#fin-s

[kylominis]

A heart, pure, flawless--and filled with love. [🧜‍♂️]

[yo-yo-yoshiko]

Every time I rewatch Mebius fifty million screenshots materialize on my hardrive.

[mistandshcdow]

law & order svu x text posts

[vertigoartgore]

Frank Miller's The Chase (published in the french magazine Pilote in 1988). Source

[dreamings-free]

Fin Power from Stone detailing how the band was signed with a major record label who then tried to change their sound and image, change the way they interacted with fans. who wouldn’t let them write on their own without professional songwriters or even release an album, initially - 9/5/25

(the label he doesn’t name is Polydor under UMG. the artist he doesn’t name is Raye, whose album the same label refused to let her release for seven years despite her 4 album record deal.)

additional instagram stories under the cut :

eta: looks like their new label is the belgian indie V2 Records; they commented on Fin's post..

..and they shared a bunch of stories to make a 'Stone' highlight on their instagram today

10/5/25

[sweetie1728]

*Kisses his forehead and tucks him in*

[purplekangabear]

Happy 4/13

In which we see Jasprosesprite, Jane, and Nannasprite play support.

[neb9ulos9]

kkk

[cherishsscene]

As a result of my own immense love of cryptids, I will be projecting it onto Munch 🫶

[edmunderson]

i went off theme for @gloomiegalaxie's femboy friday this week since i kinda did this week's theme last week :)

[resplendentoutfit]

Edwardian Fashion: The S-Bend Silhouette

The curious S-shape figure of the Edwardian woman was achieved by wearing an undergarment invented by a physician in the later part of the 19th century and marketed as a "health corset". The S-bend or straight-front corset sat lower on the body and was characterized by a rounded, forward leaning torso with hips pushed back. It was thought that because this new corset, unlike the Victorian styles, alleviated pressure on the abdomen and internal organs, that it promoted a healthier posture. Unlike many fashion trends in history, it would take several years for the S-bend to become a fashion statement unrelated to health concerns, reaching the height of its popularity between 1904-1905. It was coloquely referred to as the "pouter pigeon" silhouette.

S-bend corset • V & A, London | The look achieved.

Fashion illustrations tended to exaggerate the S-bend silhouette. It's likely that many women achieved a less severe shape while still maintaining a fashionable appearance.

Day dress • Wool crepe/silk taffeta • 1902-04 • FIDM Museum

Sources:

• FIDM Museum

• Fashion History Timeline (fit.nyc)

• Julia Bennet (juliabennet.com)

[xwilltruman]

truly impressed by people who have a whole tagging system in place for their blogs

[the-sunshine-dims]

everytime i think more about fable i am just, heartbroken

fable knew where isla was the whole time, never had that question in his mind because he was the one who cast her into the end without her mind, he stayed in the house for years with her sons pretending he'd done nothing

he knew exactly where isla was, it was never something he just happened to stumble across, and so he knew either he'd kill enderian, or hed be killed, though the former was probably always more likely especially to his ego'd mind,

it was never even for isla

when he did leave icarus and rae, he wasnt going to find isla, it was never for isla, not really, if he did even try to convince himself otherways, he left two kids, one who he called his own, who grew dependent on him,

his hatred of enderian has always been so much stronger then his love for icarus, either of the siblings, but icarus he lies about

his hate will always be stronger then his care and icarus just keeps searching for it, now able to 'problem-solve' because hey, if enough of those fable hates die, become a null problem, maybe they'll prove they deserve that scarce love, earn it

[finifugue]

Reject reality (Hungary GP) embrace delusion (Landoscar Bridgerton AU) - opening snippet of a fic which I will update whenever Event Horizon gets too depressing and existential. Pre-landoscar, pre-lestappen (minor). 1.6k so far and I'll probably edit the fuck out of it. One day.

It is in the words of another anonymous Lady, that the truth of our merry ton may be found: “a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

“Are you quite sure it’s hers?”

“Who’s else might it be? There aren’t any copycats brave enough to write under her name!”

These words, though plain to the learned man’s ear, ring clear to those nervous mamas which, on this bright day, are finally given the opportunity to demonstrate their mettle in a battle of wit, courage, and pride which has been tended to from near the moment of our country’s consummation. For today, dear reader, is the day the marriage market opens, and the sharp teeth of society await the new nobility to step from the solitude of darkness, to the blinding light.

“Let me see! Let me see!”

“Ow ‒ do not push me, George!”

For many a family, young misses are being decorated with as much wealth as their families possess ‒ such as in the Bridgerton family, where the long-awaited Eloise Bridgerton is rumoured to finally be stepping out from her Diamond sister’s shadow…

“Damn Bridgertons. They’re all she ever writes about, and the Featheringtons, and all those however else associated.”

“Would you rather Lady Whistledown write about you, Alex, and your escapades?”

“I did not say that. When did I say that?”

… But for others, the fervour of this day only sends the gossip mill into a feeding frenzy. For it seems that this season, moreso than any other, it is the gentlemen of the ton which invite scrutiny; particularly the likes of the noble Lords Albon, Russell, and Leclerc, who have once again failed to be seen courting any eligibles of the ton, and are well on their ways to becoming a trio of ‘Capital-R Rakes.’

“Bollocks.”

Lando bursts out laughing. He’s met with three identical, loathing stares from his best friends, all trussed up in their frilly cravats and long coats and beaver hats. In Lando’s humble opinion, they look rather silly ‒ though, he’d never say it. They all have such odd ideas about clothing, as they do with housing ‒ George’s bachelor apartment is lavishly decorated, velvet lining almost every available surface. He wipes a non-existent tear from his eye, just to piss them off. “’Capital-R Rakes?’ Blimey, better get a move on, then. No worse fate than a fucking Capital-R Rake.”

It makes George roll his eyes. “Not all of us are content with bachelorhood, Lando. Some of us wish to appease our fathers.”

“Or our mamas,” Charles mutters. “Though it seems impossible.”

Scoffing derisively, Lando pushes himself up to a seated position from where he was lying on the chaise lounge, whipping the Whistledown article from Alex’s hands. “How very noble of you all.” His teeth clench, and he averts his gaze from them all, where they stare at him with a sort of tired pity that makes his bones itch. He lifts the page up, half-obscuring his face as he pretends to read it, not perceiving any of the writing at all.

There’s an awkward silence, in which Charles gives Alex and George a significant look, and in response Alex elbows George, who sighs. He sits next to Lando, where his feet had just rested. Puts a hand up, as if to rest on Lando’s shoulder, then thinks better of it and settles it on the back of the lounge, running a finger along the ornate mahogany frame. “Do not brood.”

“I am not brooding.”

George pokes him. “You are. You know we didn't mean anything by it. Besides, I do believe Charles’ mama frets about our marital statuses well enough to have more than enough spare for you.”

Against his better judgement, Lando cracks a smile, lightly shoving George away. “Fine, fine. I’m alright. George, keep reading this.” He pushes the page into his hands, lying back and throwing his legs over George’s thighs and resting his arms over his head. George, who has had to endure Lando’s dramatics and quick changes in temperament since they were children, just rolls his eyes.

Despite the misadventure of our most well-known Lords, it must be said, dear reader, that the polite society of the ton shall be graced with the presence of one who will be certain to turn every shrewd mama’s head: His Highness Oscar Piastri, Crown Prince of England.

Charles moans. “Oh, we are ruined. How are we going to compete in the marriage market with a prince?” Charles’ mother, as George had said, is becoming increasingly worried about his marriage prospects, despite the fact that he’s only in his twenties and a Duke, for God’s sake, and — and this part, in Lando’s mind, is the significantly more important factor — gorgeous enough that any of the eligibles would be chomping at the bit to have him court them. Not that Lando would ever let Charles hear him say that ‒ his head’s already far too big. If he knew that he’s been considered one of the most eligible bachelors of every season since he went on the marriage market, it would grow too heavy for his neck and he’d never be able to stand up.

Despite this, Lando feels a little sorry for him. He puts far too much pressure on himself. Lando pats him on the shoulder, smirking. “He can only take one spouse, Charles. I’m sure the rest of the eligibles would be content to settle for the likes of yourself… eventually.”

In return for his awfully kind and generous words, Charles grabs the Whistledown article and whaps him over the back of the head with it, as if he were an irritating insect instead of someone who’s seen Charles fall out of a tree trying to impress Alex’s pretty nanny when they were children. “You are rude and I do not know why we continue to spend time with you.”

“Because I buy you beer and lose at cards.”

“Your two only favourable traits.��

The Crown Prince has been the subject of all the conversation in society since the confirmation of his return to England from the perilous frontier of New Holland ‒ or as radical explorers of the New Age refer to the mysterious continent, the vast new colony of Australia. What he has been doing amid the penal colonies and military operations during his long expedition is unclear; certainly, his escapades are a topic which many a debutante will be sure to delve into in the battle that shall come, as the Prince’s favour is fought for.

Lando thinks about that. It is quite insane, really, that the King allowed his Crown Prince — his only son — to sail away across the globe to a new, faraway, tiny little colony full of the Empire’s criminals, utterly defenceless and all alone, with only a few military bases to house him. He wonders if the King simply did not care for his son. Or if his son wished too desperately to be away from all the pomp and pride of England’s society. Lando’s heard it said that Australia is vast, vaster even than the British Isles, full of life and animals completely different to those seen promenading the streets of Mayfair. “Why’s he decided to come back, then?”

Alex shrugs. “Perhaps he was lonely.”

“Perhaps his father became tired of him wasting his time in a colony a million miles from England, and called him home for supper,” George shoots back, before returning to the article.

The Prince is due to make his first appearance within society within the coming week, at the delightful annual occasion hosted by Lady Danbury ‒ the first ball of the season. Mamas, ensure your children are well prepared in their speeches and talents, for this author hears that the Crown Prince, though most entirely the Incomparable bachelor of the season, has, in fact, very little desire to marry ‒ nor, by many an account, to court at all.

That makes Lando roll his eyes a bit. Of course the Crown Prince of England has no desire to court ‒ to have mamas and eligibles fawning over him and pawing at his lapels for a chance to be next in line for the consort’s throne. Lando can only imagine the type of person to skirt his responsibilities to the throne to adventure the frontiers of the Empire ‒ self-interested, dull, puffed-up and vain. He’s convinced himself, then, that His Highness, the Crown Prince Oscar must be terribly arrogant.

“Ha!” George crows, righetous anger colouring his voice. “Simply because he is a Prince, he is afforded every excuse known to man ‒ no, the Crown Prince of England could never be considered a Capital-R Rake!”

“Well, yes, George, that would be because he’s the Crown Prince of England.”

“You know what I mean, Alex.” George shoots him a glare. “It seems that Piastri is the only person Whistledown refuses to name a rake. Apart from Lando, of course.”

It’s quite amazing, Lando thinks, how long George can hold a grudge. “I don’t think I pass across Lady Whistledown’s mind enough for her to even consider calling me names in her writing,” he replies tersely. “Same as she never talks about your cooks. Or your servants. Or your nannies ‒”

Sidling down beside him on the lounge which is absolutely not made to seat three people at once, Charles throws an arm over his shoulder. “Ah, but Lando, you are terrible at cooking, and you have never once had the indignity to serve us, and on account of the fact that you seem to have been raised in a barn, rather than Lord Rosberg’s countryside manor ‒”

“Charles‒”

“‒ I would not ever call you a nanny.” Charles grins at him. “Perhaps you are just more noble than us all, after all.”

A challenge, then, to all eligibles of the season; for charming Prince Piastri seems to have become the most fruitful task of all… and the most Herculean.

[phyripowritesthings]

another first kiss outsider pov fic! you know, I don't think I've written prumano since, like, 2012. pretty sure they were one of my first solid Hetalia ships!

--

belong

pairings/characters: Prussia/Romano, Germany

word count: 721

summary:

Germany is in search of Romano, and finds something unexpected.

--

2001

There is an empty chair at the meeting table. Since they can’t discuss Italy’s plans when only half of Italy is present, Germany sacrifices himself to go in search of Romano. He can hardly get more hated by him, anyway.

After not spotting him in the hotel lobby, Germany goes and knocks on South Italy’s door, but gets no reply. If he was in, he reasons, he’d certainly answer if just to do some yelling, so what else? The restaurant, perhaps. He checks. No Romano.

Popping his head back into the meeting hall just in case, Germany finds that he hasn’t arrived in the meantime. He starts climbing the stairs, thinking Romano might be hiding in the stairwell? But no.

However, at the top of the stairs, there is a door that says ‘staff only’ and is slightly ajar. In the interest of checking all avenues, Germany pushes the door open and finds himself on the roof of the hotel. It’s windy up here, but sunny and quiet. He listens more carefully. No, not quiet. He can hear a voice, too far away to make out the words, but it certainly sounds like Romano. Just as he is about to step around the stairwell, Germany recognizes that there is another voice, and thinks, Oh no, there should have been two empty chairs.

They forgot about Prussia. Again.

Taking a deep breath, Germany walks up to the corner of the stairwell and looks around it.

Romano and Prussia are sat, not quite on the edge of the roof but on a ledge a bit away from it, their backs to the stairs. They sit close together, bent towards each other, Romano with one leg folded underneath the other and gesticulating wildly as he speaks, Prussia watching him with a wry smile. They are both wearing suits, as though they got ready for the meeting and then just… Ended up on the roof. Germany would love to know how that happened. Are they friends? Why does he not know?

He really should get them both to come down.

Just as he wants to step forward and clear his throat to get their attention, Germany sees Prussia shake his head, in response to which Romano gestures emphatically—more emphatically than usual—and grasps his lapels with both hands. This visibly startles Prussia, and Germany curiously watches his brother touch one of Romano’s hands, turning more towards him on the ledge.

The wind carries some of Romano’s words over, most notably, “No, you fucking idiot,” in French, no less, and Germany bristles on behalf of his brother, but then—then Romano leans forward and kisses Prussia, without any anger behind it, just a softness Germany would never have expected from him.

And he thinks, oh, more than friends, even, but then his gaze catches on the way Prussia freezes for just a moment before he responds, curling his fingers around Romano’s wrist tentatively and leaning his whole body into him as his eyes close. Germany realizes with a shock that this must be new, brand new, and suddenly feels like an intruder. He takes a step back.

Which, of course, makes his foot smash into a vent with a loud clang.

Prussia and Romano startle. Look over at him. Germany holds both hands up apologetically, though Romano’s expression has already turned murderous.

“What the fuck do you want?” he shouts, no longer in French but Italian, letting go of Prussia to gesture. With only one hand though, Germany notes, the other still curled into his lapel.

“I’m—there’s a meeting,” he says. “It was supposed to start thirty minutes ago, but we’re missing half of two countries.”

Prussia looks over at him, then, and smiles. He touches Romano’s hand and says something to him that gets lost to the wind but makes his face soften in a way Germany has never seen.

“Fine!” Romano shouts.

They’re both coming over, then, and Romano is pointing a threatening finger at Germany without a word as he stalks past to the stairs. Prussia shrugs when Germany looks at him, though he’s smiling as well while he smooths out a crease in his lapel.

“Better day than I expected, West,” he just says, and hurries after Romano.

Alright. Germany supposes that, in the end, that is the best anyone can ask for.

[a-s-fischer]

Tetrapods and invertebrates DNI, this is a fish only safe space! "Secondarily aquatic" tetrapods are colonizers, appropriating our culture.