#cleo app

[marketinggift]

To Make Free Money Install & Register Cleo App :

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[minart-was-taken]

Was anybody gonna tell me Subway Surfers has a bunch of lgbt+ characters or was I supposed to be pleasantly surprised all by myself?

[cleo-serotonin]

why am i just realizing these are the wigs for their stunt doubles

[oooocleo]

tip to save an artists life... if transferring big files over cloud service (or wirelessly in general) is giving u trouble, you can very easily use a USB stick and an usb-c to usb-a converter to just.. copy and paste stuff to your pc 🥲

for older ipad models a lightning to usb-a would potentially work (altho always check bc.. apple hates us)... i had to figure this out bc my internet connection is too unstable to succesfully transfer my bigass illustration files 🧍

[virgincognito]

ice spice will need to get her baddies audition tape ready i fear…..

[littlequeenies]

Our Muses (aka our pages)

Hi everyone! We'd like to share again or tumblr pages here for everyone (specially since you cannot reach them through the app!).

Each muse has their biography (some are more updated than others) with some photos, then a "More Info" (which are actually our entries with her name tag), a timeline (if you are looking for a specific photo it may help), and finally links to other cool sites, books and other sources where you can get more information about her.

Click to know more:

Alice Ormsby-Gore

Bebe Buell

Charlotte Martin

Cleo Odzer

Demri Parrott

Iggy Rose

Jane Asher

Jenny Boyd

Jo Jo Laine

June Child

Lee Starkey

Marsha Hunt

Pam Courson

Pattie Boyd

Paula Boyd

[erstwhilesparrow]

the papers from the bankers say they doubt you’re coming home

So Cleo wins. Of course they win.

—

Scott has a garden. He used to tend it with his own two hands. He doesn’t anymore, but the garden finds its ways of being self-sufficient. It’s not witchcraft; Cleo doesn’t care and Scott drags decay in his wake like a wedding dress train. Gave up, at some point, trying to keep it in check.

That there’s life at all in the garden is nothing short of miraculous, so Scott hauls himself upright and down the stairs every afternoon to see the miracle for himself again. His old lizard-like friend—reanimated after an accident, and then what might have been sabotage, and then what definitely was spite—doesn’t keep names very well these days, but he roams the garden, and seems comfortable enough that Scott finds himself relaxing in his presence.

“Hello,” Scott says, voice rusty from disuse. He doesn’t need to talk much these days—whatever he’s about to say, Cleo reacts just the same, as if they’ve already heard it. “How are you doing?”

His friend flicks his tongue in Scott’s face, and the smell of rot—always there to some degree—intensifies. Scott’s had time to practise, to study. But a dead thing brought back has already split its self with death. There are points past which there is no return.

It could be worse. Scott and death are old lovers these days.

He tells his friend, “I haven’t seen Cleo since… two days ago? Two days ago for me.” Scott coughs. He gets two sentences before his throat gets dry, and if he cared, he’d be sad that this is the improvement. For all her power, it’s no wonder the Supreme Witch had to die eventually.

“Maybe I’ll ask where she went,” Scott laughs.

He won’t. He hasn’t. Nothing touches them out here. Cleo always comes back, swaggering or exhausted or sweet or fearful. Scott and the garden and death stand guard. It has been a long time since she let him fold her into his arms, but maybe Scott’s too hopeful for his own good. Someone, somewhere, keeping watch for her. He can do that while he waits.

—

“Okay. We can try again.”

Scott stumbles into Cleo’s study—library, really; it has long outgrown being a study, but Scott calls it such out of habit and Cleo can adapt—carrying a stack of books, a bundle of charred sticks, and a satchel round with shapes that Cleo is certain are familiar.

“What’d you find this time?” they ask.

“Golden apples. Enchanted ones.” There’s an exhausted gleam to his eye, and fiercer than that, pride. It is uncomfortably recognizable.

Cleo makes mistakes, okay? If their reputation is what it is in this world, it’s only because they’ve had the experience from a hundred prior failures. They don’t catch themself in time.

“Scott—” Cleo starts.

Instantly, Scott’s expression crumples. He recovers fast enough, lips pressing shut and eyes narrowing, but this other half, this ghost he’s carrying around, is like an open wound, and he has none of a time witch’s ability to let things scar over.

“We haven’t even tried,” Scott hisses. “Don’t look at me like that! How—”

It’s only the second time Cleo has seen this turn of events, so it still pierces them, quiet, as precise as if aimed. They shake their head. “It doesn’t work. I—We tried.”

“You’ve done this before? This exact thing?”

“Yes,” Cleo says, and nothing more.

Scars can still ache, and Cleo still feels it, like the remnants of a bad cut tearing from their sternum down to their guts. Despite the scar tissue, she had hoped too. She had forgotten she could hope like that. She had watched Scott retch in the garden afterwards and decided it wasn’t worth it.

“That’s—” Scott drops the supplies with a growl, and in perfect unison, he and Cleo flick their hands to catch everything before it hits the floor. “Did you—”

“Nothing yet,” Cleo interrupts, then winces. If Scott’s magic keeps him sallow and starving-eyed, keeps him a half-dead thing cannibalizing itself, hers layers over her like thin coats of paint. It’s the loneliest thing in the world to watch Scott reach for the book she’d been annotating and know exactly how the motion goes. She flinched, the first couple of times. Now, some wild, living part of her breathes, Catch it. Hold him. Please.

But it’s not Scott Cleo’s after, and it’s not Cleo that Scott’s after.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. We’ll… We’ll try something else.”

“Of course we will.”

Scott smiles as if that’s a new joke, and—Oh, it is, isn’t it? Cleo likes his smile, but it’s the same as being offered a handful of berries when what she wants is a feast.

Cleo has painted over their own past a hundred, a thousand times now. They wonder, quietly, privately, if they’ll know how to give up their time witch powers when this is all done, and worse, they wonder what they’ll be when they can’t.

—

“So,” Scott rasps. “We could test them out. Your new powers.”

They’ve had a total of one night’s sleep over the past four days, collapsed exhausted and shouting on Cleo’s couches as soon as the signal came through that she had won, that it had worked, that Scott’s death hadn’t needed to be permanent for a victor to be declared. 

The jubilation seems to have vanished with the sunrise. They’ve woken up too early and are standing in the kitchen in a facsimile of domesticity.

“We could,” Cleo says. Closes their eyes. Spits without looking into one of the buckets on the floor—blood and rotted meat and inky-purple residue. “We… Yes.”

“Does anything… feel different?” Scott keeps his arms crossed; can’t lean on the counter because there’s buckets of offal and basins shimmery with amethyst dust and ugly smears all over. Neither of them have eaten. Neither of them are eating.

“I think I’ve been here before,” Cleo says, quiet, confessional in a way they haven’t been until now. “I had—I have nightmares.”

Scott thinks about making a joke. Looks again at the buckets of blood, and the fact that he stopped going back to his house after a while. Cleo caught him sleeping on their couch the first time and only said, “It’s fine. You can take my bed here if I can take yours at your place.”

“I know,” Scott says. 

Cleo looks, briefly, surprised. It sparks some kind of surprise in Scott too. Maybe he shouldn’t be. There is no danger in being surprised once you’re untouchable.

“You too?” they ask.

Scott just nods.

They’re the same thing from two different angles—so they recognize each other, but can do no more than that. He’s thought about reaching over and wiping some of the rusty blood off their mouth. Can’t do it for the same reason he can’t go home yet.

Cleo’s hand comes up, hesitates, goes back to draw her wand and gesture with it. The buckets begin a slow, careful orbit around her. “Let’s clean up first? This place feels disgusting.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“Yours.” A wry grin and no hard feelings, just like that.

“The all-powerful Supreme Witch doesn’t have a spell for that?” Scott flutters his fingers. “What do you need me for?”

“It’s better when I’m with you,” Cleo says simply. 

They don’t elaborate. Scott doesn’t ask.

—

It’s the same thing from two different directions. Of course they help each other out. Doing favours, owing favours. 

Neither of them have named this thing, but each repaid debt has a little extra to it, a leash if you’re cynical, a promise if you’re too hopeful for your own good. They keep count, each separate, private ledger book a see-saw or a double pendulum, tracing out the shape of something others might think to call a type of love.

“That’s cheating,” Scott complains, when Cleo tells him how they’ve learned to loop time and get three times the amount of studying in.

“It’s winning,” Cleo corrects smugly.

Scott scoffs.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” they murmur, teasing-sweet.

“Can you cast it on me too?” he asks. The bags under his eyes have never been just for show.

A different Scott once asked the same question, and the same Cleo agreed until they could both spit curses with as much ease as most people breathed. 

The memory of sitting in the same room, up late poring over spell tomes and stepping out onto the balcony to attempt new hexes, is carved into Cleo’s memory.

Similarly carved, though they don’t like reaching for it, is the memory of how the two of them made themselves too dangerous too soon, how the other witches whispered behind their hands about them, how the two of them barricaded Kairos and settled in for a seige.

“They’re just meat,” Cleo had snarled, pacing the room.

Scott’s fingers had twitched. Each word heavy and sure in his mouth, he’d agreed, “They’re just meat.”

That’s the kind of philosophy that causes trouble, that gets you hunted, questioned, locked away. That’s the kind of philosophy that has no room for love.

The same thing from another direction, then.

“Time witches only,” Cleo sing-songs instead, in the here and now.

“I’ll curse you.”

“You won’t.”

The look Scott shoots them is so, so familiar. They’ll get to know that look, and then they’ll forget it. It’s a little scary, how sure they are of this.

“Fine, but can you help me with this? I can’t get it to go the direction I want it to…”

Cleo gets the funniest feeling suddenly, like they’re a child playing with dolls again.

—

Scott gets back home and shuts the front door behind him and puts away his materials all nice and neat in the too-big upstairs and that’s when it hits him.

A time witch. A time witch who hesitated a moment too long before dipping their head in some loose imitation of a bow. A time witch who was still picking glow lichen off their dress, but a time witch nonetheless.

Scott shuts his eyes and is suddenly, viciously glad he agreed to work with them. Fine. So maybe he doesn’t have to win this contest to get what he needs from it. His magic is already rot and horror; what’s a couple more pieces of himself for the meat grinder?

They seemed willing enough to extend a hand toward him. He gets the strangest feeling he would like them even without the competition, without the promise that they’ll help one another. Maybe he hadn’t realized how much he missed having company.

Absurd. Something about the way she looked at him like they already knew each other.

“Better study up on some curses,” Scott murmurs.

—

And so Cleo wins. Of course they do.

[ashiyn]

...should i post my cleo fancam here as well or only leave it to the clock app is the question

[hesitationss]

some of my friends are embracing the romance of hinge... i honestly would do more w "the apps" if i knew for certain people from high school wouldn't see me and be weird toward me (my city is still a city but it's SMALL) OR knowing the algorithms are racially motivated... my brother was on a dating app and it showed him TWO of his cousins

[chappellrroan]

by the way, who won the match last night😏😏

babe i have been losing since yesterday that should have been my sign

[giftcardgallery23]

Free Download Now

CLEO’s world-renowned technical program is a showcase for leading research and applications in a number of fields, from optical imaging to advanced manufacturing, silicon photonics and the autonomous vehicles industry. Industry-leading speakers from around the world discussed new scientific ideas and research while the exhibiting companies displayed the latest innovations in photonics technology,” said Dirk Müller, Coherent Inc., USA, Program Chair.

“Scientific conferences are an excellent venue for the emergence of novel research and professional collaboration. To continue providing attendees with beneficial experiences, CLEO must also focus on promoting diversity to include all perspectives,” said Jie Qiao, Rochester Institute of Technology, USA, Program Chair. “Conferences, like CLEO, where the latest research and product innovations debut, are essential for those looking to move up in their careers and broaden their professional networks.”

[catgirl-or-furry]

One way to combat writers block: read something bad. Find the worst rated stories wherever you go (probably a place like wattpad or AO3 that let's anyone post their writing) and read it. If bad work can go out into the world so can yours, and you need to make it.

But also, a good format for constructive criticism is suggesting only the most necessary changes, and mentioning things you enjoyed about it at the same time. Just because you find something when specifically looking for bad writing, doesn't mean you should be mean to the author. Say something nice or constructive, or nothing. I swear to snom if anyone tries to use this advice to be mean to amateur authors I will hack your account and post advertisements for literally every story that's been made my someone I vaguely know, until you are nothing but support for small writers.

[lunarcrown]

Meme I HAD to redraw that was sent to me on bird app bc it’s so Real w my giant Cleo and ANYONES pov honestly HAHAGFD

OG below—>

[crazypercheron]

Based on this silly Thread on the Bird App, so I had to draw Cleo and Joe Hills having a music session. Plus the setting this season so far is giving me Appalachian Mountain meets Northwest Coast vibes

Media used: Caran D'ache nonphoto blue pencil, Sakura Micron pens, Ohuhu art markers

[the-slinkyy]

im a little late but i saw that grian is making the next life series sooo (assuming they are all in the next season, some may not but oh well)

personally i think impulse!! (because i did a little theorizing on my notes app that i will only post if i am right because :(

i might do another poll when we get an actual player list so it’s accurate but take this for now

[gh0stsp1d3r]

We were worried.

Req: jj x John bs sister in the episode where Kie was sent to the wilderness camp, and they’re leaving the island and ready to go on the plane but reader hasn’t yet returned to the pogues as she said she was going to pack a few things at the chateau but instead of kie being sent away it’s reader. she gets to the chateau to pack, dcs is there to take her to foster care so she leaves a note for the pogues on her location, JJ leaves to go find her after worrying.

^ request edited to fit. full request here

Warnings: dcs, mentions of foster care, fluff.

MASTERLIST

All of you stood on the dock, with Pope and Cleo departing. You looked around, sighing and slinging your bag over your shoulder, turning back to them.

“I’m gonna go to the chateau, pack real quick.”

John B nodded at you, “don’t forget-“

“I know, I’ll be at the strip in an hour.” You rolled your eyes at your brother.

“Be careful.” He told you, you nodding and turning the other way, walking off the dock. You headed to the Chateau, not too far away.

Once there, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. You were shoving your clothes and other things you knew you needed into your bag, when you suddenly heard a loud knock, along with chattering inside.

“Hello?! Y/n Routledge?!”

Your eyes widened, glancing around the room wildly. You grabbed your bag quietly, got on your hands and knees and began to crawl over to the window. You peeked out the blinds, thankful they were looking the other way.

Their lanyards and their folders, you knew who they were. You also noticed the cops behind them, Shoupe among them.

You moved from the window, swallowing the lump that formed in your throat. You went to the kitchen, quietly ripping a piece of paper out and a sharpie. You scrawled onto the piece of paper as quickly as possible.

“DCF LOOKING FOR ME. AT THE TREEHOUSE.”

The treehouse. It was the name you all used for a hideout spot, a little shed hidden deep in the woods, a spot no one else knew of.

You put the note on the counter, glancing behind the door when they began knocking again. You crawled over to the back door, heart pounding against your chest as you reached for the doorknob, slowly twisting it.

You were crouching now, peeking out the side where they all stood in front of your door. You took a deep breath, locking the door behind you, before standing up and bolting for it, leaves crackling under your shoes.

Shoupe heard the noise, his eyebrows furrowing as he went to the side of the house, but when he made it, nothing was there. He examined it for a little, before turning back to the others after he had found nothing.

You ran in the woods, knowing that Shoupe would put up a missing persons report soon enough. The woods on the side were deep, and you panted once you thought it would be safe enough to stop for a little.

Checking your phone and throwing your bag off your shoulder, you opened the police site for the county, clicking on the missing persons tab. You were shocked to see your name so quickly.

Your neighbors, most likely. They had always kept a close eye on you and your brother, and this isn’t the first time they thought you were missing.

With a sigh, you sat down, going to the messages app when your phone died. You furrowed your eyebrows, groaning in annoyance.

If you left to go the airstrip, you risked getting caught by dcf and the cops. You didn’t leave, they would leave you and you would be left alone. You don’t know which is worse.

You sighed, glancing at the forage to her side that you would need to cross, hearing the chatter and the sound of radios not too far, most likely searching.

Standing up, you grabbed your bag and slung it back over your shoulder, putting your phone in your pocket and continuing to walk as quietly but also as fast as you could all the way to the treehouse.

JJ furrowed his eyebrows, hiding bending a cop car, peeking out from behind. What were all these cops doing here?

He saw an opportunity to sneak through the back door when the two at the house turned to face the lake in the back, JJ quickly crouching behind, quietly grabbing the spare key he knew she hid.

He did a door trick he found as a kid, shutting it with no sound and whispering your name, glancing around the house. He found everything a mess, like you had packed quickly. He was still crouching when he went over to the kitchen, passing something that caught his eyes on the counter.

He grabbed the piece of paper, reading the messy handwriting. He exhaled, happy that you were safe but also worried for you.

He put the note in his back pocket, making a sneaky exit from the house, and somehow making it into the woods, hidden by the trees, he could finally relax a bit.

He knew the way to the treehouse was a bit of a long walk, and he remembered each step. He recalled walking through the forage as a kid, a smile on your face while you showed him your spot. You went there when you wanted to be alone, to read, or anything else. But you trusted him with it, and the other pogues as they came along.

The sun had gone down, the moon had risen, and he could hear the chirping of the crickets around him when he finally made it to the shed.

He knocked on it, you jumping and retreating into a corner, grabbing a crowbar that was in the shed. You got ready to swing it before he opened the door slowly, revealing himself as Jj. You sighed in relief, dropping the weapon.

“Jj.”

“Y/n…” he murmured, you wrapping your arms around the blonde quickly.

“What- what happened? Why are you here?” He asked you hurriedly, a hand on your arm now.

“I- they knocked on the door, and I fucking knew this was coming, I asked John B to help me with this shit but he was so caught up in… whatever, that doesn’t matter, they were trying to take me- us, to foster care. And Mrs and Mr Smith called, and the cops think we’re missing!” You explained quickly, voice wavering with each word spilling from your mouth.

“Alright, alright. You’re uh… you’re fine, right?”

“I’m fine.” You nodded. “Wait, but why are you here? I thought you were supposed to leave on the jet?” You noticed, furrowing your eyebrows at the boy.

“I was worried.” He admitted. “We were all worried. But…” he trailed off, giving you a shrug. “I didn’t wanna leave you behind.”

You smiled softly, looking at him. “Jayj…”

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier. About you being annoying.” He blurted out suddenly, you two had gotten into an arguement and he had said that you were annoying, it had hurt your feelings and you avoided him for house.

“I’m sorry for calling your plans dumb.”

He tilted his head to the side, “are you?”

“No.” You giggled. “They are dumb.”

“You wound me.” He gasped dramatically, both of you laughing until the shed fell into silence again, both of you staring at each other.

“Jj?”

“Hmm?” He hummed.

“I love you.” You admitted, swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat.

“I… I love you too.” He replied quietly, gaze dropping to your lips for a moment. His heart pounded as he leaned in, his eyes shutting. Your lips met his halfway, his hands going to pull you closer.