#Erin screams into the void

[sensitivemusings]

It's only 3pm and I am having a Day

I may need some comfort tickles

[thedndgoblinwholivesinyourwalls]

shaderin posting!!! (after me and @ike-mcswains-mortician spent like an hour or more sobbing over them) these will not be coherent in ANY way btw ALSO me and lea came up with a name for shade witch which is Skaoi which means shadow in norse :] so I switch between the two! ALSOOO this is kind of some of the aasimars and aunties au that me and lea are cooking sooo yeah not all makes sense hehe

Do you think Shade Witch sees Erin’s face in the wood of Oakvale. No since they’re all the same, all the same bark patterns and lines which Erin always complained about. Skaoi could trace the trees wood in her sleep after she spent days tracing it, trying to engrave it in her memory. After days of her not hearing from Erin at the end of the world, the world was red and it cast blood red light on the trees and Skaoi’s hands and face. The same blood red of the flesh tomb she found Erin in, the same red of Erin’s blood that dripped onto the ground.

The sun finally lights up the sky, no longer dousing Skaoi in blood red, washing away her hands and face of the blood red, basking her in bright light. Her business was booming again and everything was well, the trees were still the same as ever but she could now see new trees in the horizon. All she could say when she met Erin was ‘Woah’ and now that’s all she could say looking up at the sky, blue instead of red and clouds speckling the sky like snow.

Erin sits in heaven, her witch hat dipped over her eyes, protecting her from the sun and so nobody could see her tears. ‘Woah’ she heard Shade Witch say, and she smiled.

Update: i think @apricior came up with this ship! so sorry for tagging you on this weird ramble btwww

[thehecklingmouse]

warrior cats is just filled with “they wouldn’t fucking say that” moments huh

[0bticeo]

j. sims, e. bouchard | knowledge is a double-edged sword

part two of four. (part one.) (part 3.) (part four.)

summary:

a low hum. there’s something sharp in elias' smile. his gaze feels like it’s cutting you open. you hold your ground, unblinking, watching him and his annoyingly handsome face. 

“you’re wearing a mask, dear.”

“aren’t we all?”

wc. 3k

tw. reader's creeping paranoia, shockinlgy nothing smutty happens in this chapter, manipulation, graphic description of eyes, mild ptsd, nightmares, elias bouchard being a creep.

working in the archives has always been… a little off, for a lack of a better word. you are supposed to research and archive statements regarding “supernatural happenings” in a world where said supernatural has been swiped under the carpet, dismissed with a haughty scoff. still, it pays well. which is why you find yourself clocking in day after day. 

your colleagues… you don’t know what to make of them. not really. sasha’s been… off. you think there’s a void in the shape of her roaming about the place. she’s calm and focused. formal. has trouble logging in her computer - that’s… not right.

martin seems to be taking it well enough for someone who’s spent the past two months sleeping in the archives and then getting attacked by worms. sounds silly. definitely wasn’t. you think there’s much, much more to him than meets the eye and and accept the cups of coffee he hands you with a warm smile. you mean them. you like martin. his poetry a bit less. 

tim… is silent. he’s lost his smile. you haven’t fallen victim to one of his pranks in ages and fear you won’t ever have to worry about a sketchy statement being one of his little jokes. you feel anger bubbling inside of him at the mere mention of having to work in the archives. yet…

yet he’s helping you. 

the library is a quiet affair, the muted sort of silence that hangs like a comforting blanket over your shoulders. dust flutters away in the air, drawn by your steps. tim’s sigh cuts through the silence like a knife.

“why are we doing this again?”

you tuck back a book in its shelf. thankfully, not a leitner. still, nothing to do with architecture.

“because it is our job, tim.”

he scoffs.

“yeah, right. i wasn’t aware it involved risking my life.”

“look, you’re not forced to help me. if it makes you feel better to slack off, then i’m not stopping you.”

he laughs, mocking, almost cruel. the pressure at the back of your neck is near unbearable. you want to scream. you want to tear something apart.

“look at you! acting like everything’s normal! three months ago, you were bleeding out on my lap! how can you-”

“it’s either i focus on something else or i go mad.” you snap a book shut with a sharp intake of air. “you won’t like me mad, tim. now shut up and help me find robert smirke’s books, will you? i’m pretty sure they were there, but-”

his hand clasps around your wrist. 

“hold on. why are you looking for smirke’s books?”

“follow up on a statement involving urbex in the former church of saint james in west hackney. built by, you guessed it, robert smirke himself.”

you watch a flash of… something in his eyes. it looks like guilt in mourning, and you’re itching to pry, pry him open and unearth whatever secrets he keeps buried under a thick layer of good humour turned bitter. 

“it should be around here.”

you end up with three heavy volumes in hand, none of which feel like they’ll help with erin gallagher-nelson’s statement. then, something catches your attention. a small leather volume, tucked away behind the books you’re currently holding. tim’s already on his way out, much to your chagrin. you don’t feel too guilty when you reach for the small little book and tuck away those he’s helped you find, neatly ordered in their rightful place.

the little book in your hand is… not a leitner, which is a relief as you are not wearing gloves. no, it’s bound leather, with no title in sight. you open it, carefully, cradling it against your breast like something fragile, and cast your gaze upon its first page. the juts out in ink far too dark for its age.

the fears that bind us.

turn another page and see the summary. fourteen entries, neatly labelled. the Web. the Dark. the Spiral. the Buried. you pause.

the pinprick pain at your neck sharpens. you’re Watched. there’s nobody but you in the library, but there’s something, watching, always watching, and you can make eyes in the corners of the shelves and they’re peering down at you and they Know you’re starting to suspect something’s terribly wrong with this place and-

thud.

the book falls from your trembling hands. dust rises up, clings to the hem of your trousers. you stare at the dull, unassuming little leather cover and feel its magnetic pull. you Know there’s more to it than it lets on. you pick it up.

(somewhere, the chittering mass of the many-legged mother of puppets spins a chain of events into motion, weaving a pretty plan.)

*

these days, stepping in the institute feels like being strapped down to a vivisection table and having your brain prodded at. it’s oppressive. you become aware of just how many eyes there are in the institute. coworkers from other departments glancing disinterestedly at you. strange motives in the nooks and crannies of the wooden doors and shelves and corridors and floors, eyes half-lidded. pictures and their faded edges, you, tim, martin, jon and sasha (?) huddling close, smiling. portraits - jonah magnus, high and mighty, immortalised in his seat of power. you think his painted lips are curled up a little more than they normally are. you’ve seen that floating smile before.

you take to having your lunch outside of the institute. you find you can breathe easier through the sharp cold of london’s winter air. needle-sharp, it pierces your lungs, scrapes your throat with every mouthful of curry you swallow. you don’t mind. you have jon to huddle close to, no matter how much he rolls his eyes and tells you to take a warmer coat with you. still, he wraps his arm around you and intertwine his fingers with yours.

tim and martin make no comment - you do feel the weight of their gaze on your shoulders as you make your way back to your desk ten minutes sharp after jon comes back to his office. doesn’t matter. by now, you’re used to being watched.

you’re growing tired of it.

going home is no relief - that damned gaze is there, too. you clench your teeth and turn all the mirrors around and tuck away what little pictures you have. your breathing stutters in your throat. there’s a cork board on your wall, now, and you think of the one that lies in jon’s office, red strings stretching and stretching and it still doesn’t make sense. not yet. 

gertrude’s dead - somebody’s murdered her, three bullets, bang, the body falls, bang, bang just to make sure the old bat is dead, a waste of an Archivist. 

jon wants to know who. he tells you, fingers threading through his hair, tape recorder still running, that it could be anyone at that’s been working at the institute since five years. you’ve been hired two years ago, so you’re good, but tim? martin? sasha? elias?

(you’ve pressed your lips to jon’s and sworn to help him, forehead pressed against him in the sweetest oath.)

there are scraps of hastily jotted down notes, pictures faded at the edges. recurring people from statements - gerry keay, michael shelley, simon fairchild, prentiss, salesa. hilltop road. recurring themes, artefacts you took pain to research, asking sasha for help - she did work in artefact storage before, right?

(her smile was sharp when she nodded. too sharp. she laughed as she led you to the basement floor, something like a deadly private joke. you didn’t ask for her help again.)

you take a step back and stare at the board. the strings make no sense, red over red over red, and you have an eye staring back at you, unblinking, thread burned in your retina. 

smirke’s book lies open on your couch. your cat wisely stays away from it. you’ve named him socrates for a reason. you wish you could be blessed with the sage’s foresight.

fears bind you. there’s a classification, Entities that sometimes bleed in the corners of this world, out-of-sight-but-there. you’ll only notice when they strike. when they show themselves, when you realise there’s something terribly wrong with the stranger’s edges peering out of an alleyway, anglerfish luring its prey. poor smoker’s fate. 

a classification. fourteen primal fears straight out of the lovecraftian mythos. the stranger. the Spiral - think of michael, smile curling endlessly in all his sharp edges, laugh like an alarm bell ringing long after he’s gone. the Corruption - jane prentiss and her loving smile and worms burrowing in her flesh and in yours. 

the Eye.

you take in a sharp intake of air and read. 

IT KNOWS YOU.

*

you cannot move. you’re crushed by the sheer magnitude of the structure spreading around you in concentric circles of power. panopticon. he who stands in the centre watches and knows all. is there anyone at all in its centre?

you. you’re kneeling, skin bare and bruised and scraped, the stone harsh and unforgiving, scraping the tender skin of your knee. humidity seeps in through the open pores of your skin. 

you can’t see. it’s too dark, the penumbra stretching and stretching for miles, near corporeal with how thick it is. you think it might be reaching out for your eyes with too long fingers, chipped claws sinking below your eyelid to rip them off. 

you startle.

eyes.

so many eyes, staring at you from the darkness encasing you, with no eyelids so they do not blink. there’s the dreadful suspicion that their optic nerves join, mingle into something you do not want to see. ocular globes, little gelatinous spheres surrounding you, Watching you, Knowing you. you, on your bloody knees, heart stammering under your ribcage like a chased rabbit, your bare flesh cold, cold, cold. 

it’s cutting you open, scalpel gazes making careful, careful incisions in the marrow of your psyche. they’re carving open your head, your skull a neat, organic little box housing the grey matter of your brain. cerebrospinal fluid drips down your cheeks.

you shudder. you can feel them, Watching, Knowing, the mere thought of it a burning streak in your consciousness, they’re picking you apart, they Know what you’ve done, how you break-

you only start screaming when you look up and See.

you startle awake with a shuddering gasp, trembling so badly you can’t even make out the familiarity of your bedroom. breathe in. the darkness isn’t cloying, the street lights worming their way beneath your shutters. breathe out. you can hear the cars running, the nocturnal hustle and bustle of london’s night life. the chatter, the laughter. 

you let out a trembling sigh and run your hand over your face. you find it damp with sweat and tears. a beat of silence. you rest your forehead on your palms, hands gliding down until the heel of your palm is over your socket and you push there until you feel the bone, the gelatinous fragility of your eye. it is not the first time you have these dreams. you wish you could sleep.

you trace the edges of your temples, those you know were left gaping, those you know had been wrenched open- closed. no scar. only those on your thighs, on your forearms, on your hands from these wretched worms.

you close your fingers, nails digging in your bandaged palm and feel a pinprick of pain. the other side of the bed is cold and empty. you glance at the analog clock on your bedside table. the time blares, angry red flashing 5:32 in your retina. three hours left before going to work. 

you get up from the bed and set about changing your sweat-soaked sheets. you’re not going to fall back asleep. might as well get ready for work. you do, body set in autopilot. breakfast. shower. lather hydrating cream over the expanse of you. disinfect the many, many patches of scarred tissues left by the flesh-hive. get dressed - black tailored pants, cream crispy ironed shirt. a spritz of perfume. white flats. a quick glance in the mirror - there you are, the epitome of professional perfection, little miss trust-me-i-have-everything-under-control. 

you don’t.

you’re tired. so, so very tired. exhaustion settles like a heavy weight in your bone marrow, anchors you down until your whole world is clouded. foggy. you don’t remember the last time you’ve pushed the door to the archives without a thin veil clouding your eyes. 

you think of the Narrator, unnamed, bone-deep tired, staring emptily in the camera in a film you can’t say the name of. first rule: you do not talk about it. second rule: you do not, talk about it. everything’s a copy of a copy of a copy.

as it goes, you push the door to the archives, step inside the quiet room, shrug off your coat at your designated desk, and go about making yourself some coffee. nobody’s there to plot your bloody murder as you blankly explain that, to you, tea is nothing but bland leaf juice. not that tim or martin would bother these days.

it’s quiet. nobody’s here to see you climb the stairs to the break room on the second floor. the one used by the human resources department. lucky bastards. bastards, period. refusing to hand over the necessary funds to buy another coffee machine for the archives after the first one broke during prentiss’ infestation. and they say their mission is to foster a safe work environment. such a shame your morning murderous urges are only quelled by your second cup of the day.

you grab a mug and press the button. whirring rises in the dry silence of the room. slowly, slowly, the mug is filled up. you inhale and feel your shoulders relax by half a fraction. the heavenly scent of grounded coffee beans percolating feels the room and you find yourself smiling. it doesn’t ease the fogginess clouding your mind. it will do.

large window panes offer a wide overview of the streets below, the early morning fog clinging to humid asphalt, the rare cars passing by. you let out a slow exhale, your breath clouding the window.

your mug is ready.

“is that one for me?”

you startle.

elias bouchard stands behind you, hands clasped behind his back, picture perfect manager in a crisp suit - too stiff, too out of place in his employee’s break room. he’s wearing a phthalo green suit, the one that brings out the green-grey of his eyes. your favourite. and he’s waiting for your answer, you realise after an embarrassingly long amount of time.

there are two mugs in front of you. you blink.

“oh. oh, yes.”

you hand him the first mug and reach for your own. he thanks you with a floating smile and takes a sip. a low hum. 

“so you do have taste.”

you blink.

he’s reclining on a table, watching you. you and your impeccably ironed shirt, cradling your mug like one would something precious. you and the bags under your eyes, so dark they might be embedded in the preciously thin skin below your eyelids.

you snort. 

“just because i have a massive sweet tooth doesn’t mean i’d put sugar in coffee. i’m french, not a complete barbarian.”

you earn a quiet chuckle. something like satisfaction purrs inside of you - you made him laugh, the sound low and rich and deep.

“one might argue that you are, in the literal sense of the term, a barbarian.”

“one might argue that the etymological definition of a barbarian doesn’t apply to me, as i speak your language.”

you watch him, from over the steaming rim of your mug. something like… elation flashes in his eyes. the thrill of debate, maybe.

“do you, now?”

you tilt your head to the side, eyes narrowing by a fraction as you assess him. the perfect curl of his lips in that damning razor sharp half-smile. the relaxed slope of his shoulders. the soft stillness of his long, gloved fingers on the table. the glint in his green-grey eyes, daring you to take the bait.

you do, crossing your legs at the ankles, leaning back against the window.

“at first glance, yes.” you point an accusatory finger towards him. “but you, monsieur bouchard, don’t like sticking to first glances and faux-semblants, you’re sharper than that.”

a low hum. there’s something sharp in his smile. his gaze feels like it’s cutting you open. you hold your ground, unblinking, watching him and his annoyingly handsome face. 

“you’re wearing a mask, dear.”

“aren’t we all?”

he shakes his head.

“it’s convenient, isn’t it? not to have to bear the weight of your mother tongue.”

your shoulders tense. there’s that pinprick pressure at the back of your neck, standing poised and sharp against your vertebrae. he’s watching you, needle-gaze pinning you like a butterfly to a wall. 

“it’s a pain. english and french bleed into one another too much and it messes up my syntax.”

“you’re deflecting.”

“wasn’t your question rhetorical?”

silence. it feels like a loss. one beat, two beat, unsteady, hammering wildly like your heart, beneath layers of flesh and fabric, all perfectly controlled thank you very much.

he’s before you before you know it, close, close enough for you to smell his cologne - something sharp and cold with a faint hint of ink. you raise your eyes and meet his gaze. you think there’s a faint glow to it, irises flashing green for the briefest moments. 

“you’re hard to pin down, my dear.”

you can feel the heat of him, creeping closer and closer as he leans down ever so slightly, one gloved finger curling under your chin, tilting your head up, up, up until the angle makes you wince.

“coming from you, i’ll take that as a compliment.”

a low hum. the building pressure at your nape has you clenching your teeth. then, finally, he lets go, apparently satisfied with whatever it is he’s found in you.

“thank you for the coffee. it has been most… insightful.”

with that, he leaves, and you stand alone in the break room, coffee mug now cold. even without the unbearable weight of his gaze on you, you feel watched. the only thing remaining in the room with you is the portrait of jonah magnus, peering down at you with storm-grey eyes. somehow, it feels familiar.

you want to scream. you gulp down your coffee and leave an empty mug behind.

[pupsmailbox]

HORROR ID PACK

NAMES ⌇ abyss. adelaide. alex. allure. alluria. amnesia. amnesty. annabelle. archer. ash. asher. ashton. athena. axe. axette. bates. beal. belial. belladonna. bellatrix. bellow. billy. blade. blair. bleedesse. bloodiesse. bones. bow. briar. brute. bubba. buffy. butcher. cain. caliburn. calyspo. carcass. carrie. carrion. casey. casper. chainette. chains. charley. charlie. chase. chris. chucky. claire. claymore. clear. colt. connor. corpse. craven. cross. crypt. cybre. cynthia. damien. danger. derry. desdemona. dove. dracula. drow. elisabeta. elmira. elvria. em. enigma. erin. eros. ethan. evelien. falchion. finale. finalis. finn. fleur. freddy. galatine. ghost. ghostesse. gladius. graves. grim. guts. harker. haunt. hound. howl. hunter. hush. ikino. jace. jane. javelin. jekyll. jesse. john. julie. kateline. kille. killer. killesse. killette. killire. killyr. knifesse. knifette. krueger. lamb. laurie. lavender. lenz. lillith. loomis. lorraine. lucien. lucy. machete. malice. massacresse. massacrette. max. maxine. megan. mia. michael. mike. mikey. molar. mors. morticia. mortis. myer. myers. necro. nephi. night. noir. norman. nyx. nægling. obsidian. onyx. ophelia. pandora. pearce. pike. pointe. pointette. pridwen. pyper. quentin. raven. reaper. renfield. retro. revenant. river. roadkill. rosemary. rot. ryker. sabel. sabre. sacrifesse. salem. samara. sawyer. scum. scythe. seraph. serene. sharpette. sharppe. shaun. shelley. sidney. slash. slasher. slashesse. slashette. slashine. slashire. slashyr. specter. spite. survivesse. survivette. sybil. syd. talia. thomas. verity. vesper. visage. viscera. vivo. warden. weaponesse. weaponette. weaponne. wendy. william. wraith.

PRONOUNS ⌇　aby/abyss. alien/alien. amnesia/amnesia. axe/axe. bat/bat. bite/bite. bla/blade. blade/blade. blood/blood. bone/bone. brain/brain. brutal/brutal. bull/bullet. bullet/bullet. camp/camp. chain/chain. chain/chainsaw. chainsaw/chainsaw. chase/chase. choke/choke. claw/claw. co/corpse. content/content. copy/copy. cor/corpse. corpse/corpse. cry/cry. cryp/cryptid. crypt/crypt. dae/daem. dae/daer. dark/dark. de/demo. dea/death. death/death. dec/decay. decay/decay. die/die. eldritch/eldritch. evil/evil. fear/fear. fie/fire. fien/fiend. final/final. flesh/flesh. fog/fog. freak/freak. fury/furious. gau/gauze. gauze/gauze. gho/ghost. ghost/ghost. gloom/gloom. gnaw/gnaw. go/gore. gor/gore. gore/gore. gra/grave. grave/grave. gun/gun. gut/gut. hallow/hallow. haun/haunt. haunt/haunt. horr/horror. horror/horror. house/house. hunt/hunt. hush/hush. k9/k9. ki/kill. kill/kill. kni/knife. knife/knife. lash/lash. lethal/lethal. live/live. machete/machete. maim/maim. mallet/mallet. mask/mask. massacre/massacre. med/medical. medi/medical. monster/monster. murder/murder. night/night. no/none. point/point. point/pointy. pois/poison. prey/prey. pyr/pyramid. red/red. reveil/reveil. revive/revive. rib/rib. rip/rip. rodent/rodent. rot/rot. run/run. sacrifice/sacrifice. scream/scream. scythe/scythe. shadow/shadow. sharp/sharp. sharp/sharpen. sharpen/sharpen. sin/sin. slash/slash. slash/slashe. slash/slashed. slash/slasher. slasher/slasher. slice/slice. sly/sly. sni/snipe. sound/sound. stab/stab. stalk/stalk. steel/steel. step/step. survive/survive. survivor/survivor. tear/tear. thon/thon. tomb/tomb. trope/trope. vamp/vamp. victim/victim. voi/void. weapon/weapon. weep/weep. wound/wound. wra/wrath. ☠️. ⚰. ⚰️. ⚱. ⛧. ⛨. 🏥. 🏹. 🐀. 💀. 💉. 💣. 📿. 🔪. 🔫. 🕳️. 🛡️. 🥀. 🦴. 🧛‍♂️. 🧟‍♂️. 🧨. 🩸. 🩹.

[tedspankoffskisbignaturals]

intro post!!!

im pip, technically my full name is phillip but. like. ew. (yes i know i chose it). you can also call me ted, jedidiah, or wilbur (or wiley)! i have very strange names. it is just my transmasc swagger. i use he/it, and i prefer not they/them!!! prns!!

auadhd so hyperfixations might change but currently they are

-starkid!!! my main rn. seen most shows (there are still a few i need to watch,,) and like all of them to varying degrees. most of what i post fandom wise will probably be hatchetfield

-also the canwrecked part of starcanwrecked. trying my bestest to listen to pulp

-magnus!! archives and protocol. second biggested fixation rn.

cofounder and biggest fan of wine and dine (sheila young/miss holloway)

mutuals, please tag specifically romantic ella/tadius, tedgens, and anything with the name erin with #pip hide

my vent tag is #wil screams into the void, block it if you dont want to see my sad boy hours

fictkin. yeah.

blinkies made by the wonderful amazing cool awesome great amazing im running out of adjectives @loganschwarzy silly meme made by my favorite asshole @dyke-striderrr

rp blogs

@teddybearspankoffski

@discipleofywrath

@jerry-with-a-double-r-y

@pokotho-the-singular-voice

@ruththenumberonetechie

@fuckjurgenleitner

@danielcain1954

anddd my oc blog

@ask-camp-anomaly

[chaifootsteps]

Of course Vivzie's successful! She was born wealthy, had every advantage, and even if both her shows get deplatformed tomorrow, likely as not she'll always live an easier, more comfortable life than she deserves.

But things are changing. Not fast enough to be completely satisfying, but definitely changing nonetheless. A year ago Erin and Ken were still screaming into the void, and Twitter was straight up Vivzieland that you had to dig deep through to find criticism. If you'd told me the day would come when I would have more Vivzie critical asks in my inbox than I could get through in a day, I would have thought you were crazy.

The glitter's starting to wear off fast. It's all starting to add up and people are getting tired of it, and on top of that, there are people out there who I guarantee you could end Vivzie's reign of terror tonight if they wanted to. But I've said it before, and I will again now, that it probably won't be you or me or any one singular incident that bring down Vivzie, but the fact that every time this happens, it takes a little bit out of her.

Relax. None of us know where Vivzie's Wild Ride will take us, so just hang on and enjoy it.

[wonderbutch]

im abt to become the ceo of shipping erin and tiffany WHY DOESNT ANYONE ELSE SHIP THEM. DOES ANYONE GET IT. AM I SCREAMING INTO THE VOID. PLEAASE.

[just-antithings]

On the “You’re using the wrong tone” thing (also warning: this contains advice. Erin, if you were just ranting into the void, feel free to pass this off to someone else to deal with):

As far as I can tell, it’s actually neurotypical for “My understanding of the tone you just used is that you want to fight with me.” (But they’re pissed because you just told them in unspoken NT language to fuck off). And there is pretty much no response to that which doesn’t sound like an argument from an NT perspective.

Sometimes it’s also just someone being a jerk. But most I find it’s the former.

Fortunately I have parents that are willing to listen to me, so after a specific screaming match with my mother when I was 13 (in which I quoted her, and she went. Oh. Oops.), now when we’re arguing, we often say things like “this is what I heard [blah blah blah]. Assuming you’re in good faith, I think you mean [blah blah blah].” “Yes, I mean [blah].” Or “No, I mean [blah blah].”

It’s a bit like translating internet speak, I find. There’s just certain things that mean things! And it’s weird!

If you (general you, I’m well aware that some parents are shit. But some parents just don’t understand, too, and this can help with that) can comfortably talk to someone who uses that phrase, my suggestion is actually directly ask them. “Hey, I’m really struggling to understand what tones are.” Or “I can’t tell the difference between some tones” or whatever.

If you can, ask them to actually say back to you what you said, in the tone you used, when they said your tone was bad. Ask them why it was bad.

I did this with my mum way back when we were learning, and she did the most growly, pissed off version of what I said… it’s really fascinating how people hear the same things differently.

That’s actually a really interesting insight! Thanks

[the-mountain-flower]

Screenshot redraw with a personal addition. Yes, the Inner Erin part is messier than the rest, since I didn't have a direct reference and I was a lot more tired when drawing that part than the others.

Photo ID: five slides:

1) Text saying: "Aurora comic spoiler warning!"

2) digital art drawing of Erin Ruunaser from Aurora by @comicaurora, with the Void Dragon eyes, looking surprised, with fire lighting coming from off screen

3) two panels, first is of Inner Erin looking terrified, the second of the Void Dragon looking annoyed and saying "Do stop screaming. I'm right here."

4) original comic panels from the scene in Aurora

5) panel from Aurora of Inner Erin used for reference

End ID

[sensitivemusings]

So I just finished one of the most stressful assignments I've ever dealt with, and with 3 hours to spare at that. I think I definitely deserve some snuggles with soft twords maybe

[t4tbruharvey]

romaine's top three favourite and least favourite things about being effectively thrown 200 years forward in time

i did scream with joy seeing this actually.

top three favourite things:

buildings have more structural integrity which is great like rural buildings tend to be made of better materials and glass is more widely used. score!

hot boyfriend :)

erin's still here yay!!! she's also basically still the same age isn't that sick!!!

top three least favourite things:

their parents are gone. like i can't even direct you to any ancestors or anything because they were an only child of only children the line very much ended with them and even if it hadn't, it would be such a profoundly fucked up situation to approach, let alone navigate. their parents loved them so much and there's nobody alive who could fill that void properly

language barrier. language changes so much across even a decade, so there's no way they'd be able to properly articulate themself to someone (other than erin) now.

poofy booty shorts aren't really a thing anymore :-(

[nightsidewrestling]

D.U.D.E Bios: Rosaleen O'Sullivan

The Cyhyraeth Princess of C.R.C Rosaleen O'Sullivan (2020)

Kirby's cousin, Hywel's niece, and Naoise's daughter, Rosaleen. An Irish-Catholic woman living in Wales and a positive, though quiet, mother. Rosaleen has enrolled her children in the family wrestling promotion and school

"Sometimes ya gotta scream into the void, though."

Name

Full Legal Name: Rosaleen Órlaith Eigyr Áine O'Sullivan (Née Rhydderch)

First Name: Rosaleen

Meaning: Variant of Rosaline, which itself is a medieval variant of Rosalind, which derived fro Old German elements 'Hros' meaning 'Horse' and 'Lind' meaning 'Soft, Flexible, Tender'

Pronunciation: RO-za-leen /RAHZ-a-lin / RAHZ-a-lien

Origin: English, Irish

Middle Name(s): Órlaith, Eigyr, Áine

Meaning(s): Órlaith: Means 'Golden Ruler', from Old Irish 'Ór' 'Gold' combined with 'Flaith' 'Ruler, Sovereign, Princess'. Eigyr: Welsh form of 'Igraine', which is from 'Igerna', the Latinized form of Welsh 'Eigyr', which has an unknown meaning. Áine: Means 'Radiance, Brilliance' in Irish.

Pronunciation(s): OR-la. EI-gyr. A-nya

Origin(s): Irish, Old Irish. Welsh Mythology. Irish, Irish Mythology, Old Irish

Surname: O'Sullivan (Née Rhydderch)

Meaning: Variant of 'Sullivan' which is tha Anglicized form of the Irish name 'Ó Súileabháin' meaning 'descendant of Súileabhán', 'Súileabhán' means 'Dark Eye'. (Rhydderch: From the given name 'Rhydderch' from the Old Welsh name 'Riderch', derived from 'Ri' 'King' and 'Derch' 'Exalted')

Pronunciation: O-SUL-i-van (HRUDH-ehrkh)

Origin: Irish (Welsh)

Alias: Cyhyraeth Princess, Rosaleen O'Sullivan

Reason: This is Rosaleen's ring name

Nicknames: Rosa

Titles: Mrs, Ma'am

Characteristics

Age: 35

Gender: Female. She/Her Pronouns

Race: Human

Nationality: Welsh. Irish-Welsh Mix. Dual Citizenship ROI-UK

Ethnicity: White

Birth Date: August 13th 1985

Symbols: Banshees, Cyhyraeths, Ghosts, Crowns

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Religion: Irish-Catholic

Native Language: Welsh

Spoken Languages: Welsh, Irish, Scottish (Scots Gaelic), English

Relationship Status: Married

Astrological Sign: Leo

Theme Song: 'Hungry Like The Wolf' - Duran Duran (2003-)

Voice Actor: Erin Richards

Geographical Characteristics

Birthplace: Tullahought, Kilkenny, Ireland

Current Location: Llanfaethlu, Anglesey, Wales

Hometown: Llanfaethlu, Anglesey, Wales

Appearance

Height: 5'3" / 160 cm

Weight: 124 lbs / 56 kg

Eye Colour: Blue

Hair Colour: (Born Blonde) Brown

Hair Dye: None

Body Hair: N/A

Facial Hair: N/A

Tattoos: (As of Jan 2020) 30

Piercings: Triple Earlobe (Both), Eyebrow (Both)

Scars: None

Health and Fitness

Allergies: None

Alcoholic, Smoker, Drug User: Smoker, Social Drinker

Illnesses/Disorders: None Diagnosed

Medications: None

Any Specific Diet: None

Relationships

Allies: (As of Jan 2020) The Rhydderch Clan

Enemies: (As of Jan 2020) None

Friends: Maeve Pritchard, Deirdre Llewellyn, Bridget Griffiths, Aisling O'Hannigan, Caoimhe O'Hannegan, Eithne O'Hannagan, Kathleen Mulrennan, Haf McFarlane, Tydfil McFarland, Olwen McDermott, Gwen McCracken, Branwen McCormick, Llinos McConnell

Colleagues: The C.R.C Locker Rooms / Too Many To List

Rivals: None

Closest Confidant: Rafferty O'Sullivan

Mentor: Naoise Rhydderch

Significant Other: Rafferty O'Sullivan (39, Husband)

Previous Partners: None of Note

Parents: Naoise Rhydderch (80, Father), Talulla Rhydderch (81, Mother, Née MacGinnis)

Parents-In-Law: Toirdhealbhach O'Sullivan (66, Father-In-Law), Blodeuyn O'Sullivan (67, Mother-In-Law, Née Mac Diarmada)

Siblings: Maeve Pritchard (50, Sister, Née Rhydderch), Deirdre Llewellyn (47, Sister, Née Rhydderch), Jarlath Rhydderch (44, Brother), Patrick Rhydderch (41, Brother), Bridget Griffiths (38, Sister, Née Rhydderch), Lochlainn Rhydderch (32, Brother)

Siblings-In-Law: Conall Pritchard (51, Maeve's Husband), Ivan Llewellyn (48, Deirdre's Husband), Ursula Rhydderch (45, Jarlath's Wife, Née Cavanaugh), Moira Rhydderch (42, Patrick's Wife, Née Callaghan), Raeburn Griffiths (39, Bridget's Husband), Vanessa Rhydderch (33, Lochlainn's Wife, Née Sauvageot), Praxis Malone (33, Rafferty's Sister, Née O'Sullivan), Vlaho Malone (34, Praxis' Husband), Veselko O'Sullivan (30, Rafferty's Brother), Psyche O'Sullivan (31, Veselko's Wife, Née Markey), Psamathe McAfee (27, Rafferty's Sister, Née O'Sullivan), Blahoslav McAfee (29, Psamathe's Husband), Zvonimir O'Sullivan (24, Rafferty's Brother), Semele O'Sullivan (25, Zvonimir's Wife, Née McCabe), Selene McCune (21, Rafferty's Sister, Née O'Sullivan), Herbert McCune (22, Selene's Husband), Cyril O'Sullivan (18, Rafferty's Brother), Theia O'Sullivan (15, Rafferty's Sister), Ilja O'Sullivan (12, Rafferty's Brother)

Nieces & Nephews: Too Many To List

Children: Zane O'Sullivan (15, Son), Zella O'Sullivan (12, Daughter), Yolanda O'Sullivan (9, Daughter), Xavier O'Sullivan (6, Son), Walker O'Sullivan (3, Son)

Children-In-Law: None

Grandkids: None

Great Grandkids: None

Wrestling

Billed From: Kilkenny, Ireland

Trainer: The C.R.C Wrestling School, Naoise Rhydderch

Managers: Rafferty O'Sullivan

Wrestlers Managed: Rafferty O'Sullivan

Debut: 2003

Debut Match: Rosaleen Rhydderch VS Talulla Rhydderch. Rosaleen won via pinfall

Retired: N/A

Retirement Match: N/A

Wrestling Style: Brawler / Hardcore

Stables: The Rhydderch Clan (2003-)

Teams: No Team Names

Regular Moves: Belly To Back Suplex, Bulldog, Figure-Four Leglock, Inverted Atomic Drop, Low Blow, Multiple Jabs, Poking / Raking Opponent's Eyes, Running High Knee Strike, Big Boot, Atomic Drop, Backbreaker Rack, Diving Overhead Chop, High Knee, One-Armed Body Slam, Piledriver, Running Big Boot, Running Leg Drop, Vertical Suplex Powerslam

Finishers: Sleeper Hold, Jumping Knee Drop, Top Rope Jumping Knee Drop

Refers To Fans As: The Fans, The Family

Extras

Backstory: Rosaleen Rhydderch of the C.R.C (Welsh Wrestling League / Cynghrair Reslo Cymru) owning Rhydderch family. When Naoise dies Rosaleen will have a 1/56th ownership of the promotion. Rosaleen is a 'Cyhyraeth Style’ (Brawler / Hardcore) trainer. She’s a quarter-Welsh and three quarters-Irish

Trivia: Nothing of Note

[gregorygerwitz]

so yeah 5x10 ends with Camila in jail and Hailey walking up to her and making a deal she wouldnt mention her relationship with Jay, and then Camila is like "like hell if i didn't know him. the person you know, that's the lie"

it makes me go a bit ahhhhhhhhhhh because she is so right and i'll go scream into the void

Oh yes!!!

God I loved that arc. I love the spiraling-over-Mouse of it all I know most people say he's spiraling over Erin leaving but I do watch One Chicago with Moustead goggles because I love pain and suffering, mostly because it solidifies my theory that Mouse was killed in action between s4/5 (Jay does a lot of reckless shit and, personally, I don't think it would just be over a break up, mostly because the next time we see him that reckless is 6x02 and there is a reason for it that is... ow)

[erinoddly]

Regarding the post I made last night:

I think it’s time I take my exit from the writeblr scene. I’m going to leave this blog up for a little bit longer and plan on making on a personal/fandom blog sometime soon, so if you’d like to keep up with me there, send me an ask or dm for the url!

[erinoddly-archived-blog]

my goal is to hit 2k before going to bed.