#should be put under a microscope should be studied

[ashleyslorens]

i want to study this entire production under a microscope...

there's no duke, argentinian, or nini. zidler is played by a woman and is credited as "le director". there are quite a few original songs, some (if not all idk) are orchestrated with non original songs. e.g., there's a duet between armand (christian) and his dad called "sei kein narr (don't be a fool)" with the arrangements from "the show must go on". but more of that later.

going back to the duke (or lack thereof), i guess they decided fatime (satine) had enough issues as it is with just tuberculosis so they didn't want to add more pain :( the "la belle bizarre du moulin rouge" creative team is so kind <3 okay, so, how are they going to finance the show without him, then? armand's dad. during your song, he's like "well, my father has money and i'll get some to finance the show! :)" or something like that. please keep in mind my german is EXTREMELY limited lol.

btw, when armand and fatime first meet she gives him a rose and then he has a solo called "love at first sight" where he keeps holding it in his hands and looking at it like 🥰 which i thought was very cute!!!

tolouse does exist as a character, and there's another man and 3 women who are the creative team for whatever show they're putting on. and armand has three unnamed friends.

just as in the movie, fatime sings "one day i'll fly away" and then armand shows up and she tells him that she can't be in love bc she's a courtesan and then they sing "elephant love medley".

fatime also gets another solo in act 2 called "die liebe ist wie große oper (love is like a grand opera)" where she sings about how the moulin rouge is her home and she shouldn't have fallen in love but armand came along and loved like a grand opera and his song ignited something in her and she let herself fall and felt safe.

back to armand's dad, who is the antagonist of the show. he seems a little abusive, i think. he shows up angry one day during rehearsal and wants to take armand back home, trying to convince him that fatime only wants him for his money, but armand says he's staying because he's living his dream and she is his happiness. and that's the duet i previously mentioned.

there's no full video, so that's all i have. which is better than nothing, i guess. there's also the cast recording but that's also just highlights. for some reason "come what may" isn't in it which is weird because they do sing it in the show and i feel like it should be there?? anyway, this was fun! i had fun! someone who watched the show live please stand up and share what happens next 🙏

was anyone else aware of the other moulin rouge musical called "la belle bizarre du moulin rouge" which ran from 2008 to 2009 as a german tour? and did you guys know that it seems to be the same story and orchestrations from the movie but the characters are named armand and fatime instead of christian and satine?

[soldrawss]

Some more human turts+Gio because I AM in fact mentally unwell about them. May never actually recover.

The archer au belongs to @goodlucktai

[linguini-doodlez]

As someone studying psychology (possibly to become a therapist) Takuto Maruki fascinates me

[hongluboobs]

shipping hong lu with like half the cast because i like how he bounces off people is such a struggle bc i have so many ideas

[holy-mothxr]

Miranda's blood is so thickened by the mold it has the consistency of coagulated jello unless it's directly taken from an artery. Also, it is near oily black just so it tickles me that she cries blood sometimes.

[eldritch-nightmare]

I really like your recent post, especially LJ’s part, he may be a little fucked up, but that’s okay, he’s hot hehe

HFKLSHF im glad to hear you enjoyed it!!

[chamerionwrites]

Because - with the possible exception of that (hilarious) comedy beat where Flint is causing problems on purpose in negotiations with the Ranger crew, and Gates hauls him outside to shout at him - there’s nothing that reads to me as particularly paternal about that relationship. Flint and Gates are coworkers, political allies, drinking buddies, partners in crime. They’re both older than most of the crew, with shared history and responsibilities, and they socialize the way you’d expect from men who are peers in that way.

Except that twice, as their relationship frays, Flint all but blacks out and says or does The MOST extreme, unhinged thing he could possibly say or do in that situation - and both times, it’s very evidently because Gates reminded him of Hennessy.

(He’s trying - clumsily, defensively, stiltedly but imo sincerely - to explain Miranda’s letter and their complicated relationship to Gates. Right up until Gates says “Billy was a son to me.” And the ENTIRE tone of that conversation nosedives off a cliff into crazyland, as Flint rants incoherently about how maybe Gates should’ve protected his surrogate son better by “help[ing] him understand the world in which he lived.”)

(They’re having an argument - tense, furious, extremely final, but not violent - right up until Gates says that Flint’s crimes are too great to be overlooked, that the future he’s been working toward is finished, that he must abandon his fight and flee with Miranda if he wants to keep his neck out of a noose. Until Gates frames it like a favor that he’s doing Flint, a kindness for old times’ sake. This is your end. Be grateful it didn’t happen on the gallows.)

And except for the - I can’t really think of a better word for it - childish blind faith Flint seems to have in both of them, and in their ability to conjure him out of trouble. Uncharacteristically childish. Flint is a shrewd, suspicious guy; even pre-life-altering-trauma as McGraw he’s a shrewd and suspicious guy! He’s not great with people in the sense of being easy to like (and he knows it) but he’s often very perceptive about their motives and weaknesses and worst impulses, and very alert to a dangerous vibe shift or a realignment of interests. He understands politicking. He understands that it’s difficult and dangerous, and explicitly says as much. His entire life has been a series of brutal lessons about how resistant opinions and systems are to change. He once took a guy to a public hanging and told him that, “In most cases a man trying to change the world fails for one simple and unavoidable reason - everyone else.”

He’s very far from stupid or naive! And yet when everything seems to be falling apart he goes to Hennessy and Gates and truly, sincerely trusts them to be able to Fix It. He’s downright petulant when Hal Gates can’t just wave a magic wand and keep the crew content with low earnings and less explanation. He throws a literal tantrum (and his furniture) about it! Miranda tells him they’re in mortal danger and the whole tide of political opinion is against them and his answer is I’ll go to Hennessy, he’s the closest thing I have to a father, he’ll support us. (Okay but. You see how that’s not a solution, James? You see how one guy can’t just make politics happen the same way he can raise his voice and clear out a bar????) And then he gets COMPLETELY blindsided when Hennessy does Not do that. The same way he gets completely blindsided when Gates - who he’s already had a friendship-ending argument with - tells him no, you’ve lost your mind if you think I will fight a 100-gun warship with you, and furthermore the crew knows you’ve been lying to them.

This is why the bit of undramatized backstory I’m most burningly curious about is probably Flint & Gates. How did they become genuine friends. (And at a time when Flint - who is a ten-time gold medalist in Not Making Friends - was presumably at his most wounded and walled-off and feral, to boot?) What made Hal so loyal to him. How did Flint also lowkey decide that Hal was his pirate dad. Is Hal even remotely aware that he’s been cast in the role of Flint’s pirate dad. Is Flint even self-aware about casting Hal in the role of his pirate dad, or is this all writhing sea serpents living in the here-be-dragons zone of his traumatized subconscious

[icanfixthempolls]

[festivating]

have u read any good fics lately !!

Yes!!! These are the ones I'm keeping up with right now:

it takes the end of time by Numaix. This writer is bonkers and I have no proof they are not Maguire because they write EXACTLY like him and anyway. I am obsessed with their fics I've never read a bookverse gelphie more accurate.

The Goodness of Glinda Upland by localgaysian. Inspired by The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo which is one of my faaaavorite books ever and anyway, it's written so so well and I'm putting this Glinda under a microscope because she's not well and her thought process is SO well presented. And it has Nor!! I'm always saying more gelphie fics should have Nor.

A Thousand Universes Without Your Embrace by tinyace. Glinda travels through the multiverse and things get Weird and Meta and it's very angsty so far, which I love. Also the concepts presented are very interesting and I can tell this fic is gonna get me thinking lmfao

just a clock tick by bumblebea. Recommended to me here on tumblr :) Glinda travels back in time to the day she met Elphie. The plot is soo intriguing and very creative, and also I LOVE how the author characterizes an experienced Glinda dealing with all the act 1 events.

Side A, Side B by LaMombey. 1980s Cold War AU, set in Berlin, with Glinda as a spy. There's an action scene in chapter 2 that has not left my brain for DAYS because it was so vivid and well written. Very very interesting plot with lots of mystery and every chapter so far is such a banger.

And completed fics I read recently that I liked!

no thing that ever flew by queenofmarigolds. Recommended to me here on tumblr! Gelphie as college professors at a small college in a small town. It's so cozy and reads like a literary novel and it's soooo beautiful. I'm also putting this Glinda under a microscope, she has an avoidant attachment thing going on that makes my brain go brrrr. (Also has a Nor cameo!)

how essential to me (you have become) by ifthebookdoesntsell. Post act 2 gelphie domestic life... I want to live in this fic and study this author's writing style and then eat it, if possible. I love it so much, there's so much tenderness and LOVE and the characterization is spot on.

at night the wicked sleep alone by Small_Blue. This one was also recommended to me. Post act 2 Glinda character study! She is really going through it and she goes through it for a looooong time but reading about her journey is so satisfying and painful at the same time. Has my FAVORITE depiction of gelphie seeing each other for the first time after the melting, it felt so realistic and gutting.

[colourfulbisexualities]

FROSTBITE ; aaron hotchner x female medical examiner

aaron hotchner taglist.

you came prepared for the cold. hotch, as usual, did not. watching him try to out-stubborn the weather is almost amusing, until you catch the tell-tale signs of his inevitable loss. and since you refuse to let sheer fbi stubbornness be the cause of his demise, you take matters (and your scarf) into your own hands.

"YOUR IDEA of small talk is discussing lividity. Mine is asking if you’ve ever heard of a scarf."

The crime scene is a frozen hellscape, and you? You are rapidly approaching the limits of your patience.

The snow crunches beneath your boots as you step carefully over the iced-over pavement, adjusting the lapels of your very expensive black coat, which, unlike a certain someone’s choice of outerwear, actually serves a functional purpose.

The wind is relentless, cutting through the gaps between buildings like a scalpel, and despite the layers you smartly put on: your cobalt-blue sweater snug beneath your coat, the rich red of your gloves a bold contrast against the whiteout conditions—it’s still miserable.

And yet, Aaron Hotchner stands beside you looking like he just walked out of an FBI-themed catalogue, his usual dark suit and sad excuse for a windbreaker doing absolutely nothing to protect him from the elements.

You glance over at him, squinting. Does this man have something against being warm?

"Not a fan of coats, Agent?" you ask, tucking your hands deeper into your pockets, fingers curled inside the soft lining of your gloves.

He doesn’t even look at you.

"Not a fan of wasting time," he replies, flipping open a case file that the wind immediately tries to rip from his fingers.

You watch as he barely manages to hold onto it, and if you weren’t so distracted by the absolute absurdity of his life choices, you’d have the decency to be impressed. Instead, you roll your eyes so hard you practically pull a muscle.

"Oh, I see," you say, nodding sagely. "Dying of exposure is fine, but god forbid you take an extra five seconds to put on a real jacket. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you have needs like a normal human being."

Nothing. No reaction, no flicker of emotion. Just Hotch being Hotch, the immovable object of the BAU.

But then you notice it.

It’s small, barely noticeable unless you’re paying attention. But you are. Because even though Aaron Hotchner likes to pretend he’s made of solid granite and pure spite, his body betrays him. His grip on the file is too tight, his fingers just a little too stiff.

There’s a subtle, controlled exhale that fogs the air in front of him, his breath quicker than it should be. And then, the real kicker? His shoulders tense as a tiny, almost imperceptible shiver rolls through him.

Oh.

Oh, this is pathetic.

"Oh my god," you breathe, eyes widening. "You’re actually cold, aren’t you?"

Hotch doesn’t react at first, which is classic avoidance, but you are nothing if not persistent. You tilt your head, studying him like a specimen under a microscope, and hum thoughtfully.

"You poor thing," you mock, reaching up to press a gloved hand to your chest in faux sympathy. "Here I was, thinking you just had an irrational hatred for comfortable outerwear, but no—you're suffering. You’re out here trying to will yourself into thermal regulation like some kind of FBI-trained monk."

Hotch finally exhales sharply, which you think is supposed to be a sigh of exasperation, but you hear the thinly veiled amusement under it.

"I’m fine," he mutters, flipping another page in his file.

"Oh, sure. You look fine," you deadpan. "Your ears aren’t bright red. Your fingers aren’t seconds away from frostbite. And I definitely didn’t just see you shiver like a chihuahua in a blizzard."

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, which, frankly, is a win for you.

But still, this is ridiculous. He’s clearly freezing, but he’d rather suffer in silence than admit that maybe, just maybe, wearing the bare minimum amount of clothing in below-freezing temperatures is a bad idea.

And so, you make a decision.

With a dramatic sigh that is entirely for show, you unwind the thick, red cashmere scarf from around your neck. Before Hotch can react, you step forward and loop it around his neck instead, wrapping it snugly like you’re dressing a particularly stubborn mannequin.

He stiffens like you just put a live snake on him.

"What are you doing?"

"Saving your life," you reply, tugging the scarf into place with a firm yank.

His brows furrow, lips parting slightly, like he’s about to launch into a protest about how he doesn’t need it or he’s perfectly fine, thank you very much. But you’re not in the mood to listen to any of his nonsense, so you shut it down before it starts.

"Ah-ah," you cut him off, holding up a finger. "This is not up for debate. You will wear this scarf, and you will keep it on. Otherwise, I will make a scene. A big one. I’ll tell the whole team you collapsed from hypothermia. I’ll dramatically throw myself over your body, wailing about how I begged you to wear a coat, but you refused. I’ll make Spencer analyse your case history and find evidence of a self-destructive martyr complex."

Hotch blinks at you. Then exhales sharply. It’s almost a laugh.

"Charming," he mutters, adjusting the scarf like he’s still deciding whether or not he’s actually going to wear it.

You smirk, stepping back, fully satisfied with yourself. "So I’ve been told."

And just as you turn on your heel, walking toward the body, you glance back one last time—just in time to see Aaron Hotchner not taking the scarf off.

You allow yourself one last victorious glance at Hotch, watching as he shifts uncomfortably in the scarf you so graciously provided. He doesn’t take it off. Probably because he knows you’ll make good on your threat, but the way he adjusts it, fingers tugging at the cashmere like it’s some kind of foreign object, is downright adorable.

You turn back toward the body, your smirk lingering as you crouch down. The scene itself is grisly, the poor bastard half-buried in the snow, his lips frozen in something that’s definitely not a smile. Rigor’s already set in, his limbs stiff as icicles, but you can tell from a single glance that he wasn’t dumped here that long ago.

The lividity is still settling. You could probably put on your professional hat and start rattling off time-of-death estimates, but honestly? You’re more interested in seeing how long Hotch lasts before he starts pretending that scarf was his idea.

"Alright, Frosty," you mutter to the corpse, tugging your gloves tighter. "Let’s see what you’ve got for me."

Behind you, Hotch sighs. "Must you?"

"Absolutely," you say without hesitation.

You glance up at him, and God, he looks miserable. Not because of the body—that’s just another day in the BAU—but because the wind has officially escalated to what you’d describe as “actively attempting murder.” His hair, normally so neatly combed, has gone slightly tousled from the elements.

The tip of his nose is pink with cold, and despite the scarf (which he is still wearing, thank you very much), his jaw is set so tight that you can practically hear the internal monologue scolding him for not wearing something warmer.

You hum thoughtfully, tilting your head. "You know," you start, "if you ever get tired of the FBI thing, you could probably start a lucrative career in cryogenics. Since you seem so dedicated to freezing yourself for no reason."

He exhales through his nose. "Are you planning to examine the body or just continue providing commentary?"

"Oh, I can multitask," you reply, reaching into your kit. "I’m very talented that way. But if you’re cold—" you intentionally emphasize the word, watching his eyebrow twitch, "—you could always wait in the car like a responsible adult who values their own survival."

Hotch crosses his arms. "I’m not cold."

You snort. "Uh-huh. Sure. And I suppose your ears just naturally turn that color when you’re ‘not cold’?"

He doesn’t answer, which is a shame, because you were hoping for something more creative than sheer stubborn silence.

Sighing, you turn back to the body, lifting one of the victim’s hands with delicate care. The fingertips are pale, stiff from the cold, but not enough to throw off your estimate. "He’s been here maybe ten, twelve hours max," you murmur, examining the nails. There’s debris under them: dirt, a little bit of fabric. Defensive wounds up the arms. "Fought back. Not hard enough, though."

Hotch steps closer, the warmth of his presence—what little there is—cutting through the wind. "You’re sure?"

"I always am," you reply, glancing up at him. "Though I’m sure you’ll want an official report before you trust me. Because, you know, that whole ‘cold, hard facts’ thing." You pause, then grin. "Speaking of cold and hard... how’s your body temperature doing, Aaron? Holding steady? Need another layer?"

He almost glares at you, but you catch it. The way his jaw tenses, the way his fingers flex like he’s resisting the urge to adjust the scarf again.

You knew it.

"I’m fine," he says, but it’s so much less convincing this time.

"Mmm," you hum, "if you say so."

You go back to work, scanning the rest of the victim’s body, making mental notes, piecing together the story. But your amusement lingers, bubbling beneath the surface, because as much as Hotch wants to pretend this is just another case, you know better.

Because Hotch may be a lot of things; stoic, terrifyingly competent, a walking definition of emotionally unavailable but right now?

Right now, he’s standing in the middle of a frozen crime scene, wearing your scarf.

You bend down to examine the victim’s shoes, reaching under your coat to adjust something tucked against your ribs, something small, warm and sneaky.

You feel a faint grin tug at your lips as you stand up, turning toward Hotch with an exaggerated sigh. “Well, since you’re so damn determined to prove you’re fine, I guess I’ll have to take care of this myself."

Hotch barely glances at you before looking back to the scene, probably convinced you’re just about to make some snarky remark.

Instead, you hand him the small hot water bottle you’d been keeping hidden beneath your layers. It’s snug and warm in your palm, the relief of it a welcome contrast to the biting cold of the air. The bottle is simple, wrapped in a soft, worn fabric, but the gesture—well, that’s intentional.

You’re not impressed with him.

"Here," you say, practically thrusting it into his hands. "Take it before I lose all sympathy and leave you to your miserable, stubborn self."

He stares at the hot water bottle for a moment, clearly taken aback. His eyebrows furrow, and his mouth presses into that familiar line of 'I don’t need anything'. But you’re already stepping back, giving him no time to debate.

"Look," you add, not hiding the smirk in your voice, "I’m not saying you’ll freeze to death out here. But if you keep standing like a statue, I will be forced to call the team in, and I’m not about to explain to them why you’ve turned into a human popsicle."

You walk off toward the victim’s body again, your breath still curling in the cold air, not caring whether Hotch takes the bottle or not.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him holding it—gripping it tightly like it’s an anchor in a storm.

The drive back to the office is silent at first, save for the hum of the engine and the sound of the heater blasting on full. The interior of the car is a blessed relief from the freezing temperatures outside, the warmth wrapping around you like a heavy blanket.

You feel the heat slowly seep into your skin, unwinding muscles that had been tense from the cold. You watch the snow falling in soft, lacy patterns through the window, your mind flickering between thoughts of the case and what the hell just happened back there with Hotch.

He’s beside you, leaning back against his seat, the scarf still draped around his neck, though now, it's just comfortable. No longer a point of stubborn defiance, no longer a symbol of his refusal to acknowledge anything personal.

You glance over at him, just a quick look, just to see if he’s still silently brooding like he always does. But?

He’s not.

His eyes are closed, head tilted back just slightly, lips parted like he’s actually relaxed. And for a second, you think you might’ve imagined the whole scene. But then the car jerks over a bump, and the real Hotch is there: stiff, controlled, and wearing a somewhat reluctant, subtle smile that you can tell he's trying to keep hidden.

You blink. No way.

You give him another quick glance, and this time, he’s aware of it, turning his head toward you with that deadpan stare of his. But there’s a flicker in his eyes—recognition, like he knows you caught him slipping just a little.

Caught in the act, and he doesn’t like it.

You bite back a grin, turning your focus back to the road.

Finally, after what feels like ages, Hotch clears his throat.

"Thanks."

It’s quiet, and you’re not sure you heard him right, so you just pretend you didn’t, even though you definitely did.

"What?" You glance at him, feigning confusion.

"For the scarf. And the... water bottle."

You fight the smirk threatening to curl your lips.

"You’re welcome," you say, tone sweet as sugar, because who are you to deny a man a little warmth after all the stubbornness he just had to display?

His hand briefly reaches up to touch the scarf, and then he drops it.

"I suppose it was... necessary," he adds, his voice soft, like he’s admitting some sort of defeat. You can almost feel him trying to keep his pride intact, but you can also feel the warmth from the heating system wrapping around both of you.

You roll your eyes. "No suppositions about it. You were shaking like a leaf, Hotch. Anyone with a pulse could tell you needed a little extra help."

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, noticing the faintest blush creeping up his neck. You know damn well it’s not because of the heat.

He’s quiet for a moment, and you can almost see him calculating whether or not to keep arguing his point. But, in the end, he just sighs.

"You really know how to make a man feel inadequate."

Now you can’t help but smirk, finally letting out a low laugh.

"You didn’t need me to make you feel that way. You’re doing just fine on your own."

Hotch doesn’t respond immediately, and for a moment, you’re not sure if he’s going to hold onto that last thread of serious, unflappable Agent Hotchner. But then you hear it: the faintest hint of a chuckle in his throat. It’s so brief, so soft, but it’s there.

It feels like a win.

"I’ll keep that in mind," he says, the corners of his mouth twitching.

You glance at him again, trying and failing, to hide your grin.

"Good."

You settle back into the seat, relaxing as the car cruises through the quiet streets, the world outside a blur of snow and icy roads. The heater does its job, wrapping you both in warmth, and despite the quiet, there’s a change between you two.

It’s subtle, something you both know, but neither of you will ever admit out loud. The tension from earlier is gone, replaced by something else—a kind of... understanding.

You’re not sure what exactly this thing is between you and Hotch, but for now? For now, you’ll let him keep pretending it’s just another day at the office. You’ll let him think he’s won.

But in your head? You know the truth.

[spock-adoodledoo]

going back to this, that game is honestly kind of helpful for thinking about how i want to translate stuff because their translation doesn't do it with any regard to the original sometimes, like the goal of the the translation is to create a certain characterization, not to stay faithful to the original. and it works tbh, they're all pretty rounded characters that are unique in their speech patterns and personalities, even though some characters give off different vibes in english. sometimes i struggle with localization and determining how much creative liberty you're supposed to give to a character when making them talk in a different language. also i feel like fan translations often struggle with staying so close to the original that some sentences feel stilted or awkward simply because the translation didn't zoom out to evaluate the english sentence by itself, not whether it conveys everything the original does.

there could always be speech patterns im not picking up etc and I could always be misreading something (lol skull emoji) but i guess it's a nice reference to keep in mind, I don't always have to agonize over whether the original language *actually* meant something to get it right

must say im very impressed with star rail's translators/localizers

the amount of puns they had to suffer through and figure out how to localize in 2.6's continuance quest with banana this and banana that all the goddamn time

edit: nvm i take it back this bit is overstaying its welcome

[ladybyakuya]

are we still friends? + (togame jo, sugista kyotaro,choji tomiyama,kota sako)

cws. | gn!reader, headcanon + scenarios format, sorta character study, fluff, angst, comfort. | redirect to blog navigation.

syn. | How do they react to confession when the feelings are mutual?

notes. | omg! here's part two. read part one here. enjoy <3

☆ Togame Jo : "Did Choji put you up for this?" Togame enquires with a sharp tone, eyebrows ever so slightly growing close to each other that it goes away when you blink. The question hits you like a stone on your head. Why would he do that? unless . . . he already did that what's it got anything to do with him? Did Choji pull a prank like this before? and he might have liked them. . . and might not have. . .pushing the thoughts aside  you ask keeping your voice as even as possible,

"Would your answer be any different if that wasn't the case?" Of course, he has his wall high up. Not only that, the surface of the wall is full of sharp spikes so that no one can climb, not even you. It is no surprise that he would be so rude when a wave of affection washes over him. You force a smile upon your face and look down. The empty bottle of the cold drink containing a marble ball that was circling a while ago comes to a halt now. That's right. He should not have said that out loud. It is surprising in the first place when someone like you, so far away from his world is into him and it is even more surprising when you have the heart to confess. He did not mean to sound rude. . .It's just that . . .

"Sorry, I should not have asked that." He says trying his best he can to keep himself. He takes a quick glance at you through the corner of his eyes. Even for a split second, he saw your lips trembling. He curses himself keeping the bottle aside on the bench. "Well, no." His voice is so low, so meek that he has to clear his throat and straighten up before speaking. "No. Absolutely not. My answer would not change." was he scared? wait, he is . . . scared? He has never been the one to pray to God but now, at this moment with all his heart he asks the heavens not to let you cry. He does not wish to witness that since he does not know how to handle it. He has only been known to handle things with violence and dominance, not with talking and kindness. He takes off his glasses and stands up to face you who is still sitting on the bench head down as if gravity is growing stronger at each second. You feel a wind pass by before a cloth rests on your back, embracing your shoulders. You look up with eyes full of water up to the brim. "That's . . . that's my way of telling."

It takes a moment to sink into you what he actually meant and wear his jacket properly thinking how emotionally constipated he is. what is this? A competition? you let out a long hum.

"that's all you have to say?" Togame says impatiently. "I tell you that you like you and all you say is "hmm", huh? You grin from war to ear, and standing up you pinch his cheeks. He does not recoil like a spring-like you expected him to.

"Yeah. You said that now." Togame looks away unable to meet your water-full eyes anymore, warmth spreading over his cheeks, ears and even neck.

★ Sugishita Kyotaro

Sugishita's world is totally mapped out and it all revolves around Umemiya-san. But the moment you said you like him, his everlasting face of boredom did not do much except his eyebrows grew closer together. Is that the face of a surprised person? You ponder but it is meaningless because his eyes are onto you and all he is doing is to inspect you. If the wills and worlds had the potential he would put you under microscope. But even with so much effort all he does is to ask the most stupid question ever. “Do you? Do you really like me? You nod since your throat has become dry. He chins his face for a second and then turns towards you asking with a mellowed tone, “Is it the “i like you as a lover” or ...?” He does not get to finish his sentence while you cover your face and nod tremendously. almost five times in a row. His eyes spread wide. You are covering your face. You do not wish to see his reaction, nor prepared for the answer he is about to give. You feel a feather touch around your wrists as he whispers, “i do too. I like you too.” as he peels off your hand carefully. As someone who is known to be only talking with fists he certainly is not rigid and rough with you. He holds your hand as you look at him for a few seconds and then guides your palms over his cheeks. “y/n-san, Tell me again that you like me and I'll tell you again.” he says sinking in to your touch.

☆ Choji Tomiyama

"Huh?" It was all he could say when those magical words came out of your mouth. Within a blink of your eyes, he jumps so high that you feel if he really wanted, he could touch the sky. Then his cheeks puff a little before a devasted choice of words escapes his mouth,“It’s not fair. I wanted to say it at first,” When it registers in your head you think he might have misheard you so you try to say again but he quickly grabs your hand saying, “Why didn't you give me heads up? I wanted to tell you first that I like you. It's not fairrrreee.” if anything's is unfair is that how a leader seems to act in such a childlike manner but it's okay. This is why you fell for him. He stops whining and says in one breath, "So, then I'll be the one to take you on a date. " he is still holding your hand.

★ Kota Sako

For someone who's eyes are always glued on Hiragi, movements and talks trying to imitate Hiragi he certainly is more than aware of himself and his surroundings. You expect him to brush away your plea when you ask him to stay after the class or even just decline you by saying that he is busy or the worst: simply ignoring you even after hearing. But none of that happens. He waits for you after the class patiently, listens to all you have to say, and then says, "I'll think about it." while internally practically panicking so hard that his head starts to hurt by the time he reaches home. When you reach home, you get a text from an unknown number saying, "So, let's date then. -Sako."

[professional-rat-eater]

I need people in the IWTV fanbase to realise that you can appreciate a character in all their complexities and enjoy their precense in a story and still wish they had a slow, painful death scene. For non-book readers, I hope to be able to clarify a few things about why a certain character is so hated.

Keep reading for more nuanced Marius de Romanus slander:

I feel like I post at least once a day something about hitting Marius with a car or something and I do it mainly because it’s funny but it’s also because there is a very valid reason he is where a lot of people draw the line, despite the scale of morality in gothic literature being utterly different from that of pretty much any other literature, and drastically different from real life.

I love him for what he brings to the story. He is fascinating and I am excited to see him in season 3. He’s a brilliant character and I want to put him under a microscope and study him like a bug. He is still absolutely vile even for Anne Rice, something she even hints at here and there in her work.

I could go on and on for days about him, but to keep it short (edit: I lied), he met Pandora when she was ten years old and he was twenty five. What makes him particularly sick is nothing to do with vampiric morality, which we’ve seen is completely different, within the world of the books and show, from human morality. We get onboard with Lestat because we get to know him as a human and then watch how he changes as he gets used to being a vampire. Lestat was not a monster when he was human. Marius was.

If you disagree with that, you can think so if you wish as I do not currently possess the ability to control other people’s thoughts (but as soon as I do, I’m coming for you!) but please do not try and make excuses for him on that topic. Most people will not be open to that sort of debate. I know I’m not. Pandora was a baby. He should not have felt anything towards her other than a desire to protect her as a parent might. Yes, yes, gothic morality. But you need to understand that that is just too much for most people.

And you know who else was a baby, especially in comparison to Marius? Armand. Armand, who grew up to do awful things because of how he was treated. He was already being taken advantage of (to put it lightly) before he met Marius. If Marius had cared selflessly for Armand, he would have taken him from that brothel and tried to help him heal from the trauma. That is what real love would have been. You should not look at broken children and think to make them your lovers. All he was was yet another grown adult taking advantage of a boy whose spirit had been utterly shattered by what he’d endured.

(I’m not suggesting that should have happened or it would have been better, but I dislike the insinuation that Marius’s love for Armand was anything other than exploitative. It can be sincere, and still exploitative. I believe he meant it. I also believe he fucked Armand up more than he already had been.)

Murder in a fictional setting can be justified and overlooked, but as soon as anything involves children, you have to accept that you will lose a lot of people, even in gothic literature. That sort of relationship may have been more normalised thousands of years ago, but there were always people who objected to the concept. Even within the narrative of Anne Rice’s books, Marius’s actions are called out here and there (usually subtly) so even there, they are questioned. Compare him to someone like Lestat (I only mention him because for whatever reason, people like to group them together as irredeemable characters???).

Lestat’s actions are deeply toxic but people still like him because we understand why his behaviour is the way it is. As dreadful as what he does is, we are endeared to him because of his suffering and follow his journey as a vampire. He is twisted, but he is behaving according to what his trauma has turned him into. Armand is another example of this. Vile behaviour that is a believable response to trauma. There comes in the gothic morality again. We love them and know they are awful at the same time.

It is not that you cannot like Marius or characters like him. I do like him very much as a character, but you have to get on board with the idea that most people never will. The lines he crosses are unlike many of the others crossed by different characters. No one looks at Madeleine and Claudia and thinks it’s weird because Claudia is not actually a child. Armand was. Pandora was.

I could honestly make a separate post about book!Louis too and why I think the changes from the book were necessary to make people actually care about him, but it is similar. Harming/exploiting children and anything to do with slavery is a hard line a lot of people draw. Marius is still a multifaceted, interesting, complex, humanised character, as all Anne Rice vampires are, but he is deeply disliked for a very good reason. People cannot switch off how they feel about what he did, even if they are invested in the story.

(But also let’s be thoughtful about this type of discourse. Do not look at anyone whose favourite character is Marius and assume they are a bad person. He is a great character, he is just not to many people’s tastes. They likely just find him deeply interesting which he is.)

Anyway, after he gets his screen time and we reach the end of the show and he has gotten his chance to chance screen time, I vote we tie him up and treat him like a piñata.

[helloiamthatlilwitch]

uh oh

new hyperfixation

Octonauts my beloved you guys got me into biology

I now have a love hate relationship with that subject

anyways I’ve never drawn them before so have an art dump while I crash out

Yes I drew them yes I’m too lazy to add watermark no please do not steal (or I will find you it only takes a matter of time) yes I know I have been inactive for the past few months yes I’m aware that I did not draw Barnacles (pls I’m so mentally tired) yes I uh forgot what else to say

Shellington my pookie my boy my baby I want to put you under a peridish and observe you under the microscope :affectionate:

mm I should be studying mmmm

[froggiepads119]

UH

DUH?!

Please welcome one of my most recent Airy AUs! Star!Airy.

Some information.. he owns a casino and has a star in place of another eye that may or may not hold some magical properties.

In terms of personality, he is a bit of a flirt, and likes to f#ck with people sometimes. But surprisingly for an owner of a casino, he has kindness and tenderness in his heart. He just doesn't show it too well sometimes.

He does have some magical powers as well, but most is being able to levitate objects or himself. He can also sing, in fact he sings quite a lot at his casino.

In terms of technology... well, he is a bit of a boomer in that case. He has lots of trouble knowing how to use mainly phones and computers, and the internet.

I'm thinking of convincing him to start an ask blog. What do you guys think? ~

[tapiocasaturn404]

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Chapter Two ࿐ྂ

Word Count: 1,3k

Summary: Lizzie arrives at the studio for her first official training session with Minho, who is skeptical about her addition to the group. He puts her to the test, challenging her to prove herself through an impromptu freestyle.

A day later

The practice room was shrouded in a gentle, dim light as Lizzie stepped inside, her footsteps barely audible on the polished wooden floor. The soft creak of the door echoed through the stillness of the early morning, a solitary sound that seemed to momentarily disrupt the tranquil silence that enveloped the room. Pale beams of dawn filtered through the high windows, casting a soft glow on the music stands and scattered sheet music, creating an atmosphere of quiet anticipation.

She had worn her favourite practice clothes, a lavender off shoulder sweater and snug, soft pink yoga pants, hoping she would feel extra confident in them.

Her stomach was in knots, anticipation and anxiety battling within her. She had barely slept the night before, her mind replaying yesterday’s meeting with Chan over and over again.

Today was her first real test.

Across the expansive rehearsal space, a lone figure stood with his back to her, his silhouette highlighted by the dim studio lights. He raised his arms high above his head, muscles taut and defined beneath his fitted black shirt. Even in the hushed atmosphere, Lizzie instantly identified him. Lee Minho. The main dancer of Stray Kids. Renowned for his flawless precision, captivating artistry, and his quick, cutting wit.

She swallowed hard. If anyone in the group was going to be skeptical about her addition, it was him.

As if sensing her presence, Minho turned, his eyes narrowing as they studied her with an intensity that made Lizzie feel like she was being assessed under a microscope. He wore this black shirt and gray sweatpants that hung casually on his lean frame, and his brown hair was tousled, suggesting he'd been here for hours already. His expression was unreadable—cool, detached.

“You’re early,” he noted, crossing his arms.

Lizzie's lips curved into a faint, strained smile as she adjusted her bag, the strap digging into her shoulder. Her fingers fumbled briefly with the zipper, and she shifted her stance, trying to balance the weight more comfortably.

“Figured I should be.”

Minho nodded, his eyes flickering toward the mirror before he tilted his head slightly. “Let’s get something straight. I didn’t ask for this.” His tone was calm, but firm. “I don’t know why the company decided to do this, and I definitely don’t know why Chan agreed. But since you’re here, I have one rule.”

Lizzie locked eyes with him. She could feel the tension in the air, like the calm before a storm. “You work,” Minho stated bluntly, his voice as steady as a drumbeat. “Every second counts, every movement needs purpose. You work just like everyone else. There’s no special treatment here for being new, and certainly none for being a girl. Got it?”

Lizzie nodded, her heart pounding. “Understood.”

Minho tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied her with curiosity. After a brief pause, he nodded toward the sleek, black sound system sitting on the shelf. “Plug in your phone.”

Lizzie blinked. “What?”

“Plug it in. Hit shuffle.”

Her stomach twisted, but she reached into her bag and pulled out her phone.

She connected it to the speaker, the click of the cable sounding louder than usual in the silence of the room. Her thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating for a moment, before she took a deep breath and pressed play on her entire music library.

A beat of silence. Then—

“I stay out too late~”

Lizzie’s blood ran cold.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

“Got nothing in my brain~”

Taylor Swift. Shake It Off.

Of all the songs in her library—of all the thousands of songs she could have landed on—she got a high-energy, bubblegum pop track? In front of Lee Minho?

Minho’s eyebrow twitched. He exhaled through his nose, clearly unimpressed. “This should be interesting.”

Lizzie took a deep breath, her cheeks flushed with frustration. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she straightened her shoulders

This was a test, and she wasn’t about to fail it.

So she moved.

At first, she leaned into the song’s natural rhythm, keeping it light, bouncy—letting the music guide her. She resisted the urge to cringe as Taylor’s voice rang through the speakers, instead choosing to own it.

She let her footwork loosen, adding playful spins between controlled isolations.

By the time the chorus hit, Lizzie had a choice.

She could either half-ass it and let Minho think she wasn’t capable—or she could own it.

So she did.

“Cause the players gonna play, play, play, play, play~”

She rolled her shoulders back with a satisfying crack, adding a playful spring to her steps as she danced across the room.

“And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate~”

She moved with a sharp, controlled isolation of her shoulder, sending a ripple down her arm. Her hips followed with a smooth, rhythmic sway, capturing the beat perfectly. A playful smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, confident and teasing.

Fine. If this was what she had to work with, she would work with it.

By the time the second chorus rolled in, Lizzie had forgotten about Minho. It was just her, the music, and the fire in her chest.

She hit the final beat cleanly, landing in a controlled stance, breath steady.

Silence.

She looked at Minho, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest.

He stood motionless, arms folded tightly across his chest, his eyes unwavering as they bore into hers with an unyielding intensity.

The room seemed to hold its breath, suspended in anticipation. Then, after a moment that stretched like an eternity, he began a single, deliberate clap.

The sound echoed through the silence, each clap measured and slow, resonating with a mix of admiration and irony.

Lizzie’s looked at him wide eyed, a hesitant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Are you—are you mocking me?”

Minho exhaled through his nose, smirking. “Maybe.”

Lizzie scowled. “I got unlucky, okay? Not exactly the best freestyle song.”

Minho shrugged. “Excuses?”

She clenched her jaw tightly as tension rippled through her. He took a deliberate step forward, his eyes piercing and intense, like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. "Your movements are precise, fluid even," he observed, his voice cutting through the air like a blade, "but there's a pause, a hesitation. You're holding back."

Lizzie straightened. “I—”

Minho leaned against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, scrutinizing the newcomer with a critical eye. "You're good," he admitted, nodding slightly. His gaze was intense, measuring every ounce of potential. "But if you're joining us," he continued, his voice firm and unwavering, "you can't just be good. You have to be flawless. Every beat needs to hit with precision, every breath synchronized with the rhythm."

His gaze hardened. “No doubts. No hesitation.”

Lizzie clenched her fists. Fine.

“Again,” Minho ordered.

Her pulse spiked. “Another shuffle?”

Minho smirked. “Unless you wanna quit now.”

Lizzie narrowed her eyes and hit shuffle.

A hard-hitting bass beat filled the room. A dance track.

Lizzie didn’t hesitate.

She hit the ground running with a newfound intensity, sharper and stronger than ever before. Her movements were precise and powerful as she popped and locked with perfect timing, each motion transitioning seamlessly into fluid waves. There was no trace of awkwardness now—only pure instinct guiding her every move.

And this time, when she finished—

Minho nodded.

“Better,” he said.

Lizzie wiped the beads of sweat from her brow, her breath still coming in heavy, labored gasps. Her eyes met her companion's with a determined gaze. "You don't believe I belong here, do you?" she asked, her voice tinged with a mix of challenge and vulnerability.

Minho didn’t answer right away.

Then, after a long pause, he simply said—

“That’s up to you to prove.”

Lizzie met his gaze, determination burning in her chest.

Fine.

If Minho wanted proof—she would give him proof. Even if she would stay all day in this studio.

next chapter ->