostosis

Symbrachydactyly

Syndactyly

Ulnar longitudinal deficiency

Leg and Foot

Cleft foot

Club foot

Femoral anteversion

Femoral retroversion

Fibular hemimelia

Genu varum

Metatarsus adductus

Miserable malalignment syndrome (🙋)

Proximal focal femoral deficiency

Tarsal coalition

Tibia hemimelia

Tibial torsion

^^ even if your condition isn't on the above list it still may be a limb difference. This list is just a handful of thousands of examples. ^^

I cannot tell you if you have a limb difference. do not ask.

Diagnosis, treatment, & assistive devices

Limb differences are generally diagnosed via examination and x ray. Diagnosis is typically made through examination with details later being confirmed through radiology. Radiology is rarely required to identify a limb difference as they are, by nature, visible to the eye.

Surgeries are available for some limb differences. These surgeries often aim to make a limb appear as typical as possible and are many times cosmetic. Many limb differences are rare, and especially in their more severe forms. This means that many of these surgeries are experimental. Corrective bracing is sometimes used in children to train a bone to grow in a more typical fashion.

The more common approach to managing limb differences is through assistive technology. Limb different people may use any combination of prosthetics, wheelchairs, walkers, rollators, crutches, canes, braces, and splints. Many limb different people, particularly those with upper limb differences, use additional assistive technology at home to make everyday tasks easier.

[tubbytarchia]

Etho doodles in which I let my inner dinosaur nerd take over 😔 and also have no idea how to shade

Get it cause he's old and washed up haha... ok but actual raptor Etho hybrid justification below cut

To be honest the main reason was because I really wanted a hybrid in the mix who wasn't some furry creature and a reptile or amphibian or smth instead. Etho still ended up feathered but whatever it's close enough! But for ACTUAL reasoning:

He does feel damn ancient, like an old deity of the mcyt space that no one can dislike. Dinosaurs are the same!! They're old but still thought of with great fascination and fondness, everyone loves dinosaurs...

Dinosaurs are ever so mysterious, as many advancements as we make there's still so much we don't know. Just as we know jackshit about mister Kakashi skin man. Also, there are so many incomplete skeletons out there. I didn't have a particular species in mind for Etho, because where's the mystery in that? He can be one of those 5% skeleton 95% speculation dinosaurs like this guy!! Missing jaw and all

"I'm a runner, not a protector" - so, a raptor, or more specifically the Dromaeosauridae family, which literally has "running/runner" in its name

But! I'm always a fan of stuff going against its nature, especially in this case! Etho states he's not a runner yet protects his allies rather fiercely even in total silence. Eg refusing to kill Cleo in SL or to give away Tango's location during the LimL manhunt, same for Grian in SL. He was a bit flaky in 3L I think? And he only started to have genuine care for allies in LL with Bdubs? Though he is still very much a runner in many cases like during the LL Wither fight. Research also strongly suggests that most if not all raptors were solitary hunters, and the way I see Etho (through my shamefully limited watchtime of his POVs...) he feels a lot like someone who ultimately only trusts himself at the start even if he's pleasant and allying with others, and doesn't seem to think he can carry his weight in groups though he doesn't voice this a lot. That's just how Etho is, very composed, but it feels like there's an insecurity there, showcased especially in SL but again I haven't seen almost any of his POVs in full so maybe I'm talking out of my ass!! Sorry ethogirls I'm only a sidegig ethogirl myself... But yeah tldr to me he gives off the vibe of an otherwise solitary animal struggling to find 100% sure footing in a pack. In whichever ways he does go against his nature, its not usually made a show of

At the mention of a raptor, a lot of people will probably think of the glamourized Jurassic Park Velociraptors. But those awesome guys from the movies are actually the size of chickens. In general though, dinosaurs tend to be a bit.. exaggerated in media, despite how inherently fascinating they already are. And I think it fits Etho because we all know how the Lifers seem to fear and mancrush on him when he's just some dork with perfect capability to become pathetic at a moment's notice. Still, he's a clearly skilled player and still respected without question Etho's not some killer machine like some people make dinosaurs out to be. He's just a fellow creature fulfilling his role in the ecosystem 👍

dinosaurs are cool

The hook-like sickle claws on the feet... something something fishing rod

I swear I'm not turning all my Lifers into hybrids I'm not!! Still plenty normal humans in the mix I swear....... But Etho is such a radical dude, I really wanted to do something more for him. The whole Kitsune thing that I often see associated with him is really cool. I don't actually know the reasoning for it but I assume something something naruto, but also, him being this ancient mythical cryptid who people know so little about, you know? It makes SO much sense. So anyway I turned him into a dinosaur instead rawr

As a herbivore advocate I also considered stuff like the triceratops (known for how they protect themselves and their own) but nah the raptor symbolism...

[cultkinkcoven]

This is common knowledge for anyone on the r/demonolatrypractices subreddit but I realized that a lot of you aren’t on there and are missing out on some great resources, so if you’re looking for reading material on demonology and demonolatry definitely check out the website below.

These basic resources come straight from Demonology the subreddit. I did not compile any of this, I’m just sharing for the folks on Tumblr. (Honestly even if you aren’t fond of that sub you should definitely take advantage of their deep dives by experienced practitioners, it really is a great resource):

Some book recommendations

Essential Background:

*On the Hieratic Art* by Proclus

*The Testament of Solomon*

*The Picatrix*

*Three Books of Occult Philosophy* by Agrippa

*The Fourth Book of Occult Philosophy* by Pseudo-Agrippa

Classic Grimoires:

*The Sworn Book of Honorius (Liber Juratus)*

*The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage*

*The Heptameron* by Pietro d'Abano

*The Greater Key of Solomon*

*The Lesser Key of Solomon (Lemegeton)*

*Grimorium Verum*

For Spiritual/Theological Grounding:

*Timaeus* by Plato

*Parmenides* by Plato

*Chaldean Oracles*

*The Corpus Hermeticum*

*On the Mysteries (De Mysteriis)* by Iamblichus

*Psychic Self-Defense* by Dion Fortune

*Initiation Into Hermetics* by Franz Bardon

Good Contemporary Books:

*Secrets of the Magickal Grimoires* by Aaron Leitch

*Pandemonium* by Jake Stratton-Kent

*Stellas Daemonum* by David Crowhurst

About Lilith:

The Mighty Book List:

Introductory guides (the books that have their own systems of working with spirits included in them, therefore you can try working with spirits if you have any one of these books):

"The Complete Book of Demonolatry" by S. Connolly, (I consider this to be essential)

"Lucifer and The Hidden Demons: A Practical Grimoire from The Order of Unveiled Faces" by Theodore Rose,

"Demons of Magick: Three Practical Rituals for Working with The 72 Demons" by Gordon Winterfield

"Consorting with Spirits: Your Guide to Working with Invisible Allies" by Jason Miller.

Each one of these books will have wildly different approaches. Try them, see what works for you and what doesn't.

Classic grimoires (these are good to read through to see the working with demons through a historical lens. Some people still use methods in these books, most new books will at the very least borrow elements, such as names, sigils and correspondences):

"The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage" (Dehn ed. is recommended)

"The Greater Key of Solomon",

"The Lesser Key of Solomon" aka Lemegeton (Peterson ed. is best, Mathers/Crowley is its own thing worth reading but incomplete),

"Pseudomonarchia Daemonum" (repeats a lot of information that Lesser Key has, but is older, so worth a read if you're into history of occult),

"Grimorium Verum" (Peterson ed. or JSK's "True Grimoire"),

"The Grand Grimoire" (aka Red Dragon)

"The Grimoire of St. Cyprian",

" The Goetia of Dr. Rudd".

Books that are good to read for general occult/ magick background:

"The Egyptian Book of the Dead",

"Chaldean Oracles",

"On the Mysteries" by Iamblichus,

"The Greek Magical Papyri",

"The Testament of Solomon",

"The Picatrix",

"Three Books of Occult Philosophy" by Agrippa,

"The Fourth Book of Occult Philosophy" by Pseudo-Agrippa,

"Transcendental Magic" by Eliphas Levi,

"Psychic Self-Defense" by Dion Fortune,

"Initiation into Hermetics" by Franz Bardon,

"The Golden Dawn" by Regardie/Greer,

"Chicken Qabalah" by Lon Milo Duquette,

"Liber Null and Psychonaut" by Peter J. Carroll.

Contemporary reference books (dictionaries, history books on a spirit and other similar compilations):

"The Dictionary of Demons: Expanded and Revised: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger,

"Book of the Fallen: Satanic Theory, Ethics, and Practice" by Martin McGreggor,

"Lucifer: Princeps" by Peter Grey,

"Rites of Lucifer" by Asenath Mason,

"The Goetia Devils" by Rev. Cain,

"Secrets of the Magickal Grimoires: The Classical Texts of Magick Deciphered" by Aaron Leitch,

"Pandemonium: A Discordant Concordance of Diverse Spirit Catalogues" by Jake Stratton-Kent.

"Stellas Daemonum" by David Crowhurst,

"Demonolator's Handbook" by Mirta Wake.

Books to do with evocation (make sure you know the difference between evoking and invoking), qliphoth, and other intermediate practices:

"The Practice of Magical Evocation" by Franz Bardon,

"Qabalah, Qliphoth, and Goetic Magic" by Thomas Karlsson

"Goetic Evocation" by Steve Savedow,

"Lake of Fire" by S. Connolly,

"Tree of Qliphoth" by Asenath Mason

[amphibizzy]

HEHE u guys' tags are so fun so heres another. here is the Actual progress state of froggy good gravy

heres some things:

so obv i skipped his leg day for yesterday deadline. THAT will be needle felted quite easily, but boy is he not going to enjoy getting stabbed a thousand times. i can only start his geta when the legs are done, might be reinforced paperclay, not much to say

i blended grey and teal wool n felted his loincloth because i couldnt color match ANYTHING, so being the same material as the legs hopefully wont bug me much. the wrap was also difficult to find, until i realized the shorts i was wearing for a Blorbo Fit were... well i was wearing them because they were the right color. after searching the whole house. i sacrificed one of its pockets for material 💀

the seams on his neck, arms-to-body, and torso underside are incomplete. sewn in key parts and underside was taped. still want more anchor points on the eyes. luckily he is enjoyable to work on, and this wont take more than a day or so sometime

i want to sew him an Actual, miniature tie with the same dark red bedsheet from my Hornet cosplay. he deserves it, he will look so snazzy

did you know theres a pouch of mini gravel in his lower torso? he currently weighs .5lb or 260g at ~10 inches. thats a froggy fact

most importantly HIS FACE IS REMOVABLE and he will have several casts turned into more expressions as i want em! no way i was deciding on just ONE. metal bracket in the faces, doubled neodymium magnets in his head. his final face is Creative Paperclay which is my favorite airdry ever. the oven low temp can cure it quicker while the mould ends up keeping the face wet/malleable

i also have this prop for him, but no fun photo ideas

more images you may have missed, ty for everything

EXTRA PHOTOS POST #1

EXTRA PHOTOS POST #2

[astracora]

Turning Point - Part 5

Characters: Poly!LADs x gn!mc

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Angst, Loss of Arm, Lots of emotional struggle with disability, mentions for Rafayel stories, and myths, violent imagery and arguments.

Word Count: 5456

Written: 9th January 2025

Notes: Pre-relationship with gn!MC with all LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. Unnamed MC, but using my personal MC's basic appearance and adjusted backstory. I take some liberties with what the game offers me. Rafayel is so hard to write for a lot of reasons, but also is one of my favourite characters in any story because he's just... contains multitudes. I also feel like he's the one who struggles most with all these other people in MC's life. I also feel like he's so fixated on pain, and struggle, that he forgets kindness can be offered to him with no price. Anyway, I enjoyed working on this bit a lot even though it was hard. Enjoy! Also as a side note, the song of choice I can only partially explain, Rafayel out of all the boys makes me think of regency romance on a level I truly cannot explain. (even though he doesn't have a dancing scene... YET!!)

Now Playing: All I Want, by Kris Bowers

Masterlist AO3

<- Previous Next ->

Rafayel loves you. That is never in doubt. He finds himself bitter and aching that there is so much you have shared that only he remembers.

Sometimes it comes out in harsh words or lies. Even though he knows it is unfair to punish you, when you can't control it.

Mostly, however, he tries to enjoy moments with you. Hoping that something will spark, and you will look at him and see long years of history.

Remember his longing and his love in all its forms.

Remember all the facets that make him up. Perhaps it's cowardice to want your memories to fill in the blanks that he is too scared to tell you. Blood on his hands, heart offered up. He does not want to see your expression change. For you to fear or hate who he is… who he can become.

He thinks about beautiful blue seas, and the breath stolen underwater.

When he finds himself thinking of the beach he waited at, every year, he pushes himself into his work.

Now, he spends most of his days at your side. In case you need him. He watches closely, because he's used to you hiding your struggle from him. When you're sick, you've hidden it, he's reminded you that you're not a superhero. As much as you put on a brave front for every kid that sees your hunter reels.

Rafayel has watched this version of you for a long time, before he finally met you again. Properly.

He has seen so many renditions of you, no matter who you have been… he has loved you. He has and will love you for eternity and beyond, even if it might be easier not to.

Rafayel has finished most of his work for his exhibit, as he stares at the final piece that is missing something that he cannot find.

Sun blends with sea, as the tides recede. As silver bones are left behind to bleach.

He stares and stares and nothing comes. Just that vague, irritating feeling of incompletion.

"You're going to burn a hole in it, fish."

"Sylus, leave the man alone, he's actually working."

Rafayel huffs… and therein lies his other problem. Your consortium of bizarre attachments. If he were less observant, he could pretend they see you as a friend only.

But he is a man who can kill another, who can plan his revenge, who can hide in plain sight. Who is capable of sneaking up even on the N109 Zone Leader.

So he can see and he can't ignore. He also can't ignore that they comfort you as well.

You have teased him for being childish, and he thinks the irritating feeling in his gut, that demands he steal all of your time, that you are his bonded partner, confirms such a claim. He is not possessive of a lot… your heart is his.

He tries to ignore the doctor and the crow. Staring straight ahead, hoping that answers will come to him, but he cannot. He can feel their presence and it is on the edge of his consciousness. Poking at it.

Like he is a crab on the beach and a child wants to watch his pincers clasp.

"Maybe you should take a walk, get some fresh air."

"Do you want the fish to suffocate, Doctor?"

"Truly, you are incapable of not prodding at others aren't you?"

He huffs this time, turning his face to look at the two. Zayne is typing on his laptop, barely looking up to converse, while Sylus is on his tablet, glasses on the end of his nose.

The two look eerily similar like this.

Rafayel tries not to compare the doctor to the crow, it's unflattering. At least the doctor can heal your wounds.

When he speaks though, his irritation comes out in the snippy tone he takes, "Your opinions are noted, dumb crow. Then swiftly discarded."

The man does that irritating little laugh he does, that is more a puff of air than a real laugh. Like it's too much effort to feel anything, and Rafayel wants to pluck his feathers.

How you can tolerate him, he'll never know.

At least the hunter is quiet…

Still, he wants to get out of here, they make it harder for him to think, and he can't make progress like this. So he stands, shrugging at them and heads towards the door, as he goes to make through he almost collides with you and Xavier returning from the hospital. He isn't surprised when you move out the way just in time, you're a hunter and your training has made you capable. Still as he greets you, you hesitate, before tugging at his shirt before he can leave.

He looks down, your hand holding onto the fabric, not tough enough to tear, but enough to halt his movements.

"Are you alright, Raffy?" 

It shouldn't surprise him that you notice the tick in his jaw, or the stress under his skin. It isn't the first time, and you've shown many times to have been able to pick out when his mood has dropped. You're observant as part of being a hunter, you're careful, you pay attention. You're smart.

You care.

About him, about his mood… about his life. His irritation settles, soothes at the edges, and his smile is easier, "I need some fresh air. Want to come with?"

You hesitate and he watches the fear enter your eyes. Wavering. You walk between the hospital and the apartment when you don't take Zayne's car, but that's the extent of your journeys. He wants to pull you by the hand… make you see the sea with him.

"Where are you going?"

"Whitesands."

It's far enough removed, very few people visit it, and he will get a walk somewhere familiar. Perhaps it's familiar enough for you to follow him.

He extends his hand, carefully, trying to keep the need from bubbling to the surface. If he could take you away far from here, he would. Take you to everything he's ever seen, so he can see it with new eyes. Yours.

Your hand stretches out, and your fingers tremble, before you finally take his, "Alright, if it's quiet." Your request is one he'll happily grant. Both of you alone, he can't think of a better way to spend his time.

The walk is kind to him, as they head towards Whitesand Bay, he gets to keep your hand in his, listen to the song of the world, and watch as your steps become lighter. You stop staring down at your arm and checking around you, eventually focusing on the sky and him.

As feet crunch on white sand, and approach the edge of tides. You let go of his hand to walk a little further out, and he watches. As you crouch, as you reach fingers to the water.

Rafayel paints everything he thinks is beautiful, tragic, or brings pain to his soul. You hurt him too, in ways he aches for. Like he is placing his hand in a burning flame, and holding it there, because the longer he holds it, the closer he gets to what he craves.

Like there is an answer there, waiting over the edge of agony. If he tumbles after it, he'll find what eludes him.

There's a feeling in him that wants to drown you with him. He could swim out, with you in his arms, and pull you under. On the edge of the question of life, before he gives you the means to breathe alongside him. He's warned you of the nature of sirens, and you've looked him in the eye and told him you don't fear him.

You should, though, he knows. You should fear the ocean's grasp as well as his own, because he wants your heart for his.

As you turn your eyes back to him, soft smile tugging the scar on your face, his heart thunders and then stills. Flames and agony. The need to touch and hold it in his hand… Lit against the contours of your face, and the glimmer in your eyes.

His inspiration is always closer than he thinks.

—-----

Rafayel dislikes your companions.

The prince gets to spend all of his time with you, working together, protecting each other. Where Rafayel had to convince you to be his bodyguard, just for a fraction of that time.

The doctor is who you trust with your injuries and your wounds, he is who you go to when something hurts. You hid your sickness from Rafayel before now, so he didn't doubt your capabilities.

The crow… the crow gets under his scales. Like a tick. Biting and bleeding and ruining his skin. Yet you trust him, a man who built all his life on violence. Who has blood on his hands. Who is open about his sins… While he cannot tell you for fear of the look in your eye changing.

It is safe to say the crow is his least favourite. The one who grinds at him most, who plucks and pulls. Like a hook in his upper lip. He dreams of drowning the man… he would if the look in your eyes didn't stop him.

So he hates them, he thinks. The anger and irritation and the childish petulance. He wants your attention and he fights for it, he wants you to trust him most. It took too long to gain entrance into your home, reminding himself that time builds strong bonds. That he should be patient. He did not want to scare you, to startle you. Like you are a small fish and he is a bigger… hungrier beast.

There is no peace when they are around, and normally pain brings him inspiration, an answer on the end of a paintbrush. A vision in the agony.

Whatever feeling they inspire is not pain, and it brings him no art to create, no feelings to share in blues and greens. Nothing to show for it.

He has thankfully, however, finished his final piece. So there is a relief in him, even as the crow looks down at him, eyebrow raised.

Rafayel ignores the man, looking straight ahead, signing his work. Paintbrush steady. Steadier than the racing heart in his chest.

He will not lose a game of chicken with an overgrown bird.

So when the crow turns to walk away, he is relieved, and so smug, until he hears a crunch. Looking over quickly, and staring down at the floor.

"Ah, what a shame."

One of Rafayel's paintbrushes snapped in half by the stupid crow's foot.

He levels a glare at the man, "Are stupid crows clumsy too?"

"Are all fish messy? Your things have spread across the apartment."

"I'm working!"

"Quite diligently I see, despite galavanting off to the beach. Inspiration was it?"

The look on the crow's face is too level. It's too calm. He does not respond to the rise of Rafayel's voice. He does not flinch at the glare in his eyes. He does not move, from where his foot is still on his brush.

It is a feeling of irritation that burns and scorches where it stands.

He has to tolerate and bite his tongue. He has to think and be careful. He has to share, where he does not want to share.

You are his heart, why does he have to look at the eyesore in his vision, and think about his hands on you too.

His anger bubbles and froths and overflows. A pot that has been left, and forgotten. You will forget him too, in favour of a crow! A stupid. Foolish. Irritating crow.

He stands and presses forwards, fangs bared and sharp. He is a predator of the seas. This man is nothing. He is a god of the tides. This man is a petty criminal.

Rafayel knows you better, he has seen more incarnations than this man can even comprehend, and he dares to play at favour?

"If you wish to be drowned, crow, I am happy to oblige."

Eyebrow quirks at him, a look in his eyes that Rafayel can't make out, but it glitters and twinkles, "I'd love to see you try, fish, but I'm afraid you couldn't hope to kill me."

"I am more than willing to try."

"Then you'll simply be hurting your 'beloved bride', wouldn't you?"

He snarls, a low noise in the back of his throat, hand reaching out to grab at the man's throat. To snap it, bite through it, to cut his voice permanently, he isn't sure. It will hurt, and he will deserve it. For calling you what he cannot. Too many memories that you cannot hold in your heart.

The crow steps forwards, as if daring him to try. To wrap his hands around his throat and twist. To slice his throat open with a dagger. To see. To show him if it's true.

"Raffy?" Your call comes from the side, stumbling in, voice wary.

His hand hovers, he debates. Thinks for a moment. Stares at the crow's adam apple as the man swallows his laughter down. The dare is there, waiting for him to take… and they both know he won't.

So he rips his hand back, offers you the kind of smile that shakes at the foundations, "Hey cutie, I was just going out for the exhibit."

You open your mouth to speak, and he shakes his head, grabbing his canvas. Lifting it far too quickly to be safe, and turns on a heel, "I'll see you later."

The speed he leaves the apartment leaves the door frame shaking behind him. Heading out, running from the place. From the crow's dare, from the wary look in your eyes.

From the inadequacy… the guilt… the irritation. The pain.

What lurks over the abyss could just be nothingness. A world where you don't want him, or need him. Where without your memories you do not look at him, hear him call you his beloved bride, and love him as you once did. Where his bond with you is not enough, and he simply has to experience the heart that cannot beat for anyone but you.

That he has lied and hidden and kept from you for too long, that a criminal with blood on his hands who does not hide… claims your heart for his.

His heart…

There is pain behind his art and in his soul. A reminder that he cannot always be with you in every life, and he prays this is not one of them. An alter of suffering that he would cut his chest open at, if you would always look at him.

—--

You cannot stop thinking about the look on Rafayel's face.The agony in his eyes as he'd darted from the room. You'd asked Sylus who had shrugged, "I broke his paintbrush." But not explained further.

You'd seen Rafayel break his own paintbrushes in his studio, stepping on them, falling over them. Resulting in a trip to the hospital because of how messy things were.

You help Sylus clean up some of the mess, containing it in a corner with the rest of Raffy's things, hoping it would alleviate some of the feeling you can't seem to shake in the air. A stagnation. It feels like decay, and you can't open enough windows to air it out.

If Sylus decides not to share, he won't. You've known him long enough, pried at his secrets enough, that you don't waste the strength anymore. He shares what he wants, when he wants to.

So you abandon the effort and go about your day. It drags. Waiting for time to pass, working through your exercises, before you have to leave.

As the time approaches, the clock hand moving, it begins to click harder. The sound impending.

You think about other exhibits, the amount of people, the noise…

It cuts through the excitement, the peace of the wait, the boredom.

You pause as you're getting ready, staring at the prosthetic arm flexing in front of you. The movement of metal fingers, the clear indication of your injury… your failure.

You're going to see Rafayel. A man who people will be looking at. Commending.

Taking photos of.

Do you really want to be stood next to him like this? To draw attention to yourself and him?

An icy chill runs up your spine, and you stop. You have to get these clothes off. You have to cancel. You can't go.

You can't be there.

You feel the chain on your ankle, it tugs and it pulls, and it drags you back. The beast that settled, has woken up. It is hungry and it is angry, and it is laughing at you for trying.

A mistake, this was a mistake. You made a promise to someone you care about, and now you're going to hurt him. Either way, you're going to hurt him. Make him look stupid. Make him hate you.

You're going to break this fragile peace. Bring that agonised look into his eyes again.

Take from a man who gives you so much. Love, affection, kindness, warmth, acceptance, joy.

You are ripping all those things from his hands, and returning nothing.

"Kitten?" You stumble, when the voice startles you out of your thoughts. Falling back onto the bed, looking up as Sylus enters, not bothering to wait for an answer. Ever since your mission had gone wrong, he has been far less hesitant. If he could ever be said to be hesitant.

When he sees you sitting, tears in your eyes, he approaches you, kneels in front of you. Hands on your knees. Soothing your skin. His skin is so warm, it's like a brand. You almost pull away. On fire, itching, hurting. He notices your flinch and pulls his hands away. The relief of the cool is intense, and you choke on the feeling.

You're the mistake. Too fragile to be touched. Too useless to be helpful. Too much work.

He takes in your rumbled clothing. The shirt half pulled off, the jacket thrown away from you, the trousers unclasped. You are shivering, and shaking, and while you can see his hands twitching. Yearning, needing to soothe, he knows he can't. So he tries to speak, hesitant now, "Don't you like them?" You think about the time he spent, finding things with Rafayel that are easier to wear. Clasps that can be done easier with one hand, or buttons bigger for your unsteady metal fingers.

Things that require the least amount of struggle. If he could not find them, he had them made.

The two of them, you think as you try to fight through the fog, are dangerous.

You shake your head numbly. "I can't go."

It doesn't require much more from you, even without his eye, Sylus reads people. He reads you. He's said sometimes he cannot understand the workings of your mind, but he improves everyday. It is terrifying to be seen by him. Terrifying for him to look under the rough exterior, to the rougher interior.

You wait for the moment that he realises you're not worth it.

"You'll be with us." He starts, and you look down at where his hand twitches towards you, then back. "You won't be alone."

You haven't been alone, you think. In all the time you've spent with this. This weight, first on your back, then on your ankle. They have come to find you. Looking.

Just like Caleb did.

Is it enough? This could be that wakeup call.

"Rafayel wants you there, he's excited to see you." It is odd. It is hearing Sylus say 'Rafayel' and not 'fish', that jolts you back. Just like the moment you saw them in your kitchen, arguing. Just like when you saw them all walk through that door when the blanket was your only defence.

It is a realisation of how odd this is. How bizarre they are.

It almost makes you hiccup a laugh. The idea of Sylus speaking for Rafayel. You think about how warm he is to you, how he takes your hand easily.

I will always want to look at you.

"What if it's too much work?" You finally manage, the agony lightening so you can speak, no longer tearing at you. Though you can feel the creature on your ankle. Tugging. Like a dog with a chew toy.

"The important things are worth it."

Important.

Learning to use your prosthetic is hard. Learning to trust is hard.

It was with Caleb, it is with all of them. It is a constant struggle. A constant weight. To try.

They catch you, with a security net. Give you space to breathe, so you can stand back up again.

You think about what you want, think about what will make you happy… what is worth living for.

It is the reason to keep getting up.

You want to see Rafayel's work, you want to see the people you care about. You want to keep your promise to a man who values you. A hesitant shaky hand takes Sylus' where it hovers. The way you can watch him heave a sigh, the tension in him easing, as he clasps yours between both of his. Tight, but not suffocating. He grounds you, and it doesn't burn.

"What do you think, Kitten? Do you want to try?"

Sylus has never belittled you for tears, or made you feel your emotions are a mistake. When you are drowning, he offers a hand. When you anger and hurt, he is there, either to join you in your hurt, or to help appease it.

He offers you a choice, and he means it. If you truly do not want to, you know he will accept it. If you want to, he will help.

"I want to try."

He nods, pulling you up with him, to stand, straight into his chest. So that you can feel his uneven heart beating against you. "Then let's get you ready."

—-----

He should never have left so early. He should have stayed with you.

Rafayel left the apartment in frustration and anger and now he stares at his phone, hoping to see your name pop up.

It is an agitating feeling. To be stood on the edge of the cliff and not know if there's water below.

He has forced himself to listen to Thomas, to go through the motions, to ensure his exhibit is set up correctly. He has sat under too bright lights, feeling himself drying up, as he waits. As the clock hand moves, as he thinks, and he struggles.

If he keeps running, will you stop chasing him?

As his exhibit starts, he checks again, only to see a message from the doctor, 'Good luck today'. He doesn't respond. He stares at it. It's unsettling. He doesn't want the doctor to wish him good luck. He doesn't want his comfort.

He doesn't need it.

Even when his agitation settles a moment, and he hides it from Thomas who asks him why he's smiling. He's not.

That doesn't mean anything.

He does not wave at Xavier as he walks through the door, milling around the paintings quietly. Avoiding the bigger crowds. He tries not to think about the fact that he's come to see.

It doesn't matter.

As time passes, Rafayel fidgets.

Stares at the door.

Fidgets.

Stares at the door.

He walks around the room, passes Xavier, who hands him water quietly, then walks off. He stares down at it, but he's parched, the crowds are tiring him out, the people are talking like they understand him, and he just wants to be somewhere else. So he downs it, and lets the relief of the chill settle in his throat.

He talks absently to people he doesn't really care to listen to. Thomas gives him a talk about doing his duties.

Irritation settles in his stomach. He doesn't care about his duties. He cares about seeing you.

He checks his phone, and is relieved, though irritated, when he gets a message from the crow, 'We're on our way'. He sends back a thumbs up, though it is through a shaky hand. Excitement makes it unsteady.

It is when he is not staring at the door, when he hears your voice behind him. "Raffy?" Pulling away from where he is avoiding Thomas' lectures, he takes you in. Your hand is grasped in the crow's, eyes darting around the room. You're wearing your prosthetic, a dark blue jacket over your shoulders, painted with green and blue flowers. Flared trousers and a light shirt. He absently thinks that the crow's style isn't too ridiculous, if it means you visit his exhibits like this. Like one of the flowers in a garden he wants to take you.

"Cutie!" It is relief and it is the weight of hundreds of years that shed. He waited, he waited, and you came. He takes your hand away from the crow, not without giving a smug little smile, which receives him a smirk, and kisses the back of it. "You made it."

He watches your eyes glisten, he can feel the heat off your cheeks. Not all embarrassment, he knows some of it is stress, but it is enough. "You don't have to stay long." He promises, it doesn't matter how long you stay. You came. You came, no matter what.

You came, and he knows it wasn't easy.

The laugh you release, it trembles, like your hand, but it is accompanied by the small smile he is learning to draw with his eyes closed. "Show me your work?"

"I'll go find the prince, call me if you need me." The crow offers, he leans, kissing your temple, before he leaves. You blink after him a bit, touching where he kissed with your hand, pulling it from Rafayel's grasp, and then look at him. He glares after the man, but doesn't offer much of a response.

"Come on then cutie, you're mine." He doesn't look as he grabs your hand, and he knows he is grinning at you. Pulling you forwards with him, darting to where his art calls for you.

He doesn't notice the chill in your hand, until he eases his fingers over it. Feeling grooves and edges. He almost releases when he realises he has grabbed your prosthetic, you are staring down at it with him.

Rafayel looks at you, tries to read the look in your eyes. It is soft, and awed and gentle. So he raises it to his lips, kissing the wrist. You tremble, blinking, before tightening your grip just a little.

It is the soft, warm look in your eyes, as you tug him forward a little bit more, a laugh bubbling out of you. "Come on Raffy."

He takes you around all of his paintings, and just watches you.

You don't offer him opinions or thoughts often, he has learned if he gives you space to look, you can tell him how you feel. What his art brings out in you. If he looks closely at your face, he can watch it. Trembling in your eyes.

As you flit amongst paintings, like a butterfly amongst flowers, tugging him along with you. He follows willingly.

There are moments when you stop, and your hand twitches out. Like you are holding back the urge to run your fingers over the paint. Tracing shapes, touching at his heart directly.

He wants to tell you that you can do as you please. That you are the one who he wants to understand him most. That his art, and his soul are yours to do with as you like. That you could tear images from his canvas, and he would still paint more for you.

Finally you find yourself in front of his struggle. Bleached bones on the beach, tides easing out. Leaving scars behind.

At the edges of the horizon, the sun rises again. Painting the once dreary sky in a rainbow.

You are the sunrise that greets him, that reminds him that time moves forwards. That there is something to see after the night.

That tomorrow has a chance for better than today.

You bloom like a flower before his eyes, a sight he could never have seen beneath the waves. A reminder of why he came to visit the surface every year. A reminder of all the wonders of land that he idolised as a child.

"Beautiful." Is exhaled, and he is unsure if it was you or him. The twinkling in your eyes, perhaps it was both.

Eventually he feels the strain in your countenance, the exhaustion, so he sneaks with you out of the exhibit. Escaping into gardens that are quiet, and closed to others. A locked gate has never kept him out of anywhere, however.

It is the quiet that settles you, and he settles alongside you. No longer wearing a mask he does not want for people who come to stare at his work. He pulls you amongst flowers, fields of lilies, and whispers of petals.

Secluded and alone. The way he feels best with you.

Lying down in the grass, to look up at the sky, stars twinkling.

It is with the view of the stars that you speak, voice tinged in a guilt he wishes to chase away, "I almost didn't come. I'm sorry Raffy."

His eyes turn to you, to read the draw of your lips, the pain in your eyes, the way you tighten your grip on his hand. Cool metal against skin that reacts to you more than any other. Sensitive, aware.

Your touch will always alight his senses.

He knows the hesitation, he thinks about the way you wavered on the edge, hand extended to you as you feared to take it. He knows that you are adjusting. He regrets asking you to promise, to put that weight on your shoulders.

He is relieved you came. To see him, to stare at the workings of his heart, and yearn to trace it with fingers.

His patience and his need fight often. His awareness of pushing, his desperation. It is hard to balance.

"What changed your mind?"

You edge a little closer on the grass, so that the heat of him spreads over the sensors of your prosthetic. Alongside the gentle stroking of his thumb over your hand. "Sy told me you wanted me to be here… and I wanted to be here for you."

Rafayel's first instinct is the kind of reaction he's seen cats get to water. Hissing and jumping up. Shaking himself furiously.

There is great dissatisfaction at comparing himself to the demons.

There is greater dissatisfaction at the crow, helping him. In any way.

It is a feeling of being pulled back by the scruff of his neck, away from the abyss he seeks out. The fall into the ocean.

The agony on the edge of the conscious.

You poke his cheek with your other hand, then brush hair back and his heart settles its seething. "I'm glad."

"Glad?"

"That they care for you." It is whispered, and it is tentative, and he sees the worry in your eyes.

The fear at his arguments before. The anxiety that you are causing distress.

Forcing them. Making them clash in enclosed spaces. Like caged beasts.

It is the wary voice that calls out to him, tries to ask the question about the pain in him, the voices and the agony ripping and pulling and hurting. The pain that grants him no inspiration.

They care.

A message sent to wish him luck. A quiet presence bringing him water when he dries. A fool giving you the push to move forwards to lead your feet to him.

You have not stopped looking for him and at him, and he has been holding you like a toy he does not wish to share…

It is a feeling he isn't ready to digest or question, not when the stars are bright and you are safe next to him. It is one he will think about in days to come, as he watches the doctor help him clean. As he is offered a pillow the prince favours in order to sleep better.

When the crow argues with him, but gives him food that satisfies a hunger he forgets to appease for himself.

When you do not look at him any less. That he has not lost anything, he is not lesser.

It is a feeling for later.

To help paint canvas he wants to share one day, though pain is absent, and something else glimmers in the sea.

[mechawriterperson]

Springtrap DBD model analysis and opinion

All images are from the official Dead By Daylight twitter account, while the model dissection images are from @LukaszBorges on twitter, the image in front of you is from @Croco_Art_ also on twitter

Springtrap is finally in DBD and we got to see his model and i want to do an analysis on it and give it my full on thoughts!

Now the model right from the outset is really faithful to the original Scott Cawthon Render. The pose, the vibe and it all practically screams "Yup this is William Afton aka Springtrap in HD gory glory ready to murder people in the Fog!"

But there are differences especially when you put the two renders/models side-by-side. The first thing were covering first is the suit.

The first thing to be noticed besides quality of the models (because DBD's model is the objectively better one here for the most part) is the texture of the DBD model is more of an actual fabric (something reminiscence of stretchy Fleece fabric) and is a slightly different color of green. The color of as described by my friend @amcomix, "As a barf green" (even thought the color is more of a Olive Green but eh semantics) meanwhile the original Scott model had a more "Rotten green color".

Now this isn't to say that the DBD model is bad or that these are complaints, ultimately I think the coloration and the new texture were required for this model and ultimately make it better than the current official Scott model.

Another thing to note is that there's a lot more wires on the DBD model, while the Scott's model only has like gray wires and fleshy tendrils. Another thing to notice is that the withering is different between the two models, while the withering placements and shapes are mostly similar. There are small yet obvious changes to see. Some spots of withering have either gotten bigger, smaller, wider, longer, etc, And the general shape of the tears in the DBD model is a lot more natural and what you expect from wear and tear. Where as Scott's withering is more jaggy and square-ish. (Also there's like an extra button on the DBD model compared the Scott one).

Now all of these difference in my opinion are for the better and are harmless. For one the new natural withering is great, the added wires makes sense, and the coloration and new textures really make this model better than the original springtrap in my opinion. But this nxt observation is one where I'm a tiny bit miffed.. SPRINGTRAP IS MISSING HIS DARK GREEN UNDER BELLY! a-and his dark green ear highlights i-i guess... BUT THE BELLY IS THE THING THAT ACTUALLY MATTERS!

Now this might be the most noticeable thing between the two models, you see in DBD model... the belly is just gone like it's fully removed and considering how FNaF animatronics usually have a belly that's a secondary color most of the time, seeing Springtrap without it is weird and imo just makes him feels a bit incomplete. Like yeah i'm fine with ears not having the undertones because they don't get noticed by people much, while the belly is big and noticeable so literally removing is gonna be noticed and focused on (god i'm sounding very weird with my words... bleh). Now this doesn't detract my stance that DBD's Springtrap model is the best, its just a blemish on a great model for me.

I guess the last thing to mention when it comes to the suits are the eyes. When it comes to the eyes of Scott's model they are pretty decent all around, gray iris, kinda dull bloodshot sclera's, the eyes are clearly just a texture on the model but it works and the expression in the render shows Springtrap as kinda tired almost barely clinging onto life... unless were looking at the UCN profile.... he just looks like he's about to answer a question for the teacher.

Where as with DBD model The sclera's are purely gray and the iris's and pupils are clearly indented. Almost as if he's fixated on something or someone. Now it's also good to keep in mind that DBD Springtrap is more animated and emotive than regular Springtrap. And you can tell the eyes were changed to give Springtrap more emotion when he kills you or when he chasing you or when he's in the lobby or when he's in promotional material. as you can see here.

Now do I think this change is bad... UH NO, you see Springtrap having more emotive eyes is a good thing because it helps portray Springtrap character and plus most fans would want that and so far its working.

Now that the suit has been covered let's move onto the endo and the corpse, Now lets start off with his feet because holy shit DBD fix them. Now the problem with Scott's Springtrap feet is that they look out of place... by that i mean the just like have lines of flash and fleshy tendrils on the endoskeleton feet. Now with the DBD model it still keeps the feet the way they are but actually makes them look more... like it can actually make sense... The metal endo feet are now covered in dried blood and the flesh tendrils are now more like intestines that have fallen out of Afton's body and are used to keep his feet from falling off the suit he's trapped in.

Now the rest of the endo is pretty much what you expect from a Springlock endo. But the corpse is completely different between the two, Springtrap's original corpse looked like a giant maroon head with big bulging eyes placed where an endo skeleton's head is suppose to be with a bunch of "Flash" tendrils big and small wrapping around the main torso area and all around body. It wasn't bad and there were ways to make it scary (the rare screens are a perfect example and many animations have used it to peoples advantage too).

Where as the DBD model looks like an actual tortured human corpse that is decaying yet in some way clinging onto life. You can see his rib cages, his neck and his pelvis, the only things that are not there is the eyes (because those eyes are a separate rig), feet and hands and those are because those are apart of the endoskeleton side of the model. Seriously DBD took the original model and gave it a whole glorious overhaul, not to say that the original model is bad because I still do love it and i think the model should still be used by new fans and more. But DBD's model is just now my new favorite.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Final thoughts i love this model and everything Springtrap offers to DBD and i might talk about the lore and the characterization and the costumes and Animations and voice lines/voice work related to Springtrap's chapter soon but for now this is my unprofessional and very opinionated model analysis.

MechaWriterPerson out.

[bennetsbonnet]

It's surprising and, perhaps, a little depressing for a book so ostensibly beloved and held up as one of the finest in English literature, that Pride and Prejudice is so widely misquoted and misunderstood. It seems to be primarily viewed as a romance in the public's imagination, rather than the comedy of manners it truly is.

A large part of these misconceptions are admittedly, due to its various adaptations. I think a lot of people are surprised when they read the novel for the first time and discover that Mr Collins does not possess an affinity for boiled potatoes; that the proposal scene does not take place in the rain; that the second proposal is not made by Mr Darcy stumbling over his words at dawn and, ultimately, that he does not emerge from a lake in a wet white shirt. Nor is he really a brooding romantic hero.

The adaptations have had such a huge impact on the popular perception of Pride and Prejudice, that all of these products can be found on only the first two pages of an Etsy search of the title. All very nice products, I am sure. However, none of them contain quotes found in the original novel:

(quite why you'd want to be seen in a 'barely tolerable' hoodie I don't know but... each to their own... )

I question how widely-liked the actual novel is, if those who are keen to walk around in merch or decorate their homes inspired by Pride and Prejudice, are doing so with references that are nowhere to be found in the book's pages. Adaptations are part of many of our paths to falling in love with the novel; they were part of mine. But there are so many hilarious quotes contained within the first few chapters alone, you soon realise that nothing can live up to Austen's quick, witty dialogue or her observational comedy.

Yet, even when the novel is correctly quoted, it is not always done in an apt manner. Jane Austen was deemed important enough by the Bank of England to warrant her own banknote. Released in 2017, it looks like this:

I remember the controversy about the portrait, and how little it actually looks like the only (incomplete) drawing we have of Jane (which was said by those who knew her to not even resemble her all that well), but that's another matter. I'm most interested in the quote from Pride and Prejudice beneath it:

Let's put the quote in context. It is taken from chapter 11, and spoken by Caroline Bingley who is trying, unsuccessfully, to capture the attention of Mr Darcy.

Why did she pick up a book? Because Mr Darcy did:

'Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same'

How much enjoyment did she derive from the book? Not a great deal, apparently:

'Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy’s progress through his book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on.'

And now comes the actual passage from which the quote is taken, which tells us why Caroline chose that particular book:

'At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library."'

On the surface, such a quote—especially taken in isolation—would invariably lead you to believe that said character was an avid reader. However, the context demonstrates that Miss Bingley is far from a bookworm.

If you were left in any doubt, however, her next action surely confirms it:

'No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest for some amusement'

As soon as Caroline realises that her quest to capture Mr Darcy's affection is futile, she throws her book away entirely; perhaps there are more enjoyable pursuits than reading, after all.

So, a quote deemed to have such importance as to be immortalised forever alongside Jane Austen on the currency of an entire nation (the design of which will likely be used for several decades) is so important in the context of the novel that it is... uh... *checks notes* ignored entirely. Right.

I mean, I don't necessarily understand why the quote had to be about reading but if it was, I could argue that a quote from Mr Darcy in chapter eight, about how extensive reading improves the mind could be far more sincere. Or why not one of the numerous lovely quotes from the novel? Obviously, an agenda was set and a quote needed to be found to match it.

Still, it is quite ironic indeed that reading actually opens your eyes to how ridiculous a choice of quote was made.

Anyway, what is my overarching point? Well, I think, largely due to its various adaptations, a majority of people believe they know the story of Pride and Prejudice. But shockingly few, despite it being consistently ranked as one of the most popular books, actually understand it on the level which it deserves to be.

This post was not intended to bash adaptations, it is absolutely fine to like them! But they are, by their very nature, going to differ from the book. That is inevitable. Yet, I think it's quite sad when people watch a film or series and believe they can possibly understand the story on the same level. Spoiler alert: you cannot. I know books are a luxury and reading is time-consuming, but Pride and Prejudice is out of copyright now. PDFs are abundant, as are audiobooks if you cannot sit and read!

Put some time and effort into understanding the novel. I promise not a single second of it will be wasted; you will gain a deeper admiration for Jane Austen's talent as an author, and you will fall in love anew with the many wonderful characters she so beautifully brought to life.

[retellingthehobbit]

you've got me missing my old bagginshield days badly lmaooo. Bilbo's always been very queer to me and I didn't even know about that passage from unfinished tales- but I've always been very drawn to his gentle hobbit gender and eternal bachelor status. might go delve into some old AO3 classics now...

Thank you, thank you, one of my key goals here is to inspire Bagginshield Nostalgia. Bilbo really invented being “the eccentric gay uncle” just as Frodo invented being “the tragic doomed gay waif.” (Also speaking of the classics, someone else is doing a webcomic adaptation of Sansukh over at @sansukhcomic .)

This could probably be its own post, but part of the reason I’m drawn to making fanwork for The Hobbit (over lord of the rings) is because there’s always an intentional feeling that something is missing from the hobbit, and there’s a part of the story we’re not being told. Not just in the usual sense of “people go to fanfic for the things that they can’t get in canon,” but also in the incomplete way that The Hobbit (the original book) is integrated into Lord of the Rings.

When I was a kid, the part of the Hobbit I read the most often (outside of the riddles game) was the scene where Bilbo spares Gollum’s life. This scene was not actually in the original edition of The Hobbit—in the original version published in the 30s, Gollum was a nice guy who just gifted Bilbo the ring. Tolkien later retconned this to something that’d fit more with LOTR—- with the in-universe justification that “Bilbo is an unreliable narrator who lied about how he got the Ring.” The scene that had grabbed me so much was one that Tolkien wrote when he revisited The Hobbit, and was now retelling the story through the lens of the stories that came after.

And while we are told that Bilbo is truthful about everything else, there’s also a moment in FOTR where Frodo notes that “Bilbo always jokes about serious things,” which casts the upbeat tone of The Hobbit into a different light.

Rather than completely rewrite the hobbit to fit into LOTR’s tone— something Tolkien partially did before realizing it was not a good idea— he allowed it to continue feeling “off.” He sowed doubt about the story, the feeling that we might not have seen the “true” version of it.

This is something I’ve also really loved about the opening of the film version of the Fellowship of the Ring— the first forty minutes of the extended cut focus so much on Bilbo, but are rewriting him through the lens of LOTR rather than his character in The Hobbit. They really lean into the idea that he shared an idealized sanitized child-friendly story of his adventures with Frodo, while repeatedly concealing a darker truth— and it works really well!

And The Hobbit/Bagginshield fandom was the first place where I saw people really digging into that idea? And while I have mixed feelings about the hobbit films, they also started to touch this idea…. And obviously I really enjoy their more serious portrayal of Thorin, and the dynamic/character foil relationship he has with Bilbo. (If only they had more screentime XP.) but the fandom really keyed into that dynamic, and explored all the possibilities/depth of it in a way the films never fully did.

Not only they are a Quality Ship(tm), they could also have this really deep connection to the source material as well? It’s not really the hobbit or lord of the rings, but this special thing that exists in conversation with it. And I think there’s especially something interesting/relevant about a tragic queer love story getting “censored” into a lighthearted children’s adventure. Obviously I don’t necessarily think my own fanfic webcomic can convey that perfectly, but it is an idea I really find interesting.

Wow that was a text wall. TL:DR:

[aurorasgate]

my dragon

sylus x lounge singer!reader

warnings: fem!reader, reincarnated lovers playing on his beyond cloudfall myth, mentions of alcohol, hurt/comfort themes, inspired by this song: real low down lonesome by early james and sierra ferrell

the neon lights of the club line the familiar path from the back entrance to the dressing room, the vibrant red shining down from the ceiling to help guide your way against the pitch black walls with intricate gold embellishments but it’s a walk you could make in the dark at this point. 

it’s quiet, cold, enough so you can hear the click of your heels against the tile and swear you’re only a degree or two away from seeing little clouds with every breath you take. the rest of the staff have likely already settled in, ready to welcome those of the n109 zone who were welcome behind these doors. soon the place would be filled, noisier, hotter, and you’d take your place on the stage. 

the dressing room has a different atmosphere entirely, bright white lights from the globe bulbs that screw into every side of the mirrors that line the entirety of one of the walls is near blinding as your eyes take a few moments to adjust and makes the room significantly warmer than the hallway just outside it. it’s set up as if it was supposed to be packed with performers but it never is and for all you know, never has been. only your favorite mirror towards the back ever has belongings near it.

since you’ve made your way to the n109 zone and found yourself employed at this club, it’s only ever been you and, at sparse times, your accompanist and duet partner liam but he never seemed too keen on staying back here for longer than necessary and you don’t blame him. he was born for the stage, for the piano keys that melt into melodies under his fingertips and the mic that’s stained with the pomegranate colored lip stick he wore each night.

but you aren’t sure you could say the same about yourself. you’re just about positive you were.. incomplete and there wasn’t a single place you belonged in this world but you were starting to make your peace with that in the desolate land of the n109 zone. it feels like so long ago that you ended up here and decided it was as good as any place to be lost and this night club became like a second home.

there was something you admired about it that was like a fragment of a dream not quite within your reach but that was branded into your soul. the chapel like building a strange landmark you hadn't expected to find here, let alone with a bar hidden behind the black brick. but within the ornate victorian gold, red and black interior caught your eye, the music stirred something within your heart, the booze delicious on your tongue and its stage quickly became a place to be someone else for a while. someone who wasn’t missing a part of their soul.

because ultimately, that is who you decide you were. a person with half a soul and no way of finding the other half.

it’s the only words you could put to how you feel day in and day out with the gaping hole in your heart that bleeds into your lungs and finds life in the words you sing each night. a cavity in your chest that fauxs the feeling of some form of completeness on a stage of black and gold but only feels truly full, filled with golden rays of light and unbelievable warmth, in the most ridiculous of your dreams that you hadn’t dared to speak out loud to anyone else on this planet. 

how could anyone else possibly understand when you tell them the only thing that has even made you feel whole, completely and utterly whole in the most wonderful of ways, is a place you don’t know has ever truly existed in philos or any other planet in the vast galaxy? a powder blue sky that’s a stark contrast to the n109 zone but nothing like that in linkon or anywhere else you had travelled daring to chase after it. a seemingly endless field of green grass littered with blossoming datura of reds and pinks and purples, the smell of flora and dirt and a hint of smoke, and.. a dragon. your dragon. with stunning ruby eyes and black horns and a long tale that keeps you close and promises you there is another half of your soul to be found and loved in the most devouring of ways.

each time you’ve opened your eyes however, that mirage of completeness, of love and warmth, was gone. you didn’t wake up in a field of flowers and blades of soft grass and there was no dragon in your arms. not a single one to ever be found and fuck knows if they’d ever existed to begin with outside of fairy tales. not that it stopped you from finding pieces of him everywhere you went or dreaming of him still.

you were always a dreamer and not even the devastation of waking up only half full had killed that part of you.

you see your dragons horns in the dark pointed eyeliner you touch up after slipping into the dress that hung on the wall opposite the mirrors. you chase after his ruby eyes in the same shade of lipstick you apply after downing the bitter sweet shot the bartender had left for you before you arrived, a routine you’ve both come accustomed to in order to help calm your nerves even if it’s shit for your vocal cords. but despite your attempts to feel closer to the dragon you see in your dreams, to slip a little further to that place engraved on your heart, nothing about your dragon is reflected back at you in the mirror now. there’s only you; half a soul, lost and adrift in your daydreams of a place that certainly wasn’t here in the n109 zone and yet you’re so unwilling to leave when it’s the closest you’ve felt to something. something you couldn’t put a name or a coherent thought to. 

what a silly thing you are, you think as you open the dressing room door without looking back and steel yourself with a deep breath mixed with the scent of your perfume and the alcohol on your lips. through the thick curtain separating the lounge area with the back of the house, you can hear the muffled sound of liams piano skills that fill the main space while they wait for you to join him. 

a silly little thing, you repeat to yourself when the curtains part for you, hoping for a dragon in a den full of wolves. 

༻✦༺

like every night you take the stage, it’s just as the alcohol in your belly spreads to your veins that you get lost in the music, each word you sing becoming more powerful and lovely, amplified by the mic you hold onto like it’s a part of you. your fingers run along the warm metal stand, catching on the dangling beads you’d used to make it more your own while your other hand brings the mic so close one might consider it a teasing lovers kiss with the way your lips only just caress it before parting for the bellowing melody that leaves your lungs and catches the attention of every patron in the room.

you feel each and every one of their eyes on you but meet none of them, insteading finding your usual vision points around the room; the painting of a crow near the bar, the very fake plants that separates some of the booths in the back, the one table that’s mismatched compared to every single other one in the bar that sits near the front of the stage. you know the moment their gazes shift too, when liams deep sultry voice joins yours as he continues to play the piano that’s so close you can feel the vibrations against the skin of your partially exposed back with every key he hits.

it’s a comforting feeling, one you gratefully take in and ride from one song to the next, helping to lull you to a place where you aren’t so incomplete. a place between your dreams and the reality of your loneliness. 

that is, until you’re thrown off your axis. scratch that - it feels more like you’ve been kicked in the chest right off the side of a very tall mountain and are free falling through clouds, brought down from your proverbial high by a presence that you feel before you see.

it’s a bone deep feeling, one that makes you ache and yearn and want to cry out. you hardly feel like your continued singing is masking it either with the way it reverberates back into your lungs and you don’t know if you can keep it up or how much air you’re taking in or if you're choking on your heart rather than singing like you thought and when you see who has brought you to such a state, you feel warm tears flowing down your cheeks before you ever get a chance to register them welling in your eyes or attempt to stop them.

and the source of it all, the man who has flipped your world upside down by simply walking into the room, sees it all.

you know he does with how his scarlet eyes are locked onto yours from the moment you’re in each other's view and for several moments, all while you stare at the other, it feels as if you’re the only two people in the world. you can’t hear anything but your heart, that for the first time in your life beats so strongly you wonder if this is what everyone with the entirety of their soul feels like all of the time and if the man staring back at you is feeling the same. your mouth moves on muscle memory alone but you have no idea what the lyrics leaving you sound like as you take him in; the silver of his hair your fingers ache to card through it, the way he towers over everyone else in the room and how he wears his red and black suit jacket like the colors were made for him and him alone.

familiar in the way you find your dreams but you know you’ve never seen him before. you’d have never forgotten meeting him. not in this life.

only when mr. clyde, the manager of the bar, demands his attention does the world where it's just the two of you shatter, the pieces of it laying at your feet as if they’re waiting for you to put each sharp shard back together, piece by blooding piece as they cut through your flesh, all the while your tears continue to fall. it seems so similar to the first day you had dreamed of your dragon and you left it slipping through your fingers when trying to make sense of it.

you want to scream for him not to go when you see mr. clyde gesture to a place you cannot see but don’t know if you're relieved or mortified when the silver haired man takes the lead to an open booth in clear view of the stage and the manager follows with obvious reluctance. you don’t care for what they’re discussing, don’t know how or if you’ll be able to take your eyes off of him or how long you’ll be able to stand here singing like you're fine. 

because you are certainly not fucking fine. this is the least amount of fine you’ve ever felt but it’s so different than anything you had experienced in your entire life thus far. 

you reach for something, anything, to keep you grounded - your mic stand and the beads that now painfully dig into your palm at the force of your grip and the way you will them to keep you from collapsing. you search for a sound - liams piano at your back starting a song that all too well sums up your lonely heart up until just a few moments ago. you keep staring at the man, unsure if you could look away if you tried but not wanting to try at all. you find only half your bearings but let it help the lyrics flow from you in a way that they never had before, full of emotions you can’t quell or quiet or stop. not as half a soul trying to forget but as you. just as you are; a dreamer with blossoms, a dragon, in your heart.

despite your blurring vision making it nearly impossible to see, these damn tears you can’t stop, you can feel those striking ruby eyes on you, drowning out every other person's existence, helping you put together the mirage that leaves only the two of you in the world and paints you both in a field of datura. it’s nothing you can explain to anyone in their right mind but it’s unbelievable in a way you hardly have words for and instead let show in the passion of your singing. 

it’s the first time you felt like you belonged here, like there was something, someone, you so desperately wanted to preform for and let them see you. truly see you in all your maybe not so incomplete beauty.

by the end of the song, you hardly feel like you can breathe or stand and in the lingering applause you bring the back of your hand to wipe away the tears staining your cheeks. All too quickly the man has seemed to finish talking with mr. clyde and is ready to make his departure. he looks back at you, holding your gaze with an expression you can’t decipher for another long moment before walking away, his long strides quickly making his figure disappear into the dark entryway. the distance he puts between you feeling like your heart is being ripped in two.

before you know what you’re doing but uncaring of the consequences or how crazy you might seem and certainly feel, you’re running. the clash of your mic and the feedback from the speakers drowning out the clicking of your heels against the tile, the call of your name from liam and the protests of those you clash into and nearly shove over in your departure.

you don’t register any of it or how awfully painful it is to run in heels or the cold night air of the n109 zone as you throw open the door without losing a bit of momentum. you can’t think of anything but the figure in front of you and the distance you’re desperate to close between you.

“wait!” you call with a voice you don’t know how you found in this state. you think you might not have spoken them at all had he not reacted to it.

his back straightens, his shoulders pulling back as if your words had tugged on a leash around his neck. before he can turn around, you’re there, grabbing onto the fabric of his jacket, fighting for air, not letting yourself admit just how terrified you are to have him walk away from you, how much you don’t want to see him go.

even in heels you have to look up to meet his gaze and in the reflection of his eyes, it only now hits you how much of a mess you look but you can’t pay it any mind, can’t look back and don’t give him a chance to speak or say anything lest he reject you completely and toss you to the side.

not yet. not until you know.

“ha- have we met before?” your voice is weak but not from your little running stunt. no, it was all him and the tug of his lips and the aching familiarness of him that leaves you breathless and trembling as you hold onto his arm. it can’t be.. he can’t be..

he doesn’t shake you off but instead reaches out to you, tanned fingers caressing your cheek with a tenderness that has tears welling in your eyes all over again and you swear when you try to blink them away, you see an outline of your dragon's horns utop his head and feel the warmth of his tail wrapping around you.

“i guess you don’t remember after all,” his voice is deep, almost hurt, resounding in your chest like it was all you had ever longed to hear and the hold you have on him grows tighter. 

maybe you don't remember. at least not all of what he might be implying and the words of your truth feel crazy, absolutely insane, as they sit on your tongue but something about the man in front of you coaxes them out of you, spoken into the world for the first time in your life and feeling so tangible you hardly know what to do with yourself beside throw yourself into his chest, holding onto him so tightly it hurts as you say the words against the warmth of his jacket. “you’re.. my dragon, aren’t you?”

he chuckles in response, the melody of it vibrating through your body but there’s more relief to it than humor. you’re thankful for the strong arms that wrap around you in return, keeping you from falling to the ground but even more than that, they tell you just how right you are. “you are always so bold, o great sorceress.”

[imsobadatnicknames2]

While not every story is a hit, I really think Parawatch has probably some of the most consistently enjoyable writing in the entire SCP wiki. Partly due to the fact that the whole premise boils down to classic creepypasta but with SCP wiki levels of moderation and enforced quality control, which means that you get the classic creepypasta vibes without most of the pitfalls of badly written creepypasta.

But also I think the stylistic rules about how the narrator should lack awareness of the whole picture of whatever is going on (because members of the in-universe Parawatch forum are hobbyist paranormal investigators with no access to the resources to actually investigate anything to its full extent) and that the exact nature of the paranormal anomaly should be left open-ended help avoid the most common pitfall infecting SCP articles as of the last few years: The fact that every other new article in the SCP list ends up feeling narratively incomplete because it's actually a jumping off point to build a 12-or-so-part tale series and if you just read the article by itself you miss most of the meat of the narrative.

By its nature, Parawatch intentionally leans into the fact that there are supposed to be puzzle pieces missing and that that should be made into the unsettling part. Even the few Parawatch articles that are intended to tie into a larger canon feel narratively satisfying when read as standalone pieces, because Parawatch deliberately creates its horror by hinting at the shadow of something bigger going on that neither the narrator nor the reader are supposed to be able to fully grasp from the details provided.

[bumblebeehug]

Hiii!! Nalu request: What if nastu was a fashion designer or maybe an artist and Lucy is his model/muse!

His Muse

Summary: Natsu Dragneel is an artist. In his dreams, appears a woman. Notes: i took way too long to start writing on this, lol. thank u anon for giving me a chance to dabble with some AU stuff<3 enjoy! Ao3 - FF.net

***

Natsu Dragneel had a life. A good one, by most standards.

His days were a predictable rhythm: mornings spent staring at blank canvases, afternoons wrestling with half-formed ideas, and evenings spilling beers with Gray and Erza at their usual spot. He had friends who cared about him, a roof over his head, and a reputation as a decent artist who sometimes stumbled into brilliance. But beneath it all was the quiet hum of something missing.

It wasn’t an ache, not really. More like an emptiness that hovered just out of reach, shapeless and stubborn. He used to think it was Igneel, his father – the man who’d disappeared when Natsu was too young to understand why. Finding him should have filled that space. For a while, it did. They’d laughed, reconnected, and healed wounds that time had only scabbed over. But when the dust settled, that hum was still there, as persistent as ever.

He tried to ignore it. But some nights, when he sat in his studio surrounded by the ghosts of half-finished pieces, he wondered if he was just... incomplete.

The night the dream came, he wasn’t thinking about any of that. He’d been frustrated, staring at the same canvas for hours. The paintbrush felt foreign in his hand, the colors on his palette dull no matter how he mixed them. Even his signature reds, the fiery hues that used to blaze across his work, seemed muted. Finally, he’d thrown down his brush and collapsed into bed, letting the world dissolve as sleep took him.

The fire came first.

It roared to life around him, wild and untamed, swallowing the forest in a wave of heat and ash. Natsu didn’t run. There was no point. He crawled through the dirt, every muscle heavy, every breath a struggle. His body felt smaller than it should, fragile like a broken animal waiting for its end.

The flames were alive, ravenous, and they surrounded him on all sides. He closed his eyes, letting the heat press down on him, waiting for it to consume him. Then, through his eyelashes, he saw it.

The moon.

It hung impossibly large in the sky, pale and perfect, untouched by the smoke curling toward it. Its light was soft, yet it cut through the chaos with an authority that silenced everything else. He could feel it – steady and calm, as though it were watching him. Holding him. Suddenly, the fire didn’t matter. He stared up at the moon, and for a moment, he felt... peace.

When he woke, his heart was pounding. His sheets were damp with sweat, and the faint smell of smoke lingered in the air. He sat up, running a hand through his pink locks, but the image of the moon refused to fade. It stayed with him, vivid and haunting, like an ember burning in the back of his mind.

The dream came again the next night. And the night after that.

Each time, it was the same fire, the same searing heat. But the moon was always there, waiting. Watching. And with every dream, he found himself drawn to it more and more, its light pulling him from the flames like a lifeline.

Until the night he heard her voice.

It was soft, barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the crackle of the fire like the moonlight itself. He didn’t understand the words at first – nonsense syllables that carried no meaning – but her tone was unmistakable. It was calm and soothing, like she was trying to ease the weight pressing on his chest. He wanted to speak back, but the words wouldn’t come, vocal cords severed by the cutting, searing fire. All he could do was listen, letting her voice wash over him, until the flames seemed to fade into the background.

When he woke that morning, the ache in his chest felt sharper. Clearer. For the first time, he realized: the emptiness he’d carried all these years wasn’t just a part of him. It was a space waiting to be filled. And now, it had a voice.

----------

Natsu’s friends noticed the shift before he did.

“You look like crap,” Gray said one evening, throwing himself onto Natsu’s couch with all the grace of a collapsing tower. “Are you sleeping at all? You look like you’ve been wrestling with demons in your dreams or something.”

Natsu didn’t reply right away. He wasn’t sure how to explain it. He was sleeping, but it never felt like rest. Every time he closed his eyes, the fire returned, blazing brighter and hotter than before. Each time, the moon was waiting, its cool light a balm against the inferno. And now, there was her voice, threading through it all like a melody he couldn’t quite grasp.

“I’m fine,” Natsu muttered, brushing Gray off as he hunched over his easel. His hands worked without thought, dragging a palette knife across the canvas. The colors burned: searing reds, luminous yellows, shadows of blue-gray smoke. The shape was abstract, but he could feel her there, in the way the paint moved.

“You’re not fine,” Gray shot back. “You’ve barely been out of the house, and all you do is paint. What is this, your ‘tortured artist’ phase? At least drink some water or something.”

“I’m not tortured,” Natsu grumbled, glaring at him.

“You’re painting fire,” Gray pointed out, gesturing to the canvas. “Again. You know, I think we’ve got enough flames around here. Maybe paint a puppy or something for once.”

Natsu rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue. Gray wasn’t wrong. The fire consumed every piece he worked on, spilling out in shapes that felt alive, almost restless. He couldn’t stop himself—it was as if the flames had seeped into his veins, demanding to be unleashed onto the canvas.

But it wasn’t just the fire. It was her.

At first, she was just a voice, murmuring through the smoke in his dreams. But as the nights went on, she became something more. The flames began to shift, their edges softening, and from them, her shape emerged. A silhouette at first, all curves and light, until one night she stepped fully into view.

Her hair was molten gold, cascading in wild waves that shimmered with the heat of the fire. Her skin glowed, almost translucent, as though she were made of the very light she walked through. Her eyes – dark, deep, infinite – held galaxies within them, stars swirling in an endless dance. She was beautiful in a way that defied reason, but it wasn’t her appearance that left him breathless. It was the way she looked at him.

Like she knew him.

“You’re not afraid anymore.”

Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it carried through the fire like it belonged to it, like the flames were hers to command.

Natsu blinked, his body still much too heavy in the heat, but her words cut through the weight like a cool breeze. He wasn’t afraid. The thought settled in his chest, quiet and certain, even though he didn’t understand why.

The woman stepped closer, her bare feet brushing over the flames as if they were solid ground. The fire softened where she moved, its roar dimming to a low hum, like it bent itself to her will.

“That’s good. You shouldn’t be,” she said, her lips curving in a faint smile. “The fire isn’t your enemy.”

The words struck him like an ember to the heart. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask what she meant, but no sound came. He didn’t need to ask. The answer was there, in the way the flames swirled around her, not hostile, but alive.

She stopped in front of him, so close he could see the way her golden hair shimmered with the heat. Her eyes caught his—dark and endless, full of stars.

“It’s you,” she said simply.

The words lingered in the air, sinking into him like they were meant to. The fire surged higher around them, crackling with energy that wasn’t threatening, but electric.

And then she was gone. The fire dissolved into darkness, her figure fading with it. Natsu woke with a sharp breath, his chest heaving as he stared at the ceiling. The room was quiet, but her words remained, seared into his thoughts.

‘The fire isn’t your enemy. It’s you.’ It wasn’t an answer. Not yet. But it was something. And for the first time in weeks, Natsu felt like he wasn’t drowning in the flames.

----------

A few nights later, Gray barged into Natsu’s apartment like a man on a mission.

“If you don’t see sunlight soon, you’re going to become one of your paintings,” he announced, kicking aside a pile of discarded sketches. “And I mean that literally. Like, one day we’ll find you trapped in a canvas somewhere, screaming for help.”

Natsu barely looked up from his work, a half-finished abstract piece where streaks of red and orange clawed up the canvas.

“I’m busy.”

“You’re coming to the club,” Gray declared, ignoring him completely. He grabbed Natsu’s jacket from the back of a chair and tossed it at him. “You need to get drunk, dance like the idiot you are, and maybe talk to someone who isn’t made of acrylics and gouache.”

Reluctantly, Natsu let himself be dragged out. He lingered by the door as Gray tossed him his jacket, muttering something about how it wasn’t worth the trouble. But Gray was already halfway down the hall, yelling over his shoulder, “Move it, ash-head. The world won’t wait for you to catch up.”

With a heavy sigh, Natsu followed.

The streets were crowded, alive with the nighttime buzz of the city. Neon signs flickered above storefronts, and the chatter of passing strangers blended into the rumble of distant traffic. Natsu shoved his hands deep into his pockets, trailing behind Gray, who strode ahead with his usual confidence. Overconfidence, if you asked Natsu.

The air was cool but carried the faint warmth of lingering summer, tinged with the smell of street food and smoke. Natsu glanced at the clusters of people outside bars and restaurants, their laughter spilling out into the night. It all felt distant, like it was happening on the other side of a glass wall.

“You’re gonna have fun,” Gray said, throwing a glance back at him. “You just don’t know it yet.”

“Doubt it,” Natsu muttered, kicking a stray bottle cap across the sidewalk.

“You’re impossible,” Gray groaned, rolling his eyes. But he didn’t slow down, weaving easily through the throngs of people as if he’d done this a thousand times before.

As they neared the club, the bass-heavy thrum of music grew louder, vibrating through the pavement beneath their feet. Bright lights flashed from the open doorway, illuminating a line of people waiting to get in. Gray walked right past them, nodding to the bouncer like they were old friends.

Natsu hesitated at the entrance, glancing back at the quiet street they’d left behind. It felt like a threshold, one he wasn’t sure he wanted to cross. But Gray grabbed his arm, tugging him inside with a determined grin.

“Come on,” Gray said over the noise, his voice almost drowned out by the music. “This is gonna be good for you. Trust me.”

“This is pointless,” he muttered.

“No,” Gray said sharply, “you hiding in your apartment and staring at a canvas for days is pointless. This? This is fun. You remember fun, right?”

Natsu didn’t answer, but he followed.

The club was packed, its bass-heavy music pulsing like a heartbeat. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and alcohol, the flashing lights cutting through the darkness like electric blades. Gray wasted no time throwing himself into the chaos, chatting up strangers and tossing back shots like he was trying to set a new personal record.

Natsu lingered by the bar, nursing a drink he barely tasted. He watched the crowd move as if through a haze, their bodies twisting and swaying to the beat. It was loud, frenetic, alive – but it felt like something happening to other people, not to him.

He felt detached, like he was watching the world through a fogged window. The fire in his chest, the one that burned so brightly in his dreams, felt dim and muted here. The rhythm of the music didn’t match the pulse of his own heartbeat. The lights, no matter how dazzling, couldn’t compare to the glow of the flames he longed for.

He found himself wishing he were back in bed, chasing the faint hope of seeing her again.

Gray reappeared suddenly, breaking his thoughts.

“You look miserable,” he said, handing Natsu another drink. “Seriously, you’ve got to loosen up. Do I need to hire someone to dance with you, or...?”

“I’m fine,” Natsu muttered, glaring at him.

Gray rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small plastic bag.

“Okay, fine, but I’m not letting you be a buzzkill all night. Here.” He shoved a joint into Natsu’s hand. “Loke’s stash. Top-shelf. Trust me.”

Natsu hesitated, then raised an eyebrow at Gray.

“This is your grand solution?”

“It’s a solution,” Gray said with a shrug. “Stop overthinking and just do something for once.”

Sighing, Natsu took a hit. The smoke filled his lungs, heavy and acrid, and for a moment, he felt like the world tilted sideways. The music became a low hum in the back of his mind, the flashing lights smearing into streaks of color. Everything blurred at the edges, and he felt... lighter. Unmoored.

“Better?” Gray asked, grinning.

“Sure,” Natsu said, though his voice sounded far away.

“Let’s go outside.” Gray tugged him toward the exit, and Natsu didn’t resist.

The cool night air hit like a splash of water, sharp and invigorating after the heat and chaos of the club. The alley behind the building was quiet, save for the muffled thrum of music and the distant sounds of the city. Natsu found himself crouching by a pile of discarded cardboard, fumbling for a match.

The tiny flame sputtered to life, small and weak, but it held his attention completely. He struck another match, feeding the fire until it grew. The flicker of light reflected in his eyes, hypnotic, drawing him into its dance.

The world around him seemed to fade.

And then she appeared.

She stepped out of the flames as if they were a doorway, her figure forming from the light itself. Her hair was swept into a high side ponytail, her bangs framing her face in a way that felt modern, almost casual. She wore fitted clothes, dark and sleek, clinging to her like the fire had melted and shaped them.

Natsu froze.

She was different, but it was her. He knew it instantly – the way her eyes glimmered, dark and infinite, holding entire galaxies within them. The way the flames bent around her, as if she commanded their very existence. No, that might be the joint playing with him. Still; there she was.

“Are you two okay?” she asked, her voice smooth and quiet, but with a resonance that seemed to vibrate in Natsu’s chest.

Gray blinked, glancing between Natsu and the woman.

“Uh, yeah, we’re fine,” he said awkwardly. Was he missing a shirt?

But Natsu couldn’t speak. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at her, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.

And yet, here she was.

It was her.

----------

Natsu couldn’t get the image of her out of his head.

Even as he lay sprawled across Gray’s couch the next morning, staring at the ceiling with a pounding headache and the vague taste of ash in his mouth, her eyes haunted him. Dark and shimmering, like the night sky itself. The memory of her voice – smooth, calm, and impossibly real – echoed in his thoughts. Gray shuffled into the living room, yawning and scratching his head. He looked like shit. Natsu wanted to claw his own eyes out at the sight. Though, at least he was wearing clothes.

“You’re alive. That’s a good sign.”

“Barely,” Natsu muttered, dragging himself upright.

Gray tossed him a bottle of water. “You were acting weird last night. Even for you.”

Natsu didn’t respond. What could he say? Oh, by the way, the woman from my dreams showed up in an alley last night, wearing fire and starlight. No. He wasn’t even sure it had happened. It felt real—too real—but his memory of the moment was hazy, blurred by smoke and exhaustion.

Gray raised an eyebrow as he sat down on the arm of the couch, his eyes scanning Natsu’s face.

"So, who was that girl you were talking to last night?” When Natsu didn’t immediately answer, Gray clarified. “The blonde chick from the club? You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?"

Natsu froze for a split second, his pulse spiking. He hadn’t expected Gray to ask, though part of him had known it was coming. He’d been there after all; he’d seen Natsu’s reaction.

“I… don’t know,” Natsu said quickly, too quickly. He felt a strange twinge of guilt, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain it. Not yet. He shook his head quickly, grabbing the water and standing up. “It’s nothing. Just tired.”

Gray snorted. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

The walk back to his apartment felt heavier than usual, his mind spiraling as he replayed the night over and over again. He tried to convince himself it was just the high messing with him, but the memory of her was too sharp to ignore. When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, the scent of paint and turpentine greeted him like an old friend. His canvases stood in their usual places, leaning against the walls, half-finished and abandoned. But his eyes were immediately drawn to the center of the room.

She was there.

Sitting on his couch, her legs crossed delicately, as though she’d been waiting for hours. Her hair, now loose and cascading over her shoulders, caught the light from his window like recognisable strands of molten gold. She wasn’t wearing the fitted clothes from the alley – this time, her outfit was simple, a flowing dress that shimmered faintly with a light he couldn’t place.

“You,” Natsu said, his voice a breathless whisper.

She tilted her head, her lips curving into a soft smile. “Your landlord let me in.”

“My- what?” Natsu blinked, his thoughts tangling as he tried to piece together how she could possibly be here. In his apartment. In the flesh.

“I told him I was a friend,” she continued, standing and taking a step toward him. Her movements were fluid, almost otherworldly, like she was gliding rather than walking. She dangled a spare key on her pointer. “You should really make sure he doesn’t hand these out so easily.”

“Why...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “How are you here? What’s going on?”

“You invited me,” she said simply, her gaze steady.

“I- what?”

“At the club,” she added, amusement flickering in her eyes. “You gave me your address.”

Natsu’s face burned as the memory rushed back – a hastily scrawled note on the edge of a torn rolling paper, handed to her in a haze of smoke and desperation. “That wasn’t... I mean, I didn’t think-”

“You didn’t think I’d come,” she finished for him, her tone calm but teasing.

He stared at her, his mind racing. Everything about her felt unreal, yet here she was, standing in his apartment like she belonged there. He didn’t know what to say, what to do, but his hands itched to grab his brushes, to capture the way the light played off her skin, to bring her presence to life on canvas.

She stepped closer, stopping just a foot away. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Natsu said quickly, the word escaping before he could stop it.

“I like your work,” she said, gesturing to the scattered canvases and sketches that filled the room. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like... you paint fire, which is literally just a gas, but it feels… alive. Like it’s telling a story.”

Natsu blinked, her words sinking in slowly. She didn’t know. She had no idea she was the woman from his dreams, no clue that her face, her presence, was etched into every brushstroke.

“You like them?” he asked, his voice quieter than he intended.

She stood, walking over to a half-finished painting propped against the wall. Her fingers hovered just above the surface, careful not to touch the wet paint.

“Like isn’t the right word,” she said softly. “I think I’m in love with them.”

Something inside Natsu shifted. The emptiness he’d carried for so long, the weight of feeling like something was always missing, began to lift. It wasn’t gone entirely – he could still feel its edges – but it was quieter now, overshadowed by the warmth of her words and the way she seemed to see right through him.

“I’d like to paint you,” he said suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

She turned to him, surprise flickering across her face. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean... if you don’t mind. I think... I think I could make something amazing if you let me.”

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“Okay. I’d like that.”

----------

For the next few hours, the room came alive. Natsu worked with a focus he hadn’t felt in months, his hands moving instinctively as he captured the way the light hit her hair, the way her smile seemed to brighten the space. She sat quietly, her posture relaxed, occasionally watching him with a curiosity that made his heart race.

When he finally stepped back from the canvas, his hands smudged with paint and his chest tight with anticipation, he turned to her.

“Well?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

She stood and approached the painting, her eyes widening as she took it in.

“Is that… me? It’s beautiful,” she said after a long moment, her voice filled with awe. “You’ve captured something... something I didn’t even know was there.”

Natsu swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wanted to tell her everything – about the dreams, about the fire, about the way she’d filled a void he didn’t fully understand. But the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, he simply nodded.

“Thanks.”

She glanced at the clock, then back at him. “I should go,” she said reluctantly.

“Will I see you again?” he asked, the question spilling out before he could second-guess it.

She smiled, a soft, almost shy curve of her lips.

“If you want to.”

He nodded, his chest tightening as she walked toward the door. She paused briefly, looking back at him one last time.

“Your work... it’s amazing,” she said. “You, as a person, are amazing.”

And then she was gone, leaving Natsu standing in the middle of his studio, the air feeling lighter than it had in months. The door closed behind her, but the quiet she left in her wake lingered, wrapping itself around Natsu like a warm blanket. For a long moment, he stood there, listening to the stillness of the room. The humming of the fridge, the faint background noise of a bustling city outside. It was as if the space had shifted with her presence, and now, without her, it seemed like a different place altogether. Lighter. Brighter, even.

Eventually, Natsu made his way back to his chair, his eyes drifting to the canvas in front of him. The portrait. The portrait that now felt more like a memory than a creation. She had become something more than just an image in his mind or a figure in his dreams. She was real. He had touched her, spoken to her, shared moments with her – moments that had shifted everything he had thought he understood.

He sat back, his gaze lingering on the completed portrait, the woman before him as vivid as she had ever been. Every stroke of the brush had felt like an exploration of something deeply familiar, and in the spaces between the strokes, he had found the truth he’d been searching for. The fire that had once threatened to consume him had settled within him, no longer a danger, but a part of him.

Since that night, he hadn’t had the dreams—the wild, desperate fires that once roared through his mind. No more lost, hopeless wandering through flames. No more questions without answers. Sometimes, he wondered if the dreams had ever been real at all, or if they had simply been a prelude, leading him here, to this. But it didn’t matter. He no longer needed the validation of dreams to know she was meant for him.

----------

In the quiet moments, when he would lie beside her, his body pressed against hers in the cool light of the moon, it all became clear. Their connection. The way her touch felt like a promise. The way they fit together, as if they had always known each other in some cosmic sense.

Natsu closed his eyes, remembering how they had come together, bodies entwined, under the soft glow of moonlight. In those moments, the world outside ceased to exist. There was only the warmth of her skin, the rhythm of their breathing, and the gentle hum of something deeper. A bond neither of them had expected, but one they both understood now.

She had been sent to him by the universe itself. His soulmate. His muse.

[cer-rata]

An incomplete but very angry diatribe about the missed potential of the Star Sapphires

So back in the day Geoff Johns and co decided to open up the Green Lantern mythos and add some more flavor and expand the concept of sci-fi tech powered by elemental emotion to more than just willpower. Which yes, is not an emotion, we ignore it and move on.

Anyway we got some really cool stuff! A rage tyrant fueled by experiencing incredible injustice on a personal and cosmic scale, whose vendetta twisted him into something terrible. An avatar of greed who was never allowed to have anything, not freedom, not family, not safety, who takes and takes and takes to fill a void that can never be satisfied. A priest who lost everything but presses on through his unshakable hope that the future can and will be better. It's a lot of fun stuff!

So in this great creative re-imagining, they had to do something clever and fun with the idea of an all female corps powered by love right? They took the opportunity to move past the purely romantic, sexual idea of love and the obsessed femme fatale archetype, because they had the chance to really explore different types of affection now that there were a bunch of different avatars with different stories to pull from right?

Right?

Nope! The only Sapphires we ever learn about are heartbroken over a cursed romance like Carol, grieving a dead fiance like Miri Riam, forcibly mind controlled to be one like Fatality, or just Miss Bloss who...kind of said she wanted to join up? No clue what her deal is, as far as I'm aware that's never really explained. And then we just never learn about anyone else, and still haven't. The hell is "The Lost Sapphire"? No idea, we'll likely never know.

It's frustrating because not only is this a glaring example of the depth of plotlines offered to women in comics compared to their male counterparts, but also a wild lack of imagination. Love is one of the most complicated emotions we experience. Fear, anger, hope, all pretty easy to quickly define. Love is multifaceted, cultural, incredibly contextual and a factor in so many different kinds of relationship. Just thinking logically it should be much easier to flesh out the motivations of a group pulling from such a nuanced source of power, versus something as clear-cut as rage. But no, the red lanterns got so many varied reasons for their rage, the male ones especially: Bleez being the woman was of course given the SA narrative, which I don't think is inappropriate on its own, that's an incredibly valid reason to be angry, but as the ONLY truly prominent female Red Lantern it's like...c'mon guys. But still, at least she and Atrocitus had different reasons for becoming what they are, and that variation was played for plot and drama.

But there's not a single Star Sapphire that personally champions something other than romantic love. And before you shoot me, it is explicitly mentioned that they DO protect other forms of love, so there's no reason for them to all be sexy and obsessed with kissing people. There are no Sapphires that are driven by:

The love of their children and families, even in a tragic sense, like Atrocitus and Saint Walker and Larfleez are...

Their love of their people, or their culture. It would have been interesting if Fatality was inducted BECAUSE of her pain at losing her world, but no, they just...replaced her anger with lovey vibes and called it a day.

Their love for nature. Not everyone is social, but social love isn't the only way to strongly experience the emotion.

Their love for themselves. Where is the fun narcissistic ass who loves their own self image to the point of getting powers? It would have been a fun twist and a cool way to get another villainous Sapphire if you wanted to.

Their platonic love of ANYTHING really. Are ace/aro people just...not capable of love then? It doesn't mean anything to be willing to drive cross country to help a friend move just because they needed it and you care? No? You need to be fucking for it to count?

It's like...fascinating if you really think about it. In this vast fantasy universe full of alien races with wildly different perceptions and life cycles, and where the other corps have plenty of non-human, truly alien looking members, that the women's only love corps is full of only hot hot scantily clad baddies. Most love that people experience in their lives isn't even romantic! You will have far more experiences with friends and family members and even loving strangers than you will have with romantic partners.

Like the reason is clearly sexism, duh, but we know sexism is bad, that's obvious, what I really want to make clear is how much this blatant, unexplored sexism just completely desecrated the potential of the worldbuilding here.

From another angle even: Let's say this this WAS the sex and romance all the time corps. Let's say that you wanted to keep it all women. I hate the idea that women are capable of love in a way that men aren't, that's such a bad take and just regressive and unhelpful, but let's just play ball for a moment. They're not even hot? Their designs are such ridiculously narrow versions of feminine attractiveness that they're not even successful at really being mass appeal sexy. I haven't even reached the point of complaining about the fatphobia and criminal lack of different body types yet, I'm still just saying that from the standpoint of fantasy sexy it's not even good at being stereotypical offensive fantasy sexy. It's just boring! They're all so visually boring! You can be scantily clad and still have an interesting and coherent character design! But that is not what they gave these women! They actually redesigned the classic Star Sapphire costume and made it MORE sexist and boring:

Yeah it was cheesy but it was also cute and fun? The design is playful classic sci-fi girl and this is when she was still a dangerous unhinged villain. Its fun to look at and feels tonally coherent next to Green Lantern.

And then they just...

No actually, I will not explain this one, you have eyes.

And yeah they fixed her costume finally,

But! She's still stuck as Hal Jordan's romantic punching bag, and has not gotten to have any new adventures on her own.

So.

What I'm saying is it's a flop all around. 2/10, and only because despite everything Fatality STILL managed to serve. I actually think that all of the corps have been poorly used since blackest night, even the greens actually, but they never even gave the Sapphires a chance. They last showed up in...a WW annual I think? During the whole dark gods event, they needed Diana to help them fight the evil god of love, and there was a guy in the corp finally, and they talked about sisterhood and then we haven't heard a peep from them since. I think Carol might be due to get her ring back in the GL ongoing but she's not really been treated well so far, so I'm not hopeful for anything fresh and well reasoned.

So my lovely ladies (and that one unnamed guy), until they let you get it together it may be time to

[nhaneh]

Growing ever more frustrated with the use of the term "AI" and how the latest marketing trend has ensured its already rather vague and highly contextual meaning has now evaporated into complete nonsense. Much like how the only real commonality between animals colloquially referred to as "Fish" is "probably lives in the water", the only real commonality between things currently colloquially referred to as "AI" is "probably happens on a computer"

For example, the "AI" you see in most games wot controls enemies and other non-player actors typically consist primarily of timers, conditionals, and RNG - and are typically designed with the goal of trying to make the game fun and/or interesting rather than to be anything ressembling actually intelligent. By contrast, the thing that the tech sector is currently trying to sell to us as "AI" relates to a completely different field called Machine Learning - specifically the sub-fields of Deep Learning and Neural Networks, specifically specifically the sub-sub-field of Large Language Models, which are an attempt at modelling human languages through large statistical models built on artificial neural networks by way of deep machine learning.

the word "statistical" is load bearing.

Say you want to teach a computer to recognize images of cats. This is actually a pretty difficult thing to do because computers typically operate on fixed patterns whereas visually identifying something as a cat is much more about the loose relationship between various visual identifiers - many of which can be entirely optional: a cat has a tail except when it doesn't either because the tail isn't visible or because it just doesn't have one, a cat has four legs, two eyes and two ears except for when it doesn't, it has five digits per paw except for when it doesn't, it has whiskers except for when it doesn't, all of these can look very different depending on the camera angle and the individual and the situation - and all of these are also true of dogs, despite dogs being a very different thing from a cat.

So, what do you do? Well, this where machine learning comes into the picture - see, machine learning is all about using an initial "training" data set to build a statistical model that can then be used to analyse and identify new data and/or extrapolate from incomplete or missing data. So in this case, we take a machine learning system and feeds it a whole bunch of images - some of which are of cats and thus we mark as "CAT" and some of which are not of cats and we mark as "NOT CAT", and what we get out of that is a statistical model that, upon given a picture, will assign a percentage for how well it matches its internal statistical correlations for the categories of CAT and NOT CAT.

This is, in extremely simplified terms, how pretty much all machine learning works, including whatever latest and greatest GPT model being paraded about - sure, the training methods are much more complicated, the statistical number crunching even more complicated still, and the sheer amount of training data being fed to them is incomprehensively large, but at the end of the day they're still models of statistical probability, and the way they generate their output is pretty much a matter of what appears to be the most statistically likely outcome given prior input data.

This is also why they "hallucinate" - the question of what number you get if you add 512 to 256 or what author wrote the famous novel Lord of the Rings, or how many academy awards has been won by famous movie Goncharov all have specific answers, but LLMs like ChatGPT and other machine learning systems are probabilistic systems and thus can only give probabilistic answers - they neither know nor generally attempt to calculate what the result of 512 + 256 is, nor go find an actual copy of Lord of the Rings and look what author it says on the cover, they just generalise the most statistically likely response given their massive internal models. It is also why machine learning systems tend to be highly biased - their output is entirely based on their training data, they are inevitably biased not only by their training data but also the selection of it - if the majority of english literature considered worthwhile has been written primarily by old white guys then the resulting model is very likely to also primarily align with the opinion of a bunch of old white guys unless specific care and effort is put into trying to prevent it.

It is this probabilistic nature that makes them very good at things like playing chess or potentially noticing early signs of cancer in x-rays or MRI scans or, indeed, mimicking human language - but it also means the answers are always purely probabilistic. Meanwhile as the size and scope of their training data and thus also their data models grow, so does the need for computational power - relatively simple models such as our hypothetical cat identifier should be fine with fairly modest hardware, while the huge LLM chatbots like ChatGPT and its ilk demand warehouse-sized halls full of specialized hardware able to run specific types of matrix multiplications at rapid speed and in massive parallel billions of times per second and requiring obscene amounts of electrical power to do so in order to maintain low response times under load.