#↳ interaction

[beauclary]

WHO: Open to Anyone WHERE: Rosie's Diner WHEN: March 6th / a little after 6pm

To look at him now, it's almost difficult to imagine that there was a time when Beau Clary had the infectious sort of charisma that could engage an entire room. Hell, an entire stadium, at least once a week for a good chunk of the year for nearly all of his life. He's almost a shell of that man now ― at least in mind and spirit, if not in body. It's almost comical, actually, for someone so physically imposing to hold himself so small ; a hardened pebble in the sole of the Wexley, jammed into the grooves. Out of sight, out of mind. To his credit, he's done a commendable job at convincing himself he prefers it this way anymore.

But he's been lured out of the quiet lonely isolation of his apartment under a moral obligation to appease the kind hand that feeds and now ― now ― Beau stands in the middle of Rosie's Diner looking a bit like a deer in headlights. He feels a bit foolish, really ― it's not as if he doesn't know these people, even if he doesn't really know them, but he feels awkward and bumbling, like a perfect stranger stumbling into a family reunion. In spite of the fact that he doesn't really know where to go, he feels inclined to get out of the way, so he locks his gaze on the nearest empty chair and quickly makes his way over.

Looking up a bit sheepishly once he's seated, Beau clears his throat. ❝ Hi. Oh, hell, Ihis, um ― I'm sorry, this seat weren't taken, were it? ❞

[lindsohalloran]

who ashton @ashton-ryder when mr. wexley's birthday bash where the w

❝ ―look, it wasnae my fault, ryder, ❞ lindsay defends himself, leaning against the bar of the w as he fixes his long-time friend ― and the event's makeshift bartender ― with a pointed and unwavering stare. ❝ she came up tae me with a feckin' fistful of 'em, talkin' all ❛ can ye hold 'em for me please, uncle lindsay? ❜ as she's dumpin' jelly beans in me palm. and i was jus' gonnae hold 'em fer her 'til she was done playin', but i've a heavy feckin' sweet tooth― ❞ ashton knows this about him, certainly ; street food sweets were one of very few vices for the ex-scotsguard back in belize, and he could frequently be found with pockets full of of fresh wangla from one of the vendor carts near the base. ❝ ―and i couldnae resist, figured just a few couldn't hurt. and jaysus were they stale, like ― probably from last feckin' easter, so they are ― wee, hard lumps o' sugar. how was i s'posed tae know there was a feckin' barbie shoe mixed in with the lot? t'weren't no more or less toothsome than the candy. i couldnae tell a feckin' difference. ❞

there's a shake of his head and a chuckle in spite of himself as lindsay lifts his glass to his lips. ❝ christ alive, i cannae believe i ate it. ❞

[judahfisher]

who @jonahfisher where designated quarantine suite

thick tendrils of smoke curl around him in fluid ribbons and disperse in a wispy haze of tobacco and burnt paper that obscure the ceiling of the quarantine loft they've been assigned. judah fisher sinks further into the chair where he's sat, sliding until his arms fold across the table and closing his eyes. forty-eight hours. when's the last time he even had forty-eight minutes where he didn't need to be doing something? planning something, fixing something, fighting something? he's never been a spiritual man, but damn if there's not something meditative about being forced to sit still.

( if you'd asked him the same but thirty minutes ago, the younger twin might've had a more restless, biting response, too impatient and tightly-wound to want to stay in this damn apartment even a second longer, but the half-smoked bowl of gorilla glue #4 sitting a few inches away from his stilled silhouette was swift to sedate him and change his tune. )

but for all that it may be still ― at least for him ― the loft is far from quiet. judah can hear his brother as he moves about the small space ― the dragging of furniture ; the clamor of picture frames bouncing against the walls as they're moved and inspected. he knows better than to intervene or try and help unless asked ― there's a method to jonah's madness, a system, and in spite of how in sync the twins are, the processes of their minds never seem to work wholly in tandem. what might help judah would only hinder jonah.

❝ whatchu think, jojo? they down there watching us on a bunch of screens right now like big brother or some shit? ❞ his head doesn't lift as he speaks and his eyes remain closed, but his ears are on alert, attuned for his twin's reply.

[that-sweet-jester]

poor Sevika's been embarrassed ever since, yet still stuck around😔✊

[pauls-mescal]

Andrew Garfield talks to Elmo about grief and the passing of his mother

[rioblitzle]

working retail

[kidovna]

heartbreak

[icarus-showmethemoon]

inspired by boop day, reblog this post if its ok for people to send you random asks and interact on your posts with no judgement. i want to talk to people.

[oncorhynchus-nerka]

VERY IMPORTANT a dam in the Netherlands, the weerdsluis lock, is directly on a migratory path for spawning fish. They have a worker stationed there to open the door for the fish, but they can take a while to open it. So to keep the fish from getting preyed on by birds they installed a doorbell. Only, the fish don't have hands to ring the doorbell. If you go to their website, they have a LIVE CAMERA AND A DOORBELL that YOU RING FOR THE FISH when they're waiting, and then the dam worker opens the door for them! I can't express how obsessed I am with this. look at this shit. oh my god.

Please check on the fish doorbell once in a while :)

[artemisdesari-blog]

A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.

My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.

My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.

This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.

Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.

I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.

So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.

[aphel1on]

nothinggg better than torturing an emotionally repressed character until every single trauma they've ever refused to process starts spilling uncontrollably out of the cracks. like a matryoshka doll situation of repressed trauma and baby you better believe i'm going in there with a hammer

[beauclary]

WHO: ziggy ( @ziggyturner ) WHERE: beau's apartment / 312 WHEN: march 11th

oh, but it hadn't felt real until now, had it? no, it didn't matter the way his heart stuttered in his chest when he first heard mention of that familiar name or the way his eyes stung with tears when he asked ash again through the door to his apartment if he was certain it was him. even once beau had been able to hear voice, even then, his his logical head had kept his hopeful heart from getting too excited ; convinced that somehow, in some way, there'd be a mistake. something would go wrong before beau could lay his eyes on ziggy. he couldn't bare the thought. he doesn't have to bare the the thought. jesus christ almighty, it is him. it's ziggy. a small, strangled sound escapes his throat and it's difficult to tell whether the choked noise is a precursor to a laugh or a sob. maybe both. he doesn't know ; he doesn't even have time to think right now, he's too busy trying to let sensitive eyes adjust to the first real, bona fide ray of hope he's seen since the world was shrouded in such a thick, visceral cloud of misery. ( he doesn't know that he'd ever call them that aloud ― nor that they'd want him to ― but the sentiment is clear in his gaze. )

beau longs to close the distance between them in a few short strides as ziggy stands in his doorway, but he's frozen in place, if only for a moment. in shock. awe. but most of all? relief. it feels as if the breath has been snatched right from his lungs and fresh tears prickle at the corners of bright irises, welling behind his lashes and obscuring his gaze. beside him, there's a soft chirrup as nacho jumps down from his bed, clearly roused by the change in atmosphere and immediately fixated on the sight of his owner. the cat takes the initiative that beau, in his emotional stupor, is greatly lacking and quickly trots across the room. at least someone's got manners.

[lindsohalloran]

who jonah @jonahfisher when mr. wexley's birthday bash where the games room

❝ d'yae play? ❞ the question is thrown out at the first body to walk past the small table where lindsay has found himself sat in the games room ― it's far enough away from the epicenter of action that lindsay does not feel overwhelmed by the mirth of the festivities surrounding him ( what a surreal thing, to be celebrating in such a fashion in times like these, even if he does see the benefit of improving morale ) but still within the party enough that he doesn't appear avoidant. it isn't as if he's trying to be. he clears his throat, offering a half-smile and gestures toward the chess board in front of him before taking a swig of his beer. ❝ t'would appear i've been banished from barbieland, ❞ he confesses with a nod toward the media room. ❝ dinnae ken how tae proper match a pair o' heels wi' a plastic handbag like, so i've been relegated tae the stables an' the wooden horses. ❞

[judahfisher]

who hannah @hannahxinterrupted when the old fuck's birthday party where underneath one of the tables in the atrium ( at least judah is )

knees are pressed into the tile so intently he's sure there will still be marks on his skin from the grout lines and he can still taste her on his lips when he pulls away from warm, sweet flesh, careful not to knock his head on the solid underside of the table. ( there's an assortment of glassware just above him, separated by only about an inch or so of wood, his own drink among them ; he doesn't mind causing a scene if anyone sees the glasses rattling, but he'll be damned if he's going to waste a perfectly good glass of whiskey. ) he swipes his lower lip with his right thumb, wiping away the lingering glisten as the palm of his left hand spreads flush against her leg and gives her trembling thigh a solid squeeze. and then he's shifting beneath the table ― there's a rustling of fabric as he bats the corner of a slightly too-long tablecloth out of the way before his head appears just inches from her chair.

there's a devilish grin tugging at his lips as he emerges, splitting his features in two as a curious gaze searches his immediate surroundings to see if anyone's around to spot him before landing on hers. ❝ well? is the coast clear, doll, or should i bide my time and go back for seconds? i do love a good dessert buffet. ❞

[mearchy]

my favorite genre of fictional character is like "i am terrifying to almost everyone, i'm very good at killing, i can endure anything, i've become exceptionally good at playing into my reputation, and if you try to give me positive social interaction i will react with confusion and cower in a corner like an abused animal. and i may try to shoot you. but there is also a chance i may imprint on you like a feral dog receiving its first loving touch! good luck."