#and like.....whats the point of paying the stupid amount that i do for internet if im not even using it 🙃🙃🙃

[starlightkun]

finally had to buy a new phone 🤢🤢 spending money 🤢🤢🤢

[livelaughpeg]

I'm writing this from a throwaway account, because you know...Scientology.

I want to preface this post by saying I am not one of those "I knew it all along!" people. I can't stand that attitude. I was pretty ambivelant towards Neil Gaiman. Prior to the allegations, I didn't hate him but I wasn't that interested in him as a person either. I don't think you can always tell when someone is a bad or good person simply by the topics they write about. If that was the case we'd be arresting every horror writer on earth.

But one thing that did always rub me up the wrong way was the way he talked about getting work.

I borrowed and read "Make Good Art" (a small book based on a speech he gave to graduates at the University of the Arts) at a time in my life that I was really struggling to get by (I still am to some extent, but in a different way). I expected to see some practical advice. Instead it was a bunch of glib shit like:

I got out into the world, I wrote, and I became a better writer the more I wrote, and I wrote some more, and nobody ever seemed to mind that I was making it up as I went along, they just read what I wrote and they paid for it, or they didn’t, and often they commissioned me to write something else for them. Looking back, I’ve had a remarkable ride. I’m not sure I can call it a career, because a career implies that I had some kind of career plan, and I never did. The nearest thing I had was a list I made when I was 15 of everything I wanted to do: to write an adult novel, a children’s book, a comic, a movie, record an audiobook, write an episode of Doctor Who… and so on. I didn’t have a career. I just did the next thing on the list.

Life is sometimes hard. Things go wrong, in life and in love and in business and in friendship and in health and in all the other ways that life can go wrong. And when things get tough, this is what you should do. Make good art. I’m serious. Husband runs off with a politician? Make good art. Leg crushed and then eaten by mutated boa constrictor? Make good art. IRS on your trail? Make good art. Cat exploded? Make good art. Somebody on the Internet thinks what you do is stupid or evil or it’s all been done before? Make good art. Probably things will work out somehow, and eventually time will take the sting away, but that doesn’t matter. Do what only you do best. Make good art.

Yeah, well, no shit. If you're a writer or artist you probably do anyway. Whether you get paid for it or not, whether you draw fan art or original art. But the point of Gaiman's speech was to give advice to people who wanted to be paid for their art. To make a career of it. Making art every day isn't always enough. You have to pay the damn rent, you have to eat, you have to network and do social media and promote yourself, and you have to do it while thousands of other people are doing the same thing in a massive crowd of people who want the same thing. Practical advice is much more valuable than platitudes and theory.

I am not a writer, I'm an illustrator, and let me tell you that for most people, 'getting your foot in the door' isn't a one time thing. Quite often you have to work at getting your foot in the door again and again until you become established, and it's very easy to be forgotten. I still feel like I'm in that stage now.

I watched my peers, and my friends, and the ones who were older than me and watch how miserable some of them were: I’d listen to them telling me that they couldn’t envisage a world where they did what they had always wanted to do any more, because now they had to earn a certain amount every month just to keep where they were. They couldn’t go and do the things that mattered, and that they had really wanted to do; and that seemed as a big a tragedy as any problem of failure.

The implication was that he was successful because he wrote every day and his friends weren't because they didn't, because you know, working a second job is tiring. He called this a tragedy, but there was something very glib about the way he narrated this.

I think someone had more financial cushion that he was letting on.

And yes, sometimes it does work that way, (some people are very lucky and make all the right connections) but Gaiman was getting Big Jobs right off the bat and something about that never smelt right to me after the way he talked about it.

And then I saw Jeff's tweets. Oh, that's why...

I suspect the truth is he was living off his family's money and connections, and while I don't think there's anything inherently wrong with that if you're a struggling artist, his family are Scientologists, and I don't think he ever struggled.

I suspect it's all a lie.

[seeingivy]

standards

actor eren x f!reader

**part of my method acting fic

an: @deusfoundry made a very passionate reblog about method acting sasha and levi. had to serve what I could, I hope you like it!!!

--

I’ll just meet you there, it’ll give me time to think. 

You look across the courtyard and it fills your stomach with an unnecessary amount of dread. 

Eren’s sitting there, Maya lazily strung across his lap while Marco makes an unruly mess of his hair. You note that Eren doesn’t even pay notice to either of them, because he’s too deep in the conversation that he’s having with Jean and Mikasa. 

You note that his hair is getting too long and that it’ll be time to cut it soon, but even that would be awkward. To confront him about it, to have him sit near the sink and cut it for him – that you’d probably inevitably fight after the fact because he would bring it up again, trying so needlessly to figure out why you were so put off by something so stupid. 

“Is there any reason that you and Eren arrived separately?” 

You shake your focus out of the image to find Sasha and Connie sitting at your side, noting the particularly nosy looks on their faces, as you drop your hands to your lap. You’ve made a mess of the floral centerpiece that was at your table, now shredded to a mix of petals and stems. 

You wonder if Connie’s nasal cannula ever gets uncomfortable. If he’s really in pain after the transplant and not telling anyone. 

“Is there any reason that you’re worrying about me at your anniversary party?” you ask. 

“There’s only one thing more riveting than talking to Niccolo at a dinner party. Finding out why our golden couple hasn’t even spared each other one glance tonight.” Sasha jokes, reaching for one of the leftover potato wedges on your plate and securing it between her fingers. 

You roll your eyes. Some golden couple the two of you were. 

“Even your kids didn’t say hi to you when they walked in. That’s major.” Connie responds. 

“They don’t have to say hi to me when they walk in. We live together, Connie.” 

Connie shakes his head, slamming the bottom of his cane against the floor. 

You wonder if he’s making enough progress that’s up to par with how long it’s been since the transplant. Your sneaking suspicion is that he hasn’t and you can’t help but wonder if he’ll give up soon. 

“Maybe other kids. Yours are always split between you and Eren. And Eren always stops to talk to you. Poor guy can’t get enough, which I don’t understand.” Connie adds. 

You elbow Connie in the side, earning you an irritated laugh, before you pinch your eyes, looking back over to where Eren and Jean are now talking in hushed voices – which you’re certain, has to be about you. Granted, you weren’t doing anything too different, but you can’t help but wonder if Eren is as reserved about discussing it as you are with them. 

“If you must know, Eren and I are having a little disagreement.” you respond. 

You note that you can see the two of them grin at each other in your peripheral vision – meaning that almost everyone must have noted at this point that you and Eren were acting strange. 

They were the only ones who were able to muster up the courage to come ask. Granted, the nosy schemers had picked perfectly. It was Sasha’s party and Connie had just gotten out of the impossible. You’d feel bad if you didn’t indulge. 

“How little? Pineapple on pizza? Parking car in the driveway?” Sasha asks. 

You shake your head. 

“Eren wants to get one of those…those genome tests to see what diseases we could be predisposed to.” you respond. 

“Who? Marco and Maya?” Connie asks. 

You shake your head. 

“All of us. Me, him, and the kids. He’s even trying to convince Falco and Gabi to do it. If you talk to him for long enough, he’ll probably talk to you about it too. He just found out about it on the internet and now he feels like he has to know.” you respond. 

“And you’re fighting about it because…?” Sasha asks. 

You feel a weight on the back of your chair, only to look directly up and find Levi staring down at you, a notably irritated look on his face. 

“Are you guys talking about why they showed up separately?” Levi asks. 

“No.” you respond. 

“Yes.” Connie and Sasha respond. 

Levi gives you a snide look before pulling up a chair and listening into the conversation. Connie spares almost no time – and you notice that while he just had open heart surgery a month ago, his energy levels do not reflect that in the slightest. 

It was a good sign. 

“Y/N just said that Eren wants to get one of those genome tests that tell you which diseases that you’re going to be predisposed to. And they’re arguing because Y/N doesn’t want any of them to do it.” Connie states. 

“And you argued so bad that you showed up separately? Over a dumb test?” Levi asks. 

You frown. 

“You don’t have to be so patronizing, Levi.” Sasha scolds. 

“I’m not being patronizing. Surely it can’t be that.” 

Sasha shoots him a menacing glare to which Levi puts his hands up, like he’s surrendering before gesturing for you to respond. 

“Well, that’s not far from it. We did argue so bad that we showed up separately. He said that he would meet me there because it would give him time to think. And well, that just made me even more mad because he…” 

You pause. 

It’s because he left without kissing you goodbye. 

“It’s stupid. The entire thing is stupid and it doesn’t matter.” you respond. 

Sasha gives Connie and Levi a look, before the two of them shoot an equally questioning look back at them. She clears her throat, before shooting you all a polite smile. 

“I think you have to use the bathroom, Levi. You should help him, Connie.” Sasha states. 

Levi glares at her. “And why would I need his help?”

Sasha reaches forward and pinches his arm. 

“Because you’re pushing fifty, grandpa. Get a move on.” Sasha responds. 

Levi and Connie begrudgingly oblige and you can tell from the look on their face that they’re expecting a full report back when Sasha wrangles the truth out of you. But you know her better and from the look on her face, you can tell there’s no intention to share without your permission anyways. 

Sasha scoots her chair closer to yours, looping her arm in through yours and resting her cheek on your shoulder. 

“You know me and Niccolo fight too, you know?” she murmurs. 

“About what type of pasta he’s making for dinner?” you ask. 

“Mostly. But other stuff too. We’re trying to decide how many kids to have…if we should have any.” Sasha murmurs. 

You widen your eyes. 

“You’re thinking about not having any?” 

Sasha shrugs. 

“I don’t know. I don’t feel particularly strong about it right now. Maybe I’ll change my mind later but…I feel like we already have a hundred kids around. That kind of fulfills the need for me.” Sasha adds. 

You shrug. 

“You don’t have to have them. I mean, we probably all don’t help since we all have them, but…but Levi didn’t have any either and he’s just fine.” you respond. 

“I guess.” Sasha responds. 

You pause. 

“You don’t sound very convinced.” 

“Levi couldn’t have them and he really wanted to. I don’t want to deprive Niccolo when we are lucky enough to have them if we wanted, but I just don’t…want them. That might make me sound like a bad person but I just don’t. I like our life how it is and it’s enough for me. I don't want to deprive some kid of love if that’s not what I’m ready for right now.” 

You interlock your fingers with hers. 

“That definitely does not make you a bad person. I’d argue it makes you a great one. What does Niccolo say?” 

Sasha sighs. 

“He’s so understanding. I know he wants them badly but he knows that it’s my choice since I’m the one who has to carry the baby and I’d probably have to be the one to take off work with Niccolo’s schedule. But that almost makes me feel worse, like…like because he’s so understanding I should just give in and do it, you know?”

You hum in response. 

“I know but also I don’t. It’s a basic thing for him to agree with whatever you decide when you’re the one going to be doing it. You also don’t have to reciprocate a nice act just because he did one for you first.” you respond. 

Sasha laughs. 

“You sound like Levi.” Sasha responds. 

“He has his moments.” 

Sasha pushes off your shoulder, cheeks lightly dusted pink as she hikes her legs to her chest and pulling the fabric around her ankles. 

“Your turn.” 

You sigh. 

“You know, you really don’t have to reciprocate a nice action with another one. I can just hear you talk about you and Niccolo and not have to talk about me and Eren.” you joke. 

Sasha reaches forward and pinches your cheek. 

“But you should. Come on.” Sasha responds. 

You mimic her motions, resting your cheek against her shoulder and breathing in the scent of her minty perfume. 

“I really don’t want to do this test.” you respond. 

“I mean. I gathered that much.” Sasha responds, sarcastically. 

You elbow her in the side, earning you a laugh from her, before looking back over at Eren, now braiding the ends of Maya’s hair with Connie at his side. 

“Eren wants to take the test because he thinks it’s interesting. He’s wondering if the Alzheimer’s from his grandfather's side can be seen in his genes or tendencies for liver disease and what not. He…he’s more intrigued by the science of it all. What country and regions our ancestors are from.” 

“And you…

“And it scares me. What if Eren does have Alzheimer’s from his grandfather's side? I’m going to start obsessively Googling how I can make him keep his mind sharp. I’m going to control Marco and Maya’s diets because I’m scared they’ll get heart failure or kidney stones or…or anything.” 

You pause. 

“I already worry enough that they’re going to die when I leave them alone. If they leave the house and I’m not there. I don’t need to sit there worrying about it every waking moment and this…this is basically putting the thought in my head.” 

Sasha tilts her head to the side. 

“I’m gathering Eren doesn’t know this part.” 

You sink down into the chair. 

“Yeah. Kind of been avoiding telling him” 

“Why?”

You sigh, turning to your side and shuffling your legs onto the seat. You can’t help but lower your voice as you whisper. 

“Because Eren and I are going to have a real fight then.” 

“A real fight?” 

“Because I’ve been avoiding him this entire time and he’ll be upset that I did this over something I should have just told him. Eren told me I had nothing to be scared about and it might be better for me if I just do the test or just tell him what’s bothering me and….and I don’t know what it is but I just can’t.” 

Sasha nods. 

“He thinks I’m making a really big deal about the whole genome test thing because he doesn’t know why. And rightfully so because…because I would be annoyed about this entire thing being blown out of proportion when it’s not that deep but…but it is to me. And it’s not his fault that he doesn’t know but I don’t want to tell him so I just…don’t talk about it.” 

Sasha hums in response. 

“That must be really frustrating for him. Seeing you shut down and trying to figure out why.” 

“I know.” you whisper. 

“It must be frustrating for you to. Wanting to open up but also protect yourself.” Sasha adds. 

You shrug. 

“Why are the kids not talking to you?” Sasha asks. 

“I guess I shut them out too. But I don’t want them to side with me because then Eren will be alone…when I’m already shutting him out to begin with. I know having them be around him all the time, maybe more so than usual is helping.” 

Sasha rolls his eyes. 

“I’m sure it doesn’t. He would hate to see that you’re alone and upset. Especially when you’re so attached to Maya and Marco.” 

You shake your head. 

“I just think he’s at his wits end since it’s so…erratic lately. Unstable. I cried so hard before I came here because he left the house without saying goodbye. I couldn’t even get in the car and drive here before I knew that he made it here safely because I would be so upset if something happened to them.” 

Sasha lifts one of her hands, tangling through the knots at the ends of your hair. 

“You know, there’s a normal amount of worry and a point where it becomes a little too much. You can’t possibly live while being that stressed out all the time.” Sasha murmurs. 

“I know. I’m trying to figure it out.” 

Sasha leans back, giving you a bright smile. 

“And you will.” 

--

At the end of the party, almost everyone was  slumped on Mikasa and Jean’s couches, eyes lidded shut in the cool air of the summer. You note that Marco and Maya are both in Jean’s lap now, Eren and Connie deep in conversation. 

Connie got his drama fix elsewhere. 

“Mind if I sit here?” 

You look up to find Levi at your side, hands braced against the back of the chair. 

“Go ahead, grandpa.” you respond, gesturing towards the open chair. 

“I’m not that much older than you.” Levi responds. 

You smile. 

“I know. I’m just teasing.” 

Levi leans against the chair, his eyes trained in the exact same spot as you. You can tell that he’s waiting for you to bite the bullet, only because you’re positive he wouldn’t have approached you the way he did if he didn’t. 

“How much did Sasha tell you?” you ask. 

Levi shakes his head. 

“Sasha didn’t tell me anything.” 

“And that would mean hell froze over. She can’t keep anything from you. And even if she did have the capabilities of keeping a secret, she’d never keep one from you.” 

Levi smiles. Like he’s touched. 

“I believe she had very sound reasoning to tell me.” Levi responds. 

You snort. 

“And what’s that?” 

“Sasha’s feeling particularly sentimental. Recalling a time when a friend of hers went and told me something that she maybe should have kept to herself, just so I could come help out when it was needed.” 

You tilt your head to the side. 

“What?” 

“Do you really not remember?” Levi asks. 

You shrug. 

“I remember that it was the dead of the night and you knocked on my door. Panting. You were really worked up, but that wasn’t unusual for you. What was unusual was that you were talking about someone else. About how Sasha didn’t think that she was pretty, that you wanted her to know how special she was, and you…” 

“I asked you to take her on a date. Because I couldn’t think of anyone else who could without upsetting someone. I couldn’t have Connie burping on her all night so it wouldn’t be ideal.” you respond. 

Levi smiles. 

“You know that meant a lot to her?” Levi asks. 

“I mean, I guess. I would imagine that it would mean a lot to me if I felt the way she did too.” you murmur. 

Levi shakes her head. 

“When I took Sasha on that date, I kind of took her on three dates in one. I told her that there’s lots of different things that you can do. Took her to an escape room that we just did together, just so we could try something new. She was absolutely horrible at it. At one point, she got so bored of looking for the keys that she just watched me do the entire thing and ate the snacks that she had in her bag.” 

You smile. 

“I asked her what her favorite thing to do is and she said eating, so we made dinner together.” 

“Oh god.” 

“Exactly. She broke my Instant Pot. One of the first things she did when I bought my new house was send me two, just so I could have a backup. As if I’d ever let her into my kitchen again.” 

You snort. 

“You sound like Eren talking about me.” 

“Well, you’re both particularly inept at these type of things.” 

You shoot Levi a glare. 

“And after that we…we talked about all the deep stuff for a lack of a better word. She recounted exactly what you had told me, but in greater detail. About how she was scared that she was going to end up alone. That no one was ever going to love her.” 

You lean back in your chair. And note that Levi almost seems like he’s choking up. 

“I made it a point to Sasha that she should have all three things in whoever she picks in the future. Someone that she could try new things with, just to get out of her comfort zone. Someone that she can communicate with, even if it’s something as simple as who is making what part of the meal. And most importantly, someone she can share her burdens with. No matter how dumb she thinks they are. At the very least, someone who makes her believe like she can and is loved. That at the very least, it’s one of the easiest things to do once you get to know her.” 

You smile. 

“You know she adores you, right?” 

Levi shakes his head. Still too stoic to confront it head first. 

“So you took Sasha to an escape room to tell her that but you’re giving me the Sparknotes?” you groan. 

Levi smiles. 

“I’d imagine that Eren would find it inexplicably strange when I was take his wife on a date.” 

You smile. 

“That’s fair.” 

You shrug. And you’re not sure why, but it makes the tears bubble up in your eyes, until they’re freely bubbling down the side of your face. 

“It’s just dumb. How am I supposed to tell him I’m upset because he left home without kissing me goodbye? That’s ridiculous.” 

It’s right at that moment that you feel it, a waft of the cold air before there’s a pair of lips pressing a kiss to the side of your cheek. You can immediately clock from the musky smell that it’s Eren, as he’s now resting his head on your chin, your cheeks flush together. 

“Exactly like that. You’re supposed to tell me exactly like that, sweetheart.” Eren murmurs. 

You look to your side and glare at Levi. 

“In my defense, I told him to wait.” Levi responds. 

“And I refuse to do that when she starts crying.” Eren responds, shooting him a glare.

Levi takes Eren’s very stern hint, before shooting you a polite smile and pushing out of his chair, where Sasha’s waiting at the end of the table. The two of them give you bright, bright smiles as they link their arms together and walk off towards the other side of the garden. 

Eren takes the empty chair, making it a point to pull it extremely close to yours, as he gestures for you to lean against him. You oblige, taking in his sweet smell once again as he brings his hand up to your hair and rubs circles into the sweet point on your neck. 

He reaches forward, soft fingers wiping away the wetness on your cheek. 

“Do you have something you want to tell me?” Eren asks. 

You shake your head. 

“I mean. Not really.” 

Eren gives you a smile that sends a wave of relief through you. 

“You’re just crying about how much you love Sasha?” 

“Basically. She’s a really good friend, you know?” 

Eren smiles, before pressing another kiss to your hairline. 

“A really good friend. She staged an entire intervention and gave me a lecture.” 

“Really?” 

“Well. She staged the intervention with Levi. And facilitated the lecture Levi gave me. Said it would be scarier if it came from him.”  

“Was it?” 

“Oh, of course.” 

You laugh. 

“It was warranted. Levi doesn’t play about his girls. Granted that you’re both involved, he’s going to feel all types of ways.” 

You smile. You look back towards the end of the garden, at the two of them sitting near the fireplace – at the clear disdain Levi has for the sticky smores that she’s eating. 

“I didn’t know that you asked Levi to take Sasha on a date. Did he do that for you?” Eren asks. 

You shake your head. 

“He just gave me the highlights. But I didn’t really need his wisdom until now, so it makes sense.” 

Eren leans forward. 

“I’d love to hear about this wisdom.” 

“You know. About trying new things with your partner, sharing responsibilities and burdens and all that.” 

Eren grins. 

“Did you hear it?” 

“I mean, obviously. I’m repeating it to you now, aren’t I?” 

Eren shakes his head, before reaching forward to tuck your hair behind your ear. You lift his hand and press a kiss to his knuckles. 

“I mean, are you ready to put that wisdom to use?” Eren asks.

You shrug. 

“I suppose I have to now.” 

“I mean, you don’t have to. I’m never going to force you to share something with me. But I do want you to know that you can tell me. And I know you always have, which makes me just curious why you’re not keen to do it now.” 

You sigh. 

“It’s nothing about you. It’s about me.” 

“I love to hear about you. Do tell.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“You need a haircut.” 

“You can go home and give me one. But right now, you’re deflecting.” Eren responds. 

“Eren.” 

“I know you’re mad I didn’t kiss you before I left. And I really am sorry about that. I’m not even sure how I forgot.” 

You shake your head. 

“I mean, you were upset with me. I wouldn’t want to kiss someone either if I was annoyed.” 

Eren reaches forward and pinches your cheek. 

“That’s the difference between me and you. I could kiss you all the time.” 

“And yet you don’t.” you joke. 

Eren leans forward, pressing a lingering kiss to your cheek. And leans right back, giving you a bright smile as he waits for some indication of approval. You shake your head at him, before reaching for his open hand and lock your fingers with his. 

“I’m working on it.” Eren responds. 

There’s a pair of footsteps behind you, Jean and Mikasa with Marco and Maya in their arms with an almost awkward smile. 

“We hate to interrupt a totally great reconciliation that’s going on.” Jean starts. 

“Then don’t.” you respond. 

Jean glares. 

“Shut up. We’re just giving you your kids back since you pawned them off to us.” 

“Maya spent twenty minutes asking me when your cooties would be gone so she could talk to you again. Nice one, Eren.” Mikasa responds. 

You shoot Eren a confused look, before taking Marco from Jean’s arm, readjusting his sleepy head onto your shoulder and giving him a grateful smile. Mikasa does the same with Eren, the two of them squeezing your shoulder before taking their departure. 

“Cooties, Eren?” 

“I told Marco and Maya you were sick and that they shouldn’t bother you. They asked what you were sick with and I couldn’t say something real so I told them that it was cooties. Safe to say that they were horrified.” 

You frown. “Great. Now they think I’m infected.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s a made up disease. I’m sure you’ll live.” Eren deadpans. 

You reach forward, brushing your hair through the matted mess on Marco’s forehead. Eren rests his cheek against the top of Maya’s head, rubbing soft circles into her back. 

“You picked cute outfits.” 

“It took me two hours. You’re way better at this stuff than me.” 

You smile. 

“Do you ever realize how hard it is to do this stuff without me? Because I think about it all the time, how…how hard it would be to do stuff without you.”

“I’m starting to get an idea.” Eren responds. 

“I think about it all the time. I hate doing the laundry because the machine is too tall. And I don’t really like to drive at night. I prefer doing groceries together.” 

“I do too. I can stop you from buying the entire store.” 

“Hey.”

Eren laughs. 

“It’s hard enough to manage those thoughts on my own. It’s hard enough to not think about Marco and Maya like that. And I know it’s not that serious and I’m being a stickler and it’s…it’s not that deep but you would basically be handing me a list of things to worry about everyday.” you respond. 

Eren hums in response. 

“I don’t want to think about you forgetting me. I don’t want to think about Marco and Maya getting surgery like Connie and recovering for so long after the fact. I hate to think you're driving without me because I don’t know if you’re at a really long stoplight or your car stopped there because of something else. I would hate to think that the last thing you and I ever did was fight because I could never get over that. We already spent so much time not talking to each other and I don’t want to do it again.” 

Eren squeezes your hand three times. 

“I would love it if you could have told me that in the first place instead of pulling away.” Eren murmurs. 

“I don’t want to talk about anxiety medication again. I hate that I’m even bringing this up again. I should be over all of it by now. I know logically that telling you will make me feel better but I can’t because sometimes I just don’t want to feel better. I’m…I’m so upset that we spent so much time apart and you were alone. I hate not talking because it just…it just reminds me that the entire period we spent apart was preventable if I wasn’t so stupid. You can’t be like Marco for me because that would be my final straw. And yet I’m here letting it all happen because I just can’t do anything.” 

Eren takes a beat. For a long time, almost like he’s thinking of the right thing to say. And it takes a few minutes, a few quiet minutes of him rubbing circles into your hand, before he figures out what to say. 

“Do you really think I ever got over what happened?” Eren asks. 

“What?”  

“You’re forgetting that I was the one who was horrible to you first. It’s not a particularly easy feeling to live with. Do you even remember what I said?” Eren whispers. 

“Well, I…” 

“Not just to you. To Armin. To Connie. Even Marco, when he was just trying to be nice to me.” Eren responds. 

You pause. 

“I have to remind myself that I can’t necessarily live there anymore. Not in that part of mind. Not when you look to me for support. When I have them to take care of. I don’t want to think about that when you’re all here with me.” 

You smile. 

“I did slap you. That’s considerably bad.” you respond. 

Eren laughs. 

“It didn’t hurt.” he responds. 

“I was wearing rings.” 

“You could never hurt me.” Eren responds. 

“But I did.”  

Eren sighs. 

“You can’t just expect everything that happened to be over for you. It’ll come up when it comes up. Even when you think that it’s long gone. Sometimes you don’t want to pick yourself up. It’s considerably easy when you let us do it for you.” 

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.” 

“It’s hard to pry into your mind sometimes.” Eren shrugs. 

“It’s hard to let people in when I still feel like I’m fifteen and the only person on the outside.” you murmur. 

Maya shuffles around in Eren’s arm, in what has to be an uncomfortable position as Eren secures her against him. 

“I’m not people. Everyone else is on the outside from you and me.” Eren responds. 

“You’re more than people. It’s hard to disappoint you.” 

“You have to know you could never do that.” 

You lean your head against Eren’s. 

“Will you take Maya on a date when she’s old enough?” you ask. 

Eren smiles. 

“I’ll make Levi do it. She’s going to think I’m biased. I am her dad and all. And if she’s your daughter, she’s going to be stubborn and do the opposite of what I say.” 

“Well, then she’ll give you a run for your money. You can reach Levi levels of patience.” 

Eren laughs. 

“For what it’s worth, you’re exactly what Levi described for Sasha. All the qualities you should look for in someone.” 

“I am?” Eren asks, grinning ear to ear. 

“Don’t get a big head.” 

“Do tell.” 

You sigh. 

“You make me try new things and push me out of my comfort zone. Like giving some weird genetic test a chance. At the very least just to stop…stop being so nervous about these types of things.” you murmur. 

“You don’t have to.” 

“It’s just a dumb test. It can’t hurt me, can it?.” 

“Well, whatever it is. We’ll figure it out together. What else?”

“We communicate well. At least when I can muster up the courage to do that.” 

Eren smiles. 

“I have an infinite amount of patience when it comes to you. I waited two years, I can wait a few days.” 

“I’ll try to make it so you don’t have to, Eren.” 

Eren smiles. 

“That would be appreciated.” 

You sigh. 

“You’re the only person I could share this type of stuff with. Responsibilities, burdens. Just hard to remember that you’re all on my side sometimes. I kind of catastrophize to the point where I think that’s not true.” 

Marco’s sleepy voice breaks the conversation. 

“Do you still have cooties?” 

You glare at Eren. 

“No. Go back to sleep.” 

“Oh thank god, sweetheart. I was starting to get sad about it.” Marco responds, eyes still lidded shut against your shoulder. 

“Sounds like we should go home.” Eren states. 

You give him a nod, handing the two of them over to Eren before bidding Sasha and Niccolo your last goodbyes. You can’t help but hold on to Sasha for a little too long, murmuring into her ear. 

“Thanks Sasha. Your help means a lot.” 

And when you pull back, there’s a glisten in her eye. You note that Levi’s watching the two of you, eyes focused as Hange rambles on in the background. 

“It’s nothing you didn’t do for me first, princess.” 

“Just count yourself lucky that you got free food out of it.” 

Sasha smiles. 

“He works for his audience.” 

--

There’s a white envelope waiting on the counter as you cut Eren’s hair. It takes extreme focus – to not think about what’s in there and instead focus on the conversation Eren’s having with Marco and Maya and cutting his hair. 

“Eren. Do you have a favorite color?” Maya asks. 

“My favorite color is your favorite color, sweet pea.” 

Maya glares at Eren. 

“You don’t even know my favorite color.” Maya deadpans. 

Eren shoots you a signal for help, as you mouth purple in the mirror. 

“As if. Your favorite color is purple.” Eren responds. 

“You cheated. Sweetheart told you.” Maya responds. 

You laugh. 

“I did no such thing.” you respond. 

“Maya. You’re not supposed to do that.” Marco murmurs. 

“Do what?” Maya asks. 

“Side with Dad.” Marco whispers. 

You can’t help but laugh as you slip off the last of Eren’s hair, giving him a tap on the shoulder to signify that you’re done. Eren takes the note and immediately reaches for Marco, tickling at his side. 

“Who told you that, you little menace?” 

“She did.” 

You shake your head at Eren, as you reach for the envelope on the counter, and sliding your finger along the closing. You hand the papers over to Eren, who agreed to open them and read them for you. His green eyes dart through all three of the papers, as Marco and Maya tangle themselves in between your legs. 

“You know. I’m unbelievably healthy.” Eren responds. 

“Hilarious.” 

“Really. You can read it for yourself.” 

Eren hands you the papers, three pages worth of a testament to the fact that he just said. Each glaring red text, indicating a negative response fills your heart with joy, especially regarding what you cared about the most. 

His memory. 

Eren gives you a glimmering smile, eyes filled with warm recognition of you, that was promised, at least for the most part, not to fade. 

--

edit: I just realized this was way too similar to the last extra that i wrote but fuck it we ball

taglist: @k0z3me @sugu-love @yihona-san06  @bsenpai @sweetenertea @mykyoon @violetmatcha  @rebeccawinters @cutiejg @bokutosthings @bookwrmm @mblrrr @wheredidmycrowngo @somethinginyoureyes7 @chilichopsticks @okaystopwhore @you-always-made-me-blush @itzmeme @firelordazulaaaa @whoami-72 @g-ghostly @itzmeme @erensmoodygf @princess-ackerman @jaegerfiles @cacapeepee @rui-0836 @moonmalice @invisible-mori @bbybeeb @timetobegone @tee4str @ttokki2 @leave-rae-alone @ec3lipsy @officialsimpp @gojojang @yookayyo @lordbugs @multiplefandomthings @iobeyfandoms @camilo-uwu @justanotherkpopstanlol @mel-star636 @fvckingeetar @ttalgi @najaemism @ilovekimchi123 @youraggedybitch @xoyumiqls @leafguitar @dreamy-carat @spiidergirlsworld @luvs4kim @levin4nami @florichun @hoonmyluv

[mr-double-downer]

So since a jerkoff tonight wanted to mention “entry level positions” here’s the starting pay for grade 1’s/2’s for the waste water industry here california.

For a small fee of 99 dollars at my local community college (where I saw a flyer for this since I had gone in to take my Brit Lit final) I can take a three hour online course from 9am to 12 pm for a duration of four months. I’ll get my credentials for my grade one and will be eligible to take my grade 2 immediately. Even the minimum starting salary at 60 grand a year is very much doable to live on my own and save up to buy a house, even around here. There are five grades for operators as well as other types of positions for plant management and leadership that require a degree.

My father makes last time I checked 52 an hour as a grade two (he can’t pass his grade three because he’s not good at taking tests) along with all sorts of other benefits due to working for the city/county. He has no education higher than a high school diploma and he’s been doing this for over two decades. In fact the only reason why he learned about the job in the first place was because he knew a guy.

So what’s my point?

Opportunities like this in spite of the seeming ease of entry, are hard to come by. If I hadn’t taken a class in the building this flyer was posted in, I might not have seen it, and if my dad didn’t know a guy, he never would’ve found a breadwinner job so easily.

And sure 99 dollars isn’t much of an expenditure for me, but someone who is actually living paycheck to paycheck might have to think about it, even though it pays well because they’re always hiring operators as they build more plants. 9am to 12pm might be hard for some people to schedule around as it is kind of awkward time placement wise, and unless you have a laptop or computer (which can be another couple hundred dollar investment that some people might not have money to spend if they’re making minimum wage and living paycheck to paycheck) you’re going to have to find a public library with good internet access and hope they have computers available if at all, and honestly online classes really aren’t for everyone especially if you get distracted easy or find the lack of direct access to an instructor discouraging.

Social mobility/advancement has always been gatekept by money, because a lot of time to make money you need to spend money you might not have. This is really nothing to me money wise because I’ll be the first to admit I’m privileged in a lot of ways but a lot of people aren’t me. People don’t even talk about wastewater as industry because it’s also dirty work, the kind of work people turn their nose up to because you work with literal shit and shit water and piss and all sorts of other gross stuff.

Yet the entry level position that requires a 99 dollar enrollment fee and spending 3 hours a week for four months pays a lot better than most jobs that require a degree or trade school/apprenticeship.

So when people say entry level positions shouldn’t be livable I’m going to share this, and say “I bet you feel real stupid now huh?”

And some will say “but downer waste water is really important work our society couldn’t function without it!” yeah you’re right so would every other entry level wagie shit because I doubt most people have the means to live on their own without having to go to the grocery store every couple of weeks. Not even that but people lose their shit about not having access to caffeine, and if you have a pet especially an exotic one like a snake that requires mice whether dead or frozen how are you going to feed without some schmuck like me grabbing it for you?

now never did I say wagie shit needs to be a high paying career cause I’m a firm believer in a job being a job till the next one, but if people take me saying what amounts to “I don’t think people should have to struggle to live even a little comfortable” as some kind of… attack? then I really don’t know what to say other than go fuck yourself and develop real issues to be angry about.

[crow-in-gotham]

BLOG POST NO. 4 - ALL ABOUT THE WAYNES

Remember that off-handed comment I made about moving into Gotham without proper research? Well, it’s more like no research at all because I just found out who the Waynes actually are.

For you see, I am what my friends lovingly (read: derogatorily) refer to as an internet hermit. Basically, what I’m trying to say is that I have lived under a rock for basically my entire life. Well, at least when it comes to anything celebrity related. Hell, I don’t know much about Filipino celebrities, much less foreign ones. The only Filipino celebrities I bothered knowing the bare minimum about is BINI, and the only foreign actors I know are the ones who played in the Harry Potter series.

But back to my main point— yes, I only just now found out about who the Waynes are.

Why? Because I literally share a class with one of them. Actually, scratch that, I’m pretty sure I share a class with two of them—

So I did a little digging (read: my friends were appalled by how “uncultured” I am, and forced me to sit through a 3 hour long lecture about Wayne Lore) and here’s my thoughts.

First of all, Bruce Wayne, or “Brucie” as the media likes to call him, is the biggest fucking teddy bear I have ever seen. Like seriously, if “head empty, no thoughts” was a person, it would be him. Kinda sus (look Ray, internet slang!) to think he’s completely empty up there considering the fact that he, you know, runs one of the biggest enterprises in the entire world? The man is richer than Lex Luthor himself (yes, I know who he is— thank you Lan) and just keeps getting richer even with the amount of money he just seems to throw out everyday.

Honestly I’d be inclined to believe he’s actually some sort of secret super genius who’s just hiding behind a facade of stupidity just to lower everyone’s guard, but at the same time, I, quite frankly, could not give a fuck. The man pays my scholarship, I don’t really care if he’s the human version of a koala or the second coming of Isaac Newton. As long as he keeps doing all the good that he’s doing, I’m good. Overall, seems like a good guy and a nice hugger.

Next up is Richard Grayson-Wayne. Or, as literally everyone apparently calls him, “Dick”. Like, seriously? I know this has probably been said so many times— to the point where if you took all those times it was said by someone and turned it into an audio file, it would probably outlive the universe— but still. Really? Out of all the nicknames, you chose that?

And okay, maybe times were just different back then (shoutout to you old people out there), but was this guy so attached to the name that he just couldn’t be bothered to change it even when the modern day meaning for it was popularized? I mean, seriously, how many spittakes am I gonna have to go through every time my friend (hi Lan) says something along the lines of “I have a thing for Dick”. My friend knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing every time he says this sentence, because he never bothered to add the last name “Grayson” to it. Like, I know you’re gay Lan, but come on. The closet is already made of fucking glass.

Other comments to make? That ass. Like seriously, he tries to hide it by wearing slacks but sir, we are not blind. Those seams are fighting for their lives every time you take a step.

Next one on the list is Cassandra Cain-Wayne. There’s honestly not much else I can say about her other than the fact that I think she’s an absolute angel, and that I’ve replayed videos of her ballet performances for maybe an hour? There’s just something about the way that she dances that just looks so mesmerizing. It reminds me of a swan— beautiful, graceful, and equally as deadly. No, seriously, have you seen angry swans attacking people? Those birds can be fucking terrifying. I don’t know what about her looks so dangerous, but she just does? To me? It’s weird.

I’m not saying she’s a bad person or anything, I’m just saying that in a scenario where someone tries to mug her, I don’t think it would be her who’d end up with stitches. Which, honestly, I respect.

Next is Jason Todd-Wayne. The fucking brick house himself. I mean, come on, just look at one picture taken of him recently and tell me you did not stare for more than 10 seconds. This man is the definition of “If he’s a tree then I’m a squirrel”. Am I completely biased in this case? Maybe. Will I plead guilty? Over my dead fucking body.

The whole “disappeared for a weird amount of time, was assumed dead by the public for a while, then suddenly came back one day out of nowhere” situation aside, this guy is like the prime example of a glow-up. I don’t know what happened during those years he went missing, but he came back looking like a beefed up Princess Anna.

Chunk of muscle aside, there are also a few pictures of him hanging out with the kids that come by Martha’s House (local homeless shelter— thanks WE), and rescuing kittens from trees, and honestly I think it’s so sweet. It’s giving “gap moe” and I’m very much here for it.

Up next is Timothy Drake-Wayne, otherwise known as Tim (because who the fuck says Timothy nowadays—). Now this guy is the reason why this entire post exists in the first place. Why? Because I literally saw him walk right into class and sit literally right next to me (which, now that I think about it, is kinda weird because we were in a lecture hall and— hello, there’s literally 10 other seats in the same line as us?). Now, at first I didn’t really think anything of it— because duh, I lived under a rock remember? I had no idea who he was when he walked in, nor why everyone else in the room was staring at us like our heads were on fire (I checked— they were not), but I was running on 2 hours of sleep and barely any caffeine so I couldn’t give two fucks.

Then this mf (look Ray, abbreviations!) turned to me and just— hands me a bottle of 5 hour energy? That he just took out of his bag?? Now don’t get me wrong, I was thankful and all that, because there was no way in hell I would’ve survived that class without more caffeine making my heart almost palpitate, but also— kinda weird? Didn’t think much of it anyway and just thanked him. We did introduce ourselves to each other, but only with our first names because, you know, who the fuck introduces themselves with their full names unless it’s the first day of class and your professor decided it would be great to “get to know everyone” by doing self-introductions.

It wasn’t until 3 hours later at lunch when I discovered that I had, in fact, talked to Tim Drake-Wayne himself, courtesy of one of my friends (I’m looking at you Rayne) screaming at me.

That was also what led to the whole “sit down and let’s talk about Wayne Lore” that lasted 3 hours.

Duke Thomas-Wayne is the next one. This guy is an absolute fucking sunshine. He’s the other guy that’s in one of my other classes— actually, now that I think about it, we’re in a group together for that class’ semester-long project.

Wtf.

The literal personification of a ray of light is groupmates with me holy shit. “Become group mates with a Wayne” was definitely not on my bucket list for this year but you know what I’m not complaining about it.

Oh god I just remembered the fact that I ended up rambling about seashells for an embarrassingly long amount of time to him because the group wasn’t talking about anything so I ended up making small talk with the person next to me, which ended up being him.

I hope he liked my ramblings about the different kinds of seashells I have??

Last but definitely not the least (I feel legally obligated to say that) is Damian Wayne himself. He’s famous for being the only Wayne child to actually be blood-related to Bruce Wayne (not that that makes the others any less his kids—), and also well-known for the fact that he threatened to shove a cane up someone’s ass during one of the many Wayne Galas. Honestly, I respect it. The threatened person was being an asshole to some other guests and apparently Damian Wayne had enough of his bullshit. It made rounds on social media for an entire year apparently (not that I’d know— I was dead to the internet beyond my little circle of hyperfixations).

Other than that there’s not really much else to say about this guy? Other than the fact that I think he’s kinda cute in the little brother way. There’s a clip online of Tim Drake-Wayne calling him a demon spawn though, which I think is funny as fuck. It’s giving sibling energy to the max. I’m sure there's a good reason why this Damian Wayne has been dubbed the demon spawn.

There’s some honorable mentions for the Wayne Family (you know who I’m talking about) but honestly this has gone on for so fucking long. Maybe I’ll make a separate post about it at some point.

… How the fuck does Bruce Wayne deal with all these fucking kids—

[sciderman]

You said you get more asks here instead of Ask-Spiderpool

Does that mean there's presently no asks? Or you have an Itty bitty backlog,,

honestly the amount of asks I get on ask-spiderpool is so, so paltry and sad at the moment that i can barely scrape together any motivation for it because there’s No inspiration coming in. which is kind of the point of an ask blog lads. conversation. it is Not a one-sided thing !!

sure, there’s a backlog but those are like, pantry items. I need fresh fruit and vegetables or I’ll die of scurvy

anyone who tells me “I want to start an ask blog” I immediately say “in this economy? don’t bother. you won’t even last a day.” I’m hanging on for grim death here .

it’s not about numbers. you’re more than numbers. you should be more than numbers, so please. act like more than numbers. please. don’t you want to be more than numbers? every time someone talks to me and I respond back they seem Shocked to find out I’m actually a human or whatever. why are you guys like that. of course I want to be talked to. any human wants to be talked to. so talk to me!! I’m as lonely and nerdy and pitiful as the rest of you. I’m here because I want friends. so please, be friends. I don’t need numbers. I need friends.

it’s so not about numbers. I still get thousands of notes or whatever,, more notes than before, even, but you’re all so passive now that it’s depressing. I miss when ask-blogging felt like a community,, and that’s Why I did started, and why I kept on for so long… sighs. I feel like everything’s been reduced to numbers. I don’t know how anyone can be happy with just numbers. numbers are so cold and unsexy. numbers do not tickle my pickle at all. (no sir)

I feel like the human element of everything I do is kind of slowly diminishing and I’m looking around at the wasteland like,, where did all the people go. not just here. everywhere. so I’ve been diving into career things again and having success with it, but I don’t want that to be my lifeline. it was my lifeline pre-covid and I don’t want it to be my lifeline again. I’m good at it, but I miss real people with real gratitude and excitement. not just people paying a pay check for my services. I never, never want what I do to just feel like an exchange of goods for like, money. or numbers. those things have No Soul. They’re not a substitute for what I actually look for when I create anything. and what I actually look for is Conversation. (which doesn’t cost you much, can you believe!)

it’s so funny how when I said I’m planning on quitting (which I don’t want to do, but I’m kind of being forced to do because I mean. how can one keep on running an ask-blog with no asks) I got a very big response here saying “noooo don’t do it” and it's sweet - it's really sweet, and appreciated, and warmed the heart but - again. no asks on the actual blog. so.

if you want ask-spiderpool to actually live on, there’s something so very simple and free (does not cost you money) that you can do! three guesses as to what that might be

I have so, so many plans and posts and scripts but I’m not writing into thin air,, man. why should I keep doing a stupid thing like that. what happened to us, that we’ve stopped communicating with creators because we’ve forgotten that wait a second ,, they share things on the internet because they want other people to interact with them. artists are the neediest guys on the internet. they need people to survive. I’m not going to keep on pretending I’m above it all and I’m cooler than that. I’m not cool, and an ask blog needs asks. you can’t expect it to keep going on without them.

so freaking . leave a kiss. leave a comment. stop just leaving a like and disappearing into that goodnight . I hate you all.

anyway. love you. kisses.

[thecaffeinebookwarrior]

Tbh I'm at a point where I think everyone should write whatever they want forever and we shouldn't worry about Mary Sues. Who cares, let's have fun in the sandbox

I agree, everyone should write what they want! It is ultimately an act of passion, and everyone has total creative liberty over what they produce.

However, not all writing is intended to be interacted with the same way.

A work of fanfiction or an original story that someone shares for free is different, for example, than a book you have to buy or a film you have to pay to watch. The purpose of reviews for products are not just to support the author, but to guide other prospective readers and viewers about how they'll spend their money and time.

As an author, there's also a difference between a hobbyist and a professional. I'm both! I write for fun, and I've published writing for money. I also have an MFA in Creative Writing.

I would consider it rude if someone offered unsolicited criticism of writing or art I made available for free, but when a paying publisher accepts my stories, I expect them to offer edits to make it as good as it can be for the consumption of the public.

Similarly, if I were in a critique session with my MFA peers, I'd be annoyed if they told me to just have fun without offering any other feedback. As you can see, the context changes whether writing is appropriate to criticize, and whether criticisms should be expected.

Hollywood studios should also be held to an especially high standard, I think, because of the amount of money that is channeled into funding their films, and the amount of money they charge from the public.

Now, about the term Mary Sue.

Many already know that "Mary Sue" is a satirical term, originating in a parody fanfiction from a Star Trek fan magazine, and I don't think it was ever meant to be treated as a serious literary criticism. There's also a male equivalent - the Gary Stu - but it's seldom used, and the term remains disproportionately geared towards female characters.

I don't dislike characters because they're "Mary Sues," I dislike characters because they're poorly written. And I have a pet peeve when a portion of the internet reactively claims a character is well-written simply to defend them from accusations of being a Mary Sue.

Again, this is usually in regards to big budget Hollywood movies or shows, like Captain Marvel, the 2016 Ghostbusters, She-Hulk, or what have you. The criticisms against these movies were often bad, and came from misogynistic viewpoints - but that doesn't mean these movies and shows are good. And I would have been doing myself a disservice if I overlooked their flaws simply because misogynists also didn't like them.

I think Hollywood studios often hide behind superficially strong female characters to shield themselves from criticism, and avoid having to write female characters who are actually original, complex, and interesting.

(Again, this is all just my opinion. Anyone is welcome to like the above properties! I like tons of things that could be considered questionable.)

So, to conclude: yes, everyone deserves to have fun with writing! It is usually inappropriate and rude to offer unsolicited criticism of art that is available for free. But Hollywood films and traditionally published writing that we pay money to access are not the same as free art that's shared only for passion and fun.

And last but not least, calling a character a Mary Sue is usually a stupid criticism, but not every character who is accused of being a Mary Sue is a good character!

Just my thoughts on the matter, which I'm obviously more than eager to babble about for a good half hour.

[multimuseticles]

You know... I've been drawing ever since I was like 5 years old. It's something I've spent pretty much my entire life doing. The longest I'd ever really go without drawing is like a couple of months maybe, and lately I've been drawing on an almost near daily basis. But if I'm being honest, I'm fairly close to actually quitting.

I still love to draw and I don't really want to stop, but it's getting to a point where AI slop is just entirely taking over the internet. Finding even reference images these days is so difficult because google is filled with AI crap and a lot of actual art sites allow AI art(looking at you Pixiv and DeviantArt).

I used to get a couple of commissions a month just a few years ago. Then covid hit and I got a little less work because people didn't exactly have the same amount of money to spend, which makes perfect sense. But getting closer to the end of covid when people could actually go back to work etc, AI decided to creep its head up and now I'm lucky to get one commission every few months. Originally, AI art was laughable and it was only able to make really stupid shit that was basically illegible. Like that Dall-e thing.

Putting the rest under a read more because it's somewhat long.

But nowadays, a lot of people prefer to use AI than give actual artists attention. Especially now that a lot of big companies are pushing their own AI crap(looking at you Adobe and Meta). Instagram used to be a great place for artists, now its filled with AI crap that Instagram seems to fucking love and is basically training their AI on your own posts. They say you can opt out, but if you live in the USA? You seemingly can't. In the EU you can because of laws, so I was able to opt out. However. I don't trust Meta not to train off my shit anyway.

Then you've got Adobe, which y'know, was a thing for artists to create stuff, be that through Photoshop, Illustrator or even their video editors. But now they're just pushing their lame AI crap to do everything for you, and still charge a ridiculous amount for their service.

Now I'm not just complaining because I'm getting less work. It's just depressing that creativity is dying. Generative AI is being used in video games, movies, tv shows, music, youtube videos, voiceovers and pretty much EVERYTHING else. It's impossible to avoid these days. Sites that allow AI but ask you to tag it so people can hide it doesn't work either, because people just don't tag that shit.

Due to all this AI crap, artists are being accused of using AI to create their art, regardless of if they show proof or not. It hasn't happened to me yet, but I feel it's inevitable simply because I absolutely suck at drawing hands and I can just barely get the hang of them most of the time. A ton of actual artists have been essentially bullied to the point where they don't post their art online anymore, or are forced to change their art style.

It's so much harder for artists to get their work out there anymore because AI is taking over all of these sites so the majority of the stuff you see is generated bullshit. It has led to people being like "Why would I pay someone to do this when I can just write a prompt and get what I want in seconds?" and no matter what you say to people with this line of thought, they just do not give a single shit.

I'm fine with AI to an extent. I think it's fine to just use it for dumb shit between friends, or helping to get a design idea for an OC or something. But the moment you start making money from AI or posting it online and claiming it as your own(and saying that people should credit you if you used it???) is the moment I think it's not okay. Have you seen Facebook or Twitter lately? Filled with really messed up AI images and AI responses. Facebook is rampant with weird and disturbing looking AI generated images and Twitter is 90% bots these days.

This whole post was spurred on by a conversation I saw between two of my friends. One of my friends wanted to get into graphic design, and being the artist of the group and having experience in graphic design, he came to me for advice. He got some very basic stuff done and he was really proud of it. He was showing some of the stuff he made to our other friend who simply responded with an AI generation of the same thing saying "Just use AI man, it's quicker and looks better." It was super depressing to see, especially since I've had conversations about how much I hate generative AI with these same friends.

So at this point I'm on the edge of just stopping. I probably won't, but I'm starting to lose motivation because I feel like there is no safe place to upload my art anymore. Will I stop? Probably not, but the temptation is there. I dunno, fuck generative AI man.

Sorry for the long ass rant, but I'm just getting so fed up with this crap.

[garyroachsanderson]

Task 141 best friend headcanon, celebrating readers birthday please ??

i’m going to assume it’s your birthday now or soon, so happy birthday you and everyone else who’s birthday it is!!!! 🎉

141 BEST FRIENDS HEADCANONS - BIRTHDAY EDITION

GHOST

i don’t think this man has ever forgotten anything in his entire life, but he’s probably a procrastinator, and he remembers at the worst time.

for example, in the middle of a heated fight after killing the enemy, he’ll see something that reminds him of you and be like “fuck”

quickly runs to a shop once everyone is asleep. he’d probably buy you a necklace, or a plushie or something you love (he doesn’t really understand the hype around plushes, but he knows you like them)

if they’re stationed in america, he’d probably drive to a walmart or something and browse the guns aisle

he wraps the gift very shittily but leaves it on your nightstand for when you wake up

he doesn’t really care about how expensive it is, he’ll probably mumble a ‘mitherin-’ at the price but it just makes him happy to see you happy

if the gift was apparel it makes him very happy to see you wearing it

probably wouldn’t do anything other than that tho he’d maybe brood on the sidelines while the rest get drunk for your birthday

SOAP

does the shopping MONTHS in advance. occasionally you’ll reference something you like and he’s like “fuck i should’ve bought that”

before buying he consulted with the rest of the team on what to buy and just spoke nonstop for 5 minutes until ghost called him a not so nice word

puts time and effort into choosing a wrapping paper that looks like something you’d like and tops it off with a plastic shiny bow

would buy you a real gift but top it off with a terrible gag gift on top. fake vomit ahoy

party planner CEO. even if you’re in the military he’s gonna fucking make sure the current base has streamers on the walls

yes, he packed two MREs that were little cakes with confetti sprinkles in them. why do you ask

overall, he makes the best of a shit situation. would probably both get plastered partying and then he’d haul you to bed

PRICE

“gaz what do people your age like”

he buys you a flip phone (unwrapped) that was made in the ripe year of 2007 (he doesn’t know you have a phone)

it’s the thought that counts

USE IT…

would be very happy when he sees you using it

would treat the force to a night out at a bar (everyone pays for their drinks but you get them on the house)

GAZ

he’d buy something related to something you said you liked 4 months ago

this man is up to date on the internet.. probably buys you a terrible shirt of the current meme or one that died 8 months ago for shits and giggles

knows your favorite bands (he saw your ipod once and noticed your favorite song had 3450 plays) so he bought some merchandise of that band for you

gets stupid drunk and then does stupid shit on your name

“this one’s for y/n” he yelps as he tries to dunk a piece of paper through a basketball hoop but doesn’t get 4 feet off the ground and falls

i’m going to be honest he probably wouldn’t shy away from buying internet currency points

ROACH

TIME and EFFORT

he goes out shopping and buys you decorations for your quarters, new gloves, stickers

would plan a surprise party much to the dismay of everyone else. i mean every party is a surprise party when ghost suddenly appears

he would stick a bunch of candles (the right amount) in a sock we don’t have cake

now of course since you’re in the military a surprise party is perhaps not a great idea. when they turned the lights on and everyone popped up you almost took everyone off the census

you didn’t though! yay

probably the only one who doesn’t get drunk because he’s too young for that

still a cute little birthday

[iwishicanbeagoodpianist]

the Wifilcon and the Winter Router Chapter 2: Customer Service

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OC/Reader Summary: When Bucky learns that his neighbor has been stealing his wifi for months. Warnings: None A/N: I’m not a fanfic writer at all, this, like all my stories, are adaptations to fanfics. My original stories are not written in english, so this is also a translation. please do not repost my work

Chapter 1

---------------------------

-"Sir, are the front lights on the router on or not?"-

-"Uh, yes, I think so, there are too many lights, all blinking."-

Bucky, once again, was facing the demonic device that, at this moment, he’d rather throw out the window without looking back. How is it possible that I’m doing one of the things I hate most in life, talking to other people, all because I need to know how the fight between Diego and his evil twin ends and who finally wins Alfonsina's love?

While Bucky continues his internal dialogue about the 8 o’clock soap opera (he can actually watch it anytime, but he regularly decides to watch it at 8) and how he hates his life at this moment, he hears the customer service lady sigh, whom he vaguely recalls is named Sara, with whom he’s been speaking for an exhausting (for both of them) 20 minutes. With this amount of wasted time, I could have already thrown this device out and gone to buy a new one. Without having to talk to anyone, 10 minutes max, timing clocks and all. Stupid piece of junk…

Bucky’s thoughts are interrupted again by Sara or Susana, I’m sure it was something with an S…

-"Sir, can you describe what you see right now?"-

-"A piece of junk?… I mean, I mean, a rectangle with two antennas…"-

-"Sir, I mean the lights, the colors, if they’re blinking or not…"-

Is it possible to be more idiotic? Bucky is sure he can read the thoughts of… uh… Sofia?

-"Yes, yes, of course,"- Bucky stammers, trying to focus since this conversation started, -"there’s a green light with an image that looks like a circle, then there are some curved lines that the light is blinking…"-

Before Bucky could finish describing each part of the router like a 5-year-old to… to… Sasha? he hears the front door open, and it’s none other than the main person who got him into this problem, and by problem we mean the addiction to telenovelas on Nitflix, Notflex… Netflox?? Whatever, his dreaded and somewhat appreciated neighbor from the next-door apartment.

-"What do you think you’re doing??? The internet’s been down for over 30 minutes."-

The cheeky comment comes, not only is she using the internet for free. Not really, she pays for the… Netflex? account and he pays for the internet, it’s not a fair agreement, but she also makes him dinner on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and on Sundays she makes waffles for breakfast, his favorite, something he never plans to tell her even if he’s kidnapped again and tortured.

-"That’s what I’m trying to fix,"- Bucky replies exasperatedly, because let’s be honest, he’s nowhere near fixing the problem, he hasn’t been able to sit down to rest since he got back this morning from his last mission and discovered his stupid internet wasn’t working and he’s been talking for over 20 minutes now with… with… Samantha? whom he’s sure wishes she were unemployed right now living with her parents again rather than dealing with his over 100-year-old ass for 5 more minutes.

-"Don’t be silly, you just need to unplug and replug it and it’ll be fixed…"- Your adorable neighbor, adorably annoying, hadn’t finished saying those words when she automatically took the plug out of the wall just like that. All the lights on the router went out at the same time, just like Bucky’s brain.

-"Sir, are you still there…?"- At this point, Samantha, or Sierra, sounds distant as if she were part of Bucky’s conscience. But really it’s just because he very intelligently moved the phone away from his ear in shock after seeing his neighbor very casually walk to the kitchen and open the fridge.

-"You have to wait about 30 seconds before plugging everything back in and… what’s wrong with you?"- She asks when she turns to look at him again with a carton of juice in her hand. I should check if that’s still good, when was the last time I went grocery shopping? God, I just want to sleep for 12 straight hours. Bucky’s brain also needs 30 seconds to react.

-"What are you doing here? Today is Tuesday, you should be at work."-

-"I’m sick."-

-"I don’t see you looking very sick."-

-"That’s because you’re too in love with me to notice how bad I look."-

A thud is heard, Bucky unsure if what sounded was his stomach dropping or the phone he was holding, his brain automatically rebooted, at the same time as his now-neighbor, soon-to-be victim, approaches him.

-"W-w-what are you doing??"- Is that music coming from my head? How hard did they hit me today? She, without stopping and looking straight at him, gradually gets closer to him, and that’s when he starts to notice, the red cheeks, the unkempt hair, the exaggerated layers of clothing, the glassy eyes. She really is sick. And without thinking, because let’s be honest, Bucky hasn’t managed to string a coherent thought in the last hour, he says: "It’s true, you look like crap." Just like that, without anesthesia, without a prior psychological evaluation that confirmed Bucky was not fit to live alone, much less interact with other human beings in a normal and civilised manner.

And now a thud is heard, as if someone had slapped their forehead and a sigh of exasperation. Did that sound come from my phone?

But before he could keep thinking about how possibly his love life is now the 8 o’clock soap opera in the customer service office, which for some reason hasn’t ended the call yet. Bucky reacts to these words:

-"I just wanted to reconnect the internet, to go off sick and horrible somewhere else."-

And in a matter of seconds, the lights on the router start blinking again, Bucky’s computer makes a sound indicating it’s connected to the internet again and Bucky’s heart starts racing uncontrollably when he sees his neighbor, firm to her previous statement, grab the juice, which she not-so-politely stole from his fridge, and walks quickly to the door.

-"I’m taking this as payment for being an idiot,"- and with those words, she closes the door behind her.

Bucky stopped breathing, thinking, well, he hasn’t thought correctly in the last 24 hours, he can’t coordinate words or string the necessary letters to call her name, he just stays there, with the blinking lights of his brain that can’t find the connection with his mouth. He was going to spend a full 40 minutes there when he hears his conscience shouting from afar:

-"HELLO??? Sir??? Are you stupid or what??? Go after her right now and apologize!"- It’s not his conscience, it’s… it’s… Selena? From his phone on the floor, the customer service agent was shouting at him and not very kindly expressing what she’s been thinking since the call started. I really am an idiot, nothing new here.

In an act of, not very sure how to explain what, Bucky picks up the phone from the floor, brings it to his ear and asks in an anguished voice:

-"Scarlet? Are you there? God, what have I done? What am I supposed to do now? How do I fix this? I’m just a 100-year-old person, I’m rusty, it’s not my fault."-

And in whispers from the other line like: -"Who the hell is Scarlet? 100 years old??, god this guy has serious issues."- A clearing of the throat is heard and the following words:

-"Sir, the best thing you can do is go and apologize, be sincere, I’m sure she already knows you’re an idiot and likes you anyway."-

-"She likes me?"-

-"I hope you leave the best note in the customer satisfaction survey."-

-"Yes, yes,"- customer satisfaction survey???? what the hell?

-"Well, no girl would be that vulnerable in front of you, I mean, she came to your apartment sick to help you and also dropped that hint, not subtle in my opinion, that you’re in love with her. There are only two options: either she’s really sick and the fever makes her delusional…"-

Bucky is heard whispering,-"delusional?"-

-"Sir, please, let me finish, or she likes you and was helping you take the first step."-

-"Okay, I understand."-

-"Sir, do you like her yes or no?"-

-"No, I mean, yes, only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays when we have dinner together and the food is really good, on Tuesdays and Thursdays I only see her in the morning before leaving, but she accompanies me to buy coffee at the bakery across the street, she takes it very sweet, that’s not good for her health, but she never listens to me. On Saturdays she passes by the park where I always go running, and on the way back she gives me a bottle of water before going to her parents’ house. Sundays are waffle days and it’s the best day because everything is so quiet and peaceful and we just eat and watch TV, sometimes we talk about what happened during the week, but most of the time we’re just… together… peaceful. But I don’t just like her sometimes…"-

-"Sir, I don’t think you’ve said this much dialogue in the entirety of this fanfic or in the history of any fanfic… so I think it’s clear that you like her…."-

"Fanfic?" Bucky whispers, -"what the hell…?"-

-"Doesn’t matter now, sir, the important thing is to put your pants on and go find her right now."-

-"But I already have pants on…"-

-"Shut up, hang up the call, fill out the survey and go hug your girlfriend, god!"-

-"Thanks… uh… Sabrina?"-

-"My name is Amanda, sir…"-

-"Oh."-

-"Just go, have a good day…"- and before hanging up you hear the murmur of I’m going to pretend the last 45 minutes never happened…

-"Thanks… you too…"- but Amanda had already ended the call. Automatically a sound is heard and a female voice starts saying: -"Please rate your agent from 1 to 10… 1 being…"-

Without waiting for the answering machine to finish, hurriedly heading out the door to try to fix his stupidity, Bucky says:

-"10! 10!! The best service, please give Amanda a raise, she deserves it, give her more vacation too, everything, thank you, thank you."-

[kierancampire]

I've been watching this thing called Love Rats on Netflix, and it kinda makes me feel shame

There was a guy, I don't think it was like these situations, I know for a fact he was real and genuine, and he didn't act like the people in these things, so I think it was different, but it was similar. At the time we were speaking, I had excess money and he had none, he tried to hide it most of the time but he couldn't eat, couldn't pay bills, have tea, nothing, he had a cat he had to look after too. I've never liked being selfish or seeing others suffer, so I would level our playing field

It started off with small amounts, and he always said he'd pay me back, a few times he didn't even ask for money, he just said enough that I could see he was struggling again and would send him some. I'd never done something like that before, we weren't romantic, don't get me wrong there was a sexual/flirty side to our friendship, but we were just friends. I hadn't even known him long at all, it was quite bad of me really, but at certain points he was only having one piece of bread a day, he was about to have all his gas, electric, internet, everything shut off. Like I said, at the time I had extra, and I just couldn't see someone live like that

Eventually we had a fall out, he promised he'd pay me back even while we were arguing, took my bank details to do so, and I believed him. But he never did. A couple months later he tried calling me, but I rejected his call, I didn't trust myself if he spoke again, that was the last time he contacted me. I counted how much I gave him in the end, and it was £400. I didn't realise it was that much till I counted it all, I felt quite stupid once I saw that

Obviously it hurts thinking about that now, it would be very handy to have that money back, and all I have is myself to blame. Though, I dunno if this sounds weird, while I regret it in parts and what I did, I also don't? Like, he was real, his struggle and situation was genuine, I had excess at the time, he was in a really bad way, I was acting on what I knew at the time, what I had at the time, and did what I felt was right. I also dunno what woulda happened had we not met when we did, I feel I got him by, kept him safe, and I am okay with that. It just sorta sucks it screwed me in the end

I could do with that £400 now, but he needed it then. It was a stupid thing, but at the time, in a way, it was the right thing. Obviously I'd never do something like that again, I do feel shameful about it, I do feel slightly used, and I couldn't afford it

[happi-tree]

don't kiss and tell

“Can you get off me, please?” Lincoln deadpans instead, jostling Taylor on his back a bit. “Wanna stand up.”

“Hmmmmm, on one condition,” Taylor muses slyly. His jet black hair gleams with sweat under the scattered fluorescents, and stray strands tickle the side of Lincoln’s neck as Taylor leans in even closer. 

“Remove my makeup for me?” He shakes the package of makeup wipes for emphasis, and Lincoln glances over his shoulder to see Taylor’s trademarked doe-eyed look, complete with batting lashes and pouting lips. 

Or: After a long, tiring concert set, Lincoln helps Taylor backstage. One thing leads to another, and he gets a little more than he bargained for.

ao3

Hi, guys! Guess who's back with one more Swiftli fic to finish off 2023! I've had this idea kicking around in my docs (and my wip posts lmao) since July and figured it was high time to polish it up haha. Enjoy some very, very self-indulgent idol au Swiftlis below the cut!

“Liiiiiiincoln,” A familiar voice whines behind him.

Lincoln hums questioningly without turning around - he’s a bit preoccupied with tidying up their group’s shared dressing room. 

Sure, they’ll be performing their set here tomorrow night as well, but it never hurts to make sure everything is in its place so he can at least attempt at mitigating the chaos that is bound to unfold. That, and he doesn’t want to cause the staff any excess trouble.

“Liiiiiiiink,” Taylor prods again, and Lincoln can hear the exaggerated dragging steps his groupmate is taking toward him. “I’m all sweaty and you’re all sweaty and I will not hesitate to lean on you if you don’t pay attention to me.”

“Do, it, then,” Lincoln mutters, slightly hunched over to fluff up the throw pillows on the couch and inspect it to make sure nobody’s spilled their half-caff coffee (Normal) or energy drink (Scary) or needlessly complicated boba order (Taylor) or sports drink (himself). “Busy.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” Taylor says, draping himself across Lincoln’s back like an overgrown cat, hands hanging limply over Lincoln’s shoulders. In his peripheral vision, Lincoln notes that one’s holding a container of makeup wipes. “You’re so grumpy when you’re exhausted nowadays! Seems like a certain someone’s rubbing off on you.”

“Or, you know, using my back as a chaise lounge.”

“Well, I had been referring to Scary, but you’re not wrong!” He crows, stretching a little as if to emphasize all the points where their bodies make contact. 

(It’s uncomfortably warm and a little gross with all the sweat from their concert, and it’s a lot less bothersome than Lincoln would like to admit. Even in the afterglow of a performance in the earliest hours of the morning, voice hoarse and body crashing from all the adrenaline and mind dimmed with the promise of late-night room service and sleep, Taylor still has a way of making things a bit more bearable. Even when he’s acting anything but.)

A grimy finger pokes him lightly in the cheek, breaking Lincoln from his thoughts. He rolls his eyes and makes to fold the little blankets the staff had set out for them. 

“You’re so cute with your brows all furrowed like that,” Taylor teases. “Li-Wilson, our very own pretty boy, all angry and frowny. What would the press say?”

There’s a very, very stupid fluttering that happens in Lincoln’s chest whenever Taylor strings his name together with words like “cute” or “pretty” or “handsome”. And it happens annoyingly often, considering how much the four of them will play up their affections for their fans. Lincoln knows it’s not untrue - the internet surely agrees with what Taylor’s saying, if the endless amounts of comments he probably shouldn’t get sucked into reading are anything to go by - but sometimes… he still wonders if it’s all in his head, the way Taylor drops flirtations like he means them.

That’s a thought for later, though, when he’s in their shared hotel room fighting off the wonderful combination of jet lag and insomnia.

“Can you get off me, please?” Lincoln deadpans instead, jostling Taylor on his back a bit. “Wanna stand up.”

“Hmmmmm, on one condition,” Taylor muses slyly. His jet black hair gleams with sweat under the scattered fluorescents, and stray strands tickle the side of Lincoln’s neck as Taylor leans in even closer. 

“Remove my makeup for me?” He shakes the package of makeup wipes for emphasis, and Lincoln glances over his shoulder to see Taylor’s trademarked doe-eyed look, complete with batting lashes and pouting lips. 

“Cute,” Lincoln says out loud, because he calls Taylor that all the time in public, and he has no reason not to voice it now. Unlike the countless interviews and livestreams they’ve done together, though, he has the pleasure of watching red crawl its way across Taylor’s cheeks, which only further proves his point. 

“B-be that as it may, I have you effectively trapped until you do my bidding, you tall, unfairly handsome boy.”

Lincoln is so fortunate that he doesn’t blush easily, a fact which annoys both Taylor and the rest of their group. 

“Why can’t you remove your own makeup, huh?” Lincoln complains halfheartedly even as he takes the wipes offered to him and Taylor wriggles happily in celebration.

“Don’t have any mirrors,” He argues (which is clearly a lie - there are no less than eight in this room alone in case of last-minute touch-ups, not counting their phones), “and I’m so tired I can barely stand!”

“Oh, are your legs acting up? I can carry you if you want,” Lincoln replies, all pretense of grouchiness forgotten as he carefully straightens up, making sure that Taylor can still lean on him without throwing him off-balance.

“I mean, I’m probably fine. Just a little shaky, is all.” Taylor laughs a little, a short, breathy, half-nervous sound that Lincoln feels against the back of his outrageously complicated blouse. 

“You sure?” Lincoln asks, shooting Taylor a look of his own - his “princely protector” look, as he’s seen their fans call it - and Taylor’s expression softens a bit before breaking into a teasing smirk. 

“I mean… I am pretty tired, if you’re still offering, and I’d hate for those strong arms of yours to go to waste -”

“Alright, then, just let me…” Despite the awful clinging feeling of his sweaty clothes and the daunting task of even a little bit of physical exertion, Lincoln can’t help but grin as he rearranges their limbs to lift Taylor. It’s a familiar practice, borne from their years as training partners before they ever made their debut alongside Scary and Normal, and one Lincoln can find himself enjoying even in his drained, slightly sluggish state.

(It’s hard not to enjoy the feeling of Taylor in his arms, even if it’s just for a little bit.)

“Up we go!” Lincoln says, scooping him up into a bridal carry and spinning the two of them in a lazy circle. Like the many times they’ve done this, Taylor slings his arms around Lincoln’s neck and laughs, joyful and unrestrained and slightly hoarse from a night of singing. Like the many times they’ve done this, Lincoln wishes that he could bottle the sound, hollow out a hole in his heart and place that in it. 

(Like the many times they’ve done this, he wishes he could stop going a little braindead every time Taylor’s hot breath fans against the side of his neck.)

“O-okay,” Lincoln announces, hoping the stutter in his voice can be passed off as some sort of vocal strain. “Where do you wanna be?”

“There!” Taylor shifts in Lincoln’s grip, pointing to a black leather swivel chair in the corner of the room, tucked away behind some sort of support column. 

“Alright,” Lincoln says, swooping over and then allowing Taylor to carefully extricate himself from Lincoln’s torso. 

As gross as they both are right now, Lincoln finds himself missing the contact. 

He has a job to do, though.

Lincoln kneels down on the worn, carpeted floor before Taylor, trying not to think about how his body aches, grabs a makeup wipe from the pack, and assesses the boy before him. 

Taylor sits still and pretty - the distinct lack of fidgeting is a sure sign of how absolutely exhausted he is. His face shimmers from a combination of sweat and the glittery pink-peach pastes his makeup artists use to draw attention to his eyes. Thin, smoky eyeliner swoops from the outer corners of his eyes, a burgundy so dark it’s nearly black. The heavy blush that was placed on the apples of his cheeks has faded to a mere suggestion now, but Taylor’s lips are still stained a deep cherry-plum, the corners defined with small strokes in a way that makes his smile appear more cat-like, somehow. 

The stylists did a very good job with him, Lincoln thinks.

Lincoln makes slow, gentle work of removing every last bit of makeup from Taylor’s face, stroking with just the barest of pressure across his forehead, vaguely registering the way that the fibers stain with shades of peach and beige and concentrating on unearthing the soft skin beneath. 

With every swipe of his hand, Lincoln can feel Taylor’s eyes on him, slightly glazed over and staring shamelessly. Lincoln doesn’t blame him for spacing out this late at night, and if Taylor’s not spacing out, if he’s looking at Lincoln just to drink him in amidst the peace that comes after a long night of song after song - well. Lincoln would be lying if he said he wasn’t using this as an excuse to look at him, take in and admire each and every one of his features as if he hasn’t committed them to memory a hundred times over. Map out the slight dip of his temple with his fingers, trace the curve of his cheek, stare right back into those dark, faraway eyes while removing his eyeliner and risk falling into them…

“Close your eyes,” Lincoln prompts, and that temptation is removed as Taylor’s eyelids flutter shut, obedient. Somehow, it doesn’t help with the lump of emotion building like phlegm in the back of his throat. 

Lincoln isn’t good with words, not the way Scary is, with her effortless lyricism and smooth-sounding syllables, phrases that bludgeon with the force of a sledgehammer or pierce through with the precision of a surgeon’s knife, depending on what is needed most.

But when Lincoln looks at Taylor like this, sometimes he finds himself wanting to be. He wants to write out everything trapped somewhere between his ribcage and his mouth, press the stain of it all into hotel memo pads, onto crumpled-up napkins from restaurants in cities he’ll never see again, tuck them into his pockets and let his chicken-scrawl attempts weigh him down twice as heavily as before. 

He’s tried, before, tried so many times, but they never come out quite right, toeing the line between being trite and far too strange. 

There’s just this… undeniable gravity about Taylor that defies any description. He’s got this magnetism to him, and they’ve been circling each other like opposing poles, like binary stars, ever since their first near-collision. His presence is real, undeniable - and not just onstage, where every staccato sound tumbles past Taylor’s lips with the strength and grace of a percussive rainfall, where every eye is drawn to him. 

Taylor is far more than that.

It’s in moments like this where Lincoln feels his pull the strongest, when the lights fade and the curtain drops and Taylor’s features are softened by the encroaching shadows yet still radiant from the high of their performance. When Taylor’s taken out his fancy lenses and Lincoln can see the onyx depths of his eyes, dare to lean closer to see if he can map out the place where his irises meet his pupils in the lowlight, all framed by dark, short lashes. When he presses a hand to Taylor’s cheek and strokes gently, watches as the sweat and foundation and blush give way to olive skin, wishes that the makeup wipe wasn’t in the way and he could hold Taylor like this for real, whenever he wanted. When he finds a clean section of chemical-soaked cloth and carefully touches it to Taylor’s lips, when he hears the way Taylor’s breath hitches near-imperceptibly in the quiet of this tucked away green room in this two-night town. 

“Does it sting?” Lincoln hears himself ask, searching his face for any discomfort. After so much silence, the question sounds louder than when their voices echoed off the stage, more amplified than any microphone could ever make it.

“N-nope,” Taylor rasps, and Lincoln knows it’s probably just rough from overuse but maybe there’s also something more. “Keep - keep going.”

“Okay,” Lincoln says, leaning in a little closer (he has to make sure he gets everything). “Let me know if it hurts?”

“Mm.”

Lincoln sets aside the makeup wipe, grabs a fresh one, and focuses on removing Taylor’s lipstick. 

Taylor has very nice lips. Like, objectively. They’re a little on the thinner side, but his cupid’s bow forms a heart shape and the edges turn up naturally at the corners in a way that makes him look perpetually mischievous.

As Lincoln gently swipes away at the lip liner, he thinks (not for the first time) about what it would be like to kiss him.

Taylor’s kissed Lincoln before - on his forehead, on his shoulders, on his cheek. Lincoln has kissed Taylor before, too - the crown of his head, his temple, and on one memorable occasion, the corner of his mouth. It’s practically to be expected at this point. He’s kissed Normal and Scary, too, and they’ve kissed him, but with them, it’s something easy, rote, platonic, entirely performative.

Kissing Taylor has always felt different. Maybe it’s because the soft press of Taylor’s lips against his skin always leaves him with some sort of endless pit in his chest, something that threatens to consume him whenever he meets Taylor’s black-hole eyes.

And it drives Lincoln absolutely crazy, the way he constantly finds himself wanting more - wanting to know the way that their mouths might slot together, to see if Taylor’s lips are as soft against his own as they feel against the back of his hand. 

Lincoln presses the wipe to Taylor’s top lip, runs his cloth-covered finger over the divot of his cupid’s bow, and fails to stop thinking about the way his groupmate might taste - fails to stop thinking about kissing the boy in front of him until they’re both rendered completely breathless. 

Taylor’s breath stutters, and Lincoln can feel the fluttery inhale-exhale against his face, and he glances upward to see Taylor’s eyes open, now, free of shadows and glitter. His gaze darts lazily between Lincoln’s eyes and his mouth.

Taylor can read Lincoln’s expressions like a favorite book. It’s only natural, having lived and worked in close quarters for the past five years together. He knows the way the light glances off Lincoln’s eyes when his mind is elsewhere, knows his fake smiles from his genuine ones, knows the way his eyes crinkle at the corners whenever he’s truly, exuberantly happy.

Taylor knows exactly what Lincoln’s thinking right now. 

And for the same reason, Lincoln recognizes the look in Taylor’s eyes for exactly what it is. 

Tiredness. Longing. Affection. Want. 

It would be easy, so easy to lean in those final few inches, to close the distance between him the way that he’s wanted to for years, the way they’ve both wanted to. But what they desire and what they can let themselves have - those have always been two very different things. 

But it’s late, and most of the staff have cleared out, and Normal and Scary are probably hanging out on the empty stage like usual. Even so, there’s always a chance -

Lincoln’s eyes flick toward the ceiling.

“There’s one camera on the other side of the pillar,” Taylor says, and Lincoln’s eyes snap back to him immediately. A suggestion of a smirk plays at Taylor’s lips.

“Did you…” Taylor’s smile grows, something secretive and almost shy. Predictably, Lincoln’s gaze follows the curve of his lips as he trails off.

“You’ve been staring a lot tonight,” Taylor teases, and god, Lincoln can’t take the low, lilting timbre of his voice right now, not when he’s close enough to feel his breath against his face, not with flashes of berry-stained lips and white teeth taking up so much of his vision. “Do you wanna -”

“Yes,” Lincoln cuts him off, sounding much more desperate than he intended.

With no foundation left to hide it, Taylor’s face colors bright red remarkably quickly.

Lincoln swallows down the embarrassment, and Taylor’s eyes track the constriction of his throat.

He drops the makeup wipe, absentmindedly brushing his hand on his trousers, letting it hang in the empty space between them.

There’s not much of it left. Lincoln can feel the last of his resolve crumbling in the wake of Taylor voicing the truth that’s lived trapped in their lungs for years on end. His heartbeat, previously sluggish with the promise of rest, pounds faster in his chest, a marcato drumbeat that seems to chant almost, almost, almost.

Lincoln has lived through years of almosts, sustaining himself on the briefest of intimacies that they allow themselves, and everything he longs for is right in front of him, coalesced into the shape of his closest friend. 

Lincoln is tired of almosts. He wants a finally. 

But he’ll reach out and take it only if Taylor wants it, too. 

“Are… you okay with this?” Link asks, the question barely a murmur, because even though the answer is spelled out in the way Taylor’s hands are shaking in anticipation, he needs to make sure before their closeness becomes something more.

“Yeah,” Taylor breathes, a whispery sigh of an admission, and Lincoln’s heart jolts in his chest as Taylor reaches out to cradle the curve of his jaw, to drag him in further. “Yes. Please.”

And it is with that last murmured plea that Lincoln feels his resolve break. He shifts upward, inward, bracing his hands on the armrests of the makeup chair (he doesn’t trust his own legs to stay steady even as they kneel before him, and like hell is he going to let that ruin the moment he’s been dreaming of for years), and Taylor’s hand curls even more perfectly around his jaw, and finally, they meet in the middle.

Kissing Taylor is both nothing and everything like Lincoln had imagined.

Everything, because the feeling of Taylor smiling slightly against his lips, the subtle warmth of his mouth, the supple, pliant give as Taylor slots their lips together, is almost exactly as he had dreamed.

Nothing, because Taylor kisses him sweetly, gently, slowly, more kindly than Lincoln had ever thought possible.

Taylor has always been insatiable. Lincoln knew this from the moment he first laid eyes on him, from the moment he had bound up to him. He had been newly seventeen and starry-eyed, then, flagging him down from across the company practice room and asking if he could teach him how to dance. Taylor is fiery and headstrong and brightly-burning in his ambition, and everything he does, he does with an intense passion.

Now, in the half-lit almost-quiet of the green room, Taylor mouths at his lips so tenderly - almost hesitantly - that Lincoln feels like he could melt. The hand on the side of his jaw carefully, worshipfully maps out the planes of his face, traces along his cheekbone, behind his ear, guides him to tilt his head for a better angle. Lincoln makes a strange, whining noise in the back of his throat that Taylor takes from him, swallows down with a satisfied hum that sends vibrations through to Lincoln’s very soul, like the thrumming pulse of a bass-line in his chest.

Lincoln leans further into Taylor’s gravity, kisses him with the quiet desperation that’s been pent up, building and building in a wordless crescendo within him for years on end. He tries his best to pour the vast depths of his devotion into this moment, every admiration and affection and confession, every brush of Lincoln’s lips against his an I adore you, every exhaled sigh an every love song we’ve ever sang made me think of you. I love you, he thinks as he presses Taylor flush against the back of the chair, as his hands let go of the armrests to tangle in shiny, dark hair and Taylor sings into his mouth in response. Taylor is beautiful and warm and sweaty against him, and Lincoln presses their lips together again and again, an unending chorus of thank you, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Taylor, for his part, responds in kind, arching his body into Lincoln’s hold, warm hands unhurriedly searching for purchase and finding it at the nape of his neck, at just above the small of his back. Lincoln registers the way Taylor fists at the expensive fabric of his shirt, the way his blunted, neatly-manicured nails scrape against the base of his scalp, and Lincoln shivers a bit in his embrace, though he feels wonderfully warmed through, more alive than when they performed for hundreds of fans just hours ago.

Taylor tastes like sweat and the chemicals from the makeup wipes. It has no right to be as addictive as it is to him. Maybe it’s because Taylor’s lips are every bit as soft against his own as they look on the monitors.

Lincoln’s sure that his lips are thoroughly chapped, but judging from Taylor’s delicate gasps and the eager, greedy way he leans further and further into him, he’s also sure that Taylor doesn’t mind.

Lincoln holds the last kiss for as long as he dares, drinking in the feeling of satisfying all of his favorite dreams and his wildest hopes. He commits the shape of his groupmate in his hands to memory, basking in the euphoria of carding fingers through show-mussed hair, of Taylor’s hand twisting in the fabric of his blouse. A smile threatens to pull at his lips as Taylor’s feathery breaths ghost against his cheek, measured and slightly shaky, an orchestration coming apart at the seams.

They stay like that for a long moment, and there is synchrony, harmony in the way Taylor melts into his touch. He's trying to capture this moment, too, Lincoln knows, impressing every bit of it into the corners of his mind, the backs of his eyelids, the hollow of his ribs. 

Eventually, they break apart, and Lincoln opens his eyes to see Taylor smiling slightly, angelic, still leaning inward like he wants to chase his lips. It’s such an adorable image that Lincoln nearly goes to kiss him again, but then Taylor looks up at him through his lashes, blinking slowly, and Lincoln is awed into stillness. 

Taylor’s always been very charming, expressive in a way Lincoln envied, able to make their fans fall for him with nothing but a camera and a simple glance. 

But Taylor isn’t acting for anyone here. The affection that warms his deep, dark eyes is for Lincoln and Lincoln alone, something raw and unscripted and intimate enough to steal the air from Lincoln’s lungs, and he can only hope the open adoration is reflected in his own gaze.

God, he’s gorgeous.

Lincoln touches his forehead to Taylor’s, exhaling unsteadily.

Taylor’s hand smooths over the back of his neck, and he gasps a little, drawn in by his touch, his magnetism, his care.

“I’ve wanted to do that for years,” Lincoln admits softly into the shared air between them.

Taylor grins, a secret, clandestine thing, eyes half-lidded in a heady concoction of exhaustion and exhilaration and wanting.

“I know,” Taylor murmurs back, barely above a whisper, and Lincoln can hear the smile in his voice, all his sharp edges softened and heat tempered just for him. “Me, too.”

And it really is that simple. They’ve been dancing around each other for years on end, every bit of longing telegraphed like choreography through every minuscule gesture and fleeting touch. Every fragment of it is magnified by the glances they allowed themselves, reflected in the way their eyes meet, yearning painted in countless shades of onyx and bronze and ebony and sepia. 

Lincoln knows it, and Taylor knows it. 

And quite suddenly, the world has narrowed down to the two of them and nothing else.

“Yeah,” Lincoln responds dumbly, breathless from the proximity and the weight of years lifted from his shoulders. His eyes flick down to Taylor’s lips, at the red stain his own mouth has left there, at the delicate curve of them, love-drunk smiling and slightly puffy. 

He wants to kiss him again, wants to feel that smile pressed against his, wants to lean in and close the distance. And so he does, because nothing on this earth can stop Lincoln from chasing after Taylor in every stolen moment he can get, from tilting his head just the right way, from shutting his eyes and following through -

Except Taylor does stop him, pressing the pad of his index finger to his lips. 

Lincoln makes a confused sort of hum, opening his eyes to find Taylor giggling incandescently, and it almost makes up for not kissing him.

“It’s late, Link,” Taylor murmurs conspiratorially, though he has no need to when nobody else is here. “Norm and Scary’ve gotta be wondering what’s taking us so long.”

“Oh,” Lincoln says, disappointed - or, well, he tries to say it, but Taylor’s finger is still in the way, so it comes out a little odd. After considering for a moment, he places a kiss to the tip of Taylor’s finger instead, blinking up at him.

“God, put your pretty eyes away, I’m already embarrassingly in love with you,” Taylor responds, his bare face flushing noticeably darker even in the dim lighting. 

Lincoln smiles against his finger, and Taylor sighs, eyes darting elsewhere so he can focus better.

“Anyway. They’ve gotta be waiting for us to get into street clothes so we can get the fuck out of here,” Taylor continues, pointedly not looking directly at him.

Lincoln kisses his finger again, just to be a menace. Taylor’s breath hitches the slightest bit, and Lincoln grins. 

“Listen, the sooner we leave, the sooner we get to the hotel. And the sooner we get to the hotel,” Taylor finally looks at him - looks at all of him, eyes dragging slowly down his still-kneeling form - “the sooner we can pick up where we left off.” 

He makes eye contact then, smirking and smug as he pushes lightly at Lincoln’s shoulder to give himself space to stand. “Sound good?”

Holy shit.

Lincoln has the sudden, distinct thought that they’re going to need to cancel the rest of their tour, because Lincoln is going to die at Taylor’s (soft, beautiful, warm) hands if he keeps saying things like this. Lincoln will die, and their group will disband, and everything will be ruined because Taylor is every bit as cruel and conniving as he is beautiful and Lincoln is in far too deep. 

“Uh, you okay, dude?” his groupmate (boyfriend? partner? something else?) asks. 

“Great!” Lincoln says at an octave he didn’t know was possible, numbly pulling himself to stand and ignoring the way his knees ache. 

Taylor follows suit, and Lincoln makes for his change of clothes - though not without ducking down to place a quick kiss to Taylor’s temple, feeling more awake than he has in hours as he darts away from him. 

Taylor barks out a one-note laugh, startled and disbelieving.

“Race ya!” Lincoln yelps, laughter coloring his own voice as he quickly grabs his street clothes, leaving Taylor sputtering behind him. 

“Oh, you are so getting payback when we get to the hotel,” Taylor seethes not-so-darkly, grabbing his own go bag of clothes.

“I’m counting on it!” He replies, cheeky and giddy with energy despite the late hour.

Lincoln knows it’ll be hell not to hold Taylor as close as he wants out in public, not to kiss him beyond the bounds of manufactured flirting for the cameras. They’ll need to talk about what they are now, exactly, he thinks, as he starts to pick apart the series of crisscrossed, mazelike fastenings of his stage outfit. He has to remind himself to be a bit more patient so the fabric doesn’t rip at the seams in the wake of his excitement. 

But, as he finally extricates himself and pulls on the SPDRBZ hoodie he had snatched from the merch booth a few stops ago, Lincoln can’t help but feel optimistic. 

It’ll be worth it, he thinks, to hold Taylor, kiss him, shower him with praise until his skin flushes red, to be held and kissed and praised in return away from prying eyes. To have something just for them, even if it means they’ll need to work hard to keep this under wraps.

They’re no strangers to hard work. Lincoln’s groupmates are about as diligent as they come, Taylor included. Surely, this won’t be too difficult.

“You coming or what, slowpoke?” Taylor asks, pulling him from his thoughts. He’s changed into a simple tee shirt and cargos at the doorway, cane in hand and fondness in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Lincoln says, stumbling into his shoes as he meets Taylor, wanting to sling an arm around his waist before correcting himself and draping it across his shoulders instead as they head out. He beams regardless, giddy and hopeful, and the feeling in his chest burns brighter than the stage lights. “Let’s go.”

[gaykarstaagforever]

As an amateur marketing wizard, let me tell you why Tumblr isn't growing into the social media juggernaut Auttomatic wants it to be:

1. That isn't a thing anymore. Get with the times, Pappy. If you're not TikTok or YouTube, or the angry resthome that is Facebook, you aren't going to make money from this. Things have coalesced. You are either making all of the money or you don't get any. This is the market.

2. Their Big Idea was Live, a streaming thing they contracted another company to run for them. The Meet Group is doing good as a streaming provider. ...Tumblr is not a streaming platform. You can't just graft an unrelated thing onto another thing and ???, profit. They might as well have tried to turn it into Ebay.

They picked streaming because streaming is hip with the kids. ...On platforms that exclusively do streaming, and have robust tools to do that and promote streamers. Like Meet Group websites. People aren't looking for a cheap imitation of that, they just go to those to do that.

Sure, it could, theoretically, be a fun bonus thing. But it isn't, it is a weird thing most of us don't like or want here. Neither outcome was ever going to turn Tumblr around. Because, again, we can all do better streaming elsewhere. Why didn't anyone know this?

3. Ever since the Pornocalypse, the Tumblr base (it seems to me) trends young and rather disengaged from the platform. Teenagers drop in every week or so, look around, and move on. How were you going to generate revenue from these people with pay options? They don't have money, and what they have, they ain't spending here.

Even those of us who are here an unhealthy amount to do gay fandom stuff are in a groove with this platform where it is no-obligation. I pay for it to kill most ads, but I am an old man with a job who is bad with my money. I'm the exception. If the core demographic is people with no money, who see little benefit in paying for a thing that is bearable as a free product...they aren't going to give you money. That's the market. What was supposed to happen to change any of that? They didn't bring in older people, and they didn't offer any vital paid benefits. What...what was the plan?

4. We are known internet-wide as the sad gay website of sad gays and their sad gay blorbos. We are mined by them occasionally for our funnest stupidity, but that is this site's brand at this point. Trying to make Tumblr cool and profitable is like trying to turn your drag bar into a competator of Chick-fil-A. It isn't going to happen unless you radically alter your legacy brand. And when you do that, you immediately drive off the core patrons you have. I don't know how you fix that.

Conservatives and moms already have Facebook. They don't need Tumblr. And Tumblr is too Tumblr to be anything else. That is all it is.

Perhaps this platform is just inherently doomed to be exactly what it is, a giant queer money pit. Yahoo certainly thought so -- that's why they dumped us.

It sucks that Auttomatic can't make us profitable. And they're under no obligation to keep trying. But they shouldn't be surprised. We're fun at parties. But you can't take us home.

[just-antithings]

Re: refrainbow (creator of the Boyfriends webtoon) saying the n-word. (Note, I'll be switching between he and they pronouns for refrainbow, since he uses both, I hope it doesn't end up confusing. Also, the bold is to help with reading (at least, it helps with my ADHD, but there's also a td;lr at the bottom as well))

I don't have screenshots or links, but it's been noted that refrainbow has admitted to having said it when he was younger and still learning English (mostly from the internet). They are Indonesian and did not know the history behind the slur. I'm not sure they even knew it was a slur until getting called out for it; from what I've seen, refrainbow thought it was English slang calling someone stupid or bad, due to learning it through I think gaming, where the n-word and other slurs were often thrown around liberally.

People ofc are valid being wary around refrainbow or anyone who's used the n-word or other slurs as general insults (or just saying them in general). No one is entitled to anyone's forgiveness.

One thing I've seen thought up, though, is people saying that refrainbow should have known anyway that the word was off-limits. One anti art-commentary youtuber said, "I knew as a little kid that it was a BAD word, that you just DO NOT say." And yes, as an American kid, I'm sure they were observant enough to realize that it was a horrible word, even if they did not automatically know the history of that word.

Refrainbow is NOT American. He was learning English mainly through the internet, iirc, and even if he was also taking formal English classes, there usually isn't a section on slurs in said language. Now, in my French class, part of the lesson plan was learning about racism north African and Middle Eastern people faced in France (a very compressed lesson; I barely remember what the teacher told us in that lecture). We were not told slurs and told "Do not, under any circumstances, say these words." If I'd been in an online gaming community with a bunch of French kids back then, there is every possibility I could have repeated slurs in French, not knowing they were slurs, if everyone around me were using them like general insults. I would have assumed it was slang first, not slurs.

As for why antis add refrainbow saying the n-word at the very end of a rant/call-out, this is a pretty common tactic that I've seen in call-out-type posts I end up coming across. Lots of buzzwords are used, many with the barest amount of "evidence" (if there is any, or if there is, it's usually worst-faith takes of some post or passage from a fic). Usually it's full of rhetoric meant to stoke people's anger or disgust, and then at the very end is a claim not mentioned in the bulk of the call-out/rant and usually a shorter sentence. It's usually something worse than what else has been stated and may or may not come with actual proof, and this last part might be actually true or true if you hide context around it.

I think there are two main reasons for this. One is that depending on how long the call-out/rant is, most people are more likely to pay attention to just the beginning and end parts, skimming over the rest. Placing "the worse/worst thing" at the end then makes sure people actually read it. Another reason (tied to the first reason) is that this last point is more likely to stick in people's memories this way, so if people only skimmed the rest, they're more likely to believe the other points are true, too, especially if that last point has evidence attached or is easily searched.

There's been a few call-outs in my fandom recently (some were technically responses to earlier call-outs, showing proof that the original people making their call-out posts were lying/twisting the truth), so whenever I find myself getting disgusted or upset, I make sure to go back and read it more closely (if the call-out is about someone I follow/a mutual; I don't have energy to read rants about people I've never heard of before).

td;lr: refrainbow did say the n-word before, he's apologized, explaining that he was still learning English at the time and didn't know how bad the word was, and using points like this at the bottom of a call-out post seems to be deliberate, so that people remember The Bad Thing about the person more clearly.

.

[creaturesandcomforts]

How To Train Your Volmugger || Cassius and Abigail

Timing: Current Location: The Mines Feat: @creaturesandcomforts, @singdreamchild Warnings: Surgery tw Summary: In search of solutions for their own separate problems, Abigail and Cassius arrive at the entrance of the mines at the same time. A volmugger interrupts their interaction but provides them with a convenient way of removing the crystals.

Cassius had been worried about the person he interacted with on the internet, claiming they were going to the mines. And it seemed that they had found a kindred spirit in someone else. So, in his worry, he decided to venture out to one of the mine entrances in the dead of night, where he wouldn’t be caught by anyone that would be there during the day. He had no idea if anyone was guarding the entrance to the thing or if he was just being overly cautious, but that’s how he found himself in front of the mine entrance. Crystals sprouted all around him. 

He heard a shuffling of footsteps from behind and quickly turned around to see a woman exploring around. “I see I’m not the only one interested in what’s happening here,” he said with a lofted brow. “Unless you’re here to make sure no one gets too close, in which case I have no idea why I’m here, and I was simply lost.” He then added, knowing that it wasn’t the most convincing statement in the world, especially when spoken after claiming he was curious about what was drawing people towards the mines.

A single small crystal had arisen just outside the front door of Abigail's business, stopping the door from opening enough for hardly anybody to get through. No amount of resources or phone calls seemed to lead to a result other than wasted time and money, which forced her to take matters into her own hand. She'd heard rumors from her network of contacts about the mines being a source of the crystals, so if there were to be any solution, it would have to be there. In the deep cover of night, Abigail hadn't expected anybody to have had the same idea as her, which made her very surprised when she saw the man standing at the mine entrance.

As the stranger across from her dug a hole with his words, she responded only with silence. Abigail's ominous stare only left Cassius when she took notice of the crystals that surrounded him, the size of which certainly brought her much concern. If the crystal at her front door grew as large as some of the ones here, she'd lose the front of her club to them, with no hope of removing them using natural means. Pointed footsteps led Abigail closer and closer to some of the crystals to closer examine them, paying Cassius hardly any mind due to the apparent gravity of the situation.

Not much of a talker, Cassius thought with a raised brow, watching the stranger walk past him and closer to the crystals. He frowned, deciding to let the woman go about her business as he took a step deeper into the cave. There was nothing. His brows furrowed as he tried to possibly understand what was happening to the town, with the strange crystals popping up everywhere with wild abandon. He turned his attention back to the woman, expression unreadable. She had some intrigue with the crystals. He sighed, shaking his head. Just like everyone else in this damn town, he couldn’t help but think to himself. 

“You trying to figure out how these things work, too?” He asked, not sure if he would get a response or not. He took a step back from the entrance of the mines, taking a moment to listen around. He heard a distant shuffling, which sounded like it was coming from inside the mines. “Do you hear that?” He then asked, narrowing his gaze as he listened closer. The shuffling stopped after a moment, which left Cassius with more questions than answers. He knew this would be a bad idea. He knew this would be stupid. But even so, he retook toward the mines, hearing shuffling again. 

After pulling her large knife from a boot-mounted sheath, Abigail slowly dragged the sharp tip along the edge of one of the massive crystals, applying mire and more pressure along the arc. Just as she'd expected, not a single shaving or shard came off. These things were hard and dense, closer to stone than crystal in terms of hardness. It was only after Cassius spoke to her once more that she pulled away from the formations, prompting her to direct her attention to him. In response to his question, she simply offered a gentle nod, and whatever temporary focus she could offer before the next problem reared its head.

Abigail did hear it, the sound of something approaching from the depths of the cave, whatever creature had made the mistake of showing itself to her. With a hidden expression of intense focus and preparation, she flipped her knife in her hand, fingers tightly gripping onto the handle. As the movements became closer and faster, it became more and more apparent that whatever this thing was, it certainly wasn't human, or bipedal for that matter. "Steady yourself." Her cold voice spoke to the stranger, offering what was either a command, or a piece of advice. Only time would tell.

Cassius stood up straighter as the woman finally spoke, a hand drifting down to his pocket when he finally caught sight of the creature. It walked on all fours but had a humanoid figure. When it came closer, Cassius could finally see the thing for what it was, a shining geode where its face should be. Cassius immediately took out his pocket knife, as small and useless as it was. At least it was better than nothing, right? He looked over to the woman, then back to the creature, afraid to take his eyes off it for too long.

The creature suddenly shot out a spray of something from the middle of the geode, and Cassius quickly ducked out of the way before it could hit him, and it sizzled as it landed on the ground behind him. His eyes widened, suddenly at a loss for what he should do. He could run, but this thing would continue to skulk around the mines. His eyes darted over to Abigail for a brief moment, then back to the creature. He decided to say nothing, simply pointing his knife at the creature as it advanced toward them.

Whatever the creature from the mines happened to be, it was clearly approaching on the offensive, or at the very least it was frightening enough for Abigail to perceive its movements as such. As soon as she saw the acid spray onto the ground behind Cassius, her plan had to change. Acid was one of the few things she hadn't tested getting killed by, and, for all she knew, it could be enough to stop her healing long enough to kill her. After a slow, deep breath, she ran towards the entrance of the mine, dropping to slide past the Volmugger and drag her blade across one of its knees, forcing it to drop slightly.

Unfortunately, trying to slide across dirt in her sweatpants meant that Abigail didn't get nearly as much distance as she'd hoped to, leaving her directly between the Volmugger and a large crystal. She was able to roll back away from the creature, but not before the edge of her arm and a sizable portion of the crystal were coated in the creature's thick acid. All she could do was wince in pain through clenched teeth as she watched the creature struggle to return to its previous movements, clutching her newfound wound as if it would hurt less if she squeezed it with all of her might. "Your turn again.."

Cassius’s eyes widened as the creature sprayed acid toward the woman and the crystal. He blinked, watching as the crystal began to dissolve. “The acid melts the crystals!” He exclaimed, pointing to the now half-melted crystal behind Abigail. “Good to know…” He muttered to himself as he quickly advanced toward the creature, hoping that his supernatural speed would play to his advantage as he began to slash at the creature with his switchblade with wild abandon. 

The creature turned its sights on Cassius, spraying acid at his face. Right before it hit, however, he ducked out of the way with breakneck speed. With Abigail injured, Cassius felt like he had no choice. Eyes beginning to glow a bright red, he sunk his fangs into the neck of the creature, drinking from it with a vice grip on its neck. His vision began to change. Suddenly, he saw the disembodied faces of people he’d never met. He kept drinking down its blood, unable to stop what he had begun. The faces continued to swirl around in his vision, 

Then, when Cassius finally released his grip on the creature, it fell onto its knees and forearms, sluggishly turning its head toward him to spray at him. He could easily avoid the attack, the acidic substance making contact with another crystal, causing it to dissolve. 

Abigail knew that they needed to stop this thing before it hit anything important, lest one of them dies near this abandoned mine. She’d prefer only having to bury one body today, if she could help it. Once the creature had been forced to the ground, she swiftly dove back toward the creature to sit atop its back, plunging her knife through the back of its neck once she had the proper positioning to do so. Very rarely did she have to resort to using practiced maneuvers or training to kill what was necessary, so moments like these made her feel less like she’d wasted her time on something that normally came so easy to her.

With a sickening crunch of something deep inside the creature, it fell limp beneath Abigail, allowing her and Cassius a moment to breathe and recover from what had happened. Looking from her arm to the crystals nearby, she took notice of the fact that her arm had healed from the Volmugger’s acid, but the crystal had not. Circumstance and luck had brought them a rather convenient solution for their problems, and she wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity for anything.

Before speaking or confirming anything with her new associate, Abigail moved off of the body, rolled it onto its back, and plunged her large knife into its stomach, starting a rather crude dissection in search of whatever organ produced the acid. It took a few minutes, but eventually she found a foreign, foul smelling sack, wrenching it forth from the hot corpse with a heaving motion and holding it to the sun. Though the acid leaked through her skin and muscle, exposing the internal parts of her hand to the cool breeze around them, she didn’t seem to notice much, instead focusing more on showing Cassius what she’d retrieved.

Backing away from the thing as quickly as he could when he saw Abigail launch after it, Cassius wiped his mouth with a swipe from the back of his hand. Impressed, he watched as she quickly took the beast out the rest of the way. This was fine by him, as he hated killing things. Monster or not, it wasn’t his nature to take anything out in such a fashion. It seemed they had found a solution to the crystal problem after all. 

It may not have been what Cassius had initially set out to accomplish, but he was happy to have come away from it with some sort of knowledge. “Good to know. Their acid burns through crystals,” he mumbled to himself as if tucking away the information for a later date. 

Flinching as Abigail drove the blade into the creature’s back, Cassius couldn’t help but watch with horror as she pulled out the organ. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, bringing his hand up to cover his nose. “Well, that’s one way to solve the problem,” he spoke with a blink of his eyes. He still couldn’t stop thinking about those faces he saw when drinking its blood. That would haunt him for some time to come, he thought. He looked to her now exposed skeletal hand, frowning. “Make sure not to get that on anyone.” He spoke, noting that her shoulder had managed to heal already. “I’m guessing that you have crystal problems, then?” He asked, raising a brow. 

He looked down at the creature that had once been a danger, noticing the strangeness of its head. The geode-like thing that now lay dead beneath their feet. “Should probably take care of the corpse.” He noted, looking back up to the woman with a frown. “Can’t say I’ve ever had to bury a body before.”

Abigail wasn't exactly sure where to store this strange organ, especially with how much acid it was dripping, so she just sat it aside atop a small cluster of crystals, allowing it to burrow itself a few inches deeper. Very quickly, the fibers of her skin began stitching and knitting back together, allowing her the dexterity necessary to deal with the body. She nodded in response to Cassius's question, though she went without specifying what the exact 'crystal problems' she'd experienced were. Instead, she started using her large knife to lop the head off of the Volmugger, mostly because she thought it looked cool, and would look even better mounted on her wall. Abigail, in contrast to Cassius, had buried more bodies than she could count over the years. Rather than burying the body here, she pulled her phone out from atop the corpse and sent a swift, nonchalant text to one of the club's bouncers, containing only her location along with a request for the van to be brought over. "I'll handle this, and I can figure out acid distribution for the crystals. Travel home safely." The remainder of Abigail's night was spent transporting the body across town, to bury it somewhere it wouldn't be found and tracked back to the two strangers that had killed it.

[ssamou]

﹅   @itsjeonjk​  ✩     一   “internet purge” !

The idea comes to him while lounging on the couch, Sakura's head resting on his thigh with their eyes glued to the television. One of the shows he personally thought would be quite stupid is playing on the TV but the idol finds he actually likes it—the plot isn't over-done and all things considered it's fairly unique. Still, while that plays he can't help but want something else. So without a word he's gently moving her head to lie on the couch, and rises to get started on his idea. Like a man on a mission he's walking around their apartment as he gathers sheets, blankets and a bunch of pillow. Quietly he's dumping the things on the ground before the large L-shaped couch, spinning on his heel to face his girlfriend. "C'mon, get up," He ushers her, reaching for the remote to shut off the television before throwing it aside. Suddenly he feels giddy, this is something he's never done before with the fort and the lack of power. That reminds him he forgot the candles and again he's off to their kitchen to rummage around for what candles they have. "Jagiya! Where's the candles?" He's calling from the kitchen where his head is stick inside a cupboard, shutting it moments after and rummaging through the drawers.

She was quite comfortable— her head rested against his thigh, fingers fiddling at the hem of his briefs while his ran patterns through her hair. Honestly, she wasn't paying a lot of attention to whatever show they've put on the television, only making a few remarks here and there. She was far too focused on the feeling of his skin pressed to her's with sweet touches of affection.

Then he moved..

Sakura could feel the internal groan spill out from her once her head hit the couch, finding herself sitting up with near glares pointed in his direction. "Honey, what are you do—" her confusion intensified since the male is busying himself with dumping various amounts of pillows/blankets on the floor infront of her. She didn't know what to do or how to react, simply deciding to stare at him blankly in the midst of her curiosity.

It took a second for it to click with her when he mentioned candles. Ah. How adorable. He wanted to build a fortress on the floor, something she's consistently asked about since they began dating. The thought brought a shy smile to her flushed features.

"Okay, okay," she speaks out after him, finally sliding herself off of the couch to begin stacking the pillows in an assortment to make a (horrible) tent for the two. "They should be in the cabinet by the fridge.. I just bought a lot the other day— there was a really good sale."