Lost In My Own Universe

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See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

Sounds perfect Wahhhh, I don’t wanna

My long overdue intro post

Hey y'all!

So… I’ve been on here for around a couple of months and I realised I haven’t done an intro post! So, here it is!

Some info about me:

Name: Krystal (or Krys for short) [FYI, that’s not my real name - and don’t ask for it]

Age: I’m a minor

Country: Australia

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Queer
Pronouns page is here

MBTI: INFP-T

Mentally ill

Probably neurodivergent

I write a lot

Likes/things I like to do: Encanto, people getting along, animals (specifically dogs & butterflies), reading and writing, Alice Oseman’s books, fanfiction, Star Wars, snacks, peace, the Hunger Games series, the Nevermoor series, the Wednesday TV show, Doctor Who, music, art, collecting random things, quiet, funky clothes, Lego.

Dislikes: Hate, discrimination, bullying, unfairness, cruelty, people in pain, pain, trauma being inflicted (I’ve had my own), people not giving others a chance, people talking when others are talking, loud noises/places, people giving others hate for things they can’t control, people who lack respect, people who don’t see other people as people.

Fics: I’m on ao3 and Wattpad (I need to crosspost my fics from ao3 to Wattpad…)

A Warning: I reblog a lot of stuff, some of which are sad or may contain triggering content. I also vent sometimes, so be warned.

Music artists that I like to listen to: Laureli Amadeus, Imagine Dragons, Adele, Ed Sheeran, Coldplay, Taylor Swift, Dean Lewis

Characters I kin: Mirabel Madrigal, Bruno Madrigal, Frances Janvier, Tori Spring, Charlie Spring, Enid Sinclair, Morrigan Crow

Instruments I play: Clarinet, Saxophone, Singing and a bit of Piano

DNI: Ableists, proshippers or proshipping supporters (or at least, don’t ask/submit anything containing that), P*do’s or P*do supporters, supporters of the Taliban or groups like that, neo-nazi’s or nazi supporters, people who support Russia in the Ukraine war, anti-Semitic people, LGBT-phobes, aphobes, TERFs, SWERFs, fatphobes, islamophobes, and basically any discriminatory people.

So I hope this gives y'all some info about me!

-Krystal :D

P.S. And if any of you need help, the three links are to posts about helplines and stuff. x x x

Stay safe

Pinned Post intro post hi thebutterflyspeaks
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writing-prompt-s

Each type of death has a unique type of Reaper. The Reapers of Drowning collects the souls of the drowned. The Reapers of Old Age collects those that have come to their natural end. Write a story about a Reaper for an unusual death finally having a soul to collect.

peregrineggsandham

It is like this: Reapers of new deaths are born when they first occur. If that death is rare enough, their following existence can be quite boring. And nothing is more horrible to an immortal than boredom.

So she learned to bake.

It passed the time, and it was a comfort - not only to her, while she waited patiently for the call of her domain, but to those for whom the call never ceased.

Her mother was the Reaper of Drowning. She changed shape like the liquid that former her body - small and innocent, three inches of death in an unsupervised kiddie pool - enormous and mindless and roaring, crashing waves upon a great lake during a November storm.

After the rip tides had exhausted another unwary swimmer, she was exhausted too. And her daughter was there with gingersnaps, sharp against the tang of salt water.

The daughter made her own brown sugar, and her own rum, and rolled crumbled cookies into balls that warmed and comforted until her mother had quite forgotten that she, too, was a harbinger of death. The Reaper of Alcohol Poisoning eyed her homemade rum appraisingly and seemed to grant her a weary respect, at least. But brown sugar is very hard to fear. Certainly harder by far than the sea.

Her father was the Reaper of Workplace Accidents. Many were fast. Lightning-fast. Immediate, painless if you’re lucky, disfiguring and disabling for life otherwise. He was a steady being, not as changeable as her mother. He spoke firmly, as so often he needed to convince those he guided that they had, in fact, died. There. Look. There is what is left of you, caught in the gears. I’m sorry. Come with me. Few words, and quick ones - the slow deaths he hated, clothing caught in machinery, fate looming for dreaded seconds or even minutes.

His daughter was slow. She crept to him with a treacle tart once, after a pressure explosion had flattened a factory. Those were his favorite. The explosions, not the tarts - quick and done with and with minimal suffering, at least for the dead. He told himself it was because he did not like treacle that he turned down his daughter’s baked gifts, but as she rolled towards him, inch by sweet inch, he could only ever turn and flee with the swiftness of pressurized steam from that horrible sickly dread. She sighed.

Her uncles, the Reapers of Lava and of Pyroclastic Flow, were married one summer. They were scoffed at, for their deaths were so rare they had the time to indulge in such frivolties. What is a Reaper who has no job to do? Never mind how terrible their jobs, when done. Never mind that the latter uncle’s eyes were ash-gray and haunted by the thousands of souls he shepherded from St. Pierre, from Pompeii and Herculaneum.

She baked their cake, a towering thing of spices and chocolate, and went about the after-party nearly unnoticed. Slow, creeping, and without a death to her name since that which birthed her. The guests who saw her called her sweet, and forgot entirely what she was.

The former uncle drew her aside after the wedding, thanked her for the cake, put a hand on her shoulder and told her:

“We move faster than they think, you and I.”

In 1906, Vesuvius erupted again, and she went with her uncles to Naples. With one hand she helped the Reaper of Lava pull spirits from where they were trapped behind the flow. With the other, she offered them a plate of cookies, rich and well-spiced. She saw how quickly her uncle’s element could overwhelm. She stared at her flour-dusted hands and for the first time, saw how one day she might be needed. So she practiced, running to outpace destruction, plunging those hands into liquid horror to draw out flickering souls and cradle them.

Sometimes she was noticed, and mocked: “This is not your domain, little baker. You are too harmless to deal in such things. You are too sweet. Keep to your sugars and spices and do not pretend you understand death.”

It was thirteen years later that she would feel the call, would pull 21 souls to peace with those hands, would outrace a flood too viscous for her mother to wrangle and too slow for her father to bear.

Today still she bakes, for she does not expect to be called again for some time.

But when she is, rest assured, the Reaper of Molasses will answer.

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bunny-banana

if u feel the first cramp and think "i dont need a painkiller yet, itll pass" ? that the devil speaking, take that painkiller immediately

ceekari

It's a lot easier to prevent cramps from getting bad than to stop them once they already are. Take the medicine sooner and use the heating pad sooner rather than later.

krakensdottir

This is true of pain medication for ANY condition. My mom drilled this into me back when she worked as an O.R. nurse: Do not wait until the pain is bad. If you know it’s going to be, get ahead of it. First cramp? Medicate now. Twinges of a headache? Medicate now. Pulled your back and you know you’ll feel it later? Medicate NOW.