#But making this post might make it more obvious for more people-

[krinndnz]

I slept on it and it's still bothering me, so: this post is bullshit. OP, you are speaking from fear and/or despair, not from reasoned political and material analysis. Stop that, dumbass.

First of all, ideology is real and you can't understand the behavior of the American right-wing movement in the 21st century without understanding that that movement is a suicide cult. The movement of Kissinger-style imperialists more or less efficiently pursuing IR neorealism policies is gone. It died exactly the death you expect of such a movement: in attempting to control and weaponize a fascist movement (that which became the Trumpist right-wing movement), it nourished and strengthened that movement, followed by losing control of it in the way John Seavey explains:

By making safe districts in which Republicans no longer needed to worry about re-election, [Karl Rove] ensured that the party apparatus had no control over its members. Republicans no longer had to care about whether the RNC would support them through a tough campaign, because there were no tough campaigns anymore. Instead, Republicans now had to deal with competitive primaries, where they faced challengers not from the left but from the right. This was a huge problem, because they’d spent the best part of two decades motivating the base to vote with increasingly paranoid and racist rhetoric in the sure and certain knowledge that they would be selecting the candidates that the base voted for. Instead, the base is selecting their own candidates. Those candidates are now running in non-competitive seats, and frequently campaigning and voting against the very idea of the party establishment. They believe the rhetoric that was once cynically deployed in service of keeping the legislature in safe hands.

The process continued, in Alex Pareene's pungent turn of phrase, until "Congressional Republicans went from people who were able to turn their bullshit-hose on their constituents, in order to rile them up, to people who pointed it directly at themselves, mouths open." The current state of the Trumpist movement is a triumph of propaganda, of ideology over material interest, and it got that way over the course of decades during which a parallel culture of marks, rubes, and gulls was cultivated like livestock. Of course when you dedicate such a long-term propaganda effort to creating paranoid fools and enlist groups like the John Birch Society, you're going to create a bunch of irrational beliefs that resist being contained. Rick Perlstein's "The Long Con" is essential for looking directly at the parallel culture thus created and the deranged beliefs that were first contained in it, then erupted because of the Rovian gerrymandering and metastasized into Trumpism. The Trumpist right-wing movement is a suicide cult and if you don't understand that fact you are missing a critical part of the material circumstances.

Furthermore, alienating allies is in fact foolish! It is the foolish act of foolish men, and the men of the Trumpist movement are fools. They are manifestly fools. If you can't look at these men and notice that they are fools, and evil fools at that, you aren't doing any kind of material analysis, you are refusing to see an obvious fact of the world in front of you. The position of America at the center of interlocking alliance systems had concrete material benefits for all the participants in those systems. Whatever shortcomings the system might have, many groups of smart, rational people looked at the offer of participation and decided that it was the best offer available. The best case study is Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia joining NATO. They were not absorbed into some Amero-European gestalt: they rationally noticed that they had a strong neighboring country, Russia (an actual empire!), with a centuries-long track record of abusing them, and they took vigorous action to get into NATO because of their own material interests. This is broadly the case with America's other treaty allies: both sides are getting something important out of the bargain. If you think NATO is an arrangement by which America exploits the Euro zone, you are making the same mistake as right-wingers, just from a slightly different angle of vision.

Speaking of that, the Trumpist attacks on allies are in fact suicidal; I am begging you to understand that these choices really are just as stupid as they seem to be. Again, Trumpism is not the New Imperialism of the late 19th century, it's a suicide cult. They are the end stage of the aestheticization of politics: their agenda is about movies and TV they want to be like. It's all theatrical hypermasculine dominance and submission. You are a smart person and you are making an ordinary smart person mistake of assuming that they have beliefs like yours that are to some extent carefully considered, judiciously regarded, and held with deliberate firmness. This is not the case. They are, again, a suicide cult: their beliefs are stupid and contradictory because the beliefs are not believed for themselves, the beliefs are the framework for the exercise of power that the Kissingerian late-20th-century movement used to control the base, but which have warped and turned on themselves as the inmates took over the asylum. They are, nodding towards David Graeber's excellent "Dead Zones of the Imagination" talk, using violence to simplify a complicated world into the simple narratives they prefer — and violence is the tool they must use for this, because the world is a complicated place and the only way to get it to agree with Trumpist ideology is to apply lots of violence.

If you imprinted on the right-wing movement of the Bush years, your confusion about this is understandable: that was the period where the Kissingerian movement, especially in the persons of Cheney, Rumsfeld, and Powell, still held the leash on the fascist movement, even if you could see that movement straining at the leash. But you have lost track of the material circumstances if you think that's how the Trumpists operate. The evils of the Bush administration were many, but they were not the same evils as the Trumpist movement. They were mostly the evils you describe: attempts to put America in an imperial role, which they were often fairly open about. They were more or less allied with the Clinton and Obama administrations in that regard. The Trumpist movement has blossomed into full-on fascist nihilism, because they're a suicide cult, and they're doing the typical fascist thing of screaming as loudly as possible about how unstoppable they are.

That brings me to the most important part — even if you disagree with me about everything else, I need you to hear me now, I need you to listen: you are falling for the fascists' propaganda about themselves, the tall tales of their overwhelming strength, power, and intelligence. When the fascists tell you how strong, powerful, and intelligent they are, THEY ARE LYING. These men are fools and cowards: the reason they are dangerous is not that they have some Admiral Thrawn 5D chess plan; the reason they are dangerous is that they are evil, foolish, and in control of mechanisms of material power constructed by people who were at most one of evil or foolish. They are not responding to the decline of whatever kind of empire you think America is, they are causing it, because they are violent fools enmeshed in a suicide cult.

Don't be a doomer and don't believe the fascists' lies about their strength, power, and intelligence.

every time a supposed communist decides that whatever political upheaval they're currently in is finally the one historical event entirely inexplicable from material interests and due to the crazy idiocy of the people in charge, a cia agent gets a promotion

[silksongeveryday]

Drawing Hornet everyday until Silksong comes out - Day 731.

Well, after two long years of posting, I’m finally taking a break.

Thank you guys for everything for the past two years. It’s genuinely been so fun making daily doodles. But all good things must come to an end eventually. I’m tired.

What are the plans moving forward?

read below the cut if you’d like to know!!

Taking a break:

Life in general has been really rough lately. Tons of family drama, personal medical issues making it impossible to function some days, and my childhood dog recently passed away a few days after Christmas last year. So it was a real challenge to “keep up appearances” if you know what I mean.

I’ve said this plenty of times in the past already, however I’ll repeat it since there’s surprisingly a lot more new people that have followed since then. I’m taking a whole month off from posting entirely. So I won’t be active on Silksongeveryday until about March 14th. Why? Hopefully it’s obvious but posting daily content for two years straight really does something to you. I’ve grown tired of this blog just a little bit, and I feel stepping away from it for a month will help me reconnect. I still love the game and its community, and I’d hate for my disinterest in a single blog to ruin that. If a month long break could fix that then so be it.

I’m also taking a somewhat indefinite break from daily doodles. I WILL still be posting doodles occasionally every once in a while after I come back from my month long break. However I won’t be doing daily doodles.

So no daily doodles ever again?

There is only one condition that has to be met for me to return to daily doodles.

A Silksong release date is announced.

Which is…let’s face it, a release date might not happen any time soon. 6 years of near radio silence from TC? I’m not expecting much, especially not in a month.

But WHEN a release date is announced I’ll definitely return to daily doodles and do a sort of daily “countdown” until Silksong is officially out.

Will doodle requests still be open?

Yes! Even if I will no longer be doing daily posts I will still occasionally post every once in a while with doodles! So if there’s a specific doodle you’d like to request and you have an extra $1 hanging around, hornet doodle requests are open on my ko-fi!!

What about the current projects that were happening on Silksongeveryday?

I’m still working on them! Just as mentioned before, a lot of stuff happened irl so it’s kind of on the back burner.

For the Hornet Journal Series: I plan to post the remaining entries after I come back from my month long break. Whether I work on them during that month long break totally depends on how I’m feeling. But there may be a likely chance I work on a few here and there on my own time! But regardless, I do plan to finish this project. So no worries!

For Hornet’s Strange adventures: I know it’s been ages since this particular project finished on the blog. Development for the free game is slow going since I’m working on this project entirely by myself with a game engine I’ve never used before. Progress is being made but it’s unfortunately slow thanks for irl conflicts. But, just like the journal series, I do plan to finish this project so I promise it won’t be abandoned!! I just need a break first lol.

___________

I think that’s all I have to say?? But if anyone has any questions, asks are always open and I’m more than happy to answer just about anything!

Thanks again for the wonderful experience, it’s been an amazing journey with you guys <3

See you all in a month!!

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (14 - The Twins)

Chapter Summary: Stark's Annual Charity Ball pulls the invisible string that finally nudges you and Wanda in the right direction.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 6.2k+ | Chapter Tags: Age of Ultron!Wanda, Mild angst, comfort, fluff

A/N: I haven't written anything new in more than 2 weeks, but I'll just keep posting the chapters I've finished *cries* Anyway, this particular update is a milestone in R and Wanda's relationship, and it involves an auction. Kinda obvious where that will lead us to, yea? Enjoy! // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“I can't believe you're letting Tony pimp me out to some geriatric billionaire—” you stormed into Steve's office, tracking mud across the carpet.

It was pouring outside, and as soon as you arrived at the compound, Vision greeted you with a curious question. “What's a human auction? Is it like those slave sales back in the 1500s?” he had asked. You had brushed him off, heading straight for the one person you knew had to have given the final approval on this sort of thing.

“Whoa, hold on a second,” Steve cut in, his eyes going wide as he dropped his pen. He braced himself, clearly prepared for whatever wild accusation you were about to hurl his way. “No one is going to be ‘pimped out’ at Stark's Annual Charity Ball!”

Natasha, sprawled in a leather chair by the window, ankle cocked over knee, quirked an eyebrow at your entrance, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Someone’s fired up today,” she commented dryly.

You paced, the wooden floor creaking underfoot, fingers threading through your hair. “Then what do you call auctioning me off like some kind of prize to the highest bidder?” you demanded.

He leaned back, the chair groaning under his weight. “It’s not like that. You know it’s one of the biggest fundraising events of the year. We make an appearance every time to show our support.”

“Yes, make an appearance,” you jabbed the air with your finger. “Smile for the cameras, shake a few hands—that I can handle. But being part of an auction? That's crossing a line.”

Natasha shook her head, clearly amused by your distress. “You know, the bidders aren't all bad. Sure, some of them might be older, but age brings experience. You might end up meeting an attractive, mature woman. Isn't that your dream?”

You shot her a skeptical look. “Very funny, Nat.”

“Lighten up, darling.”

You squinted at her. “Are you one of the prizes to bid on?”

“Nope,” she replied without elaboration, her face giving away nothing.

Turning back to Steve, you threw your hands up in exasperation. “You said everybody was involved!”

He squirmed, eyes darting away. “Well, not everyone.”

“Great,” you muttered sarcastically. “So who’s actually on the block?”

Steve started counting off on his fingers. “There's me. Vision agreed to participate—some tech leaders are eager to meet him. Sam volunteered; he's offering a personalized flight experience. Bruce is giving a private lecture on gamma radiation. Even Don from accounting signed up.”

“Don from accounting?” you echoed incredulously. “The guy who brings tuna sandwiches for lunch every day?”

“He's offering financial planning sessions,” Natasha said. “Riveting stuff.”

It seemed everyone had a well-thought-out plan tailored to their expertise—everyone, that is, except you.

“So, what are you guys expecting me to offer?” you asked, already dreading the answer.

Steve swapped a look with Natasha, then cleared his throat. “Tony was thinking you could throw in something exclusive—like a dinner, maybe an entire evening out, for the highest bidder.”

“A date?” you scoffed.

“Think of it less as being ‘sold’ and more as donating your irresistible presence for a noble cause,” Natasha said.

“Me?” you said, pointing to yourself with a sardonic chuckle. “Irresistible?”

Natasha smirked. “Don't sell yourself short. Some people might find your brooding charm... appealing.”

“Careful, Romanoff,” you retorted, a sly grin on your face as you sauntered over with a mischievous sway in your step. “Keep talking like that, and I might think you're flirting with me.”

She barely spared you a glance. “Not in a million years.”

“So, there's a number?” you quipped, grinning wider.

“Alright, that's enough,” Steve barked, pushing himself off his chair, trying to look like the picture of authority. “The auction lineup is final; people have already shown interest. All I'm asking is for two hours of you on your best behavior. Can you do that?”

You shrugged, already backing toward the door. “No promises,” you muttered, turning to leave.

As you rushed out of Steve's office, you collided abruptly with what felt like a solid wall—only it turned out to be someone. 

More specifically, Wanda. You caught a wisp of her red before it vanished completely, suggesting she'd instinctively used her powers to cushion her own impact. Good for her. For you? Not so much.

“Sorry, didn't see you there,” you said, rubbing a tender spot on your shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Wanda's eyes widened when she saw you, like a deer caught in headlights. She nodded too eagerly before excusing herself as if she was in a hurry. You shrugged and turned back to the direction you were heading.

It had been over a week since you'd inadvertently caused a scene at a restaurant Wanda often visited, leading you to awkwardly apologize later with takeout. After Wanda stormed out that night, you lost interest in your date and ended up cutting the evening short just as Alex was suggesting drinks. Your relationship with Wanda hadn’t really improved or worsened since then, which was probably for the best, all things considered. You had noticed, however, that Vision seemed to stick by her side even more than before. You’re happy for them. Ever since he told you that Wanda was lonely, you thought she needed someone like him—a truly devoted friend or more.

“Two hours,” you muttered to yourself as you entered your room, closing the door behind you with a soft click. “How hard can it be?”

—

It was a spectacle—exactly what you'd expect from a Stark event.

Hosted at New York's iconic Metropolitan Museum of Art, the fundraiser didn't just rival the Met Gala—it eclipsed it. The guest list was a who's who of the world's elite, pulling not only A-list celebrities from fashion and entertainment but also power brokers from technology, real estate, automotive, food, and pharmaceuticals. 

Your teammates were dispersed throughout the venue. Having arrived half an hour earlier, you hadn't spotted any of them yet, but you suspected they were probably doing the same thing you were—stalling, avoiding the spotlight until the last possible moment when they would have to step forward and be seen. You found yourself lingering near the entrance, fidgeting with the straps of your elegant black dress. It was a daring choice, selected by a fashion guru Tony had brought in specifically for this event. You had resisted this outfit until the final moment, relenting only when Tony threatened to schedule you for more public appearances—gigs he usually delegated to Rhodes or Sam on ordinary days.

“Looking sharp,” Clint remarked, coming up beside you. He was adjusting his bow tie, a slight grin on his face as he took in your outfit.

Finally—someone to stick with for the rest of the evening.

“Flattery won't get you out of babysitting duty tonight,” you teased, trying to ignore the anxious butterflies in your stomach.

He chuckled, his eyes scanning the patrons. “Wouldn't dream of it. Besides, someone has to keep an eye on you.”

“Uh-huh,” you replied, scanning the room yourself. 

You tried to distract yourself by diving into shop talk with Clint, who indulged you but seemed more focused on his martini, sipping and nodding with the occasional terse response. It was fine by you; at least it was a way to pass the time until the event wrapped up. 

Soon, Natasha joined you, wearing a glittery gold dress that was both classy and seductive, covering most but highlighting just enough. You made an effort not to stare too much at your mentor. Back in your rookie year with the team, you'd harbored a bit of a crush on her, but that had faded as she took a more active role in your training. Over time, you came to see her as a sister, finding in her and Clint the semblance of the family you never had.

She complimented Clint on his suit before turning to you. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Trying to,” you replied truthfully.

“Here,” Natasha said, offering you her glass of champagne. “Two more of these and you’ll be fine.”

You accepted the glass, taking a tentative sip. It did little to settle your nerves, but you appreciated the gesture. “Thanks.”

“Look who decided to grace us with their presence,” Clint announced, nodding toward the entrance.

Vision had just arrived, dressed to impress. He resembled a polished gentleman, a look so fitting it was almost comical—like he belonged in a museum exhibit. You stifled a laugh at the thought, chiding yourself for even entertaining such a cheeky idea. Notably absent was Wanda, who you had expected to see at his side. 

“Vision actually looks... dapper,” you observed.

Behind Vision, Sam and Rhodey entered, each with a stunning woman on their arm. Sam's date wore a sleek silver gown that shimmered under the lights, while Rhodey's companion was radiant in royal blue. 

“Where's Bruce?” Natasha asked, glancing around the room. “He was supposed to be here by now.”

Clint emptied his glass of drink just in time for the waiter to arrive with a new one. “Haven't seen him. Steve's getting nervous he's a no-show.”

You frowned. “Wait, we can do that? Just... not show up?”

“If you're the Hulk, yeah, probably.”

“And Tony?” you asked.

“You know he doesn’t attend his own parties these days,” Clint said.

“Anyone seen Wanda?” Natasha asked suddenly.

For a moment, you'd forgotten about her. You hadn't heard anything about her participating in the auction, and you didn't want to ask why. She was still relatively new to the team, and the events of Sokovia were still fresh in everyone's minds. Maybe Tony didn’t want to stir the pot by introducing the newest member so soon.

“Haven’t seen her,” Clint replied. “Maybe she's skipping it.”

“Or maybe she's just running late,” Natasha suggested.

You shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. “Either way.”

Just then, the grand hall’s light dimmed, and the spotlight found its way to the center of the stage where Steve stood, clad in a classic tuxedo, his hair slicked back, the blue of his eyes catching the light and gleaming under the gaze of hundreds who adored him.

“Good evening, everyone,” he started, racking up cheers from the crowd, mostly from the women up front. “On behalf of the Avengers and Stark Industries, thank you for joining us tonight. Your generosity makes a profound difference.”

For a guy who was frozen for half a century, he sure had a knack for working a room and blending into this new era. You shifted your weight, trying to quell the restless energy inside you. Who would make a bid for you? Or worse, what if no one did? Each thought was as mortifying as the other. You reached for your third glass of champagne, trying to drown the embarrassment that had started with Natasha's first toast.

Steve went on, “We're starting tonight's auction with some exclusive items straight from Tony's personal garage—a collection of rare prototypes and unique gadgets.”

The first item was wheeled out—a sleek, custom-built motorcycle with cutting-edge tech enhancements. The crowd murmured appreciatively. Bidding was enthusiastic, and the motorcycle sold for an impressive sum. Next came a high-tech smartwatch with capabilities far beyond anything on the market, followed by a limited-edition arc reactor, encased in glass as a piece of art.

As the last of Tony's treasures was auctioned off, Steve returned to the microphone. “And now, we have something very special. For the first time tonight, we're offering you the opportunity to spend time with two of our own heroes.”

The cheer was resounding. You wanted to throw up at the sound of it.

“First up,” Steve announced, “we have Vision.”

A spotlight found Vision as he made his way to the stage. He nodded politely to the audience and they cheered even louder. 

“The winning bidder will enjoy a personalized afternoon with Vision,” Steve continued. “A chance to discuss philosophy, technology, or any subject of your choosing.”

The bidding began immediately.

“Fifty thousand,” someone called out.

“Seventy-five,” another voice said.

“One hundred thousand!” 

A collective gasp filled the ballroom. From there, the bids shot up even more quickly.

“One hundred fifty thousand!”

“Two hundred thousand!”

“Two hundred fifty thousand!” a woman declared from the back, her paddle held high.

It was the highest bid of the night so far.

“Going once, going twice... sold to bidder number 112 for two hundred fifty thousand dollars!” Steve announced, leading a round of applause.

Vision gave a gracious nod before exiting the stage.

You took a deep breath, realizing your turn was next. And there was no way you could go higher than Vision.

“And now,” Steve continued, “we have another incredible opportunity. An exclusive experience with one of our most skilled team members, Y/N.”

The spotlight swung in your direction. With a gentle nudge from Clint, you made your way to the stage, your heart pounding. Standing beside Steve, you tried to focus on the faces in the crowd, but the bright lights made it difficult.

You were expecting Steve to mention what you had to offer, but you were pleasantly surprised that he went right ahead to the bidding.

“Do I hear twenty thousand?” the auctioneer prompted.

An initial silence stretched on longer than you'd hoped.

“Twenty thousand,” a woman called out softly.

“Thirty thousand,” added a man seated toward the middle.

The bidding was slow compared to Vision's, and you felt a flush rise to your cheeks. You wanted to kill Steve and Tony after this. You swore to yourself you would.

“Forty thousand,” the woman countered.

“Forty-five,” came another bid.

Just as you began to resign yourself to a modest outcome, a new bidder declared his interest.

“Sixty thousand,” declared a man standing near the side of the room.

You squinted, trying to make out his features. He was well-dressed, with dark hair and a pleasant disposition. Something about him seemed familiar, but you couldn't quite place where you'd seen him before.

“Seventy thousand,” the previous bidder upped the ante.

“Eighty thousand,” the newcomer responded.

The crowd began to take more interest.

“Do I hear ninety?” the auctioneer asked. 

Your face was hurting from smiling the entire time, and you could feel sweat starting to roll down from the base of your exposed neck.

“Ninety thousand,” called out the woman from before.

The bids climbed steadily until the man finally offered a hundred-twenty.

Everybody held their breaths, waiting to see if this bid would top Vision’s, despite the auction's sluggish beginning.

“Going once, going twice... sold to bidder number 214 for one hundred twenty thousand dollars!” 

The applause swelled around you as you stood there. You weren't hung up on how well you performed; you were just relieved it was finally over.

“Congratulations,” Steve said, pulling you into a hug. You kept your smile in place, leaned in close, and whispered, “This isn't over.”

The man who had won the bid was being escorted by one of the event staff to meet you.

As you approached him, recognition clicked into place. His name was Daniel—a member of the support staff at the Avengers compound. You'd seen him around, handling logistics and occasionally assisting with training setups.

He had that much amount of money to spend on you? 

“Daniel?” you said, extending a hand. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

He shook your hand with a friendly smile. “Good to see you, Y/N. Actually, I'm here on behalf of someone else."

Before you could ask, he gestured toward a quiet hallway. “The person who actually bid on you and won is waiting for you down that hall.”

You entered a quaint gallery displaying an array of quirky artifacts that seemed centuries old—though your limited attention in history classes made it impossible to pinpoint their exact origins or era. What made you stop and stare was how it was peaceful and kind of personal, with no crowds to elbow through. You could see why some folks find it therapeutic to hang out in museums and galleries like this.

Standing near a large window was a figure. That unmistakable posture was all too familiar.

“Wanda?” you called out, startled.

She turned to face you, and her nervousness was impossible to miss. It clashed with how stunning she looked in her gown—a deep red that draped perfectly, with a daring neckline that plunged but somehow still looked elegant. The sleeves fluttered around her arms, and her brunette hair cascaded in wild waves, shortened by the curls to just past her shoulders. She was breathtaking.

Looking between Wanda and the closed door, you tried to piece it together. “So... you hired Daniel to bid for you?”

Wanda nodded. “I didn't want to draw attention by bidding myself. I hope that's okay.”

Warmth spread through you. Why would Wanda bid such a substantial amount of money for time with you, especially when you saw each other every day? It was odd, a little unsettling, but at least you weren’t paired with a complete stranger whose intentions might be unclear.  

Though… what were Wanda’s intentions?

“Are you okay?” Wanda asked softly, her eyes searching yours. It hit you then—you hadn’t said a word in a while.

“Oh, sorry,” you mumbled, snapping out of your thoughts. “I’m just… surprised.”

Wanda took a few steps, not toward you, but toward the exit. “I didn't mean to—I just... If this makes you uncomfortable, we can just forget the whole thing.”

You could have simply taken her up on the offer, paid her back, and moved on. But instead, something compelled you to reach out and grasp her arm before she could leave. Wanda glanced over her shoulder, her expression a mix of wariness and curiosity.

You searched for the right words, your heart pounding. Then, a small smile formed on your lips as you shrugged lightly. “Do you want to get out of here?”

—

For a hundred and twenty thousand dollars, Wanda Maximoff didn’t just secure a free hotdog sandwich—she also claimed what might be the best view in the city. Better than the one from the Empire State Building, even—an exaggeration, perhaps, but isn’t any view more breathtaking when shared with the right person?

It was hardly the deal of a lifetime, but there you were, actually trying to make it worth her while.

Sitting together on a quiet rooftop terrace, the city's lights stretched out before you like a shimmering sea. You took a bite of your hotdog, moaning at the comfort of a simple snack.

Wanda glanced over at you, a soft smile playing on her lips. “This is nice,” she said.

You swallowed your bite and turned to face her. "Can I ask you something?"

“Of course.”

“Why did you bid on me?” you asked. “I mean, you could've bid on Vision.”

Wanda looked fairly confused. “Why would I bid on Vision?”

You shrugged, biting your tongue to keep yourself from insinuating to Wanda that he’s her boyfriend. Well, wasn’t he?

Wanda laughed softly, causing a smile to form on your own lips. 

“Vision is always there,” she began thoughtfully. “Even when I don't ask for him, he shows up. Some days, it felt like there was too much of him.”

That was… unexpected. “I thought you two were close,” you said.

“We are, in a sense,” she said. “He's got a good heart, smart, well-meaning. But there are times I just need to be left alone. With Vision, it's as if he's always trying to figure me out, not just exist alongside me.”

You took a slow bite, chewing over her words. “Well, Vision does seem like an honorable person. I think he really cares about you.”

She smiled faintly. “I know he does. And I care about him too. But it's complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

Wanda sighed, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. You gave her space, watching silently until she turned to face you. When she did, you were struck by her eyes—a vivid green that outshone the moon itself.

“He's still figuring out what it means to be... human,” she explained. “Emotions, relationships—they're concepts he's learning, and sometimes I feel like a subject in an experiment.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way,” you whispered. Believing Vision would simply cure Wanda's loneliness was naive. You regretted the times you thought it was so simple, pushing her towards someone else just to keep her at arm's length. Now, sitting side by side on the terrace of your apartment—a detail you hadn't mentioned to Wanda—you realized her company wasn't so bad. Removed from the context of her powers and past faults, she seemed almost ordinary. And it didn't hurt that she was undeniably beautiful—a fact that admittedly played a part in why you had kept your distance. Her appearance made it too easy to become distracted.

“I could do a lot worse,” Wanda said lightly.

“Yeah,” you replied, before pointing to yourself. “You’re looking at her.”

Her laughter erupted, full and unrestrained. You realized you enjoyed hearing it—and even more, being the reason for it.

After a moment, you took a deep breath. “You know, you didn’t have to bid on me just to hang out. I’m sorry if it seemed like I was cold to you. It's just, initially, we were on opposite sides, and I'm kind of a loner by nature.”

“I didn’t bid on you for the company,” she said. “I heard you were upset about being auctioned off. I thought I’d help out.”

“Oh,” you managed, heat creeping into your cheeks in surprise and a bit of shame. “You really didn’t have to do that. Honestly, you could be anywhere else, doing something better with your time.”

She gave a light shrug, dismissing the thought. “I wanted to be here. And you're under no obligation—it’s your time.”

“That was a lot of money, Wanda.”

She flashed a small, knowing smile. “We get paid pretty well, and we live rent-free in a state-of-the-art facility with more food than we know what to do with. Honestly, I don’t know where to put all that money.”

You couldn't help but whistle at her extravagant dilemma about where to spend her money.

“Some of mine went here,” you mentioned, beginning to tidy up. You picked up Wanda’s hotdog box, then yours, and slipped them back into the paper bag they came in.

“Here?”

“This is, uh, my apartment in the city,” you admitted, feeling a bit sheepish about the modest surroundings. It wasn't much to look at—barely furnished since you hardly spent a night here. But it was nice to have a fallback, a place where you could imagine being just another average citizen, cooking dinner and passing out on the sofa to late-night TV. Not that you've actually done that here, but, you know, the possibility's always there.

“Oh,” Wanda breathed, her eyes going wide—and you hadn’t thought it was possible for them to be more disarming than they already were. “I—I didn’t realize. Sorry for intruding—”

“I invited you,” you pointed out, your grin turning amused at her reaction. It was nice to see her a little off-balance. Her gaze met yours, and there was something in her eyes that made you a bit nervous. Usually, you weren't easily thrown off by pretty women, but Wanda was different. She wasn't like anyone you'd ever met.

“It's getting a bit chilly,” she noted after a while, rubbing her arms lightly.

“Would you like to come inside?” you offered. “I can lend you something warmer.”

It didn’t take Wanda another second to accept. “Yes, please.”

“Come on,” you said, leading her to your bedroom. Opening a drawer, you pulled out a pair of soft pajama pants and a cozy sweater. “These should fit well enough. The bathroom is just through that door.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, taking the clothes. She headed into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.

You grabbed a t-shirt and some comfortable boxers for yourself, beginning to change in your bedroom. As you pulled your shirt over your head, your eyes accidentally darted towards the bathroom. Through the partially open door, you inadvertently glimpsed Wanda from behind as she changed. Her back was turned, revealing a black lace bra as she slipped out of her dress.

You swallowed hard and quickly turned your eyes away, focusing on getting dressed as quickly as you could. You yanked your shirt down and shimmied into your shorts, trying to shake the image from your mind.

Moments later, Wanda stepped out dressed in your clothes, the sleeves of the sweater hanging slightly past her wrists. The outfit was a bit oversized but looked comfortable on her.

“These are perfect,” she said with a grateful smile. Noticing your flustered expression, she tilted her head. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” you stammered.

She gave you a curious look but didn't press the matter. Glancing at your attire, she commented, “Won't you be cold dressed like that?”

You looked down at yourself. “Oh, I'll be fine. I tend to get hot,” you replied, then realized the double meaning of your words. Your face grew warmer. “I mean, I warm up easily.”

Wanda smirked and didn’t bother to be subtle about it. “Good to know.”

You grabbed a pillow from your bed and tucked it under your arm. “Well, I guess I'll let you get some rest,” you said, heading toward the door.

“Wait,” Wanda called after you. “You're not sleeping on the sofa, are you?”

You looked up, surprised. “I was actually planning to catch up on some reading.”

She sighed, giving in. “Fine, if you're sure.”

“I'm sure,” you said, fluffing the pillow.

She smiled softly. “Goodnight, then.”

“Night, Wanda,” you replied. After a moment's pause, you added, “And... thanks again for tonight.”

She lingered in the doorway of the bedroom and nodded at you with a smile.

Before she could slip away, you called out, “Hey, wanna train together tomorrow?”

Her face lit up. “Looking forward to it.”

—

It wasn’t that your bed was uncomfortable. Far from it, actually. The mattress was firm but not too firm, the pillows soft enough to cradle her head. By all accounts, Wanda should’ve been fast asleep. But she wasn’t. Everything about the bed—about the room—was a distraction.

She couldn’t stop thinking about how the sheets had probably wrapped around your skin countless times, how your scent lingered faintly in the fabric no matter how often they’d been washed. She wondered what position you usually slept in. Did you curl up on your side, clutching a pillow? Did you sprawl across the bed, limbs outstretched in different directions? The thoughts were small, trivial, and maddeningly persistent.

No matter how many times she turned over, pulled the blanket tighter, or closed her eyes, her mind wouldn’t shut off. So, when she tossed and turned for what felt like the hundredth time, Wanda decided she wasn’t going to just lie there, restless and alone, while you were only a few feet away.

Wanda eased the door open, careful to make as little noise as possible, though the faint creak still gave her away. You were there, of course, exactly where she thought you’d be, sitting on the sofa with a book in your lap. The soft glow of the lamp illuminated your face, and Wanda’s breath hitched when she noticed the glasses perched on your nose.

“Hey,” you greeted softly, glancing up from the page but keeping your finger tucked between the chapters as a placeholder.

There was something about you at this hour, something Wanda couldn’t quite put her finger on. It wasn’t just the glasses or the book or the way the light softened the sharp lines of your face. You seemed different. More laid-back. Almost mellow. Wanda decided this was one of her favorite versions of you.

“Can’t sleep,” she murmured, fiddling with the rings on her fingers—a nervous habit she couldn’t quite kick. 

Wanda bit her lip as you slid your glasses off and set them on the side table. It was endearing to think it was because you were giving her your full attention. You tapped the cushion next to you.

She obliged. The sofa dipped slightly under her weight, and she sat close enough for your shoulders to almost touch but left just enough distance to not assume too much. Wanda’s fingers stopped fidgeting, her hands resting in her lap as she glanced at the book you’d set aside.

“What were you reading?” she asked.

You smiled slightly, reaching for the book and turning it so she could see the cover. It wasn’t anything grand—just a worn paperback with creased pages and a faded title. That’s when Wanda’s gaze wandered to the shelves behind you, packed tight with books, some even spilling over into piles on the floor. Hardcovers, paperbacks, thick, ancient volumes that looked like they belonged in a library—

You weren’t just an ordinary reader.

“Didn’t take you for a… what’s that phrase you Americans use for someone who’s obsessed with reading?” Wanda asked, a light laugh escaping her lips.

“Bookworm,” you replied, grinning.

“Yeah—that.”

You chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Maximoff.”

The way you said her name sent a small shiver down her spine, but she hid it well, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she looked away for a moment. You weren’t sure if it was because it was late and your defenses were worn thin, or because the edges of exhaustion blurred your better judgment after spending the entire night nose-deep in your book. But something compelled you to speak to her.

Not small talk. Not another shallow exchange to fill the silence. No, you wanted to talk to her, really talk to her. About things that mattered, like how she was actually doing—not just the perfunctory “I’m fine” you’d heard her mutter too many times before. About how she was settling in at the compound, surrounded by strangers who were supposed to be her teammates but often felt like little more than colleagues. About what it felt like to start over in a new country, surrounded by a language and culture that weren’t hers. 

About how she was coping without Pietro.

You wondered if anyone had asked her these things before—apart from Vision, maybe. And even then, you could imagine what those conversations might have been like. Vision was earnest, but earnestness only went so far. He probably asked like a child would, curious but detached.

“So, uhm,” you cleared your throat, pulling up your knees to hug them in front of your chest. “How—How have you been holding up?”

It took her a moment to respond, and for a second, you wondered if you’d overstepped, if she didn’t like being asked in the first place. But instead, she tilted her head slightly, studying you like she wasn’t sure if you were serious.

“Why do you ask?” she said finally, her accent curling softly around the words.

You hesitated, suddenly hyper-aware of how vulnerable the question made you feel. You weren’t used to this—to reaching out, to asking someone else to open up. But it was too late to backtrack now, so you shrugged, feigning casualness you didn’t feel. “Just thought… it’s been a lot. For you, I mean. New country, new team, new life.” You paused, glancing away. “It can’t be easy.”

Wanda let out a small, humorless laugh. “That’s putting it lightly.”

You didn’t reply immediately, giving her the opportunity to say more if she wanted to. When the silence stretched on, you pressed gently. “So? How are you holding up?”

She exhaled, a long, tired sound. “I’m... fine,” she said.

“That’s not an answer,” you said. “And you don’t have to give me one if you don’t want to. I just thought... maybe you’d want to talk.”

Wanda looked at you again as if trying to gauge whether you meant it. Whether you really meant that you cared. 

“You’re asking me this now?” she said.

“Seemed like as good a time as any.”

Her lips twitched—almost a smile, but not quite—and she looked away again. “I don’t think anyone’s really asked me that,” she whispered after a moment. “Not like you just did.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you stayed quiet, letting her continue.

“It’s... hard,” she said, slow and careful. “Being here. With all of you. Everyone’s been... kind. But I can tell most of them don’t trust me.”

“They’ll come around,” you said, though you knew it wasn’t a guarantee. You knew better than anyone how slow trust could be, how much it took to earn it in a place like this. After all, it had taken you ages to come around yourself—ages of Wanda wearing you down in ways you hadn’t even noticed at first, of her saving your life and an embarrassing predicament.

“Maybe,” she said, her voice distant. She twisted the hem of her sweater between her fingers, her eyes focused on the floor.

“And Pietro?” you asked softly, almost afraid of the question.

“I think about him every day,” she said quietly. “About what he’d say if he were here. What he’d do. Sometimes, I swear I can still hear him in my head—his voice, the things he used to tell me. But then I catch myself trying to shush it, like I’m afraid I’ll get stuck there. In that space. I know it sounds crazy—”

“It’s not,” you cut in too quickly, but you meant them. Whatever grief looked like for her, it wasn’t something you had the right to call crazy.

She turned to you then, a small, rueful smile that felt like hope when her eyes couldn’t pretend she was grieving hard. It was the kind of smile that said she appreciated your words, even though you both knew they weren’t entirely true. You weren’t sure if she believed you or if she just wanted to believe you, but either way, she nodded.

“Thank you.”

“Sometimes,” she continued after a long pause, “I wonder if it would’ve been easier to go with him.”

You swallowed, the ache in her voice pulling something loose in you. You didn’t want to say anything, didn’t want to make it about you—but that feeling hit too close to home.

“I used to think that way, too,” you said quietly.

Wanda turned to look at you, surprised. She didn’t interrupt, though. She waited.

You rubbed a hand over your face, buying yourself a second to organize the thoughts you’d buried for so long. “I’m not saying it to compare,” you added, voice tight. “I just... I know what it’s like.”

“My dad died when I was a kid,” you said, keeping your voice light, like saying it matter-of-factly would dull the edges of it. “I barely remember him. Just flashes—his laugh, his cologne, stuff like that. But my mom... she hated me long before he was gone. She blamed me for everything. Especially for my twin not making it.”

Wanda stiffened beside you, but still, she said nothing.

“She blamed me,” you continued, the memories clawing their way back to the surface. “Said I killed him before he ever had a chance. And she never let me forget it. Never let me forget that it should’ve been me who didn’t make it.”

Wanda finally looked up, her eyes glistening, red-rimmed with tears she refused to let fall. You didn’t have the same strength. A single tear slipped down your cheek, hot and heavy.

“And for the longest time, I believed her. I thought she was right. I thought it would’ve been better if I hadn’t made it,” you said.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

You shook your head. “Don’t be. And it’s not like… it’s not like I think that way all the time anymore. But I get it. That feeling like maybe you weren’t supposed to be here, like someone else deserved it more. I know what it feels like.”

Wanda's gaze dropped to your hands that were still gripping your knee like a lifeline. She looked like she wanted to reach out and grasp them, but you weren’t ready for that kind of intimacy. You were barely keeping yourself together, and the thought of her touch, however comforting, might be the thing to break you.

“I didn’t know,” she said softly. “About your twin. About your mom. If this... if this was the nightmare I gave you in—”

“No reason you would,” you interrupted, cutting her off before she could finish, before she could drag Johannesburg, and the bitter, consuming hatred you’d felt for her then, into the room. You’ve forgiven her for that, and it was best that it stayed forgotten too. “It’s not exactly a conversation starter.”

She huffed a quiet, almost bitter laugh, but it faded quickly. “Still,” she said, hesitating, “I think… I think you were meant to be here. I don’t know why, but I do. I think there’s a reason.”

You swallowed dryly. “Maybe there’s a reason for you, too.”

Wanda looked hopeful. “Maybe,” she echoed.

Wanda’s shoulder pressed into yours, solid and warm, like she was holding you in place without even realizing it. Neither of you spoke, the silence stretching out just long enough for it to feel safe. Safe to sit here with the mess between you, around you, part of you.

The words she’d said—I think you were meant to be here—kept looping in your head, circling around all the things you’d told yourself for years. All the things you still believed. Maybe you didn’t deserve to be here, but in that moment, you weren’t sure it mattered.

Because she was here. And maybe that was enough.

[pleasantspark]

VivziePop might be a (Neo Nazi) and here's why.

Disclaimer

I usually don't make high claims about these types of things and this is actually based on vibes I got, until she properly actually comes out with a explanation these are mere speculation and not concrete.

This is a more transcript coded post for my upcoming video and series I will be making titled the VivziePop Chronicles.

Now if you disagree or find this completely false it's fine. But I'm no Lily Orchard who based things off of ONE thing that they created in the sense of coincidences.

Once again. Here's a reminder to not send hate to ANYONE talked about.

What are Nazis

Nazis are a hate group symbolized by specific hate towards Jewish people in particular. They are a group of people who mainly hate on everything but their own kind.

Led by Adolf Hitler. Nazis had committed grave crimes in the name of being seen as superior to the Jewish Race. Sending Jewish people to concentration camps where they were either gassed or straight up experimented on.

There was some Jewish people that escaped before Hitler did anything and or hid (The well known case in Anne Frank.)

But as of now Hitler is dead and had committed suicide. But don't let that fool you. Just because the main ringleader of this extreme hate crime is dead doesn't mean Nazi symbolism had died out.

What are Neo-Nazi's?

Neo-Nazi's are a hate group subgroup of the main Nazi's, the reason why it's called Neo-Nazi's is to seperate the main group from this group. Neo-Nazi's are Post-Nazism and wanting to bring back that sentiment thus neo-nazi.

An example of a Neo-Nazi is the Furry Raiders, a group lead by Foxlr Nightglove who (and I shit you not.) has an armband of a paw.

Neo Nazi's oftentimes spreads racist, sexist, xenophobic and uses harmful rhetroic in order to insult the people they hate, this and combined with the Alt-Right makes a terrible mix.

Incident One: Nazi OC's

In around the early 2010s Sausage Party took everyone by surprise. People assumed (if they never heard of it before or atleast saw the box cover.) that it was for kids but when you open it and placed it in the disk tray, you're in for a surprise.

Sausage Party is an ezample of "Animation is for everyone." so this relates to VivziePop, around that time. I presume possibly before or during Sausage Party's release, Viv created the Nozz-Arts Blog.

Currently, the Blog was not archived but images made during that time we're screenshotted. Such as:

(Note the art trade she did with this person is called and I kid you not, ihatejewce.)

Then to tie it all here's something I found that compared the two.

And finally here's her talking about the Sausage Party Studio.

Before you say. "Oh this has happened ONCE!" well...

Incident Two: Mimzy and Confrontation

Around the time of the full release of Hazbin Hotel, a Jewish User had decided to speak out against the blatant Anti-Semitism. Posting information about Viv's obvious anti-semtism and (releasing the screenshots regarding NozzArts) and pointing out Mimzy being an offense charactiure on Jewish People (Not to mention Rosie who is a jewish stereotype that is a cannibal.)

(Also as a bonus have a yellow racist charactiure of Niffty.)

Another thing that people seldom doesn't realize is Mimzy's design BEFORE the integration into Hazbin.

This is her current design.

Old Design.

Viv has responded to the Allenazations by stating:

She was uncomfortable which is BS, because she doesn't care about people being uncomfortable so why should WE?

Incident Three: "Subhuman"

The final nail in the coffin was Viv liking a tweet that referred to Criticals as "Subhuman"

Before you ask why it's linked to Nazism, here it is.

These things are limited but not include:

Mentally Disabled People

Handicapped People

People who don't fit Hitler's Critera

Speaking of Hitler's Criteria, this might be a stretch butttt.

I've noticed the red and blonde things too often and I realized that most characters (I.E. Abel, Lilith, Charlie and Lucifer) all have blonde hair, Lucifer and Charlie has red eyes, and what's a inverse of red?

Blue, and when you put blonde and blue together?

Hitler. He loved them.

But then again Viv couldn't have done this shit on purpose because everyone KNOWS Color Theory and it's awfully close to Blue.

Conclusion

This is an allegation, not a full scale proof she is one, but as I say

"Once is by chance. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is a pattern."

You don't wake up one day and decide to unironically make a Nazi OC, you don't decide to subconsciously make a character be obsessed with money, have a tattoo of Mammon (Symbolism of greed and also whose fat, considering OG Bible's Jewish then we can also count that as Anti-Semitism) and blantly say she's a chicken and you certainly DON'T just like a tweet calling most of the critical (Some are Jewish and Mentally ill) subhuman. You tried to save face by stating all those bad guys cease to exist but we all know that's false, now is it.

[wren-phoenix]

these two posts being right next to each other is some crazy timing

[picture id: a Tumblr screenshot of the above post by Salem preceded by a post by @sapphling that says "it really is crazy that if your body happens to look a certain way then its presence in any sexual capacity is automatically deemed "fetish material" and the people decrying it are convinced that they're somehow protecting your dignity. i think if you can't see someone express attraction to somebody with an amputation or who's 300lb+ or any other bodily variation without calling them a disgusting monster then that might actually speak less to your righteous dedication to the marginalized and more to your bigoted neurotic hangups about our bodies and sexual agency"; the screenshot has a water filter applied to make it more obvious that it is a screenshot]

you know what crazy ass post but as a trans guy with huge tits maybe I don't want to treat my breast as a "neutral" sexless object on my chest 24/7 maybe I do find my boy tits hot and fetishsize it a little bit. maybe I am allowed to find my transgender body hot for once instead of everyone thinking I need to mold my body to their comfort.

[aliteralsemicolon]

honestly, the whole ai fight or disagreement thing is kinda insane. we’re seeing the same pattern that happened when the first advanced computers and laptops came out. people went on the theory that they’d replace humans, but in the end, they just became tools. the same thing happened in the arts. writing, whether through books or handwritten texts, has survived countless technological revolutions from ancient civilizations to our modern world.

you’re writing and sharing your work through a phone, so being against ai sounds a little hypocritical. you might as well quit technology altogether and go 100 percent analog. it’s a never ending cycle. every time there’s a new tech revolution, people act like we’re living in the terminator movies even though we don’t even have flying cars yet. ai is just ai and it’s crappy. people assume the worst but like everything before it it will probably just end up being another tool because people is now going to believe anything, nowadays.

Okay so...no. It's never that black and white. Otherwise I could argue that you might as well go 100% technological and never touch grass again. Which sounds just as silly. There are many problems with AI and it's more than just 'robots taking over'. It's actually a deeper conversation about equity, ethics, environmentalism, corruption and capitalism. That's an essay I'm not sure a lot of people are willing to read, otherwise they would be doing their own research on this. I'll sum it up the best I can.

DISCLAIMER As usual I am not responsible for my grammar errors, this was written and posted in one go and I did not look back even once. I'm not a professional source. I just want to explain this and put this discussion to rest on my blog. Please do your own research as well.

There's helpful advancement tools and there's harmful advancement tools. I would argue that AI falls into the latter for a few of reasons.

It's not 'just AI', it's a tool weaponised for more harm than good: Obvious examples include deep fakes and scamming, but here's more incase you're interested.

A more common nuisance is that humans now have to prove that they are not AI. More specifically, writers and students are at risk of being accused of using AI when their work reads more advance that basic writing criteria. I dealt with this just last year actually. I had to prove that the essay I dedicated weeks of my time researching, writing and gathering citations for was actually mine.

I have mutuals that have been accused of using AI because their writing seems 'too advanced' or whatever bs. Personally, I feel that an AI accusation is more valid when the words are more hollow and lack feeling (as AI ≠ emotional intelligence), not when a writer 'sounds too smart'.

"You're being biased."

Okay, here is an unbiased article for you. Please don't forget to take note of the fact that the negative is all stuff that can genuinely ruin lives and the positive is stuff that makes tasks more convenient. This is the trend in every article I've read.

Equity, ethics, corruption, environmentalism and capitalism:

Maybe there could be a world where AI is able to improve and truly help humans, but in this capitalistic world I don't see it being a reality. AI is not the actual problem in my eyes, this is. Resources are finite and lacking amongst humans. The wealthy hoard them for personal comfort and selfish innovations leading to more financial gain, instead of sharing them according to need. Capitalism is another topic of its own and I want to keep my focus on AI specifically so here are some sources on this topic. I highly recommend skimming through them at least.

> Artificial Intelligence and the Black Hole of Capitalism: A More-than-Human Political Ethology > Exploiting the margin: How capitalism fuels AI at the expense of minoritized groups > Rethinking of Marxist perspectives on big data, artificial intelligence (AI) and capitalist economic development

I want to circle back to your first paragraph and just dissect it really quick.

"we’re seeing the same pattern that happened when the first advanced computers and laptops came out. people went on the theory that they’d replace humans, but in the end, they just became tools."

One quick google search gives you many articles explaining that and deeming this statement irrelevant to this discussion. I think this was more a case of inexperience with the internet and online data. The generations since are more experienced/familiar with this sort of technology. You may have heard of 'once it's out there it can never be deleted' pertaining to how nothing can be deleted off the internet. I do not think you're stupid anon, I think you understand this and how dangerous it truly is. Especially with the rise in weaponisation of AI. I'm going to link some quora and reddit posts (horrible journalism ik but luckily I'm not a journalist), because taking personal opinions from people who experienced that era feels important.

> Quora | When the internet came out, were people afraid of it to a similar degree that people are afraid of AI? > Reddit | Were people as scared of computers when they were a new thing, as they are about AI now? > Reddit | Was there hysteria surrounding the introduction of computers and potential job losses?

"the same thing happened in the arts. writing, whether through books or handwritten texts, has survived countless technological revolutions from ancient civilizations to our modern world."

I think this is a logical guess based on pattern recognition. I cannot find any sources to back this up. Either that or you mean to say that artists and writers are not being harmed by AI. Which would be a really ignorant statement.

We know about stolen content from creatives (writers, artists, musicians, etc) to train AI. Everybody knows exactly why this is wrong even if they're not willing to admit it to themselves.

Let's use writers for example. The work writers put out there is used without their consent to train AI for improvement. This is stealing. Remember the very recent issue of writer having to state that they do not consent to their work being uploaded or shared anywhere else because of those apps stealing it and putting it behind a paywall?

I shouldn't have to expand further on why this is a problem. Everybody knows exactly why this is wrong even if they're not willing to admit it to themselves. If you're still wanting to argue it's not going to be with me, here are some sources to help you out.

> AI, Inspiration, and Content Stealing > ‘Biggest act of copyright theft in history’: thousands of Australian books allegedly used to train AI model > AI Detectors Get It Wrong. Writers Are Being Fired Anyway

"you’re writing and sharing your work through a phone, so being against ai sounds a little hypocritical. you might as well quit technology altogether and go 100 percent analog."

...

"it’s a never ending cycle. every time there’s a new tech revolution, people act like we’re living in the terminator movies even though we don’t even have flying cars yet."

Yes there is usually a general fear of the unknown. Take covid for example and how people were mass buying toilet paper. The reason this statement cannot be applied here is due to evidence of it being an actual issue. You can see AI's effects every single day. Think about AI generated videos on facebook (from harmless hope core videos to proaganda) that older generations easily fall for. With recent developments, it's actually becoming harder for experienced technology users to differentiate between the real and fake content too. Do I really need to explain why this is a major, major problem?

> AI-generated images already fool people. Why experts say they'll only get harder to detect. > Q&A: The increasing difficulty of detecting AI- versus human-generated text > New results in AI research: Humans barely able to recognize AI-generated media

"ai is just ai and it’s crappy. people assume the worst but like everything before it it will probably just end up being another tool because people is now going to believe anything, nowadays."

AI is man-made. It only knows what it has been fed from us. Its intelligence is currently limited to what humans know. And it's definitely not as intelligent as humans because of the lack of emotional intelligence (which is a lot harder to program because it's more than math, repetition and coding). At this stage, I don't think AI is going to replace humans. Truthfully I don't know if it ever can. What I do know is that even if you don’t agree with everything else, you can’t disagree with the environmental factor. We can't really have AI without the resources to help run it.

Which leads us back to: finite number of resources. I'm not sure if you're aware of how much water and energy go into running even generative AI, but I can tell you that it's not sustainable. This is important because we're already in an irrevocable stage of the climate crisis and scientists are unsure if Earth as we know it can last another decade, let alone century. AI does not help in the slightest. It actually adds to the crisis, we're just uncertain to what degree at this point. It's not looking good though.

I am not against AI being used as a tool if it was sustainable. You can refute all my other arguments, but you can't refute this. It's a fact and your denial or lack of care won't change the outcome.

My final and probably the most insignificant reason on this list but it matters to me: It’s contributing to humans becoming dumber and lazier.

It's no secret that humans are declining in intelligence. What makes AI so attractive is its ability to provide quick solutions. It gathers the information we're looking for at record speed and saves us the time of having to do the work ourselves.

And I suppose that is the point of invention, to make human life easier. I am of the belief that too much is of anything is every good, though. Too much hardship is not good but neither is everything being too easy. Problem solving pushes intellectual growth, but it can't happen if we never solver our own problems.

Allowing humans to believe that they can stop learning to do even basic tasks (such as writing an email, learning to cite sources, etc) because 'AI can do it for you' is not helping us. This is really just more of a personal grievance and therefore does not matter. I just wanted to say it.

"What about an argument for instances where AI is more helpful than harmful?"

I would love for you to write about it and show me because unfortunately in all my research on this topic, the statistics do not lean in favour of that question. Of course there's always pros and cons to everything. Including phones, computers, the internet, etc. There are definitely instances of AI being helpful. Just not to the scale or same level of impact of all the negatives. And when the bad outweighs the good it's not something worst keeping around in my opinion.

In a perfect world, AI would take over the boring corporate tasks and stuff so that humans can enjoy life– recreation, art and music– as we were meant to. However in this capitalist world, that is not a possiblility and AI is killing joy and abolish AI and AI users DNI and I will probably not be talking about this anymore and if you want to send hate to my inbox on this don't bother because I'll block your anon and you won't get a response to feed your eristicism and you can never send anything anonymous again💙

[vshiftsss]

What are you most excited for in your spiderverse DR? W

ho is (are) your best friend(s)?

Who do you trust the most?

Who laughs at your jokes the hardest?

GENERAL Q&A - (SPIDERVERSE DR)

thanks for the ask anon!

i’m most excited to be in the future. in my dr, the earth i’m from is set in the far future (cannot remember the specific year, but it’s either 2099 like miguel or something different). i scripted in a bunch of stuff, like holographic watches and hoverboards that actually hover. on top of that, i’m an inventor who works for a huge tech company. which means i can come up with cool shit and become infinitely cooler. i’ll also be able to actually understand coding and science a lot more than i do here, which sounds great!

my best friends in my dr are hobie and noir. noir is also my love interest in this dr, but we would be very close regardless of whether we get together or not. we’re coming from two different sides of time, and opposites attract, right? he’ll teach me about stuff from his time, and i’ll teach him about stuff from mine. as for hobie, that’s just my guy fr. i adore hobie and i think our personalities would mesh well. i might also script some oc spider-people to be friends with but i’m not sure. might make a form for that one too…

who do i trust the most? other than the obvious ones, noir and hobie, i trust miguel the most. just because he welcomed me into the spider society without really questioning it (although, jess did help a lot with putting in a good word), and he’s also eager to help me figure out which universe my sister’s in. we’ve both saved each other multiple times, and by now, we’re locked in. miguel might not show it in the most obvious ways, but he’s there for me.

and for the last question, everyone laughs at my jokes because i’m extremely funny (/j), but miles really finds my jokes hilarious. i don’t know why, but we always riff off each other whenever we’re on missions together. i’m close with him too, but we have a sibling-adjacent bond rather than just being friends.

END OF POST - HAPPY SHIFTING!

[wayfinderships]

[Looks around] Ok I don't think anyone is looking...

Ok so I just wanted to let out some design ideas I have for a C.yberpunk 2077 Panchi and some little facts I've thought up about them! The main thing being that their Design is heavily inspired by C.elty from D.urarara! Mainly just the Blue/Yellow/Black Helmet with cat ears and maybe they use a motorcycle like she does! The outfit itself would probably be quite different but I've yet to decide on the rest of the outfit

Speaking of the helmet, it's a pretty noticeable part of them! Mainly because they rarely take it off. Seeing them without their iconic helmet is a big sign of trust for them! It's not limited to romantic partners, it could also be for close friends as well! Though if you notice that a certain rockstar mentions how they've seen Panchi without the helmet...no you don't- Speaking of that rockstar! If you see Panchi wear a piece of jewelry that they got from that rockstar years ago and still wear it in present day...no you don't-

Oh and also they don't have a lot of cyberware on them, the most noticable (if not the only) piece of cyberware they have is one on their Left Eye. Though I've yet to figure out the details of it ^^

[certaimromance]

the way the chapters of this series are getting longer and longer is literally my descent into madness

anyway, here come the fun facts :p (there are many, sorry)

don't read this if you haven't already read the chapter🩷

if you've read my other posts, you know i love parallels and those subtle details you only notice if you pay attention. the elevator and staircase game is obvious, but I'll explain it better here:

the staircase represents their relationship to the beginning; step by step, very calmly, each step is followed by another that takes you closer to your destination.

the elevator, on the other hand, represents the sudden changes they face now. think about how spencer goes from running away from the reader in the hallway to suddenly embracing her. or how you can get on an elevator and go from floor one to floor ten without doing more than pressing a button. in this case, it's about making a decision based on your feelings that can get you from silence to love.

this idea is also made more explicit when i say, "The elevator was still, suspended in a moment that felt endless. Neither of you had pressed a button, and for a heartbeat, the world outside seemed to hold its breath. You were trapped between two floors, between the weight of the past and the uncertainty of what might come next."

also, the whole part with spencer's mom IS KEY, let's not forget why my poor baby was in mexico (other than it's all cat's fault). it hurt me to write it, but it's an essential part of him that i used in this case to show why he was so concerned about the reader having healthier little habits (the whole "i want you to live longer." thing) since all the people he loves are leaving or dying.

and finally, to be honest, the whole cardigan thing, besides being done because the change in spencer's outfit is obvious and according to my reading goes beyond just clothes, but also a reference to my favorite taylor swift song (we all know who the old cardigan under someone's bed is)+obviously stay by gracie abrams, which is THE song of the chapter, here i left you a couple of lyrics that are just on point.

𝜗𝜚 The Other Girl Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

series masterlist

Summary: Whenever your world has fallen, your neighbor has been there to save you, but now it's your turn to do the same for him.

Words: 6k (I get crazier with each chapter).

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of murder, injuries, violence, alzheimer, daddy issues, death. hurt/comfort. angst. painter!reader. post prison reid with almost all his past traumas. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I know it takes me a long time to publish the chapters but they all have a lot of emotional charge (in this one IS A LOT) and to get it 100% right I have to rewrite them little by little, it is complex because I am a perfectionist😞 BUT thank you all for the support, patience and love you have given me.

I'm also planning to upload an extra of this poor babies for Valentine's Day💕 It'll be a prequel to the series and is mostly fluff yum.

You still remembered the first time you climbed the stairs to your apartment.

At the time, it hadn’t been a choice but a necessity. The elevator had been out of order in the middle of moving week, and the building management had shrugged off your complaints with little more than an apologetic glance, a vague promise, and a string of excuses that never quite panned out. The idea of waiting for them to fix it seemed absurd, especially when you were already overwhelmed with boxes, tape, and the dull ache of exhaustion that settled in your bones after hours of unpacking. So, with your arms full of the fragile, mundane objects that made up your life—books, plates, electronics, and furniture—you had trudged up the stairs, one step at a time. Sweat slicked your back, dampening your clothes as each heavy step took its toll. The weight of your belongings had felt far less heavy than the weight of the exhaustion, the impatience, and the frustration that boiled just beneath the surface.

And yet, after all of that, you made a promise to yourself: as soon as the elevator was fixed, you would never do this again. You’d never climb these endless stairs in such a haphazard rush, sweat dripping down your face, your legs aching with every painful movement.

But as the days passed, the promise began to feel less like a statement of intent and more like a fleeting thought. The elevator was still out of order, and each time you ascended those stairs, something strange happened. The ache in your muscles, the deep, satisfied burn that had originally seemed like an unbearable weight, started to feel different. It wasn’t just the physical strain of moving boxes. It was something else, something subtle but undeniable. You were becoming accustomed to it. The repetitive rhythm of your steps, the quiet solitude of the stairwell, the knowing sense that this space, though public, was somehow yours. No one else was down there, nobody was watching, and nobody expected anything of you except that you climb. You weren’t running into awkward neighbors. No one was talking about the weather or the laundry room door that wouldn’t close properly. The stairwell became something more than just a space to get from one floor to the next; it became a moment of stillness, of pause, a small sanctuary from the chaos of the world outside.

Then your favorite neighbor noticed.

He didn’t say anything at first. Not until one evening, when you reached the bottom of the stairwell, your legs trembling from the exertion. You were trying to stretch your calves and soothe the burning in your thighs, cursing yourself for the lack of grace you were showing. You were already preparing yourself to leave when a voice, warm yet casual, interrupted your thoughts.

“You know, taking the stairs regularly can improve cardiovascular health, increase muscle endurance, and even help with cognitive function. There have been studies.”

You froze mid-stretch, eyes widening. Slowly, you turned to find him leaning against the wall, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, work bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like he had been standing there for a while, watching you struggle up the stairs far longer than you had realized.

“Spencer,” you panted, still catching your breath, “I just like avoiding awkward elevator conversations.”

A flicker of amusement passed across his face, the corner of his mouth twitching in a small, knowing smile. But he didn’t argue. Not that day. Not yet.

“Oh…that’s a good idea, I guess.”

But after that, it became a habit of his.

He started slipping little facts into conversation, always casually, always carefully, like he wasn’t trying to impose, just…offering something. He mentioned the importance of pacing yourself, of stretching, and of drinking water. He spoke of breath control, the way inhaling through your nose and exhaling with each push off the step could help regulate energy and heart rate. He never said it like a lecture, never demanded that you listen. He simply planted ideas, little seeds of knowledge, and let them take root on their own.

Then, he started timing his arrivals. You’d reach the bottom of the stairs, exhausted from your climb, only to find him standing there. He’d walk with you down the flights, his stride long and effortless, as though gravity didn’t pull on him the same way it did you. With each step you took, you found yourself straining to match his pace, to keep up.

One day, after you had finally reached the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing to catch your breath, he spoke again, voice low but insistent.

“You know,” he mused, watching you with that quiet, observant gaze of his, “you’d get even more benefits if you focused on your breathing pattern. Inhale through your nose as you step up, exhale when you push off. It helps with energy flow and helps regulate your heart rate.”

Another time, he raised an eyebrow as you finished stretching, his lips curling into a small frown. “Your posture could use some work. If you lean too far forward, you’ll strain your lower back.”

You had paused, mid-stretch, and shot him a look. “Are you coaching me?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

Spencer, not even winded, just smiled that small, knowing smile of his. “I prefer to think of it as…guiding you toward better habits. So you live longer.”

There was something in the way he said it, something so utterly genuine, that you had no response. You just rolled your eyes, pretending his words didn’t settle somewhere deep in your chest.

Because he really did want you to live longer.

Preferably forever.

And hopefully, always next door.

Even if you didn’t realize it. Even if you just saw his words as a harmless nuisance, a quirk of his endlessly curious mind.

And somehow, the strangest thing? It worked.

You found yourself drinking more water throughout the day, stretching before and after walking, and adjusting the way you climbed to avoid unnecessary pressure on your joints. The things he told you weren’t drastic changes, just subtle shifts, quiet reminders. But somehow, they made a difference. And what had started as a mindless habit became something else. You noticed the difference, not just physically, but mentally. The clarity of thought after a climb, the way your body felt lighter, more in tune. And somewhere along the way, it became yours and his.

It wasn’t something you spoke about outright. There was no label for it, no need to analyze it. But it was there, woven into the fabric of your days. The quiet companionship. The unspoken rhythm of two people walking in sync. The way he filled the silences with facts, you pretended to roll your eyes at, even as you secretly liked how much he enjoyed your reactions.

It became normal.

Until, of course—

He disappeared.

No explanations. No warnings. No final conversation that you knew was final, no understanding of why. Just an empty, silent absence where he used to be. No more random nutrition facts, no more health tips disguised as casual conversation. Just gone.

Still, you did it anyway. Every day, without fail. Because habits don’t break just because people do.

And now, walking up those stairs alone felt heavier than it ever had before. The silence that had once been a comfort now suffocated you. And the idea of living a long, healthy life when no one seemed to care whether you did or not? Well. That was kind of a bummer.

But this morning, the stairs felt different. Lonelier. Less like a ritual, more like a weight dragging behind you, pulling you under. Your mind was stuck on last night. The chaotic blur of it looped in fragments, like a dream you couldn’t shake. A nightmare too sharp to be fiction, but too unreal to fully believe. And yet the bruise on your cheek wasn’t a dream. It greeted you in the mirror as soon as you woke, a dark, swollen reminder of everything you wanted to forget. Pain settled deep in your bones, not just from the stairs but from what had happened. What you saw. What you heard. What you couldn't avoid.

And now, as you reached the bottom step, everything felt wrong. Your chest was too tight. Your limbs were too heavy. The door to your apartment, just a few paces away, felt miles out of reach.

You stopped. Just stood there. The peeling paint on the wooden steps seemed to hold all the time that had passed, all the moments you wished you could undo. You stared at them, at the cracks, the faded edges, as if they might offer answers. As if they might take some of the weight away.

Then, you saw her.

At first, she was just a figure, an unfamiliar silhouette standing at the threshold of your door, her back turned toward you. She scanned the apartment numbers, her hand hovering uncertainly. Her movements were slow, tentative, almost fragile, and it wasn’t until you took a few cautious steps forward that something clicked in your mind. There was a faint spark in her eyes, something familiar.

Spencer’s mother. You were sure of it.

Although you had never seen her face-to-face, you had seen enough photos to recognize her without hesitation. He had told you about her often enough for you to know as much as you could. But it was her eyes that confirmed her identity to you; they mirrored those of her son in a way that made your heart ache. The same sharpness in her gaze, the same small, thoughtful movements, the same undercurrent of quiet intensity that seemed to follow every action.

But you can see something else in her, something that wasn’t him.

A weariness, a loss. You could feel it in the air, thick and heavy around her, almost like an invisible fog clouding her mind. She was lost in more ways than one, and her presence was a reminder of everything he had tried so hard to shield himself from.

Swallowing, you kept your voice gentle.

“Hi,” you said, careful not to startle her. “Are you looking for someone? Can I help you?”

At the sound of your voice, she finally turned.

For a fleeting moment, her gaze met yours, and you saw the confusion settle in, subtle but unmistakable. Her brows knitted together, her lips parting as if forming a question she couldn’t quite grasp.

“You…you’re…no. You’re not…No, I thought…” Diana’s voice trailed off, barely more than a breath, lost and small, as she sighed, a sound heavy with defeat.

Your heart clenched.

“I think I know who you’re looking for.” You softened your tone, offering her a small, steadying smile. “Spencer, right?”

Her eyes flickered at the name, the briefest flash of recognition breaking through the fog. A tether, however fragile. She nodded slowly, her hand falling to her side in a motion that seemed more instinct than intention. Her eyes then drifted back to the door, and for a long moment, she seemed lost again, looking at the numbers as if they held the answers she was searching for, her thoughts adrift somewhere far away.

“I just want to see him,” she murmured. “I can’t miss his birthday again.”

Oh no.

The words hit you like a physical blow. Spencer’s birthday wasn’t for another couple of months. You knew that with certainty, but hearing it from Diana, the way she said it, with such unwavering certainty, made your chest tighten. She wasn’t just lost in space. She was lost in time itself. And the realization, sharp and painful, settled in your stomach, a stone that refused to be dislodged.

You glanced at her again, her fingers twitching at her sides, lips pressed together as though trying to hold on to a thought, a memory, something that kept slipping away from her. The confusion was thick, almost palpable, and it filled the space between you, leaving you with the distinct sense that you were intruding, stepping into a moment too fragile, too fleeting to hold on to.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

You weren’t supposed to meet her yet.

Not like this. Not without him.

You exhaled slowly, steadying the tremor in your voice. “He’s not home right now, but I can call him for you. Maybe we can wait inside?”

Diana’s gaze darted back to the door once more. For a moment, she seemed suspended in two realities: the one in her mind and the one in front of her. The world she remembered and the one she now stood in.

“No…I—I should go.” Her fingers curled at her sides, her voice fragile, distant. “I just wanted to see him. I just…”

You felt a lump in your throat. Spencer had told you about those moments, but he never went into a lot of detail because he was afraid of scaring you. But he'd given you enough to understand how much they hurt and how much they terrified him. He never said it directly, but you could tell when he talked about her. You could hear the tension in his voice, the way his hands started to shake every time he got a call and thought it might be from the nursing home she was in, how he spent his time reading huge books and researching ways to help her with her illness, and most of all, in how he had delayed letting you meet her for fear that you would be frightened to see his possible future.

But now, here you were, standing before her anyway, facing the woman who had given the world someone as brilliant and kind as Spencer, yet who now stood stranded in fragments of a past that no longer fit.

“Diana,” you said, your voice firmer now, gentle but insistent. “It’s okay. Spencer would want to see you. Let me call him. He’ll come.”

She hesitated, her fingers twitching slightly. Searching.

“You know my son?” she asked softly.

“I do. He’s—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. What were you to him? A friend? A neighbor? Something else? The definition had never been clear, but it didn’t matter now. “He’s important to me.”

Something in her expression shifted, though the confusion never fully left her eyes.

“I have a key to his apartment,” you added carefully. “He gave it to me in case he wasn’t here.”

Diana’s gaze dropped to your hand, where the key glinted under the dim hallway light. She studied it for a long moment, her thoughts drifting somewhere you couldn’t follow.

Then, finally, she whispered, “Okay.”

You guided her inside, the familiar scent of his apartment wrapping around you both like something solid, something safe. She sank onto the couch with a weary sigh, looking small, fragile, as if the very act of being here took more effort than she could afford.

“I’ll make some tea,” you said softly, trying to fill the silence with something tangible, something grounding.

Moving toward the kitchen, you kept her in your sights, watching as her gaze flitted around the apartment. Her eyes were looking around, at the walls that had seen Spencer's life in all its quiet moments over the past few years. After watching her for a moment, you noticed that she seemed to be especially focused on the various pictures hanging on the walls. You had painted some of them, and he had bought the rest in his attempts to discreetly help you monetarily. Most of the paintings were landscapes, one or two inspired by the books he always told you about and how you imagined them, plus even a portrait of Mittens playing on the balcony.

Until that moment, you hadn’t realized just how much of yourself had become part of his home.

Something in your chest tightened, but you pushed the thought aside, stepping away to dial his number.

The line rang once.

Then twice.

Then—

“Hey, are you okay?” Spencer’s voice, quiet and concerned, almost as if he had been waiting for your call. “I wanted to talk, but—”

You exhaled, relief and uncertainty tangling together at the sound of his voice. “Hi. I’m fine. Um…your mom is here.”

Silence.

Then, the shift, something you had come to recognize when he was processing information at a speed faster than most people could follow. “She’s—wait, she’s where?” His voice was sharper now, alert.

“She’s safe,” you reassured him quickly. “We’re in your apartment. But…” Your voice softened. “She thinks it’s your birthday.”

Another pause. A breath.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost a whisper. “I’m coming. Please don’t let her be alone.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “I won’t.”

“And…” His voice faltered, then steadied. “Thank you.”

The call ended.

You turned back to Diana, whose hands were wrapped around a cup of tea. The liquid swirled gently as she lifted the mug to her lips, the warm steam rising in a delicate plume. She looked at the tea, but her eyes weren’t focused. They were far away, somewhere beyond the moment, distant as though she had left this room a long time ago.

“Spencer’s coming,” you said softly, as if the quiet of the moment demanded it. You knew how much she hated noise. “He’ll be here soon.”

Her eyes flickered for a brief moment, a slight shift in the dullness that had clouded them. She blinked, and for a split second, it felt like she was with you again, her gaze a little clearer. But then, just as quickly, the fog returned, and she glanced up at you with a faint smile, one that was both familiar and distant, like a stranger trying to be someone you once knew. She took another sip, the sound of it like a small exhale in the room.

Carefully, you lowered yourself onto the couch across from her, keeping your movements slow, deliberate, as if any sudden shift might shatter the fragile tether that kept her here in this moment with you.

“You painted these,” she murmured, more statement than question after her eyes drifted back to the paintings on the walls, lingering for longer this time.

Your breath caught for a second. How did she know?

“Some of them,” you admitted, glancing at the familiar brushstrokes, at the colors you had chosen, the emotions you had poured into each piece. “Spencer liked them. He, uh…kept buying them even when I told him he didn’t have to.”

Diana’s lips twitched, just the faintest hint of a smile.

“He’s always been like that,” she said softly, her gaze distant but warm. “Always finding ways to help without saying it outright. As a boy, he would leave little notes in my books. Facts about things he thought I would like, little reminders of things I would forget. He never wanted me to feel like I was slipping away.”

For the first time since you had met her in the hallway, she didn’t seem frightened. She wasn’t lost, drifting between past and present. She was here. Grounded. Aware of the space around her.

It felt like magic.

But then, just as quickly as it came, something in her shifted again. Her brow knit together slightly, and her fingers smoothed absently over the fabric of her sleeve.

“But I still did, didn’t I?” Her voice was quiet, almost fragile. “I slipped away.”

There was no easy answer to that. No a good one.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. “He loves you,” you said simply.

Diana’s hands, which had been moving idly over the fabric of her sleeve, stilled. Slowly, she turned her head toward you. And for the first time, she really looked at you, not in passing, not through the haze of misplaced time, but deeply, as if seeing you for exactly who you were.

Something shivered through you under the weight of her gaze. You wondered what she saw. The faint smudges of paint still clinging to your sleeves? The way your makeup, carefully applied, hid the faint traces of a bruise in your cheek? The cup in your hands, her son favorite, still bearing the faded imprint of your lipstick, because Spencer always refused to wipe it completely away?

Something unreadable passed beneath the surface of her expression, something quiet but powerful. Then, after a moment, her features softened.

“He talks about you,” she murmured.

Your pulse jumped.

“He does?”

“Not in long speeches. Not in obvious ways. But I know my son.” She exhaled, her gaze flicking back to the paintings, the bookshelf, the little details scattered around the apartment. “I know the way he holds on to things that matter.”

Her eyes found yours again, gentle but knowing.

“And you…you’re in the details.”

The words settled in your chest, warm and heavy all at once.

Your breath caught as her gaze flickered around the apartment. Not just at the paintings now, but at the bookshelf, where your art books sat nestled beside his. At the little traces of you woven so seamlessly into this space. The familiar hoodie draped over the armrest, too big to be yours but still carrying your scent. The unopened package of your favorite tea sitting on the counter, bought without a second thought.

Everywhere.

You were everywhere.

The realization pressed against your ribs, something warm, something steady, something undeniable that made you nostalgic.

Before you could find the right words to respond, the sound of the front door opening cut through the stillness.

Spencer stepped inside in a rush, his eyes immediately locking onto his mother, scanning her with that same mix of relief and worry you had come to recognize. His bag hung off his shoulder, his coat still half-buttoned as if he hadn’t even stopped to fix it in his hurry to get here.

“You?” Diana asked suddenly, her voice small, uncertain. “What are you doing here? You are not invited to his birthday.”

He froze, and so did you.

His mother was looking at him, but she wasn't really seeing him. She was seeing someone else, someone from her past. Someone whose hair and eye color he had inherited. Someone he had accused of being a murderer years ago. Someone who was the first to leave him and say goodbye with a letter. Someone who forced him to be the one to take care of the rest since he was a kid. She was seeing his father.

You saw it in his face, the way something inside Spencer broke into a thousand pieces. And only then did you realize the pain he carried every day. Because just when you thought you had Diana anchored in the present, she slipped into the past and dragged an unwanted memory with her. That was the worst part, going from having everything to having nothing. To go from having your mother to having a stranger.

The silence hung heavy between you, and then Spencer did something you hadn’t expected. Slowly, carefully, he sank to his knees in front of her. It was a gesture of both humility and desperate tenderness. You could see it in his body language, the way he made himself small, as though trying to reach the part of his mother that still remembered him.

“It’s me, mom,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, breaking the stillness with the weight of everything unsaid.

Diana’s gaze flickered, her fingers tightening slightly around her sleeves.

“I’m here,” he said again, his voice soft but firm. “I’m Spencer…your son.”

You stayed quiet, watching as something in Diana’s expression shifted. She blinked once. Then twice. Her lips parted slightly, her brows furrowing.

And then, finally her gaze cleared just enough.

“Spencer,” she whispered.

The weight in his shoulders lifted, just barely, just enough for you to see the breath he had been holding.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m here.”

Her fingers twitched in his grasp before settling. A long, slow exhale left her lips, and she leaned forward, just slightly.

Your heart ached at the intimacy of it, at the sheer relief in his expression, at the way his mother finally saw him.

You didn’t move.

You just let them have this moment.

Your heart still carried the weight of everything you had witnessed earlier that day. The ache in your cheek from where you had pressed your hand to your face was almost unbearable, but it seemed so insignificant now. The pain felt almost like a distant echo compared to the one you could see in his eyes, the raw, and unspoken hurt that had been etched into his life for so long. Every time you thought about him, about what he’d endured, it was as if your chest tightened, the reality of his struggles pressing in on you from every side. What had you seen today? A broken cycle of love, loss, and confusion. And Spencer…he had lived it over and over again.

After his mother had finally recognized him, there hadn’t been many words exchanged. The silence between them felt like the weight of a thousand unsaid things, thick with all that had been left unspoken for years. He had explained gently that it wasn’t his birthday today, that it was still months away, but they’d celebrate together when the time came. The sadness in his eyes even as he reassured her, and the tenderness with which he helped her back into the present, spoke volumes. You had stood there, a silent observer, an outsider in their fragile moment. You had smiled at Diana, said your goodbyes softly to her, and watch they two left, knowing there was nothing more you could say.

And when the tossing and turning in your apartment began to make you and your cat dizzy, you retreated to the couch on the first floor, right in front of the front door, and watched every person who entered. Your mind was filled with a million thoughts, but none of them seemed to make sense. You waited for Spencer, not knowing how much longer you could sit there, but not wanting to be anywhere else.

The minutes stretched, thick and heavy, suffocating in their silence. What could you say to him when he came back? Was there anything you could say that would make even the smallest difference?

Then, at the seventh sound of the door opening, the cold air rushed in, followed by that unmistakable, familiar scent of him. Spencer. Your heart lurched in your chest at the sight of him, the weight of his exhaustion and sadness hanging from his shoulders like a heavy cloak. His face was drawn, his eyes tired in a way that made it feel as if he’d aged ten years in just a few hours. He looked so broken.

“You’re here,” he said, a flicker of surprise crossing his features when his eyes landed on you, as though he hadn’t expected to see you standing there, waiting.

You gave him a small, automatic smile, trying to make it light, but it felt flimsy, like a mask that wasn’t quite right. “I was…looking for my correspondence,” you said, the lie slipping out with the ease of a long-forgotten habit, but it tasted hollow in your mouth, as if the words themselves were trying to escape. It felt like a flimsy excuse, a weak justification for why you hadn’t been somewhere else, anywhere else, but here, with him.

As you walked beside him into the hallway, you did your best to keep the air light, to make your steps unhurried, as though everything were fine, even though the very air felt heavy, full with things unspoken. You glanced at him, trying to break the silence with something simple, something safe. “How’s your mom?”

The words hit him like a blow. His entire body seemed to stiffen, the tension rolling through him like an electric current. You immediately regretted asking, wishing you could take the question back.

“She’s better now,” he said, his voice tight with the weight of his unspoken thoughts. “I stayed until she fell asleep.”

You nodded quietly, taking in the weight of his words. His world, and his life, was full of unpredictable chaos, of moments like this, moments that no one should have to endure. You didn’t need to hear the details to know how much it hurt him. You stepped into the elevator as he held the door open, the tension between you thick and suffocating. The doors closed slowly, the sound of them closing almost felt like the world itself was pressing in, leaving you both suspended in a silence that was heavy, too full.

“I’m glad she’s okay,” you whispered after a long moment, the words tasting like something too small for the weight of the situation.

“Thanks to you,” he replied softly, and there was so much unspoken in those four words that it hit you like a punch to the chest. The sincerity in his voice, the gratitude mixed with something more, something raw, caught you off guard.

It was as if the Spencer who had come back a few weeks ago, the one who didn’t want you around, had disappeared. The man standing before you was something else entirely, and for a moment, you weren’t sure which version of him was the real one.

And then you noticed. He wasn’t wearing his coat. His shirt barely covered his arms, and despite the warmth of the building, his body was shaking from the cold, his lips a pale shade of purple. The tremors were unmistakable, the way his body quivered with each movement. It wasn’t just the chill of the air; it was something deeper, something that made your heart clench with an instinctual need to protect him.

“You’re shivering,” you said, the concern in your voice rising, louder than you’d intended, but you couldn’t help it.

He shrugged, his eyes quickly falling to the floor as though he were ashamed of his vulnerability, trying to hide it away. “Oh, I gave my jacket to my mom,” he muttered, the words barely escaping his lips, as though he didn’t want them to matter, but they did. They mattered more than anything.

Without thinking, you took off the cardigan he had lent you so long ago, the one that had quietly become a part of you because it carried his essence. You draped it over his shoulders with a tenderness that startled you, instinctively wanting to offer him something, anything, to ease the shivers and make him feel good. But when you saw the look in his eyes, you froze. He didn't seem to be used to being taken care of anymore, not like this, not after being on the defensive for so long.

It was strange to you that after only three months away, he seemed to have forgotten the way you were always willing to take care of him.

“Don’t,” he said softly, his voice apologetic, as though he were making a quiet plea for something you didn’t fully understand. He didn’t move to take the cardigan off, but his words had a weight, and for a moment, you felt a strange, painful distance between you. “It’s yours.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, an unspoken question in your expression, and he continued.

“Technically, it’s yours,” he added, his voice quieter now. “I haven’t worn any of this stuff in a while.”

And then you understood. The clothes in his closet had changed. Gone were the soft, earth-toned cardigans and slacks you used to love, replaced by sharp, black suits and ties, clothes that looked like they belonged to someone else, someone trying to appear more sophisticated, more put-together, more respectable. It was as though he was trying to transform himself into someone else, someone who had moved on from the things he used to love, the things that reminded him of you.

“I know,” you replied, your voice quiet, carrying more meaning than just those two words. A sad smile curled on your lips. “I miss it…I miss you in it.”

The words hung between you for a moment, heavier than the silence. He didn’t respond, his gaze flickering away, but you could see something shift in him, a softness, something vulnerable. Without thinking, you reached out, your hand brushing against his. His fingers were ice-cold, and you instinctively cupped them in yours, the warmth of your touch contrasting sharply with the coldness of his skin.

“I remember you once said something about the power of human warmth,” you said softly, your voice breaking the weight of the silence, a fragile smile on your lips. “Let’s try.”

The elevator was still, suspended in a moment that felt endless. Neither of you had pressed a button, and for a heartbeat, the world outside seemed to hold its breath. You were trapped between two floors, between the weight of the past and the uncertainty of what might come next. The world was still, but your hearts, your thoughts, they were swirling, caught in the same limbo.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice a little rough, a little uncertain. His breath caught as your warm fingertips brushed his, and for a second, the world felt smaller, softer.

“I don’t want you to freeze or get sick,” you whispered, the words soft but steady, even though your heart was pounding in your chest. “I want you to live longer.”

Because you really did want he to live longer.

Preferably forever.

And hopefully, always this close to you.

For a long moment, Spencer didn’t speak, the tension between you palpable, thick with everything unspoken. You almost apologized, the words tumbling from your lips, but before you could finish, his touch stopped you.

He grabbed your waist, pulling you close with a force that took you by surprise, pressing your bodies together in a way that was intimate, urgent. His arms wrapped around you tightly, and you didn’t pull away. Instead, you melted into him, your cheek resting against his chest, your hands sliding around his back. You could hear the steady, comforting beat of his heart beneath your ear, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the world outside seemed to disappear. Everything else fell away, leaving only the two of you in that moment.

The silence grew between you, and then, without warning, the tears came.

Hot, silent, as though they had been held back for far too long, breaking free from the calm of his chest. They soaked into the fabric of your shirt, but you didn’t care. You held him tighter, your arms wrapped around him, offering him what little strength you had left. The weight of his sorrow pressed against you, and you could feel the deep, guttural pain that had been locked away inside him. It spilled out of him in waves, raw and unfiltered, and you didn’t say anything. You simply held him.

His body shook with the force of his grief, his fingers clutching at your shirt as the tears kept coming. “I’m here,” you whispered, your voice a steady murmur in the chaos of his pain. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You gently stroked his back, your touch slow and grounding, the rhythm of your movements steady and soft. As he clung to you, you could feel the tension slowly begin to ease, just a little. His sobs quieted, the sharpness in his breath softened, and the storm inside him started to calm, just a fraction. In your arms, he found the space to grieve, to release everything he had held in for so long.

Everything shifted. The elevator, once a place of uncomfortable silence, became a sanctuary. A place where Spencer could let down the walls he had built around himself. A place where, for the first time in what felt like forever, he was free to feel, free to cry, free to just be. And you were there, holding him, never letting go.

And for the first time in a long time, you both felt like you were exactly where you needed to be: he was yours, and you were his.

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @burningwitchprincess @withloverosse @fairiesofearth @pleasantwitchgarden @ximensitaa @lover-of-books-and-tea @cherryblossomfairyy @cherrygublersworld @i-need-to-be-put-down

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

[oceanwithouthermoon]

yk when i think about it, especially when im watching the anime with people who havent read the manga, the reason a lot of people who only watch the anime and didnt read the manga misinterpreted saikis character so badly is definitely in part because of how damn fast paced the anime is 😭

like that little smile and eye shine frame is there for not even half a second in the anime, so its easier to miss it and assume that he really did only finish those workbooks to get coffee jelly ☠️ its much more clear if you get a good look at how he reacts here that hes just a silly little tsundere and a fucking liar

[icewindandboringhorror]

Pages from trying to keep a little sketchbook-scrapbook type thing going for two weeks lol. I gave myself specific rules in hopes they might all end up more cohesive/consistent seeming, but alas, scribbly chaos reigns, it seems

[nostalgia-tblr]

okay, so the thing with wishing we could kudos every chapter of a fic.

i get it, we all want to hit the little like button more than once, it's the easiest way to express our approval/enjoyment/gratitude. i am going to address this to a generic 'you' (hello Y/N!) and assume that 'you' has either never posted fic to ao3 or hasn't posted both oneshots and multichapter works.

hits, kudos, comments, bookmarks. every marker of popularity (which many will interpret as quality) on ao3 is inadvertantly weighted in favour of works with more chapters. no, not longer necessarily, but with more chapters. go and sort a few fandoms by any of those stats and you'll probably be able to spot this trend in action right away.

oneshots are only at the top of a tag (by the default date sorting) once, and even if you re-read it you can only leave one kudos on it.

a multichapter can stay near the top of the update-sorted results for months if you time your chapter drops right, and of course every time someone comes back for the next chapter that's another hit, and being seen more it is more likely to end up with more kudos. you can still only leave one per work, though, which limits the effects to some extent. multichapter works still tend to overall outperform oneshots on stats, and the longer they are the more likely that becomes, but you'll still usually see a couple of oneshots on the first page if you sort that list by kudos.

and a lot of people (percentage unknown) do sort by kudos (or some other stat) and works at the top of 'by kudos' will thus attract more readers and more kudos. so there's an incentive to get as many kudos as you can on your fic, and if cutting it up into 250 chapters will help... well it already does, and that's had an effect whether writers will admit to dragging fics out a bit on purpose or not, but imagine if that effect were to become orders of magnitude more intense.

even if you personally prefer longer fics cut into fairly short chapters, you probably don't want to get your 150k epic in chapters of only a 100-300 words, do you? you don't want the oneshot writers to just give up when every page, no matter how they're sorted, is full of 5000-chapter works to the point that readers now riot when asked to read a whole 2000 words in one go. your fave author is now feeling insecure because chapter 12 didn't get as many kudos as the last one did.

and this is why ao3 will never let you leave kudos on every chapter. they're aware that the site already incentivises chaptering works and doing that more than you otherwise might. so you're just going to have to learn to put an emoji heart in the comment box.

[bugeyedfreaks]

“They can end up too self-indulgent, but that's fandom for you! It's just artists having fun.” Let me just highlight this one part of my original post up real quick because you’ll see that I agree! 💖

“I am not saying people who draw this are bad people or aren’t allowed to do it. I am not saying none of the designs look cool.”

I know people are having fun, and I understand people’s reasoning for drawing them in that way. This is just my opinion, just like they have theirs! I’m also actually not talking about the more realistic art styles, like ones where they’re rendered as being more human. I love seeing people drawing the girls in different art styles, and varied body types actually might make more sense in that case. I’m more or less talking about ones that try to imitate the original art style, and yeah, I am strictly talking about design.

Like, maybe this’ll help illustrate what I meant. Here’s an example of what I don’t find aesthetically pleasing/staying true to their essence vs. what I do that I just quickly and crappily rendered (they’re kind of exaggerated, and those bottom ones still aren’t exactly what I like when I think of older girl designs, but this is just an illustration of discord vs. harmony in design):

I would argue that the bottom three are more instantly recognizable and harmonious, with their differences still obvious but also working as one set. The top three could be anyone! It feels like the whole vibe has been thrown off! That certain essence just isn’t there. That’s basically what I’m talking about.

And again, this is all just my opinion. Me saying that I would prefer the bottom over the top doesn’t mean I’m outlawing all Powerpuff Girls fanart that I don’t personally like. I’m not the queen of the Internet. It’s just a post about what I do and don’t like, and the worst I could do is… not reblog art I dislike. 😆

Unpopular opinion moment (that I’m sure will probably get me tons of unwarranted hate as per usual 🙄): I dislike fanart of older versions of the girls drawn with different body types. It’s slowly become a pet peeve of mine. Some of them are cool but overall I just think it’s unnecessary. I am not saying people who draw this are bad people or aren’t allowed to do it. I am not saying none of the designs look cool. I am just saying that I feel that it’s not in the spirit of who the characters are in terms of function and just misses something.

The PPG are essentially 1) triplets and 2) three parts of one unit. Having them be all these discordant shapes and heights based solely off of their personalities or whatever is a fun idea, but it breaks the harmony of their character designs and just makes them look like three separate people who have nothing to do with one another. …I mean, they do all have their own personalities and are separate people, but they’re essentially supposed to also work as one harmonious superhero unit (which is part of why their original individual designs are so simple). How they act is what differentiates them the most, and I’ve always liked those little touches in the show where they’ve shown those differences through acting instead of explicitly through character design.

I guess what I’m saying is that if there ever was, like, some official design of the girls when they were older, I would prefer them not to be, like… Fat, Thin, and Buff, or whatever. I’d like them to be Bubbles, Blossom, and Buttercup. 🤣 I’d just like to see a successful older design where the principle of their combined character function was maintained in a simplified, clever way.

[anghraine]

jenndoesnotcare replied to this post:

Every time LDS kids come to my neighborhood I am so so nice to them. I hope they remember the blue haired lady who was kind, when people try to convince them the outside world is bad and scary. (Also they are always so young! I want to feed them cookies and give them Diana Wynne Jones books or something)

Thank you! Honestly, this sort of kindness can go a really long way, even if it doesn't seem like it at the time.

LDS children and missionaries (and the majority of the latter are barely of age) are often the people who interact the most with non-Mormons on a daily basis, and thus are kind of the "face" of the Church to non-Mormons a lot of the time. As a result, they're frequently the ones who actually experience the brunt of antagonism towards the Church, which only reinforces the distrust they've already been taught to feel towards the rest of the world.

It's not that the Church doesn't deserve this antagonism, but a lot of people seem to take this enormous pride in showing up Mormon teenagers who have spent most of their lives under intense social pressure, instruction, expectation, and close observation from both their peers and from older authorities in the Church (it largely operates on seniority, so young unmarried people in particular tend to have very little power within its hierarchies). Being "owned" for clout by non-Mormons doesn't prove anything to most of them except that their leaders and parents are right and they can't trust people outside the Church.

The fact that the Church usually does provide a tightly-knit community, a distinct and familiar culture, and a well-developed infrastructure for supporting its members' needs as long as they do [xyz] means that there can be very concrete benefits to staying in the Church, staying closeted, whatever. So if, additionally, a Mormon kid has every reason to think that nobody outside the Church is going to extend compassion or kindness towards them, that the rest of the world really is as hostile and dangerous as they've been told, the stakes for leaving are all the higher, despite the costs of staying.

So people from "outside" who disrupt this narrative of a hostile, threatening world that cannot conceivably understand their experiences or perspectives can be really important. It's important for them to know that there are communities and reliable support systems outside the Church, that leaving the Church does not have to mean being a pariah in every context, that there are concrete resources outside the Church, that compassion and decency in ordinary day-to-day life is not the province of any particular religion or sect and can be found anywhere. This kind of information can be really important evidence for people to have when they are deciding how much they're willing to risk losing.

So yeah, all of this is to say that you're doing a good thing that may well provide a lifeline for very vulnerable people, even if you don't personally see results at the time.

[puppppppppy]

i feel like im not making any sense but does anyone else feel like there are stories that let u run with them and ones that spell everything out for you

[swagging-back-to]

worst trope is found family separating as soon as the antagonist is dealt with.