#Under the cut for length

[wildweirdly]

Honestly I think the last doctor who looked at my shoulder was probably an asshole, idiot, and/or lazy because something is /severely/ fucked. Like at this point I genuinely believe it would hurt less if somebody ripped my arm out of my socket and he just brushed that aside even though you can /hear/ the grinding and popping…

I need to get my ass into PT… and in the meantime I need better solutions cause getting so high I feel detached from reality is /not/ sustainable fiscally /and/ it puts me in a spot where I could make errors at work…

One of my coworkers urged me to talk to our CEO about the situation (re: weed usage for the pain) but I’m scared to… Even though I doubt I’d be in trouble, there’s still a chance and I’m not willing to gamble. For now I’m just going to continue doing what I’m doing I guess…

Fuckin frustrating

[oakthcrn]

Lark ' s P.O.V. - Grand Palace Stables - Oktober 24th

The frost had come early this year. Despite the fleeting autumn season, a thin layer of soft snow dusted the ground and caused it to freeze over. Had I known what I'd be doing I would've protested more.

The chill didn't bother me as much as the company I was forced to tolerate. Prince Vasily had been up unusually early for someone who had gone to bed with a drink in his hand. There was a silly notion in his head. I was determined to dislodge it, but the Ravkan Prince rarely changed his mind once it was made up. A Lantsov trait I've come to find out.

" What is that General Kirigan teaching you? A grisha who can't even ride? What is the crown paying you for if not to hone the necessary skills for survival? " He had declared the evening prior while deep in his kvas and surrounded by his entourage.

" I was riding by the time I was in my fifth year! " I could still hear the stifled laughter and cooing of his friends every time my mind stumbled upon the memory.

Now I was standing within the riding arena dressed in a heavy tunic with a pair of tanned breeches and a navy blue overcoat. I was grateful that I had the foresight to braid copper ginger hair into a long thick braid. I had curled it around the top of my head to form a crown. Though my ears were left exposed to the bitterly cold day, it was better than having my hair whip around me while attempting to right the large horses Vasily insisted on having. Sometimes it felt like there was a hidden joke somewhere ready to be revealed the moment I failed. He and his entourage would have a good laugh and I would be felt feeling humiliated and embarrassed. It wouldn't be the first time. He always found it hilarious when he sent me to fight in the pits.

Irritation grew as I waited for Vasily to return. His entourage of friends found their seats comfortably outside the riding arena in cushioned chairs. Lark empathized with the servants who had to drag them all the way out here from the Grand Palace. Now they would have to endure the freezing winds just so their so-called betters were comfortable. I could feel my nose wrinkling at the sight. Nobles and their comforts...disgusting.

I would have no more time to dwell upon it when the visage of Prince Vasily appeared with reins in hand and leading a large dapple gray mare towards me. A sudden pang of nervousness thrummed through my chest as I took in the beast's size. Surely, he had to be joking. The horse stood over seventeen hands and was broad like the work horses in the fields. It was larger than the average riding horse. This had to be a joke at her expense.

" Saints." I breathed as I schooled my expression into a taciturn one. I shifted my hardening stare to the Ravkan Prince.

" You expect me to learn how to ride on a horse way too large for me? " I attempted to ask without a bite to my words and failed miserably. The delight in Vasily's blue eyes told her that he would enjoy this far more than she would.

" You haven't even started yet and you're already complaining," Vasily replied with disdain and rolled those blue eyes. His gloved hand patted the horse on the neck affectionately.

" Old Olga here is the perfect horse to learn how to ride on. Her demeanor is docile and she's old. Perfect for a novice like you." He went on.

" All my cousins learned to ride on her when they were just babes. If children can ride her, I certainly hope someone like you can too. Or are you just an idiot?"

A flash of anger rushed through me as I gritted my teeth. Being dismissed outright was even more irritating than having to be in Vasily's presence longer than necessary. The logical side of me knew I could not retaliate even with words and yet the other side of me wanted to give him such a tongue lashing. Oh, how I wanted to bleat out how small and unnoticed his chin was. Yet, I bit back my rage and sighed.

" Fine." I seethed and once more took in the size of the animal. Olga seemed unbothered and remained perfectly still. I examined the saddle and stirrups as Vasily adjusted them. He led the mare over to where the stepping block sat in the loose dirt. A gloved hand beckoned me to follow, and follow I did- albeit reluctantly. Carefully, I stepped upon the block and waited for instruction.

Vasily grinned as he held the reins in place.

" Alright, Lark, put your foot in the stirrup and swing your other leg over. Once you're settled in the saddle, heels down, toes in. Do you understand?"

" Yes." I snapped harsher than I intended and proceeded to carefully mount the old mare. I did what he instructed and grunted at the way the saddle felt beneath me. My legs were certainly uncustomed to such a position, but I was determined not to let my discomfort show. Instead, I schooled my face into an impassive look.

" Good. " Vasily said with a grin. " You're following directions. At least you're good at something. " He teased and led Olga away from the block. Prick. Royal pampered prick. I fought against the urge to set him on fire then and there.

He went on to explain the basics of riding. The dos and don'ts of it all. Honestly, I had a hard time paying attention to him when I could feel every movement of the horse under me. Loath I am to admit it, a dread was swelling within me. This horse could bolt or break free and buck me off. A cold chill ran down my spine as the thought sank in. Vasily was going to get me hurt. I would be useless to General Kirigan, and I'd never get to see Caelum again.

Caelum...I wonder what he would've made of all of this? Where was he now? Most likely stowed away in the Little Palace healing the injured and sick. Thinking of him always quelled my heart. I exhaled a soft, shaken breath. This was no time to let nerves win.

" Lark. " Vasily spoke, his gaze fell upon her as he peered over his shoulder. I shifted my gaze to meet his and for a moment our eyes met.

" Do you trust me? " He asked. I blinked at such a question. My brows furrowed as my stare hardened.

" No. " I replied before thinking better of it. It wasn't smart being so candid with a prince. I cursed at myself internally as Vasily came to a stop. His gaze didn't falter but I could've sworn there was a flicker of disappointment in his eyes, though I could be mistaken.

" Well, that's too bad because you are in my hands." That smug smile returned and oh how I wanted to punch him.

The lesson went on for hours. Much of the morning was spent learning how to hold the reins how to trot, and how to use your legs to keep yourself in the saddle. It surprised me how much physical strength it took to be a decent rider. The more I rode Olga, the more I came to trust her.

Vasily seemed satisfied with my progress.

" Good, keep that posture. I didn't think you'd be learning so quickly. You'll be riding alongside me on hunts in no time. " He spoke as I had Olga trot around the perimeter of the riding arena.

Just as I was making my way passed the entourage there was an echoing boom that startled everyone. A gunshot had gone off. Olga suddenly sprinted forward in a full gallop. Fear and dread were overwhelming as the large mare made for the opening of the arena, the reins had been snatched away in the confusion and I scrambled to reel them in. It was diffcult as they whipped around me in a flurry of leather. Ogla made no attempt to slow down as she headed into the nearby copse of trees. I huffed out a scream as I ducked under branches.

Finally, I had a hold on the reins and I attempted to pull them harshly to get the horse to stop. I could hear the distant shouting of the men, specifically Vasily. It was muffled and she couldn't make out what he was shouting. However, I didn't have time to figure it out as my face met with a thick tree branch. My stomach knotted into itself as the intense feeling of falling took hold. The next thing I knew I was staring up at the trees. It was then pain flooded into my face and I felt wet warmth on my face.

My nose is broken. I thought as my head swirled and swam. I couldn't get my eyes to focus and suddenly a growing darkness enraptured me. Was I going unconscious? My eyes slowly slid closed as the shouting became louder, and suddenly I was being hoisted into someone's arms. A low groan escaped me as pain shot from my face to my shoulders and down my back. My head began to throb as a sickening feeling began to take my stomach.

" Hey! Stay with me, idiot!" I could hear Prince Vasily shout. Was I in his arms? Saints, I wish I wasn't. I tried to focus my eyesight on his chest, yet shadows seemed to swim around us. I realized then I wasn't slipping into unconsciousness. The shadows that seemed to snake around us were in fact General Kirigan's. Oh, Saints. General Kirigan saw her riding blunder. Embarrassment rose within me, heat mixed with the nauseating feeling was not good. It strained my stomach and without warning, I retched up the contents of my breakfast all over Vasily's expensive riding coat. The burning sensation in my throat was painful, yet I felt better, though a growing tiredness was setting in and all I wanted to do was sleep.

However, a slew of curses came from Vasily. Childish insults of being a moron were uttered quite a few times. But suddenly they quieted as the shadows grew thicker.

" Hand her to me, your highness." Came a deep, calming voice. General Kirigan. Vasily wasted no time in pushing me into the General's arms. I found myself too dazed to really speak. His chest was warm and it took all my willpower not to fall asleep then and there. Saints knew I wanted to. To sleep and forget any of this had happened. The voices grew more muffled as my eyes became heavy. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. It was beckoning me.

" You mustn't fall asleep, Larkspur. " I heard the general say calmly. I knew he was right but I was too far gone. Darkness took me and the next thing I knew I was slowly waking up in the infirmary. Pain thudded my head still but not as badly. I gazed around the room to see Caelum. Happiness bloomed in me as he smiled and helped me to sit up.

" Welcome back, sleepy head. I heard you had quite the morning with the prince. " He spoke as he began to examine my face. I winced and sighed.

" Was it that bad? " I asked, groaning.

" Well, you smack your face very hard and broke your nose. You're concussed, and you vomited on the Prince. I'd say it's pretty bad, but you'll live to fight another day. "

I lay back and groaned again. " He was trying to teach me to ride. "

" I know, from what General Kirigan believes, one of the prince's friends shot the gun off purposely. Though, I doubt it can be proven. "

I sighed. " I wonder how angry Prince Vasily is. "

" Well, he did stop by and brought you flowers," Caelum said and motioned to the bouquet of winter flowers on the nightstand. I glanced to the table beside my bed and furrowed my brows.

" What an odd man. " I muttered.

" Indeed. Royals often are. "

[stjohnstarling]

It's pretty well known by now that Fifty Shades of Grey began its life as a Twilight fanfiction called Master of the Universe, a BDSM / No-Vampires AU by Snowqueens Icedragon published between 2009 and 2011 (although its eventual publisher would go on to claim that Fifty Shades was an entirely original novel inspired by MOTU, it's at this point a matter of public record that they are the same work with only superficial alterations.)

Snowqueens Icedragon (the username of Erika Mitchell AKA EL James) was among the biggest of the big name Twilight authors. Although she has managed to scrub most of her fandom presence from the internet, plenty of traces remain.

Because Master of the Universe was removed from fanfiction.net, it's difficult to say exactly how popular it was. I've seen quotes that it had anywhere between twenty and sixty thousand reviews at the time of its removal (though the twenty thousand figure seems to be more commonly cited.) I have heard mention that the fanfiction was popular enough that Stephanie Meyer knew about it, but unfortunately the pages that could have substantiated that claim have been lost to time so I cannot confirm this rumour. (x) According to one account, Snowqueens Icedragon generated over $30 000 auctioning off a story at the charity auction mentioned above. (x)

How did she get that popular? Well, by writing a story as fast as possible and chasing a popular trend, of course! (see, I told you that would come back)

Fifty Shades was part of this. A lot of people here are saying it's ripping off Secretary, but it's not. It's ripping off another really popular Twilight [All Human]-AU called "The Submissive", written by TaraSueMe. [The Submissive] was the first very popular BDSM Twilight fic [...] Whenever a fic reached mega-popularity, there always began a brief spike of fics using those tropes. For instance, there was once a really popular fic about Edward being a tattoo artist (Clipped Wings & Inked Armor), which spawned all kinds of fics about Edward and Bella having tattoos. There were even contests with prizes to see who wrote the best tattoo fic. So basically, The Submissive spawned off tons of BDSM fic. Fifty Shades was one of them. (x)

Fifty Shades of Grey is famously quite a bad novel, and I can personally attest that it lives up to its reputation. It's structureless, frequently contradicts itself, and contains egregious errors of what I can only describe as storytelling logic. It's also clear that it was written very fast.

The way the story handles BDSM and kink reveals a complete lack of knowledge of or interest in either. This makes sense when you consider that the choice of subject matter was purely trend-driven. BDSM fics were currently popular, and she wanted to be popular. The result is a book composed entirely of marketing tactics; a book that is performance to its core.

FSOG got a shitload of [attention]. Ask me how! Well, the short of it: Erika is a marketing professional. The long of it: - Erika made [fics] of already-proven-popular content - Erika posted short updates to the story very frequently, keeping it at the top of the story search list - Since people could give [reviews] for every single chapter/update, the more chapters a story had, the more [reviews] it had FSOG had 80 (edit: was actually 110) chapters. That means that a lot of people actually reviewed that fucking thing EIGHTY times. So even if she had only 100 super loyal readers, that's 8,000 11,000 reviews [...] People see a story with 8,000 reviews and want to click it to see what all the fuss is about. I think it had something like 20,000 reviews when it was pulled down for publishing. Hence, FSOG went viral. (x)

You may by now be sensing the ways in which this model played out in the self-publishing industry, but first I need to talk a little more about fandom and publishing.

At the height of its popularity, Erika Mitchell took down Master of the Universe in preparation for publication of the story through a small press, after editing it to remove explicit references to Twilight and retitling it Fifty Shades of Grey. We all know what happened after that.

This is a practice known as pulling-to-publish, and although Fifty Shades is the most famous example of it, it's far from the only one. What I want to trace for you is the ways the cutthroat dynamics of the Twilight fandom played out in small scale what would become the future of the self-publishing industry.

People have created this entire genre of OOC fics that are not at all in the Twilight universe--basically, romance novels. This genre has led to three epublishing micropresses to spring up for the purpose of republishing these fanworks with the names and locations changed. (Each of these presses is owned and operated by people from the fandom, with the biggest coming from our biggest archive.) So what we've created in our neck of the woods are people using their fanwork to gain a huge audience, then removing the fanwork, filing it, publishing it, and sending cease and desist letters if the fanwork is shared. (The published works are then marketed back to the fandom via author profiles and banner ads on the archives.) (x)

A couple of examples include Beautiful Bastard, originally published as a Twilight fanfiction called The Office, and Gabriel's Inferno, originally published as The University of Edward Mason. Both were among the most popular stories in the fandom, and both ended up being optioned for movie rights (of the two, only Gabriel's Inferno ended up being filmed.)

There are a few reasons not to just celebrate this as an unmitigated win for fandom. Leaving aside anything to do with copyright and fanfiction (which is, again, outside the scope of this post), it was common practice for fanfiction to be beta read by volunteers, who would have donated free labour on the assumption that this was a communal effort and the resulting work would have remained free forever. (x) On top of that, there are at least rumours that this group of former Twilight authors could get quite litigious towards any fans who wanted to read the original fanfiction (note the reference to cease and desist letters in the quote above).

In those days, legal threats against fanfiction by authors like Anne Rice were still fresh in fandom memory, and the practice of pulling-to-publish was seen as "betraying or ignoring what, for many in the community, is the first code of trust between a fan writer and the copyright holder: 'I own nothing'." (x)

I've seen a lot of discussion about whether knocking off tropes and ideas from other fanfiction and then publishing the result for money constitutes plagiarism. (For my two cents, while the behaviour happening here was a betrayal of the community spirit, as far as I can tell none of it rose above the level of how all fiction inspires other fiction, no matter how calculated it was.)

However, I suspect this phenomenon is part of the reason why fandom culture has become so much more suspicious and hostile over the last decade. Given the practice of using the tactics I discussed before to rise through the ranks of the fandom and get millions of hits, which could then be leveraged into a lucrative publishing career, the feeling from the fandom was generally one of having been used.

Erika never looked back. She actually has blocked every single person I still know from fandom on her twitter account. She used the community to get her book (most ideas created by the community itself) to #1 then essentially shut the door on them all. (x)

This attitude is backed up by archived quotes from a chatlog between Erika Mitchell and one of her fellow fans about the publication of Fifty Shades (ellipses original to the quotes):

Erika Mitchell: it’s like the old groucho marx joke which I cant remember about not wanting to belong to a club that you’re a member of… I have to say I do not feel as passionately as you do about the fandom (x)

I have done it as a sort of exercise … to see if I could … and I think I have proven to myself that I can … I now want to capitalize on it... (x)

If you want to read some really good first-hand fanwank about what happened in the Twilight fandom, I highly recommend clicking this link.

Now I don't believe this applies to fanworks-turned-published-novels as a whole or pulling-and-publishing in all contexts, of which there are many wonderful examples, and which is often undertaken with a great deal of respect and care. Nor is it a bad thing to have a little bit of marketing savvy or to factor that into your writing choices. The problem is mainly one of degree.

I want to make more explicit a few of the links I've already drawn. The model of churning out extremely frequent updates on low effort stories capitalizing on popular trends bears an uncanny resemblance to the model that Amazon self-publishing is built around.

It's difficult to overstate the impact of Fifty Shades of Grey. It was in some ways the single event that inaugurated self-publishing as an industry:

To date, the series has sold more than 70 million units worldwide, becoming the fastest-selling paperback of all time (Meeks, 2013). It is the biggest publishing success story since 2005, when the dream-inspired Twilight series propelled Stephenie Meyer to become a New York Times bestselling author almost overnight. (x)

If you need proof of how influential Fifty Shades remains, right now, in February of 2024, more than a decade after Fifty Shades' publication, the #2 self published novel on all of Amazon is a billionaire romance.

It was a seismic event in traditional publishing as well:

The runaway success of Fifty Shades had forced the entire publishing industry to re-evaluate assumptions of what makes books sell. “For years, centuries even, the publishing industry and literary world’s definition of good was the only one that mattered. If we didn’t think something was good, it didn’t get agented, it didn’t get published, bookshops didn’t stock it and it didn’t sell,” he said. “For us, good is often linked to literary style, what we consider the quality of writing and so on. What Fifty Shades – and more widely the whole self-publishing phenomenon of the last four or five years – has proved is that readers can have a completely different definition of good.” (x)

But this is a slight of hand - it isn't about what's good, it's about who can play the game best. The oral fandom history of Fifty Shades' does not paint a picture of a book that simply resonated with people. It instead paints a fanfiction written essentially as a popularity-bid, calculated to capitalize on trends and exploit the architecture of fanfiction.net. Then, once that fanfiction had amassed a gargantuan following, that following was rallied to drive the published version up the Amazon rankings.

She [...] leveraged the community's sense of nostalgia and loyalty, urging everyone to buy the book and give it good ratings, so as to see 'one of their own succeed in the publishing world'. There were multiple campaigns from her friends (tens of thousands of what she only saw herself as 'fans') to blast her Amazon page and send the book up the ranks. It of course worked. Once a (genre fiction) book gets to #1 on Amazon's bestseller list, you're done. Mission accomplished. Book and movie deals to follow. Enjoy your money. (x)

The strategy of rallying a fanbase is, again, not inherently bad by any means, but the particularly mercenary way in which Erika Mitchell and her contemporaries used the fandom for personal gain was received as a violation of trust on such a scale that it fractured the community as a whole:

The CULTURE has become that fanwork is not created for any sort of archival purpose. Most popular fanfics in our fandom are removed from the internet within a few months of finishing. This has meant that readers save the fics as their default, and that they don't read stories in-progress because they're afraid they will be taken down. [...] Plus, anyone who takes her fics down for personal reasons ends up publicly crucified, which, IMO is a direct result of those who've removed their stories in order to sell them back to the fandom. No one trusts anyone to be telling the truth any longer. (x)

You can track the breakup of the fandom through the decline of the charity auction: From raising almost $150 000 in 2010, in 2011 it barely raised over $20 000, then subsequently ended permanently. (x)

Today the biggest player in self publishing is Amazon's Kindle Unlimited program, where people pay $10 a month to have unlimited access to all titles that have opted into the program.

On the authors' side, the way Kindle Unlimited works is that by opting in, you are agreeing to a 90 day exclusivity deal with Amazon (meaning that you won't release your novel on any other storefronts for at least 90 days), and you will be paid by number of pages read (the pay-rate is calculated by mysterious means by Amazon.)

For readers, Kindle Unlimited turns reading novels into an essentially similar experience to that of browsing AO3 or fanfiction.net; you scroll an unlimited buffet of "free" stories and can pick out whatever hits the tropes you like.

Through a combination of Amazon's algorithms, the voraciousness of the reading community, the culture among authors, and the various economic pressures affecting them, the same dynamic persists: release as often as possible + try to copy what's hot right now.

The golden rule is to release a novel a month, a pace that makes it impossible to put any care or craft into your books, or frankly to do anything more than the absolute bare minimum of putting words in an order that gestures towards the right tropes. Kindle Unlimited books as a whole tend toward hastily written, barely-edited slop, written to incorporate the topic of the month. The authors who write novels with attention and craft are swimming against a powerful current.

But this state of affairs is on shaky ground, with payout on a downward trend and the pressure of AI pushing the already impossible speed of the churn to the brink.

(x)

This isn't trendy drinkware we're talking about, it's books. A single good novel can feed a person for a lifetime. I have a great fondness for vintage pulp and trashy fiction, but what's happened in self-publishing right now is on a level far beyond what the pulp writers of yesteryear could possibly have imagined.

Looked at from another perspective, this is equally a story about how the incentives of capitalism tore apart a community. This schism happened along the same timeline as the transition to the social media age, and can be taken almost as a microcosm of what the increasingly predatory economics of the internet did to social life online.

And that's where both readers and authors should be looking: towards mending those community ties, however we can. Maybe that means giving up useless number-chasing if communities can't survive past a certain scale. We could choose to focus on the slow work of developing relationships and trust, creating smaller but more sustainable groups of people who can support one another. Even now, within the hostile infrastructure of the modern internet, I think these things are still just barely possible.

Anyway, that's why you should read my book instead.

Alright, so: I want to explain a little more about this connection between the Twilight fandom, Fifty Shades of Grey, and seemingly, the self-publishing industry as a whole. It's a lot, so I'm going to have to chip away at it a bit at a time, and I think the best place to start is by describing the scene in late 2000s Twilight fandom.

In 2009, Twilight was one of the biggest fandoms in the world, although it was nearly invisible to outsiders because it

Was about a straight couple, while most other fandoms were predominantly gay, and

Was conducted almost entirely on fanfiction.net among a group of people who had little other background in fandom. (x)

That meant for many Twilight fans, Twilight was fandom. It was all they knew, and many had no path out. That also made it a corked champagne bottle with the pressure building.

Because of these community dynamics and the declining quality of the Twilight books themselves, Twilight fanfiction evolved to be mostly AUs so alternate they were more-or-less original romance novels that used Bella and Edward as broad character templates. (x)

Seriously, Twilight fandom got really crazy big for a few years there. It was not totally uncommon to get multi-million clicks on a semi-popular story. It's weird looking back on it and calling it "Twilight fandom" because it was really more like "Romance Novel fandom". For real, for a period there, calling a Twilight fanfic author a 'Twilight fan' would be the ultimate insult. But they never stopped writing about Edward and Bella! It's so weird. (x)

If you were in 2000s era fandom, you're probably aware of the phenomenon of Big Name Fans and the various social-climbing dynamics that happened around them. The Twilight fandom took this social power game another level:

This wasn't even just an author thing. There were Big Name Authors (BNAs) but there were also Big Name Readers. These were basically like... full-time rabid fans of a BNA. They devoted so much of their time to helping out the BNAs, reviewing their chapters, making them fanart, promoting their fics, kissing their asses with cringe-worthy intensity, you name it. Which is why you saw what looked like BNAs having 'employees', such as Moi, tby789's Director of Marketing. (x)

It became apparent that these power games weren't just for fandom clout. The fandom was proving that that social power could be translated into real-world dollars. You see, the Twilight fandom used to organize charity auctions where big name authors would auction off custom fanfiction, and the money generated was substantial:

Mostly authors would auction off stories. So if you donated in my name, I'd write you 10,000 words of porn in my Tattward universe, or something new, etc. That's how it worked. The 2009 auction raised $80,000. The 2010 auction raised $140,000. The 2011 auction raised $20,00. [NOTE: this is likely a typo] (x)

A lot of these dynamics were not unique to the Twilight fandom, but it was the combination that created a perfect storm of opportunism. This would end up changing not just fandom dynamics but the publishing industry as a whole.

[salamispots]

dream logic means freshwater sharks are more dangerous than ocean sharks and that they can be out of water/glide across sand on reinforced fins lmao

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Star Wars: The Acolyte

Pairing: Qimir x fReader

Fic Rating: E (explicit)

Chapter Rating: Mature

AO3

ONE

Everyday—

Everyday is the same. Morning’s light shines, spackled and fractured through the tattered, burlap curtain. You raise your arm to shield your face. You cringe. You groan. You sit up. There’s a satisfying crackle when you roll your head from one shoulder to the other. Convinced that you should go to work, you stretch, then drag yourself out of bed (if you can consider a blanket on the floor and a rolled up shirt for a pillow as a bed). Still it’s better than waking up, face first in dirt. You’ve been there before and you’d rather not be there again.

Work is work. Food is food. Drink is drink. Evening is evening, but with that you can at least drown the dull life you live in copious amounts of liquor. Numb reality away and drift—drift in an imagined haze of a life where you’re free from this drudgery. And that’s exactly what you do today. Drink. Drink. Drink until you nearly disintegrate. Same as every other.

But this day is not like every other. You stumble out of the local bar and wander by the apothecary’s humble shop. There’s an agitating jingle that wraps itself around your head that’s just begun to throb as a breeze blows through, rustling the makeshift set of chimes near the smeared window. Grasping the corner of the building, fist closing as you wrap an arm around your waist, you steady yourself. A deep inhale and exhale and your stomach gurgles, lurches, threatening your evening and maybe even tomorrow morning too. Doubling over, you swallow, and gulp, and will the contents bubbling in the back of your throat downward. Downward into the pit of your stomach where it belongs.

“Not looking so good.” There’s a tsk. “I can help with that.”

You glance up to see an unfamiliar face that’s half smiling at you, eyes mostly hidden in the shadow of the hood of his cloak. That’s not the apothecary you know. It doesn’t matter, not when your insides want to be your outsides. You try to shove back some of the hair sticking to your temples and suck in fresh air. Even though it’s evening, the air is stale, and ripe with wet blanketed heat. It only makes matters worse.

“Please, I’ll take anything you’ve got,” you manage to croak.

The apothecary shuffles away and reappears after what feels like an eternity, a small vile in hand. He pops the cork and offers the vial. “It’s bitter,” he warns.

Throwing your head back, you dump the burning liquid down your throat and bitter is an understatement. Still, its effects are immediate. You straighten out, palm still pressed to the side of the building.

“Better?” He asks.

You give a nod. “How much?” There’s hope it won’t be your life’s savings but it would have been worth it. Any cost would be worth it to be able to crawl home and not spend the night hunched over a toilet and waking up to the incessant throb of a hangover.

He waves a hand at you. “Consider this one on the house.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, you give the empty vial back. “Nothing’s free.”

He folds his arms across his chest. “This is. You’re special.”

“I am not special,” you say.

Nobody’s special.

He throws you a curious smile, a chunk of his dark hair swooping down over his cheek. He leans in a little closer to you. “I think you are.”

He bites down on his bottom lip. Whether it’s to hold back more of what he wants to say or some kind of flirt, you’re too far gone to sort it out or really care.

“And I know you’re wrong,” you reply. “But thanks for the assist anyway.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he replies.

With a shake of your head, you shove off the wall, leaving him behind as you continue your trek back to your hovel of a home and pass out.

[jztr-77]

A story in 3 drawings or 3 first attempts at using procreate featuring solangelo as my labrat

Connor stole something from the Hecate kids, tripped and dropped it on Will. It made his hair grew longggggg (insert Willpunzel let down your hair joke here) before his date with Nico.

While Will went to find some assistance, Kayla scolded Connor (with an arrow for good measure).

。。。ミヽ(。＞＜)ノ

Will ended up 15min late since the Aphrodite kids had a blast with his soft long hair. Luckily the bunnies were very patient with his arrival.

Nico was about to be a drama queen but he got blinded by Will's unexpected appearance. (how dare he looked stunning without telling him first?? Now Nico looks underdressed)

ε===(っ≧ω≦)っ

It was a successful date! The bunnies are fed, the lovers are whipped, couldn't ask for anything more.

(っ˘з(˘⌣˘ ) ♡

[non-un-topo]

More clothing studies, this time from my fic Axis. I was aiming for authenticity while also trying to have each of their personalities show a little bit in their clothing choices. Two for Nicky, to show his layers.

[gogmstuff]

1908 (August) Les Modes - Mlle Madeline Dolley Robe d'après-midi pour villes d'eaux par Paquin - photo by Paul Boyer & Bert. From gallica.bnf.fr; fixed flaws & spots w Pshop 1444X2198. Princess-cut skirts are appearing in 1908.

[mr-t-stark]

~ 𝓉𝑜𝓃𝓎 & 𝒶𝓋𝒶 ~

"You know I only agreed to this because I am friends with Natasha," Ava says as the elevator door closes infront of her and Nick Fury. Ava didn´t like new people, so she did need someone she knew if she was going to join. He looks at Ava with an annoyed expression, Ava smiling sweetly back at him, because he didn´t know about her anxiety issues. "I don't care if you're the president. I'm not changing just because I'm going to be saving people," She points out making Fury roll his eyes and look straight ahead. Ava liked being all sassy and flirty and tough around people. Then she could break down alone in peace. "Just try to be nice? I know Natasha puts up with your shit, but not everyone will," He says, making Ava nod slowly. Truly? Fury intimidated her, however probably most people did. But Ava was intimidated by most when she didn´t know them, that why she used her sass and brattiness and flirting to get ahead without issues. And the fact that she had ADHD probably didn´t help with the fact that she just simply didn´t like doing things wrong. So if she got the impression she wasn´t liked or something like that, she pulled away instantly.

"I can't wait for you to meet her. She's the life of the party," Natasha says and sips her water, pacing a bit as she waited for her friend to arrive, but then she did and Natasha smiled and walked over. "Ava! I´m so glad you finally agreed to join! I can´t stand all the testosterone," she spoke making Ava snort. "Yeah, I can see that," she spoke before going around the room greeting everyone, however when she came to Tony she smirks and looked at him. "Anthony Stark. The playboy himself," she spoke and hummed. "You´re more handsome than I thought you would be," she spoke honestly and held her hand out for him to shake. "I´m Ava."

When Natasha had told the team about Fury recruiting a new member that happened to be a friend of hers, Tony had at first been skeptical. It's taken some time for him to get to know the team, build their dynamic, all that shit. And though he'd never admit it, he's becoming quite fond of them. They're growing on him. Sure, some people can act like dicks at times, but, well, he is one, too. Sometimes. Perhaps most of the time, if you asked Pepper. Arguably all of the time, if you asked his exes.

So the thought of a new member joining was... How does he put this? Unexpected, one could say. A new member entailed a lot of things.

But since Fury's decision was solid, he knew he had no say in it. Doesn't mean he didn't try to complain, though. Futilely.

Ava Thompson was her name, Natasha had told him. She didn't say anything else. Their history, how they met, who she actually is; only a brief description of her abilities, a 'you'll see', and a wink.

So, as any person would do, he looked into her records, her history, everything he could find with JARVIS' assistance. People call it 'a breach of privacy', he calls it 'using his abilities to ease his trust issues against new people'. Not the same thing.

She seemed pretty ordinary. Natasha said something about her being in some sort of magic cult or whatever. What was it? Karma touch? Something that sounded funny. He finds no trace of that.

But if anything, he finds nothing else that seemed suspicious. No ties with bad parties, no crime records, nothing to hint she may be some Nazi undercover or something.

So though he may be a little wary of whoever she may be, the information he's got of her so far does ease some of his nerves. Natasha seemed to have a positive impression of her, anyway.

When the day comes for them to meet this Ava Thompson, Tony is, and hopefully not visibly, a little uneasy. They're at the team's meeting room--aka The Doomed Room Of Inevitable Boredom, if Cap's endless rants about fire safety and stop, drop, and rolls is anything to go by--Tony sat where he usually is, fiddling idly with a pen.

He watches Natasha pace back and forth, muttering one thing or another. It's only a moment before he sees Fury, and a certain someone trailing at his side, enter through the door.

Natasha greets her, and she introduces herself to the team. Tony stays a bit behind, observing. His research seems to be accurate, visually. She looks like how he had expected her to look.

When she approaches him, however...

"The one and only," he replies with a boyish grin when she immediately recognises her. When she then starts to flirt, Tony sees it as a challenge. She accepts her hand with a firm shake. He lowers his voice and lays that Stark charm thick, taking a moment to look her up and down. "Honey, I'm more than what you see from those cameras."

He lets go of her hand, shoving his own in his pockets, and says, "Welcome to the team. Have you gotten a tour of this place?"

He's always one for some fun.

[batshaped]

twitter stop fucking up for one second challenge (impossible)

well,

here’s the thing. it feels like social media is changing lately. every social media site seems to be fucking up or getting worse in its own special little way. i recently read and thought a lot about this article which coins the term “enshittification” and describes the process by which every social media platform eventually becomes so greedy as to become unusable. it makes me wonder if the social internet is due for a big shift in the near future. 

for a long time, twitter was the best place for me. for all its issues, it had the audience that i could reach the easiest, that was the most invested in my art. i got (still get) a lot of awesome replies and really great analysis of my work on twitter, which i didn’t receive on any other platform. i was able to encourage those readers by retweeting their comments and theories to show that i liked hearing their thoughts. i could use the Moments feature to organize my art and make my comic easily readable in order. and anyone could look at my twitter, account or no.

ever since the site was bought out, twitter is getting worse. i can’t use the app on mobile anymore because every reply section is drowned out by blue checks and choked with ads. the Moments feature was disabled and people couldn’t easily read my comics in order anymore. and this is without even touching on the bigger/more serious issues the buyout has brought to the app. these are just the ways it has made my personal experience of being an artist on there worse. and now, apparently, you can’t even look at my work unless you have an account.

it’s been pretty common in the past year for the new management to implement a bad feature and then undo it after backlash, and maybe this too will be reversed. but even if it is unimplemented, the platform will continue to get worse. all platforms are getting worse right now. all of them are becoming untenable to use without 7 bespoke browser extensions to block ads, hide specific unwanted content, force chronological order, and so on. on mobile i don’t even bother. apps are unusable. 

on top of that, i have the personal issue of not being the type of creator who is particularly good at staying on top of more than one or two platforms daily. twitter has been my main for years now, so i’m pretty good about updating it very regularly. instagram is trailing behind, i usually remember to post there daily (especially as i’m remaking mine right now and posting my entire backlog) but sometimes i forget. and that’s kind of my limit. every other site falls by the wayside because i just don’t want to spend my whole day or life updating platforms. i know there are tools that can do it automatically for you but i don’t want to do it that way and then i’d have to figure out a new tool and get yet another account on yet another app and install yet another extension to use it.

i just want to draw. i don’t know how we arrived at this place where we need to be 700 other things when we are just artists. i draw and write, isn’t that enough? if i wanted a presence on tiktok i’d also have to be a video editor who pays close attention to trends and makes sure to transform my artwork into something people on that app are interested in. even if i just wanted to have a strong presence on say, twitter/instagram/tumblr/tapas/webtoon i’d have to take on another (unpaid) job as my own social media manager, meticulously managing my uploads across 5+ apps and making sure everything is up to date and tailored to what “works” on each particular platform. i already have a day job—i’m a storyboard artist. the art i post online is supposed to be made and given freely for my own enrichment first and foremost, and for the joy of sharing with others as a close second.

i wonder if we’re due for a mass rejection of this increasingly draining cable-wars-style model of spreading ourselves thin across multiple platforms just to reach the exclusive audience each one provides. i’m starting to feel done with that concept, but i still want to share my art. i want to hear my readers’ thoughts. i want to create things that connect with others. i want to do it without these ever-mounting obstacles.

what i’m doing about it is creating my own website at my own domain that belongs to me. i doubt i’ll be quitting social media when it’s done. social media is still where the audience i cherish lives. but you can bet that when that website is ready to be shared, i’ll be talking about it on every social media account i own. i’ll be telling everyone there’s a place to look at my art where you don’t need an account, you don’t have to struggle through a morass of ads, and you don’t have to line the pockets of a billionaire who bought a social media app on a whim. it’ll just be you and my art. alone together.

by the way, to @whatthehelljake​ i apologize for writing a fucking SAT essay on a screenshot of your reply. any exasperated tone here is not directed at you at all. it’s directed at this sea of obstacles that disrupt the simple concept of “i made art and i want to share it with you.” your reply is how i found out today that twitter made this change. i cherish the fact that you want to connect with my art so much that you alerted me to this. i wish that wasn’t necessary. i want to make my work on my own terms—and want you to be able to experience it on YOUR own terms.

all that to say, i think the website is going to be the main answer to this issue. i don’t see myself having the energy to update tumblr that much more often than i already do, though maybe i’ll try to pick up the pace a little now. we’ll see. holy shit if you read all this go drink a glass of water or something get up and stretch. ok thank you bye <3

[transrevolutions]

a short story

a scorpion, unable to swim, asks a frog to carry it across the river. "do you take me for a fool?" asks the frog. "you'd sting me if you let me on your back!"

the scorpion considers this for a moment. if it stings the frog, it will surely drown. yet due to its nature, it cannot ensure that it will not do so, no matter how illogical a course of action it would be. "you know, you're right," sighs the scorpion. "it is in my nature. I will find someone else."

the frog hops away, grateful at its lucky escape. the scorpion ponders the situation, and after a bit of study and reflection, seeks out a turtle and asks it to carry the scorpion across the river.

"but you said it was in your nature to sting whoever carries you!" says the turtle.

"I know," replies the scorpion. "I sought you out because your thick shell can withstand the sting, and neither of us will be harmed in the process."

the turtle, however, fancying itself a good judge of morality, declines. "it's the spirit of the thing that counts," it tells the scorpion. "my inability to be harmed by your sting does not lessen the depravity of being willing to sting one's benefactor. why should I take such pains to help you if your nature can do nothing but harm me in return?"

-

the scorpion is stumped once again. aware of its own contradictory impulses, it is at a loss for how to cross the river. noticing its plight, a long, silver fish approaches. "do you need help crossing the river?" it asks.

"yes, I do," replies the scorpion. "however, I cannot breathe underwater, and you cannot breathe above it, so any attempt to cross together would be a failure for both of us."

the fish acknowledges this. "unfortunately, I think this is indeed the case," it says. "I wish you luck on your endeavor, regardless."

"I appreciate it," says the scorpion, though no closer to finding a way across the river. such is the way, sometimes, of nature.

-

now nearing despair, the scorpion is about to resign itself to another stranded night on the wrong side of the river. but at that moment, a large spider emerges from its hidden web.

startled, the scorpion jumps back, stinger poised to strike. the spider is not deterred, though it does not come any closer. "what do you want from me?" asks the scorpion in a rather sharp manner.

"hear me out," intones the spider. "I know your dilemma. it is in my nature to trap and bite, just as it is in yours to sting. I can see you yourself are afraid of me, as some whom you asked were afraid of you. but please do not judge me too quickly. I might have a way to help."

"what do you propose?" asks the scorpion, desperate.

"I am a spider," says the spider. "I cannot swim you across the river on my back, as I cannot swim or breathe underwater myself. though my exoskeleton is strong, I cannot guarantee it would withstand your sting, nor that you would be able to escape my web. but I believe that more than one skill will be necessary to cross the water."

the scorpion is silent again, waiting for the spider to elaborate.

-

the spider scurries off on its eight legs, then returns moments later with the frog and turtle, as well as the fish (who remains in the shallows of the river).

"why have you brought them here?" asks the scorpion. "I've asked each individually, and they all refused."

"that was your mistake, and theirs," answers the spider. "now, listen carefully."

the scorpion listens, as does the others. the spider begins to speak once more.

"the fish offered you aid when the others would not," it says. "but you both observed that the fish could not emerge from the water, nor could you as its passenger descend beneath it. it was willing to help, but your mutual natures prevented this. however, the frog can breathe both above and below the water. the frog can ride safely on the back of the fish."

"but I cannot ride on the back of the frog!" says the scorpion. "it is in my nature to sting! it would not be safe!"

"ah, but this is where I must turn to the turtle," says the spider. now addressing the turtle directly, it says, "turtle, I understand your grievance. you do not want to aid someone with a nature so predisposed to harm you. but is the scorpion really the guilty party? it sought you out in the first place, aware of its nature, not wishing to harm the frog. is it the nature of the scorpion that you truly despise, or is it the notion that you were only asked for help because of your capability or perceived usefulness?"

the turtle, who had never really thought of it that way, considers the spider's words and finds them somewhat accurate. "you're correct in that I resent my assistance being requested on my ability alone," it says. "the river is wide with a rushing current, and I am tired after a busy day. I should not have lashed out and blamed the scorpion, but I should not be obligated to carry out such a draining task just because I am technically able to do so."

the spider pinches its chelicerae in acknowledgement. "I see," it tells the turtle. "I appreciate your apology for judging the scorpion so quickly. perhaps a compromise is in order, which respects your exhaustion as well as the scorpion's need. would you be willing to carry the scorpion on your back if the frog can ride the fish in front of you and signal which direction to go?"

the turtle thinks about it for a second. "alright," it says. "that seems fair enough to me."

content, the spider returns its attention to the scorpion. "well, shall you set off, then?"

-

as directed by the spider, the frog sits atop the fish so as to better focus on the river in order to provide directions to the turtle. the scorpion climbs on the turtle's shell and this second pair proceeds into the water after them.

"thank you for your help," the scorpion tells the spider, who is standing on the river bank.

"you are very welcome," says the spider. "though I cannot physically aid your journey, I hope my advice was useful."

"very much so," replies the scorpion, and the foursome set off across the river. midway through, the scorpion stings the turtle, on instinct, due to its nature, but the turtle's thick shell protects it and no harm is done. following the frog and fish, they reach the other side of the river with relative ease.

"thank you," the scorpion tells the other three once it has been safely deposited on the shore. they all exchange friendly farewells before going their separate ways, with a new understanding of each other.

-

from its vantage point at the centre of its web, the spider watches the encounter, pleased with the solution the group had devised. though no creature was both able and willing to act as the scorpion's sole guide, together they were able to safely cross the river. each one participated in accordance with its ability, as well as in a form compatible with its need.

one's nature, the spider decides, is both as constant and traversable as the very river itself.

[oakthcrn]

send CHANGED for a scene from my muse's past that represented a turning point in their life

GLIMPSES OF THE PAST: a headcanon / prompt collection

accepting @wrlckd

Caelum was dead. There was no changing it. His soul was gone. The ground was growing colder as the blood from her gaping wound stained the grass. Her abdomen was torn asunder. It had happened too quickly for Lark to recall fully, but she did remember the Teifling in the Devil's mask, and then the flash of his blade.

He brutalized Caelum and then afflicted her with the grievous wound for ever daring to stop him. Now she was going to die beside her husband. She just hoped that she would reunite with him in the next life.

With the last bit of strength she could muster, Lark Oakthorn shifted until she was upon her back. The sky had been unusually clear that night, perhaps it was some small gift granted to her in her last moments.

' If you continue to lay here, you'll die. '

Lark blinked. Was she going mad? She could've thought she heard someone speak, but then again, she couldn't be sure. Her brows furrowed as her eyes began to grow heavy.

' If you shut your eyes girl, you'll shut them forever. '

Lark scoffed and tried to glance around, but the pain was thrumming through her, there would be no moving.

" My wound is deep..." she muttered hoarsely. " There is nothing I can do..." her voice strained, and her chest ached deeply, she was slowly suffocating.

' There is always something you can do. ' The voice said. ' Simply make a pact with me and you'll be healed. '

Lark fought against the approaching darkness that wished to claim her, her gaze fixated at a being manifesting right before her. The stranger stood over six foot easily, dark and covered from feathers. She heard the cackling of a crow in the distance, and then another. Lark could distinguish a terrifying figure before her. Long sleek black hair draped on each side of his skill head, but not just any kind of skull, it was equine in nature. From its skeletal face sprouted knotting antlers. An Archfey, Lark concluded.

" I don't want...to die." Lark managed to say despite the air becoming fleeting in her lungs.

' Make a pact with me, and I will heal you. I wish for you to live. '

Lark shivered and stared at the being before her. It would be foolish to give her life to a patron, but something about those dark pits that had a pinch of concern in them. Their words were genuine.

Exhaling a resigned sigh.

" Alright. I shall make a pact with you." She found herself saying. Ina sudden flash, the pain was gone, her torso stitching itself back together and in the span of an eyeblink, Lark was standing upright, naught a scar or speck upon her.

Glancing up at her savor, Lark stared at him with a look of awe. An Archfey healed her in the exchange of her soul.

" Why would you help me?" she found herself asking.

The Archfey canted his head uncannily to the side at her question.

' Because I am quite fond of your hair color. '

Lark bit back a laughing sob and shook her head. " Well thank you..." she began. Now that she was no longer on Death's doorstep, her fear turned to anger towards her assailant.

" That maniac killed my husband." she seethed as tears pricked her eyes.

The Archfey summoned a handkerchief and held it to her. Lark slowly took it from him and stared. " So...what must I do for you? You have my soul in a pact now."

' Live ' he spoke, his voice gentle. ' and if you were to get revenge on your assailant...then I will lend you my power. '

Lark stared at him for a moment. She wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

" Thank you...What is your name?"

' Orias.' and within another blink of an eye, he was gone. Lark glanced around for a moment before settling beside the body of her husband. The growing need for revenge growing within her heart. She would track down the madman that did this and she would use every tool at her disposal to make him suffer, just as Caelum suffered. That, she would call upon her new patron for.

[botanikos]

Queen Beelzebub's Masquerade is tomorrow, and Stolas has, at long last, finalized his attire! He hoots with excitement, setting everything carefully up for the festivities to come.

Stolas' attire for the ball:

Atop Stolas’ head rests an almost menacing and powerful crown composed of sharp points. Its design is reminiscent of the lunar phases and asteroids. 

Accompanying the crown is an intricate half-mask of burnished gold and black abstract designs, the mask features openings for both sets of eyes with the focus of its ornamentation being brilliant red feathers fashioned into the left side. These feathers belong to @umbravotum, traded in exchange for a few of his own for the special occasion. Centered in the mask’s design is a dark and polished stone of benitoite. 

Moving to the metallic piece set in a similar fashion to a low collar is the same type of design style as the mask, with dark and burnished gold designs. A larger benitoite stone rests at the center, with much smaller, nearly iridescent fragments of rainbow moonstone around it to mimic stars. This piece rests atop a dark, navy pleated shirt of a lightweight and glossy material to contrast the heavier, darker fabrics of the coat and cloak. It has a high neckline lending the appearance of something Gothic, and almost priestly in style. The shirt is tucked neatly into trousers.

Worn overtop of the shirt is an intricately and sharply tailored coat, fitted at the waist and flaring slightly at his hips to allow Stolas’ tail to maintain its rightful and comfortable place at the center. It is embellished with brilliant gold embroidery in a Baroque style to match the cloak, concentrated richly upon the lapels, sleeves, and buttons. The fabric of the coat is a textured brocade and bears an authoritative appearance with the structured collar. Upon the lapels of the coat is a metallic rendition of his demonic form, offering something dark, powerful, and predatory to add into the mix. 

The matching cloak is voluminous and floor-length, with the same grandiose, golden embellishments flowing outwards from the shoulders and along its edges. The fabric is a deep and bruising navy, the underside and interior lining is composed of Mulberry silk and imbued with magic. The silk is a brilliant bruising of colours such as dark navy, deep plum, and small areas of scarlet. If one were to look closely, they might witness a galaxy shifting within it. 

Stolas will be wearing slim-fitting matte black trousers to provide a sophisticated and regal appearance with a wide structured belt. A matching benitoite stone rests within its center, though it is not as captivating as the other other accessories and details. 

At last, we come to the final two pieces: in a change of pace, Stolas dons a pair of pristine, calf-high, black leather boots. Similarly, though far more elaborately decorated, he wears a set of black leather gloves fitted to his hands. An ornate chain and moonstone bracelet connects to one, delicate, regal, and looping to cuff his wrist. 

[flowercrxwned]

Second Chances @lettherebemonsters

She normally didn't watch the exterminations when her former husband went to Hell once a year to kill their children. One, because it was so painful to see her babies slaughtered and two, because their poor souls had nowhere else to go but to her and the safety of Purgatory. She was quite busy soothing them and letting them roam free in this grey wasteland of nothing, only her to keep them company.

But when she saw that Adam had bumped up a second one for the year her attention was grabbed. She sat on the concrete ledge her fountain, peering into its depths as they attacked a certain building. Her heart quaked, she had a terrible feeling.

That feeling proved to be true when her love, her companion that she was made from, was stabbed and died there on the unforgiving ground of Hell.

"NOOOOO!" She screamed, simultaneously with one of the other angels. Her hand reached out instinctively and disturbed the cool liquid, turning the image into nothing but tiny waves bouncing against the edges of the pool.

In grief and disbelief she knew what was to come next. His soul would go where all souls who didn't belong in Heaven or Hell went, to her. But she couldn't wait for it to appear here. She had to carry him personally. This was not the way she wanted to see him again.

She opened a portal to the spot where the group of Sinners had left him, looking down at the face of the only man she had ever loved.

"Come now, my love. I'll take good care of you. At least we'll be together again, even though I know that's not what you wanted."

She bent down to take his soul but somehow it never released itself to her. She looked at his body, confused. Then it started changing, horns growing where it had been on his mask, skin changing to a greyish color, eyes turning from gold to red. He stirred and she stood above him, only staring.

"Adam?"

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Star Wars: The Acolyte

Pairing: Qimir x fReader

Fic Rating: E

Chapter Rating: M

AO3

ONE TWO THREE

Today—

Today is the same. Morning’s light shines, spackled and fractured through the tattered, burlap curtain. There’s dust motes floating. Were they always there? You raise your hand to shield your face. You squint. You silently sit up. There’s a satisfying crackle when you roll your shoulders back and when you twist from side to side. A tilt of your head and a flicker from your dream smiles at you before it dissipates along with your sleepy, sleepless haze.

You must go to work.

You must go.

You must.

Clothes on, boots up, fingers wiggling into synth leather fingerless gloves, you leave the dust motes behind as you step outside. The town comes to life with overcast skies. Lights in fog and residents hurrying along and there’s a fight breaking out in the alley but you're a passerby.

Work is work and you grow weary. The crates are heavier today. Or maybe you’re just weaker? Who’s to say? Food is food. But wait, you forgot to eat and now your stomach chastises you. Drink is drink. You had coffee and water when you arrived on the job, right? Right?

The hours drag, just like your feet and when you finally leave your mundane job, not all inventory is accounted for but it’s tomorrow's problem now. Halfway home, the rain splatters thick and almost viscous on top of your head.

You look up and the light sputtering catches your eye. You’re at the apothecary again.

A hesitation. Then you’re stepping inside.

This will prove a reprieve from the rain.

“Oh—hello.”

The apothecary tilts his head and smiles. There is something familiar about that expression. That tilt of the head. But you can’t quite grasp why as he gestures to you with a warm welcome. He is handsome, you notice, now that he’s without his hood. His bangs still swoop down around his cheeks, moist with sweat from another hot day. The rain just makes everything sticky, not cool.

There’s a bit of herbal residue smudged on his forehead.

It’s—endearing.

The apothecary is indeed a reprieve from the rain. Man or building? You know which is the truth, even if you don’t want to admit it.

“Hello,” you reply.

“Hi.” His smile grows. “You again.”

“Me again.” You offer a half-smile. “Not completely trashed this time. Just coming in from the rain.”

“You look tired,” he says. “Come in. Sit. You hungry? I was just preparing sandwiches.”

“A sandwich sounds nice.” You find a chair situated near the grimy window. Taking a peek, there’s nothing that can be seen outside with the rain hitting the glass.

The apothecary hums to himself while he makes the sandwiches and you opt for small talk.

“You’re new here.” It’s a statement. Should have been a question.

“Am I?” He replies and he wanders over to you, offering a sandwich.

“Yes.” You remember the previous owner. They had to stand on a stool to tend to any needs, eyes hovering just above the countertop even then. “Nej wasn’t as friendly as you. Was mostly a ball of grunts.”

“You think I’m friendly?” His eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Have you met the other people here?”

“You seem friendly.” He hands you one of the sandwiches.

“Appearances can be deceiving.”

“Exactly that,” he says as you reach for the sandwich.

Without hesitation, you take a bite. It’s the best you’ve eaten in a long while. There’s a savory sauce slathering the bread that melds all the flavors together perfectly. “Thank you,” you murmur after swallowing. “This is delicious.”

He bows his head slightly.

After devouring your meal in record time, he offers you a cup of tea which sits in your palms, perfectly warm and properly balanced. You miss the weight of your usual preferred drink. The burn of it, as it slides down your throat, lightning liquor souring your stomach just so. It makes you forget. But this tea—this tea, it’s bitter and tangy and—

“How is it?” He asks, eyeing you with hopeful expectation, worrying at his bottom lip.

Pleasant.

“It’s tea,” you say, sipping slowly. “It’s good.”

A grand smile and again you think, he is handsome. Too handsome. His easy smile and effortless charm put you at ease. At ease. You’ve placed a small trust in his hands.

Your eyes dart around the apothecary, pulse quickening as you realize you’ve let yourself be comfortable in the presence of a stranger. A kind stranger no less, and you remember the faces of kindness. The faces of strangers who became family. They wore their kindness as masks and told you to be grateful, thankful that they wore the mask. Without their benevolence, you’d still be orphaned on the streets. Dead or starved. And you were grateful. You were. But what about all the times their masks were deliberately placed on the table? Hands on your throat, you gasp for air and a plea never escapes your lips. Why won’t your mind forget? Forget their face? Forget the mask, the words, the past? The more you ask yourself, the more their words play on repeat: “Go to your room and meditate on what you have made me do.” It wasn’t the first time they said it but after—after—it became the last.

A deep breath and you shove your own voice down into the deepest recesses as the teacup rattles in your hand.

The teacup falls.

One breath in.

Shatters.

One breath out.

Meditate on what you have made me do.

“Are you okay?” The apothecary’s hand is on your shoulder and you startle, shrugging out from under it.

“Don’t touch me,” you snarl.

As the memory fades, you regret your words.

You know it matters that he asked after you first even if it can’t quite quell the turmoil stirring within you.

You scramble to your knees, that voice that isn’t yours but could be, screaming at you to clean up your mess, and branding you with cruel words as you use your hands to gather up the broken pieces.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” you say.

What you should have said all those years ago too.

“It’s alright. Let me take care of this.”

“You’ve done so much already. Please. I will clean it up. I can’t repay you with credits.”

Your debt with this man is already outstanding.

“At least let me get you a broom,” he says. His hand reaches for your shoulder but he withdraws it before it lands. Another small smile that lights up his face, shines bright in his eyes and again, you wish you wouldn’t have snapped at him.

His kindness isn’t a mask. The instincts you could once trust tell you this but you can’t dwell on it and you can’t trust that instinct after everything. After before.

He disappears and you’re left hunched over a million shards of porcelain and when you flip your hands, you see the blood prickling to the surface of the fresh cuts delivered by your own faltering. Your own dwelling on the happenings of years ago. Inability to cling to the present lays scattered at your feet. This has always been your struggle. Ruminating. If only you could translate this skill into true meditation and find peace. If only you could be something much less useless.

It’s not supposed to be like this. It wouldn’t have been like this if you hadn’t been so incredibly weak and ran into this place from the rain. You would have been wet. That’s it. The memories would not have resurfaced. The cup would not have broken. And the shame—the shame—the shame would not have sunk its fangs into your mind and begun bleeding you dry.

There’s tightness in your chest and you want to cry. It’s there, that old familiar feeling and you can picture a smaller, frailer version of yourself curled up in a ball, silently succumbing to sleep with tears streaming down your face and dribbling away onto your pillow. That feeling only winds tighter as the blood on your hands continues to pool. Maybe this is how you cry now? With another breath, the tenseness in your chest unravels and your eyes meet the apothecary’s before his eyes land on your hands.

“That looks like it hurts. I have just the thing.” He rests the broom against the wall and shuffles toward the shelves. There’s some clattering and he hums to himself again before returning with salves and gauze. “May I?” He offers his hand with brows lifted.

Does he even know how much it means to you that he asked first?

Tentatively you reach out and he grasps your wrist so gently, steadying it in his lap as he squats over the broken shards with you, brows furrowing in concentration as he first wipes away the blood. He is tender with his touch, swiping along those cuts, careful not to snag the fabric on your skin. He applies the salve the same way but even softer with how he handles you, finger pads kissing your skin as he lightly taps them against your own fingertips before grabbing the gauze. For a moment you wonder if what he said is true. Maybe you are special. Special to him? But that’s not possible. You glance up at his face as his unhurried care eases away the ache in your hands and in your head. He catches you staring and smiles, fastening the gauze tightly and squeezing your hand lightly before letting go.

“There. Better?”

“Yes. Thank you,” you manage to murmur, flipping your gauzed hand over and resting it on your knee as you slowly rise to stand.

Broom already retrieved, he holds it outstretched to you. “You know, if you’re really not happy with acts of kindness and need some sort of absolution, I am in need of an assistant.”

The broom stills in your hand as you glance up at him curiously.

“You’re wondering if I can read your mind aren’t you? I can’t. You’ve just got that worried and defeated look. I understand that look. Know it well, believe it or not.” He wanders over to the counter and hops onto it, knocking a vial over that he fumbles with before managing to catch it and puts it back properly. You almost laugh. “I was considering a droid to assist but—” He shrugs.

Relief washes over you. You are used to quid pro quo. That you can handle. Besides working for this man seems far better than your current job. Couldn’t be worse.

“I’ll do it,” you say, picking up the dustpan and sweeping the porcelain into it. “Um, but what should I call you.”

He chuckles. “Right. Right. Introductions.” He tilts his head and smiles, hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Qimir.”

You utter your own name as you hold the dustpan in one hand, taking the two steps over to him to offer your empty one. Future tomorrows will not be the same and maybe—just maybe, you think with a glimmer of hope, that it’s a good thing.

[asexualjedi]

Tried to pick the best of the photos. The photo in the bathroom, with my mirror kinda dirty was so good I was not able to recreate it once I cleaned the mirror. I forgot to take photos until like the end of the day when I was sweaty and very tried except the middle one. So. Not quiet my best work lol. I had fun tho and I was able to wear my respirator over the wig/extra bump it wig attachment and veil.