#My brother in christ!!!!!! you are an artist too!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[child-of-plut0]

AI is killing creativity

[spearxwind]

not fucking AI generated art on the tumblr radar 💀💀💀💀💀

[superstardestroyer]

Dawg I work in automating email-job-type-tasks and my coworkers - fellow elder millennials - were STUNNED at my solution to create a dynamic folder name. Not the method of making it dynamic, the part that stunned them was the "run cmd.exe: '/c mkdir [filepath]'" and at the point where I was going "yeah no its not wizardry its just like... a vestigial recreation of MSDOS..." I had to confront that frankly computer literacy has never been more in the toilet.

Telling young zoomers to "just switch to linux" is nuts some of these ipad kids have never even heard of a cmd.exe or BIOS you're throwing them to the wolves

[moody-alcoholic]

The Letter

My brain woke up and chose violence this morning.

----

A week after Johnny’s death Price gave him the letter.

The letter that remained unopened on his bedside table for another week.

Now it was time. Price had received Johnny’s ashes.

The plan was to go up to Scotland, a place just north of Aberdeen. There’s this pub Johnny always talked about, the plan was to have a celebration drink there after Makarov. Now it was to raise a glass to a fallen brother.

He looks out over the balcony, the sun is low in the sky, the cigarette between his fingers is almost done and the letter still sits there unopened. He promised himself after the first one he would open it, he lit his second cigarette before he could stop himself.

The words look back at him ‘Simon Riley’ it’s Johnny's handwriting, he could tell that from a mile away. There’s a part of him that never wants to open it, what if it says something that changes his opinion of him? Or worse, makes him miss him more.

Simon’s not a coward, Ghost’s not a coward, there’s something about this letter that makes him want to run though. Leave it sealed forever and push it to the recesses of his mind with the rest of the memories of Johnny.

Because Johnny’s gone and he will never see him again.

He picks the envelope up, turning it over, he reaches out for the knife he bought with him but now it seems too impersonal. Christ, it’s just a letter. It’s Johnny’s letter though, the last contact he’s ever going to have with him. He puts the knife back down using his thumb to break the seal instead.

When he unfolds the paper, it's not a letter, it’s a drawing, pencil and charcoal. Of Simon, asleep, head slumped back, arms crossed. Just the upper half of his body, he can tell by the details on the straps, they’re on a plane or maybe a helo. The detail is amazing, all the way down to the lashes on his closed eyes.

There in the bottom right where the pencil lines fade away; love Johnny.

Simon runs his fingers over the signature. That’s it, a picture of him, Johnny was always scribbling whenever they had down time. Simon remembers the countless times he’d look over Johnny’s shoulders to see what he was working on.

The times he would watch him in meetings, his tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth, his hand running over pages in his notebook.

He stubs the rest of his cigarette out and looks out over Manchester, the sun is almost completely set. The light from inside his flat shines on the picture, he can see more details now, little things like the shading on his mask, the details on his hands.

Johnny would have been an amazing artist. He can’t be anything now.

A breeze hits Simon making goosebumps rise on his arms. He closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath.

He jolts awake in bed, his body covered in a thick layer of sweat, his heart racing. He looks over at his watch, squinting he can just about make out the time; 3:45. He turns to look at the other side of the bed.

Johnny’s sleeping his arm over Simon’s chest snoring softly. His face squished into the pillow. Simon lets out a long breath, just a dream.

They’ve been getting worse of late, he doesn’t know why, right now he doesn’t care, Johnny's alive and well. Simon can’t help himself. He rolls over in the bed wrapping his arms around Johnny pulling him up on his chest.

Johnny lets out a groan before his eyes open slightly and he looks up at Simon. The moonlight shining in the windows reflects off his eyes, they glisten blue in the dark room, it makes Simon smile.

“What’s up?” Johnny asks, his voice low, filled with sleep. He presses his lips to Johnny’s forehead.

“That pub you always talked about, the one in Scotland. Can we go there?” He says, doing his best to keep his voice level.

“‘Cause, after Makarov.” Johnny says, yawning. He scoots up closer to Simon, running his fingers over his chest.

“Before.”

“Okay, sure.” Johnny says, letting out a long breath. “Now let me sleep.”

Simon smiles, kissing the top of Johnny's head. He looks over to the bedside table, he can see the picture Johnny gave him just a couple of days ago. He had it pinned to the lampshade. The same one from his dream, the same signature; Love johnny.

[iamquiantrelle]

GOLDEN BOY (chapter 2)────── iamquaintrelle

⌗ pairing : trent alexander arnold x black oc

⌗ summary : trent is having a quarter life crisis but will a smart-mouthed girl whip him into shape?

⌗ warnings : 18+ only!! (☁️☔️💕)

⌗taglist: @foreverisntenough, @trentswrld, @trentswhore @cinnaleaf @v6quewrlds @football-and-fanfics @eriks-girl @preetykookie @4ngryssgf @endlessmuse @noturbabe22 @bbgkoo

Tyler was still talking, going on about lighting concepts, but Trent's mind was spinning like he'd just done dizzy penalties.

April fucking Goodplenty.

The girl who'd rinsed him about his accent was apparently some hotshot photographer to the stars. No wonder she wasn't gassed about him being TAA - she probably shot Mbappé in his boxers last week.

"…could really elevate your brand," Tyler was saying. "Show a different side of you, you know? More artistic–"

"I fucked her last night."

Tyler's fork clattered against his plate. "What?"

"Well, almost fucked her." Trent grimaced, remembering. "Got proper mortal on tequila."

"You're taking the piss."

"Swear down." Trent tugged his collar down, revealing the art gallery of hickeys April had left behind. "She's got this mental cat named Pussy–"

"Bruv." Tyler put his head in his hands. "You're telling me you pulled the photographer I've been trying to book for three months? The one who told Nike to fuck off because their concept wasn't 'authentic' enough?"

"…yeah?"

"And you got liquor dick?"

"Oi!" The elderly couple at the next table turned to stare, and Trent lowered his voice. "It weren't just me, she was proper steaming too."

Tyler started laughing, proper belly laughs that had heads turning all over the restaurant. "This is peak. Absolutely peak. The one time your dick decides to go on strike–"

"Listen yeah," Trent cut in, "we can't book her. It'd be weird now."

"Are you mad? This is perfect! She already knows you, innit? Might even give us a better rate–"

"Ty." Trent's voice was serious now. "She proper mugged me off this morning. Slammed the door in my face and everything. Think she'd just take the piss if we tried booking her."

"Or maybe…" Tyler had that look he got when he was plotting something. "Maybe she'd want to finish what you started."

Trent's mind flashed to this morning - April in that silk robe, the way it had gaped open just enough to drive him mental. The absolute violation that would be, her directing him all professional-like while knowing exactly what he looked like in just his boxers.

"Nah." He shook his head. "Find someone else."

"Too late." Tyler's grin was pure evil as he held up his phone. "Already sent the inquiry last week. Got a meeting with her tomorrow."

"You're taking the fucking piss."

"Meeting's at two. Her studio in Shoreditch." Tyler stood up, dropping some notes on the table. "Don't be late."

"I'm not going."

"Yes you are." Tyler's voice had that tone that meant business. "This is exactly what we need for your image right now. Bit of edge, bit of artistry. Show everyone you're more than just the scouse wonderkid."

Trent watched his brother leave, then slumped back in his chair. Fucking hell. Tomorrow was going to be madness.

His phone buzzed - Tyler sending through the studio address. Under it was a message that made his stomach flip:

'She already confirmed btw. Said she's "very interested" in working with you.'

Christ. What had he gotten himself into?

Trent's Range Rover crawled through Shoreditch's narrow streets, his GPS having trouble trying to navigate the one-way system. Warehouse conversions and street art blurred past as his mind wandered to the night before last - to tequila shots and spiced vanilla and yellow-eyed cats named after Bond girls.

"Just round here," Tyler pointed, and Trent pulled up outside a converted factory building. Red brick, massive windows, proper East London trendy.

"Still think this is dead weird," he muttered, killing the engine.

"Stop being a pussy and come on."

The receptionist buzzed them through to a freight lift that looked like something out of a horror film, all exposed metal and dodgy grinding noises. When it finally wheezed to a stop, they stepped out into what had to be April's studio.

And there she was.

Fuck me.

The high-waisted jeans should've been illegal, honestly. Hugging every curve like they were painted on, leading down to these mental heels that had Trent's brain short-circuiting. The cropped jumper showed just enough skin to be professional but still have him thinking very unprofessional thoughts. Her hair was pulled back today, showing off cheekbones that could probably cut glass.

"Tyler," she smiled, all business now. "And… Trent. Nice to see you both."

The way she said his name had him remembering exactly how it sounded when she'd been leaving those marks on his neck. Speaking of which…

"Still sporting those love bites, I see," she smirked, gesturing for them to follow her into what looked like a meeting room. "Rough weekend?"

"Something like that," he managed, trying not to stare at her ass as she walked ahead of them. But fucking hell, those jeans were criminal.

The meeting room was all exposed brick and vintage furniture, mood boards covering one wall. April perched on the edge of the table, crossing those legs like she knew exactly what she was doing to his mental state.

"So," she began, pulling up some images on her laptop. "I've got some concepts I think could work really well. Break away from the usual footballer shoot - no watches, no posing with cars. Something more… raw."

Tyler leaned forward, interested. "Go on."

"I'm thinking black and white, minimal styling. Really strip everything back." She turned her laptop around, showing similar shoots she'd done. "Some torso shots, maybe even full nude–"

"What?" Trent choked out.

"Nothing gratuitous," she continued like he hadn't spoken. "All very tasteful. Think Greek sculpture vibes. Show the athletic form, the power, the vulnerability…"

"Nah," Trent shook his head. "No chance."

"Why not?" Those eyes fixed on him, challenging. "Scared?"

"I'm not scared," he bristled. "Just don't fancy getting my kit off for your camera, do I?"

"Wouldn't be the first time you've stripped for me though, would it?"

Tyler's eyebrows shot up as Trent felt his face heat. "That was different–"

"Was it?" She tilted her head, that infuriating smirk playing at her lips. "Because I seem to remember you being quite… willing."

"We'll think about it," Tyler cut in smoothly, ever the professional. "Maybe start with something less… exposed? Build up to it?"

April shrugged, standing up. "Your call. But I think you're missing an opportunity here. Could be something special."

As they headed for the lift, she called out: "Oh, and Trent? Might want to invest in some turtlenecks. Those marks look proper savage. Almost like you ran into a vampire or something."

"That what you are then? A vampire?"

Her laugh echoed through the studio - an unfiltered belly laugh that had him staring. Head thrown back, eyes crinkled, nothing like her professional photographer persona. Something in his chest did a weird flip.

"You're mental, you know that?" he said, but he was grinning despite himself.

"So I've been told." She winked - actually winked - and disappeared back into her office.

Outside, Tyler was already on his phone, probably lining up their next meeting. "That went well."

"Well?" Trent spluttered. "She wants me naked!"

"Not straight away though. We can build up to it–"

"I'm not getting my dick out for art, Ty!"

"No one said anything about your dick," Tyler grinned. "Unless… you thinking about showing her that too?"

"Shut up."

"Nah but seriously," Tyler pocketed his phone, turning to face him. "Did you see those other shots she showed us? Proper sick. Could really change how people see you."

Trent leaned against his car, thinking about it. The photos had been amazing - athletes looking powerful but vulnerable at the same time. Nothing sleazy about it. But still…

"She's just going to take the piss the whole time."

"Maybe that's what you need though?" Tyler raised an eyebrow. "Someone who doesn't treat you like TAA, Liverpool's golden boy. When was the last time someone actually challenged you properly?"

Never, if he was being honest. Even Sophie had just tried to mold him into what she thought he should be. But April… she seemed dead set on doing the opposite.

"Plus," Tyler added with a smirk, "think you might be into it a bit."

"What?"

"The way she mugs you off. Saw your face when she was giving it the big one about being scared. You proper love it."

"Fuck off," Trent laughed, but his neck felt hot. Was he actually into being challenged like that? The way she'd rinsed him about everything, how she kept him on his toes…

Christ. Maybe he did have a thing for it.

"Just think about it," Tyler said, already walking to the passenger side. "Meeting's in the diary for next week. Wear something nice."

Trent watched his brother disappear inside the car, then looked back up at the studio windows. Through the massive panes of glass, he could just make out April's silhouette, bent over her desk reviewing something.

Those fucking jeans though.

Maybe one more meeting wouldn't hurt.

Liverpool's training ground was freezing, typical January weather making everyone's breath visible in the air. Trent tugged at his high-neck base layer, grateful for the excuse of the cold to cover up April's artwork. Two days later and the marks were still there, like she'd been trying to brand him or something.

"Again!" Slot's voice carried across the pitch. "Press higher, Trent! Control that space!"

He pushed forward, finding that pocket between the defensive line in the practice match. The ball came to his feet like it was on a string - muscle memory from thousands of repetitions. One touch, two touch, whipped cross to Nuñez who buried it in the top corner.

"Better! Take five, lads!"

Trent grabbed his water bottle and phone from his bag, dropping onto one of the benches. His thumb opened Raya automatically - sad behavior really, but he couldn't help himself. Been glued to it since New Year's, swiping through posh girls and influencers without really seeing them.

Until.

"You're fucking joking," he muttered, nearly dropping his phone.

There she was. April Goodplenty, 27, verified profile with that little blue tick. Her first photo was something artistic - all shadows and angles, showing off those cheekbones that could probably slice bread. The next one had her on some beach in Bali, wearing this tiny white bikini that had his throat going dry. Then one of her working, camera in hand, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.

The bio though: "If your profile's got you in a watch and suit, save us both the time and swipe left xx"

Trent snorted. Course she'd have that energy on here too.

His thumb hovered over her profile. Would she even swipe right on him? Probably saw him as just another job now. Plus there was that whole… liquor dick situation. Total violation that was.

Fuck it.

He swiped right just as Slot's whistle pierced the air.

"Let's go! Set piece drills!"

Back to work then. He jogged back onto the pitch, trying to focus on football instead of wondering if she'd match with him. They ran through corner routines, free kick patterns, all the stuff that should've had his full attention. But his mind kept drifting to spiced vanilla and burgundy nails and that laugh that made his chest do weird things.

"Trent!" Slot's voice snapped him back. "You're dropping too deep again!"

Get it together, lad.

By the time training finished, he was tired. The shower felt biblical, hot water washing away the January chill. He wrapped a towel around his waist and another around his neck to hide the love bites, heading for his locker when his phone lit up with a notification.

New match on Raya.

His heart actually skipped. What was he, twelve?

But there she was - April Goodplenty had swiped right. And she'd already sent a message:

"You get one second chance. Don't fuck it up."

His first thought was "Yes ma'am" but that felt a bit… eager. Instead, he sent back a salute emoji, trying to play it cool while his brain was doing cartwheels.

Right then. Where the fuck do you take a girl who thinks fancy restaurants are dead and probably knows every hipster spot in London?

He opened Google, typing "unique date ideas Liverpool" before deleting it immediately. Nah, that was basic. She'd see right through that.

What about… he thought back to her flat. All those vinyls, the art everywhere. The way her eyes lit up when she was taking the piss out of his accent.

Maybe he did have an idea. Something properly scouse, but make it interesting. Show her his Liverpool, not the sanitized version he usually showed girls like Sophie.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, a grin spreading across his face. Oh yeah. This could work.

Now he just had to not fuck it up.

**********************************************

Two-all against Man United felt like a kick in the teeth. Trent's yellow card was still burning him up - such a soft call from the ref after Rashford went down like he'd been shot. The crowd had lost it, Anfield turning into a cauldron of noise as Man United's number ten rolled around like he was auditioning for the Olympics.

The gaffer had given them the "point's a point" speech in the dressing room, but it didn't help the taste of ash in his mouth. Should've had that game wrapped up in the first half - hit the post twice, had a penalty shout waved away. Then Bruno's equalizer in the 89th minute... violation that.

And now he had to somehow get his head right for this date.

He'd picked Baltic Market - bit different from his usual spots, proper Liverpool but with an edge. Street food stalls, local artists, that indie record shop in the corner that reminded him of April's flat. No fancy tablecloths or sommeliers giving it the big one about wine pairings. Just real Liverpool culture, the kind tourists never got to see.

His phone buzzed - probably Tyler asking about the match. But nah, just his mum sending another article about his yellow card. Christ, did everyone have an opinion these days?

"This better work," he muttered, checking the time again. Seven minutes late. Maybe she'd ghosted. Wouldn't be surprised after that meeting, him acting all precious about getting his kit off–

"Didn't expect you to actually pick somewhere decent."

That voice. He turned and… fuck me.

The Balenciaga jumpsuit was doing criminal things to her figure, and those heels had her almost at his height. Her coat was probably worth more than his entire outfit, but she wore it like it was nothing. Those curls though - bouncing with every movement, making his fingers itch to touch them.

"Rough match?" she asked, and he could've kissed her for not going straight into analysis mode like everyone else after a draw.

"Something like that."

"Good thing I know just the cure." She nodded toward the entrance. "Shall we?"

Inside was buzzing - fairy lights strung across the ceiling, music from some local band floating through the air, the smell of about twelve different cuisines mixing together. April's eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas, taking it all in.

"Now this," she said, "is more like it."

They ended up at this Korean street food stall, April going in on some bulgogi fries while telling him about this shoot she did with some rugby player who kept flexing his abs between takes.

"Real tragic," she laughed, licking sauce off her fingers in a way that had his mind going places it shouldn't. "Like mate, I can see them, you don't need to keep pushing them out. Looked like he was having a fit."

"That what you want me to do then? Get my abs out?"

"Please," she rolled her eyes, but he caught the way her gaze flickered to his torso. "Your ego's big enough already. Plus, after that meeting... seems like you're scared of the camera."

"I'm not scared," he bristled. "Just don't fancy having my arse all over magazines."

"Shame," she smirked. "It's quite a nice arse."

Before he could process that, she was already moving on to the next stall, leaving him standing there like an idiot.

They wandered through the market, April stopping to chat with every artist about their work. She knew her stuff too - passionate about it all. Made him think about those art prints in her flat, how everything there had felt intentional. Not like his place with its designer furniture picked out by some interior decorator.

The record shop owner recognized him, but instead of the usual selfie request, he and April got into this massive debate about vinyl pressings that Trent couldn't follow for shit. But watching her get excited about it, those curls bouncing as she gestured, the way her eyes lit up when she found some rare pressing... it was doing something to his chest, making it feel tight in a way that had nothing to do with the match earlier.

"Trent?"

He blinked, realizing he'd been staring. "What?"

"I said, should we get out of here?"

Outside, the Liverpool air was bitter now. April pulled her coat tighter, those curls whipping in the wind, and Trent had to stuff his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out to touch them.

"Listen," she said suddenly, turning to face him. "Let's cut the chase. I'm a busy woman, you're a busy man... so are we trying to fuck each other or are you pussy?"

Trent nearly choked on air. "I- what?"

"You heard me."

"You slammed a door in my face!" he spluttered. "Like, what are you talking about?"

"Sorry," she shrugged, not looking sorry at all. Those eyes were dancing with mischief again. "I saw you giving me the eyes at our meeting. And you swiped right on Raya, so..."

His brain was short-circuiting. This girl was actually mental. Completely off her head. Saying whatever came to mind like she didn't give a fuck about the consequences. And fuck him if it wasn't the most attractive thing he'd ever seen.

"You're actually mad," he said, but he was grinning.

"Maybe." She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell that spiced vanilla again. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes, the way her lips curved into that smile that spelled trouble. "But I don't see you running."

No, he definitely wasn't running. Not when she was looking at him like that, like she was deciding exactly how she wanted to ruin him. Not when those curls were right there, begging to be touched. Not when everything about her was a challenge he desperately wanted to accept.

"So?" She raised an eyebrow, and he could see the marks she'd left on his neck reflected in her eyes. "What's it going to be?"

The wind whipped around them, carrying the distant sounds of the city - cars honking, music from the market, someone laughing. But all Trent could focus on was the way April was looking at him, those eyes challenging him like always. Making him feel like more than just TAA, Liverpool's golden boy. Making him feel... real.

Fuck it.

"Your place or mine?"

Her smile turned wicked. "Bold of you to assume I'm that easy."

"You literally just asked if-"

"I know what I asked." She took a step back, and he immediately missed her warmth. "But maybe I just wanted to see what you'd say."

Christ. This girl was going to be the death of him.

"See you at the studio next week, Trent," she called over her shoulder, already walking away. "Try not to think about me too much."

He watched her disappear into the night, those curls bouncing with each step, that jumpsuit doing ungodly things to his mind.

Too late for that, wasn't it? He was already in too deep, and they both knew it.

The worst part? He was starting to think he didn't mind at all.

…………tbd

[ebodebo]

Chasing The Mask

—red hood is on the hunt for the director and his accomplice, blueprint, gotham's most notourious art theives.

—red hood x art thief "blueprint!" reader

—2.5k+

wanna be on my taglist ? fill out this form !

A heavy dew settles over the city, along with a light fall of freezing rain. It would almost be calming if you didn't know it was Gotham. One of the most crime-ridden cities in the world. Full of crooks and villains alike. 

Among the haze of rain and sleet, a vigilante sits perched on the top of one of the city's most renowned museums, The Metropolitan. The Red Hood, so he calls himself. While most nights he goes out into the night by himself, to his dismay, tonight he is accompanied by his heroine brother, Nightwing.

The Metropolitan is filled with some of the most exquisite pieces of art made by some highly famed artists, from Van Gogh to Basquiet. It is home to a most priceless collection, indeed. 

Of course, with such valuable pieces, the museum has been the target of numerous theft attempts, and tonight is no exception. 

"You didn't have to come," Red Hood snarkily says as he leans against the red brick encasing the rooftop exit door. 

"Just trynna' help out." The honesty in his voice makes Red Hood roll his eyes. He doesn't necessarily hate Nightwing but he thinks he's too smug for his own good. An entitled, know-it-all. But they are brothers, after all. So, there is a sense of undeniable care there. 

"I've got it taken care of." Red Hood counters, crossing his arms. His tone is almost defensive. Does Nightwing believe he can't catch a simple art thief? Like he's some kind of amateur?

"Is that right?" Nightwing questions, crossing his arms, too.

"Yes." Defensive, again. 

"Because, last time I checked, The Director and Blueprint are still running around Gotham." Nightwing accused. 

"Way to state the obvious, Dick." Red Hood enunciated his name. Dick was used to Hood using his name as a homonym, often. 

"I'm waiting." Hood finally answered his question after the insult. Nightwing let out a light laugh. "For what exactly?" He pushes, uncrossing his arms and walking over to the brick wall Hood was leaning on. 

"An opportunity," Hood stated as if it was the simplest thing in the world. "Jesus Christ, Jason." Nightwing pulled his hand up to wipe across his face, which was covered by a simple black domino mask. 

"This is exactly why I didn't want you to come, Dick." Hood sighed deeply. "Talk too much." He finished, uncrossing his arms.

"Sorry, I have-" Nightwing started, but Hood quickly interrupted.

"Wait, shut up," Hood stated, putting his pointer finger in the air.

"You're really starting to piss me off." Nightwing exhales, anger simmering off his body. 

"Dick, I'm serious," Hood says, turning his head to look around the roof. "You hear that?" He questions.

"Hear wha-?"

"Boys." Hood and Nightwing quickly turn to see Blueprint emerging behind the bricked rooftop door they were leaning on. 

"Blueprint," they simultaneously say. "What are you two doing here?" you ask, tilting your head. Nightwing is quick to respond. "We could ask you the same thing."

"A woman never reveals her secrets." You chirp, pointing your finger at both of them. You walk closer to them, smiling. "It's actually good to see you both." 

"Wish we could say the same." Hood finally speaks. His words are gruff and gray. You rapidly turn your head towards him. It felt weird seeing him like this. Not even thirty minutes ago, you were lying in the sanctity of his warm, cozy bed in a post-orgasmic haze. It wasn't like you and him were dating, but you shared a specific intimacy that wasn't common to either of you. 

Normally, you wouldn’t give boys like him the time of day. But, what can you say? He’s a great lay.

You did like him, sure, but this was strictly business. There should be no feelings involved in business.

"Blue?" Hood questioned, tilting his head to the side in confusion.

You shake your head, absolving you of your thoughts. "Would love to stay and chat, boys, but I have some paintings to tend to." Thanks to The Director, you swivel on your heel to head toward the rooftop exit door that's been propped open. 

"That won't be happening today," Nightwing spoke, pulling out his slick-black Escrima Sticks. 

You let out a smug laugh. "And I suppose you two are going to stop me?" You crossed your arms over your chest, tilting your head. 

"That's the plan," Hood said, pulling out his weaponry, which was tucked nicely in his jacket. 

You gave a nice, wide smile before pressing the button on the small metal capsule of a lead-lined smoke grenade that had been concealed in your hand, throwing it in front of them, unleashing a cloud of smoke that covered your being as you made your getaway.

"Bye-bye, batboys." You yelled to them as you sprinted to the ajar exit door and entered the museum's stairwell.

"Fuck." Hood says through coughs as the smoke forces its way deep into his lungs. Even with smoke filling his lungs, he's still quick to spring into action, following you inside the museum, with Nightwing following hot on his trail, coughing as well.

You flew down the steps. Skipping three, even four, steps at of time. When you turned around after you got inside, they weren't even behind you, still coughing and heaving on the smoke. It was a damn shame Jason was so tall because once you scaled the second staircase, you turned to see Jason beginning the second one. Your eyes widened under your mask at how swift he was. You turned and continued sprinting as fast as your legs could go.

You could faintly hear Hood and Nightwing yell at you to stop, but you pursued down the flights downstairs, reaching the last set of stairs. 

You scrambled up as Hood came unexpectedly close and almost grabbed your arm, but you managed to escape his grasp, holding the handle of the main door and slipping inside, slamming it in his face. You breathed a sigh of relief as your legs carried you over to where The Director AKA your dad was standing, holding an authentic Da Vinci portrait. 

"Nice job, Blue." Your dad remarked, referring to the diversion you created with the bats so he could slyly take the precious art without them interfering. Though slamming the door did make an excellent barrier, you had forgotten to arm the system back, so Hood and Nightwing forcefully pushed the door open. 

"You didn't arm the door system back?" Your dad hissed, looking down at you.

"I-shit." You cursed, turning to see Hood and Nightwing standing only a few feet from where you and your dad stood. 

"You really think you're going to get away with this?" Nightwing cockily questions, stretching his arms down with his sticks in each hand. 

The Director let out a deep, guttural laugh, causing you to spin your head to face him. "Don't you see? I already have," he declared, showing the painting in his hand.

"We could still take you out." Hood points out, his eyes on The Director, as his hand slides to reach for a gadget on his signature utility belt. Though, he couldn't feel anything. Did he seriously forget to bring it?

"How are you going to do that, Hood?" The Director challenged. "Don't have that shiny belt on, do you?" He questioned, gesturing to his waist.

Hood glanced at Nightwing. "You forgot your belt?" Nightwing questioned, disbelief coating his voice.

"I could have sworn-" Hood says before shaking the rest of the sentence off. "Whatever. I don't need it." He assures, assuming a fighting position.

It was honestly true. Hood was an incredible fighter. Watching him fight was astonishing. He could move his body in ways you didn't even know were humanly possible. But, you did not want to fight him. You just wanted to appease your father by helping obtain the painting, so you could all get the hell out of there.

"Get them." Your father demanded, looking down at you. You hesitated, looking up at your father. "Did you hear me? Get them." His words came out harsher than the first, showing his agitation. 

"Come on, Blue, we won't go that hard on you." Hood snarkily remarked, and you reached for his belt wrapped around your waist. You felt a weird sense of guilt as you covertly pulled out a Batarang.

"You just gonna stand there or-" Hood starts but is interrupted by the Batarang swinging right near the side of his head. 

"I actually think I'd like to play, Red." You mischievously say, running towards Nightwing, catching him a little off guard, and extending your leg to kick him in the stomach, pushing him back, as he holds his stomach.

"Come on, Red. I won't bite." You say, making your way over to him while Nightwing is still down. You let out a powerful punch, but he's quick to move his head to the side, dodging it. 

"Actually, I think you might." He says, grabbing your extended arm and twisting it so your body turns in the other direction. 

Nightwing makes his way up. "Well, that was easier than expected." He said, wiping his hands together.

"Because I did all of the work." Hood chimed, still with your arm twisted behind your back. Their banter made for a good distraction so that you could reach into the utility belt Jason mistakenly left at your house and grabbed a stun gun. 

You turned quickly, letting go of contact with him, as Hood talked, and pressed the tazer to his forearm. Although clothed, the powerful current still hit his skin, making him drop to the floor, convulsing.

"Wanna have some fun, Grayson?" You sarcastically ask as you step closer to him. He swings his sticks in front of him in a criss-crossed pattern. 

You take his silence as an answer. "I knew you were always the boring one." You sigh, holding up the stun gun.

"That's a bat-belt." Nightwing states casually, looking over at Hood, whose body is hunched over on the ground, still convulsing. 

"Aren't you just a genius? You sneered, carefully watching him. 

"How the hell did you get bat-belt?" Nightwing gruffly questions, eyeing your hand with the stun gun. You narrow your eyes at him. "Like I said before, a woman never reveals her secrets." You quickly move towards him, though he's not so off guard. Not like Hood was. 

However, unlike a taser, a stun gun does not shoot any projectiles, and it has to be held against a body or skin to do any damage. Nightwing was standing a few feet from you so the stun gun would do you no good. 

But, you don't even get a chance to use it because he's quick to knock the stun gun out of your hand and uses his stick to hit across the museum, a ways from any of you. 

"Ah, I get it," Nightwing says, letting his sticks rest on his side. You tilt your head to the side. "Get what?" You shouldn't be indulging him. You should be kicking his ass, but with Hood down, Nightwing wasn't going to be so much work. Plus, in between fighting them, your dad had slipped away, leaving you to do the damage control. 

"You got it from Jason, right? Well, stole." He dragged out the last word. 

"It's not really stealing if he leaves it in my apartment. Is it?" You retort smugly.

"Of course he did." As he finishes his sentence, you realize you two have been talking for a while. Well, in hindsight, in normal conversation, no, but this is supposed to be a fight, not a catch-up. Wait, I haven't heard Hood? Upon this epiphany, you turn to see an empty spot where Hood laid.

"Where-where did he go?" You stutter, deciphering when he could have left and how you didn't hear him.

"Oh, Jason?" Nightwing starts. "He left a while ago—once you turned around, actually." He coolly says this, sliding his sticks back on through the straps on the back of his suit.

This was a diversion, and you were stupid enough to fall for it. Shit, your dad is going to be so pis-

"Got em'," You hear Hood's voice echo off the walls as he walks in with your father, ropes tied around his hands and ankles, painting in hand. He handed him off to Nightwing as he placed the art back in its place.

You and Hood watched as Nightwing dragged him through the exit door you all came in through.

"So, heard you stole from me?" Hood tuts, shifting closer to you. 

"Like I said to your brother, it's not stealing if you leave it in my apartment." You retaliate, your throat drying as he moves closer.

"It's still mine." He's now standing right in front of you. You feel flustered at the proximity but cannot let it show. He would never let you live it down. 

"And I want it back," he casually says, his hands ghosting over your waist, housing the belt in question.

You look straight up at him. "Take it then." You swear you could hear him inhale deeply at your suggestive words, but you don't ask. 

His hands wander to the belt, hanging a little low on you. You swear he holds his fingers on the front part just to tease you, and if that was the goal, fuck, did he succeed. But you wouldn't tell him that. His ego is already huge. His fingers leave the front portion of the belt and continue dragging slowly along the sides until he reaches the back to unclasp it, and pull it off of you.

Once he steps back, you release a breath you didn't even know you were holding. "I would leave now." He suggests, wrapping the belt around his own waist. "You know, before the police get here."

"Okay." You felt like he had just put you under a spell. You are willingly agreeing with him. He can sense this, too, and smirks under his mask at your cooperation. 

"Night, Blue." He says as he turns to the rooftop top exit door, pushing it slightly.

"Goodnight, Red." You say, releasing a sigh of relief once he steps outside the door.

"Oh my God." You say to yourself. "That was-" You pause, taking a deep breath. "Do I like Red Hood?" You question, thinking. "No. Definitely not. It was nothing." You lie to yourself. You had only ever slept with the guy, so it just had to be the undeniable sexual tension between you two. That’s all. Right?

You thank God when you push open the rooftop door that Hood isn't hovering behind the door, listening to you essentially try to deny, and fail, expressing your feelings for him.

It is so nice for Hood that stairwells offer a safe place during storms, but they also offer space for a secret spot, just like the one Hood implemented into the walls of The Metropoliton some years ago.

He used to hide from criminals chasing him through the museum, which happened quite frequently, but now he was using it to simply make sure you left okay. But who knew it would double as a way to hear about your secret love confession? Certainly not him. 

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[dr-spectre]

Guys... I'm seeing a stupid race debate about Splatoon characters.... Some person drew Marina too light and some people have tried to defend it by saying "oh it's just an octopus! They have no race!" And comparing it to fucking GOOMBAS FROM MARIO!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mother fucker. Look at this and say straight to my fucking face that this is not a black woman. I dare you.

She has DARK SKIN! She looks like a black woman, she dresses in clothes inspired by African American culture, my brother in Christ THAT IS A BLACK WOMAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And now I'm seeing a movement of artists draw Shiver as blasian and you know what? That's awesome. That's fucking great to see!!!

Splatoon has always been about being who you are, expressing yourself, putting yourself into the world. So who cares if you wanna draw Shiver as blasian, that's great!!! Keep doing it!! KEEP GOING!!!

Look at the quote tweets from this twitter post, it's awesome to see a flood of artists do this.

This is gonna be semi off topic but i got reminded of a view that i have since I'm talking about race. As a fan of Callie, when i see artists draw her as tan, black, fat, a little chubby, i don't have a meltdown and cry about it. I ENJOY seeing people come up with different takes on Callie BECAUSE I AM A FAN OF THE CHARACTER!! I LIKE CONSUMING CONTENT OF MY FAVOURITE CHARACTER!!!

Plus... Tan Callie is peak Callie let's be honest with ourselves here, if you're an artist who draws Callie tan, you deserve a kiss on a cheek from a cute person of the gender you are attracted to.

[bloodyopvs]

The Sanguinarch isn't a bad villain or a cliched one.

The only thing that his writing suffers from is the fact that a lot of the finer points in his characterisation were easily missed or flew over our heads due to Arknights's ambiguous writing — I also had to do some deep lore diving to the Arknights Terra Wiki to be able to piece a more coherent picture of him, something more profound than merely 'he's just a mindless psychopath and a remorseless war criminal'.

And it strikes me what he was actually meant to be, in Chapter 13, where he was the main villain.

He is, for lack of a better word, an inverted Jesus figure.

There's a lot of things supporting this.

First, we have the crown of thorns (actually the thing that got into this rabbit hole) that his chibi, boss sprite wore in his second phase. His artist, Chuzenji, also drew him with the same thing. The crown of thorns's symbolism is obvious. Jesus wears one, including his depiction in the famous movie, The Passion of the Christ. Though, it's probably not that special on its own; but it's only the tip of the iceberg.

Then we got the meaning of his name, a portmanteau of a Hebrew word and an angel's name —— 'Dook', meaning pierced, and Ariel, an angel whose name literally means 'Lion/Hero of God', at least according to the Terra Wiki —— and things are starting to get intriguing. Put together, 'Duq'arael' means 'Pierced Lion/Hero of God'. The angel's name aside, the lion is an animal that symbolised 'God's strength and command', one that was closely related to God, to the point where C.S Lewis, author of the famous Chronicles of Narnia, use Aslan, a lion, as a stand-in metaphor for God.

And yes, the deeper you go into Sarkaz lore, the more you discover that it was heavily inspired by the lore of Abrahamic religions in real life, although I won't delve too deeply into this or start drawing parallels to real life events, since it's an extremely sensitive issue. But my point is that Arknights has always been deeply influenced by religious mythology and symbolism, and Duq'arael's name goes deep. It hinted at us on his true character——how he views himself.

(Him killing his own elder brother, who was an 'ideal' King of Sarkaz, was also a clear allusion to the story of Cain and Abel, and ties in with the occult theory that Cain was the first vampire in history, but that's an aside. Though this also serves to strengthen the point that Arknights has always been deeply influenced by religious mythology and symbolisms.)

Back to the topic, I would also argue that his design cleverly reflected this hidden allusion. His uncanny colour palette—white, red and black—could be interpreted as a reversal, so to speak, of Jesus's darker robes and dark hair (as he was so often and popularly depicted to be). His entire design screams vampire nobility, but there's something uncanny about it, which was highlighted when we were first introduced to him in Chapter 10 (or was it 11?). He was described as an ordinary-seeming nobleman, one who wouldn't look out of place speaking about current politics in Victorian telly.

More than that, though...although he wears black and red, 'traditional' vampire colours, his main colour is obviously white. White hair, white clothes.

Both the absence of colour, and the colour of purity, innocence, and rebirth.

Duq'arael is also the 'Prince of Blood'. Amiya, during their confrontation in Chapter 13, asks him what does blood means to him. As a concept, as a symbol——a meaning. Now his answer here isn't that important (although it's curious that he equates it with suffering, especially that of the Sarkaz's), but there's a hidden symbolism bomb here: Blood symbolised passion. When someone angers us, for example, we say that it makes our 'blood boil'. When our lover arouses us, or when we were afraid during a horror movie, we say that it gets 'our blood racing'.

In line with this, Dukare's goal——what he hopes to achieve by sacrificing so many people, including his own people——is to give the Sarkaz, who had been robbed of not only their homes and lands but also their entire identity, who had been brutally dehumanised and discriminated against for centuries, salvation.

At least in his perspective. He spilled a single drop of blood for them, a drop of pure Teekaz blood, in order to give them this salvation as well as to once again summon their original sin in the form of the first Originium. He even goes so far that this is their curse——the curse of being a Sarkaz, the curse of Originium. The implication here is that he wanted to SAVE them. But because he's twisted, because he's 'inverted' Jesus, he accomplishes that by sacrificing others on the cross instead of himself. A selfish 'saviour'.

He also blesses the Sarkaz with his blood, granting them strength. Once more: misplaced salvation.

But wait, there's another layer to this.

Duq'arael's the ONLY one who saw himself as such. He has a saviour complex despite his pretenses to be indolent, and obviously, due to the crimes and sins he committed, others saw him merely as a murderer, a monster, and a blood purist. Someone who can't let go of the past, and is still heavily fettered by it——someone who blatantly refuses to let go.

He, after all, killed his elder brother out of disappointment. He also testifies that he saw several other Kings of Sarkaz come and go during his long life, and with each passing one, he grew more and more disappointed, more and more disillusioned. More and more jaded. That is why he wanted to kill Amiya too; obsessed with slaying her, even. Not because he's blindly obsessed with murder in itself (perhaps not only because), but because he's past the point of saving. Which was his tragedy, and one that Amiya and Logos mourned after they pushed him off the Feranmut.

This motivation of offering salvation is also likely why he agreed to help Theresis take Londinium. He had alluded to it himself; his ultimate goal or even his motivation wasn't to rebuild Kazdel, especially not as the shitty mobile city that most recent Sarkaz remembered it as.

No, he wanted to 'save' them. To offer them salvation; to return their birthright, which is the entire world of Terra, to them. Back from the hands of the Ancients and the Elders, outworlder races who once wrested it out of their grasp and then proceeded to give them misery for centuries. Millennias, even.

Again, that is his role——The False Saviour.

I don't get why Chapter 13's title was 'The Whirlpool That Is Passion' at first, but then I realised that HG was being sneaky. They couldn't possibly call it 'The Passion of the Vampire', which would be TOO on the nose, so that's why they call it that:

The Whirlpool (symbolising Dukare being twisted by his past and his disillusionment) That Is Passion (the Jesus symbolism). It's very clever.

In addition to all of the above, on their 4th Anniversary art, his artist drew him with a white lily. The flower of (you guessed it) purity, innocence, and most importantly, rebirth. It does work with his image as a vampire, plainly speaking, and the Master of the Crimson Court who's obsessed with the purity of the blood, but I'd say it's more than that, since the white lily is also Mary's flower. Mary, as in the Mother of Christ.

So, no, The Sanguinarch isn't a bad villain. While he is undoubtedly a war criminal (wouldn't say that he's misunderstood, since he's an absolute dipshit nonetheless), he's not 'just' a psychopath.

[urmumsgyatt]

edit: help proshitters are finding this😭😭 we get it, you like to get off to children. fucking freaks istg, yall need to take a shower i can smell the stink from here. getting genuinely surprised that i would find this disgusting, i know this may come as a surprise for you p3dophiles, but some of us are normal people💀

HP/MARAUDERS FANS PLEASE READ THIS‼️‼️

if you’ve been in the fandom for a bit, there’s a likely chance you may have come across this artist before.

unfortunately, this disgusting person is a proshipper that ships both t0marry and $narry. please stop promoting this person’s content and following them.

here’s the evidence

“can be deemed as problematic” my brother in christ you are literally shipping illegal shit💀💀

has the audacity to call james a dickhead but ships his son with a genocidal 50+ yr old maniac (+ his abusive 30 smn teacher) and his wife with her fascist ex friend that called her a slur (and bullied her CHILD). the lack of self awareness is actually crazy. like get your priorities straight you weirdo😭

“i can excuse p3dophilia and fascism but i draw the line at being a little mean!” “you can excuse p3dophilia and fascism??”

the fact this person had NO SHAME in admitting this is actually crazy, grown ass 22 yr old doing this too like go pay your taxes or something you freak

[a66-1]

Because of you.

Regency!Simon x Regency!Fem!Reader

Chapter 1

TW: Cursing, Mentions of DV, (small use of y/n so you know who you are) and more to come in the next chapters!

Simon was on his porch, a drink in his hand as he gazed out into the wide landscape around him. He had a few animals, keep his mind and his hands busy during they day. The sun was setting beautifully. the sky an artists masterpiece, as Simon took a sip of his drink. It was wonderful being on the country side of London, a vast difference from being in the lime light all day and night because of a mere label you're born into. Simon was lucky, really. His mom could've dragged him by the ear to betrothe a girl, give the family an heir but.. He did have a ton of siblings, and the ton seemed more interested in them than him and his.. More quiet aura.

He noticed a note by his door. Odd. He must have missed it when we grabbed his morning mail. He put his drink down, and stood, straightening his shirt. He bent to grab the note, and his saw his sisters signature on the front, and his mothers.

Another oddity. It's the middle of the girls season, and Jasmine was already married...

He went inside to grab a letter opener, and slid it underneath the fold, swiping cleanly, as the paper made a small tearing noise. He pulled the note out and read over it. Blah blah blah, its a great season so far, Tommy found his match, Katy is doing well... But Jasmine wanted him over. Do the whole 'older brother' thing where he acts concerned and sits the boys down for a talk. Simon smiled softly, and turned the letter over, and his mothers handwriting filled the first half.

To be frank, he could barely read his mothers words, but something about Jasmine's husband's cousin?

He sighed, and folded the note back up. God, it's been.... Well, it's been years since he's truly had to be in the city.

He packed a small bit, really not wanting to be there too long, and he put his bag in the holder on his horse.

"Aye, Jackson. You ready for a long ride?" He patted his horse, before hopping on and starting his journey down to the city.

Once he arrived at his childhood home, he whistled lowly. Fuck, the house is huge. He lived here most of his life, but compared to his pretty modest ranch, but... Christ. He hooked his horse up in the stables, and he grabbed his back, keeping it on his shoulder, and he walked into the house. He spotted his mother first, and she squealed.

"Simon!" She ran, elegantly of course, holding her dress up. She hugged Simon tight, kissing his face as he laughed softly. He leaning down to her height, hugging her back.

"Hi, mother. It's been a long time since... I've been back." He mumbled the back end of his sentence. She shook her head, as her response.

"Nonsense, I get why. With 2 kids this season, it's getting harder to keep the reins in on these girls!" She had a smile, but it was tense on her forward. "And with your father being away on work, I need you to step up. Just for a couple weeks, but.. We need you, sweetheart."

Simon nodded. He wanted his mom to have a few things off her plate, knowing her tendencies to over work herself during the season.

He took his time to go through the home, finding his old study space, his old room, and then.. Jasmine. She was with her newly wed (by a couple of months) and then she spotted Simon.

"Si? Is that really you?" She stood up and sprinted to him, much differently than their mother, and jumped in his arms. He spun her around, kissing her head.

"Jaz, good god, you've grown." He laughed softly, and held her face. "It's good to see you."

She smiled up at him and gave him another big squeeze, "Oh! I need to introduce you!" She gestured her husband over, and took his hand when he was close enough.

"Alex, meet Simon, Simon meet Alex." She was all giddy, an arm hooked around his. Simon extended his hand.

"Alex. It's nice to see you have my little sister so... Lively." He teased Jasmine, and Alex took his hand.

"Sir. I've heard a lot of good things about you. Nice to put a name to the face." Alex smiled, and shook Simons hand tightly.

The rest of the day was just seeing his family again, getting reacquainted with all the gossip his sisters have. Only one thing was really bothering him. Jasmine and Alex kept... Talking. Alex seemed nervous, Jasmine was trying her best to comfort him. He had letters in his hand, and both of them were reading them, all worried.

Simon managed to slip away, and peered his ear over the door, which was now shut as Jasmine and Alex needed to talk.

"My love, you shouldn't worry so much, she's... She seems like she got out--" Jasmine started, but Alex worriedly interjected.

"Y/n is being chased. Her... ex fiancé is after her, he found her at our mothers, at her best friends... She needs to get out of London." He seemed to be tapping his foot, by the soft tapping sound.

"I understand Alex, but honey, there's nothing we can really do, because if she comes here... I mean, isn't her ex... Using.. You know, substances?" Jasmine kissed his temple, and he deflated.

"I need her out of town. Is.. Isn't Simon living out of the city? Do you think-?" Alex was trying his hardest not to cry, by the sounds of it. Simon tensed. Hell no, he won't get involved with things like this, he's already managed to avoid the problems of the city--

"I could... I could ask him.. But he's not really-"

Simon walked away, shaking his head, what was Jasmine thinking? He isn't interested in homing someone, especially if there's a.. Drug abuser after her..

That's when he heard Jasmine come up behind her, grasping his arm.

Jasmine turns him around, Alex, avoidantly, in tow.

"Simon? Can we talk?"

aha cliffhanger (im still writing but you need to want to keep reading somehow)

small series im making because starving is killing me rn.

ilsym babes, happy pride!

-a661

[writtenjewels]

Voice Part 4

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

Salim's first date since Maysa left him did not go very well. Leon still didn't laugh at any of his jokes, and the two ended up having nothing to talk about for the duration. When Salim tried calling the next guy, all he got was the voice mail. He left a message and waited two days before realizing the man wasn't going to call back. The incident was so embarrassing that by the time Salim plucked up the nerve to call the third guy, he found the man was already dating someone. He wasn't even sure it was worth calling the fourth guy.

That was when he got a text: 'Is this Salim? This is Ethan from the mixer.'

'Yes,' Salim typed back. 'I remember you.'

'I was wondering if you were busy this Friday,' Ethan sent back. 'My brother-in-law is having this art gallery show. Be nice to have some company.'

'I would love to go,' Salim responded. Even if this ended up going badly, he would at least get to enjoy some art. The two continued texting back and forth until they agreed on a time and place to meet. Salim was feeling optimistic when they closed the conversation.

On Friday, Salim met Ethan at a restaurant so they could eat before the show. Ethan wore a dark brown blazer and dress slacks, the ensemble simple but striking. His hair was a light brown, almost red in certain lighting, and he wore it almost to his chin. Salim noted earrings framing the man's entire left ear.

“You weren't wearing those at the mixer,” Salim noted.

“I don't wear them all the time.”

“Too bad,” Salim hummed. Ethan caught his eye and smiled. Salim returned the look. The night was going well.

He mostly stuck by Ethan's side during the show. Many of the art pieces were good, some he didn't fully understand but appreciated the skill of the artist, and some were so beyond him that he was lost on how it was considered art. Ethan was equally uninformed, but he made up plenty of art facts that at least kept things entertaining throughout the night. The two walked back to Salim's car together.

“Thanks for coming,” Ethan said. “I had a lot more fun with you here.”

“I had fun, too,” Salim agreed. He took a breath and asked: “Would you like to do something again?”

“Absolutely.” Ethan's face broke out in a grin. “I'd like that a lot. How about Tuesday?”

“Yes, okay, Tuesday,” Salim nodded.

Ethan leaned forward. Salim realized what was about to happen moments before it did. His hand was halfway to stopping Ethan when the kiss came. It was light and sweet, lasting only a few seconds before it broke. Ethan didn't seem to notice that Salim hadn't kissed back. They exchanged good-nights and Salim drove home.

He brewed a cup of tea to wind down when he got home. He was still trying to figure out how he felt about the kiss. It wasn't unpleasant, but he wasn't very excited about it, either. He reminded himself that this was just a first date, that he and Ethan were getting to know each other. But a part of him couldn't help thinking of the other three names already on the rejection pile.

Salim readied himself for bed, still feeling glum. His eyes drifted to the player. He hadn't listened to the tape since he started trying to date. He was convinced the voice was unhappy about him dating and didn't want to upset it any farther. He sighed; he could really use a friendly voice right now. Salim pressed play.

“Holy shit, there you are!” the voice burst out, startling him. “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”

“No, I...” Guilt gnawed at him. The voice sounded so worried, almost panicked. “I'm all right. I've just been busy.”

“Jesus Christ, don't scare me like that. I thought something happened to you!”

“I suppose you could say something did happen.” Salim sat on the edge of his bed, gripping it to brace himself. “I went on a date, and he kissed me.” There was silence for so long Salim got off his bed and checked to make sure the player was still running. “Hello?” Salim prompted.

“Yeah.” The voice was back to a more flat tone. “I hear ya.”

“I was wondering if that's normal, to kiss on a first date.” Salim thought he would feel embarrassed talking about his lack of experience, but he didn't. Maybe because it was just a voice, or maybe because it was this voice in particular.

“It happens, I guess. There ain't no hard and fast rule for it. If you both feel a spark, you should go for it.”

Did Ethan feel a spark? Salim hadn't sensed that. No wonder he didn't enjoy the kiss as much. “I see,” he said out loud. “Thank you. I promise I won't worry you like that again.”

“Good to hear.” There was a short silence. “So, you need a massage tonight?”

“No, thank you, my friend. I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh. Huh.” The voice sounded surprised. “I'm here,” the voice told him. “You can talk to me whenever.”

“Thank you.” Salim got under the covers. “Good night,” he added.

“Night, Salim.”

In his dream he was back at the mixer. Faces floated in and out of focus. There was one guy at a table trying to catch his eye. When Salim drew closer, he saw the man was wearing a gray baseball cap. His face was pale, making the freckles on his cheeks easy to spot. He had pleasant, angular features. The more Salim stared at him, the more he felt he already knew this person. It was the logic of dreamland.

“Hello,” Salim greeted. He read the man's name-tag out loud: “Jason.” The man responded by tipping the brim of his hat. It was a charming gesture, reminding Salim of Westerns. “Oh, are you a cowboy?” Salim teased him.

Jason's dark brown eyes sparked in amusement. He made a few hand gestures that dreamland helped interpret: [I forgot my ten-gallon hat at home.]

“At least you went for the next best thing. Cowboys and baseball. You can't be more American if you tried.”

[You want to bet?] Jason pointed to his arm where there was a tattoo of an eagle. Salim laughed at that and Jason's smile grew bigger.

Their eyes met for a moment. Salim's heart skipped. He liked this man a lot already.

And when he woke up, Salim was sad to see the man go.

[isuckatgaymes]

rating every fandom i've been in from the last 5 or so years in no particular order. because i can do that

cult of the lamb: LIKE THE BEST FANDOM IVE BEEN IN??? omg like everyone is just chill and cool and epic. i am yet to see ANY proshipping or weird incest shit and that's a very good thing. and no ship wars! no one cares! everyone ships narilamb and if you don't that's fine no one cares!!! also am i a furry bc they draw the goat so HOT like HOLY MOLY GUYS

night in the woods: i feel like calling it a fandom is generous because i have to hunt the internet like a hungry predator to find the goodies i want but they are so nice and mentally ill 🙏 points off for the weird ppl who hear mae is a girl and draw her really sexualized but they cant all be winners

ace attorney: the fandom live been in the longest. holy molyyyyyy theres way more good than bad but the bad is pretty bad. i think the fandom is the perfect size and i never feel like im losing my mind bc theres no fic for the specific thing i want. but if there isnt then i can just make it bc these characters have been my life for 3 years! but the aa fandom has like one of the biggest proship debates i've seen. there aren't rly ship wars besides the occasional feenris shipper hating on narumitsu but OMG the narumayo trupollo and cykesquill shippers are just WILD. but as someone deep in the trenches of the fandom it honestly isn't too bad. also REALLY good fanfiction holy shit

tmnt: ok guys wtf is up with the incest. the rest of the fandom is just fine and dandy but the INCEST. jesus CHRIST guys just make ocs stop shipping the brothers together. AND STOP MAKING PORN OF TEENAGERS.

hazbin hotel: ok what the hell happened here. the fandom can be fine one second but then a radioapple fan will hate on radiostatic and then it's a whole thing. and there's that one fan. the ANGEL NOOOOOO one. also the entire internet hates the fandom but honestly whenever i check it out its just fine. but also the fandom is crazy like. delulu? viv will tweet out "i had salad for lunch" and the fandom will be theorizing that charlie will die in season 2. i have no clue what's happening man

cookie run kingdom: JESUS CHRIST YALL. ok to be fair i was in this fandom in like. 2021? early 2022? so maybe it's changed but HOLY SHIT IT IS SO TOXIC. i was deep in the fandom and i got death threats for shipping sparkherb??? like what??? and they were always so mean to beginner artists it made me so sad :( AND THE RACISM???? how are yall racist to COOKIES they are COOKIES. and the like gender debates. poor strawberry crepe cookie... istg every time there was a post abt them i would see ppl arguing that they were every gender under the sun. like. guys. what are we doing here. these are cookies.

total drama: a very. interesting fandom. the people in it are very clearly... younger? i think that's the right word. it's not outstandingly good or insanely terrible, it's just. fine???? honestly i can't really dunk on it or sing its praises. besides island of the slaughtered that was epic

gravity falls: ok i don't want to judge the fandom for what it was like in the 2010s. BUT. holy moly there's a lot of bipper shipping. i know why it was like that but jeez there is just. a lot. the fandom is much better now and very fun! but id say the fandom from the end of the show to 2020 was very... it was a fandom!! i'll give it that!

ghost trick: this fandom is hanging on with duct tape hot glue and prayers. there are like. 7 people TOPS in the fandom and i honor them o7 they are so brave and i admire how they've managed to stay sane

steven universe: another pretty mixed bag. honestly the worst part of this fandom is its haters bc like. woah the children's show about peace and love ended with peace and love instead of violently beating up white diamond. this is crazy guys. but lowkey from what i've seen it isn't too bad. it's the lesbian rock show what more does one need

sonic: inside of you there are two wolves. one of them is a sonadow shipper. the other is a sonamy shipper. and every day they are beating each other up to assert dominance while the secret third wolf in the corner is drawing little ocs to post on deviant art

a hat in time: WHY ARE YALL SO DEPRESSED???? like this is the funny little platformer game that barley has any story and everything is so SAD. ITS THE SELF PROCLAIMED CUTE AS HECK PLATFORMER. i once read a series of fics where the conductor is suicidal and tries to kill himself. and i've seen some of the most soul crushing fanart of the snatcher. DO YOU NEED A HUG????

mlp: honestly this fandom got a crazy glow up. i'm pretty sure it's bc the audience the show was MADE FOR when it was produced has grown up and still loves the show and not because they think the ponies are hot. bronies made it very hard to be into the show when you were a young girl who liked ponies and friendship. i would know bc i saw cupcakes when i was 8 and cried for 2 hours. but the show is goated and the fandom now is honestly pretty good

[flatlinerburning]

two years too late (im glad jim morrison's dead cuz i dont like his eyes and your truck doesn't get me hard)

17 going on 27, neon angel going on new york doll, hollywood brat going on heartbreaker. when youre seventeen and lonely you dont cry you get tough. you don't change you get tough. you listen to johnny thunders and the rolling stones and the doors and you get tough and you wonder if you might die in a motel room in new orleans. or a swimming pool in hartfield. or a bathtub in paris. if your soul will go before you or after. if anyone will remember you or your poems. when you're 17 and lonely nobody understands you but jim morrison gets pretty damn close. he wrote about us but you wouldn't know it. take it with a grain of salt but fucking take it, cmon baby take a chance with us. you're gonna die with cracks in your soul and a melody in your mind and if you tell me you're free then you're lying. your souls tangled up with mine and you're lying. see on, you said. see on. but what's left to see? what the hell did you leave behind? the devil punched a hole in the wall and you crawled out- drunk and enlightened and insane. three hours south. angels go to hollywood and ghosts go to hell and no one gets out alive; the cycle of men and music and idols and god is the way it is for a reason. you tell me you're free and you're lying. lying like a poet lying like a corpse lying like jesus the christ in leather n lace. what's left to see? good artists never live long cuz god gets jealous. the face in the mirror is more yours than mine and it still won't fucking stop. god didn't start with the white lighters until 1973 but i reckon i need a new one. i reckon everybody needs something sacred and i reckon the myth feels like home anyway. what the hell did you leave behind. they drained the stars from your soul and washed em down easy. easy as music easy as death easy as love in handcuffs and hate. i don't got enough to go around but you can watch me bleed out on stage. glitter in my hair and bruises on my knees and fuck if i couldn't be anything. who needs the stars when you have drugs and a brother. see on, motherfucker. see on.

[artist-issues]

Was wondering what your take on this was. I have a Christian friend who's very anti-media, like he never listens to non-Christian music (even then enacting limits on the artists) and he believes all films are evil and stuff like that.

I believe his rationale is that it's all anti-Christian, making arguments like "Thanos is a representation of God in the book of Revelation and the film is therefore about killing God" or "Superman isn't a Christ-like figure; he's an antichrist figure because he points people's attention away from Jesus, the real Christ," and stuff like that.

Speaking as a Christian myself, I feel like that's a very extreme take to have when stories can always have Christian values to identify and distinguish and that even if he was right, it does no good to isolate yourself from those stories or to assume the worst faith interpretation of them.

Anyway, I was wondering if you had any thoughts on the subject. I know well from some of your posts especially that there are stories with very unhelpful or anti-Christian messages baked into them, but should we not still give those stories a chance? And is there not a much more forgiving line to draw before that point? If a story isn't directly and explicitly about the direct and explicit Christ, does it have any value?

Well. I had a friend who was kind of like that, too, and over the years he’s softened up on that a lot. Sometimes people get really zealous and have these extreme convictions and it’s okay, if they’re really doing it because they genuinely read Scripture with a heart to do what God wants, not a heart to find a set of rules they can follow and find self-righteousness.

I think there’s two separate ways to answer this ask. One is:

How to Treat Your Brother in Christ Over This

which is the most important part, for you, like it was for me with my friend, personally.

In 2 Corinthians 10 Paul is talking about this with meat sacrificed to idols. Technically, you’re free to eat that, even though to non-believers it means something else. Because to you, a Christian, you’re not under the old Law, so it’s not a condemnable thing to take what non-believers are using for evil and just…eat it. For what good there is in it. Because it’s meat. So there is some good in it, and you’re technically free to enjoy that good. But this is what the Word of God says:

1 Corinthians 10:19–33 - What do I mean then? That a thing sacrificed to idols is anything, or that an idol is anything? No, but I say that the things which the Gentiles sacrifice, they sacrifice to demons and not to God. And I do not want you to become sharers in demons.

You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons. You cannot partake of the table of the Lord and the table of demons. Or do we provoke the Lord to jealousy? Are we stronger than He?

All things are lawful, but not all things are profitable. All things are lawful, but not all things build up. Let no one seek his own good, but that of the other person. Eat anything that is sold in the meat market without asking questions for conscience’ sake. For the earth is the Lord’s, as well as its fullness.

If one of the unbelievers invites you and you want to go, eat anything that is set before you without asking questions for conscience’ sake. But if anyone says to you, “This is meat consecrated to idols,” do not eat it, for the sake of the one who informed you, and for conscience’ sake. I do not mean your own conscience, but the other person’s. For why is my freedom judged by another’s conscience? 30 If I partake with gratefulness, why am I slandered concerning that for which I give thanks?

Whether, then, you eat or drink or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God.

Give no offense either to Jews or to Greeks or to the church of God; just as I also please all men in all things, not seeking my own profit but the profit of the many, so that they may be saved.

Paul also says, in Romans, “But whoever has doubts is condemned if he eats, because the eating is not from faith. For whatever does not proceed from faith is sin.”

(emphasis added)

The idea is, your convictions should be in place because of faith. So if, in Scripture, your friend is finding something that makes him feel convicted that watching these movies is sinful or distracting from Christ, and he really believes that’s how Scripture should be applied—this is one of those areas where you just shrug and be gracious and say, “he’s trying to act in faith.” It would be different if Scripture clearly taught about movies or even characters. You could point to a verse and say, “dude, you’re misinterpreting Scripture,” but this is one of those areas where God left it up to our convictions. So we have to respond in grace, even if what bothers another believer doesn’t bother us, because it’s not a “hill to die on.”

You can only control you. So obey God in how to respond to him, even if you don’t agree, and put him before you. If he won’t watch a Superman movie and it bothers him, don’t talk about Superman around him. Don’t invite him to movies like that. Consider him more important than yourself. If he can’t be convinced from Scripture that he’s free to watch that stuff and enjoy that stuff, don’t try and convince him. Just put his conscience in front of your preference for movies, on your list of priorities.

Maybe he is turning a grey-area into an area for self-righteousness. Or, maybe he is trying to live out his faith, even if it’s “extreme.” But the point is, you don’t know, and you don’t get to know. Only God knows. You just get to decide how to treat him.

BUT! I bet you’re already doing all that. I bet you already knew all that. And what you asked me was “And is there not a much more forgiving line to draw before that point? If a story isn't directly and explicitly about the direct and explicit Christ, does it have any value?”

So Part 2:

What I Think/My Convictions on the Gray Area of Valuable Stories

Stories can have Christian values if there is anything “Good” represented in them. It can also have Christian values if there is anything “Evil” in them. There is no such thing as “good” or “evil” in a movie like The Joker. So that movie I would say has zero Christian values. They don’t call what is evil “evil,” and they don’t call what is good “good” in that story. So I’m just agreeing with you that not every story or every piece of media has a “nugget of something Christian” that you can pull out. Only in one sense do all stories have a grain of God in them, and that sense is, “it’s a story.” The same way you can speak blasphemies, because God created the tongue and invented language and communication—that doesn’t mean He’s in any way reflected or has anything to do with your blasphemies. But you wouldn’t say, “we should at least let the blaspheming guy keep talking, because God invented talking.” God invented stories and storytelling. That doesn’t make all stories worth a chance. If that makes sense.

Anyway.

That being said, I do think it is rare for you to be able to decide that’s worth giving a chance… until you give it a chance. ^^ Like, I watched The Joker. Now I know it’s godless. So I won’t be seeing the sequel.

The main answer to this is: yes. I believe there is value in a story that is not directly and explicitly about the direct and explicit Christ. And here’s why, are you ready, here’s the reason I’m convinced, here’s the best card to play:

JESUS TOLD STORIES THAT WERE NOT DIRECTLY OR EXPLICITLY ABOUT HIS DIRECT AND EXPLICIT SELF.

The parable of the Good Samaritan is not about Jesus. You could make an argument that it’s got some Jesus-imagery mixed into the Samaritan character because of how selflessly and thoroughly he cares for others even though Jesus specifically framed the story like it was the answer to the question “who is my neighbor?” and it’s about “what a good neighbor is.” But hey, if you’re arguing, then guess what, it’s not very direct or explicit, is it?

Because that’s how stories work.

If I weren’t advocating for treating your brother in Christ with grace, if I were in my flesh right now, I’d say, “ask your friend if every conversation he has is directly and explicitly about the direct and explicit Christ. Is every single word “Jesus?” Is every single sentence about Jesus? Would you say all your communication is focused on Jesus 100% explicitly & directly? No? Then why does a storyteller’s communication have to be?”

Because that’s what a story is. It’s a uniquely compelling medium of communication. But it’s communication, that’s it.

I mean you know my understanding of stories. Stories are meant to be signposts that point you back to truth when you’ve wandered. Stories are meant to be a way for you to escape the specific imprisonment of bad ideas and lost wanderings, and you’re specifically escaping TO HOME: which is truth. Good ideas, and truth.

Well guess what? Jesus is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. Every good and perfect thing is from above, coming down from the Father of Lights. If there is anything good, anything worthy of praise, anything excellent—we’re supposed to be thinking on those things, and associating them with Christ.

It’s almost short-changing Jesus or His relevance to say, “yeah there can be truth in stories but that truth doesn’t have anything to do with Jesus so it’s not worth my time.” What are you saying? He is the embodiment of Truth. If it’s true, then it’s His. In that sense. If it’s Loving, then it’s His. The idea of self-sacrifice, love, good triumphing over evil, truth triumphing over twisted-truth, is to do with Christ, because He invented those things and He’s their source.

My pastor likes to call this “plundering the Egyptians,” or “the world is tripping and stumbling into Biblical truths all the time.” They might not believe in Jesus but their story wouldn’t have anything worthwhile in it without Him. The writer of Beauty & the Beast might not be connecting self-sacrificial love to Jesus when she characterizes Belle, but guess what, she can’t escape it. Just because she didn’t make the connection doesn’t mean it’s not connected. You can’t say that all good and true things, even coming out of the foul mouths of humans, are no longer good and true simply because of the state of the mouths they come out of. Goodness and Truth is goodness and truth, and our brokenness can’t blot it out or stain it or ruin it. If it’s in the story, and it’s good and true, it’s good and true. Regardless of who we are or whether or not we attribute it to it’s proper Source.

Also, look at all of History. Jesus is woven symbolically throughout all of it, but He doesn’t “directly and explicitly” write Himself into the story of the world until the First Century.

But He was telling stories that had pieces of Himself and the truth before that. And He’s been telling them after that.

The Global Flood? Mankind is so wicked that God utterly destroys them—but He saves a small handful of righteous with a Vessel that only has ONE DOOR that they CANNOT SHUT THEMSELVES? That’s a story about Jesus. It’s not “direct or explicit.” God wrote it, that’s called “reality.”

The lamb in the Garden? Adam and Eve have something perfect and wonderful, and they can be exactly who they are and who they were made to be, but then they ruin it with sin, so God makes a way for them to be covered and protected—but it’s with the sacrifice of a Lamb? That’s a story about Jesus. It’s not “direct or explicit.” But God wrote it into reality.

Caterpillars? Into butterflies?? God invented a creature that starts out as a low worm in the dirt, then it goes into a tomb-like, death-like sleep and emerges a new creation that is beautiful and flies? That’s a story about Jesus, I don’t care, it’s not “direct or explicit” but it’s what God wrote into reality.

If it’s true and good, then the good and the true parts are connected to Christ. And it would be cheating myself of more ways to consider where goodness and truth and beauty come from to say that His direct and explicit incarnation in human flesh 2000 years ago was the only way I’m allowed to be reminded of Him.

I would never say any of this to your friend unless they asked. Because it’s not gracious to slam your friend over something that Scripture is not directly commanding, one way or the other, about.

[delicate-sketch]

idk if I said this before or if it was just on twt but I don’t fuck with those bitches aka the marauders fandom I don’t care if yall think my version of Nico is similar to Sirius but please don’t expect me to draw for this fandom or anything

I had read fics I tried to interact because I had seen beautiful fanart content and thought “uh let’s see what this is all about” and oh boy

I didn’t even knew fandom spaces could be so fucking Homophobic and yes with capital H that is it I am talking about it. In every single fandom space there is problems with homophobia, racism, ableism etc because bigots exist everywhere. But it’s INSANE in marauders

People say stuff like “they are opressing this straight shipp with this gay shipp”, “it doesn’t make sense for those characters to be gay because they lived in the 70s-80s”, “making this character genderqueer/feminine ruined him”

MY BROTHER IN CHRIST THESE CHARACTERS DO.NOT.EXIST. Even worse in the Marauders case BECAUSE YOU DON’T HAVE SOURCE MATERIAL. EVERYONE IS RIGHT AND WRONG. AND IT DOESN’T MATTER. IT’S FICTION. The fundamental backbone of your fandom creation is the huge amount of queer millennials who back in the 90s when liking HP was cool thought Sirius and Remus were a divorced couple. Get a fucking grip.

Not only this but in a time where JK could shut up and distribute her billionaire wealth with trans and people of color and that wouldnt be enough yall take pride in treat queer people bad (who are just doing their own things) as if they owed smth to yall and feel the need to RESPECT HER STORY (???) and her “canon” as if they weren’t direct reflected by her weird views - nasty really nasty and I saw they way yall treated the artists and ficwriters in the fandom too

[tightjeansjavi]

That Girl is a Problem

Part 1: “Sinful Colors”

(AU street racing! Joel x f! tattoo artist reader)

A/N: so this idea came to me because I rediscovered the song, ‘Problem’ by Natalia Kills. Suddenly I was like YES. Tatted up street racing Joel 😵‍💫 + tattoo artist female reader? Jesus Christ, my panties have been flung across the room. I’m blushing as I type this all out because this Joel is just on another level 🥵 get your engines revving laideaze.

~word count: 2.6k~

Summary: Joel Miller & Tommy Miller left their Texas homestead seeking new thrills. They find themselves working at an auto body shop on Hollywood Blvd. Joel meets you, a self taught tattoo artist working on the strip. You might be just the adrenaline rush that he was searching for. Or, his ultimate heartbreak.

Warnings: Early 1990’s Los Angeles violence/scandals. Drug use, drinking, smoking, mentions of tattooing and needles, street racing, infidelity, adrenaline junkies, Joel & reader have emotional baggage, reader is a badass, love triangle between reader, Joel, and readers boyfriend, flirting, teasing, banter, jealousy, rage, trauma, dark themes, domestic emotional/physical abuse from readers boyfriend, pining, unrequited feelings, excessive drinking/drug use, sustained injuries from street racing, bar fights, 2 character deaths, jealous! Joel, darkish! Joel, possessive! Joel, eventual smut, consent, eventual established relationship, no use of (y/n) readers nickname is Angel, (+18) minors dni!

That Girl is a Problem Playlist:

𝙄’𝙢 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢 𝙜𝙞𝙧𝙡.

𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙢𝙚...

𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙜𝙞𝙧𝙡 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙢.

Los Angeles, California: Summer of 1993

When Joel Miller, and his brother Tommy Miller moved to the City of Angels, Los Angeles California, they had no idea what they were in store for. LA was a cultural shock compared to their homestead in Texas. They were looking to get in on the action, live life on the high side and they had come just to the right place.

It didn’t take long for the Miller boys to find work at a local mechanic shop on the Hollywood strip. Both brothers knew a thing or two about cars and motorcycles. Wasn’t the first time they had gotten down and dirty, and it wouldn’t be the last. Joel had discovered your tattoo shop on his lunch break. Hollywood had street vendors by the lot and he stopped in front of the bright red neon sign that read, Sinful Colors.

Joel wasn’t shy of his ink. He had gotten his first tattoo at the sharp age of 18 and from there, he became addicted to the buzzing sound of the machine, and quick jabs of the needle into his skin. It was a euphoric sensation. The only way he knew how to describe the feeling without sounding entirely masochistic, was that it was a good pain. A comforting pain that eased stress and tension. Maybe he enjoyed it too much. Who the hell was anyone to tell him that he was fucked up for feeling that way? Tattoos were fucking dope, as far as he was concerned.

Curiosity got the best out of him as he pushed open the door to your shop. He was greeted with the familiar buzz of the tattoo machine and the low tremble of Led Zeppelin’s, I Can’t Quit You Baby. There was the faint aroma of cigarette smoke, mixed in with burning incense wafting through the thick beaded curtain that separated the waiting area from the room where the clients and walk in’s would receive their new ink.

You had a cigarette perched between your lips as you were finishing up on a walk in that requested a tramp stamp to piss off her ex boyfriend. Although in your eyes, tramp stamps weren’t trampy at all. They were fucking hot as hell, considering you had one yourself. “You’re doing great, babe. You’re gonna love this one. As soon as your ex sees it, he’s gonna be foaming at the mouth.”

“As he fucking should be. Fuck him. He’s never gonna get his hands on my body again.” The client glanced over her shoulder at you, letting out a low hum from the sensation of the needle piercing her skin over, and over again. Once you were finished, you lightly doused a paper towel in rubbing alcohol before gently wiping the tattoo.

“Alright babe. You let me know how this looks, Kay? If you wanna change anything, don’t hesitate.” You had your walk-in gently sit up before you handed her a hand held mirror so she could check out her new ink. The tattoo was a gothic heart in red ink. The structured lines coming from the sides of the heart were like a crown of pointy thorns. The tattoo itself was delicate but possessed that edgy vibe that she was looking for.

“Holy fucking shit, Angel. You outdid yourself again! Oh my god, this is so fucking beautiful.”

It brought you undeniable joy to see someone happy with your art. You took immense pride in making sure that your clients and walk-ins got exactly what they were looking for. It was always fun when you got to throw in your own artistic flare in your work. “I’m so happy you love it babe. You know I would be more than happy to add you as one of my clients? You keep coming back for more..so I must be doing something right huh?” You said with a small grin.

“At this point, I’m just gonna keep throwing my money at you because girl, this is insane! Thank you so so so much!” She was already reaching into her hot pink wallet, pulling out a stack of cash for you.

“You mind if I take a picture of it real quick? I’ll give you a copy as well. Just like to keep a collection, y’know?” Your walk-in, Maddi nodded. You tapped your cigarette out in the nearby ashtray, far enough away from your supplies to stay within regulation code. You opened up your drawer pulling out your Polaroid camera as you got behind the bench. “Alright baby cakes, hold your shirt up for me just a little, just like that gorgeous.”

You snapped one picture, followed by another, gently shaking the photos as they developed. Once they were finished, you grabbed a fine tip sharpie and wrote the date, along with Maddi’s name, and handed her the second copy.

“Okay, this is so fucking hot. I’m hanging this picture up on my fridge. I don't care.”

You set your copy of the picture down before grabbing her a “goody bag.” Now remember, no harsh scented soaps, no swimming for at least 2-4 weeks. Please don’t let anyone cum on your back for at least a week either. I know how you are babe. Keep it moisturized, and a little bit of the stuff I gave you goes a long way.” You wheeled your stool over as you placed a light patch off the open wound. “You can take this off in a couple hours and gently wash it with water only.”

“Sooo no cum-shots on my back for at least a week? Got it!” Maddi said with a light giggle. “Oh, by the way, is Dylan still racing this weekend?”

“Yeah you’ll just have to stick with it on your tits or ass babe. Think you can handle that? He is racing this weekend. You and the girls gonna be there?”

“I do love a good ass shot. Hell yeah we’re gonna be there! We don’t miss that shit for the world babe.” She pulled her shirt down over the bandage gently before gathering up her things. Maddi always left you a hefty tip, which you appreciated greatly. You gave her a quick hug and kiss on the cheek before you counted up your money and placed it in the safe under your work area.

Maddi slipped past the beaded curtain to be met with the tall, handsome stranger in the waiting area. She shot the man a wink before she left through the front entrance.

You wiped down your work area, sanitizing everything for your next client before you stood up. You didn’t know anyone but yourself and maddi were in the shop till you slipped through the beaded curtain and were met with Joel Miller.

“Oh shit, sorry man. I didn’t hear anyone else come in. How long have you been standing there?” The first thing you took notice of was his height and the way the leather jacket he was wearing, seemed to bulge at the seams from his prominent broad muscles. You could see some ink peeking out along his wrists and the visible skin exposed beneath his t-shirt.

“Long enough to hear about cum shots.” He chuckled, Texas accent drawling smoothly past his lips.

“She’s a wild one, that’s for damn sure. You’re not from around here I take it? Based on the accent. Texas maybe?”

The first thing Joel noticed about you was your clothing attire. You weren’t afraid to show skin that was for damn sure. He took in the fact that you were wearing a short denim skirt with a tight little top that did little to cover your nipples. You wore fishnets paired with black heeled boots. You were hot, there was no denying that. You were also positively covered in tattoos. He noticed right away that your style was patchwork mixed in with American traditional. You even had a little red ink queen of hearts tattoo along the front of your ear. It easily could pass as a face tattoo. Besides your tattoos, you had a septum piercing and an array of earrings on the same ear that had the tattoo close to it.

“Based on that conversation, she does sound pretty wild. How’d you guess from my accent alone that I’m from Texas? Does it really stick out that much?” Joel asked, crossing his arms across his broad chest, stretching the leather fabric even more.

You knew he was checking you out. It was flattering to have attractive people unashamedly check you out. You knew you were hot. Something that both men, and women and everyone in between desired. You were well known in the LA nightlife. Your boyfriend Dylan hated it. He hated that you dressed a certain way, that you were naturally bubbly, alluring. You had a bit of a mouth to you but hey, momma didn’t raise no bitch. You were everyone’s dream girl, but a real damn problem.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer, handsome.” you grinned and mirrored his movements, crossing your arms over your chest with a raise of your brow. “Yeah, I don’t get many Texas men wandering in here. You stick out like a damn sore thumb man.”

Joel felt his mouth go dry at your suggestion. Was he really staring that damn hard at you? Fuck. He had only just met you, and you were already scrambling his brain. He cleared his throat as he stuck with his intimidating stance. “Can’t deny that I like what I see, huh Angel? Now, is that your real name darlin’, or like one of those fake stage names like the girls in Vegas use?”

“Between you and me, I like what I see as well. Oh, I’m sure you’d love to hear my real name, cowboy. We’re not on those personal terms unfortunately.” You said with a faux sigh of disappointment.

“Ahh, I see. You’re what men like to call a class A tease. Gotta hand it to ya darlin’ you got me hooked already.”

“Consider yourself unspecial, and most definitely unlucky.” You responded with a sickly sweet grin. “So, did you come in here to flirt me up or did you want to get something done? What was your name again? I don’t believe I caught it.”

Joel liked the fact that you could banter and hold your ground. He was unlucky indeed considering the fact that you already had the upper hand on him. “I don’t believe I introduced myself at all. I’m Joel.” He held his hand out for you to shake, a small grin plastered on his lips. “I was actually lookin’ to get somethin’ done. I’m only on my lunch break at the moment so I’d have to come back later unfortunately.”

“Joel? Never heard of a man with that name before. It’s different.” You shook his hand firmly. You could feel the ridges and veins in his hand against your soft skin. “What were you looking to get done? I can pencil you in for my next availability.”

“Well, now you’ve gone and boosted my ego up a notch darlin’. I was lookin’ to get both of my hands done. The knuckles and my fingers. I was thinking American traditional. Nothing really specific. Maybe a skull, snake or somethin’ along those lines.”

“Don’t let it go to your head too fast, cowboy. Knuckle tattoos are fucking sick. I love doing American traditional as well. Tell you what, I’ll sketch something up for you and then you can stop on by after your shift? Where do you work anyway?” You asked, already penciling his name down in your little notebook.

“Damn woman. You gotta take a man out to dinner first before you just start askin’ him personal questions like that.” He chuckled, shooting you a playful wink. “I work at S&M auto body just down the strip. My brother Tommy works there as well.”

“Fuck me. There’s two of you?” You said with a light giggle. Yeah, my boyfriend actually uses that place when he’s reckless with his car. Which is about every other fucking day I swear.”

Of course you had a boyfriend. Of fucking course a vixen, such as yourself was taken.

“Yeah but if I’m being honest, I’m the handsome one. Tommy is just eh. Although, believe it or not, he’s totally a bigger ladies man than I am. Dude can’t keep it in his fucking pants for more than a day, if that.”

“Wow, he sounds like the male version of my friend Maddi. The hot babe that was just in here. She’s out here breaking guys' hearts every other day of the week. I absolutely hype her up for it though. She’s getting it good all the time.”

“No shit? Well, sounds like they would be a perfect match for one another. Maybe we’ll have to make sure they meet or somethin’.”

“Oh, we? No. Sorry Joel. There will be no we but i’m sure they’ll end up meeting eventually. You and Tommy should come to the race Saturday night. Maddi will be there and they can meet and rip each other's clothes off and all that fun stuff.”

“What kind of race are we talkin’ here Angel?” Joel asked with curiosity laced in his tone.

“The only kind of racing that is actually entertaining to watch. Street racing babe. Happens every Friday and Saturday night, right here on the strip. Well, as long as the cops don’t come and bust up our party first.”

“Street racing? Can anyone sign up for it or is it like an invite only kinda deal? Are you gonna be there?”

“Anyone and everyone can sign up. You got a car or bike and you’re good to go. Entry fee is $50 and well..there’s not many rules either. That’s what really draws the crowds in. Just some down and dirty street racing. I’ll be there. I always am. My boyfriend holds the raining title in LA county.”

Joel fought the urge to roll his eyes at you mentioning this boyfriend of yours again. Dude sounded like a total tool and Joel didn’t even know his name, let alone what his stupid face looked like. “Well, Angel. Count me in. I’ll be there and I’ll bring Tommy. How do I sign up?”

“Alright, rookie. You got a taste for some action, huh? We’ve been looking for some new meat to join anyway.” You grabbed a clipboard from one of the drawers and handed it to him. “The $50 isn’t required till the race so just need your name, pretty boy.”

“Came all the way out here for some action darlin’. Any, and all kinds of it. Whatever I can get my hands on really. Your boyfriend might have some competition on his hands. We did somethin’ similar to this back in Texas. Only difference was, it was a bunch of hillbillies and their trucks in an abandoned cornfield. Same concept, I imagine.” He grabbed the clipboard from you, lightly brushing his fingers across your knuckles on purpose. He wasted no time signing his first and last name before handing you the clipboard back.

“We’ll see about all that, cowboy. My next client will be here in about 10. I’ll work on your sketch on my lunch break and then feel free to stop by anytime after 3 today.” You set the clipboard down along the table.

“Sounds like a date, Angel. Catch ya around hot stuff.” He winked before he turned on his heel and slipped past the front entrance door.

Dylan was positively gonna give you hell for this. Did you care? Not one fucking bit. Joel Miller was hot. He was handsome and sexy and you’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t want to get a taste of what Texas had to offer. What your boyfriend didn’t know, wasn’t going to kill him.

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