#↳ 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? ❞

[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.

[lindsohalloran]

WHO: ashton ryder ( @ashton-ryder ) WHERE: the atrium WHEN: march 15 / late evening, post-release from quarantine

for as many weeks ― nay, months ― as he'd spent not even a block away from the wexley, trying to scope out what he could of his surroundings from the snowed-over rooftop of the elementary school where he and maisie hunkered down for the winter, none of his many observations could have prepared him for the state of the place once he'd entered. in spite of the debris that litters the lobby ( further inspection leads him to believe it was a planned detonation to protect the residents within, swifter and ultimately more effective than a constructed barricade ) the building remains in surprisingly decent repair and there are significantly more survivors hidden within its walls than lindsay could've possibly estimated. it feels surreal, for lack of a better word ; he's not been closer to a visual representation of normalcy in just shy of half a year and, quite frankly, he isn't sure what to make of it.

he's still on alert as he walks the perimeter of the atrium, hands tucked into the pockets of a leather jacket and gaze constantly scanning, observing ; slow and methodical, he takes the time to map out the floor. ( he'll inspect the upper floors later but the atrium and its attached diner seem to be a central hub for activity, and considering he's been told this is where he's been told their daily meals will be rationed, it seems as worthwhile a place to start as any. ) details are neatly filed away, faces and conversations and locations to be mulled over once he's returned to the flat they've been assigned, the same one where maisie now sleeps soundly. the antibiotics have been helping ; his reservations about the safety and authenticity of this place are tempered by a debt of kindness he doesn't know if he'll ever have the means to repay.

perhaps the most surreal of all, though, is the presence of a familiar face amidst a backdrop of stark unfamiliarity ; it catches his attention swiftly, as if he's been mindlessly spinning the dial of a radio to the static drone of white noise only to catch the sonic scraps of a song he knows by heart but hasn't heard in years. decades, more like. lindsay does not freeze on the spot as instinct might suggest upon receiving a hearty slap of shock to the face at a glimpse of the past, though his footfalls do slow, giving him time to determine whether he can trust his own eyes. and he can. he looks older now ― he is older, it seems a foolish observation, but that's not what lindsay means. the last time he'd seen ashton ryder, he was a young man. ( they both were, even if lindsay was still nearly a decade his senior. ) he was a spitfire then, bright-eyed and brash. time and circumstance may have that subdued that flame, but lindsay never forgets a face.

he walks with purpose now ― not enough to draw any unwarranted attention, but there's a destination to his trajectory. ❝ ryder? ❞ he calls as he draws near, his volume barely above conversational to catch the other man's attention. ❝ i cannae believe ― ashton ryder? ❞

[billskaarsgard]

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

[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 :)

[ottosbigtop]

I think we as a society should bring back brotps. I think we should be weirder about characters being friends the same way people are weird about ships. Make those two characters who interacted once or twice besties. Make it difficult for them to get rid of each other even if they want to. Go nuts

[i23kazu]

how i feel when someone reblogs my stuff with a really really nice tag

[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.

[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.

[judahfisher]

who emily ( @survivalxofxthexfittest ) where rosie's diner when march 31

❝ well, shit, should've figured you two wouldn't have been fucked by the end of the world! ❞ the statement is punctuated by the clattering of his tray as judah drops it onto the table of the booth where emily is sat, the only introduction he offers as he slides himself across the vinyl bench seat, digging the heel of his shoe into the cushion to push back until his back is flush with the wall. and really, he's not surprised. to be fair, he would have been a little more shocked if she'd showed up at the wexley alone, but her behemoth of a brother just looked like he'd thrive in this sort of fucked up hellscape of a city. there's a mischievous glint in his gaze as he lets it wander the room briefly, trying to gauge whether the man's within earshot before turning back to emily. ❝ glad you're alive anyhow. you remember that tattoo you gave me back at the shop? ❞ there's a shit-eating grin on his lips as he brings up the ink ; a pair of twin cherries high on his left ass cheek, a small piece he'd talked her into giving him after-hours one night after a few beers and a couple of bong rips ― and not the only one to permanently mark the hidden real estate. ❝ i think she needs touching up. ❞

[lindsohalloran]

WHO: mr. wexley ( @mrwexleysr ) WHERE: quarantine suite 01 WHEN: march 15 / early morning

even with his watch resting several meters away on the window sill to charge in the early morning light, it isn't difficult for lindsay to gauge it's nearly eight when there's a knock on the door across the room, an easy estimate from the position of the sun and the waxing intensity of the columns of light pouring in through glass panes. he'd been informed by the woman who took them in ― ivy, her name is ― of the mandated conversation he'd need to have with the proprietor of the building if he and maisie intended to stay at the wexley beyond their release from quarantine. and though he has no intentions of an indefinite stay, he's also not terribly inclined to leave at any point before maisie's returned to full health.

( in spite of more time to rest in the past two days than he's had in months, he'd be a liar to claim he isn't fatigued as well ; now that he's allowed himself to slow down ― no, been made to slow down by some higher power ― he can feel the heaviness in his own limbs. )

there's another knock and lindsay closes the small notebook he's been scrawling in and slides it into his pocket with the pen, rising to his feet. maisie rouses slightly at the sound ― this space is large, but they've remained close, sharing a corner of the spacious main room and avoiding the bedrooms entirely. neither one of them feels too terribly inclined to be separated in this moment. a hand reaches for the door before a third knock can sound through the room and a steely blue gaze lands on a man he can only assume to be the building's owner. he somehow manages to look like he comes from money, even now. it's partially in the grooming and attire, certainly, but lindsay suspects it has just as much to do with the way he holds himself.

lindsay offers him a nod in greeting ; he may not smile, but the gesture is not unkind. ❝ ye must be mr. wexley. ❞ lindsay steps out of the doorway to allow the man to step over the threshold if that is, in fact, his intended path. ❝ please. ❞

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

annual reminder not to feed the ghosts! yes I know it seems like a cute tradition, but these are wild spirits with specialized diets, and humans unintentionally cause serious havoc by interfering with their ectosystem

[mattel]

GOTTMIK RuPaul’s Drag Race All Stars 9x03

[bugboi-connor]

If u interact with my posts, just know I respond like this: