#my mum is dead

[pampinto]

Okay so today my housemate just messages me telling me that I've lost the recycling box???

They said they didn't take it out, and that I took it out last, but like last time I took it out was before it went missing, we had guests who cooked and used the bin, when emptied it there was no recycling from their GF.

they where all like 'well, no one knows where it is, and you had it last. What do you suggest we do?" They aren't looking for solutions they are looking to place blame. What kind of question is this even like, if the bin is missing there are only two options: find it or replace it.

They don't even know that I was the last person to empty it, they have just assumed it and ran with it.

Trying to get me to buy a new one as if we haven't just replaced the washing machine, and you have just gone on a trip to the dump.

I think its easier to lose a medium green box in a large dump than it is to lose a medium green box in a small courtyard.

[technically-human]

I loved your pic of the boys dancing so much. Any chance of getting to see them dancing in different styles together?

Tango, odissi and minuet!

ko-fi

[adharastarlight]

Reg, being himself, a little scary and weird:

Sirius:

James:

Sirius: I'm stuck with him... you chose him

James: I don't know!!!

Reg smiles at him

James, lovesick: ...yeah, I do. I know

[violets-and-books]

My mum saw this and said "Dead boy detectives"

[saturnsorbits]

Sero Hanta, early-twenties, sat in a small room with his pants around his ankles and a small pot in his hand. There’s porn magazines all over the place, something he’s never quite cared for, but he still manages to deposit his sample with the nurse within a break-neck 10 minutes. Blame his youthful exuberance and the fact he hasn’t touched himself for almost two weeks leading up to his appointment, he guesses.

And you, fifteen years later, with your son. A lanky boy who’s too tall for his age, with a mop of black hair and eyes of such a richly, dark brown they’re often mistaken for black.

[local-limebug]

kinda just wanna put this out there but if any of you ever need a resource for like cultural stuff in case you're including charles' indian background in your fics, i am free.

i am pakistani + punjabi, speak urdu (and therefore a fair bit of hindi too), know a tiny bit of punjabi (and actually have people fluent in it living in the same house as me so yk), and fully willing to help out to whatever extent i can.

just putting this out there for the future like i would genuinely love to help any fic writers if they need it. like literally just ask, in fact i am begging you to ask-

[zinnie-zoloft]

People joke about Charles and his excessive use of British 80s slang but I can confirm my mum still uses words like brill, fab, peach, etc. It’s barely an exaggeration

[solargeist]

Okok here it is 1. Cw unreality stuff i guess? Like not being able to tell if you’re hallucinating 2. I know you said they scare each other but uhh they kind of psychologically horror each other it got away from me a bit

Scar figured he was finally going crazy.

It was overdue, really, with how long he had been alone. Stranded on a hostile world, left checking over his shoulder, expecting doom around every corner, it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he’d started seeing things. A flicker of purple, staining his periphery as he moved about his base. It disappeared the moment he whipped around to see it, and faded from view within a few seconds every time that he noticed it, but as the stain stuck for longer and longer just in the very corner of his vision, he started to worry that this might actually be the end of him.

That was dramatic, he thought, over just a flash of purple tucked away in his blind spot, something very likely just a trick of the light. He thought, until he started monologuing to this violet cataract, started feeling the weight of eyes on his back. He’d cook more than he had planned to and leave plates out, disobeying the strict rations he had set for himself (because that was all he had to feed, himself, no one else). He had full conversations with an empty room, holding that violet smudge in the corner of his eye like a match cupped in shaking hands against a howling wind. The plates always ended up empty. He wasn’t sure who ate them. He couldn’t remember.

Time went on. Things got worse. He saw purple even when he wasn’t trying, still fading the moment he tried to pull it from his periphery, but still hiding there, by his cupboards and corners and closets, in every space that he wasn’t looking. He clung to it— sometimes it would leave for hours on end, he didn’t notice the absences before. Now they felt like bleeding out.

It was warm that day, he remembered, that he last spoke to the stain. Not directly to it, of course— moreso at it, or around it, or through it, something like that— but he found himself talking until he was hoarse nowadays and that day was no exception. “I’ve been meaning to replace these curtains,” he informed no one, stroking the sun-soaked fabric of the window between his thumb and forefinger as the shape behind him watched from the countertop. “I used to have boats on my curtains. My brother had spaceships. I was so jealous. It seemed so important then.” He let go of the curtain, letting his hand fall to the side. “I hope he’s okay. My brother. I keep hoping— I think he got off-world in time, before the transporter system broke down. They said on the radio, years ago, they’d come back for us. The scientists, not my brother.” He turned his head just slightly, catching the blurred shape in his vision as it leaned towards him. He wasn’t sure if it was genuine interest or just a bored shift. “No, the scientists said they’d get emergency transporters in place in a few months, so maybe he caught one of those, him and mom. Then again, the radios went down before the project was done, so. Not sure if they ever went through with it, if they decided we were a lost cause. I’m still here, I guess, just… waiting. For rescue, I think. Hopefully whatever it is I’m waiting for will come soon because I—“

He turned his eyed a degree too far. The shape that had grown so clear and close to him vanished like a candle blown out. He was in his kitchen. He was alone. A cupboard made bare by greedy hands and spiders, something was wrong, something was missing. He didn’t used to feel this bad about being alone, didn’t he? He had been alone before, had it really been this bad?

He figured he was finally going crazy.

Scar didn’t talk to the spot in his peripheral vision after that. He saw it and he looked away. He turned the lights out that night, all of them, hoping desperately that the darkness couldn’t trick him the way the light did. Still, his room illuminated in purple glow. He covered the mirror in the bathroom despite knowing that just behind his reflection lurked something that was not real and was not there. He closed his eyes and saw purple, purple, purple.

Tonight felt different, somehow, like fallen dew rather than ceaseless fog. Scar took a determined breath, not with less energy, but energy more focused. The air, now that he was just above the tree-line, seemed to breathe with him in powerful and controlled movements. The lights were on below him. Normally he wasn’t one to waste power, but he was facing this thing tonight if it killed him, and if it killed him, it wouldn’t really matter if he left the fridge open and the oven preheated. One more deep breath.

He found the spot in his peripheral as easily as breathing. It tried to flicker. He didn’t let it. A fraction of a degree at a time, he dragged his eye towards it, somehow forgetting its small, humanoid shape even as it lingered on in the center of his vision, form held together with spiderwebs and moth wings. Scar’s eyes burned but he didn’t dare blink. He could see them. A short, humanoid shape radiating purple and purple and purple. It was the inverse of blinding, nearly drowned out by its own afterimage, a bruise of light covering what Scar was certain was its face although he had to check a second time to make sure, the memories of what it looked like slipping past him like sand through fingers, vanishing the second he wasn’t actively thinking about it. He stared it straight in its eyes, or, where he thought its eyes should be, or, where he had already been staring and now could not remember why. He spoke, finally, for what he did not realize was the first time in a week.

“You.”

And it responded, in a voice as fragile and momentary as the wind chimes he used to keep on his porch,

“You see me?”

Or did it say, “So you can see me,” or, “I’m sorry,” or, “Was this it? Was this what you wanted? What you waited for, for so long, so very, very long?”

Or maybe it said nothing at all. Maybe he just imagined it. It had fallen through his fingers. The words were sand.

“Yes,” he answered, not remembering the question.

With a shaking hand he reached towards the bruise in his vision, palm up and terrified.

“You really shouldn’t be able to see me…” the thing muttered (but maybe didn’t), reaching forward with its own hand. Palm down, landing hesitantly on Scar’s. Their hands touched, and with the sound of glass wind chimes and an hourglass breaking in reverse, the haze shattered, reabsorbed into this newly material being like a lizard eating its own shed skin. Scar blinked. The thing, now visible and rememberable as a short, blonde man with two eyes (purple) and, in fact, an entire face typical of a person. The wings were new, though.

He looked down at their hands, still held, and dragged a thumb across the back of the man’s hand, remembering the texture; rough, but not calloused, like he maybe needed some lotion.

“How?” It asked, and this time it stuck in the world, echoing across the roof.

This time Scar didn’t answer. “Who are you?”

The man with wings hesitated. A second too long, and a new voice spoke, from no determinable source.

“Alright, sunrise, that’s enough.”

This voice shot clean through the world, a practiced arrow leaving no entry or exit wound. In fact, Scar was certain no one had spoken at all.

He looked back at the man whose hand he held. He was not there. Had he ever been there?

-🦕

OHH this was fun , i doodled bc the part abt Scar making two meals stuck out to me

[s0fter-sin]

ghost stares at the ceiling, chest heaving in a harsh pant; sweat ice on his clammy flesh and soaked into the sheet he restlessly kicks away.

ears still ringing, his fingertips blindly drift down to trail along his vivisection scar. he half-expects blood to smear in their wake. his own line of solomon, who ordered him split in twain; half of him given to a grieving mother and half left with the grieving to be.

just for both his broken halves to be rejected.

what did it make him that his mother grieved him more than she loved him? that she begged to be relieved of him more adamantly than she begged to receive him? why did his worth spill out with his drawn blood? why was his pain lesser than hers?

his hand flexes, digging into the raised scar like it’ll part beneath his fingertips to plunge into his mangled insides. no one knows the cruelty of reforming the halved; his name, his being, not nearly as important as his body when he was stripped from himself. no one knows the pain of healing and understanding losing pieces of yourself means losing your value along with them.

how many more pieces did he have to lose before he was halved once more? before his very presence incurred grief so strong it was better to be rid of him than cradle his bloodied remains?

did the infant fight himself? did he age always at odds with himself; his halves never truly whole? he hopes he wasn’t, that he was spared the loss of self; the fear that one may be welcomed over the other.

who will he lose when the inevitable comes? when he’s ripped apart again? simon? or ghost? is it better to be cursed with choice just like his mother or live with an aftermath chosen for him? does it matter if in the end, he convinces himself there was nothing of him left to lose?

his head lolls to the side and the wild buck of his chest slows. he watches johnny beside him, his face lax with the rare peace of sleep; his cheek squished against the pillow, his lips pursed as long breaths escape him.

johnny. soap. never torn asunder but two all the same.

he carefully reaches out and ghosts his fingers along the jagged scar on his chin. even in sleep, he presses into his bloodied touch. he’s never fled his half-flesh, never shies away from his gore as it spills unbidden from his cleaved torso. he holds on where his mother let him go; cups his stomach to hold his insides in place and never minds the blood that drips through his fingers.

simon will never let him become his own solomon and cannibalise himself. he will never let him question which half of him has more value; which pieces he can afford to lose before he’s cast aside.

ghost’s soap. simon’s johnny. his.

whole, in any incarnation.

[ceaselesswwatch3r]

investigayting is pretty gay dude. what are you invesigayting? the case of why you think about your male partner constantly? probably that. homo

[merukins]

Drew my Mistria character and gave her some seasonal fits I put them below

I will not be attempting pixel art so pls enjoy the sketches I did ✌️

[jellydragons]

tetra is having a Day

[thenerdofthegroup]

Tiny photo from multiple teasers we will see next episode so if you don’t want to be spoiled don’t look!

This scene is going to shatter my heart I just know it

Agatha as a mum is a storyline I so desperately wanted and am so happy we are getting, seeing every part of it, so I know I will be crying more than her in this scene. Given her reaction to this and everything in the first two episodes she absolutely adored him and it’s going to be heartbreaking. YESSS TRAUMA BABY!!!!

[adharastarlight]

The marauders as conversations I've had:

Reg, in the bath:

James: Reggie!!!! you alive in there?

Reg: sadly!!!!

James: pardon!?!

Reg: yes!!!!

[makemeimmortalwithahug]

I would like to propose "geistvoll" as the german equivalent for "brills" cause the words literally translates to "ghost-full"

[bibellebibuck]

I just got to the “you wanna go for the title?” scene and that shit was so sexually charged I felt like I was intruding.