#it's Happening (sort of)™

[zestyzigzagoon]

I won't write this because I'm still in a rut and I have other things to catch up on, but fun AU idea: famous person x normal person AU, except the normal person lives under a rock and has no fucking clue who the famous one is

[en-chi-la-da]

[drakkonyan]

i swear. to fucking god

[whogirl42]

So I like... I really don't know how I feel about the whole bi-regeneration thing.

Something that sours it for me is like... I was so upset that we were only gonna get the 3 eps with 14 and Donna - ideally for me we would have had a whole season or even a half-season to do them justice. It made me sad that I'd have to say goodbye to them so soon. Tho I did take comfort in that there'd basically be an open invitation for Donna cameos in the future, in a similar way to the Kate Stewart and Unit ones.

HOWEVER. Now??? As much as I fucking adore Donna and David Tennant as the Doctor... I kinda never wanna see them on screen again??? Cause I feel like it sorta cheapens the concept of the 15th Doctor and all the other future adventures he'll have. It was one thing with Tentoo cause he was banished to another universe and was limited to a mortal's lifespan. But having two fully fledged Doctors??? Both with Tardises??? In the same universe???

It doesn't just cheapen the 15 Doctor and all future Doctors, imo it also cheapens David Tennant himself. Because there's a bittersweet beauty in letting go. In saying goodbye. Of accepting the next phase in life. The bi-regeneration doesn't do that. There's no closure. There's no faint loss accompanying the joyous rebirth. It's just.

It just feels very emotionally hollow.

[yukinyaminyato]

i'm so exhausted that i'm emotionally completely numb, can't even cry even tho i wanna. man.

[allergic-to-four-leaf-clovers]

best activities to do when you're in the Water Chamber™ (aka shower): make around three massive monologues calling out that one teacher who has talked to you like dirt on her shoe, venting to the wall about how you had done nothing to her to warrant being talked to in such a disgusting way and hoping she can be called out in public because she's done this to multiple other students and talked to them like crap

[raininglamppost]

The absolute emotional need to have Freya Crescent have a big Peppino-style emotional catharsis moment in FFIX where she goes Trance and beats the everloving snot out of one or all of those responsible for what happened to Burmecia and Cleyra with something like this playing in the background, bonus points for it being during a lightning storm because at this point she absolutely deserves to have as much dramatics as possible:

[musical-chick-13]

Realized the only time I was ever actually consistently happy was. Related to me. Doing art. Routinely. Fuck.

[sophiamcdougall]

You're a reasonably informed person on the internet. You've experienced things like no longer being able to get files off an old storage device, media you've downloaded suddenly going poof, sites and forums with troves full of people's thoughts and ideas vanishing forever. You've heard of cybercrime. You've read articles about lost media. You have at least a basic understanding that digital data is vulnerable, is what I'm saying. I'm guessing that you're also aware that history is, you know... important? And that it's an ongoing study, requiring ... data about how people live? And that it's not just about stanning celebrities that happen to be dead? Congratulations, you are significantly better-informed than the British government! So they're currently like "Oh hai can we destroy all these historical documents pls? To save money? Because we'll digitise them first so it's fine! That'll be easy, cheap and reliable -- right? These wills from the 1850s will totally be fine for another 170 years as a PNG or whatever, yeah? We didn't need to do an impact assesment about this because it's clearly win-win! We'd keep the physical wills of Famous People™ though because Famous People™ actually matter, unlike you plebs. We don't think there are any equalities implications about this, either! Also the only examples of Famous People™ we can think of are all white and rich, only one is a woman and she got famous because of the guy she married. Kisses!"

Yes, this is the same Government that's like "Oh no removing a statue of slave trader is erasing history :(" You have, however, until 23 February 2024 to politely inquire of them what the fuck they are smoking. And they will have to publish a summary of the responses they receive. And it will look kind of bad if the feedback is well-argued, informative and overwhelmingly negative and they go ahead and do it anyway. I currently edit documents including responses to consultations like (but significantly less insane) than this one. Responses do actually matter. I would particularly encourage British people/people based in the UK to do this, but as far as I can see it doesn't say you have to be either. If you are, say, a historian or an archivist, or someone who specialises in digital data do say so and draw on your expertise in your answers. This isn't a question of filling out a form. You have to manually compose an email answering the 12 questions in the consultation paper at the link above. I'll put my own answers under the fold. Note -- I never know if I'm being too rude in these sorts of things. You probably shouldn't be ruder than I have been.

Please do not copy and paste any of this: that would defeat the purpose. This isn't a petition, they need to see a range of individual responses. But it may give you a jumping-off point.

Question 1: Should the current law providing for the inspection of wills be preserved?

Yes. Our ability to understand our shared past is a fundamental aspect of our heritage. It is not possible for any authority to know in advance what future insights they are supporting or impeding by their treatment of material evidence. Safeguarding the historical record for future generations should be considered an extremely important duty.

Question 2: Are there any reforms you would suggest to the current law enabling wills to be inspected?

No.

Question 3: Are there any reasons why the High Court should store original paper will documents on a permanent basis, as opposed to just retaining a digitised copy of that material?

Yes. I am amazed that the recent cyber attack on the British Library, which has effectively paralysed it completely, not been sufficient to answer this question for you.  I also refer you to the fate of the Domesday Project. Digital storage is useful and can help more people access information; however, it is also inherently fragile. Malice, accident, or eventual inevitable obsolescence not merely might occur, but absolutely should be expected. It is ludicrously naive and reflects a truly unpardonable ignorance to assume that information preserved only in digital form is somehow inviolable and safe, or that a physical document once digitised, never need be digitised again..At absolute minimum, it should be understood as certain that at least some of any digital-only archive will eventually be permanently lost. It is not remotely implausible that all of it would be. Preserving the physical documents provides a crucial failsafe. It also allows any errors in reproduction -- also inevitable-- to be, eventually, seen and corrected. Note that maintaining, upgrading and replacing digital infrastructure is not free, easy or reliable. Over the long term, risks to the data concerned can only accumulate.

"Unlike the methods for preserving analog documents that have been honed over millennia, there is no deep precedence to look to regarding the management of digital records. As such, the processing, long-term storage, and distribution potential of archival digital data are highly unresolved issues. [..] the more digital data is migrated, translated, and re-compressed into new formats, the more room there is for information to be lost, be it at the microbit-level of preservation. Any failure to contend with the instability of digital storage mediums, hardware obsolescence, and software obsolescence thus meets a terminal end—the definitive loss of information. The common belief that digital data is safe so long as it is backed up according to the 3-2-1 rule (3 copies on 2 different formats with 1 copy saved off site) belies the fact that it is fundamentally unclear how long digital information can or will remain intact. What is certain is that its unique vulnerabilities do become more pertinent with age."  -- James Boyda, On Loss in the 21st Century: Digital Decay and the Archive, Introduction.

Question 4: Do you agree that after a certain time original paper documents (from 1858 onwards) may be destroyed (other than for famous individuals)? Are there any alternatives, involving the public or private sector, you can suggest to their being destroyed?

Absolutely not. And I would have hoped we were past the "great man" theory of history. Firstly, you do not know which figures will still be considered "famous" in the future and which currently obscure individuals may deserve and eventually receive greater attention. I note that of the three figures you mention here as notable enough to have their wills preserved, all are white, the majority are male (the one woman having achieved fame through marriage) and all were wealthy at the time of their death. Any such approach will certainly cull evidence of the lives of women, people of colour and the poor from the historical record, and send a clear message about whose lives you consider worth remembering.

Secondly, the famous and successsful are only a small part of our history. Understanding the realities that shaped our past and continue to mould our present requires evidence of the lives of so-called "ordinary people"!

Did you even speak to any historians before coming up with this idea?

Entrusting the documents to the private sector would be similarly disastrous. What happens when a private company goes bust or decides that preserving this material is no longer profitable? What reasonable person, confronted with our crumbling privatised water infrastructure, would willingly consign any part of our heritage to a similar fate?

Question 5: Do you agree that there is equivalence between paper and digital copies of wills so that the ECA 2000 can be used?

No. And it raises serious questions about the skill and knowledge base within HMCTS and the government that the very basic concepts of data loss and the digital dark age appear to be unknown to you. I also refer you to the Domesday Project.

Question 6: Are there any other matters directly related to the retention of digital or paper wills that are not covered by the proposed exercise of the powers in the ECA 2000 that you consider are necessary?

Destroying the physical documents will always be an unforgivable dereliction of legal and moral duty.

Question 7: If the Government pursues preserving permanently only a digital copy of a will document, should it seek to reform the primary legislation by introducing a Bill or do so under the ECA 2000?

Destroying the physical documents will always be an unforgivable dereliction of legal and moral duty.

Question 8: If the Government moves to digital only copies of original will documents, what do you think the retention period for the original paper wills should be? Please give reasons and state what you believe the minimum retention period should be and whether you consider the Government’s suggestion of 25 years to be reasonable.

There is no good version of this plan. The physical documents should be preserved.

Question 9: Do you agree with the principle that wills of famous people should be preserved in the original paper form for historic interest?

This question betrays deep ignorance of what "historic interest" actually is. The study of history is not simply glorified celebrity gossip. If anything, the physical wills of currently famous people could be considered more expendable as it is likely that their contents are so widely diffused as to be relatively "safe", whereas the wills of so-called "ordinary people" will, especially in aggregate, provide insights that have not yet been explored.

Question 10: Do you have any initial suggestions on the criteria which should be adopted for identifying famous/historic figures whose original paper will document should be preserved permanently?

Abandon this entire lamentable plan. As previously discussed, you do not and cannot know who will be considered "famous" in the future, and fame is a profoundly flawed criterion of historical significance.

Question 11: Do you agree that the Probate Registries should only permanently retain wills and codicils from the documents submitted in support of a probate application? Please explain, if setting out the case for retention of any other documents.

No, all the documents should be preserved indefinitely.

Question 12: Do you agree that we have correctly identified the range and extent of the equalities impacts under each of these proposals set out in this consultation? Please give reasons and supply evidence of further equalities impacts as appropriate.

No. You appear to have neglected equalities impacts entirely. As discussed, in your drive to prioritise "famous people", your plan will certainly prioritise the white, wealthy and mostly the male, as your "Charles Dickens, Charles Darwin and Princess Diana" examples amply indicate. This plan will create a two-tier system where evidence of the lives of the privileged is carefully preserved while information regarding people of colour, women, the working class and other disadvantaged groups is disproportionately abandoned to digital decay and eventual loss. Current and future historians from, or specialising in the history of minority groups will be especially impoverished by this.  

[trianglegoddess]

Feral McGee™

It starts with the Joker. 

His goons picked up Tim Drake. Not specifically because it was Tim Drake, he just so happened to be in the Joker’s neighborhood, and we'll, he can't pass up that opportunity now can he? 

Except Tim Drake is watching, along with the rest of Gotham, at the Batcomputer. He’s nursing a broken foot and has been put on monitor duty until he's cleared for field work again. 

The guy looks enough like him, though. Black hair, blue eyes, and bags under his eyes for days. He's also got the same lean sort of build like he does. 

It happens like this. 

The Joker is doing his monologue thing where he explains whatever twisted game he's come up with this time. He takes up the majority of the screen, so nobody can see Not-Tim behind him, not until the big reveal. Then he covers the screen again, getting up close and personal, before stepping back. In those quick few seconds, Not-Tim is no longer sitting there tied to the chair. 

Someone off camera lets the Joker know, and he whirls around, confused as the rest of Gotham. 

And then Not-Tim comes in with the steel chair. 

Or, well, a crowbar, but the reference holds up. 

He takes out one of Joker’s knees before punching him in the face. The Joker drops like a bag of stones, out cold. 

Then he looks towards the camera. 

“Hey there. I'm not really sure where I am, but also if he was after Tim Drake, he got the wrong guy. I'm not him, I'm just some dude. Anyway, I'll just-yep-” he carefully steps over the unconscious Joker, gives the camera a little wave, and then leaves. 

Batman and Nightwing enter shortly after, with the Joker and his goons out cold and tied up. The knots were complicated enough where, in the end, the police resorted to cutting the ties off of them so they could be properly cuffed and taken to Arkham. 

“A constrictor knot,” Batman tells Nightwing as they watch the villain be taken away. “Often used by sailors to temporarily tie things together to keep something in a bag, or to hold something to glue it back together.”

“Huh,” Nightwing says, scratching the back of his head. “Go figure.”

—

The next time it happens, it’s the Riddler. 

He’s laughing, giving his riddles to the Bats and recording himself to all of Gotham while his victim, one of the Wayne brats, hangs over a vat of something. From a distance, he looks like Tim Drake, or maybe a lankier Dick Grayson. And he’s not the only victim, they’re all scattered across the city, but he thought an important figure such as a Wayne should be under the Riddler’s direct supervision while he enacts his schemes. 

While the Riddler cackles and plots and waves his cane around, in the background all of Gotham can see the figure escape. Several Gothamites recognize him as the kid from before, who clocked the Joker. They all watch with bated breath as he sort of wiggles his way out of the ropes holding him up. Once he’s free, he climbs the rope and gets himself down safely. 

Gotham holds their breath as the kid casually walks up to the Riddler, who’s mid-rant. He politely taps him on the shoulder, and as the Riddler is turning around, the kid clocks him just as brutally as he had the Joker. He’s down with one punch. 

They think he’s going to say another sort of awkward goodbye, but instead he pats the Riddler down until he finds a piece of paper tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket. 

“Right,” the kid says, looking at the list. There’s a lot more static overlay now, and several wonder if it’s damage to the cameras. “Uh, the Clocktower, the Docks, and-” he squints at the page for a moment-”Mama Nacaroni’s? What the fuck is that? Anyway, uh. See you later, I guess. Oh! And we’re at the Gotham Arena. Have fun with him, I guess.”

The kid tosses the paper off to the side before the camera cuts to black. 

Just like last time, everyone is out cold and tied up. The Riddler himself is sporting a pretty bad shiner, but well deserved nonetheless. 

“Stop it,” Red Hood tells him. Batman just looks at him, and though Hood can’t see the top half of his face, he can tell that his eyebrow is raised. “You know exactly what I mean, B. Put the adoption papers away.”

“Hn.”

—

After that, it sorta becomes a game. The rogues of Gotham are no longer after a Wayne, or after anybody who holds any kind of social status like usual. They’re all going after this one kid, all determined to be the one to hold him. And each one is televised. 

Mr. Freeze freezes him in a block of ice, but due to the cameras glitching out, nobody can really see how he got free. They do, however, see the kid suplex Mr. Freeze. It should seem impossible, given his lanky figure, but he evidently has more muscle than he’s originally let on. 

Two-Face gets a hold of him, using chains and some power-dampening cuffs just on the off-chance that he’s a meta. They all watch as the kid leans down, pulls a bobby pin out of his hair, and picks the locks on his cuffs. One punch, and Two-Face is down. 

Gothamites are going wild for the kid. They’ve dubbed him Feral McGee™ (an online poll, of course), because every time he goes in for the punch he gets this feral look in his eyes. Also, just the fact that he casually goes up to these rogues and takes them out with all the casualness of doing something incredibly mundane? Incredible. The Gothamites are eating it up. However, despite the video evidence, nobody has been able to properly identify the kid. They know he has black hair and bright eyes, but any time he gets near a camera, it’s like there’s this weird, sort of warped quality the camera takes on. It doesn’t usually calm down until the fight is done-as one sided as they usually are-before he awkwardly skedaddles away.  

He gets kidnapped by the Penguin, Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy (though that was more just a friendly chat than anything), Mad Hatter, and the Riddler again. 

And then the Joker escapes. 

It’s no surprise as to who he’s going to go after. 

Due to one too many careless goons, they manage to find their way to the Joker’s hideout pretty quickly. This time, it’s all Bats on deck, and they all hide away in the rafters as Feral McGee™ is hung over a vat of acid. His whole body is tied up, hardly a single inch of exposed skin to be seen except for the neck up. 

They watch the goons, they watch the Joker, and they watch Feral McGee™. 

The Joker is monologuing, practically begging the bats to come find him before the timer runs out. When it does, the kid gets dumped into the vat of acid. 

Despite these stakes, the kid seems to be only mildly annoyed. 

“Fuck this, I have homework I still need to finish,” they hear him say. 

They all watch, amazed and confused, as the kid starts gnawing through the ropes. Human teeth shouldn’t be able to do that so easily, but one bit after the other, and soon enough the kid’s got himself freed enough to just climb up the rest of the rope. When he’s at the top of the crane holding him up, Batman lets down a rope and pulls the kid up and out of danger. 

“Oh, cool, you’re all here,” the kid says casually, as if meeting the entire Bat Clan is just a normal Tuesday. And then he pulls out a notepad and pen and hands it to Red Hood. 

“Can I get an autograph? You’re dope as fuck, dude.”

Red Hood has to look away and hide his face in his arms for a few moments to not give away their location with his laughter before signing. And then, one by one, the others do as well. They pass along the kid’s notebook with shit-eating grins and barely contained snickers despite the fact that the Joker is still right below them. Even Batman signs it, after his children don’t stop hounding him about it. 

In their distraction, they didn’t see the kid sneak away. He’s far away from them now, nearly right over the Joker. Danny waits, though, until the Joker has turned around as the timer almost runs out. They watch as he snickers at Joker’s flabbergasted look. The Joker comically looks back and forth and under objects the kid obviously isn’t under. However, before he can do or say anything else, the kid drops from the rafters and right on top of the Joker. He crumples to the ground, unconscious. The kid, however, just brushes the dust off of himself. Despite the fall he took, there isn’t a scratch on him. 

When the bats join him, they give his notepad back to him, barely able to contain their laughter at the absurdity of it all. The kid, too, joins in the camaraderie, laughing and joking along with them as Batman secures the Joker. 

“Okay, okay, but I gotta ask, dude,” Red Hood says at one point, looking at the kid. “How do you keep getting kidnapped?”

The kid just shrugs. “I get distracted easily. And I’m sleep deprived, so you know. Social awareness is kind of at an all time low right now.”

“Why are you sleep deprived?” Nightwing asks, barely hidden concern in his voice. 

 “Finals are kinda kicking my ass right now. Especially this dumb English homework I have. You guys wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Oh, lucky for you,” Red Hood says, wrapping an arm around the kid’s shoulders as he walks them out of the warehouse, “I happen to know a lot about English. So, it is Shakespeare?”

“Yeah, Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

As they walk off, Batman calmly watches, though the rest of the bats can see his jaw twitching. Nightwing comes up behind him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

“If you don’t adopt him, I will.”

“Hn.”

[2aceofspades]

YALL.

I am so positvely dreading these chapters, and I know that sounds crazy but...whew boy-

I genuinely cannot explain into proper words my feelings rn. Mixed emotions fs. Not bad ones, just a flood of feelings and oh my stars am I eating this up. All that to say that I am purely and wholeheartedly exploding.

*EXPLODES*

Lil add on to this to say that I might have to do a lil appreciation ramble soon cuz Augh I have thoughts and want to articulate them so. much.

GAH-

A little teaser before we post the chapters | Soon :)

[rubys-domain]

so... i think i've achieved consistent one-phase pyro regisvine by leveling up kazuha's burst to 6 and bennett's aquila favonia to 85. which is good. but it can be better. i want to get to the point where popping chongyun's burst is enough to kill it. for now i still have to do some normals and a second pop of his skill in order to kill it

[evilminji]

Ooooh~ Drink mix up? >.>

Because! Wes DID, in fact, get that dream job. HAS learned... after many, many hours of "beat about the head and shoulders with an ethics pamphlet by his great aunt", to keep his mouth shut! Family curse of Sight? WHAT family curse?

He doesn't see shit! Mind your business.

What're you? A cop?

Look, he sent Fenton a gift basket. He was a shitty, shitty "I have to be RIGHT and nothing else matters!" Stubborn lil asshole of a kid. He got better. Grew up. No one is there best Self during puberty. He DOES, in fact, regret it.

Which is WHY, he is deliberately ignoring Kent's terrible, awful, paper-thin, "who meee~?" Aw shucks BULLSHIT excuse of a disguise, like it isn't blatantly obvious he's Superman. Yep. Nothing to see here! Nothing but us chickens! Mmmmm, morning coffee! Delicious.

But see, here's the THING.

The Itty, bitty, teeny lil PROBLEM...

Wes grew up in Amity "Totally Not Supernatural Hotspot For Centuries" Park. He is... to put it mildly, genetically? A freak. His biology is ALL fucked up. Everyone's is. And it WAS NOT made better by the Fenton's playing fast and loose with their hell basement. The Ectoplasmic NUKE that was that portal.

There is a REASON his morning coffee? Is COVERED. Contained. Fenton brand, LEAD LINED, specialty cups. The sort that can't be EATEN from the inside out. Eroded after a few uses. They're ugly as sin, but they work. He even ordered a few covers from Star's etsy shop. (Apparently he wasn't the only one who hated how ugly they looked. Good for her though, he heard it was doing well.)

He SAYS this? 'Cause his morning brew is less... straight COFFEE... and more... how to put this? A blend? Brew? Potion, really. Like an energy drink. From hell. Or, partially at least, the Zone. It's the combination of roots, seeds, and a few dried berries. Kinda like a tea, actually!

Tasty. Adds this nice fruity, warmth. A zing. Goes GREAT with the coffee. And it really perks you up... if you are Limnal. If you AREN'T? It'll desolve your esophagus like swallowing straight acid. And that's not TOUCHING the... witch-y, more Seer specific bit of the blend.

That stuff is medicinal. You know, "calm the mind" and "mental clarity". That sorta thing. With a good ol helping of "don't blurt out everyone's secrets, you spacey bitch! For the love of God, those are our INSIDE THOUGHTS!". Which? Really helpful! Infinitely less likely to get decked. It's a family staple.

Poisonous, though.

They're fine cause they've basically developed an immunity to that part, but like? Wouldn't recommend. It's why he NEVER shares his drinks. Food? On occasion. If he PLANS it and knows not to add and interesting spices. But DRINKS? Never. Weston family brews are basically NEVER safe.

Which? Begs the Very Important Question ™!

Who's Coffee Is This?

Cause it SURE AS FUCK AINT HIS!

You never realize quite how fast you can go from "completely calm and kinda sleepy" to "bomb strapped to my chest, primal panic AWAKE" until it happens to you. His coffee was ON HIS DESK. People have passed by. He talked to them. Cups put down and picked up. Lazy early morning. He doesn't even register, really, as his chair crashes to the ground.

He's shouting.

People confused. They don't realize yet. His head whips around, looking for that distinct cover. Before it's too late. Before someone takes that fatal sip. He spots it. Bolting from his desk. Crashing through coworkers, over desks. Chaos and outrage. "It's 'just' coffee!" They cry.

Kent turns, confused. Pretending. Raises his (HIS! Oh god!) cup to his lips, unknowing. Wes SCREAMS a warning. But he doesn't listen. "It's 'just' coffee" They never listen. Curse of Cassandra. God's damn it. This is why his family fucking CONVERTED!

He TACKLES the man of steel.

RIPS his cup away from him, knows his eyes are frantic. How much have you had?! Spit it out! Wes voice ECHOES in the sudden silence. I'm a META, Kent! It could KILL YOU!

And oh, Oh NOW they get it. Or perhaps it is the burn in his mouth that finally registers. He rolls, spits oil slick nebulae that eat away the floor. There is blood mixed within it. It took mere moments. Superman stares, transfixed and horrified, as Wes shakes. He... he should probably get off of him.

He'll move in a moment.

When his legs no longer feel weak from terror.

The news room is in chaos. Lane kneeling by her husband, Perry trying to do damage control. He... he's probably gonna lose his job, isn't he? Wes wants to cry. Protection laws only go so far, after all. And warning his boss about his dietary needs means jack shit, after an incident like this. Beloved as Kent is. Not that anyone likely believed him.

They never do.

And now he's nearly killed Superman.

@hypewinter @hdgnj @legitimatesatanspawn @nerdpoe @lolottes @babbling-babull @mutable-manifestation @dcxdpdabbles

[waffled0g]

Everyone gets “The 90s” look wrong and I hate it

Couple years ago I saw these two board games at the store back to back. Well, not saw them per se, but ya know. Spied them out of the corner of my eye. And for a moment without reading the text, I couldn’t tell you which was which decade at first. Funny. Either they were in a rush to get these out the door or they wanted their throwback trivia game boxes to look uniform. I didn’t think too much of it.

Only, from then on I started seeing it MORE. Every time someone markets a 90s or 80s throwback...

Goddammit they’re identical! What??! How did we let this happen? As a 90s survivor and a designer, this drives me up a wall.

Look, I know I’m late to the party to complain about “the 90s look” when we’re just starting to get sick of the Y2K nostalgia train. But c’mon, the 90s were not The 80s: Part Two™ 

Trust me when I say that we weren’t all wearing neon trapezoids up until the year 2000. The 90s look being peddled is so specific to the tail end of the 80s and an early early part of the 90s - a part of the 90s when it wouldn’t stop being the 80s. This is Memphis design being conflated with the wrong decade.

Keep reading for a long ass graphic design history lesson and pictures of old soda and fast food.

Specifically, the look is Memphis Milano, self-named by the Italian design house Memphis Group. Starting in the early to mid 80s, they made all sorts of furniture, fabrics and sculptures that were like a Piet Mondrian grid painting under heavy radiation. Their whole deal was defying the standards of existing industrial design up to that point on purpose. Chairs had weird arches, bookcases would be in strange alien colors, unusual materials like plastic or elastic were used in place of metal or wood, that sorta thing.

Memphis quickly became the signature look for the decade. You can tell something’s influenced by Memphis design from it’s telltale trademarks:

Clashing, neon colors.

Use of diametric shapes.

Contrasting patterns like zebra print stripes, confetti squiggles and checkerboards.

It wasn’t long before Memphis Milano-inspired design was everywhere in 80s pop culture:

It was a special time, yes.

I was a kindergartener at the tail end of the 80s, so I knew Memphis mostly through the lens of kids media. Toys, clothes, games, tv shows used it like candy colored catnip. Cable channel Nickelodeon more or less adopted the Memphis aesthetic as their signature in-house style and practically built a monument to it at a Florida theme park:

I think this is why folks mistake what decade Memphis is representative of - 90s staples like Nick, Saved By The Bell, Fresh Prince - they all stayed around much longer than the design trend’s expiration date. 

Couple that notion with the fact that companies are slow followers to design trends. Something gets popular and they want to get on the bandwagon? Gotta wait for the ink to dry, gotta wait for the production molds to be made. It would take a few years for them to completely work Memphis outta their system.

Now, this is not to say Memphis is bad! Personally I’m a fan of the aesthetic, if my neon-drenched artwork wasn’t a tip-off already. But it is a trend, and trends never last forever.

So what took the Memphis Milano look down for good? This part’s up for debate, but I personally think it had something to do with this dude:

It’s that grunge music from Seattle that’s so popular with the kids these days dontchaknow.

Once Smells Like Teen Spirit hit in 1991, the Nirvana tone drove the rest of the decade. Clean geometry became weathered, grainy and organic. Bright neon pastels became more bold. Bubblegum pop music sounded fake and manufactured. Attitude and apathy was authentic. Whatever.

Things got grungy. Things got grimy. Olestra was invented.

I think the best way to visualize this transition is how Cherry Coke entered the decade and how it left it:

1992 Memphis on the left, 1998 grunge junkie on the right. Fitting that the 90s would end with a design that looked like Darth Maul’s lungs.

Okay, so what should 90s retro design look like?

Continue on to PART TWO! Spoilers: No VHS filters or vaporwave needed, but maybe bring an antacid.

[rosierin]

double trouble | atsumu, osamu, suna

synopsis; the twins are doing some manual labour under the hot sun and (y/n) can't help but catch a sneaky glance or two or three when they eventually take off their shirts.

a/n; what can i say guys? im in france and the sun's got me feeling all silly

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

In her defence, (y/n) hadn’t meant to stare.

It just… sort of happened. Like blinking. Or breathing. One moment she was sitting in the kitchen sipping iced tea, gloriously unbothered. The next—

Well.

The twins had taken their shirts off.

And really, there should’ve been a warning. A government-issued alert. Maybe a health advisory. Something to prepare the public. Because this? This was just cruel.

They were scattered across their tiny backyard, moving a bunch of supplies from the car to the shed—lumber, bags of soil, some mystery item Osamu had bought for his garden project that weighed roughly the same as a baby elephant.

And okay, yeah, she could have offered to help.

But someone had to supervise. For... For safety reasons.

And hydration. Since she was already sipping tea.

It was boiling out—sun glaring, air thick, the kind of summer heat that made everything sticky and slightly unbearable. It made sense that they’d stripped their shirts off. Necessary, if you asked her.

Now, here’s the thing about the Miya twins: sure, they were genetically identical. But when it came to thirst?

Very different flavours.

Atsumu was golden and obnoxiously pretty, all tan skin and arrogant smirks. Every time he flexed his biceps lifting something heavy—grunting like an Olympic athlete, on purpose, she was sure—she could've sworn she'd seen God. His hair clung to his forehead with sweat, and every time he reached for something overhead, his whole torso flexed—showcasing toned abs and the kind of sinful V-line that made her question her faith.

Meanwhile, Osamu looked like he’d walked out of a home renovation fantasy. Dust on his forearms, jaw tense with focus, sweat beading down his neck. Those forearms. Those shoulders. The way his back flexed when he lifted a bag of gravel? Criminal.

The kind of guy who could build you a deck and then build you a reputation, if you caught her drift.

He grunted once. (Y/n) almost passed out.

She bit her lip so hard she nearly bruised it.

"I’m not better than a man," she whispered to herself, staring through the window like a Victorian widow at sea.

Double the muscles.

Double the sweat.

Double the hotness.

She was dizzy. Delirious. Probably dehydrated from the sheer amount of drool she was swallowing.

“You’re disgusting,” came a voice to her left.

She jumped.

Suna.

Of course it was Suna.

He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, staring at her like a disappointed parent.

“Do I even wanna know what’s going through your filthy little mind right now?”

“No,” she said quickly. “And also, yes. But mostly no.”

He snorted. “Why don’t you just go up to them and tell them they’re hot?”

“No way,” she said, aghast. “That’s like walking up to a fire and saying, ‘hi, I’m flammable.’”

He raised a brow. “So you’re gonna keep ogling from the shadows like a little perv?”

“Correct.”

Suna poured himself a drink. Took a sip. Didn't argue. “Respect.”

She thought the worst of it was over.

She thought, I’ll survive this. I’ll just finish my tea, cool off, pretend I didn’t spend the last ten minutes mentally objectifying my friends.

She thought wrong.

Because a few minutes later, the screen door slid open with a bang, and in walked Atsumu—shirtless, sweaty, pressing a water bottle to the side of his neck.

Condensation trickled down his shoulder. His collarbone. His chest...

(Y/n) choked on her peach tea.

Suna snickered into his glass. “Karma’s so efficient these days.”

Atsumu didn’t seem to notice her state of physical and spiritual collapse—at first. He crossed the kitchen with casual swagger, cracked open the fridge, and stood there like he didn’t just set the room on fire.

That’s when it happened.

He looked over his shoulder—right at her. His eyes flicked across her face, clocking the flushed cheeks, the guilty stillness.

Then he grinned.

“Ya been watchin’ me, angel?”

(Y/n) froze, mid-sip, brain absolutely blank.

No thoughts. Just panic. And lust. And more panic.

“I—what—no,” she said, like someone who had absolutely been watching him. “No, I was looking at… the shed.”

Atsumu turned fully, eyebrow raised, lips twitching like he just knew. “Oh yeah? …The shed," he deadpanned.

“Yeah,” she said, defensive. “Very… shed-y. Strong architectural presence.”

He tilted his head, slow and smug. “Right.”

Suna, from behind his drink, drawled, “She almost passed out when Osamu grunted.”

“RIN.”

Atsumu burst into laughter, clutching his glorious sixpack stomach. “Shit, you were watchin’ us!”

(Y/n) dragged her hands down her burning face. “I hate this house.”

“Aw, don’t be shy,” Atsumu cooed, leaning against the counter with full, blinding confidence. “If ya wanted a private show, all ya had to do was ask.”

She groaned into her palms. “I’m gonna combust."

“‘Cause of the heat?” Atsumu asked innocently.

“Because of you,” she snapped, glaring like this was all his fault. "And your stupid brother."

"You guys talkin' shit about me?"

(Y/n) nearly fainted on the spot.

Osamu had just walked in from the yard—towel around his neck, water bottle in hand, faintly furrowed brow and a voice that somehow always sounded like it was five minutes from dragging someone by the collar.

“She’s been oglin’ us,” Atsumu said gleefully.

(Y/n) bristled. “I HAVE NOT—”

Suna twirled his glass between his fingers like a fine wine. “She has. She's a closeted pervert."

Osamu raised a brow, turning to glance at her—really glance. His eyes flicked from the way she was half-curled on the chair, to her burning cheeks, to her wildly defensive expression. His mouth quirked.

“Ah,” he said mildly. “So that’s why I felt eyes burnin’ into my back. Or was it my chest? Abs?”

“I hate all of you,” she muttered.

That was when it happened. The unholy alliance.

Atsumu and Osamu exchanged a glance—brief, wordless, deadly.

Twin telepathy.

And just like that, they moved in. One on each side. Like predators scenting blood.

(Y/n) blinked. “What—?"

Atsumu leaned down on her left, arm braced behind her chair, golden skin still glistening from the sun.

Osamu mirrored him on the right, towel draped lazily around his shoulders, bottle of water dangling from his fingers.

“Ya like this, sweetheart?” Atsumu murmured.

“Yer lookin’ a little flushed,” Osamu added smoothly.

(Y/n) was actively dying. Palms sweaty. Heart racing. Brain spiralling. She could barely breathe—and she was no longer even outside.

This was a coordinated attack. A planned execution.

It was rare for the twins to agree on anything. They thrived on bickering, on chaos, on contradicting each other at every turn.

But when they did team up?

It was borderline lethal.

“Don’t you two have something heavy to go lift?” she managed to croak.

Atsumu smirked. “Thought you liked watchin’.”

“I’ll throw this tea at you,” she warned.

Osamu tilted his head. “Seems like a waste of good tea.”

(Y/n) groaned and dropped her face into her hands again. “I prefer it when you guys are arguing.”

Suna snickered under his breath, but everyone caught his next words:

"Bet you'd prefer it if they did something else."

Atsumu barked a laugh at the insinuation.

Osamu groaned and swatted at him with the towel. “Don’t make it weird."

(Y/n) didn’t dare look at any of them. She folded her arms on the table and buried her face like a horny ostrich.

Did that stop her from feeling Atsumu’s hot breath at the back of her neck?

No. No it did not.

“Maybe if ya ask nicely…” he murmured.

Her mind went rampant.

Curse Suna for throwing her under the bus.

Curse the twins and their stupid muscles and their criminally good genes.

Curse this house for being the most cursed and blessed thing to have ever happened to her.

And curse her, most of all—for loving every second of it.

[augustjustice]

(Inspired by the fact I just saw that Chocolate Guy video where Tony Hawk shows up at the end.)

Normal Guy Steve AU this, Famous Steve AU that...

What about Just Some Guy Famous Actor Steve Harrington AU?

After the teens leave Hawkins, Corroded Coffin really starting to make it big and Steve following them out to LA when they get a record deal, he finds himself sort of stumbling into an acting career. I mean, that's what all his co-workers at the gay bar are doing, trying to get their big break, so why not? Steve's certainly picked up enough theatrics between drama kid Robin and theater kid drop out Eddie that it can't be that hard, right? It'll be fun for a good laugh afterwards, at least.

Steve knocks his first audition out of the park, and a few 90s rom-coms and slicked up action movies later, he's officially a Hollywood heartthrob. He and Eddie make for quite the celebrity couple, once they're able to officially come out in the early part of the 2000s (still a very bold move for the time, and one they're equally as known for as their respective careers).

Once he and Eddie settle down, get married in one of the few states that will allow it and have a couple kids, Steve take a step back from his career to focus on raising them. After all, his real dream has always been him and Eddie and some munchkins in the back of an RV for the summer, and he's not about to miss out on that now that he finally has it. He still picks up some roles, sure, but they're mostly more character driven stuff, bit parts in shows he enjoys or smaller indie driven films.

But the funny thing is, that after that point, whenever they're out in public...nobody ever recognizes Steve.

It's not even like he looks that different. He's just exuding such normal, middle aged Dad™ energy with his glasses and his sweater sets that no one puts the pieces together.

This leads to a lot of conversations like this-

TSA agent: Wow, Steven Harrington, huh? Just like that big movie star from back in the day!

Steve: Exactly like that.

TSA agent: I haven't seen him in anything in a minute. Wonder what that guy is up to now?

Steve: ...This, probably.

Steve finds this absolutely hilarious, even more so because it completely outrages Eddie.

"What the hell, man?" Eddie demands as they board the plane--holding off on making a scene until now that it's just the two of them. "How could he not recognize you? How? What, has that pleb never seen a movie in his entire life?"

"I don't know, Eds, maybe I just have one of those forgettable faces," Steve teases, as always enjoying seeing Eddie pissed off enough he drops into sheer high school levels of tirade. Pleb, even.

"...Stevie, my love, my light, you have the most beautiful face since Aphrodite. More, probably," Eddie knows his Greek mythology, he remembers what happened to Paris, but the gods can just try it. He said what he said, and he meant it. "That guy clearly needs to get his eyes checked."