#I'm learning to make pop art

[ikemengoessbrrrrr]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ATARU MOROBOSHI

EY! A bit late because I genuinely forgot his birthday today so I was speeding this art asdghsgsh

[solaestial]

Ghost Strait - TadanoCo

(song translation)

[sketchy-tour]

A silly thing to randomly say maybe but I was thinking about it again. Yall are always free to take silly inspiration from my artstyle/the way I draw. I feel like trying to imitate cool things you see others do in art is a big part of the process in learning how you like to create and do things. So ye, if you ever feel bad for taking some light inspo off of my art aesthetics, don't! As long as you're not outright tracing or reposting, I really don't mind!

[pookie-draws]

Since the death of god there's been a vacancy open. You can fill that void. Here's how.

[cathymee]

cont. i love rambling in the tags + no u can never make me make a post that has like 100 words in it

[teaboot]

This is gonna sound rather conceited but I feel like it highlights an issue we have in Art.

I'm good at art. I've never had a hard time making art. I started using crayons before I could walk. Painting, Beadwork, sculpture, sketching, stippling, whatever- once I have a feel for the material, it doesn't take long to start doing what I want with it. It's been a common theme my whole life.

(Y contrast I'm awful at things like dancing, performance, sports, etc- in all things there is balance, right?)

Now, I've taught myself to use so many artistic mediums now that I KNOW how to most efficiently integrate them into the brain database. Once you really *understand* a material, it's much like memorizing the layout of your house, or flexing a muscle, or something in-between- it becomes PART of your brain in a way I cant quite articulate. But to get there involves just fucking around for a bit doing nothing in particular.

And I've found, especially in group settings, that nobody seems to be able to see you make something badly and leave you alone. Even if you say you're fine, you don't want help, you're happy, you're having fun, it's fine, they gotta ride your ass and hover.

I was at a class the other day for something I hadn't done before. The medium was one I've never used, so once the instructor told us the basics I started experimenting with weight, gravity, texture, viscosity, saturation, temperature, etc. The instructor had given enough info to know what was dangerous and what was safe, and beyond that I just wanted to absorb what I could about it.

And no insult to the instructor, but they kept checking in. Which was fine the first few times.

But then, without asking me what I was trying to do, started giving tips. That I told them I was grateful for but didn't really need just yet. If I had a question, I'd ask.

But they kept coming over. And touching my shit. And manipulating my project. And touching my hands. And using my tools. Without fucking asking.

And this happens every time. EVERY TIME. And by now I know the best way to get them to fuck off is to make something way beyond their expectations so they know I'm capable, then go back to doing what I want.

So I did. I wanted to keep having fun and learning, but instead I made something beautiful that I really didn't want to make, and wasted my time, and really didn't learn what I wanted to learn at all. I knew the formula to create a beautiful thing, so I followed that formula the same way I have a hundred times before, and didn't get to try anything spontaneous or ugly or exciting, just so I could be left alone.

And I know when I was a kid, I was aware aware people saw me puttering alone on something ugly assumed I had a special issue and treated me like I was stupid because of that. (I was neurodivergent.) And at at time I knew that I could do a neat trick for them like a trained pony and they'd go, "Oh, surely they aren't defective if they can do something like that!" And piss off.

But what if I hadn't known how to do that?

What if I hadn't been talented, or "special"?

What if I'd been just any other average kid trying to learn, and I couldn't pop something pretty out of my ass to get them off my back?

My problem my whole life has been that I haven't been allowed to make anything ugly in peace. I'm capable of beauty, so I have to make beauty, or get stepped on. And once people see what I can do, they get loud about it. "Look at this! Look what they did! We all know who the best is, don't we?". And that used to feel good, but it's tiring.

And how many people like me just wanted to play? Just wanted to have fun and experiment? Who were having fun with no goal in mind, or just took longer to learn, who gave up because of all the obnoxious helpers breathing down their neck with no way to shake them off?

How many of us are made to feel defective because we aren't doing things beautifully?

I have a lovely piece of art I didn't want to make.

I think I'm gonna frame it.*

(*I think I'm gonna burn it in my yard.)

[vetyr]

hi, i ireally love your work and i don't know if you've answered this before but, what kinds of studies do you do or how did you learn color theory? i wanna get better at rendering and anatomy but im having trouble TT TT

Hi! Long answer alert. Once a chatterbox, always a chatterbox.

When I started actively learning how to draw about 10 1/2 years ago, I exclusively did graphite studies in sketchbooks. Here's a few examples—I mostly stuck to doing line drawings to drill basic shapes/contours and proportions into my brain. The more rendered sketches helped me practice edge control & basic values, and they were REALLY good for learning the actual 3D structure behind what I was drawing.

I'd use reference images that I grabbed from fitness forums, Instagram, Tumblr, Pinterest, and some NSFW places, but you could find adequate ref material from figure drawing sites like Line of Action. LoA has refs for people (you can filter by clothed/unclothed, age, & gender), animals, expressions, hands/feet, and a few other useful things as well. Love them.

Learning how to render digitally was a similar story; it helped a lot that I had a pretty strong foundation for value/anatomy going in. I basically didn't touch color at all for ~2 years (except for a few attempts at bad digital or acrylic paint studies), which may not have been the best idea. I learned color from a lot of trial and error, honestly, and I'm pretty sure this process involved a lot of imitation—there were a number of digital/traditional painters whose styles I really wanted to emulate (notably their edge control, color choices, value distributions, and shape design), so I kiiind of did a mixture of that + my own experimentation.

For example, I really found Benjamin Björklund's style appealing, especially his softened/lost edges & vibrant pops of saturated color, so here's a study I did from some photograph that I'm *pretty* sure was painted with him in mind.

Learning how to detail was definitely a slow process, and like all the aforementioned things (anatomy/color/edge control/values/etc.) I'm still figuring it out. Focusing on edge control first (that is, deciding on where to place hard/soft edges for emphasizing/de-emphasizing certain areas of the image) is super useful, because you can honestly fool a viewer into thinking there's more detail in a piece than there actually is if you're very economical about where you place your hard edges.

The most important part, to me, is probably just doing this stuff over and over again. You're likely not going to see improvement in a few weeks or even a few months, so don't fret about not getting the exact results you want and just keep studying + making art. I like to think about learning art as a process where you *need* to fail and make crappy art/studies—there's literally no way around it—so you might as well fail right now. See, by making bad art you're actually moving forward—isn't that a fun prospect!!

It's useful to have a folder with art you admire, especially if you can dissect the pieces and understand why you like them so much. You can study those aspects (like, you can redraw or repaint that person's work) and break down whether this is art that you just like to look at, or if it's the kind of art that you want to *make.* There's a LOT of art out there that I love looking at, probably tens of thousands of styles/mediums, but there's a very narrow range that I want to make myself.

I've mentioned it in some ask reply in the past, but I really do think looking at other artist's work is such a cheat code for improving your own skills—the other artist does the work to filter reality/ideas for you, and this sort of allows you to contact the subject matter more directly. I can think of so many examples where an artist I admired exaggerated, like, the way sunlight rested on a face and created that orange fringe around its edge, or the greys/dull blues in a wheat field, or the bright indigo in a cast shadow, or the red along the outside of a person's eye, and it just clicked for me that this was a very available & observable aspect of reality, which had up until that point gone completely unnoticed! If you're really perceptive about the art you look at, it's shocking how much it can teach you about how to see the world (in this particular case I mean this literally, in that the art I looked at fully changed the way I visually processed the world, but of course it has had a strong effect on my worldviews/relationships/beliefs).

Thanks so much for sending in a question (& for reading, if you got this far)! I read every single ask I receive, including the kind words & compliments, which I genuinely always appreciate. Best of luck with learning, my friend :)

[cloudtransprncy]

Get You Pt.1 (Teaser)

Mina X Male Reader Full chapter coming soon.

Was originally Yves and ready to release but Mina fit better in my head. So I'm doing a full rework. Just putting the teaser out because some people have dmed me about the Yves fic. Sorry ya'll

Snippet Below:

There's something about being in Mina's bed that always destroys you completely.

Maybe it's the way her loft surrounds you—exposed brick walls and towering windows that frame Vancouver's rainy skyline, the amber glow of carefully positioned lights warming the industrial space. Plants cascade from hanging pots, catching that golden light. Art books stacked with mathematical precision on the coffee table. A vintage record player silent now, though earlier it had filled the space with the warm crackle of Japanese city pop. Everything meticulously chosen, deliberately placed. Like her.

Or maybe it's the way she feels above you—unexpectedly strong for someone so delicate, each deliberate movement of her hips a revelation that makes your vision blur.

Or maybe it's how she looks right now—her face a fucking masterpiece that makes your chest hurt. High cheekbones catching the low light, full lips slightly parted, dark eyes holding yours with an intensity that pins you in place more effectively than her weight. Her skin is flawless, pale and perfect, a light flush across her cheeks the only indication of exertion. Her dark hair falls in carefully disheveled waves around her face, framing her features in a way that can't possibly be accidental.

Jesus Christ, she's beautiful. You save this image of her in your mind, another perfect moment to hoard like a dragon with treasure.

Or maybe—and this is the thought that feels like drowning—it's just the incredible fucking fact that you're here at all.

That somehow, after all the chasing, after every carefully composed response to your eager messages, every time she kept professional distance, every time you told yourself she's miles out of your league, she let you in. Let you have this.

And now?

Holy fuck.

It's everything.

She's everything.

She straddles you, those slim but strong thighs bracketing your hips, her skirt from the concert completely gone but that strappy top still clinging to her torso, revealing tantalizing glimpses of pale skin beneath. Her knee-high lace socks remain perfectly in place, the white lace a stark contrast against her skin.

Those goddamn socks. Something about them being the only thing she still wears below the waist makes your cock throb inside her.

"Look at me," she says softly, and it's not a request. Her voice carries that particular weight—gentle but absolute. You've learned that Mina doesn't need volume to command a room, or you.

Your eyes lock with hers as she lifts herself slightly, then sinks back down with deliberate slowness, taking you inch by inch. The sensation is so overwhelming you have to bite your lip to keep from making embarrassing sounds.

Fuck, you feel it. The way she envelops you completely, tight and wet and perfect.

"Good boy," she whispers, the praise sending a shiver down your spine. "You fill me so perfectly."

Your hands grip her waist, fingers pressing into impossibly soft skin. You can feel yourself throbbing inside her, the tight, wet heat of her body gripping you so perfectly it borders on pain. Her pussy stretches around you, cleanly shaved and glistening wet—part of her immaculate personal standards that extend to every inch of her body.

She takes one of your hands and guides it between her legs, pressing your thumb against where you're joined. "Feel how wet you make me," she instructs, her voice maintaining that gentle firmness that makes refusal unthinkable.

Jesus. The slick heat against your fingers makes your head spin.

Your body still thrums with adrenaline from the show—your first sold-out performance in Vancouver. Three hours ago, you'd been the one in control, commanding the stage, watching the crowd lose their minds to your sound. But here, now, that power has dissolved completely. She owns you so thoroughly it makes your head spin.

When you try to thrust up into her, she presses a firm hand against your chest. "No," she says simply. "Let me take care of you."

She moves with a deliberate slowness that makes your muscles strain with the effort of staying still. This isn't teasing—it's choreography. Her setting the pace, dictating exactly how this happens.

"You were so beautiful on that stage tonight," she tells you, voice low and intimate as she rolls her hips in a way that makes your toes curl. "Everyone watching you. Everyone wanting you." Her fingers trace patterns on your chest, leaving trails of fire on your skin. "But they don't get to have you like this, do they?"

"No," you manage to gasp out. "Only you."

Only ever been you, you think but don't say, afraid of revealing too much.

A small, genuine smile touches her lips—one of those rare expressions she reserves only for private moments. "That's right," she affirms. "Only me."

Her fingers wrap around your wrists, guiding your hands to her thighs. "You can touch," she permits. "But don't try to control. This is mine to give you."

Your hands slide reverently up her thighs, feeling the contrast between the lace of her socks and the silk of her skin. She watches your face intently as your fingers trace higher, cataloging every flicker of pleasure that crosses your features.

"I want to see more of you," you say, fingers tugging lightly at the hem of her top.

She considers your request, head tilting slightly. Then, with a slight nod that feels like a gift, she reaches for the bottom of her top and slowly draws it upward.

The movement shifts her weight, makes her body clench around your cock in a way that nearly undoes you.

Don't come. Don't you fucking dare come yet.

You bite down hard on your lower lip, fighting for control as the fabric rises higher, revealing the flat plane of her stomach, the delicate curve of her ribs, and then—Christ—the perfect swell of her breasts.

Her nipples are small and pink, hardened to tight peaks in the cool air of the apartment. The silver pendant she always wears now rests between them, catching light as she breathes. She is so fucking perfect it hurts to look at her—like staring directly at the sun.

"Is this what you wanted to see?" she asks, but it's not really a question. She knows exactly what the sight of her naked body does to you. Knows how you worship every inch of her.

Your hands instinctively rise to touch her breasts, but she catches your wrists and presses them firmly into the mattress above your head.

"Not yet," she murmurs against your ear. "I want to feel you like this first."

She leans down, her chest brushing against yours, creating the most exquisite friction. The position drives you deeper inside her, making her breath catch—a small, genuine sound of pleasure that she usually keeps carefully controlled. The scent of her sandalwood perfume envelops you, mixing with the clean smell of her skin and the faint sweetness of her shampoo.

God, the sounds she makes. That tiny break in her composure feels like a victory.

Her lips find your neck, pressing soft kisses along your pulse point. There's reverence in her touch—though she's in complete control, there's no mistaking the care with which she claims you. Each press of her lips feels like both a reward and a claim of ownership.

"You've worked so hard," she whispers against your skin. "Let me take care of you now."

She begins to move again, finding a rhythm that's somehow both torturously slow and perfectly calibrated to drive you insane. Her body rises and falls above yours, taking you deep with each downward motion. The visual alone is almost enough to make you come—her perfect body moving in the dim light, her dark hair cascading around her shoulders, her eyes never leaving yours.

Don't come. Not until she says.

"Look at how much you need me," she says, voice soft but commanding as she releases your wrists to cup your face. Her thumb traces your lower lip, pressing slightly into your mouth. Instinctively, you suck on it, and the flash of heat in her eyes is your reward.

One of her hands slides between your bodies, and she begins to stroke you in time with her movements, her fingers circling where you're joined. The dual sensation of being inside her while she touches you is almost too much, electric pulses of pleasure shooting up your spine.

"Can you feel how close you are?" she asks, her voice deceptively gentle as she continues her movements, bringing you right to the edge.

"Yes," you gasp, your hands now gripping her hips, feeling the delicate bones beneath soft skin. "Mina, please—"

"No," she says simply, slowing her movements and removing her hand completely. "Not yet. I'm not finished with you."

Fuck. The denial is both torturous and exquisite.

She leans down again, this time capturing your mouth with hers. Her kisses are like her—precise, intentional, perfectly controlled. Her tongue slides against yours, and you can taste the hint of the champagne she had backstage after your show.

As she kisses you, she shifts slightly, changing the angle of her hips, and suddenly you're hitting a spot inside her that makes her breathing stutter. Her usual composed rhythm falters momentarily, and you feel a surge of pride at being able to affect her this way.

That's it. Let me see you lose control too.

She pulls back from the kiss, eyes slightly wider, a faint flush spreading across her cheeks. For a moment, she looks almost vulnerable—surprised by her own response. But she quickly reclaims control, adjusting her position to take you even deeper.

"Just like that," she breathes, her voice huskier now. "Stay right there."

Her movements become more deliberate, more focused, as she uses your body for her pleasure. There's something incredibly erotic about being utilized this way—knowing she's taking exactly what she needs from you, that your sole purpose in this moment is to satisfy her.

"You feel so good inside me," she tells you, her voice a mixture of praise and command. "So perfect. So deep."

She's so fucking beautiful it hurts. The sight of her lost in pleasure makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with physical sensation.

Your hands slide up her sides, feeling the gentle curve of her waist, the delicate architecture of her ribs. She allows this exploration, her eyes watching your face as your hands move higher to cup her breasts. The weight of them in your palms feels sacred somehow, like holding something precious.

When your thumbs brush across her nipples, her eyes flutter closed momentarily—another crack in her perfect composure. You repeat the movement, cataloging her reaction, learning what makes her breath catch.

"You're so beautiful," you tell her, the words inadequate but necessary. "So fucking perfect, Mina."

Her eyes open, locking with yours again, and there's something different in them now—a flash of emotion quickly concealed. She leans down, pressing her forehead against yours, creating an unexpected moment of intimacy amid the physical pleasure.

"Mine," she whispers, the word barely audible. "You're mine."

The declaration sends a surge of heat through you. "Yes," you agree immediately. "Always. Only yours."

Only ever been yours since the moment I saw you.

Her rhythm increases, her body taking you deeper with each movement. Her hand returns to stroke you where you're joined, adding another layer of sensation that has you teetering on the edge again. Your muscles tense with the effort of holding back.

Just as you're about to lose control completely, she stops moving entirely, her body perfectly still above yours. The sudden cessation of movement is almost painful.

"Not yet," she says, watching your face intently. "I want to keep you right here."

Jesus fucking Christ. You're trembling with the effort of restraint, sweat beading on your forehead.

"Please," you beg, not even sure what you're asking for. "Mina, please."

"Patience," she whispers, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips. "Good things come to those who wait."

She begins to move again, but differently now—shallow, teasing movements that keep you right on the precipice without pushing you over. The control she exhibits is maddening and awe-inspiring. How she can be so precise, so deliberate, even in this.

Your hands grip her thighs, feeling the muscles flex as she rides you with calculated restraint. You're hyperaware of everything—the sound of rain against the windows, the faint music from a neighbor's apartment, the way her breath catches slightly when you hit that perfect spot inside her.

Remember this, you think desperately. Remember every second of how she looks right now.

As she leans down to kiss you again, her necklace slips forward, the cool silver pendant brushing against your overheated chest. The temperature contrast is startling, unexpected.

Something about that sensation—the familiar weight of it, the cool metal against your burning skin—suddenly sends your mind spinning backward.

The present moment blurs, rain and the scent of sex and Mina's commanding presence all fading as your mind pulls you away. Back to the beginning. To how you got here.

To how, against every fucking odd, you got her.

End of teaser. Full Chapter Coming soon.

[mahalkitamully]

the girl next door 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

ー the elevator (p1)

read the other chapters here !

: neighbor ! modern ! ellie williams x reader oneshot !

fluff fluff :3

FOR THE GIRLS ONLY

i'm trying to write more abt my favs, but like leon I haven't written ellie in a while!! I'm sorry for the inaccuracy <3

一

there it was again. the sound of the guitar playing over and over. it seemed this time, she couldn't get a certain part.

ellie williams was a chill neighbor. you only knew her name from the other tenants who'd yap to each other about her guitar late at night. yeah, she'd keep to herself most of the time, but the times y'all did meet was.. a bit awkward.

you'd bump into her coming out of her apartment, fumbling with her keys. "oh shit- sorry." she'd mumble out, glancing to you before locking her gaze onto the floor, rushing past you.

don't get me started when y'all were stuck on the elevator. well- it wasn't that awkward..

. . .

you rushed out of your apartment, bag straps slipping off your shoulder after being sloppily put on, as you scrambled to lock your apartment door. you ran to the elevator that was already closing, before a hand came out to hold it open. your eyes went from the hand, to the moth tattoo on her forearm, to her green eyes.

"oh- thanks-!" you smiled as she nodded.

then silence for a few seconds.

"what floor?" "what?" "what floor-?"

"ah- uh, the bottom one?" "right- right."

ellie clicked the button, and the elevator ride was going smoothly. the conversation was already awkward and both of y'all wanted to get out as soon as possible. ellie was attractive, but that's what was scary about her.

suddenly the elevator cracked, then popped, before it just stopped moving. you glanced up at ellie, who glanced at you. she then went to click the emergency button.

"hey uh- I think the elevator broke."

"ok! help will be on the way" the lady spoke in a cartoony voice as you and ellie rocked on your feet.

an hour went by, and almost nothing happened.

"so.. where were you going?" you asked, as ellie looked up from her phone. you noticed she never really looked you in the eye.

"oh I was gonna go to class-.." she hummed, as you nodded.

"what about you?" she tilted her head slightly.

"I was going to go to my job at the cafe- but I guess i'll be late huh"

"you work at a cafe??"

"yeah why-!"

"what a loser" you could tell she didn't mean it by the way she tensed up, before speaking again "sorry- just joking-." she looked worried that she had offended you for a second.

you guys talked a while as you waited for the repairmen. you learned a lot about her.

her dad joel had taught her guitar, she got that tattoo from her friend, and that she was in college for art.

then the lights shut off. she cursed under her breath as you stumbled to find the emergency button once more- only for you to bump into her. "sorry-!" you yelped, before she turned on her flashlight. you didn't realize how close y'all were till now. your breaths hitched, your eyes locked as ellies lips parted slightly "sorry!! im sorry fuck-" you stammered out, making distance as she nodded.

"it's- fine really-." she mumbled as you looked down, almost guilty for the sudden awkwardness of the room. well- the room was already awkward, but you kinda just added onto it.

it was silent before she spoke up again, her eyes locked onto her phone.

"you smell nice" she hoped you didn't see her burning face, or hear the way her heart beated. hell- it felt as though it was gonna burst out her chest.

"thanks!" you smiled as she nodded in response (as always) before it was awkward again. "you- you play guitar right? I always hear you at night" you paused, cursing at yourself when it came out. it sounded so creepy! always hearing her at night??

it seemed she picked up on this, and chuckled, looking down. "uh.. sorry to keep you up at night-. last night I was very stressed at not getting that riff right."

"what? it sounded great to me."

"really-?"

"yeah! I could hear your progress!" you smiled as she turned bashful. she ran a hand through her hair, nodding. "thanks.."

you don't know where you got the confidence- whether God Himself or your adrenaline, but you blurted something out with your fat ass mouth.

"do you wanna come to the cafe later? i'll give you coffee- for free too-!"

ellie blinked, before nodding. she was trying to act nonchalant but you could tell she was struggling.

"yeah- yeah yeah thats- that sounds- cool."

"mkay! guess its a date!" you were talking faster than you thought, and you saw ellie's eyes widened with the light of her phone screen.

"what?"

"what?"

then the repairmen came and you rushed out of the elevator. it'll be so awkward when the two of you come back home tonight.

ok its beddy sleep nap nappy beddy bye bye

[solxamber]

Again its me again of the seraphim request😭

Can you do a part 2 of ‘The Cat’ (i dont know the name, rip💔) with Idia and Rook, Vil!

And do take your time writing this later if you’re busy with the other requests or irl things

Vil, Rook, Idia with 'The Cat'! Reader

hi! I'm pretty sure the cat's name is quite literally just 'The Cat' lol and thanks for waiting <3

Part 1 with Jade, Jamil, Azul

Vil Schoenheit:

Vil doesn’t tolerate nonsense, but your catlike, elusive nature is an exception he begrudgingly accepts. He knows you're always nearby, watching with those sharp, observant eyes, even if you’ve seemingly vanished from the room.

There’s a part of him that appreciates your ability to slip away from prying eyes—though he'd never admit it aloud.

"You really must learn to make an entrance properly," Vil remarks, not bothering to glance up from his mirror as you reappear, perched silently on a windowsill.

"And ruin the fun?" you reply smoothly, your voice lilting with amusement. "I thought you appreciated subtlety."

Vil's eyes narrow in the mirror, his reflection catching yours. "Subtlety is an art. Vanishing into the shadows is a parlor trick. Though, I suppose you have your charm."

You smirk, lazily stretching. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Vil sighs but can’t hide the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Don't push it."

Rook Hunt:

Rook finds your elusive and catlike behavior endlessly fascinating, like a puzzle he’s always eager to solve. The thrill of the hunt, of tracking you down in your hiding places or catching a glimpse of your vanishing figure, delights him more than he lets on.

“Ah, mon cher mystère, always slipping through my fingers,” Rook calls out theatrically, his voice carrying through the empty corridor.

You appear just behind him, your voice low and teasing, “Perhaps you’re not as sharp as you think, huntsman.”

Rook spins with that ever-present smile, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oh, but the chase, it only adds to your allure! Each time you vanish, I find myself more intrigued."

You step closer, lips curving into a knowing smile. "Catch me, then."

Rook’s grin widens. "One day, I just might." But even he knows, deep down, that the game is far too fun to ever truly win.

Idia Shroud:

Idia isn’t exactly a fan of social interaction, so your tendency to vanish into thin air doesn’t bother him. In fact, he finds it kind of reassuring—after all, you’re never gone for long.

He’s used to the way you silently reappear, blending into the background, just like an NPC who pops up unexpectedly.

"You always show up when I least expect it," Idia mutters, eyes glued to his screen. He doesn’t look over, but you know he’s noticed.

"Surprise," you whisper from behind him, your voice almost purring. Idia jumps, then groans. "Do you have to do that? It’s like a horror game—except the jumpscares are real."

You chuckle, slipping around to his side. "I’m just keeping things interesting." He side-eyes you, hair flickering slightly. "Yeah, interesting, sure. You’re like, everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It's... kinda OP."

You grin, leaning close enough for him to hear the smirk in your voice. "Better than being predictable." Idia gives a small, awkward laugh. "Touché."

Masterlist

[crescenthistory]

your last animagus fic was so sweet! it even made some ideas popped in my mind. i was thinking about feisty (gn) reader being a crow animagus accompanying barty into his mischief, which could be scaring the skittles or pranking people in general. if you could write this, it would be wonderful 💞

(fun fact: crows can mimic sounds such as ambience noise or even human voice, this is so amazing and a bit scary, imagine encounter one while you walk in the woods AAAAAKXNSM!!! i love them so much, thx for reading me yapp xx)

hi lovely<33 thank YOU for yapping to me, i find it very endearing and entertaining 🤲 people who are passionate about what they love>>>>

now, i personally don't think i would be able to write this as a full-length fic, as pranking and mischief is not reallyyyy within my toolbox BUT this is very cute so i'm giving you some belated headcanons 🫂 if anyone's able/willing to write a longer version, please do share with the class and tag me!!

i present to you my thoughts of crow!animagus!reader x barty:

i imagine you become an animagus before you and barty get together

(because if you wanted to do it while the two of you were friends/dating he would INSIST on doing the transformation process with you)

and i think deciding when your relationship is at the point where you can/should divulge that part of yourself would be difficult to pinpoint

so what happens is that you would be laying on the floor beside each other in the astronomy tower, stargazing together. a date of sorts, in the way every second you spend with barty somehow feels like a date as he is fully, wholly dedicated to you.

the later it got, the more you two would switch between genuinely trying to find and remember constellations and just goofing around

those type of late night conversations where you seem to get to know someone 100x more in just a few hours than you otherwise could over the spans of months

asking each other increasingly deep questions

"tell me something about you no one else knows"

when else would you get the perfect opportunity to reveal your animagus status to your boyfriend?

stupidly, you feared his reaction. would he be upset with you hiding it for so long? would he think your animagus form was silly? would he look at you differently?

but when i tell you this man shrieked with excitement

"show me, show me, show me"

when you turn into a crow and fly around him in circles, he genuinely would jump up excitedly and twirl in the same direction you're flying so that his eyes never have to leave your form, laughing and screaming

the only thing on his mind would be how spectacular and remarkable you are, excitement and love filling any space that the hostility you feared might have fostered

not to mention; "that's bloody badass, baby"

you would land carefully on his shoulder and barty would scoop you up close to his body, almost squishing you and making you squeak

"we're gonna have to perfect the art of cuddling with crows," he would say gravely

barty, the secret academic weapon and swot that he is, would SO do his due diligence with research immediately upon the discovery

we're talking library trips, tomes and scrolls purchases, books upon books of muggle literature on crows and wizard literature on animagi that he chases through faster than you could imagine

when he learns of crows being able to mimic noises, including human voices, his mind floods with ideas

"oh, we are going to have fun baby"

that's how you start accompanying him into his many tirades and mischief

most of the time it is just as a companion, the crow sitting on his shoulder as he runs around the castle wreaking havoc

it adds to barty's general intimidating aura and the reputation that just barely proceeds him — the crazy guy with the facial piercings, acid green streaks in his hair, punkish style, chokers and a volatile wand now also has a crow with him everywhere? hell no, people steer clear of him

it doesn't help that many students swear he talks to the crow and seems to hold an entire conversation with it, based solely on its body language and occasional caws

"i swear to bloody merlin, the crow looked at me when i spoke badly of junior. it's like it understood, some human-like capabilities or what not, fucking scary."

it doesn't take long before you become a more active partner in his shenanigans, though

you will call out people's names to get them to enter a room barty needs them in (because let's be real, if barty called for them, nobody would be stupid enough to fall for it and go to him)

you deliver letters and packages for him, you caw behind first years so that they jump in fear, you borrow people's clips and rings and pens

poor regulus and evan get the most shit from you among the skittles, while dorcas finds the most amount of entertainment through it

i imagine it's through your animagus form that the skittles learn that when pandora talks to animals she actually does understand them -> you two have lengthy conversations, much to everyone's eventual chagrin

and while the skittles of course all learn you're an animagus, no one else in the castle does

(though i imagine the marauders have their strong suspicions from early on)

barty was already showering you in gifts — "my father's outrages amounts of money should be put to good" — but now he has taken it upon himself to get you anything and everything shiny he sees

"you're a literal crow and i'm your dutiful partner. i have to contribute to the nest."

(mind you, this would likely be a thing even before he ever sees you seek out something shiny while in animagus form; he just assumes)

ironically, barty starts behaving like a crow himself in how he seeks out shiny trinkets for you

and while you try and tell him you don't have those instincts when outside of your animagus form... you actually really do and you revel in the love and attention

after a while, i do believe he would attempt to become an animagus too

honestly, he would begin getting on your case about it every single day from finding out. same way he would immediately learn his s/o's native language imo — he needs to be included.

especially if regulus is a cat animagus in this universe, because his two favourite people simply cannot have something in common that he is excluded from. this man is the epitome of fomo

my default animagus form for barty is a raccoon, but i think he would also make a lot of fun as a bat animagus which fits perfect with you as a crow

can you imagine, just you two flying around on school grounds and later on in your neighbourhood when you move in together?

the crow and the bat<3(shit crazy boy who loves them)

[saintodo]

♡ word count: 1.1k

♡ pairing: rafayel x gn!reader

♡ tags: suggestive, unestablished (romantic) relationship but established friendship, reader's not explicitly mc

"Whatcha doing?"

Your head suddenly pops into Rafayel's line of vision as you lean over the back of the couch where he sits in his studio, eyes bright with curiosity.

"Jeez, you scared me!" Rafayel says, though his actions speak to the contrary. "Give a guy a warning next time before you sneak up on him."

You roll your eyes at his theatrics.

"Like you didn't hear me walking up behind you," you bite back. "Or me knocking for that matter. What's so riveting that you can't get up and open your door for your guest?"

You lean further into Rafayel's space, intent on learning what's captivated his attention to the point that he can't even get the door for you. Granted, you knew where he kept his spare key, but still. It's the principle of the matter.

You expect him to show you something related to paint making, considering he spends so much of his free time doing just that. Maybe, some super rare mineral that he had poor Thomas go and acquire for him or some shells that would look like any other shell to you that Rafayel would insist were unique and oh so special.

Instead, your eyes are greeted with a video playing on Rafayel's phone of the man himself. Masturbating. More specifically, fucking himself with his fingers.

"Don't you have any shame at all?"

You scrunch your nose at the unexpected, though not exactly unpleasant, sight and give Rafayel a sideways glance.

"Why should I?"

He grins and spreads his arms over the back of the couch. Twilight waves brush against your shoulder as Rafayel tilts his head back and looks up at you. Infuriatingly and effortlessly charming.

"Because it's the middle of the day and you're looking at your nudes," you deadpan.

At this angle, you no longer can see Rafayel's phone screen, but the video continues to play — soft wet sounds of skin against skin filling the lapse of conversation.

“Don’t act like you haven’t done the same,” he waves you off.

You roll your eyes. Again.

“Even if I have, I wouldn’t do it when i’m expecting company,” you huff. You cross your arms over your middle, leveling Rafayel with a glare that has no real heat behind it. “We’re supposed to hang out and this is what you do instead?”

"I was deciding which video I wanted to post," Rafayel offers up as an explanation.

It’s no secret between you that Rafayel posts explicit content of himself online. It mainly started out as a hobby of his, but he quickly amassed a cult-like following, so now it’s grown into a side hustle of sorts.

Rafayel sighs dramatically. He rests the back of his hand against his forehead, reminiscent of a damsel in distress. "But none of them are just right."

You snort. "This isn't one of your art pieces, Raf. I'm pretty sure that your followers are gonna eat up whatever you decide on, so just choose one and post it already. I want to hangout.”

“How cruel,” Rafayel gasps at your easy dismissal of him. “Here I am experiencing a difficult dilemma, and you want to abandon me in my time of need.”

“Whatever will you do?” you dryly respond.

You flinch, loudly cursing as you lurch backwards and nearly slip on your ass when, in a flurry, Rafayel suddenly darts upright, twisting to face you.

“You almost made me fall,” you complain. You clutch at your chest, your heart hammering beneath your palm.

“Sorry,” Rafayel says, utterly unrepentant. “I have an idea.”

You warily eye Rafayel. Any sign of moping that was present just moments ago has been wiped clean, replaced by a gleam in Rafayel’s blue-pink gaze that doesn’t bode well for you.

“Do I even want to know what it is?”

“Don’t be like that,” Rafayel lightly frowns, his bottom lip jutting out to form a stupidly perfect pout, “Don’t you want to hear my great idea?”

“No,” you deadpan.

A few seconds pass.

You sigh.

“Fine,” you whine. With a flourish of your hand, you say, “Go on. Tell me all about your great idea.”

“You could star in one of my videos.”

You blink.

“Excuse me?” you say. The words roll off your tongue automatically.

“My followers said they want to see something from me other than solo content,” he says as if that’s explanation enough, which it most certainly is not.

“Okay,” you drag the word out as your brain tries its best to wrap itself around the events quickly unfolding before you. “What does that have to do with me?”

Rafayel exhales and props his elbow up on the back of the couch. He drums his fingers against his temple.

“Do I really need to spell it out for you?”

A frown forms on your lips.

“Shouldn’t you be nice to the person who’s going to do you a favor?”

Rafayel perks up. He shifts, tucking his feet beneath him as he pushes himself onto his knees, palms supporting his weight as he draws closer to you.

“So you’ll do it?”

In one smooth motion, you pull your shirt off over your head and toss it aside. Rafayel’s eyes drift to your chest. His gaze follows the motion of your shoulders touching your ears as you shrug.

“Why not?”

You take a step forward, reaching towards Rafayel to card a hand through his hair like you’ve done a thousand times before. Your palm comes to rest at the back of his neck and your thumb presses slightly against the base of his skull, encouraging him to tilt his head back. Rafayel gives easily to your unspoken demand.

You hover above Rafayel, crowding into his space. Your nose brushes against his, lips barely ghosting. He tries to angle his head to catch you in a kiss, but you draw back slightly, right out of his reach. You laugh when a whine escapes him and smooth your thumb over his hair in a placating manner.

“So impatient,” you tease. You press a kiss to the corner of his lips to quell the irritation that’s surely mounting within Rafayel the longer you delay giving him what he wants. “You’re paying for dinner by the way.”

Rafayel’s hands move from their place, deft fingers smoothly slipping into the belt loops of your jeans and firmly tugging, bringing you even nearer. This time, he takes what he wants, stealing a chaste kiss from you, and you feel him smile against your lips.

“Fine by me.”

[sam-keeper]

Most modern criticism agrees, audiences have a lot of interpretive say. So why do people still talk about media like it's being inflicted on them? Sink your teeth into the difficult films No Country for Old Men and Nosferatu and learn to get your agency back as an audience.

Art, any art, has its subject, and then it has what it thinks about that subject, but "what it thinks" doesn't sit in the art's brain--it hasn't got one, after all--but our brains, the audience's. "What it thinks" is convenient shorthand, really, for a whole relationship, between the artwork itself, the creators and what motivated its creation, the audience and what motivates their reception, and the whole context they all find themselves in. But the text also has qualities, relatively objective contents, and those contents restrict the possibility space of "what it thinks". It would be rude to imagine a bunch of scenes in a novel that never happened and claim the original text says something based on them; we can't put words in art's mouth--it hasn't got one, after all. We do speak for a text, though, and a text speaks for us. We have agency. Older forms of interpretation viewed art as a series of objective authorial intents bundled into a message beamed into our skulls, but most modern interpretive theories agree, more or less, that the audience puts work into understanding. Somehow, the way we talk about art in broader culture, particularly online, hasn't caught up. That shorthand gets taken at face value, as though the message of art (or advertisements, news articles, press releases, scientific studies, press secretary statements...) is obvious, requiring no engagement from us. I've had people scoff and say I'm misusing language when I apply the word "literacy" to this idea. Maybe that's comforting. Having agency means taking responsibility, sometimes responsibility for having a bad time, or for just being wrong. You ever come out of a movie and turn to the people you're with and say, "hey so what was that... about?" At that moment, you might find out you're alone with your interpretation--that you effectively watched a different movie from everyone else! With all the fearsome experiences art offers, and all its attendant social anxiety, why not wrestle some control back by reinterpreting yourself as a victim of art's impositions? I don't think that feeling of control lasts, though. If anything, in the long term it makes art seem like a contagion vector, full of potentially dirty feelings and memes. Media "literacy" partly just means engaging art confidently, instead of feeling like art's being imposed on you. To feel that kind of confidence, though, takes practice, and it's a hard skill to teach, at least if what you're actually testing for is a set of "objective" repeatable metrics. A lot of English classes seem to teach a straightforward "x means y" relationship between symbols or metaphors and their meaning. In response to that kind of disempowering rote formula approach, some people reassert their agency by just... pretending nothing means anything, which feels defiant and powerful, but cuts down everything they can say about art to "Yes!" and "No!" What can this kind of audience do when a work puts two characters in contention, has them spell out a core worldview disagreement, and offers a question: who is right? They can only fall back on reliable common sense (you know, all the unexamined stuff they've absorbed from culture and the people around them, or just their gut emotional responses), arriving at what they believe is the obvious only answer. Too bad, because one of the best ways to train your interpretive agency muscles is looking at exactly those moments of character disagreement. Like, take a look at Anton Chigurh and Carla Jean Moss in No Country For Old Men, maybe, sure. It's a popular movie, a great, iconic scene, and fun to talk about, so let's take a look. At the end of the movie, Anton Chigurh, philosopher-hitman, is going to kill this basically innocent woman; it sucks, and we all hate it, right? I guess it's a bit more than a character disagreement. But it is a disagreement in the sense that they're gonna have a conversation before Chigurh and Carla Jean go to their respective fates, and that conversation is pivotal to the question of what the movie is "about".

Read More

[littleprinces]

Day 29: BWC

Dayeon x OC

Kinkvember Day 29

Dayeon, the lead vocalist of the popular K-pop girl group "Kep1er" was no stranger to the spotlight. With her captivating voice and stunning visuals, she had a massive fanbase worldwide. Today, however, she was not on stage but rather enjoying a quiet afternoon in a quaint café in Seoul. She was sipping her latte, watching the world outside through the window, when she noticed him. A tall, muscular American man with short blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He was new to the city, and his eyes scanned the café with curiosity. Dayeon couldn't help but feel drawn to him.

"Excuse me," Dayeon said, standing up and walking toward him. "Are you new here?"

He turned to her, a warm smile spreading across his face. "Yes, I am. Just moved from New York. You're Dayeon, right? From Kep1er?"

Dayeon nodded, surprised. "Yes, that's me. And you are?"

"Jake," he introduced himself. "Nice to meet you, Dayeon."

A few days later, they met again at a local art gallery. Jake had a keen interest in art, and Dayeon found it fascinating to learn about his perspectives on various paintings and sculptures. As they strolled through the gallery, their hands brushed against each other, and Dayeon felt a spark.

"You have very soft hands," Jake commented, his voice low. "It's unusual for someone so famous to be so... touchable."

Dayeon smiled, her cheeks flushing slightly. "I'm glad you think so. Not many people get to see this side of me."

Their conversations grew deeper and more intimate over the following weeks. They shared stories, dreams, and fears. One evening, as they sat in Jake's apartment, Dayeon noticed the tension between them. She could see the desire in his eyes, and it mirrored her own feelings.

"Jake," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I want you."

Jake leaned in, his lips meeting hers in a soft, gentle kiss. It deepened, their tongues exploring each other's mouths. Dayeon moaned softly, her hands running through his short blonde hair.

"You're so beautiful, Dayeon," Jake whispered against her lips. "I've been wanting to do this since the first moment I saw you."

Dayeon led him to the bedroom, her heart pounding with anticipation. She started undressing him, her fingers tracing the muscles of his chest. Jake, in turn, unzipped her dress, letting it fall to the floor. He took a step back to admire her in her lacy black bra and thong.

"God, you're perfect," he murmured, his eyes drinking her in.

Dayeon smiled, her confidence growing. "And you're so big," she said, her gaze dropping to his bulge.

Jake chuckled, stepping closer to her. "Is that right?"

Dayeon nodded, her fingers reaching for his belt. "Let me see."

She unbuckled his belt and pulled down his pants, revealing his large, thick cock. Dayeon gasped, her eyes widening. "Wow," she breathed. "That's big."

Jake laughed, his cock twitching in response to her words. "And you're about to find out just how big."

Dayeon knelt down, her hand wrapping around his shaft. She licked the tip, tasting the pre-cum that had gathered there. Jake groaned, his hands going to her hair.

"Fuck, Dayeon," he moaned. "That feels so good."

She took him into her mouth, her head bobbing up and down. Jake watched her, his breath coming in short gasps. "You look so hot doing that," he said, his voice strained. "But I want to fuck you. I want to feel your pussy around my cock."

Dayeon stood up, her lips glistening with his precum. "I want that too," she said, her voice husky.

Jake picked her up, carrying her to the bed. He laid her down, his body covering hers. He kissed her deeply, his hands roaming her body. He sucked on her neck, making her squirm with pleasure.

"You taste so good," he murmured against her skin.

He moved down her body, his tongue tracing her collarbone, her breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking and nibbling on it. Dayeon moaned, her hands gripping the sheets.

"Yes," she gasped. "More."

Jake moved to her other breast, giving it the same attention. He then continued his journey down her stomach, his fingers hooking into her thong and pulling it off. He spread her legs, his eyes taking in her glistening pussy.

"Beautiful," he said, his voice hoarse.

He leaned in, his tongue licking her from her entrance to her clit. Dayeon cried out, her hips bucking. Jake repeated the motion, his tongue circling her clit before dipping back into her pussy.

"Oh god, Jake," Dayeon moaned. "That feels so good."

Jake continued to lick and suck her, his fingers joining in. He slipped two fingers into her, curling them to hit her G-spot. Dayeon screamed, her orgasm crashing over her.

"Fuck, Jake," she panted. "I need your cock inside me."

Jake smiled, his cock throbbing with need. He positioned himself at her entrance, his cockhead nudging her. Dayeon bit her lip, her eyes meeting his.

"Are you ready for this, Dayeon?" Jake asked, his voice low.

Dayeon nodded, her breath hitching. "Yes," she said. "I'm ready."

Jake pushed into her, his cock stretching her. Dayeon moaned, her hands going to his hips. "Ouch, yes," she said. "You're so big."

Jake grinned, his cock pulsing inside her. "And you feel so tight."

He started moving, his cock sliding in and out of her. Dayeon met his thrusts, her body moving in sync with his. Their moans filled the room, their bodies slapping together.

"Yes, Jake," Dayeon panted. "Faster."

Jake complied, his pace quickening. He leaned down, his lips meeting hers. They kissed deeply, their tongues clashing. Dayeon's nails dug into his back, her body tensing.

"I'm close," she gasped.

"Me too," Jake groaned. "Come with me, Dayeon."

He thrust into her harder, faster. Dayeon screamed, her orgasm ripping through her. Jake followed, his cock pulsing inside her as he came.

"Fuck, Dayeon," he panted, his forehead resting on hers. "That was incredible."

They stayed like that for a moment, their bodies entwined. Then, Jake rolled off her, his cock slipping out of her. Dayeon smiled, her fingers tracing his chest.

"That was amazing," she said. "I want to do it again."

Jake laughed, his arms wrapping around her. "Any time you want, Dayeon. Any time you want."

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Bowen McCurdy and Jordan Morris’s “Youth Group”

NEXT SATURDAY (July 20), I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

Youth Group is Bowen McCurdy and Jordan Morris's new and delightful graphic novel from Firstsecond. It's a charming tale of 1990s ennui, cringe Sunday School – and demon hunting.

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250789235/youthgroup

Kay is a bitter, cynical teenager who's doing her best to help her mother cope with an ugly divorce that has seen her dad check out on his former family. Mom is going back to church, and she talks Kay into coming along with her to attend the church youth group.

This is set in the 1990s, and the word "cringe" hasn't yet entered our lexicon as an adjective, but boy is the youth group cringe. The pastor is a guitar-strumming bearded dad who demonstrates how down he is with the kids by singing top 40 songs rewritten with evangelical lyrics (think Weird Al meets the 700 Club). Kay gamely struggles through a session and even makes a friend or two, and agrees to keep attending in deference to her mother's pleas.

But this is no ordinary youth group. Kay's ultra-boring suburban hometown is actually infested with demons who routinely possess the townspeople, and that baseline of demonic activity has suddenly gone critical, with a new wave of possessions. Suddenly, the possessed are everywhere – even Kay's shitty dad ends up with a demon inside of him.

That's when Kay discovers that the youth group and its corny pastor are also demon hunters par excellence. Their rec-rooms sport secret cubbies filled with holy weapons, and the words of exorcism come as readily to them as any embarrassing rewritten devotional pop song. Kay's discovery of this secret world convinces her that youth group isn't so bad after all, and soon she is initiated into its mysteries, including the existence of rival demon-hunting kids from the local synagogue, Catholic church, and Wiccan coven.

As the nature of the new demonic incursion becomes clearer, it falls on Kay and her pals to overcome these sectarian divisions over the protests of their guitar-strumming, magic-wielding leader. That takes on a special urgency when Kay learns why the demons are interested in her, personally, and a handful of other kids in town who all share a secret trait.

I confess that as someone who lived through the 1990s as a young man, there is something disorienting about experiencing the decade of my young adulthood through the kind of retro lens I associate with the 1950s or 1960s. But while the experience is disorienting, it's not unpleasant. McCurdy's artwork and Morris's snappy dialog conjure up that bygone decade in a way that is simultaneously affectionate and critical, exposing the hollowness of its performative ennui and the brave face that performance represented even as the world was being swept up in corporate gigantism.

McCurdy and Morris are really onto something here, implicitly asking us why the 1990s gave us Buffy and Sabrina (and The Coven, etc etc) – what was it about that decade in which Reaganomics and globalism consolidated the gains of the 1980s, where the climate emergency took on its undeniable urgency, where media monopolies mastered the art of commodifying counterculture faster than it could mutate into new forms?

Morris's writing really shines here. If you enjoyed Bubble, his earlier outing based on the post-apocalyptic comedy podcast of the same name, you will love this one:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/21/podcasting-as-a-visual-medium/#huntr

Morris is also half of Jordan, Jesse Go!, the long-running podcast where he and Jesse Thorn do a weekly ha-ha-only-serious goofball schtick that never fails to smuggle in really clever and insightful ideas amidst the poop jokes.

https://maximumfun.org/podcasts/jordan-jesse-go/

John Hodgman calls nostalgia a "toxic impulse." Church Group deftly avoids nostalgia's trap, managing to be a period piece without falling prey to the Happy Days pathology of ignoring the many flaws and problems of its era. And of course, it's a hoot and a blast.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/16/blight/#the-dream-of-the-nineties

[playedcrowd5610]

10 of My 'Haunting the Nemesis' - Canon Headcanons

Because I am the author, and I have a lot of headcanons for this series that I never managed to bring to fruition or didn't seem very clear in the series, I'm posting a bunch of them here! I hope you like it.

Also, because I am the author, these HCs are all now 100% canon! But please share your own headcanons for this series as well. I would love to hear them. <3 (I might even end up making them canon as well.)

-

1.Knockout has Danny's phone number saved in his com-link contacts as "Scratch Magnet."

2. Danny, Knockout, and Breakdown go to a drive-in theatre every Friday night, and they each take turns picking the movie. (This was shown a little bit in the 'KO Drive-in' Chapter, but because that series is non-canon, I wanted to make it clear this movie night is, in fact, canon.)

3. Danny grabbing Jack's face to check on him in chapter 7 of 'Falling Stars' was Jack's Gay/Bi awakening. (I saw this as a few comments and could not stop laughing at the mental image. And I also got fan art of it. So sure, it's canon now. It won't have a part in the story, though, because it is not a ship, just an awakening. - Though if someone wants to make a work off of that, it's fine by me)

4. Danny can sense how old Cybertronians are in their maturity through their sparks. Which is why he calls Bumblebee "kid" in that one scene in 'Crushed Bug.' In comparison to Cybertronian age, Danny would be just older or the same age as Bee.

5. Danny is the king of the dead, and even though he doesn't actively rule, he has the right to the throne. Also, because of this, he has the ability to learn any language very quickly because, as king of the infinite realms, he needs to be able to learn the languages of thousands of universes as new ghosts keep popping into the zone. (I have covered this in a previous response post, but I also wanted to put it here.)

6. Danny is, in fact, immortal. He is not sure of this fact yet, but it is true. He will age naturally until he reaches his peak, and then he will simply stop ageing. Whether that is by his human form dying and him becoming a full ghost or if his human form stays with him as well is still being decided. (It was touched on in the Jazz chapter, but it wasn't confirmed. But Danny gets to live with his Cybertronain friends for much longer now!)

7. Ghost cores and sparks are almost identical in how they work and feel. This makes it very easy for ghosts and Cybertronians to connect and feel each other's emotions just as they would for their own species.

8. Danny calls Laserbeak his brother and calls Soundwave dad jokingly often, especially when Laserbeak calls him out when he's hurt. "Oh, come on! You snitched on me to Dad! Not cool."

9. One day, Knockout dumped a bunch of energon on Danny just to "See what it would do," and Danny ended up glowing like a glowstick for 3 days afterward. - Now, Knockout believes this is how all humans react when exposed to energon. XD

10. Soundwave did originally have his other mini-cons at the beginning of the war (Rumble, Frenzy, and Ravage), but after the years of fighting and war, only Laserbeak is left. This is one of the reasons he has gotten so over-protective with Danny; he doesn't want to lose another baby.

-

These apply to Haunting the Nemesis only and not Adopticons.

Thanks for reading my headcanons! If you want more, I may make another post. Love you all! Let me know if you have any of your own. Have a good rest of your week. <3

Ao3: Haunting the Nemesis