#I wrote this up

[snakeoil2]

Part 1: Conquest

You know, I’m not an old man. Even by dragonborn standards, I’m pretty young. I’m only twenty seven. But I’ve had a pretty eventful life, assassination, murder, and adventuring. I fought the Conqueror, and helped take Pakan.

However, there is something that I’m not too happy to see. When I lived with Kallum’s Clan below Dracor, I bore witness to all manner of stories. Tales of titanic dragons, scouring villages with a breath. Legends of unflappable tyrants, ruling with an iron fist. Whispers of vile mages, breaking the laws of nature.

Now, I see none of that. In this sunlit world, no tyrants, few legendary dragons, and “villains” that proclaim the better good while murdering aimlessly. And hired murderers, oh right, “assassins,” who only kill for a good cause. It’s sickening.

Why, even one of the Sleeping Dragon Crew was like that. She called herself Crybaby. Going on and on about good, and how one could do bad, in the name of good.

I’m writing this book for any aspiring villains of the world. Here’s the first lesson for you lot.

BE EVIL.

Don’t become some greater good. BE A VILLAIN! Revel in the dramatic! Pillage! Plunder! Live!

So many I see just… fail. Fail because they can’t stand what they need to do. They’re crushed by the weight of their desire to do what’s right competing with just how inherently destructive what they’re doing is. 

I met a hobgoblin once. Insisted on calling herself a hero. Unfortunately, she began to fall apart when she reaped the seeds of war. Luckily, I was there!

She forgot to burn a couple towns, she was so distraught.

Ultimately, the most important facet of villainy, the cornerstone of villainy, is the desire to do evil. Doing wrong, ENJOYING doing wrong, is what ultimately allows us our drive. And that drive is what grants us true power.

-Yoku Zuna, Archlord and Titan of Pakan, Professional Villain

Chapter 1: Yoku’s Woes

Ah, Pakan. A land torn apart by a hard fought war against the conqueror. Between the Conqueror, the Giants, and the land itself, most preferred to leave it alone. Even the kingdom of Epanak tries to leave it alone.

All those factors were what led Yoku to try and claim it. A land with little to no governing authority, no laws he had to work around, wasn’t that just perfect?

No. No it wasn’t.

Everything that made it a tempting target, also made it rather difficult to take over.

A pair of ogres were lumbering over. The metal plates armoring their body indicated their station as members of the conqueror’s army. The brutes towered over most men, bearing a cruel axe, and a wicked hammer. 

Yoku sighed.

To most a pair of ogres would be a fearsome opponent. Even if they weren’t terribly powerful, at ten feet tall, they loomed head and shoulders over most humanoids.

Yoku was not most humanoids. 

His horns, tail, and red scales marked him as one of the Dragonborn. His Hacenalian heritage had blessed him with extraordinary size, such that he was eye level with these lesser giants. Yoku was not skinny either, layers of fat and muscle rippled throughout his body.

Yoku’s size meant most recognized his strength, but it was hard to recognize just how strong he was, for more than mere muscles were at work.

Yoku felt the magic pump through his veins as he threw the first punch. It connected with a sickening crunch. The ogre began to stumble backwards, only for Yoku to then grab it, pulling it back for a punch to its stomach.

The other ogre rushed forward while Yoku was occupied. With a guttural bellow, it raised its hammer, and brought it crashing down. Yoku raised his arm to catch the blow, and grumbled at the sting. Luckily, it seemed that this pair had not been outfitted with magic weapons.

The ogre Yoku had grappled attempted its own swing, chopping at Yoku’s arm. Again, Yoku merely grumbled at the sting. His thick scales took the edge off most blows, so he’d probably get out of this with only flesh wounds.

It still hurt though.

Yoku chose to ignore the hammer-wielding ogre, instead focusing on the one in his clutches. He hammered its face with several punches until it melted into a bloody sauce, and its struggles ceased.

The other ogre had not simply paused to let Yoku pummel its partner. It rained down blow after blow upon his back, but Yoku ignored it.

Now that the first ogre was dead, Yoku turned his attention to the second. He seized its raised arm, and twisted it. The ogre first thought he meant to take his hammer, but the increasing pressure alerted it to its mistake.

With sudden desperate howls, it struck Yoku with its free hand, aiming to break his grip. Yoku didn’t stop it, continuing to twist, until, finally, the bone snapped.

The hammer fell from the now useless arm, the ogre staring in shock at its broken limb. By this time, Yoku would normally be gloating, or monologuing, or something, but he didn’t bother wasting words on this stupid creature.

He reached over and snapped its neck.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Yoku had chosen the wastes of Pakan, hoping that they might serve as a decent first conquest, but all he’d found were the remnants of the Conqueror’s army, numerous giants, and no proper towns.

Currently, a hill giant was attempting to kill him. The towering oaf carried a long log which served it as a club. It swung the log, making the most of its reach to prevent Yoku from retaliating.

Yoku opened his mouth, unleashing three streams of fire into its face. The giant staggered, raising a hand to its burnt face. Yoku charged forward, raising his blade, hewing its leg with ease.

There wasn’t even anything fun to fight here, it was all just tedious busy work. Go kill these pathetic ogres, kill this starving hill giant.

Occasionally, he would be told by one of the bosses of the Epanakian forces to handle some special quest, a band of trolls burnt to a crisp, a rising star among the Conqueror’s legions crushed by a boulder, et cetera. It reminded him of old times, but something was missing.

He missed the Sleepy Dragon Crew. At least when he’d been adventuring with them, Yoku wasn’t bored. 

Corvus could be annoying, but her magic was fun, and she enjoyed being with him, more than these soldiers anyhow. It was mostly the bird that bugged Yoku anyhow. Nasty little meal thief. She had been given a place among the nobility.

Navar… Yoku could always trust Navar to be at his side through thick and thin, dire straits, or whatever stupidity he and Corvus would dive into. He’d left the Sleepy Dragon to study storm magic, and Yoku didn’t know where he’d gone.

Dionysis and Fennec were interesting. Yoku wasn’t that close to them, but they were entertaining. Of course, they kept messing up the table, disrupting meal times. The pair had left to establish their own… kingdom? Cult? Yoku wasn’t too sure what they were up to now.

Godren… Yoku always found Godren… freaky? Even ignoring the whole were-croc thing, his obsession with death was worrying. He stuck his hand out to grab a drop of primordial death energy! Granted, this was after Yoku grabbed the whole death sword, but apples and oranges. Godren still ran the Sleepy Dragon.

Crybaby never made a good impression on Yoku. While the others had never been as open about their evil as Yoku, at least they didn’t bother hiding behind good like Crybaby. She was frustrating. Last he’d heard, she still worked with the Sleepy Dragon.

And then there was Sword Lady. She didn’t have any other name. She was Fey Shaped, a mortal who has a certain path that they are meant to follow, but if they stray, they can shatter. Other Fey Shaped view this as most would view death. But the Sleepy Dragon didn’t really know much about Fey Shaped, and took her in. Over time, she began to develop some sort of personality, but she still had difficulty expressing her wants. For whatever reason, liking Sword Lady was just about the only thing both Yoku and Crybaby agreed on. She still worked with the Sleepy Dragon Crew. Yoku hadn’t talked to her in a while.

Yoku hadn’t talked to any of them in a while.

He looked to the band of soldiers with him. None of them spoke casually with him. Why would they? A ten-foot tall hired killer, with a history of incredibly violent feats, and now had been named Archlord of Pakan. 

Sure, there were probably others of a higher rank somewhere in Epanak, but the smart ones avoided getting put in charge of Pakan, and even those that did run Pakan didn’t particularly want to be here.

Yoku was both a terrifying figure, and the highest ranked person here. Sergeant Daniels, an Aasimar who had been given the job of wrangling this wild operation, would discuss missions with him, and while she gave him missions, they often felt like busy work. Dealing with trolls? Yoku’s fire was their most effective weapon against them, sure. But a pair of ogres? 

A dull ache was rising from his back again. The entire camp was beginning to run low on potions. And food. And water. They’d need to turn back. Again.

It didn’t matter how many giants were killed, or how far back they drove the Conqueror’s Legion, both had a hold on the region. Pakan wasn’t a rich landscape, but it had enough to sustain people if you knew what to look for. But the Epanakian forces didn’t have time to forage, they needed to establish a foothold. But they didn’t have time to establish a foothold before the supplies they’d brought ran out, and they needed to retreat.

Yoku was angry.

Angry at these soldiers who surrounded him, angry at the giants and Conquerors who fought him, angry at the tribes which just…

The tribes who just survived.

A thought cut through the haze of building rage, like a piccolo in an orchestra. If those tribes would work with them, that would be a step towards solving the food problem. And if the food shortage was no longer an issue, they’d have time to establish a foothold.

For the first time in a while a grin formed on Yoku’s face. It was a grim expression, proof of satisfaction, more than any true enjoyment, but it was a less morose expression than he’d had in months.

He’d need to talk to Sergeant Daniels.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Master Sergeant Daniels was exhausted. She was the highest ranking officer, and she was stuck. Stuck on some dead end assignment, fighting wave after wave of these Conquerors, hoping to one day breakthrough. With the death of the Conqueror, some of the unity had broken, yet there were still a lot of fanatic bodies to try and push through.

This was the third time she’d been sent here. The previous two efforts had failed for the same reasons this one was: lack of support from the nobility. Those fat cats would sit up high, talking about whatever schemes piqued their interest. And their interests didn’t concern Pakan, or the now dead Conqueror. 

One of her soldiers, wasn’t his name… Evan?, came into the tent. “Sergeant? Uh, Yoku wants to speak with you.”

She lifted a hand to her face. That was a new headache.

Dalkan had appeared before her company, she’d been worried. An ancient assassin walking up to someone is a recipe for disaster. Then he said that he had an archlord he wanted her to take to Pakan. Normally, she’d have refused, no matter which Count it came from. But Dalkan didn’t like nobles, so she was willing to entertain his request.

And then she met the hired killer, self-proclaimed villain, and one of the people who helped kill the Conqueror.

A towering dragonborn, glowering at all around him. Though, that might have just been his face. Yoku was far less threatening than he had first appeared. Despite calling himself a villain, he was strangely amiable. At least, til they hit Pakan.

When they got there, Yoku’s many… quirks reared their heads. His stubbornness, his simplicity, his lack of tact, and especially his strange independent streak. 

Sure, he was shockingly capable of surviving in the wastes of Pakan, and he’d often handle the beasts that their company, only three dozen strong, couldn’t deal with without incurring heavy losses.

BUT WHY DID SHE HAVE TO TALK TO HIM!

Ah well.

“Send him in,” Sergeant Daniels said, resigning herself to this fate.

“Oh he’s-” Evan began, before stumbling away from the door as Yoku poked his head in.

“Hey! Sergeant!” he bellowed.

Daniels didn’t shrink from his volume, but Evan lacked her resolve. Granted, she didn’t have the misfortune of standing next to Yoku’s mouth.

Yoku wriggled through the door, fitting most of himself in the tent. He left his legs and tail in the cold, so as to let the other two have some room to breathe. Evan quickly backed up, giving a wide berth to the dragonborn, as wide as he could anyhow.

“Archlord Yoku, what do you need?” Daniels said as amicably as she could manage. 

“Well, I was thinking,”

A miracle, Daniels thought to herself.

“The problem is that we can’t get set up in Pakan? Well, there are tribes that are already set up! Why don’t we just get them to help us? They know how to survive here!”

Daniels sighed. Sure, that’d be swell… just find the hidden tribes that have been hiding out here, unable to be found by the Conqueror or our armies, and then convince them to help us. Brilliant.

“Of course sir, we’ll take that into consideration.”

“Great! Then we should probably retreat for now, thirty some people might be too many,” Yoku replied.

“Wait, what?”

“Yep, glad that’s sorted. I’ll let the soldiers know.”

Daniels watched Yoku squirm out of the door. She turned to look at Evan.

“Did I just lose control of our company?”

Evan just shrugged.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Yoku went to get the soldiers. They were a bit bewildered as Yoku took charge, but they couldn’t exactly ignore him. He was an Archlord.

The troop moved back to Savarak, the territory under the rule of Count Dalkan Arental. They had been using this land as a staging ground for the forays into Pakan. Thanks to Yoku’s favorable relationship, Dalkan had been providing them with a decent amount of resources to maintain their forces, but not enough to properly replenish them. Dalkan had more important things he needed to spend his gold on, and Yoku had asked to take Pakan.

The mood on this return was different than before. The other times there had been a sense of exhaustion, of failure. A weary band, returning bedraggled and starving to a city. This time, they still had a decent amount of food, and only one or two died from the battles they had fought.

Yoku was at the head happily chattering about ways he believed that they could find the tribes of Pakan. Sergeant Daniels was confused. How did he think he could find tribes that hid from the entire army of the Conqueror, or all of the Epanakian armies?

Eventually, they’d returned to their barracks, and the troops dropped all of their packs. Yoku pulled Daniels aside to tell her what he needed.

“Right, I’ll need you to pick, four or five people who you’d want with you. I’ll be back in a week or two.”

“Sir, what is the plan?” Daniels asked. He was surprisingly evasive about answering that question, probably not even intentionally.

“Oh, I got a kobold back in Keep Rememberance who should be able to find the tribes, we just need to avoid the armies.”

Daniels attempted to say something to this proclamation, but Yoku had already begun walking off. She stared after him, shocked. This could not work. But… what other choices did she have? The other lords of Pakan were doing their damndest to avoid this whole issue, the people who could request backup for the armies fighting for Pakan were either uninterested or actively hampering them.

“Sergeant?” Daniels turned. It was one of her soldiers, one who’d been working with her even before the Conqueror’s death. Corporal Reigen. One of the many tired faces who were dying so often from the weather or armies. 

“Corporal, gather up some of the most experienced soldiers. We’re making a gamble.”

If she played her cards right, who knows how well this could go. Either they die the same death their previous course was aiming for, or they risk everything for a dream they could never hope for.

[inkskinned]

i got rickrolled today but it didn't work because i have adblocker installed, so youtube just told me i violated the terms of service. yesterday i was trying to edit a picture as a joke for my girlfriend, and google made me check a box to prove i'm human because i wasn't "searching normally".

it isn't just that capitalism is killing fun and whimsy, it is that any element of entertainment or joy is being fed upon by this mosquito body, one that will suck you dry at any vulnerability.

do you want to meet new friends in your city? download this app, visit our website, sign up for our email list. pay for this class on making a terrarium, on candlemaking, on cooking. it will be 90 dollars a session. you can go to group fitness, but only under our specific gym membership. solve the puzzle, sign up for our puzzle-of-the-month-club. what is a club if not just a paid opportunity - you are all paying for the same thing, which makes you a community.

but you're like me, i know it - you're careful, you try the library meetings and the stuff at the local school and all of that. the problem is that you kind of want really specific opportunities that used to exist. you are so grateful for libraries and the publicly-funded things: they are, however, an exception - and everything they have, they've fought tooth-and-nail to protect. you read a headline about how in many other states, libraries have virtually nothing left.

do you want to meet up with your friends afterwards? gift your friends the discord app. you can choose to go to a cafe (buy a coffee, at least), a bar (money, alcohol) or you can all stay in and catch a movie (streaming) or you can all stay in bed (rent. don't get me started) and scream (noise complaint. ticket at least).

you want to read a new book, but the book has to have 124 buzzwords from tiktok readers that are, like, weirdly horny. you can purchase this audiobook on audible! your podcast isn't on spotify, it's on its own server, pay for a different site. fuck, at least you're supporting artists you like. the art museum just raised their ticket price. once, they had a temporary exhibit that acknowledged that ~85% of their permanent art galleries were from cis white men, and that they had thousands of works by women (even famous women, like frida! georgia o'keefe!) just rotting in their basement. that exhibit lasted for 3 months and then they put everything away again.

walmart proudly supports this strip of land by the street! here are some flowers with wilting leaves. its employees have to pay out-of-pocket for their uniforms. my friend once got fined by the city because she organized a community pick-up of the riverfront, which was technically private property.

no, you cannot afford to take that dance class, neither can i. by the way - i'm a teacher. i'm absolutely not saying "educators shouldn't be paid fairly." i'm saying that when i taught classes, renting a studio went from 20 bucks an hour to 180 in the span of 6 months. no significant changes to the studio were made, except they now list the place as updated and friendly. the heat still doesn't work in the building. i have literally never seen the landlord who ignores my emails. recently they've been renting it out at night as an "unusual nightclub; a once-in-a-lifetime close-knit party." they spent some of those 180 dollars on LEDs and called it renovating. the high heels they invite in have been ruining the marley.

do you want to experience the old internet? do you want to play flash games or get back the temporary joy of club penguin? you can, you just need to pay for it. i have a weird, neurodivergent obsession with occasionally checking in to watch the downfall and NFT-ification of neopets. if i'm honest with you all - i never got into webkins, my family didn't have the money to buy me a pointless elephant. people forget that "being poor" can mean literally "if i buy you that toy, i can't afford rent."

you and i don't have time to make good food, and we don't have the budget for it. we are not gonna be able to host dinner parties, we're not made of money, kid. do you want some kind of 3rd space? a space that isn't home or work or school? you could try being online, but - what places actually exist for you? tiktok counts as social media because you see other people on it, not because they actually talk to you.

there was a local winter tradition of sledding down the hill at my school. kids would use pizza boxes and jackets and whatever worked, howling and laughing. back in september, they made a big announcement that this time, rules were changing, and everyone must pay 10 dollars to participate. when im not scared shitless, i kind of appreciate the environmental irony - it hasn't gone below 40. so much for snow & joyriding.

i saw a bulletin for a local dogwalking group and, nervous about making a good first impression, showed up early. the first guy there grimaced at me. "sorry," he said. "there's a 30-dollar buy-in fee." i thought he was joking. wait. for what? the group doesn't offer anything except friendship and people with whom to walk around the city.

he didn't know the answer. just shrugged at me. "you know," he said. "these days, everything costs money."

[maeamian]

If you saw me agreeing with being annoyed about wasted helium in a fictional context and were like "I bet she has some more helium based anger in her life" good news LAPD fucked up a raid on a medical facility they thought was a pot farm and flat out ruined thousands of gallons of the stuff.

[aropride]

[spyres]

[lilacxquartz]

love you, love you, love you;

mr. crawling x reader

plot: some things are best expressed without the need of words — themes: spooning/cuddling, smut, maybe yan vibes — w.c: 1.1k

a/n: my first homicipher related fic. i want to try one for mr. silvair & mr. gap next, bc they were also my favs. this game has been taking over my life so much lately. like it’s been in my dreams, haaah.

masterlist • ao3

Mr. Crawling was always loud when he was excited within your company; his laughter filled out the vast empty spaces that were otherwise unadorned with familiarity. Whatever you once sought from those winding corridors was ever-fleeting, temporary, leaving you stuck within the confines of his company.

Yet, when he felt what you could only interpret as affection—that’s when Mr. Crawling then became different—quiet, soothing, kind but also… curious.

And when you would usually sleep, he would stand watch, knelt over the floor as per his usual stance but sometimes crouched near you, sometimes leaning back against the wall with his legs pressed up against his chest. He would watch you as his life depended on it, unwavering in focus and with eerie intensity. He would watch as your chest rose and fell, leaning close on occasion to catch the sweep of your breath and sometimes, he would trace the pad of his milky fingertips in long, languid strokes against your face. Always so delicate, so tender, but for the most part, quiet and even shy.

Having once caught a glimpse of Mr. Gap in your blanket space, however, set something territorial off for Mr. Crawling and he was never able to recover from such an invasion. The very idea that someone else was able to infiltrate what he deemed to be your space—especially someone who he disapproved of—wasn’t something he could stand for. Especially with the sort of trickster Mr. Gap was, he couldn’t bear to see you get hurt. It would kill him on the inside (and on the outside, too).

So, just as you were getting into bed to rest up once more, he too, slipped in under the covers with you. At first, you were startled as usual, turning to face him with confusion evident in your eyes, murmuring out some words in a language that he still could not understand. He repeated something back, the meaning lost and indecipherable upon your ears, though soon surrendering to emphasis using gestures instead. A hug to bring you closer, a reassuring pat on your head and a small, longing kiss over your nose.

You listened to his words again, repeating over and over like a broken record.

Perhaps he meant no harm, after all.

You turned your back to him and settled into his chest, finding that he was surprisingly warm for what he was. His taller frame encased your body, wrapping his ashen arms around your waist—accidentally brushing the fabric that sat over your breast—nicking the cloth ever so slightly. Your breath hitched in surprise and as though in sheepish realisation, he withdrew right away, terrified that you were upset with him.

You drew out a long breath, reminding yourself again, that after everything that has happened thus far…

That, Mr. Crawling does not want to hurt you.

That Mr. Crawling has only ever helped you.

So perhaps, right now, Mr. Crawling only wanted to be closer to you.

You relaxed your breathing, settling into his comforting shadow once more and allowed for his presence to envelop you. He repeated the soothing motions of his grappling arm, although he held onto you softer that time. His hands explored your body with a delicate touch, as though afraid of breaking you—of upsetting you again—his motions growing confident the longer that you didn’t protest. It wasn’t long before he, otherwise not disturbed by your lacking, conscious awareness, decided to explore further with you. Mr. Crawling’s fingers didn’t ask for permission that time, creeping beneath the clinging fabric, feeling your skin against his palms, inviting a pleased, almost delighted smile to curl on his lips.

The silence remained unbroken as Mr. Crawling continued his explorative focus on you; the quickly-building evidence of his need growing harder the longer he pushed himself behind your body, the repeated touches arousing something warmer within him. To both his surprise as well as your own—you were not repulsed, allowing him to creep even lower, below the skirt of the dress and up, brushing his hand up to your exposed skin and, reading into it—you communicated your consent from the moment you parted your legs, allowing him to get even closer.

Confidence surged in Mr. Crawling as he pushed himself into your hilt, allowing his hardened length to slip inside. Betraying the stagnant silence, he shuddered out a ragged gasp before giving into his own rising need; grinding himself into your sopping sex with steadily increasing fervour. His fingers clamped around the curve of your hips as he held you in place, slamming every last inch of himself deep into your core.

Ever touch-starved yet wanting nothing more than to surrender to the sensation of you, Mr. Crawling continued to drive his cock into your needy cunt, soon wrapping his winding arms around your body and holding on tight. He bucked intensely as you soon succumbed to breathless whimpers, incoherently begging for his name. Equally desperate whines rolled off the slip of his tongue as he found his lips pressed into the crook of your neck, dampening your skin with sloppy wet kisses—as many as he could give.

It felt overwhelming for you in a way to be worshipped like this but you did your best to keep up with such intensity, especially as the warm, tingling pleasure built up inside of you, too. You held on just as tight as he did, your hand seeking out his own—fingers weaving into his bony digits—interlocking and squeezing tight the closer you got, your grip and otherwise clenching need tightening simultaneously. To feel him losing himself inside of you was dare you admit, addicting, feeling him completely fill and stretch you out leaving you almost dizzied from the impaling force.

Mr. Crawling, like you, soon surrendered to the rolling bliss from the flick of his hips, feeling a surging warmth mount and rise, encouraging him to lose himself to the searing heat of the moment and you. Encircling your body in a possessive hug, he suddenly began to mutter out a new word in a strained mantra, again and again.

Given how desperate he seemed to be, you understood the meaning as ‘close’, especially as his actions grew more strained and less controlled.

“Close, close, close,” he repeated.

It didn’t take his chased release to catch up as his hips grew to a stutter, rutting out one final pump before melting into you. Mr. Crawling cried into your neck, spilling out the entirety of his overflowing love, feeling the pent-up devotion trickle down your thighs—yet not letting you move away—still retaining his claim on you.

Instead, he kept you even closer than before, not allowing you to part from him ever again (despite understanding your yearning for rest).

Words were never the problem, it seemed.

Mr. Crawling would have always found a way to… connect with you.

[acorviart]

everyone should attempt an artisan craft at some point in their life because it would cut down the number of comments questioning why handmade goods like ceramics or textile craft or woodworking are so expensive

and this is an unrealistic expectation, but I think the attempt should include seeing through to the end at least one "finished" item, no matter how clumsy or lumpy your first attempts might be. like to me, there's a huge difference in perspective between attempting to learn how to crochet or throw a pot for a few days, acknowledging that it's harder than it looks and giving up, versus committing to finishing that scarf or clay pot you started and working on it for weeks while you painstakingly learn from your mistakes and grow attached to your project while also simultaneously hating it.

once you finish the latter, your perspective changes from "why does this crocheted blanket cost $200" to "holy shit I can't believe they're charging $200 for this crocheted blanket instead of $2000" because you may have known crocheting is hard, you may have easily agreed with the idea that "handmade goods take time and effort" even before attempting a craft, but now you know firsthand the absolute time sink it takes to make things. like yeah dude, that one item took you 2 months to make and probably wasn't even an ultra complex item if it was the first thing you made, now imagine attaching an hourly wage to that time to calculate the cost (and this is ignoring every nuance of the artistic element and master crafters being able to work faster/charge higher because of their years and years of experience)

anyway this rant has been motivated by a comment I saw on someone else's ceramic post asking why a mug was $60 and they understand it's handmade but $60 just seems overpriced, and bro do you know how long ceramics take to make. that mug probably took at minimum 3 weeks between how long it takes to throw the mug, dry partially, trim the mug, dry fully, bisque fire, wait a day for the kiln to cool, sand and paint and glaze, glaze fire, wait a day for the kiln to cool, take product photography of the mug, write description and list the mug online for sale, im not even including the skill needed to complete all these steps without the mug literally exploding or collapsing while also making it an appealing piece of art, aaaaaaaaaaaaa

[an-established-butt-dent]

Soooooo after the new details that have been revealed about Veilguard, how do we all imagine a Solavellan reunion is going down? Trapped in the fade together? Lighthouse makeout sessions? A very sad mural dedicated to his Vhenan? My brain is infested with new headcanons.

[aq2003]

sam and brennan’s greatest weaknesses (respectively)

(transcript under the cut)

[transcript:

Clip 1:

Elaine: It’s possible this is my new favorite bird!

Sam: I agree. Before, my favorite birds were... [pauses]

Elaine: What?

Sam: Fuck me.

Elaine: [Laughs]

Sam: Um, bluejay. A robin. A cardinal. A flamingo... [pauses] Dinosaurs were technically birds. A pterodactyl—

Brennan: Sorry, dinosaurs were technically birds?!

Sam: I was just listening to an NPR story about this, Brennan.

Brennan: I believe that you mean birds were technically dinosaurs. Not all dinosaurs, were birds!

Elaine: He has a point.

Sam: Oh god in heaven, I don’t know if I know five more birds.

Clip 2:

Carolyn: Woody Harrelson has the vibe of someone who should have been cancelled years ago, but remains one of the rare celebrities loved by both sides of the political aisle, like Dolly Parton, The Rock, and... Kid Rock.

Brennan: That’s the opposite of these five celebrities that both the left and the right hate... Honestly, just like a list of five celebrities would be enough to really... [sigh] oh god, who’s famous? Um...

Sam: Who’s famous?

Carolyn: [Laughs]

Sam: This is like me with the birds.

Brennan: Oh, god, let’s switch. Let Sam name five famous people and I’ll name five birds. I’ll name a hundred birds!

Sam: Nobody wants your birds, Brennan!

Brennan: PLEASEEEEEEE

[/end transcript]

[bixels]

Learning that fans hated Applejack and called her "boring" is crazyyy to me because I genuinely, unironically believe AJ's the most complex character in the main six.

Backstory-wise, she was born into a family of famers/blue collar workers who helped found the town she lives in. She grew up a habitual liar until she had the bad habit traumatized outta her. She lost both her parents and was orphaned at a young age, having to step up as her baby sister's mother figure. She's the only person in the main gang who's experienced this level of loss and grief (A Royal Problem reveals that AJ dreams about memories of being held by her parents as a baby). She moved to Manhattan to live with her wealthy family members, only to realize she'll never fit in or be accepted, even amongst her own family. The earlier seasons imply she and her family had money problems too (In The Ticket Master, AJ wants to go to the gala to earn money to buy new farm equipment and afford hip surgery for her grandma).

Personality-wise, she's a total people-pleaser/steamroller (with an occasional savior complex) who places her self worth on her independence and usefulness for other people, causing her to become a complete workaholic. In Applebuck Season, AJ stops taking care of herself because of her obsessive responsibilities for others and becomes completely dysfunctional. In Apple Family Reunion, AJ has a tearful breakdown because in she thinks she dishonored her family and tarnished her reputation as a potential leader –– an expectation and anxiety that's directly tied to her deceased parents, as shown in the episode's ending scene. In The Last Roundup, AJ abandons her family and friends out of shame because believes she failed them by not earning 1st place in a rodeo competition. She completely spirals emotionally when she isn't able to fulfill her duties toward others. Her need to be the best manifests in intense pride and competitiveness when others challenge her. And when her pride's broken, she cowers and physically hides herself.

Moreover, it's strongly implied that AJ has a deep-seated anger. The comics explore her ranting outbursts more. EQG also obviously has AJ yelling at and insulting Rarity in a jealous fit just to hurt her feelings (with a line that I could write a whole dissection on). And I'm certain I read in a post somewhere that in a Gameloft event, AJ's negative traits are listed as anger.

Subtextually, a lot of these flaws and anxieties can be (retroactively) linked to her parents' death, forcing her to grow up too quickly to become the adult/caregiver of the family (especially after her big brother becomes semiverbal). Notice how throughout the series, she's constantly acting as the "mom friend" of the group (despite everything, she manages to be the most emotionally mature of the bunch). Notice how AJ'll switch to a quieter, calmer tone when her friends are panicking and use soothing prompts and questions to talk them through their emotions/problems; something she'd definitely pick up while raising a child. Same with her stoicism and reluctance at crying or releasing emotions (something Pinkie explicitly points out). She also had a childhood relationship with Rara (which, if you were to give a queer reading, could easy be interpreted as her first 'aha' crush), who eventually left her life. (Interestingly enough, AJ also has an angry outburst with Rara for the same exact reasons as with EQG Rarity; jealous, upset that someone else is using and changing her). It's not hard to imagine an AJ with separation anxiety stemming from her mother and childhood friend/crush leaving. I'm also not above reading into AJ's relationship with her little sister (Y'all ever think about how AB never got to know her parents, even though she shares her father's colors and her mother's curly hair?).

AJ's stubbornness is a symptom of growing up too quickly as well. Who else to play with your baby sister when your brother goes nonverbal (not to discount Big Mac's role in raising AB)? Who else to wake up in the middle of the night to care for your crying baby sister when your grandma needs her rest? When you need to be 100% all the time for your family, you tend to become hard-stuck with a sense of moral superiority. You know what's best because you have to be your best because if you're aren't your best, then everything'll inevitably fall apart and it'll be your fault. And if you don't know what's best –– if you've been wrong the whole time –– that means you haven't been your best, which means you've failed the people who rely on you, which means you can't fulfill your role in the family/society, which makes you worthless . We've seen time and time again how this compulsive need to be right for the sake of others becomes self-destructive (Apple Family Reunion, Sound of Silence, all competitions against RD). We've seen in The Last Roundup how, when no longer at her best, AJ would rather remove herself from her community than confront them because she no longer feels of use to them.

But I guess it is kinda weird that AJ has "masculine" traits and isn't interested in men at all. It's totally justified that an aggressively straight, misogynistic male fandom would characterize her as a "boring background character." /s

At the time of writing this, it's 4:46AM.

[hansoeii]

It's about who.

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC My Brother in the Mirror

Damian doesn't like mirrors.

He never mentioned the fact to other members of the family, but they are detectives and vigilantes, it's their job to be observant. Which, after so many years, becomes a habit.

Damian doesn't actively avoid the mirrors - he has a mirror in his bathroom, he didn't express any discomfort over going into a mirror labyrinth at some carnival they've attended (he expressed disgust over taking part in something so stupid, in his words, but that's a whole another story), and he actually spent a few minutes in front of the funhouse mirrors when no one was looking, watching his own reflection distort in various ways. He also has no problems with his self-image - he doesn't mind pictures of him taken at any time (unless it's Tim, but that's, again, a whole another story), he's drawn a few self-portraits that were rather accurate and he liked them.

He just doesn't like mirrors. For some reason.

His family, both close and extended, never questioned it. They did some gentle research to see if the dislike was caused by some kind of problem Damian was experiencing without telling anyone, but when they found no proof of that, they've just decided it was some quirk of his. Everyone has quirks. Dick doesn't like eating cereal like a normal person, Tim despises sleep, Steph is at war with any color other than purple.

That is, until one day, Tim witnesses Damian sitting in front of a mirror.

He is not even aware of it - the whole family is having a game night, and through some arguments and rearrangements on the couch, Damian ends up sitting on the left side of it, where his back is turned to one of the three mirrors in the room. Tim, who's lost the last round, is slumping in an armchair nearby, pointedly looking away from the screen where Damian and Jason are enthusiastically competing over the first place in Mario Cart. Of course, Tim can't just not watch it since he needs to know their strategies. But turning back around would also be admitting defeat.

The solution? Easy, watch the screen through the mirror.

Which is when he notices it.

Damian in the mirror doesn't act the same as Damian in the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Tim can see the real Damian moving around, shoving Jason with his elbow, fully concentrated on the game, and yelling something. Damian-in-the-mirror is sitting unnaturally still, the back of his head over the couch unmoving.

Tim forgets all about the game when Damian's reflection starts to turn around. Slowly and carefully, eerie in the way the horror movies are, the boy in the mirror turns his head around like an owl, his neck twisting inhumanely.

His eyes are green. Green like the toxic waste, like Jason's madness, like acid in cartoons, like the Waters of Lazarus.

Damian in the mirror smiles, his unblinking, gliwing eyes fixed on Tim, and his teeth are sharp and pointy, and there are too many of them, humans can't smile this wide.

"-im? Tim!" A hand nudges him in the shoulder, and Tim looks away from the mirror, finding Dick standing over him. The noise of the game room returns all at once, and, wait, when did it become quiet for Tim?.. He must have a strange expression on his face because Dick's easy smile falls slightly, and he frowns, "Is everything okay?"

Tim looks back to the mirror, but the green-eyed boy in the mirror is gone, and the mirror only reflects Damian as he is: sitting on the couch.

"Yeah," Tim shakes his head and forces a smile on his lips, "I just zoned out."

"Okay," Dick pats him on the shoulder and gives him the controller, "It's your turn now."

Tim takes the controller and turns around, facing the screen. Tim throws a quick glance at Damian, who had slid down on the couch so his head would not be in the reflection anymore. Tim sees the cold, warning hint to his eye, a clear do not speak of it message.

Tim doesn't like that the mirror is now behind him.

[saltymarshmall0w]

beatdown buddies

(You always read fics where the pit is instantly calmed by Danny’s presence, but what if it didn’t?)

Now, you have to understand, that Jason was long past attacking strangers in a blind fury. The Bats? Sure, all the time--- but he was working on that.

This particular scrawny, possibly-homeless stranger hadn’t done anything more than simply exist in Jason’s proximity. If it was any other Crime Alley resident, Jason would be much more likely feel a surge of protectiveness.

This guy though– he was different.

Locking toxic-green eyes to toxic-green eyes made the pit in his skin violently react. Before he knew it, he was hitting the guy with everything he had, and the guy was hitting back.

The groceries Jason had left his apartment to get spilled all over the ground as the two rolled.

Pulled hair, split knuckles, and bruised bodies, the guy’s fist hit Jason’s jaw for the umpteenth time, cracking his head back and making him look at the gloomy sky.

They only used their fists. Jason could feel the familiar ghost of weapons hidden under the other guy’s hoodie, but neither pulled their hidden weapons.

Despite it all, Jason and the guy shared blood-tinged smiles. Blood boiled under his skin in an exciting trill. He was angry, and it was fantastic.

He’s pretty sure he just made a new best friend.

Someone hit Jason’s back with what could distinctly be identified as a broom. He vaguely heard the sound of yelling around him, but Jason’s only focus was getting his next hit in.

Eventually, they were stopped by a familiar shade of blue and black. Strong arms pulled him off the stranger and pinned his arms down, locking their arms over his chest to prevent Jason from getting free.

“You need to calm down!” Dickwing’s voice lectured in his ear. “You’re going to kill him!”

Surprisingly, Jason settled in Dick’s hold, fight and anger drained out of him in the space of a breath. The fire under his skin didn’t keep flaming and flaming and building it just– stopped.

“Oh, Please.” The stranger was grinning widely, despite the model of developing bruises and cuts across his face. A burly man who Jason vaguely recognized worked at the store they were standing right in front of was both holding up and holding back the guy. “We were just saying ‘Hi’.”

The guy made eye contact with Jason. Blue, no hints of green anywhere. The guy winked. “Danny.”

Frankly, Jason couldn’t quite explain his actions. He felt stupidly chastized by Nightwing’s patented older brother stare of disappointment. Apparently, the guy couldn’t explain his actions either, as he disappeared the instant no one’s eyes were on him.

-

Jason arrived an hour early to Wayne Sunday family dinner. He missed cooking alongside Alfred, and offered his help.

He let Dick wrap an arm around his shoulder for a few seconds as a welcome. He didn’t seethe at Bruce simply being there. He chose to sit between Tim and the Demon brat when it looked like new fratricide plans were being drawn up by the younger.

The pit didn’t scream under his skin to hurt. Little things didn’t set him off, making him have to leave early. He wasn’t tempted to throttle anyone for existing around him.

The pit was just… quiet. Peaceful even. Well, as peaceful as it could get in the Wayne household.

It was a massive improvement compared to six months ago— hell, compared to last month.

He shrugged off inquiries about his black eye, citing it would heal quickly anyway.

-

Jason should have known he wasn’t safe.

Sure, he was on a roof one could only grapple to, across the city from crime alley, and dressed up as Red Hood.

However, Danny always reappeared periodically like a well-timed extremely therapeutic punching bag.

One moment, Jason was looking down over the streets of Gotham the next, he was being flying-kicked by a lithe frame. Something instantly recognized Danny so, rather the putting a bullet in him, Jason picked himself back up into a crouch and lunged at Danny.

“Hood? Hood what’s going on?” Someone called in his ear— Oh, right he had connected comms with his family that night.

Danny stopped suddenly, straddling Jason’s stomach, one hand fisting his collar, the other posed to strike. He blinked. glowing green eyes turned blue. “You’re not like, busy doing vigilante stuff, are you?” He asked.

Every bruise and cut from their last fight was gone, his baby face appeared as though it had never been punched in his life, making him look all the more punchable.

“Nope.” Jason answered, driving an elbow into the kid’s stomach and in the same motion ripped the comm out of his ear to toss it to the side.

Minutes later Danny was pulled off him, and the fire under his skin died down.

He blinked back into his surroundings to find himself on a rooftop with half of Gotham’s vigilantes standing in a circle around him, an unease that he could only read because he was so familiar with them written in all of their body languages. Batman held Danny slightly behind himself, keeping a firm grasp on the guy so he couldn’t escape.

“You claimed the rage was getting better.” Bruce stated in the way that meant he was supposed to answer his unasked questions..

Jason waited for rage and indignance to rise up in him, but rather he just considered that Bruce saw glowing green eyes and a brutal beat down and made a logical leap.

“It has!” Jason argued anyway. He sniffed and ran a hand under his slightly bleeding nose. It didn’t sting enough to be broken. “I haven’t lost my cool in months.”

“That’s what he has me for!” Danny chimed happily. His nose was broken, but Danny didn’t seem to mind the twin streaks of blood running down his face. “We’re friends with Benefits. It’s always healthy to have a little dead-guy on dead-guy action. You guys should really fight with him more often, his ectoplasm is rank.”

[symeona]

Image description: it's a drawing of Aayla Secura from Star Wars. She's wearing a reimagined version of her outfit in Star Wars: Republic Issue 72. She's holding he glasses up with one hand, her other hand is in her pocket. She's looking judgementally at the camera. The prompt for her expression was her reacting to her original outfit. End of description.

[torsamors]

On Seatbelts and Sunsets - Hanif Abdurraqib