#mythomaniac

[imkalaa]

He's the biggest Mythomaniac in the world, he might win a competition against Judas.

do you all see my vision here

[im-getting-help]

But waht about:

Since the moment Oliver locked eyes with him through the window of his dorm something inside him changed. Since that fateful day something inside Oliver's very soul cracked and splintered, it broke, irreparably so.

Through the next months since that life changing morning, parts of himself started shifting, molding and adjusting to become what was necessary, what was right, what he needed.

Oliver knew, he wasn't dumb. He knew that the story he told, the decisions he made and the act he put was all hanging by a thread. He couldn't believe his luck, truly. Every night he recounted his memories certain that it all would disappear as soon as the day came. But the days became months and suddenly Saltburn doors opened for him.

The morning of his birthday, while looking through his wardrobe trying to find something nice enough to wear, he remembered the first time he noticed him. He looked unreachable, and yet...

Time stretched, it was torturous, the exciment of it all, the shame.

Breakfast with the Cattons. "Happy birthday, Oliver darling!"

The long ride.

Prescot.

His home.

His parents.

Lunch with the Quicks. "Happy birthday Oliver!"

The ride back.

The pleading.

The tears.

The party.

The cake.

The champagne.

Walking through the maze.

Watching him through the shadows once again.

Pronouncing his name.

As soon as he speaked his name Oliver had the realization that the day was coming to an end. Finally, this awful day was about to end, but something felt wrong.

What happened the moment they locked eyes was something he didn't account for. Of all the things he knew could go wrong he didn't expect... himself, his own body betraying him.

The look on his face made him shiver, the emotions displayed. The contempt, the disgust, the grief. It was too much.

It's been years but even if you would've asked him to repeat what he said that same night he wouldn't be able to.

He completely broke down. He thought that he knew what was like to be wrecked from the inside and out, but Oliver had no idea.

He cried, he pleaded, he screamed and whispered too. All those emotions he shoved deep into himself overflowed, it was impossible to control it or stop it.

When Oliver came back to his senses he was grabbing him by the collar of the beater. Their faces were so close they shared the same air, his hands tremble and the tears kept flowing creating paths down his cheeks, his vision blurred.

Between sobs he mutter an I love you but he didn't respond.

"Please Felix, I love you...".

He remaind silent, gently, he grabbed his hands and pushed him away. Not a word was said, he walked away, out of the maze and out of his life.

[houndofgod]

"And how can you explain this?" -- @pathologically-mythomaniacal

"You said come prepared," snapped Audrey, holstering her magnum and toeing aside a grad student that would never have to worry about a research deadline ever again. Four large bullet holes perforated the wall behind him while a breeze through the broken window gently shuffled the papers that had scattered around him. On the heavy desk sat a clay bowl covered in a spiral of ancient letters. Microwave Mac n cheese was still congealing on the edges and it almost completely obscured a strange figure drawn in the center.

"Don't get your thong in a twist, it's fast but I winged it. C'mon."

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

SILLY LITTLE BAT

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-Hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ In the shadowed halls of Wayne Manor, a girl lost among the darkness seeks the connection she never had. Her mother, a kleptomaniac with a broken heart, vanished, leaving only echoes of empty promises. Surrounded by a family that never sees her, her pain turns into a deafening silence. The void left by her past traps her in a limbo of solitude and sorrow.

One dark night, seeking her own way, she became what she once despised. Now, like the albino bat rejected by its own flock, she flies alone in the twilight. Her pale skin glows in the dark, but her heart still yearns for the warmth of a home she never came to know.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Suicide, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation

Chapter Guide! Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is—so there might be some grammar or spelling mistakes here and there. This is the first part of a story I’m writing for a friend (Isabel, I love you, you brat), and also an experiment to see what it’s like to write on Tumblr. Please support me! :"((

Nobody is coming to save you

Get up.

Your mother was not a good woman, and that was an undeniable fact, heavy as the shadow that covers Gotham City at nightfall. She was a creature of the underworld, one among the specters that wandered under the yoke of crime, walking among dangerous names like Selina Kyle or Harleen Quinzel, yet always remaining in the background, never reaching their fame or infamy.

She was nothing more than a kleptomaniac and a mythomaniac, doomed to live by cunning and deceit. She took advantage of the men who crossed her path, from the lowest criminals, like The Penguin, to the most powerful man in the city: Bruce Wayne.

You never called him Dad. To you, he was always Bruce, and on the rare occasions you addressed him, you did so with distant formality, "Mr. Wayne." Richard, your adoptive brother, found in him a father figure, while to you, he was just another shadow in the mansion, that huge, cold house you arrived at after your mother’s death.

You remember how, time and again, you tried to warn your mother to stop stealing, to stop lying, that those dark paths would inevitably lead her to Arkham Asylum, surrounded by all the lunatics you feared so much, or even worse: to death. But she always responded with a playful smile, stroking your head with her delicate hands, adorned with stolen jewelry and crude tattoos. "Those are just fantasies of an eight-year-old girl," she would say sweetly, while her ring-laden fingers assured you that you needn’t worry, "I will always come back for you," she promised, "because you are the only thing more valuable than any diamond I’ve ever held."

But the cruel truth was that was the last time you saw her. That night she left, and she never returned. It was then that the last vestiges of innocence faded with her absence. From that moment on, you ceased to be a child.

And that was one of the few things you understood with absolute clarity. There were no more empty promises, no more caresses tinged with lies. All that remained was the silence of a life fading away, like a stolen jewel that never returns to its rightful owner.

The only thing you knew after calling the police when your mother didn’t show up after two days was that they found her corpse in a back alley far from Gotham, showing signs of having been beaten and bruised by some underground gang.

Commissioner Gordon searched the entire house for illicit substances and signs of debts to mobsters, but he only ended up finding documents, stolen jewelry, and letters from your mother that were never sent, and most importantly, DNA evidence implicating that the city’s millionaire was your biological father.

From then on, your life was stained with eternal gray, that muted shade that erased all traces of light or shadow. There was no more white or black, only a silent fog that, day by day, enveloped you and dragged you into a madness that seemed inevitable. Gotham itself seemed more alive than the place you called home, although "home" was never the right word.

You didn’t love any of the Wayne family members. Bruce, your biological father, never listened to you. To him, you were always just another shadow, a ghost in the vast mansion that he prioritized over his other children, his "true" heirs. There was always something more important, something more urgent, and your presence faded among the cold walls and the echo of his hurried footsteps. With each passing day, you became more invisible to him, as if your very existence were a mistake he preferred to ignore.

Richard, the perfect brother, was kind on some occasions. He spoke to you courteously, but when you needed him, when you asked him to attend one of your performances, there was always an excuse, something that kept him away, as if your passion and accomplishments were insignificant details in his heroic life.

Jason, on the other hand, despised you from the start. He saw you as an intruder, a child of gold—but not of that pure and valuable gold, but of a dirty and false one, which he always mocked with disdain. And although you never cared for him, when he died, silent tears rolled down your face. It wasn’t out of love, but out of respect for what he represented, for the brutal reality of his fall.

Tim, in contrast, was the most indifferent. To him, you were a nobody, so irrelevant that you weren’t even worth a glance. Spending time with his friends or being the Robin of the moment mattered more than you did. You lived on his periphery, in a limbo where neither your name nor your face seemed to exist.

Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara… at least they treated you with politeness, but you knew they didn’t really remember who you were. They saw you, smiled at you out of obligation, but deep down you knew they had no idea of your name, your story, your struggle to be more than a shadow in that world.

The worst of all was Damian, your younger half-brother. When he arrived at the mansion, Alfred introduced him to you with that serene formality he always had, and you, driven by an almost desperate impulse, tried to reach out to him. You wanted to offer him the support and affection of an older sister, that warmth you would have longed for in his situation. But all you received in return was a cold response: a katana piercing your abdomen. I wish I could say it was just a metaphor, but no, that wound was as real as the blade that cut your skin.

You would have liked to think that the pain was symbolic, that Damian had only rejected your affection with harsh words or his usual arrogance. But no, it was much more than that. The only thing you received in exchange for your attempt at fraternal love was a stab, a scar you still carry not only on your body but also in your soul. Because in that brutal gesture, you understood that the blood that united you also separated you, sharper than any weapon. And that was how you tried to connect.

You strived to stand out, to learn, to shine in your own ambitions, wishing that your success would be enough to earn you a place, a bit of affection. But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Your talent crashed against indifference, your achievements faded into the air, as if they had no weight in the lives of others.

The only light, the only beacon in that storm of gray, was Alfred. The only one who smiled at you with genuine tenderness, the only one you truly loved. To you, he was the real father, the one who was always there, expecting nothing in return, offering you a silent but firm love. You did call him father, and his presence was the only thing that kept your sanity, the only thing preventing the gray from consuming you completely.

But even that love, so genuine and deep, was not enough to fill the void that your own family left you. And in that void, you continue to float, trapped between the girl you were and the woman you are trying to be, searching for a place you can truly call home.

Y/n's small room, though modest, had always been her refuge. The walls were adorned with unfinished sketches, trophies from various activities, and some paintings she had completed with dedication, showcasing her passion for both manual and performing arts.

The dawn light filtered softly through the curtains, bathing the space in golden tones, giving it a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the rest of Wayne Manor.

On the desk, a small cake rested on a plate, simple yet made with love. Beside it, Alfred, with his usual understated elegance, watched Y/n with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. He, the only one who seemed to remember her birthday, offered her a delicate professional drawing set, wrapped in smooth, elegant paper.

"Happy birthday, Miss," Alfred said with a gentle smile, although his eyes reflected a sadness that was hard to conceal. "I know how much you love art, so I thought this would be helpful for your new projects."

Y/n took the gift in her hands with a genuine smile. It had been so hard for her to find moments of joy lately, but Alfred's gesture filled her with a warmth in her chest that she hadn't experienced in a long time. She placed the gift into one of the many brown boxes she had prepared for her upcoming move.

"Thank you, Alfred. It's perfect," she said, examining the set carefully, as if each detail were a reminder of the affection he held for her. "It will help me a lot... although, well," she sighed, as if searching for the right words. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." Alfred raised an eyebrow, attentive, as she continued, glancing at the small space that had been her home within the vast mansion.

"Today... today is not just my birthday. It's the day I leave here." Her voice was firm, yet there was a sense of liberation in it, as if this were a long-awaited step. "I am finally no longer a Wayne. I go back to being a L/n."

Silence filled the room for a moment, heavy and dense. Alfred clasped his hands, striving to maintain his composure.

"Miss, I can't help but feel a certain unease hearing this. Are you sure this is what you want? This house, though empty in many ways, has always been your home..."

"Home?" Y/n looked at him with a mix of sadness and determination. "This house has never been my home, Alfred. Not like it was for Dick, nor even for Bruce. I have always been a stranger here, the daughter of a woman who never fit into this world, the bastard child. My mother taught me to find my own path, to not cling to what doesn’t belong to me... and being here, being called Wayne, has never belonged to me." Alfred sighed softly, turning his gaze toward the window. He knew there was truth in her words, but that didn’t lessen the pain of her leaving. "I know it’s hard to understand," Y/n continued, "but for the first time in a long time, I feel happy, Alfred. I’ve graduated, college is just around the corner, and I want to start anew. I want to find what truly makes me, me... not what others expect of me."

The old butler remained silent for a few moments, nodding slowly. He knew he couldn't retain her, that it was not his place to interfere in the young woman's dreams. But still, he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his heart at the thought of the house being even emptier without her. "I just wish you find what you’re looking for, Miss. And if you ever need a place to return to... this door will always be open for you."

Y/n stepped closer to him, gently hugging him, something she had rarely done. "Thank you, Alfred," she whispered against his shoulder. "You will always be my family, but I need this. I need to discover who I am outside of this last name."

The old butler felt the lump in his throat as he tightened the embrace a little longer before letting her go. He knew that deep down, she was doing the right thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less to see her leave.

"Alfred, can you call the movers? I’ll be leaving tonight," Y/n said as she closed the last box with trembling hands, her gaze lost in the empty corners of the room she once considered her refuge. The butler, ever serene, nodded with his unwavering calmness.

"Don't worry, Miss, I assure you they will be here on time." His voice was soft, almost an echo of the ancient walls of the mansion, as if he himself were part of that structure that had seen so many comings and goings, so many lives broken and healed in silence.

Alfred turned halfway to leave, but Y/n's voice stopped him, broken yet sweet, like a melody at sunset. "Alfred..."

The man turned slowly, his eyes filled with paternal warmth, though always contained behind a formal gesture. "Yes, Miss?" he replied, with that tranquility that had always brought Y/n peace in her worst moments.

She took a breath, feeling how the words she had kept for so long fought to come out, to break the shell she had built since childhood. "I’ve never told you, but... thank you. Thank you for being the father I never had, for being there when no one else was."

For a moment, the silence in the room was heavier than all the accumulated boxes, deeper than any word. Alfred, who had been a witness to so many confessions and secrets in that house, stood still, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed. "Miss," he murmured, his voice slightly choked, "it was an honor and a privilege to take care of you. If I ever gave you anything close to what you deserved, then my life has had true purpose."

Y/n smiled sadly, nodding slowly. "You did, Alfred. You did. And for that, I will always carry you with me, even if I leave here."

The butler slightly bowed his head in respect, swallowing any emotion that might betray his composure. "Wherever you go, you will always have a home here, Miss."

"I know," she said, though in her heart, she knew she wouldn’t return.

And as Alfred left the room to make the call, Y/n let out a long sigh, as if with it, she were leaving behind a part of herself, a part she could no longer carry with her.

Life in Gotham is like constantly walking on the edge of a razor blade. The city never sleeps, always alert, always dangerous, and for someone with the Wayne surname, the risks multiply. It has been a year since you left the mansion, trying to erase any ties that bound you to that life, desperately wishing the name would fade into the echo of the dirty streets and crumbling buildings. But it's not that easy. The name Wayne remains an indelible mark that the media and the people of Gotham refuse to let fade. The forgotten child, the silent accident of billionaire Bruce Wayne. And although you try to live as if you don’t exist under that shadow, the weight of the legacy haunts you.

You left with little, barely enough money to rent a small apartment in one of the worst corners of the city. You share the space with a friend, a plant-loving girl who has filled every nook of the place with leaves and pots, as if trying to make green defy the constant darkness of Gotham. You get along well with her; her love for nature is almost an antithesis to the chaos of the city, and she has taught you that even in the hardest concrete, something can bloom. She always accompanied you on the coldest, loneliest nights, giving you a warmth that, although ethereal, was very welcome. But still, life is not easy. You barely survive, spending the little you have on cheap food and paying the rent. There are days when the cold seeps through the poorly sealed windows, and you wonder if it was really better to be in the mansion instead of this little trench. However, you prefer this rough freedom to the soulless luxury of Wayne Manor.

Freedom, however, comes at a price. It wasn't enough to distance yourself, to change your life, or even to always carry a knife for defense. Gotham does not forget. People recognize you in the shadows, whisper your name, and approach you, sometimes with curiosity and other times with disdain. You have been beaten more than once. Some just for being a Wayne, others because they think they can extort you, even though they have no idea you can barely get by. The scars on your body bear witness to those beatings, but you refuse to give up. You get up every morning, despite the pain, and continue on your way. You don’t need Batman. You don’t need Bruce. You learned long ago that he wouldn't come to save you.

That night, like so many others, you were heading to the subway for your night shift, with the hood of your coat covering your face, trying to go unnoticed. The sound of the tracks echoed in your ears, a constant reminder of the city's hustle. You had gotten used to walking fast, avoiding eye contact, as if each step was a small battle won against the city. But this time, something was different.

"So it was true, the little Wayne girl is roaming the city... how lovely." The raspy, mocking voice rang out beside you, cutting through the heavy air of the train station. The man speaking wore a suit that, at first glance, seemed elegant, but there was something about his extreme thinness, his skin clinging to his bones and his disheveled hair, that made him look more like a specter of Gotham than a distinguished figure. A ghost from the shadows that had stalked you since you set foot on the streets.

If it weren't for his gaunt appearance and unsettling aura, you might have mistaken him for one of your father's employees. "I'm not a Wayne anymore," you said disdainfully, your voice sharp like the edge of a dagger refusing to be touched. "If you want money, I don’t have any. And Mr. Wayne wouldn’t give a cent for me either."

Your gaze drifted to the station clock. 8 minutes until the train that would take you away from this corner of Gotham, far from the shadows and faces that always seemed to recognize you.

The man let out a dry, raspy laugh that sent chills down your spine. "I don’t want your money, pretty girl," he replied, moving closer, invading your space with the same familiarity that Gotham’s filth slipped into every corner. "You’re worth more than that." You felt his calloused, scarred hand rest on your hip, with a pressure that was neither violent nor friendly. The contact filled you with disgust.

7 minutes.

You clenched your fist, your jaw tight as you struggled to maintain your composure. "I don’t want sex either, idiot," you spat, your words loaded with contained fury. Your hand subtly slid toward your bag, where your knife lay, waiting to be used.

6 minutes.

The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he let out a low, mocking laugh. "And I don’t want that either, little girl," he murmured, his cold, deep blue eyes scrutinizing you as if they could read every dark corner of your soul. "I want something more from you."

5 minutes.

"What do you want then?" you asked, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even as the ice of fear began to creep down your spine. Your eyes scrutinized him, searching his gaze for any hint of his true intentions, but all you saw was darkness.

4 minutes.

He let out a long, chilling laugh, tightening his grip on your hip. "Do you know what I want, Y/n?"

3 minutes.

His voice dropped, as if his words were a cursed secret the wind refused to carry away. "I want you."

2 minutes.

The world seemed to stop. You knew there was no time to run. There was no time to pull out the knife or to scream. It was as if the clock itself had conspired against you, reducing those last minutes to mere seconds.

1 minute.

The blow was sharp, a flash of excruciating pain at the back of your head. The cold metal of the station, the hum of the city, everything faded abruptly. The last thought that crossed your mind, before the world vanished into darkness, was that this time, you didn’t expect Batman to save you. It wasn’t a mere thief or a street threat that was taking you.

Gotham, with all its cruelty, always had new ways to remind you that there is no escape.

That night, when the Gotham subway stopped at the station, there was no one to pick up.

The mansion felt emptier than ever, like a deserted and cold labyrinth, where each hallway seemed to stretch into an infinite tunnel, devouring the light.

The silence was overwhelming, an oppression that enveloped every corner, as if even the ancient walls had run out of words. It was so heavy that the few who remained in the mansion couldn’t help but move uncomfortably, trying to fill that void with something, anything.

Bruce Wayne walked through those same hallways with a strange feeling, as if something was missing, though he didn’t know what. An unease, a persistent discomfort that he couldn’t shake off.

He had been like this for months, with that absence haunting his mind, a gap he couldn't identify. And then, suddenly, like a gust of icy wind, the truth struck him.

You.

His daughter.

His little daughter.

How long had it been since he last saw you? When was the last time he heard your laughter, the one that always seemed too sarcastic, too filled with resentment? He stopped abruptly, frowning. Why couldn’t he remember you? He couldn’t bring to mind a clear image of your face, not even how you used to look at him... why? How could he have forgotten you like that?

Damn.

It was as if time had stopped. It had been a year, maybe more, since he had really thought about you. He felt a pang of guilt pierce his chest, a heavy, silent guilt that dragged him into the abyss of his own negligence. Not knowing what else to do, he began to check the rooms, one after another.

Each door he opened was another blow to his conscience. Where was your room? The more he searched, the more confused he felt. The mansion was enormous, but how could he have forgotten where you slept? How was it possible that he didn’t know where you lived in the house where both of you grew up? Had you been here all this time?

Each door he opened was identical to the last, as if all the rooms had fused into one.

None showed a trace of you.

None seemed to have a hint of your presence. Didn’t you decorate your room? He thought frantically, didn’t you even mark it as yours? Panic began to take hold of him. Anxiety wrapped around him like a fist tightening on his chest. Were you still living in the mansion? Or had you left without saying a word, like a shadow fading at dawn? But... no, you hadn’t mentioned anything. You hadn’t said you were leaving. Or had you? And if you had, why didn’t he remember? How could he have ignored you for so long that now he didn’t even know if you were still under the same roof?

“Ah!” he exclaimed in a whisper, unable to contain the dread he felt.

Frustration consumed him from within. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily, and the echo of his voice faded into the empty walls. He tried to remember something, anything about you, about the last time they spoke, about how you were... but everything was blurry, as if his mind was betraying him, hiding you behind an impenetrable fog.

How could he have forgotten so much?

He brought his hands to his head, trying to calm himself, but only felt more confusion, more desperation. The mansion, which had once been his home, now felt like a strange and foreign place.

Had you been the one who made it feel like home? The question echoed in his mind, but he had no answer. Just more questions. More uncertainties. Finally, he let his arms fall, exhausted. He had checked almost all the rooms and had found not a trace of you. Not a clue. Not a sign that you had been there. And at that moment, something dark and painful began to settle in his heart.

Had you ever really been there?

Then something caught his attention as he passed by the cleaning room. In a dusty corner, next to a forgotten bag, something was protruding. Something small, old, and faded. He bent down and pulled it from the dirty clothes. It was a stuffed animal, or what was left of one. The faded black of its suit left no doubt. It was a figure of Batman, but worn down by time, battered to the point of looking forgotten.

Bruce's eyes were fixed on the small piece of fabric hanging from the doll's neck. A tag.

Your name.

Your name, handwritten, in ink that was already fading.

Bruce felt a lump in his throat, a mix of guilt and rage. How could he have forgotten something so important?

He clutched the doll tightly, as if doing so would return a piece of you to him, but instead of comfort, he only felt more emptiness. Where were you? He ran to Alfred, who looked at him with a mix of concern and pity.

"Alfred..." Bruce said, his voice breaking. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"

The butler, with his always serene face, seemed to age suddenly. A long silence settled between them, as if time was fading away. "Mr. Bruce, I didn’t mean to..." Alfred lowered his gaze. "I didn’t want to burden you with that truth, but... it’s time you know."

Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. Truth? What truth?

"She left almost a year ago. She didn’t say where. She just... she took all her belongings, though they weren’t many, and left. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. That you and the other family members had too many things to worry about."

Bruce took a step back, as if the words had physically struck him. Did she have enough age to leave? A burden? Never, not for a second, did he think that of you, of his little daughter who, even though she wasn’t wanted, he embraced under his wing just like Damian.

You were never a burden.

...or were you?

No, he refused to acknowledge it; he just... he hadn’t spent time with you because Gotham needed him!

But when you needed him, where was Batman?

Where was Bruce Wayne when his only biological daughter needed him?

"Alfred, do you know anything about Y/n?" the hero asked, worry clear on his face.

Alfred didn’t look at him; he only stared into nothingness. "...I haven’t heard anything about her for two months...

And honestly... I'm starting to think...

that she might be lost to us forever..."

A/N — This is definitely apart from being my first official Tumblr post, it is also my first DC post and especially the first from the Lord of the Night xD

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

Isabel, I dedicate this to you, my love. Eat more to be well, you fucking anorexic, don't suck.

take a bath!

inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

[radiatorchains]

             Rotting.

             After the full moon always feels like the worst combination of a hangover and post-nut clarity

[lc-holy]

Thomas Astruc and Sébastien Thibaudeau were interviewed on Catboat's Twitch channel. A 5-hour interview in which they talk about their careers, the 5 seasons of miraculous and a little about the seasons to come. (There are no spoilers about season 6, only a few teasers).

The interview will probably be available with English subtitles.

In the meantime, here's a summary of what was said in the interview about season 6 and other Miraculous projects.

Thomas has always loved SAMG's work, and it was he who strongly suggested working with them on the series. But unfortunately, they will no longer be able to work with SAMG for future seasons of Miraculous. Episode production has changed and is no longer compatible with SAMG. However, he remains open to working with them on other projects.

Miraculous will be produced entirely in France from season 6 onwards.

The interviewer asked Thomas if an OVA project with Toei was still planned. But Thomas didn't want to answer the question.

Sébastien explains that they always plan the scenarios well in advance. For example, what happens in season 6 was already planned when season 3 was written. They've already written two pages of ideas for the Season 7 finale.

Thomas says they have ideas to go to a season 12 but it will all depend on the success of the series.

It's impossible for them to have one season too many, because their work is very emotionally demanding, and if they feel that what they're doing is no longer interesting, they stop.

Sébastien hopes that Season 6 will appeal to new viewers as well as those who have been following the series since the beginning.

Miraculous will never evolve into an adult series, it will remain a children's series. But they will always try to satisfy the fans who have been following the series for years.

They also wrote the series to appeal to parents who watch Miraculous with their children.

Sebastien teased us that there will be a song in season 6.

Thomas sincerely believes that season 6 is better than season 5, which was off to a bad start because he wondered how they were going to do better than season 5.

They had a lot of fun writing this new season, and the new writers who joined the series brought a lot of good ideas.

As season 6 begins a new arc, they consider it a season 1.

And with the new animation style, season 6 will bring a lot of new storytelling. It will be different. The stories won't be like the other seasons.

Some people will probably complain that it's different, that it's not like before. It's a question of adaptation.

Sebastien says we'll appreciate season 6 even more when season 7 comes out.

They don't know yet whether the theme song will change. Thomas would like to change, but he knows the fans love the theme song so they don't know yet.

Thomas hints that he didn't write the Shadybug and Claw noir universe to exploit it in a single special. But he remains very vague.

Thomas explains that there are many details in previous seasons that fans didn't understand, but which will make sense in later seasons.

There's a reason why Lila is a mythomaniac, and they'll tell it one day in the series. Thomas even says they've already told it in the series, but we haven't figured it out yet.

Thomas says that Chloe will remain an important character in the coming seasons, as she has always been in the series.

They have clarified that the new animation for the new seasons will have nothing in common with that of the Miraculous movie. Because the movie and the series are not linked.

They will soon be meeting to decide whether Miraculous will be made into a live-action series or not. It will be different from the series. Thomas mentions kwamis in particular, which are complicated to integrate into live action. Thomas has already written the concept. For the series to see the light of day, it will mainly be a question of budget.

[ronjunnie]

HAECHAN FIC RECOMMENDATIONS

SERIES

arcane @neonacity

case oasis @neonc1tylights

ONESHOTS

hits different (m) (44.8k) @neowinestainedress

young god (m) (35k) @jaeminvore

i become attracted to seaweed (18k) @choerrypuffs

sunset (15k) @markswoman

lee haechan's pride (11.9k) @misfitneo

getting even (m) (11.6k) @ofjunemoment

reckless heroism (10.3k) @gimmehyuck

mythomaniac (10.5k) @byunbaekby

the only exception (m) (10k) @jaylaxies

achromatopsia (8.7k) @neoneversleeps

silent yearning (8.1k) @gaiyofanfiction

TIMESTAMPS

12:45 am @ghostofhyuck

11:18 pm @aesthyuckic

[matadede-good]

Can't wait for post these baddies...

1st Day: Dream. I imagined a mini Bibby sleeping, then in their dream he saw Nightmare again but in a status that him isn't powerful anymore and now he's just a wondering soul who lives in the dream world.

2nd Day: Revenge. I Initially drew a hella cool scene, but after I analyzed my own drawing, I thought it was more like an AU so I made this new one based on Revenge of the King.

3rd Day: Song. When I read the prompt, I instantly thought in the song that Susanna sings to her father, but for more originality I drew her with a beautiful dress, like if she was in a restaurant thing, presenting her talent to the guests.

4th Day: Headcanon (TW: mental illness, abandonment, disorder mentioned)

My more personal headcanon is... Well, Magolor is Hyness' son, but Hyness, suffering from schizophrenia, unconscious, abandoned his son when he was a kid. Mago for this trauma, he developed a mythomaniac disorder. But several years later, no one recognizes each other.

5th Day: Royalty. This is my favorite one I've made!! I loved a lot how they both look, look so... Cool, I don't know how to describe how much I liked the result. Really I did this drawing? Ok no...

I thought something about (Take it as a HC). In reality, they were a couple/marriage. It's just... The power (and beauty) went to Sectonia's head, forgetting her past and what she experienced with her closest person, Taranza. But he never stopped to love her despite her drastic change.

6th Day: Ancient. I had a minimum crisis because, I didn't have any idea to do this one, but I searched in the wiki something related to ancient things and there was Nova...

7th Day: Ability. I didn't know what to do in these, but I asked my boyfriend about his favorite ability and he said the poisoning one, so what occurred to me draw it but with the doctor one, like contrasting personalities (There's a very very very small reference ;]).

8th Day: Phantom. I love to draw Dedede, that's all. Well, it occurred to me because when I was reading the prompts, I remembered the phantom guys from Forgot💀 land (Lovely game, I've been playing it and I loved it). I found it interesting to use these neon colors on him.

9th Day: Magic. I love top-hat fellas, more than you could imagine.

.

.

.

.

I started late, I delay a lot for some of these, and I got a creative block in the 10th day, but I hope can finish this thingtober or at least overcome the 20th day.

The prompts are here! Click on me omfg!

[sgiandubh]

He was at Three Sheets yesterday night with Ashley. Check their respective stories

Dear Three Sheets Anon,

Your information is correct. What I meant by 'nothing to do with Ashley Hearn' in my post is a bit different, though. Ashley has been in London for a while already, obviously for sales & marketing purposes. She clearly posted about it and even suggested she will be in Scotland soon. But she is not the reason he is in London these days. She already successfully toured several bar outlets by herself, using her own business contacts, in New York and elsewhere: meeting her boss while in London is absolutely normal and nothing to write home about. But not the main reason he is in London right now, I think.

So it would seem they met at the Three Sheets Bar, yesterday.

S's IG story:

[Later edit]: Ashley's IG story - too bad I interrupted myself to get a delivery and then lost this thread:

S tagged both the bar and SS's IG accounts. This is a routine business meeting, especially considering the Three Sheets also deals in business consulting:

They have two outlets in London, one in Dalston and the other in Soho. Both have excellent reviews and well, the expected price range for cocktails in London (10-20 £ ):

Your ask also gives me the opportunity to come forward with several things I have been keeping in my drawers for a while, so thank you for that. Kind of.

Remember (LOOOL and then some more for that, always) my through the grapevine info that C joined S and the team at Milady's bar in New York, on October 17 2024, after the Versace Armani event she attended with Maria McManus? I also remember the Without Pix Anon:

Well, I don't have 'pix' , but I do have the next best thing (gracias a ti, siempre ❤️):

Ashley liked what C posted on October 25, 2024. One full week after the Milady's get together - why would she, if C wasn't there at all, like all the Righteous Pundits lie to you?

She also briefly followed her on IG, but not anymore (why? I will let you draw your own conclusions), along with several OL cast members (followed all of them at the same moment, after the event): Rankin, John Bell and Skeleton. Bell and Skeleton were at that get together, too (unsure about Rankin? it's Saturday, after all and I am not the Metropolitan Police, either - please correct me if I am wrong). She still follows them on IG. Clearly they met there?

The second thing I wanted to bring along is Maximum Wobbler Bullshit's recent nonsense:

This impostor and mythomaniac I have repeatedly debunked in the past still has very scant English, negligent writing skills at best and no damn idea about what marketing means. She was completely triggered by this particular post, on November 5, 2024 (while almost everyone was looking elsewhere, for obvious reasons):

Featured in the pic is Mia Kumari, a good friend of Ashley Hearn. Maximum Wobbler Bullshit conveniently forgets to explain who Mia Kumari is:

Based in London, UK and currently mixing at the Satan's Whiskers bar in Bethnal Green (after a short spell at The Savoy, hello?), she is a well-known, up-and-coming bartender with a consistent record of awards:

The press is raving about her:

[Full article, here: https://foodism.co.uk/features/long-reads/women-london-bar-scene/]

She is also a feminist bartender, with an internationally praised agenda:

[Mia was last week in Greece, as guest speaker at the very prestigious Athens' Bar Week. Too bad I left: I would have certainly bought a ticket and gladly listened to what she had to say - https://www.athensbarshow.gr/guest-speakers/mia-kumari]

Surely a trailblazer 'in London’s dynamic and globally revered bar industry', who also is 'an advocate for equality, diversity and inclusion' does not need Sassenach Spirits to promote herself. She is doing a smashing job at it, like the pro she clearly is: on trend, progressive, sought after and more than noticed. I fail to see where the fuck the alleged cronyism is, because that would simply mean Mia Kumari is a social zero, a nobody in the UK's spirits industry, taking advantage of her friendship with Ashley Hearn in order to get more attention for her sole benefit. That is a lie and that is simply wrong: if anything, it is Sassenach Spirits that needed to prominently feature someone like Mia Kumari, in order to align itself to the values she is so actively promoting (all values C is sensitive to, hmmm). We are miles away, here, from the Cutty Sark wannabe (in)famous Labour Day boat party in Marina del Rey, featuring the BBC/Blue Bikini Chick, back in September 2023 (https://www.tumblr.com/sgiandubh/727347023165145088/its-all-fake-anyway), when all the fandom trolls were on fire. So, Sassenach Spirits needed to do exactly something along these lines, in order to promote and boost the seasonal Xmas sales of their tartan scarves, SS's most expensive merch, targeting a younger, more sophisticated urban crowd.

Clever brands constantly redefine themselves, looking for the right trends and the right crowds to promote their products to. This is a clear sign that finally adults are in the room, now, at SS's Marketing and Sales respective departments. So damn glad to see this welcome shift!

[oddeyecir-cle]

lee haechan fic recs (ii) ฅʕ •Ⱉ• ⠕ʔฅ

⌯ 🐻

here's another one :)

part i | iii | iv

@haechwrites ☆

sugar, butter & the royal crown

two winners

@navyhyuck ☆

what are the odds

@cherryeoniis ☆

between platforms

dance to this

when cupids fall

wicked games

@moonstarsunflower ☆

how it started, how it ended

@byunbaekby ☆

mythomaniac

@neonun-au ☆

home is a feeling

@luvdsc ☆

resting grinch face

@wincore ☆

deck the halls (with spiderwebs)

reluctant

i think he knows

@choerrypuffs ☆

oh my angel!

the element of freedom

@goldenscript ☆

trust me

@jishyucks ☆

amorentia [1][2]

groceries are overrrated

@rrxnjun ☆

dancing in my backseat

@yeow6n ☆

xoxo

@catboyieejeno ☆

lazy mornings

@daegall ☆

kiss her you fool

number 66's guide 2 love!

habits

truth or dare?

[radiatorchains]

             Mulch....

@radiatorchains dis u?

[hcgossips]

The Bond Girl

He said it. It’s his first horse race. He’s never been to that event before. He showed up “rubbing his shoulders with (a) royalty, looking dapper” for a reason: It was an opportunity to sell himself as a possibility for Bond. He wants people to compare him to Sean Connery.

But, there’s a huge gap between both actors. Henry is stiff. His performance as an actor leaves much to be desired. The success he did up to now, was not because of his acting skills, but because of his looks and gentlemanly fame. Unfortunately, his looks haven’t been that attractive for many. Maybe, for Bond, it was demanding he changed drastically. Maybe, this PR was part of this plan. But, somebody picked the wrong gal.

Bond is a machine to kill with no  consciousness crises nor guilt nor resentments. As a character, Bond is a product selling a fancy and elegant life style. He travels around the world on impossible missions that only he can deal with, while living for pleasures with no commitments. As a man, he is fearless, strong, alluring, irresistible, a real macho.

Maybe the original intention was to use this PR as part of a plot to sell him as a strong name for Bond. Maybe she was chosen to make him a man. But, someone screwed up and allowed the pic of the supposed bl*w j*b she was performing, which denounced her real profession, out and viral. Also, the strategies used in this last PR and how he and his team dealt with the bad publicity was immoral and turned him into a jerk, an image way far from Bond.

That PR screwed all his plans and destroyed the image of the perfect gent, because he was actually, set up to escort a promiscuous escort. Bond never gets involved with the scum. The women he gets involved with are elegant, classy and admirable, not disgusting rednecks. They have style. Can you imagine Bond involved  and showing to meet the royalty with a redneck with visible herpes?

The happiness he shows at this event is staged and choreographed and the meeting with a royalty planned for promotional pics. His escorted escort with herpes is unsuccessfully trying to show some joy. But, apparently, she only managed to do so as they were leaving the place. In almost every picture she just stands there as a scarecrow with a bored expression of “ What the f*ck am I doing here?”.

That was always Cavill’s strategy.  Work his image to sell himself as a product, even when, apparently, the post was about running, meditating or just rescuing a horse. He is a merchandizing tool and always focused heavily on image marketing, a mythomaniac, actually, a very insecure and mediocre man selling the image of the hot womanizer, a pretender, who brags about dignity, while escorting promiscuous in Hollywood.

My opinion? For a mediocre man a mediocre sl*t who practices bl*w j*bs publicly and shows her herpes publicly with pride. Despite his arrogance, this time he chose the perfect tramp. Cavill and Viscuso are perfect for each other. Both are gulable for the spotlight, mythomaniacs and mediocre. It’s definitely the perfect brilliant couple.

[debunkingidiots]

Why do you insist on continuing to lie and not admit for once you are stealing those images?

@starl0versz ?

It's the same image, only an idiot wouldn't notice that.

you are a mythomaniac person.

[radiatorchains]

             I'd rather fuck a fleshlight full of dull needles than you.

@girlpsychic

             You think I can't eat pussy?

[cherriesnkisses]

mmm yeah, block me now you fat disgusting whore, I found pictures of you without make up, your boyfriend will have to put a bag over your head while he fucks you, jesus those freckles look like someone took a shit on your face. please don't take off your makeup in front of him. I am also one of your "nice and supportive followers" 😂 put this up so you can feel sorry for yourself and your group of fans will comfort you bitch😂 or turn off anonymous because it's beyond you. I was hoping you would die from covid like your mother you mf. I don't know if I asked, but how many gifts do I have to give you to fuck you or how much food will your fat ass eat? (you don't have an eating disorder, you just eat a lot) I am the biggest mythomaniac I have ever seen on the internet

wow you must be a really sick person, especially to talk about my mom like that

at this point i’m only posting it so other people can see how fucking ridiculous you’re acting, because it’s not cool or modern to talk like this, it’s just embarrassing and you should feel humiliated

[sgiandubh]

Pants on fire

Y'all pretty much stopped -actively- following Sarah H, right?

Well, let's see what she did post last Monday:

For our distinguished Spanish Mafia representatives, here is the gist of it:

During an anonymous Q&A session on Insta, she was asked if she would allow the person she currently dates meet her son. Question was formulated as a possibility only, by the way.

Her answer was crystal clear, despite her terrible, terrible English grammar, and I am going to translate it in Spanish, for once:

'Gracias. Hace 5 años, me separé del padre de K y nunca le he presentado a Kayson a nadie con quien haya salido en estos últimos 5 años. Solo lo haría si estuviera segura de que estaré con este hombre para siempre. No estoy de acuerdo con personas entrando y saliendo de su vida, esto no es justo. Enrollarse resulta más difícil, ya que K está conmigo la mayor parte del tiempo, pero está bien.'

This goes to show two important, yet predictable things:

a) the Traditional Troll lied through her teeth. She always does. People never learn, just because obsession blurs all the damn lines between what is reasonable speculation and what is dingbat lying.

b) the other Sad Mythomaniac insinuating she spoke to Steve the Climber, who allegedly confirmed S was spotted in that GLA park with K was well... just a sad (and desperate) mythomaniac:

I am sorry, pumpkins. Park Anon was correct. I did not invent it, no matter how hard you'd pretend. You should also know by now I never send Anons. I also happen to think both of these cheap pretexts spoil the fandom experience entirely, something I have no wish to do. For me or anyone else - and yes, that includes Mordor, too. When I say something, I sign and own it loud and clear. And I take no prisoners.

Thank you for the tip - you know who you are and you always, always deliver 😘💖.

I am back, biatches 🤣🤣🤣.

[Later edit]: updated for exact reference of Sad Mythomaniac (not the only one). And pumpkin, don't fret: I am Romanian. Also, what about Frosty the Snowman @ Cawdermill and those sets of two different handprints, huh? #Hogmanay