A journey into superpowers ↳
( Also called Pyrokinesis / Fire Release / Firebending )
• User can create, shape and manipulate fire, the rapid oxidation of a material in the exothermic chemical process of combustion, releasing heat, light, and various reaction products, flame being the visible portion of the fire.
Depending on the substances alight, and any impurities outside, the color of the flame and the fire’s intensity will be different.
Portgas D. Ace
(Marvel Comics) Madison Montgomery
(American Horror Story: Coven)
(Gravity Falls) Sailor Mars (Sailor Moon) Leo Valdez (Heroes of Olympus) Pyrope (Undertale) Zuko
(Avatar: The Last Airbender)
I’ve seen a few posts/requests on here about the effects of emotional abuse and the affect that it has on each Myers Briggs type so, as someone who works with a lot of domestic abuse victims I thought that I’d give my two cents worth. I wanted them to be quite detailed to give people a fair amount of information so this will be the general format; a general description of what it will look like, how this differs from similar types (ie. the ENFJ compared to the INFJ and ESFJ) and a character in fiction who acts similar to this (may not be for the same reason and I might not get one for each type but I’ll try).
There will be some variation depending on when the abuse took place in their life but there are somethings that will remain the same.
Ever want to see an INFP that defies every stereotype in the book?
From my experience an INFP who has come from an abusive home will contradict pretty much every stereotype there is.
Chances are while they are in an abusive situation these are some of the last people that you would ever see crying or really showing any form of emotion. Until they get out, there will be no torched art work taking place, no heart-breaking poems and no idealism.
Here’s the thing, as far as I’m concerned you can’t really give abusive people a Myers Briggs type. In fiction, sure it’s easy but as far as real life goes, it doesn’t work because they all end up as ENTJ’s or ESTJ’s and that simply can’t be true.
But I digress, the point of me saying that was that the profile of an abuser is the polar opposite of an INFP profile (this isn’t me saying that all INFP’s are wonderful people because that’s impossible) the point is that an abuser will make an INFP suppress every part of themselves more than with any other type that I’ve come across.
An abusive person doesn’t want you to have a moral code, independent emotions or for there to be any level of removal from a reality that they can control. The result of this is that the INFP can’t use their dominant or auxiliary functions and stay safe at the same time.
But, since is still their type what you will see when an INFP is in an abusive situation is a person who just seems, for want of a better word, empty. The INFP will have suppressed their most natural selves because the truth is you can talk my ear off all about Fi having its own value system that is totally independent and this is what they will act on but, this changes if you are manipulated and never know one day to the next if you are going to be safe.
Its highly unlikely that they will have any of the usual INFP traits of having personal interests or hobbies or anything that would fuel their Fi or Ne, they will simply be surviving, just getting though the day with nothing extra, you may see an excessive amount of reading or TV watching. Anything in short that means they can be their natural selves without anyone noticing.
So in this stage, they would be pretty impossible people to type.
After this person had left their lives say hello to the inferior Te grip. This will just be made worse by the fact that control is something they have never had(and if the abuser was a parent) or hadn’t had for a long period of time.
Suddenly it is ‘my way or the high way.’ They will want to have a say in everything, no one will be able to tell them what to do, how to do it or when to do it. I’ve seen a studious INFP friend of mine get in a lot of trouble when she was in this situation because she refused to work at school or do her homework. Did she really have an issue with school? No, she liked it. But they were telling her what to do and when to do it by and she wasn’t having any of it. She had a strong element of enneagram 8(tri-type) in she was more confrontational than most would be. Many would just passively refuse to do things because they will not be told what to do anymore.
When this phase of over, its pretty much just all tears and trying to revaluate everything. They finally have the freedom to be who they are but at this point they have no bloody clue who that is. And I don’t mean in a sense of ‘I’m in my 20’s and an trying to find myself’ sort of way. They have never been able to be who they are so from what I’ve seen they tend to go back and forth between emotional extremes for a few months. Sudden flashes of anger, then idealism and wanting peace. Then they just want to cry all the time, then it is their sole mission to be happy.
If this is you or someone in your life, its hard and I understand but the honest truth is (as long as it’s not something that has been going on for years) all that is really needed here is time. It will mellow itself out.
Just like with the other types, years later they will likely appear to be a lot better and they often will be.
But in those cases when it is a different story in their heads you will often see cases of people who are disconnected to the people around them. They could at a party full of people having fun feel no sort of sense that this is their reality.
INFP vs. ISFP
The ISFP is far more likely to indulge in things like over or under eating, drinking, sex ect. as a method of distraction
The INFP will be more liable to appearing detached from situations than an ISFP, despite what they may be feeling, an ISFP will appear to be more grounded in reality and engage with people due to Se
Si is far more likely to focus/replay the details of what happened Ni will reply the general experience not the specific events
INFP vs. ENFP
Look at the grip, you will get in the grip 9/10 when you leave an abusive situation the way these types act in grips is very different
From what I’ve seen when they are at the stage of accepting and moving on from the abusive situation, an ENFP will likely deflect with humor on the situation, I am yet to see an INFP do this
ENFP’s will be see to try and distract themselves from an abusive home by an extravagant social life.
Finally, you can’t find a better example than Credence Barebone (Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them) for an INFP being an abusive situation. And I apologize but I couldn’t think of an example of what one may look like years after. If you can think of any please mention it.
This for the other types will be coming soon. If there are any further questions I’d be happy to answer(send them to me not this blog).
Summary: History used to be your favorite class of the
day. Used to. But that was before the
visions, the lashing out and the incredible, undeniable heartache that erupted
every day. History was Jaehyun’s least favorite class too.
Author’s note: Goddamn, where have I been? IT’S BEEN FOREVER! How are all of you? I’m back from hell and better than ever! Jkjk, anyways, I’ve been super obsessed with NCT lately, especially Taeyong, so ironically I write about Jaehyun apparently??? Anyways! Requests are open still, but I can’t promise I’ll get it done super fast since I’m on vacation. Anywho, Enjoy this piece of shit I just wrote!
every chopped contestant in the desert round:
my plan is to make an ice cream that I'll over churn into butter, a crepe that'll come apart in the pan, a panna cotta that won't set up, and a cake that won't bake through. And if all that doesn't work, my plan B is this caramel sauce, which I'll definitely forget about and burn to shit.
(Shadows crook their fingers out to her, and she dances on the edge of existence.)
“They’re back again,” Reggie said, arms crossed over his chest as he stared out the window.
Concetta made a strangled noise of exasperation, stomping over to stand beside him. She put her hands on her hips, scowling fiercely. “Really? Don’t they have better things to be doing?”
“Guess not,” Reggie said with a bored voice, his expression blank in a way that she recognized from the ease of long practice— he had already lost interest. Reggie turned away and let the curtains fall back into place, dismissing the mob milling about outside. They had bright torches held in work-calloused hands, and they were using the light to peer through the clearing.
She imagined that they were staring right at her, and shivered. Concetta wished that she could have the same indifferent attitude as her housemate, but even now she could feel the fear creeping up on her.
Once, Jasmin had jokingly said that a person never forgot their first witch hunt. She didn’t know just how right she was. Or maybe she did. Jasmin was different, even among the settlers here.
Reggie’s hand settled lightly on her head, ruffling the short haircut. “Don’t worry. This isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.”
She stared up at him, expression deadpan. “That’s… actually not helpful. That’s almost the exact opposite of what I wanted to hear, congratulations.”
Reggie shrugged, unbothered by the criticism. “What does it even matter? Even if they do manage to get in here, nothing they do will stick. Jasmin made sure of that.”
“I know,” Concetta said, and her mind was flooded with images of flames licking her skirts and shadows peeling themselves off the ground. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt.”
(Death is an old family friend, and she laughs when they come for her. Death laughs too, and takes her hand when she offers it. It hurts.)
“I wonder if they really even know,” Concetta said one day, eyeing the angry villagers that had once again begun to circle the mansion. “Are they aware of what this place really is?”
“As aware as a bunch of half-blind mortals could be,” Jasmin answered, a bit distractedly. She was concentrating on the bright fabric in her hands, carefully cutting off each of the glittery buttons. “They know that there’s something here, something that raises goosebumps on their arms and blurs at the edge of their vision. But they can’t really see it. They’re only human, after all.”
Jasmin didn’t mean it maliciously, but when she said human like that, so full of pity and careless arrogance, Concetta couldn’t help but shy away.
Concetta wasn’t human, true, but she hadn’t known that for a long time. And though she may have hated many humans, she did not hate humanity. It was hard for many of her companions to say the same. She didn’t blame them, not really. Concetta knew just how hard it was to separate the vicious few from the indifferent majority.
Even she had difficulty with it, sometimes.
(Come to us, they whisper. Come to us, and never be lonely again.)
The morning was crisp and cool. Reggie had gone to bed a little under an hour ago, the door to his basement room shut tight in order to prevent any light from leaking in.
Concetta had no idea where Jasmin was. The older woman had likely wandered off into the forest somewhere. She might not return for several more hours— or weeks, depending on how long her good mood lasted.
Concetta was used to the silence, the distinct absence of any other living beings. Jasmin and Reggie were the only other permanent residents besides her, and they were both drifters, content to follow the wind and listen to the stories it had to give them.
She couldn’t speak with the wind. She had tried, once, but gave up almost immediately when the only answer she was given was the furious roaring of a hurricane in her ears.
Concetta wasn’t meant to speak with the wind. She wasn’t whimsical and blunt like Jasmine, or relentless and steady like Reggie. While the two of them weren’t exactly soft people, they carried a gentleness in their souls and hearts that broke themselves over and over again simply so that someone else could have a piece of it.
A witch-child is not soft or gentle; they are harsh and unforgiving and dance with fire nipping at their heels.
“I, uh, heard this place was safe,” the man said, an almost sheepish expression on his face. He avoided looking her in the eye, keeping his gaze fixed on somewhere over her right shoulder instead. “My name is William. Is it okay if I, uh, stay here?”
Concetta could do nothing but nod in agreement, pulling the door open fully to allow him inside. Just as Jasmin had done for her, that rainy night so many years ago.
(The shadows dance, they rip and chew up the earth with their long claws, and she is running running running—)
“And here is your room,” Concetta gestured towards one of the empty guest rooms, hoping that the Dryad who had stayed in there last had remembered to clear away any plant growth before she left.
“Uh, thanks,” William said, still looking slightly to the right of where she was actually standing. “Is there anything I should know about this place before I get settled in?”
Concetta thought for a moment, and then shook her head. “Nothing that I can teach you.”
“U-uh, wait…” William stammered, clearly even more nervous than before. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said,” Concetta blinked, a bit unsure of what all the fuss was about. “There are a great many things in this place that even I cannot explain. It would be best for you to discover them yourself. That is why you’re here, right? Though I have to say, I’m a bit impressed. I’ve never seen a human manage to get this far before.”
“Oh, thank you—” William began, face flushing pleasantly at the praise, before he dramatically paled. “Wait, you know—”
“I know lots of things,” Concetta said amusedly, already turning to walk away. “Perhaps, at the end of this little venture, you will too. Have a wonderful stay, Mr. William.”
Behind her, she could hear him gulp. She felt a little bad for tormenting him, but not enough to actually stop. After all, she recognized this man.
The vicious few and the indifferent majority.
Weren’t both of them at fault, in the end?
(“Help me!” she cries, not to the shadows but to the people, the people who watch her with wide, pitying eyes. “Help me!”
The people don’t answer, but the shadows do.)
Second one of the night, woohoo! I’m so tired, what the hell. Anyways, this is a fun one too! I definitely enjoyed writing it, so I’m satisfied! Another Caffeine Challenge, and they seem to get better every time. Cheers!!
02/15/2017 (10:00PM - 11:00PM) (Wednesday) : INTELLIGENCE INVESTIGATES A HOME EXPLOSION WITH NO WITNESSES AND A VICTIM BURNED BEYOND RECOGNITION. When a charred body is found in a torched house, Intelligence must work to identify the victim, as well as a young boy who is found badly injured inside. As they look to determine the cause and who may have been involved, they are faced with a web of secrets and lies. Meanwhile, Lindsay (Sophia Bush) and Halstead (Jesse Lee Soffer) receive an odd warning about Rixton (guest star Nick Wechsler) that leaves them suspicious. Also starring Jason Beghe, Patrick John Flueger, Elias Koteas, Marina Squerciati, LaRoyce Hawkins and Amy Morton. Guest starring Jon Seda, Yaya DaCosta, Colin Donnell and Christian Stolte.
In UA #22 I particularly liked the scene where Rogue and the Torch worked together to give Charles back his dignity. The way Johnny sensed that Rogue needed some time alone afterwards paradoxically showed how close the two have become (even if we'll have to wait for new romantic developments). The arc also nicely showcased the importance of Charles Xavier in Rogue's life and how she won the respect of the non-X members, including long-time Avengers chairwoman the Wasp. All the best, Menshevik
I have to agree, Johnny was being a stand-up guy in this. It was a beautiful moment.
my cinderella wakes up with the taste of ashes in her mouth and thinks of her mother’s waning sickness. my cinderella has nightmares of watching her mother’s chest rising, a wheeze escaping her ribs. my cinderella does not cry about this, because she lives in the place fires begin.
her stepmother has perfect teeth and high eyebrows. “are you done sweeping?” she asks. “i need to see myself in my tiles.”
there are long days spent like this. sometimes cinderella gets caught on things. she spends four hours with a toothbrush swiveling in small circles, her whole body trembling. she thinks if everything is perfect, nothing bad will happen. if she checks the stove eight times, it will not poison her like her stepmother’s venom. if she lets the cat scratch her once a day, it will learn to love her. if she just gets these baseboards clean, maybe her father will come home to her.
the invitation comes when she is adjusting the pictures on the wall. it is announced with fanfare. her stepmother sends out the request for dresses instantly while cinderella watches, waiting.
“baby,” stepmother wakes her on the day of, “hope you know how long you’ll be working for today.” strokes her hair a little.
cinderella stares at her. doesn’t want to go to the ball, where people will be twirling around on floors someone else spent six hours polishing, where people will be careless in eating food someone else toiled over cooking. where people like her fade into the shadows.
when she opens her mouth, she says, “let me go, stepmother.” it is worth the look of shock and terror on that woman’s face to tell a lie. cinderella, after the slap, hides her face and smiles.
they leave trumpeting. her step sisters are cupcakes floating on shoes cinderella has sown together.
in the night, she rises from her bed and coaxes a little mouse onto her hands and snaps its little neck.
boiling the fur of it off is easy. she feeds the bits to the cat, who twines around her feet. she takes the bones under the poplar tree and lays them out just-so. she says the words her mother used to know.
deep from the shadows comes the Fairy. pink and pretty with eyes that are totally empty. cinderella knows better than to look at them directly. “you summon me?” asks the ancient one. “what needs be done?”
cinderella does not want a ball. cinderella wants a night off. she explains slowly what she wants. she gives the Fairy three things: a needle. a fingernail. a strand of hair. the deal is done, midnight comes.
she dresses in her mother’s dress, hidden under the floorboards. it is beautiful, white, shines like a river. on her feet are no shoes at all. she wants to feel the ground that carries her, that has been tilled by people like her.
at the gates, they stop her. no carriage, nothing but a smile on her. but she’s so polite. so willing. has big fluttering eyelashes. lures the guards beyond the light of the castle’s torches. knows how to work a kitchen knife.
inside, she is blinded by the brightness of lamps on granite. everyone here is laughing. gliding. cinderella glides too, effortless without any shoes.
her stepsisters hang off one another, have their arms draped off the prince. cinderella walks up. smiles. says the words her mother taught her.
they erupt into screams. “needles” they howl, dancing in shoes cinderella made, “needles in my feet.” they bleed all over the floors someone worked hard for. “That,” says cinderella, “is one for me.”
the prince is without words. stepmother in her skirts tumbles as she skitters forwards. she is bubbling with improper language to speak in front of royals. on her hand is a nail chipped from slapping her stepdaughter. cinderella looks her in the eyes when she says the word. without a pause, violent scratches appear over her stepmother. she is torn open.
“that,” says cinderella, “is for my mother.”
cinderella tips over candle sticks and sets things on fire. leaves them all with the taste of ashes in their lungs. turns. does not run.
the prince follows. on his steps, as the clock strikes midnight, he finds a footprint in blood. he swears he will find whomever it belongs to if he has to try the shoes of every girl in the kingdom.
but cinderella is no longer a girl. the last, a ring of cathair, has turned her into whiskers and a tail. she sits there, watching him in the light. she twines around his legs and purrs at him. he finds her white coat fascinating.
she lives off of castle food for the rest of her life. sometimes, when she is bored, she bats all of the pictures straight in the front hall.
nobody ever finds the girl. at the funeral of the stepmother, a white cat sits by the feet of the widowed man who was her father. he has nightmares of his first wife forever after.
2016 - Many Brazillians aren’t very happy with the Olympics being held in their country, with the state spending millions on stadiums and temporary infrastructure and lavish presents for corrupt IOC officials, while the country and the province and the city are in big recessions with no money for essentials like teachers and firefighters and hospitals. So here are some Brazilians doing their best to sabotage the carrying of the Olympic torch.
The Gold medal goes to the first gif, in which a group of local kids actually manage to steal the torch and run off with it, ending in a riot with tear gas and rubber bullets. The other gifs are valiant tries by individuals doing their best to extinguish the torch. I guess this again goes to show the importance of solidarity and working together. [video]/[video]
How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you know that refracted your own light to you? People were more often—he searched for a simile, found one in his work—torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people’s faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost trembling thought?
Under the cut you will find a list of #68 male and female Scandinavian first names (and their meanings) that are still popular in 2016. It does not include names originated elsewhere; though many of these are very popular in Scandinavia, I will only be listing names that originated in the region. Additionally, it does not include old-fashioned names that typically are not in use anymore. Because I am Scandinavian, I have compiled these mostly by listing names that I know are common, with some additional help by searching various name sites. Please reblog or like this if it was helpful to you!
Pairing: Johnxreader Word count: 1,517 Warnings: Some swears Request: “Hi you freaking amazing writer. I was wondering if I could request a fic
where the reader saves John’s ass on a hunt? Maybe in badass Nikita-esc
form? Maybe they end up hunting together?“ Hope you like, @ddean
You almost drove through when you saw that black 1967 Impala. Almost. You’d caught wind of a hunt that you thought you would check out. It seems that John Winchester had, too. Unless he was with Dean, he seemed to work solo. You were on the edge of town when you pulled a sharp U-turn. Something told you that you needed to go on this hunt. That you shouldn’t back down. One thing you didn’t do was back down from a fight.