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a2zillustration · 1 month

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I can't remember if I ever sent this ask, but does croissant enjoy gale's cooking? I know it's talked about in game that he does most of the cooking but I don't recall it ever being said that it was necessarily good. do you think it's more like "boy this guy can really cook!" or "...well its better than nothing!"

I live for these comics and stories btw! its such a delight seeing people really embrace the rp part of rpgs! ❤️

Croissant was never a great cook so Gale's food has been a welcome adjustment, but Gale apparently has an aversion to vegetables, a thing Croissant is used to eating much more often.

Thank you so much!! I'm not used to playing RPG video games and being able to explore Croissant and the cast outside of the game has been so much fun!

[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

[[ All Croissant Adventures (app) ]]

#me writing this comic: boy howdy I sure hope I remembered everything about Gale's lore correctly ngjkfldnskh #bg3 croissant #croissant lore #asks #gale dekarios #breadweave #gale x tav #AH REMINDER - NO NEW STORY COMICS UNTIL MONDAY but I'm still trying to make sure there's something new for u 2 read

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otrtbs · 3 months

Text

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ an otrtbs submission for the @sillylovesongsfest ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

prompt: pierre by ryn weaver

jarty croucher | t | 4.1k | slightly sexual themes and recreational drug use

Barty rolls over and groans at the sun-soaked tent he finds himself in. It’s sweltering hot and the thin cotton top sheet of the makeshift bed clings to his sticky skin. The tent is too bright and it smells sour with stale tobacco and weed.

It would be enough to make Barty vomit if there was anything left in his stomach.

There’s sand everywhere.

“It’s so fucking humid in here,” he groans, as his brain pounds against his skull. “I can’t breathe.”

A voice in the bed next to him makes him jump.

“It rained last night, remember?”

Barty turns to see a head of nearly white curly hair fanning out over the blue tarp next to him. A girl, no, the girl from last night laying on her stomach, still half-asleep.

“Fucking torrential.”

Barty didn’t remember. Not really.

The night before was coming back to him in bits and pieces. Alcohol-soaked frames of cognizance.

He remembers fighting with James again. Screaming so loud that his voice was hoarse and his throat was scratchy. This time was the last time. Never come back here again. He remembers hearing about some giant rager in the desert. Something about celebrating the blood moon. There were caravans of people and bonfires and music by the time Barty showed up.

He remembers not knowing anyone there. Heard from a friend of a friend. He was a drifter. A party crasher. None of that mattered once he was there though. A group of people pulled him in like they’ve known him his entire life, and soon enough he had a cup of something that burned his throat in his hand and a girl dragging him closer to the fire.

He remembers the brutal sun casting heat waves so violent that everything seemed to shimmer and dance slightly around him. Pockets of sun-induced water appeared just beyond the sand dunes and disappeared by the time Barty walked over to them.

He drank until the sun went down, he took everything offered to him. He sweats out all of the vodka in his system just to down more in a steady stream. He barely recalls the red moon rising high above him, ruddy and ominous.

When the desert got cold, that’s when the real party started.

Some man’s hand around his throat, some girl’s tongue in his mouth. Everything pulsating and dully muted around him. Bodies pressing up against his, hands through his hair, a settling chill to cool the sticky heat.

The girl pulls away. Stark white hair like an angel in the desert. Billowy white clothes like a ghost.

And Barty wants to be haunted.

Sand slipping through his hands. She weaves in and out of the crowd once she decides she’s done with him, but he follows as closely as he can.

Eventually, she stops and turns around again, the shadows from the fire flicker on her face.

“I have something to help with dullness,” she shouts over the noise, the people, the music, the blood rushing in his head.

“What?” He hadn’t realized he’d said that part out loud.

She sticks out her tongue so Barty can see a little white tab with a smiley face on it. It has three eyes, and one of them winks at him.

He puts his mouth on hers in grateful acceptance and the tab finds its way under his tongue.

“Who are you?” Barty asks, voice reverent as he eyes the tattoo on her shoulder. Little horns inked into her skin. “An angel?”

She laughs as she pulls him closer. Her nails are sharp like claws and for a second Barty thinks she might rip him apart. Feels like he’s been caught. Her teeth sharp and glinting at the sight of his throat.

“Maybe I’m the devil.”

That’s where his memory ends. For the most part.

He holds a hand up to his sore lip and winces. Runs his tongue over it and tastes the dried blood.

“Fuck,” he groans.

The girl sits up and as soon as Barty sees her pale green eyes blinking back at him he smiles.

“Pandora.”

“Hm. So you do remember.”

“Vaguely,” Barty croaks through chapped lips. “I can’t believe I slept in a tent in the desert on the floor.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You look like you do this all the time. No offense.”

“None taken,” Barty sighs, as he examines his stinging palm to see a raw and, now dried, bloody cut spanning the lifeline on his skin. “What the fuck?”

“It was the sacrifice to the moon,” Pandora supplies breezily as Barty moves to stand up.

“Right, whatever that fucking means,” Barty brushes her off.

Maybe he should be more concerned about the whole ordeal, but he wasn’t. It was actually…fun. A good release of energy.

He would’ve hated it.

He would’ve insisted that Barty stay the night at his place instead. Entertain him with something less risky. Something more self-serving.

Barty shakes his head to clear his thoughts. At least last night he hadn’t thought of him at all. Now, the harsh light of the morning was screwing things up again.

Pandora helps him search the sand and surrounding tents for his keys and his wallet, and some various other items before she points him in the right direction and Barty makes the trek back up the road to his car.

She tells him there’s another party next month. He tells her he’ll think about it.

The drive back is quiet. Barty doesn’t turn on the radio, it’ll only aggravate his already pounding head.

Instead, he thinks.

What would he think if Barty told him what he did?

Told him he held out his bleeding palm to the fire and listened as the blood sizzled on the rocks and wood beneath it. Told him he danced in the desert in the pouring rain and slept in a sandy tent as the alcohol coursed through his system. Told him he stayed out all night, not bothering to call home. Not bothering to tell a single other person where he was.

He’d be appalled. He’d probably sigh in disappointment, or better yet, he’d yell when Barty finally bothered to answer his call the next week.

It’s not Barty’s fault that James liked him because he was rough around the edges. Too sharp to hold onto without bleeding. Too impulsive to see a long-term future with. Too mean to have breakfast with the next morning.

It’s why it was fun. Something with an expiration date. Manufactured good times in a bottle– consequence-free-fucking.

But then it got confusing.

Barty wishes he would call. But he’s thankful he doesn’t.

A few weeks later, Barty finds himself at the front row of some dive bar-turned-concert-venue sipping a warm and flat beer. The place is crowded and loud, and the air is warm with the stench of alcohol and weed. He’s pretty sure someone in the back is giving out makeshift tattoos for five dollars. He’s pretty sure he’s gonna take the guy up on the offer after the show.

Some girl, in a poor attempt to dance, knocks into him and sends his beer sloshing over the side of his cup and onto the floor.

He doesn’t really mind though. Because it’s that occurrence that causes the bass player to look at him. Really look at him as he sways along to the music, and nods his head to the beat.

Barty gives a small smirk and raises his plastic cup in response and the bass player smirks back at him. A challenge. A dare. One that Barty knows well.

Barty watches him all night. Dark, muscled arms strumming along, plucking the strings. He’s so close Barty can see his short paint chipped fingernails and calloused hands. His hair bleached almost white, falls in twists that he shakes every once in a while as they fall in front of his eyes. His lips mouth the words to the song the frontman is singing. His body moves to the beat of the drummer, and his eyes shine like he’s doing it all for Barty. And maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s because Barty has always been Barty, but as the night progresses he starts to actually believe it is all for him.

When the set is over, Barty follows the bassist out back into the cooling night.

“You played really well up there,” he called after the man, causing him to turn around.

“Oh yeah?” The man smirked.

“Yeah. I’m Barty.”

“Evan.”

“Watched you all night.”

And that’s all it took really before Evan had him pressed up against some cold stone brick wall in a back alleyway.

Barty spends the better part of two months with Evan. They travel to different venues in the surrounding towns. They sleep all day and stay out all night as Evan plays his shows. Evan teaches him how to steal from unsuspecting store clerks. Barty shows him how to pick any lock. He lets Evan trace the scar on his palm over and over again. They’re high for most of it. Barty pierces Evan’s septum. Evan pierces his eyebrow. He travels with the band and plays the part of groupie dutifully.

It was much longer than his one-night desert excursion with Pandora, but soon enough the inevitable happened. He gets bored. Evan’s time was up and those soft, disappointed brown eyes flooded his mind once more.

Evan’s hands were calloused but not as rough. He was telling a joke but didn’t laugh the same. He didn’t bite to draw blood. He didn’t press to bruise.

Fuck.

Barty left with little trace. Just a text message telling Evan to text him the next time he was in town playing a show. Evan liked it but otherwise didn’t say a word.

And that was that.

Maybe this was just his way. Maybe he would be perpetually stuck chasing some unknown James shaped hole for the rest of his life. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. He could fill it up with other things. He could live with that.

He tries to tell himself he can live with that when it happens. His phone buzzes. Again and again and again and again and Barty stares at the caller ID displaying a number he’s more than familiar with. He answers it with a shameful eagerness but doesn’t speak.

“Hello?”

“Did you mean to call me?” Barty croaks out in the deadened air.

A stuttering pause. “Yeah. Yeah, hi. How are you?”

Barty lets out a sharp laugh. Too sharp. “How am I? I’m fine, James. How are you?”

“Good,” James tried to say brightly, but Barty could hear the flatness in his voice. “How, um. How have you been?”

“Okay, what the fuck, Bambi. You’re freaking me out. It’s almost four in the morning.”

James laughs at the nickname that was always made to be an insult. Until it wasn’t.

“No, I know. I just…” James trails off and Barty finds himself wishing he would just finish his fucking sentence.

Come on, James. It’s me. You don’t have to be nice to me, remember? That’s the deal. That’s the rule. You can be mean to me. I can take it.

Something in his chest pulls, but Barty opts to ignore it as he takes on his talking-to-James tone: Sarcastic and needle-sharp.

“Miss me that much, Potter?” Barty hears James let in a sharp breath on the other end of the line and pushes on. “What? Are you going to tell me that it’s three in the morning and this is the time I normally come slinking around your place? Miss having someone like me to knock you about a bit? Get a little too rough with you? Fuck you, smoke with you after, and leave before the lights come on?”

“Barty.” He tries not to flinch at the fact that James is using his first name. “That’s not why…I’m calling because–”

But Barty cuts him off before James can say something ridiculous. Something like ‘I’m calling because I care about you,' or 'I’m seeing someone else,' or 'I’m worried for you. This guy’s really great, not at all like you,' or 'I miss you.’

“Well, I can’t come around anymore. I just finished touring around with some bass player and his band all across the state. They just signed to a label they’re about to be huge. And Evan, the bass player, he’s like the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me, so.” Barty was aware that he was trying too hard. He could hear it in his own voice, but he was praying it was convincing enough for James. He pulled his lip ring in between his teeth and waited for James to say something.

“Oh, there’s an Evan.”

There was an Evan, kind of.

“Yeah, and he’s great, and I’m great. Never better, actually. So I think you were right to end it when you did. Whatever it was. It’s better this way.” Barty lies.

Barty lies and James goes quiet. It’s unbearable.

“James?”

Do you want to come over?

Why did it take you months to call?

Did you mean what you said when you told me you could never bring me around your friends?

Do you ever miss fighting with me like I miss fighting with you?

Remember when you almost let me pierce your eyebrow? Evan pierced mine a while ago and I thought about you the entire time he was doing it.

His hands aren’t yours wrapped around my throat. He never squeezes hard enough.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to hang up now.”

Speak now or forever hold your peace, James Potter.

“Okay, yeah. Sorry, yeah.”

“Okay. Later, bambi.”

Barty clicks the phone before James can respond.

What the fuck was James thinking?

What was he thinking?

Barty would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a small pulse of adrenaline at the sound of James’ voice. A small sense of satisfaction that James had broken the silence between them and called first.

He was going to ignore the fact that James had used the gentle voice with him. The voice reserved for a crying child, a terminal patient, or a scared wild animal in the woods. He was going to ignore the fact that James had obviously called him for a reason and Barty had dominated the conversation to keep him from it. And he was definitely going to ignore the curiosity chewing away at his mind about what James would’ve said if only Barty would’ve let him.

No. Instead, he was going to keep on telling James, and himself lies.

He was fine.

He was happy.

He was better than he’s ever been.

Barty walks himself out to his balcony and lights a cigarette as the cool air kisses his face. He recounts his lies over and over again and counts down to the day they might come true.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

“What did you say your name was again?” Barty looks at the sandy blonde boy questioningly. He’s got a smattering of freckles and soft eyes that are shining due to the alcohol.

The bar is too loud for a Thursday and Barty wants to leave, but the man just bought him another round and it would be rude to turn it away.

“Peter.”

Barty nods, tilting his new beer towards him. “Well, cheers Peter.”

Peter offers him a smile as he tilts his glass in Barty’s direction and takes a drink, smiling coyly.

They talk for a minute. This is how Barty finds out that Peter is English and has no job and no house. He came into some money and is using it to travel to as many places as he can before the money dries up. He finds places to stay by matching with people on Tinder or Grindr and he’s out by morning exploring the city.

So in other words, he’s trouble. Which is exactly what Barty’s looking for.

Peter has honey-colored eyes and a honey-colored voice to match. Sweet on the surface with something dangerous and reckless buzzing just below the surface.

They stay until the bar closes and they stay until the parking lot clears out, and then when it’s good and dark and empty Barty slaps his motorcycle helmet on over Peter’s head and tosses him the keys.

He stands on the pavement with his arms crossed and watches as Peter starts the engine.

“Are you sure you’ve done this before?” Barty asks skeptically as Peter hesitates.

“Y-yeah.” He calls over the hum of the engine. “ I had a motorbike– have a motorbike back home but it’s in the shop getting repaired.”

Barty nods. “Well, just take her around the parking lot a few times then. Let’s see it.”

In his defense, Peter was the one who had asked to ride it. When Barty brought up his motorcycle, he watched as Peter’s honey-colored eyes went wide as saucers as he asked to see it. To give it a ride. Maybe Barty should’ve been worried that this stranger would just drive off with his bike in the dead of night with no witnesses and leave him stranded, but he was too drunk to care. It would all be just another story to laugh about in the daylight. Moonlight desert rituals and bass players and motorcycle thieves. All because of James fucking Potter.

Barty watches and snickers as Peter clearly has no idea what to do.

James knew how to ride motorcycles. He would take Barty’s sometimes to the only 24-hour corner store to pick up a watered-down black coffee and a new pack of Parliament’s when they ran out. Sometimes an orange or two if they were hungry.

Peter manages to make it around the parking lot twice before a loud pop rings through the air and causes Barty to jump. By the time he can register what’s happening, Peter is already beside him, pale-faced, and apologizing profusely.

He popped a fucking tire.

The blowout was not a gunshot. Thank god.

He lives another day.

Barty gives Peter a once over and determines that he went smashing into the concrete based on the scrapes to his face and his hands, and the tear in his pants at the knees.

For a moment, Peter looks at Barty like he might kick the shit out of him, and maybe Barty should, but the whole thing seems so comical at the moment that he can’t help but burst into delirious laughter.

Of course, someone named Peter that he met in a bar at midnight would ride his motorcycle once and make the tire pop. That was just his luck.

Without thinking about it, he sends a text to James.

‘Motorcycle tire just popped. Fucking shit.’

His phone buzzes almost instantly in his hand.

‘I told you last time the tire needed air. It was only a matter of time. You should’ve let me fill it up.’

Barty watches James type a message for what seems like an eternity. Then a new message.

‘Are you okay?’

Then it’s Barty’s turn to type forever.

‘Never better, bambi.’

He makes Peter call them a cab and tow company to get the bike. It’s the least he could do. Since he thinks it’s his fault the tire blew out, and Barty convinces him that it is.

Barty says they’ll figure it out in the morning and lets Peter stay at his place until the end of the week. Just long enough for him to see that the motorcycle was getting fixed. Long enough to take him around the city and show him all the best places.

They keep in touch for a month at tops and then Peter fades into another memory. Another story to tell. Another person he was with because he wouldn’t be with James.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

On the fourth of July, he meets Regulus at some party in someone’s backyard.

They’re about to start shooting off the fireworks when Barty sees him. Short crop of curly black hair and a downturned frown.

“Not having fun?” Barty smirked in an attempt to make conversation.

“What?”

“Not having fun?”

“Not really.” The boy’s frown deepened. “Not at all.”

“Oh, what the fuck. You’re French?”

“Very astute observation.” The stranger says as he attempts to walk away.

“Sorry. It’s just, why the fuck would you be here if you could be in France? I’m Barty by the way.”

“Regulus,” the stranger sniffs. “And why the fuck would your parents name you Barty if they could pick from any other name in the world?”

Barty grins at Regulus’ accent and his snark. “Got it. No more questions then.”

“No more stupid questions,” Regulus amends.

They stick together the whole evening as Barty attempts to make the Fourth of July fun for the both of them.

He spends a few weeks with Regulus after that. Regulus speaks broken English, something stilted, but sure, and it rings nice in Barty’s ears long after he’s stopped talking. There’s nothing serious between them. They just spend the summer days sun drunk and carefree. Regulus attempts to teach him French. Barty attempts to make this time different. Neither of them are successful.

“I lied,” Regulus says in a passing moment as Barty gets ready to say his final goodbye. “I’m not twenty-three, I’m twenty. Also, my English is perfect. I was just fucking with you.”

Barty just blinks a few times. “Why do you think I would care about that? Regulus, what the fuck.”

Regulus shrugs. “Just thought you should know. You’re not the only one pretending to be something you’re not just for the fun of it.”

And Barty knows it’s fucked up, but he could kiss Regulus all over again.

He adds a pathological liar to his running list of adventures.

When he returns to his apartment, it’s quiet and empty. He tries to tell himself that he’s okay with that, that he likes it best this way, that he’s never been better.

James calls once again.

It’s become a routine of theirs.

James calls and Barty answers. He fills James’ head with all of his exploits, all of his stories, all of the Pandora’s and Evan’s and Peter’s and Regulus’ he’s been with since James. All of the fun he’s had since the last time they spoke.

But he couldn’t ever let any of them in, because James was already there, taking up too much space. Always there, lying in wait.

Barty keeps on telling his lies and James lets him, but they’re still not coming true. Barty’s counting down the days and still feeling more down than ever. He wishes that James would just call his bluff, hear the falseness in his voice, and yell at him for being irresponsible. But he never does.

It’s not until after Emmeline, Fabian, and Narcissa that James gives him another call.

Barty’s in the middle of recounting his latest adventure when James does it. Interrupts him with a knowing scoff.

“Listen, Crouch,” he says just like he used to. He’s fed up. Barty finally managed to press his buttons once more. “Can we stop doing this song and dance now? Drop the act?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Barty sniffs, still trying to get one up on him.

“Oh sure,” James continues, voice flat. “When you’re ready to stop lying to yourself and to me…I was calling to tell you to come around.”

The words land like cement in his stomach.

“To come around?”

Barty’s heart picks up its pace.

It was a bad idea.

It was a horrible idea.

It would put them right back to where they were before.

Fighting and yelling and waiting for the moon to come out to talk to each other. To see each other.

It would end horribly.

They would burn each other up. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. But God, Barty missed how it felt to be on fire.

“Yeah,” James breathes into the phone receiver. “You know the code to get in.”

Barty takes a deep breath.

What did it say about him that it had been all this time, and he still thought about James and his apartment and his soft sheets that were always laundered every day? James’ hands gripping his jaw. James’ laugh when Barty couldn’t find his jeans that had all been but ripped off of him. James’ sharp sneer and clenched jaw when Barty managed to get under his skin.

It doesn’t take too much convincing. Just lighting bolts of flashing memories. Tooth rot that ached too good to let go.

“Alright. Yeah. Fuck it. Fuck it, Bambi.”

There would be plenty of time for lying to himself later.

And one day his lies would come true.

Just not today. And definitely not tonight.

“I’ll come around.”

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

inspired by the song pierre by ryn weaver

#nat writes #and nat prays to the lord above that this formats correctly #basically do not read if you're opposed to #jarty croucher #bartydora #rosekiller #bartylus #barty x peter #idk if there's even a ship name for that tbh #<- barter LMAO #barty crouch x james potter #recreational alcohol consumption and drug use #if u remember when i said this would be bartylus...mind ur business #barty crouch junior #barty crouch jr #okay i think that covers the tagging department

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theloveinc · 9 months

Text

Gojo smiles that smile. The one that curls his lips ever so slightly at the corners, and barely wrinkles his brow as it drags itself upward. The one that taunts with endless questions with no clear answers… with his chin in his palm, his bangs dripping down the tilt of his face, and his dark glasses slipping, too.

“Am I not a nuisance?” he asks, he tests, he trials, waiting for you to stumble, to fall, to berate him for being the spiteful person that he knows very well everyone secretly loves.

Instead, you raise your own brows in question. Inhale, almost in a deep sigh. Then you tilt your chin in and laugh.

“Our lives nearly end every day and you think I find you a nuisance? The people I love have been murdered only for you to ask if you’re the nuisance?” You roll your eyes. “Don’t kid yourself, Satoru. You could never be the problem.”

#gojo #do I tag this as gojo x reader?#truck it #gojo x reader #ego death gojo ego death gojo #I love him but I need to humble him so badly it’s #it’s bc he’s an uneducated man in education #THE WORST KIND #thinking he’s all that everyone pretending he ain’t sh*t when we all know HE IS SH*T #makes me want to hit him with a broom like #the world has real problems I don’t care u want to act all goofy !!!!!#it’s just cuz I’ve been working with kids but like … they do things they think you’ll be mad abt… and when u aren’t mad… they’re shocked #gojo is so like.#I know his tomfoolery is all on purpose even tho he’s genuinely silly and kind at heart #but like… everyone falling for it and kinda not taking him seriously…#I mean I get it a lot of the time but also #where is the ego death… where is the vulnerability… he needs to be ignored #truly I think that’s something that would drive him INSANE #am I explaining this correctly?#like I just process him so differently than everything I read #which doesn’t make all that bad but like… I need the combo. the nuisance. I gotta earn the silly after #breaking him in #nuance*** not nuisance LOL #anyway #sorry if this bad I tired #caitie post #gen

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jilyandbambi · 11 months

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the people who are pissed at Natalie's death and writing off the show bc it turns out the point of Yellowjackets wasn't some 3rd wave feminist #yas queen parable about rejecting societal norms and finding true freedom in the woods remind me of the annoying Intro to Womens Studies nerds who interpret the ending of The VVitch--y'know the movie where a malevolent entity uses starvation and grief to destroy the minds of an entire family so that he can isolate and sexually enslave the isolated & devastated eldest daughter for eternity--as a cathartic feminist metaphor.

people, the principal says it in the first minutes of the show: "all i know is that what happened was a tragedy. A terrible tragedy."

A. TRAGEDY.

because the Yellowjackets worked their asses off to get to Nationals. It was the biggest moment of their lives. They LOVED soccer. They were FREAKING PUMPED to get to Seattle and win the title. This was their DREAM.

because Jackie was a happy, perky kid from suburbia who was looking forward to going to college with her best friend. who found something to love about literally everyone but was doomed because you can't rally a starving team with a rousing speech and an ice breaker

because Shauna was going to go to Brown and grow up and find the confidence to be HERSELF instead of Jackie's best friend. And then she and Jackie have a fight and Jackie dies because of Shauna's betrayal, Shauna's jealousy, Shauna Shauna Shauna. Jackie will be a child forever because of Shauna, so how could Shauna dare grow up? She can't put her grief to rest because Jackie was never laid to rest because of Shauna. So Shauna comes out of the wilderness and marries Jackie's boyfriend and has Jackie's child and gets older year after year but never grows up because one night when she was 17 and scared she and Jackie had a fight and Shauna waited until the morning to say "I'm sorry."

because Taissa had a plan, had goals, had a future already mapped out. Nationals. Howard. Law school. Becoming a hot-shot NY lawyer. Because she got out of the wilderness and kept chugging along with The Plan because she HAD TO. But none of it is real to Taissa because you can't live and be numb, and Taissa has to be numb because if she lets herself celebrate the wins that she managed to swim while her fellow survivors sank, she’d have to remember that she too killed and ate her friends to get there. And Taissa--so distressed by what they did to Jackie she dissociated into amnesia--can't accept that, can't have that be who she is because it would ruin everything she wanted for herself. And then it's all ruined anyway.

because Lotte was a girl with psychic powers AND schizophrenia. She needed her meds!! Stopping treatment cold turkey is painful, disorienting, and SCARY, she needed support, she needed someone to tell her what was real and what wasn't because without her meds it was impossible for her to discern for herself. She needed support but got made into a god instead. And now a false prophet is all she knows how to be.

You get the idea.

The Yellowjackets didn't find freedom from society and the chains of the patriarchy when their plane crashed. They found starvation and guilt and loss and pain. The wilderness isn't a god of decadence and pleasure and ecstasy. It takes more than it gives. The team got to survive in exchange for slavish devotion and grief, and their childhoods, their dreams, their achievements, the people they loved more than themselves, the lives they’d been perfectly happy to keep on living.

They get rescued, go home, and grow into fractured adults who all, to varying degrees, actively make their lives worse because functionally, they're still scared, guilt-ridden kids lost in the woods who know no matter what that nothing will ever be okay again.

NONE OF THEM are glad that this happened. NOT ONCE does anyone say, "You know I'm grateful for this awful traumatizing experience because without it, I never would've [X,Y,Z]" NOT EVEN MISTY, who broke the transmitter so she could have friends for 5 more minutes. THIS SHOULD TELL YOU SOMETHING.

Yellowjackets is a TRAH-JAH--DEE.

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets spoilers #yellowjackets meta #yall are on my nerves #you saw some teens playing dress up and making out in the woods #and thought you were getting sisterhood of the traveling antler mask?#little women but in the 90s and with cannibalism?#bitches will say 'nothing u learn in school will ever matter'#and lack the ability to correctly interpret the basic surface-level themes of a 1hr program #WE GET IT u read The Song of Achilles during English instead of participating in the class discussion on 1984 #but now look where u are

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incorrect-ikevamp-quotes · 1 year

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do you think leonardo or comte is older? i can’t remember it being specified but i’m not sure. i mean we have leonardo’s age but how old is comte??? i haven’t played comte’s route so idk if cybird mentioned it or made one up but his real historical birthday/place was pretty much unknown i think??? thoughts?

I always thought Comte was the older of the two? But to be honest I was never sure if that was just my bias talking or it was actually the case. So naturally, because I am So Normal, I did a little digging through all the stories I've read up to this point to see if there were any concrete indicators. The most promising lead I was able to find was from the "Tell Me Your Story" collection event.

Meta under the cut, since I was left unsupervised and it got long:

The contents that are most pertinent to what I have to say are as follows:

In this story, Comte speaks a little bit about his childhood because MC found him playing the violin. He talks about how he originally trained as a young boy on an instrument called "a rebec." Mind you, Comte says that he still has the first one he ever bought--he remembers because he acquired it the day he was told he would stop aging forever. In due course he takes it out to show her--and later plays for her, at her request.

Now, looking at all the facts. The violin was said to be introduced between 1540 and 1560, roughly speaking (I'm not a historian, this is all based on rudimentary research). This doesn't tell us too much though, as Comte does say the instrument he trained on and first purchased was much older. Many sources show the rebec dating back as early as the 10th century (meaning anywhere from 900-1000) in Spanish courts, a supposed mashup of the Arabic rebab and the Eastern European lira. The clearest written records (the few that exist) begin from the early 12th century and on, though it was at the height of its popularity towards the 15th/16th century.

Aside from the fact that that's fuckin crazy, that would place Comte as being born anywhere from 900-1100 (1200-1500 at the very latest). Now I know what you may be thinking. How the hell does that narrow anything down, Minnie?

Given the cultural implications surrounding the rebec's emergence, the context actually does allow certain tentative conclusions to be drawn. I've seen indications that musical talent with a rebec was considered a big deal as an indicator of wealth/higher status in the earlier years of that time frame. Taking Comte's childhood into account--that he was raised to effuse aristocratic breeding and poise--I think that makes it highly unlikely he was learning when it was most associated with street performers (during the latter portion of my posited time frame). Everything about Comte's family pretty much screams old money (aka wealth they were born into, not curated during the rise of the mercantile class trying to be posers), so I really can't see them raising their son to play commoner music.

Another very telling bit lies in the phrasing of how he found the instrument: "he discovered the old rebec among other goods from a foreign trader." Remember that in the latter end of the time frame, it was so commonplace it could probably be found among local vendors/craftsmen--there would be no need for them to be imported from foreigners. I imagine his family only had access to the instruments in accordance with their social standing; naturally the rich would have their connections, but not just anybody would have the money or means to get their hands on one.

If my beginner's dive isn't too far off the mark, that would make Comte anywhere between approximately 400-1000 years old. I get this hunch that he's probably somewhere in the middle, I just don't know where exactly. I wish I had a better estimation since that's a pretty huge range, but considering the lifespan of the rebec it's hard to tell.

The only great anachronism in all this is the existence of Comte's pocket watch which was gifted to him by his tutor (I believe that's what she was, I know it was one of the human people in his house when he was young). The first pocket watch is said to have been created in Germany in 1510 (and shortly after distributed in Italy), but honestly it feels a bit out of place compared to all of the other evidence available to us. If that's the case, then Comte could have been born in the 1490s (since he received it when he was like 12, somewhere around there). Honestly I do feel the game suggests that he's older than that, so there's some dissonance there. But I leave that up to personal interpretation, since I'm not 100% sure about it either.

Lowkey, I feel like they might have gone so hard with the timepiece imagery for Comte that they forgot the historical practicalities attached to them, so that's half the reason I don't know what to do with this information. I get that vibe of like something something rich people cop out, unless purebloods have weirdly long childhoods--

Leonardo I don't have as many receipts because I'm just a poor Comte stan trying to live (his collection stories are pain), but if we go by the indication that his in-game life loosely follows the historical figure and simply continues on with his faked death, that means he was likely born somewhere around 1452. I can't remember super clearly, but for whatever reason my only memory of age indicators for Leonardo was around 400 or so (which tracks with that interpretation). That would actually make him potentially younger than Comte, younger than I initially anticipated. Or, if Comte was born on the latter end of my estimations, they are at the very least close in age.

Also please don't hesitate to let me know if I'm missing any receipts on Leonardo, I have only one brain cell and she is trying so hard, my friends

As to the place of Comte's birth I haven't the slightest clue about that. It's pretty obvious he's of European ancestry, but as to where he was born/raised exactly, it's difficult to tell. Given all the talk of the rebec there's a decent likelihood he originates from the Mediterranean area/Southern Europe, as it is an Arabic instrument by origin that was adapted into something new by Spain. (This could mean he was born anywhere between France, Spain, Italy, or even the countries a little further up or closer to the Middle East.)

I considered Northern Europe/England, but honestly the evidence doesn't really seem to lean in that direction. Comte mentioned that he once lived in England and made friends there, but the way he talks about makes it sound like he was a visitor/traveler, not a native. And frankly, Comte isn't insufferable enough to be English lmao, he has a conscience. There is actually some tentative evidence for Irish descent, as the vampy mind persuasion/compulsion is termed "geas" in the game, which is a word that stems from Irish gaelic/folklore. The only reason I don't think there's a real connection is that there's no further evidence tying Comte to Ireland; and I don't think the etymology necessarily guarantees ancestry (though there is something to be said about the Irish gothic and vampiric origins).

Admittedly it feels like the game makes his nationality vague on purpose, and I think this has a two-part intention. The first is that historically he was shrouded in a great deal of mystery, so it only makes sense they would be reluctant to name a singular place. The second is that--and I don't remember where the screenshot is, I saw it a while ago--the game describes him as belonging to no one place (that he belonged to all and none). Keeping his character construction in mind, I feel like this aligns with his general theme of contradiction. He's a greater vampire who prefers to keep company among humans, he's a powerful being with a fragile/sensitive heart, he has strong convictions but hesitates constantly, he's able to blend in almost everywhere he goes but never truly feels like he belongs. It would only make sense, narratively speaking, to keep with that motif/trend.

Also quick aside, because I can't help the music nerd in me. Rebecs are bitchin?????? Holy shit slay. Fun fact: they appear to have been primarily used for festivities, played for dancing. That gives a whole new impression to the fact that he bought one the moment he found out he would never age any further. I guess I just think about how that's a pretty joyous purpose for the music (beyond the pedigree aspect). That he clung to this specific artifact as a way to remind himself of his connection to humanity, that it was about people gathering and enjoying each other's company (and yet at the same time, all the political games that come with such leisure)...what a reflection of who he is today. I think it's fascinating how much people are at the heart of his personal motivations and feelings, considering how easy it is for purebloods to become lone wolves (power and secrecy would lend itself to that.) Instead, Comte chooses to hide in plain sight and actively works to stay engaged in the times and among the population. Then again, if I were hundreds of years old I would probably also beg for a distraction from the encroaching madness so like ajkhslgfkjhfslakjh it's very sweet but also mood...

In short:

Thank you for the ask, lovely!! 💛💛💛💛 I hope this answers your question? I love any excuse to talk about my one and only 👀💍

#ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp comte #ikevamp saint germain #ikevamp leonardo #ikevamp meta #honestly i went down a much deeper rabbit hole than I anticipated #but the game is so vague and my mans so sexy that i just had to see the timeline for myself #in short: i don't need sleep i need a n s w e r s #although man if im reading this all correctly that's insane #that would make him potentially twice as old as leonardo b r U H H H H H #explains comte's sense of like 'im old enough to be too mature for this' (chops the back of Leo's head the second MC isn't looking anyway)#i still die laughing whenever i read comtes second bday story and it deadass says 'but before leo could make a wisecrack'#their verbal jousts to establish class clown dominance are hilarious #i have half a mind to give them wiffle ball bats and watch them smack the shit out of each other #with only that feral instinct that wiffle ball bats evoke in pent up middle schoolers #comte be like 'take the professional deep breath' in every other situation #but then on sight just **decks leonardo with a folding chair**#literally the duality of man #fangdad propaganda #all right all it is 1am it is time for me to sleep #but i hope you enjoyed this installment of minnie's rambles

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aishterukii · 2 years

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Oho the invitations

How do you like my new outfit? I see, I know how you feel... you're so fascinated by it that you've been rendered speechless!

On the day of the event, this unrivaled handsome man wearing such a splendid outfit shall escort you like a gentleman. I'll give you the greatest pleasure, so enjoy yourself, okay?

#sadge that there's no silvio :')#he'd probably say something like Hey Woman how'd u like my 32520568th dalmatian patterned clothing?#im kidding but also not #also chev was Smiling smiling. like ':)' personified #its 3am and idk if i read everything correctly fnfnsnams #ikemen prince #ikepri #clavis lelouch #also checked the ikesen invites and... no kanetsugu :') my disappointment is immeasurable and my day is ruined

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bloomfish · 2 months

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honestly I know I go on about this but being a suppressed language speaker makes you so protective over any other minority languages that have historically been discriminated against, no matter how far-flung you just feel a connection. i'm lucky to live in a culture that is extremely proud of and protective over its language that fortunately is now thriving, but the reality is not all communities have had the same opportunities and ability to preserve their languages as we've had. it's so important. every speaker counts. a language isn't only worthy of being studied and spoken if its "useful" on a global scale

#if i could download a language straight into my brain it would be welsh. then basque. idc about usefulness #i would love to learn welsh. so much. i am trying to work on pronunciation so i can at least read words aloud correctly #like if things had been different historically i might have spoken both welsh and catalan perfectly from birth #i'm fluent in catalan but it was always a struggle and ive put in a LOT of effort to get it to the level which its at now #my dads family straight up never spoke welsh at all. except my cousin bc she learnt it at school and was just good at it #edit- not from birth. u get what i mean

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afrouniverse · 1 month

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Dumb as hell but like tumblr culture is a little traumatising. I can't shake off the feeling that there are people looking at my blog and thinking I'm either cringe, a terrible person, or both. And I have less than 20 posts and less than 10 followers (I think), so why am I even afraid of this??

I understand people have the right to dislike whoever they want, but the idea that there are people who dislike you based on shallow things without even getting to know you and thinking horrible things about you in their head is horrifying to me. Exactly why whenever i look at a stranger's blog I try to not think anything negative about them even if they said something I think is bad, because man I would be so fucking sad if I knew somebody did that about me..

#Afro's rambles #Vent #another thing that scares me is like. People judging me for the things I ship?#some parts of the S//CP fandom REALLY hate people shipping the mask and the doctor #(Not naming anything directly cuz I don't want this to end up in the main tags)#Which is valid asf!! But it scares me that some people look at my blog and cringe #Or think that I'm annoying #Or that I don't portray them correctly #Sorry morality ocd is acting up again I need to chill I think #If u genuinely enjoy the things I draw (or write if u read my fic on ao3) bless u

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