#but I want to get back into creating and sending mail

[444venicebitch444]

a/n: ty guys so much for all the love on my last post, i absolutely wasn’t expecting it. probably gonna write something about joel miller in the next few days. if you have requests, send away, ly!

simon riley who gets a new neighbour that won’t keep her fucking blinds closed. 

he'd seen the moving truck, a pretty bird thanking the movers and hadn’t thought much of it; he wasn’t one to make conversation with his neighbors, so he minded his own business. 

or at least he tried, but it was real fucking difficult when he could see through your windows at any god given moment.

at the beginning it wasn’t even intentional, he actually found himself getting annoyed at how exposed you were. did you have no fucking self preservation sense, letting anyone and everyone look into your house? christ, people these days.

but then the fascination creeped in and he couldn’t help but let his eyes travel to you. watching as you sat on the couch on your phone, watching tv, reading, whatever. 

he observed as you came home from work, talking on your phone way too loudly for his liking, or laughing like the girls he always found insufferable in school when your friends came over. 

after only a few weeks he put a name, and every other thing there was to know, to the pretty face. not like it was hard: you had your name on your mailbox, public social media profiles, and readily available professional and academic information on the first page of his google search.

simon knew it was weird, that he should stop watching, maybe mention your lack of blinds to you, but he couldn’t. not when he saw you undressing in a way that felt like you knew he was watching, like you were doing this on purpose, teasing him. 

he tried telling himself that this was a bloody mid-life crisis, that he was too bored after retiring and needed to pull his shit together, but it did little to quell his growing enchantment. 

so when he saw you struggling with your ground floor window, a rusted old thing he’d noticed quite a while ago, he exited his home withe the excuse of collecting his mail despite his mailbox being empty and shot a casual, gruff “everything all right?”

you were polite, sweet, assured him it was nothing, just the old house acting up, but he insisted. 

he pulled at the old wooden frame with big, calloused hands, your gaze inevitably slipping to his strong, ink covered bicep, the muscle flexing as the window finally budged.

he noticed your look, of course he did, and couldn’t suppress a tiny smirk as he stepped back, “there you go, love”.

you thanked him profusely, then introduced yourself, obtaining his name right back, and offered him a cup of tea, but simon wanted to take his time. he had to think with his head, not his cock, and make sure you were the right one before getting himself too invested.

so, despite every bone in his body wanting to do the opposite, he refused “maybe some other time”

“I’m holding you to that, simon” you smiled and the sound of his name dripping from your lips like the sweetest of honies almost made his knees buckle. 

after your interaction simon got more diligent, looking for anything wrong with you, anything to turn him away, to put a stop to this; but he couldn’t.

every bit of information he attained made him fall deeper, fed his growing love for you, validated the idea he had created in his head. you were bloody perfect for him.

so he did take you up on your offer of tea and biscuits, and showed up at your doorstep.  

the sight of you greeting him with a soft smile and wearing a pretty sundress almost had him throwing his self control out the window and just telling you how you were made to be his. but he resisted.

he was a little awkward, but in a strangely endearing way. he made you laugh (god, he would die a happy man if your laughter was the last thing he heard), and was respectful, polite. 

and obviously you found him attractive, you weren’t being exactly subtle: simon knew he wasn’t that funny and that there was absolutely no need for you to grab his arm as you giggled. 

simon held onto every touch, every laugh, every time his name left your mouth like a man starved, his chest warming at the realization that he might have a chance, that you might love him back if he made an effort.

and sure, he might’ve placed a tiny listening device under your coffee table while you made a second kettle of tea, but that was just because he wanted to understand you better. to know how to please you, how to make you happy.

the ego boost he go from it a few days later as he listened in on your phone call was just a bonus. he couldn’t help the smile that decorated his face as you ranted to you friend, “he’s, like, unbelievably hot, build like a fucking tank. and sweet too! i know fucking your neighbour isn’t a good idea but christ”.

so you could imagine his surprise when he saw you come out of a car that wasn’t yours, an arm that wasn’t his around your waist. when the wanker kissed you at your doorstep, practically eating your face off, his fists clenched, blunt nails leaving bloody crescent moons on his palm.

who the fuck was that bloke? what the fuck were you doing? didn’t you like him? hadn’t you said that-

simon took a deep breath. he needed to calm down. 

this wasn’t your fault, of course it wasn’t. you didn’t know how he felt, he hadn’t told you yet, how were you supposed to know?

you were his sweet, little bird, you’d never do anything to purposely hurt him. you weren’t like that.

so any ounce of anger towards you disappeared as soon as it appeared. that man, though?

the entire night, simon seethed. he’d closed his curtains but the image of him around you was burned on the front of his brain and he fantasised. fantasised about being the one driving you home, kissing you, pulling you upstairs, tasting you, burying himself into you as you screamed out his name. fantasised about crushing that man’s skull, cutting him up limb by limb, making him eat his own tongue, teaching him to keep it in his mouth instead of letting it slip into yours.

but simon wasn’t one to just steep in his fury, he did something about it. 

so in the morning, as soon as he saw you and the asshole go downstairs, he turned the volume up on the laptop hooked to the listening device as he got dressed.

the guy offered to make you breakfast, and simon’s eyes damn near fell from his skull at how fast they rolled.

“that’s…nice, but I have to go to work, micheal” your voice came out static-y from the old computer, but the annoyance in it was unmistakable. simon knew you didn’t work on saturdays and it made him grin: you didn’t even like the bloke, you just needed a shag. and while simon didn’t exactly approve the way about which you went about it (i mean, he was literally across the street, love), he could understand that.

had you thought of him while he fucked you? had you imagined his strong arms around you? his cleft lip against your plush ones?

simon realised something good had come out of your little hook up: it had given him a courage of sorts. you were his, not this man’s who he was sure hadn’t fucked you right, who certainly didn’t love you as much as he did, and who wasn’t even enjoyable enough to keep around for breakfast.

so that same afternoon, he knocked on your door, had another cuppa and finally asked you on a date, being met with the brightest smile you’d given him as of yet, and making you promptly forget about micheal.

which was good because simon really didn’t want you knowing about how micheal hadn’t shown up to work the next day and the police had found his car abandoned, specs of blood on the seat.

[milo-is-rambling]

lol my watch sleep alarm just went off like bro don’t you know I’ve thrown up already this morning I am Not asleep rn growth the program Apple watch!!!!

[spectorgram]

the letter

theodore nott x f! reader summary: you get a letter from a secret admirer who wants to confess. your best friend is none too pleased. notes: jealous! theodore nott >>> word count: 1.4k

You would think for a magical school, Hogwarts would have better heating or some heating spell, but the Slytherin dorms are frigid as usual as winter creeps up. You fasten your robe clasps and draw it tighter around you, simultaneously trying to tug your skirt down in a futile way to heat yourself up more. Your knee-high socks only do so much and you pretty much give up on the endeavor as you climb up the stairs and head for the Great Hall. 

You’re immediately greeted by the cozy warmth of the hall, spotting your friends, all swathed in green and silver robes and knits. Theo spots you first, sliding over and nearly knocking Blaise off the bench. “Blood hell, mate,” Blaise grumbles as you approach, kicking Theo’s leg lightly. 

You slip into the space created for you, right in between Theo and Enzo. You stifle a yawn and ask, “Can someone pass the eggs and bacon?”

As Enzo reaches for both platters, Theo’s eyes zero in on your legs. “How are you not cold?”

You frown. “I am,” you reply, piling your breakfast onto your plate, “but Pansy’s demon cat apparently thought my winter tights were toys and decided to scratch them all up.”

Pansy sighs, “I’ve ordered you new ones, calm down.” 

Theo drapes his robe over your legs and you smile gratefully at him. He smiles back and your heart flips. You don’t think you’ll ever get over how beautiful he is — all dark caramel curls and long lashes that frame those devastatingly blue eyes. He’s been your best friend since you started Hogwarts and you knew you loved him at first sight. The longer you’ve known him, the more you’ve fallen for him. 

It’s a tale as old as the world itself: you’re hopelessly in love with your best friend but you value your friendship far too much to do anything to jeopardize it.

“Mail’s here,” you hear someone say down the table. You look up to the ceiling, which has been enchanted to look like a sky that’s about to break open and drop snowflakes from its clouds. Owls soar in through the openings at the top of the walls, diving down towards their intended recipients. 

“Maybe your new tights are here,” Enzo says. 

Pansy adds, “I hope so. Then you’ll stop complaining about it.”

You snort, reaching up to grab a letter dropped by your family owl. You feed her a piece of scrambled egg as she takes off back towards the owlery. You tuck your parents’ letter into the inner pocket of your robe just as another owl swoops overhead, dropping a pale blue envelope on your lap. 

“Who’s that from?” asks Pansy. 

You shrug, using your butter knife to open it up. As you do, Draco grumbles at Mattheo: “For the love of Salazar, stop hogging the pastry basket.”

You skim over the letter addressed to you. You tilt your head in confusion and Blaise asks, “What’s it say?”

Enzo peeks over your shoulder and his face breaks into a smirk. “‘Meet me at the Astronomy Tower at midnight tonight. Signed, Your Secret Admirer.’” he reads.

“What?” Theo suddenly snatches the letter from your hand. You watch in confusion as his eyes dart back and forth. His shoulders tense and his mouth purses into a thin, hard line. 

“You doing okay there, Nott?” Matthew asks, shooting a simpering smile at his friend. Theo sends a glare back but doesn’t say anything, the letter’s paper crinkling under his grip. 

Pansy asks, “Are you going to go?”

You hesitate, surreptitiously glancing at Theo, startled to find that he’s gazing at you with an intensity you’ve never experienced. You pluck the letter from him and fold it neatly. “I think so,” you say. “I’m interested to see who it is.”

“Be sure to bring your wand,” Draco says. “Just in case.”

“Obviously,” you deadpan. The conversation shifts into whether anyone was prepared for midterms coming up. 

You fiddle with the letter in your lap. Theo’s silent for the whole conversation. 

You chew on your bottom lip as you reread the same sentence in your textbook for what feels like the hundredth time. The letter has stuck in your head the whole day. It crosses your mind that it could be a prank or a set-up — it’s not a secret that Slytherin isn’t the most popular House among your classmates — but you know you can handle yourself. You’re more worried about how Theo was acting at breakfast. He didn’t say a word the rest of the meal, not even when Enzo and Mattheo tried looping him into the conversation. He just sat there, sullen and gloomy, and his mood seemed to worsen more when you handed him his robe back and said you had to get to class.

You sigh heavily, trying to play out every possible scenario that could happen between you and the letter writer. You check the clock in the library: 11:45; you need to head over to the Astronomy Tower. 

You groan, gathering your things, sliding them into your bag, and making your way back to the Slytherin common room to drop off your things in your dorm. “Cacophony,” you supply to the portrait, which swings open to let you in.

The common room is blissfully silent when you enter, a welcome contrast to the mess of thoughts in your head. You’re about to head down the hall to your dorm when you collide against someone. You huff an apology but when you feel their hand on your shoulder, you look up to see Theo. He looks intense, eyes wide and glinting with sharp determination and his mouth still set in that frown from earlier. “Sorry, Theo,” you say. “Didn’t see you there. Where are you going at this hour?”

“I was going to find you,” he replies. 

“Oh,” you say. “Well, here I am. Sorry, I’ve got to drop this stuff off and then—”

“Head to the Astronomy Tower,” he finishes for you, “to meet your ‘secret admirer.’” 

You don’t like the way he sneers at the last part of his sentence or the way he uses air quotations. You’re about to respond when he says, “Don’t go.”

“What?”

“Don’t go,” he repeats.

“Why not?”

He pauses before saying, “What if it’s someone just having a laugh?”

You bristle, hurt, and you feel your temper flare. “Is it so damn hard to believe that someone might actually have a crush on me?”

Theo laughs, razor-sharp and incredulous, as if he can’t believe that you’re saying something so outrageous, “No, it’s not.”

“Then why shouldn’t I go?”

“Because I don’t want you to!”

“For Salazar’s sake, Theo, you can’t tell me what to do!”

“I know that!”

“Then are you trying to tell me not to go?”

“Because I bloody like you!”

Your heart stutters to a stop. You can only hear the sounds of both of your labored breathing and you suddenly can’t meet his eyes, trying your best to wrap your head around the fact that your feelings are reciprocated. “How long?’ you ask softly, holding your breath.

“Since first year.”

You blink. “Really?”

He rakes a hand through his hair and sighs heavily, “Mattheo’s right; you’re so oblivious.” There’s another beat of silence and he asks, a little shyly, “How do you feel?”

You can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face. “I like you too, Theo. I’ve liked you since first year as well.”

He echoes your “Really?” and it makes you giggle, “I guess we’re both oblivious.”

He joins your laughter and you let your forehead rest on his chest as your shoulders shake. When it dies down, Theo shifts you off him and lifts your chin with his forefinger, any semblance of coyness gone. You gaze into his ocean blue eyes. Salazar, you could drown in them. He offers a charming smile and he leans close, just a few centimeters away, and says, “Can I kiss you?”

Your eyelashes flutter and your voice comes out barely louder than a whisper, “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

Your lips meet, fervent and desperate, years of yearning releasing like water through a broken dam. Theo hooks his arms around your waist, pulling you as close as possible. You wind your arms around his neck, fingers toying with the hair at his nape. He walks you backward, slipping his tongue into mouth as he crushes you up against the wall. He deepens the kiss and your knees go weak. 

Theo moves your bag off your shoulder and drops it on the floor. The letter that rested at the top of the pile of possessions falls out, laying forgotten on the ground.

[zaruba-needslove]

Opening a new AO3 Account

Because I often see people saying how hard it is to open an AO3 account when actually... it's not THAT complicated.

Like yes, when you first entered the site you'll be greeted with this.

If you wanna create a new account, you'd think that the only way to do it is by clicking that [Get invited!] button... right?

Thus, you'll end up with this page ^.

But yanno, since this invite request system is AUTOMATED, it will take some time for your invite code to be sent to you. I mean, just take a look and that last line on the above picture! And frankly, 4500 codes every 12 hours was not that bad really... if you compare it to when Ao3 has just started.

Even then...

DO YOU KNOW THAT THERE'S EVEN FASTER WAY TO GET AN AO3 INVITATION CODE? *

HOW, you ask?

Well, you can just ask ANY existing AO3 users if they have any extra invitation codes and have them give it to you. And it's not a very complicated process.

If you already became an AO3 user (and have some extra invitation code) but don't know how to give out the codes to friends who wanted it as well, then follow these steps.

Open your profile page, and look at your profile name.

There should be some buttons under your profile name, one of it would be the [Invitations] button. Click that to see the codes,

You'll be seeing a list of codes that you should automatically receive from AO3. If not, you could always request for it.

Like yes, if you need more codes, you can just click on the [Request Invitation] button. And if you want to send someone an invite code, you just enter the email address of the person you want to give the code to... and click Send, as the green arrow indicates.

Alternatively, you can just manually send the invite codes. Just go to [Manage Invitations]

Copy the link marked as [Copy and Use] and give the link to the person you want to give the code to. Important note tho, you HAVE to copy the actual link and not JUST the random bunch of numbers.

Because the link you've copied should lead you to THIS page.

Once you reach this page, you can just start opening your brand new AO3 account.

Likewise, if you've sent the codes thru the email, ask the person you've sent the codes to to check their inbox for the new mail containing the code. And then just click on the link provided.

*I said that this was 'much' faster since some people claimed that they didn't get the codes 'fast' enough, despite how nowadays the amount the server gives out the codes was a lot more compared to back then (which was like a few hundreds per day). So, I offered another option.

Cos yes, I shouldn't be the only one who still has a lot of codes leftover.

[kde-plasma-official]

Hey guys, quick PSA on Meta and them using your data for AI training:

Since April 7 this year they have a new privacy policy in place that, if you don't opt-out, will use your:

name

user name, profile picture, description

avatar

reels

photos and their descriptions

comments

from Instagram, your

name

user name, profile picture

avatar

posts

activity in public groups, channels, on public pages

comments

reviews and posts on Facebook marketplace

from Facebook, and your

profile picture, status

avatar

descriptions of groups / channels you created and joined

any conversations you held with Meta AI

any group chats you added Meta AI to

in WhatsApp to train their Meta AI models.

This change will start on May 27th, setting the deadline to the 26th to decline to their use of data.

How do you opt out? Meta provided two opt-out forms for that:

For Facebook, fill out this form,

For Instagram there is this one,

For WhatsApp, use this link and then pick the "Data Subject Rights Form" (translation may vary). Then pick the third option. Read through the links they gave you (or don't) and at the bottom select "I want to make an objection". Then fill out with your Email address and Phone number used for WhatsApp. Pick a real E-Mail address, they get back to you. You will have to explain yourself to them. If you are from the EU and need a template try the following:

I am exercising my rights under Article 21 of the General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR) to object to the processing of my personal data on the basis of legitimate interests.

I also object to the use of any of my data for AI training purposes. This includes, but is not limited to, the collection, storage, analysis, profiling, sharing, and any other form of processing of my personal data as stated in your privacy policy.

The processing under "legitimate interests" affects my fundamental rights to privacy and data protection as guaranteed under the Charter of Fundamental Rights of the European Union (Articles 7 and 8). Specifically, it impacts my right to control how and when my personal data is used, shared, and profiled without my explicit consent.

I request that you immediately cease all processing activities related to my personal data where "legitimate interests" is the basis. I request any of this data to be deleted. Furthermore, I request that you confirm in writing that these activities have been ceased and data has been deleted.

This is just thrown together in hopes that it sounds like I know my stuff. If you are not from the EU, try reading through it anyways, compare the articles stated in my template with something from your country. Usually there's always a loophole if you look hard enough.

For Facebook and Instagram you have to be logged in with an account to use these forms, but once you are logged in, you can enter any email you want to. If you have multiple accounts, click the link multiple times, one for each email address.

You just need to log in to one account, not all of them.

You don't need to provide a reason.

They should auto-accept your request and send you an Email with confirmation.

Edit: WhatsApp Link Edit edit: WhatsApp Link (again) and template I used

[ozarkthedog]

𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

summary: it's been years since Dieter last saw you, his childhood friend and the unrequited love of his life. still, he doesn’t blame you for leaving.

pairing: Dieter Bravo x gn!childhood friend!reader

warnings: angst but with a happy ending! mentions of drug use and alcohol but nothing graphic. w.c: 1.0k

an: for @punkshort AU August writing challenge, I was given the prompt, “childhood friend with Dieter Bravo” thank you so much for hosting! huge thanks to @ghotifishreads for letting me talk your ear off about this little idea that took on a life of it's own and for reading this over. ilu!

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 ⋅ 𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐨 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

Dieter rubs a hand over his face as he steps from the SUV into a throng of flashing lights and frantic screaming. It was the premiere of his first directorial and writing debut; a lot was riding on this.

Sure, he'd won an Oscar and various other award nominations, but this was an entirely different beast. This movie was special to him. It was the first script he wrote after getting "clean." He always scoffed at that word. Clean. Was he pure and holy now simply because he kicked hard drugs to the curb?

He takes a deep, slow breath, adjusts his velvet purple suitcoat, and moves down the red carpet. He autographs cards and pictures, takes selfies, and banters with a few fans before moving on to the press.

It doesn't feel right being here alone, he thinks, his left side feeling raw and exposed like a wound that never healed. 

After rewriting the script several times, he has his assistant mail it to a few studio execs before having them print out one last copy. He wrote down your name and told them to send you the script. He wanted to deliver it to you in person; it felt like the right thing to do, but he couldn't be sure you ever wanted to see him again after what he put you through.

He's stronger these days. Mentally and physically healthier. He's lost a bit of weight now that he's no longer downing pills and chasing them with alcohol. It took him a while to get used to feeling again. Sitting with the uncomfortable thoughts and not letting them take control. He's proud of himself. He thinks you would be, too. 

You.

Seeing a large open field littered with red flowers while driving home from rehab for the second time kicked him square in the gut. Flashes of his youth came back in vivid, blinding colors.

Chasing his dog, Dali, around the yard. Playing with you in the field of wildflowers behind your house. His throat tightens.

You.

You were his reason. The sun he revolved around—inseparable childhood friends.

When you first met Dieter, he was covered in chalk dust, drawing funky, green aliens with big eyes on the sidewalk in front of his childhood home. You'd just moved in next door, and your Mother told you to go make friends. He looked at you in awe as you stood before him, the sun creating a golden crown around your head. "Wanna be friends?" you blurted before kneeling and pestering him about his chalk alien.

From that moment on, you were forever linked. Dieter never wanted anyone else.

From scabbed knees and hide & seek to strange body changes and long school days. Consoling Dieter after he's pushed into a locker, copying each other's homework, watching Dieter shine on the theater stage, and spending almost every minute together that you could.

He wondered if you ever felt the love he held for you—the love that surpassed sibling bonds and grew stronger every time he laid eyes on you. The love that made him self-conscious and shy away from speaking his truth despite years of yearning. He couldn't convince himself to jeopardize the friendship or that you might possibly feel the same.

Cut to Dieter asking you to move to LA with him to be his assistant once his star power steadily rose. 

To the elaborate movie sets and lavish premieres, to the long nights and unspoken feelings. 

To find Dieter on the floor with vomit spilling from his lips to the empty bottles of pills and booze splayed around his Hollywood Hills home. 

The bickering, the raging parties, and the friendship that was slowly dying. 

The shell of a man he used to be. 

You were never around when he needed you the most after he drowned himself in booze and pills. He never blamed you. He was often inebriated, covered in a mess of sweat and other fluids. You could only stand to see him self-medicate for so long. 

"I can't keep doing this," he remembers you saying as tears welled in your eyes and your bottom lip trembled while he sat in a crumpled heap at the foot of his unmade bed with that usual glazed look. "I can't keep trying to save you."

He remembers wanting to argue, to save whatever piece was left. He tried to chase after you, but his brain and body were still under the haze from the night before, limbs heavy as lead weights, and they no longer listened to his commands. 

How your face twisted with a devastating sadness made his heart shatter. He never meant this to happen, for it to get this bad.

Had Dieter known the repercussions, that the last image he'd have of you would be wiping fallen tears that he caused from your cheeks, he would've gotten clean eons before. He would've let this version of himself die without a second thought. He wanted to be the man you counted on, with your best interests at heart. 

The man you knew him to be.

—

Just as he's about to step into the theater, he hears a voice call his name—a voice that would wake him from the dead. 

You.

His heart aches; it bursts with unnerving energy as he watches you approach. His gaze never leaves you as you glide across the room to where he stands, frozen. Could he be hallucinating?

"Hi D," his nickname sounds like heaven as it leaves your lips. He never wants it to end; he wants to hear it forever. "I'm sorry I didn't reach out sooner. I needed to make sure I was in a good headspace to see you again." You nervously wring your fingers, and Dieter can't stop himself from reaching out and locking your hands together, calming your combined anxious energy.

"It's okay," he whispers, throat tight, holding back elated tears, "I'm glad you're here."

A smile tugs at your lips, eyes shiny with your own tears. "Me too."

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

[cripplecharacters]

Thank you so much for this blog. Can I take a moment to ask the rest of your followers to please stop using it to ask for *permission* to write whatever they're trying to write? On every ask that starts with "can I write XYZ?", I just wanna grab the asker by the shoulders and ask back "what do you think is going to happen if you do?"

Since there's no ableism police going around inspecting amateur creative projects, this is really a poorly worded version of "is this bad/ableist/problematic/gonna get me cancelled/punished?", with an undercurrent of "am I bad? Am I a bad person? Please reassure me that I'm not a bad person", which is a hell of a lot to drop on a handful of strangers online who can only ever give you a bit of information and their own biased personal opinions.

I swear I'm not trying to be a jerk about this. It's good that so many people want to depict disability in fiction beyond flat stereotypes. But it's incredibly hard to create *anything* with this level of anxiety and craving for approval. It's sooo much better to be driven by playful curiosity. Learn to love research! Don't underestimate your capacity for critical thinking! Dare to form your own opinions! The worst that can (and will) happen is that you'll be wrong and make mistakes. Big deal.

I also invite everyone to get further along in the writing process before running to consult here. Writing is rewriting, and it's easier to rewrite what's already on the page than toy with hypothetical ideas forever. Tumblr jokes a lot about the mere existence of bad pieces of writing being "a hate crime", but let's get real. Your accidentally ableist first draft is not an act of violence, and treating it that way is not disability advocacy or activism or helpful to anyone.

Sorry if this ended up too long or verbose. What do you mods think? Agree/disagree?

I can't speak for the other mods but I mostly agree TBH.

There's much more to writing disabled characters than just getting a "stamp of approval" that what you're doing "is OK". And it's not that it's bad to consult others to make sure you're not being ableist (it isn't), but a good disabled character can't just be a character that's Not Offensive.

They should be well researched, they should be interesting, and they shouldn't just be there to be "good disabled rep". They should be a character, not a diversity quota to fill.

I've addressed the whole "no one is actually going to Cancel You if you write something ableist" in one of my older posts about writing characters with facial differences because it's true. One billion movies and series and comics come out every year and a ton of them are ableist, and I promise you no one is getting "cancelled" over having a villain with a scar.

I stopped answering those "is it ok if my villain is deformed and scarred?!??" asks because they don't really add anything, they're usually not looking to change anything or learn anything, they just want a Cripple's Stamp of Approval. And that's not going to result in a good character, ever, it's just like showing a thumbs up to a writer that it's OK for them to write this offensive thing. What's the point? If you want to write it so bad, just do it... There is no Council of Disfigured People that will cancel you and take your house. You don't need my permission to write a generic evil disfigured guy and I'm not going to grant it. If you don't want to actually learn or change anything, there's no point in asking.

As I said, that's my opinion and not necessarily representative of the other mods on the blog.

mod Sasza

As to my opinion I largely agree. You (the general you, not you specifically asker, which is what I will mean in this whole ask when I say 'you') can write whatever you want and no one will send you a certified letter by mail that says you are Cancelled or a Bad Person or whatever.

We just want people to do research and put thought behind what they're writing. To think about why things are considered ableist, by us or by anyone else. And we want people to make disabled characters be characters and not just a Trope.

We as a mod team, but also as just regular people, can't or control what anyone does or doesn't write/draw/do. No one can. If you want to write something we hate, then do it. We won't stop you. We can't. We just won't like it, but if you're that committed to writing what you're writing, you can live with that, or at least you should. Someone's specific piece of art/writing/etc won't change our minds on what we've previously stated. No, not even yours. But you can do it if you really want to because that's how being an individual person works.

mod sparrow

[nottivagos]

f!pov & stalker!carlos sainz.

wc: 2,064 words

tw: stalkers, dark themes, brief? mentions of nsfw

a/n: HELLO!!! welcome back to notti's nightly novellas. this fic is heavily inspired by i believe @/emchante's stalker!au carlos as it really made my head drabble on and yap about silly stalker carlos sending anonymous notes to his darling.

Fear and Sex, He Wrote. ¦¦ CS55

A sick pool of fear churned and curdled in your stomach. Wide eyed and teary, your eyes frantically flicked over the thick, cream-coloured cards in your trembling palms. The light sweat made them sticky to touch, they were letters, very detailed ones,— but not just any letters. Graphic sex fantasies, crude depictions of objectifying yourself and the dreams this anonymous lustful sex pest wanted to do to you.

It wasn’t the first time you’d received such sickening things. Such things that needed to be kept away, right at the back of someone’s mind, never to be revealed into the public eye. Or in your case, the bedroom. No, this occurrence had been going on for longer than any woman dreamed of suffering— a controlling bundle of fear wrapping you up whole, swallowing any inch of free will you had with ease, shutting off your vocal cords whenever you wanted to report it.

You were an undoubtedly beautiful woman. Even you knew that. On the brief appearances you made at bars and clubs, your presence was definitely made noticeable. Men and women’s gazes loomed over your figure, snugly dressed in garments that presented your soft curves in ways unimaginable, but also tempting the more monstrous side of them to imagine what lay underneath whilst you kept basking in the strobe lights, cheaply made cocktails in hand, and thumping drum and bass the typical ‘nighttime’ spots had to offer.

Maybe it was some sort of sick joke? You always thought, as glassy, stinging eyes glossed over each bold mention of ‘fuck’, ‘cunt’, ‘cock’ and ‘come’ that the unidentified freak wrote. The harsh wording and setting created a burning imprint in your mind, a forced sex position or lewd scenario that lurked— haunting your days in its own predatory, violent way— keeping your poor mind on edge, leaving you uneased even inside your own home.

Loneliness and anxiety aren’t a pleasant mix. It’s a mix that makes your gut twist and turn, churning acidic bile which is begging to be retched into a basin. The feeling suffocates anyone, like a metaphorical hand wrapped tightly around someone’s throat, leaving them silenced and isolated. Afraid of speaking out. Afraid of unknown consequences, causing overthinking and psychological turmoil.

Even the mere postman knocking on the door created tight knots in your stomach, the burning feeling of upset overflowing— the sheer fright flashing across your eyes, causing your insides to drop and heart to pound, the healthy colour of your skin to become a ghastly pale, pasty and sick, as if the horror of another looming erotic, predatory desire was sat quaintly on your doormat inside.

You felt ashamed, how could you have let fear and embarrassment silence you like that? It was only a piece of paper, containing some mere explicit eroticism— maybe a little too pornographic in parts—, which had been completely normalised by the changing ways of society. That’s when it changed, this one was different. The anonymous author had gotten every little, tiny feature of your appearance to a tee. How the hell did someone get something so graphically accurate? Someone, comfortably distanced from you, was stalking you, your body, and your soul.

It was beautifully fucked up. Honestly it was. And that pretty little head of yours would never come up with a logical reason, answer or identity to the mystery sex writer who overflowed your mail.

Your head was too busy hung low, your pathetic sobs muffled by your wettened hands to acknowledge your next door neighbour, Carlos Sainz, peering straight through his blinds with a sadistic smile.

Oh, sweetheart. You stupid, stupid girl. You’re way too easy to scare. The Spaniard contently thought to himself, watching you unfold in turmoil, like a scared kitten left in the pouring rain. It was ravishing, really— for his own pride’s sake. He’d been able to mingle himself into your mind, graphic fantasies manipulated into words, whilst maintaining that hidden identity— that bit of untold freedom which made his hardness twitch as he wrote such lewd things— happily away from you.

He, in short, was proudly your stalker. The man solely behind the erotic fantasies carefully, yet sickeningly curated and gracefully handwritten which made your lips tremble and heart sink.

Your relationship with Carlos was, in your opinion, completely platonic. Maybe a little too over-friendly sometimes, with his gentle touches and sweet nothings, but it wasn’t an issue for you. If anything, you latched onto it. Grasping onto that cherishing feeling, that little smidgen of hope when he showed the signs of caring about you in your predicament. He was the first person you’d been able to crack up the courage to tell, after he tenderly brought up his concerns for your distance from the neighbourhood, as if you were a ghost of the lively girl you used to be.

It was like a dream, an endearing one, at least. You’d been met with loving, soothing and somewhat addicting words, delivered by his thick, distinct accent that drawled and murmured like gooey treacle, whilst also being so gingerly touched as if you were a fine, pure piece of porcelain— easily breakable— in the eyes of the tanned man of thirty.

But underneath that facade? Well, those ‘innocent’ words were way more sinister; quiet degradations and malice which crumbled your psyche word-by-word, like a mason carefully chipping away at the stone to perfectly craft his newest statue.

It was bliss to Carlos. He was meticulously spinning this ‘safety net’ for you to rely on, whilst actually the poison and venom drawing you back to him with every horrible phrase on each card that stacked high with the various others collecting dust in your flooded letterbox. Every striking pornography he scribed drew you back to him, and he was more than welcome to accept you back into his open arms.

The reality was horrific, really. But you’d become so accustomed to it, the comfort becoming an overpowering drug, a strong magnetic force, always making— pulling you, even, to come back crawling to him.

Clutching the card tightly, you shoved it into your trouser pocket, before brushing the stinging weep away from your reddened eyes with hasty movements of the back of your hands. A soft sniffle escaped, a hiccuped sob muffled as you wiped a tissue across your snotty nose, then you rushed out of the door.

Your destination was ingrained into your mind, the scenario and situation like clockwork. Your only desired embrace being Carlos’s, as your mind went on autopilot, guiding you directly to your neighbour’s house.

He was already waiting for you. Your predictability was becoming amusing to the Spaniard. The movements were inevitable, a cycle so firmly fixed into your mind that even if one thing was altered slightly, you’d be a confused wreck. He liked that. No, he loved it. Something in that twisted mind of his had happily adopted whatever this whole ‘comforting’ thing was months ago, in the early days of his erotic, anonymous filth.

“Oh, pobrecita,” he drawled, his tone as light as a feather, opening the door to your emotional state, “come in. Come in. Let me hold you.”

He ushered you into his house, quickly closing the door on the piercing cold outside. Large, strong arms then pulled you into an almost suffocating embrace, with Carlos pressing his nose into your hair, planting a tender kiss on your head.

“Shh, it’s okay,” the Spaniard consoled with a coo, a large hand brushing away some stray strands of hair which had messily stuck to your damp, burning cheeks.

He tutted softly, muffling your sobs in with his chest, cradling your head as you cried. “Breathe, nena.”

You seemed to melt into his warm closeness, face nuzzled into his chest as watery eyes dampened his new shirt, but Carlos seemed uncaring. Despite not fully having you, you were still his darling, in his own disfigured fashion, the sinful anonymities just luring you closer and closer into his den, but for now he’d settle with you in his arms— the bedroom, sex, and the awaiting marriage could wait— even with the sobs, despite his deep hatred for them.

Only he could make you cry. A sick possessiveness, God forbid, that only he was able to get out of you. The anonymous notes Carlos left in your letterbox were merely tame in his eyes— well, that's what he believed in his own sick mind.

You delved into your pocket with a jittery hand, thrusting the newest addition of anonymous sex cards into the Spaniard’s grasp. His large hand came to claw your head in response, softly pressing your face against his chest again, the coarseness of Carlos’s palms a contrast to your smooth, silky locks of hair.

His voice rumbled deeply, his hushes cooing your weeps away, whilst his lips were soft on your temple now and again as he read the card with a level of assertiveness.

He couldn't help but chuckle at his own words. God, he was hauntingly accurate in his fantasies, his imaginative depictions of you in all sorts of positions— the list of lewd thoughts in his head long, as a sly smirk crossed his lips as he kept your face out of sight of his.

Sliding the card into his own pocket, he purred, “I think you're overreacting, cariño,” the hot breath fanning onto the shell of your bare ear. “Surely it's a coincidence,” he continued, his words deliberately slow and intoxicating, “any girl like you could've been wearing that dress this… person speaks of.”

There was something about his words that made you gasp. A sharp intake of breath whistling through your teeth, which left your heart drumming in your chest. Words as smooth and comforting as sweet honey, laced with poison. Caring words of malice, caressing your fear. Manipulation, raw, and at its finest.

Maybe it was a coincidence. Anyone could've worn that dress, so easily described and painted through Carlos’s sick, anonymous words. The same dress he yearned to ‘jerk his aching cock to’ whilst inhaling your sweet scent off of it.

Slow fingertips trailing your back broke you out of your frenzy of thoughts. Little specks of goosebumps trailing in their lazy tracks. Carlos’s other hand soon followed, cupping your stinging, reddened cheek oh so softly, his large, brown doe eyes swallowing you whole in one gaze. You could spend years, eternities even, swimming in the intricate specks of hazel.

The hand on your cheek, grazed your soft flesh, the roughness of his knuckles causing a flicker of heat to rush to them in his wake. Carlos’s lips formed a small smile, to which you responded with a loud sniffle, and some more relaxed breathing.

Who knew a few sweet nothings and hand grazes could stop you from being a whimpering, emotional wreck, hmm?

Swallowing the lump growing sourly in your throat, you replied, “Y-yeah, maybe you are right.” The reply was a mere whisper, before you added quietly, “Just… Just a coincidence.”

“Just a coincidence,” the brooding Spaniard repeated lowly and so thickly, it left you shivering slightly. A little flutter forming in your stomach at the intensity of your shared gazes once again.

The bolts of lightning sparked as you both swam in your shared silence— a moment of blissful intimacy, so unspoken yet perfect and oh so palpable. Air thick around you, Carlos broke it, clearing his throat abruptly.

“Why don't I run you a nice bath, hm?” he suggested smoothly, the tar of his accent thickly smothering your senses. An arm slowly snaking before wrapping around your waist snugly, “I bet you're feeling disgusting after shedding all those tears.”

Pausing for a moment, you felt safe in that moment. “I'd like that, yes,” you responded softly, your widened eyes meeting the tanned Spaniard’s for one more time. “Thank you, Carlos. For everything.”

Your sweet lips formed the smallest of genuine smiles, which Carlos happily flashed back. There was an intensity in his eyes, burning deep below the surface of his facade, “Then let's go and get you cleaned up then, corazón.” Carlos finally murmured again, walking you up towards the staircase in his home.

Word by word, chip by chip, slowly breaking you away. He now had you just where he wanted you to be, stuck, so obliviously drunk on his poison in the spider's web of his own design.

like what you see? make sure to leave me some notes in my inbox if you want to see more stalker!carlos in my nightly novellas!

[t1red-twilight]

i just realized you already wrote for the shower hc so if you saw the previous ask, that was me and pls ignore it 😭

i’ll request something else thoughh! i’d love to read more about domestic!peter, nothing specific just something super fluffy <3

you’re my home

summary: being domestic with peter.

content/warnings: gn!reader, andrew!peter, fluff, chicken alfredo as a plot point (i love chicken alfredo)

notes: i <3 domesticity. and dw about it queen (gender neutral). tysm for your request:)

word count: 1k

masterlist p. parker masterlist

you and peter had moved in together about nine months ago, and you had quickly settled into domestic routines and habits. it was as if the two of you were puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly. your lives melted together to create something that was soft and comforting.

-

you could feel peter’s breath against your face. it was saturday, so you were able to sleep in instead of getting up at the break of dawn for classes or for work.

you usually managed to sleep in longer than peter; waking to see his soft eyes looking at you lovingly with a dopey smile spreading across his face.

today, however, you woke up before him. his hair was rustled in a way only he could make look cute. his eyebrows were slightly furrowed, and his arms were wrapped around your waist as tightly as they could go.

you bit the inside of your cheek as you fought the urge to squeeze him. seeing peter asleep was always a bit novice, as he insisted on getting up before you so that he could take care of you.

he woke up when you brushed a piece of hair off of his forehead. his eyes fluttered open and you bit your lip to fight back a huge grin. he was unintentionally adorable.

“hey,” he said quietly. his morning voice was a bit lower than it normally was, and oh how you loved it. “morning, darling.”

“good morning,” you smiled. “do you want coffee or tea?”

-

you looked at peter through the bathroom mirror. when your eyes met, he raised his eyebrows and smiled around his toothbrush. in response, you smiled as best you could.

you bumped your shoulder into his gently. he bumped you back with his.

peter had insisted that you had matching pajamas when you moved in together. so, you were wearing matching skeleton pajama pants. you had opted for one of peter’s old t-shirts rather than wearing something from your own closet. slowly, over time, your closets had melded into one massive super-closet.

peter spat out his toothpaste and you copied. “should we watch our show before bed?”

this was another thing: you and peter had chosen a random sitcom to watch together. the only rule was that you couldn’t watch it without the other person. “i think we should be able to get through one or two episodes. are we on season three now?” you turned to face him. the fuzz of the purple bathroom rug was soft against your feet.

“yeah, i think so. i think we finished season two on friday.” he grabbed your hand and walked out of the bathroom and through the bedroom to the sofa that sat in front of the tv.

you grabbed a yellow blanket (that you had only purchased after you and peter had laughed at how ugly it was) and nestled into peter’s side before draping it over the both of you.

-

“pete, i’m home,” you called out. “i got the mail. we’re still getting advertisements for ‘adam’s realty.’” you turned the paper over in you hand as you walked into the kitchen.

“really? i mailed them trying to get them to stop sending ads.” he grabbed your bag and jacket out of your hands and set them down on the counter. he then pulled you in for a hug.

“i thought you did. i don’t want to have to go to their office to tell them to lose our address. we already live somewhere.” you laughed into his chest.

“every place that they showed us had broken air conditioning and had the landlord special.” he pulled away from you to look at the rest of the mail.

you snorted. it was true; the lightswitches and vents had been painted over with the same color that the walls were. “i know! remember that one place that had the mold that was just painted over? i can’t believe they thought we wouldn’t catch that.”

“it was disgusting. anyway, we’re still good for dinner, right?” he looked away from the mail to look at you instead.

“of course! you know i never miss date night. who’s week is it to pick?” you smiled softly up at him, and grabbed his hands. you very gently swung them back and forth.

he paused in thought for a moment. “i think it’s yours. if i remember correctly, we went to that diner last week on my request.” now you remembered. peter had chosen a diner and you split a giant pancake platter.

“let’s get greek food. on my way home i saw a food truck that’s open late.”

-

recently, you had expressed the desire to become better at cooking. peter offered to learn some recipes and cook with you.

at present, you were attempting to make chicken alfredo. peter had found the recipe and was placed on chicken duty while you made the sauce. every now and then, you would see peter out of the corner of your eye sit and stare at you before returning to the task at hand.

without looking up, you asked, “do i have something on my face?”

almost immediately, he responded. “no. i just think you’re pretty.”

you smiled in amusement at this, and looked up to see him with a sappy smile plastered on his face. “yeah? thank you, pete.”

“i like cooking with you.” the same smile sat on his face. his brown puppy eyes almost looked like they had the stars in them. you didn’t stop stirring the sauce so as to not burn it, but you gestured him over.

he took the two steps over to you, and without touching your face (raw chicken juice) he leaned in. he never ‘forced’ a kiss onto you. he almost always leaned in close enough so that you could bridge the gap very easily between the two of you.

it was a short kiss, but not any less special. you stopped and looked at his puppy eyes for just a moment. “get back to your chicken, bugboy.”

[brbzonedout]

Dear Lover,

It’s only been a month since you’ve last seen your girlfriend. Fall season had just began and the summer session at camp halfblood had just ended. Regardless of the fact you missed each other dearly after three months straight of practically living together, seeing each other every day, and having all of your meals together being states away was utter torture.

On top of that as a demi-god your access to technology is heavily limited since those stupid monsters found a way to track you through cellular data. Now those late night calls you so desperately wish for are limited to a goodnight text and a heart emoji on the side.

Fortunately one recognizably dull day in the beginning of July the mail was dropped off your house as it does routinely. Although this time something unexpected came. A red envelope with a small hand drawn shield on the front was left in the box and it was addressed to you.

Dear Y/N,

Hey Y/N, I’m writing this i’m the morning so good morning. I know it hasn’t been that long since we’ve seen each other in person but being away from you for this feels unnatural and talking to you through text and dm’s isn’t enough for me. I was talking to one of the year rounders at Aphrodite cabin and he gave me the idea to do this, it feels a lot more intimate than texting and it’s like journaling which reminds me of you. I’ve been missing you a lot during this week, we’re preparing for capture the flag and it’ll be weird being on the field without you regardless of what team you’re on. Speaking of battle field I finally got my spear fixed so that should be fun to have back. I also talked to Chiron about getting in contact with my mortal family like you said and we were able to find my grandparents! They still live in Arizona and said I could visit and stay for as long as I wanted. They thought I was missing this entire time, insane right? With that I was hoping before I went over there I could stop in D.C. and see you for a few days. If your people say no that’s alright but I still wanted to ask just to see. Going back to the Journaling thing I’m still doing it and you’re right it does really help with my temper I haven’t had a write up since the last time we saw each other. That’s still not entirely my fault though it was your idea to go swimming after curfew. You know it’s funny you’re such a good and bad influence on me at the same time. This is my first time writing a real letter to anyone so I hope you like it, you don’t have to write back if you don’t want to or feel like it I just wanted to try something new. I wanted to just call through Iris but you know she’s busy during the other seasons, just in case she’s not I put a few drachmas in the envelope. I love you and I miss you just get back to me some way, any way baby.

Love,

Clarisse La Rue ⚔︎

P.S.- If this is boring to read i’m sorry I didn’t really know what to say. I love you have a good day ♥

After reading the full letter tears began to well up in your eyes. This was truly unexpected of her. Some time into your friendship one of her cabin mates told you about the the letters she’d write to her mother when you found one hanging out of the drawer. But since she didn’t really want to be found the ones that she did send out never got a response, she never added a return address. Once she grew up and did start adding it let’s just say her mother still wasn’t able to write back. To have received one from her is something you never thought would happen no one was ever meant to know about this side of her. The only reason the single bunk mate knew is because she was caught writing once and the only reason she told you is because she knew Clarisse had a crush on you. She did lie about never having written one but you understood.

Suddenly while wiping the tears from your eyes the raindrops on your window and the sun shining in created a small rainbow that cast itself into your bedroom. Without hesitation you carefully reached into the envelope as not to rip it and pulled out a drachma.

“Oh Iris goddess of the rainbow, please accept my offering. Clarisse La Rue Camp Halfblood”.

With a kiss to the coin you threw it into the rainbow and in disappeared into thin air. Suddenly in the blink of an eye a tall girl with long curly brown hair appeared in the rainbow with her back turned.

“Hi..” You said smiling.

Startled she turned around abruptly, noticing who it was she smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. “So you got it huh?”

[batman-dc-imagines]

BTAS Riddler and Mad Hatter getting fan mail from a teenage reader (platonic)

Overview: Both receive fan mail while in Arkham.

BTAS!Riddler

Relation: Platonic

You’ve piqued his curiosity.

But he is also skeptical of you.

Depending on what kind of fan mail you send him, he always reads over it a few times to make sure he’s seeing things right. Is this kid serious? Is his initial thought. After getting more fan mail, he quickly realizes you are in fact serious.

As soon as he gets over the whole skeptical stage, it’s all downhill from there.

If he can, he’ll write back to you.  Asking pretty vague questions. If you tell him you’re his biggest fan, he’ll most likely call your bluff and send you a riddle. If you answer correctly, he’ll send more that are harder. 

If you’re able to prove to him just how much of a fan you are, don’t think he won’t forget about you once he breaks out. When he does find out where you live, his first thought when seeing you is basically:

You’re his kid now. Well, depending on your relationship at home. If you aren’t happy with the people you’re with now, he’ll take you with him as a young prodigy. Even then, if you’re happy with your folks or whoever it is you’re staying with, he’ll still let you work for him if it’s what you want. I mean, who wouldn’t?

BTAS!Mad Hatter

Relation: Platonic

Oh boy.

You fit perfectly into his alice in wonderland fantasy. Obviously he not in the romantic sense but definitely wants to have a close friendship with you.

You don’t have blonde hair or blue eyes? Oh that shouldn’t be a problem. You being a fan is perfect enough.

He’ll write back to you almost immediately. He’ll write little poems that relate to Alice in wonderland and he’ll even create a custom made hat for you! Along with other little knick knacks.

You're the first thing on his mind when he escapes Arkham. Similar to the Riddler, he’ll offer you the choice to become his prodigy. If you decline, he’ll still be satisfied with having your friendship.

[canonkiller]

✨ "Your online print store is broken?" FAQ

Yeah I did that: A Summary

Q: Why did you remove everything from your Redbubble / INPRNT / etc?

A: A bunch of reasons. I made the choice for myself after thinking about it for a long time and not liking it. Some of these reasons include:

I don't like not knowing the workplace conditions or compensation given to the people actually manufacturing physical goods of my work through these services

I don't like the waste of easy-to-buy, easy-to-break manufacturing or the shipping process

I personally stopped giving a shit about the potential for theft-by-loss-of-potential-profit because it made me feel like a corporation and that sucked

There is no way in hell Redbubble will ever be profitable enough to get me to overlook this, and I don't think I should try to make it so.

The ones that haven't been emptied are having login issues. I'll be killing them as soon as I am able.

Q: So what's the alternative? How can I get prints now?

A: Anyone interested in prints can just ask me for the full resolution files of whatever piece you want and I'll send them over. Then you can either use your own printer or order something from a local store / chain and tada, print made.

In the future, I'll have the files up on Ko-fi (like the Avex body pillow) as pay what you want, so you don't even have to ask. I'd still prefer if you didn't make extras to sell for your own profit, but I can't stop you.

Q: But isn't that going to lose you money?

Probably, but the $20-odd I was making across all of my merch sites was not enough to overpower my concerns listed above. Someone tossing me $5 through PWYW is already paying me more than any of those sites would pet sale (Redbubble can be adjusted higher, but the price is already so inflated), and the end result is still more affordable for the buyer.

I also want my art to be more accessible to people like me: ones who can't casually spend $30 getting a piece of paper shipped internationally, but enjoy being able to experience shapes and colors. Differences between currency conversions, payment platform options and mail access are things I don't think should create a barrier in enjoying and adding art to your space.

Q: What about the other types of merch? Like clothing?

I've been keeping an eye on secondhand gadgets and would like to one day offer on-demand items with thrifted or secondhand base materials, but this is not a priority for me at this time. You'll live without a shirt, and if you won't, try an iron on transfer or whatever the modernized equivalent is. Anything I can't find a way to make, nobody needs to buy, simple as that.

The pin-back button press calls to me like a beautiful siren but I have yet to find one that is both affordable and close to me. The grind never stops.

Q: I also have concerns about the things you mentioned and want to try and be more accessible and sustainable with my art. Is it okay if I also do this?

I don't own the concept of sending people PNGs CMYK JPGs when they ask for them and even if I did I'm sure as hell not gonna charge people for doing it. The more people turning away from mass manufacturing the better, imo.

[kalkiethinks]

SCAM ALERT

TLDR: If a commisioner ignores your instructions, sends you a ton of money upfront via a check asking you to deposit and send back a portion of money- DO NOT. So back in Nov 10 I got an email commission which started okay: "I hope this message finds you well. I am reaching out to you because I am impressed by your portfolio and believe your artistic style would be a fantastic fit for an upcoming project I am coordinating.

I am currently in the process of assembling a team and I need a talented illustrator to collaborate on the title, Pandemic: Precaution and Prevention. Your work stood out to me due to its vibrant colors, character choices and attention to detail.

If you are interested, I would love to discuss the project further and provide more details about the scope, timeline, and compensation. Please let me know if this opportunity aligns with your current availability and if you would be open to discussing it further.

He wanted to create 6 group illustrations that would be printed and handed out for students 18-25 that would equate to $6000 at a 9 week turnaround. This raised an eyebrow but thought they were just a generous client. I gave him my procedure pipeline, starting with a min deposit upfront as a show of good faith. Also told him holidays are busy so will we start next year? He says that's fine. So far okay. "Considering the amount to be paid for the job, cashiers check or bank certified checks is our best bet. My sponsor doesn't use online payment platforms. He's an old-fashioned businessperson. The check will be issued and mailed to you and you should receive it within 5 days. Please get back to with your details in the format below:" Another raised eyebrow in this digital day and age but I've done previous freelance work that used mailed checks so I was alright with this. Only released my contact info and bank name.

Now the red flags pop up: On Nov 19 he sends this: "How are you doing today ? I'm so sorry for this, sincerely I do not find it easy to write this to you this moment , I have been so busy lately, the check is been made out for $6,000.00 which is cover for both phases. The sponsor asked for immediate refund for the 2nd phase as soon as the check clears your bank then you could proceed with the first 1-3. The 2nd phase is been postponed until further notice due to the sponsors personal issue, I will provide you the tracking information via USPS as soon as I have it so you could have it tracked yourself to know when exactly it will be delivered. My sincere apology for the inconvenience and do have a great day." So my requests were completely ignored, tells me a check is on the way with the full lump sum and I have to return half that amount. This is one method I've heard scammers get access of one's bank account with the poison check and you end up paying that half with your own actual money. Checked with friends and my own bank, sounds like a scam. Check arrives, and doing 30 minutes of Googling reveals so much warning stuff:

-So the names on the client email (Nicholas Jarry), and this name on the USPS (Christopher Williams) revealed on the first results are both famous sports players. One is a funny coincidence, two is suspicious. -quick Google of what a Keybank check is like, get an old warning about what to look for in legit checks, also tried calling Keybank on how to verify a check and explaining the scenario. -the address on the USPS belongs to a residential house that had another business also registered to it before that has gone inactive. -The Ace Cafe is real, but everything is inconsistent. The Hillcourt Dr address leads to a residential house, there is no LLC, and the logo belongs to a legit Orlando location that had closed last year and is opening in a new location, the address not matching whats on the check and names do not match either Jarry or Williams.

I've already reported this issue to the FTC and while they can't help me do anything with this particular scammer I'm now passing this around to new artists to know what to look out for when too many little suspicious things add up.

[fernhelm]

pls talk more about narcissa

welll since you asked….

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹🦢⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

she’s her mother’s dress-up doll, she’s clytemnestra, she stabbed the dark lord in the back, she’s precise, she made an unbreakable vow to protect draco, she’s a strategist, she just wants to be left alone, she’s the ugly little duckling, she’s a lake that looks placid on the surface, but is raging underneath. if there’s one word for her, it’s bitter. she did everything she was supposed to and got fucked anyway.

narcissa in canon is defined by her role as a mother in a similar way to lily, but she is a mother who is present and therefore is able to disappoint; who sends her son sweets in the mail, but fails to protect him from joining a cult at sixteen….she is so interesting precisely because of those contradictions. she is the devoted wife & mother, ensnared by the same black family allegiances & obligations as the others, but she fights to create her own paradise within that aristocratic hellscape while still obeying its rules. she wants her cake and to eat it too. to belong to a crumbling, stifling magical dynasty and still raise a son turns out okay. her house is her domain (“this is my house, bella, you don’t give orders in my…”), it’s the small bit of power she’s carved out for herself. and you’ll have to pry it out of her cold dead hands.

my narcissa has really intense control issues. i think she has some paranoias & anxieties around eating. she likes to look impeccable so no one can sense the disaster going on inside. she enjoys the riches and prestige of being a black or a malfoy but she’d sell every piece of jewelry in her jewelry box to read a book alone by the sea…to me, she is a lesbian and she knows it, it just isn’t something she’d ever be willing to acknowledge. of everyone, she is in the most need of a rage room. imagine her in vintage dior and a black headband brutally beating the shit out of lucius’ car with a baseball bat (he cheated on her, and she wouldn’t care but he got caught and now it’s tabloid news.) after a childhood of disassociating to cope with her dysfunctional home, she has a hard time identifying her own emotions. she’s a marionette being piloted by a blonde chess prodigy in black patent leather mary janes. its like ratatouille. most of the time when she’s shaking hands and smiling serenely she’s thinking about a ballet performance or fencing or opera or wizarding history (i think she really likes history). in writing her it’s such a joy to explore who she becomes if she gets to do whatever she wants. what does she want anyway? outside of being a mother? do we know?

ALSO, something so fairytale perfect about her and her sisters…a pretty pair of three. she is the exact in-between of the two–if bella is fight and andy is flight, she’s freeze. she’s the little blonde outlier who was paraded around at parties until her face hurt from kissing cheeks. her sisters are the only ones who see through to the core of her. she needs both of them- bella as her shield and andy as her sword. when andy leaves it’s like she gets frozen in time.

my favorite pairing for her is alice, but i can accept lucissa if they’re in the background of a drarry fic. her and alice would live in a sea-side cottage in france and run a winery or something. she’s the ice queen and alice is the knight in shining armor. finally someone wants her to have every good thing she’s ever denied herself. she’s supposed to be a good little lady, and i think alice would make her want to go wild and roll around in the mud. yum.

[pekoehoneyncream]

Ghoaptober # 12

Prompt: Letter

Words: 1200~

TW: None (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

Once again, 'Coinneach John Mactavish' being Soap's full name is a personal headcanon of mine.

Enjoy!

Price walked into the officer’s recreation room that the one-four-one task force had co-opted as their own, after a fancier rec-room had opened for the officers closer to the central hubbub of the base and the original room had been all but forgotten. It had officially become theirs after Ghost had quietly replaced the room's card-reader with a locking knob, and calmly distributed the keys to his teammates without any clarification of what they were for.

Was that completely against regulations? Yes. 

Did he have Captain Price's full -and unspoken- support? Also yes.

“Post’s in, lads.” Price announced, dropping a fat envelope and a medium sized box mummified in packing tape onto the wobbily coffee table that squatted in front of the telly. 

First to come over and investigate, as always, was Gaz. He’d said before that his father, Arthur Garrick, claimed to enjoy the rustic charm of sending handwritten letters rather than texting or calling, but Gaz was fairly certain that the family preference for letters came from the fact that it was nearly impossible to get Gaz and Gaz’s mother, Gemma Garrick, on the same schedule for a family phone call. Gaz was the apple of his parent’s eyes and every letter was at least three pages from each of them, as they caught each other up on the new gossip and Arthur tried to draw his son into debates on various books. Most times when a package came in it was a book for Gaz that his father wanted him to read, so that they could talk about it. 

Pulling out his knife to open the box, Gaz ignored Ghost judging the knife’s maintenance from his perch looming behind Soap on the raggedy two-seater sofa in the corner and cut easily through the tape. Pausing when he found the box filled with an excessive amount of packing materials and cushioning, topped with another letter. 

After rechecking that the name on the thick envelope he’d claimed did read ‘Kyle Garrick’, he closed the box flaps and searched for its shipping label. Finding it addressed to ‘Coinneach MacTavish’, matching the letter in the box. 

“Cap, I think the mail room gave you someone else’s stuff.” Gaz said, sheepishly keeping the box pressed closed, “Is there another MacTavish on base or something?”

“No,” Ghost spoke up, Soap and he watching curiously as Price walked back over to investigate, “There isn’t.”

Gaz pointed to the name on the shipping label, quietly suffering through Price’s slow sans reading-glasses squint. 

“No,” The Captain eventually denied, “They didn’t give me the wrong box, that’s for Soap.”

“Soap?” Gaz exclaimed, “But it says-” 

It was the abrupt pause as Gaz debated his willingness to give reading the addressee’s name aloud a crack that got Soap up and moving. Ghost following along behind him. 

Soap spun the box on the table and checked the name himself. “Aye, it’s fer me,” He confirmed, sliding the box off the table into his arms.

“Since when are you C- Coneech?” Gaz interrogated, pointing accusingly at Soap. 

“Coinneach.” Soap corrected amiably, ignoring Ghost pawing at the box as he tried to uncover the label to take a peek, “An’ since the day I wae born, I recon.” 

“Your name’s not John?” Ghost’s voice carried no inflection at all, and Soap instantly knew he was taking being ignorant of this badly. 

“Nae!” Soap cried, spinning to face Ghost head on, “It is! Mah full name’s Coinneach John.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ghost’s voice remained completely flat, but he allowed himself to grasp the hand Soap stretched out to him. 

“Would ye believe it never occurred tae me?” Soap gave his partner a self-deprecating smile, “Naen bu’ the folk back home call me Coinneach.” 

“They don’t call you Johnny.” Ghost said it as a statement rather than a question, but Soap knew he was searching for reassurance. 

“Nae, jus' you can pull that off, mo chridhe.” Soap squeezed at his hand, and was warmed by Ghost returning the squeeze, “Ma and mah grandparents call me Coinneach, an’ mos’ ae mah siblings call me Kennie. Johnny is jus’ y’urs.” 

Ghost nodded, and by the possessive gleam in his eyes Soap knew he liked that.

“Anyway.” Gaz interjected, jolting them from their doe-eyed staring, “What’s in the package, Tav?” 

“Oh,” Soap startled, looking down at the box tucked under his arm like he’d completely forgotten he was holding it, “Ah dinnae ken. Ah didnae ask fer any’hing.”

Soap plunked the box back down on the table and started tearing out all the cushioning with no aplomb, waving away Gaz’s embarrassed apology for mistakenly opening his package. 

“Aw, fuck,” Soap groaned into his hands when the enough of the packing had been discarded that the shape of the contents had become more clear, “Ah tol’ him no’ tae send it,”

Price came over to join Gaz and Ghost in staring cluelessly at the vaguely teardrop shape still safely ensconced in its plastic prison. 

‘What's it, luvie?” Price spoke after a beat, as Soap seemed content to groan scots gaelic complaints into his palms instead of finishing his unpackaging of the mysterious object.  

“Mo fìdheall.” Soap mumbled, electing to continue hiding his face, but unable to hide the blush that crept up to redden the tips of his ears. 

“English, Johnny,” Ghost chided, coming around to press up against Soap’s back, his eyes crinkling in a fond smile when the Scot immediately turned to bury his face into Ghost’s chest.

“Granda sent me mah fuckin’ fiddle.” Soap whinged, upping his volume to make up for him smothering himself in his partner’s pecs, “I tol’ him nae. When ah’m ah gonnae be fuckin’ playin’ a fuckin’-” the rest of Soap’s grumbles faded into incoherent Scots. 

Ghost’s chest shook with suppressed giggles and he brought a hand up to pet at Johnny’s warhawk, not in the slightest bit interested in dislodging Soap from his hiding spot. 

“Can I open it?” Gaz asked, darting looks between Soap’s back and the mostly opened box, proceeding without hesitation when Soap waved an uncaring hand back at him. The Scot was busy having his brain melted by heavenly head scritches, letting all his weight drop onto an increasingly smug Ghost. 

Discarding an improbable amount of bubble wrap and three quilts, Gaz pulled out and unzipped a case, then lifted free an aged violin. 

“Tav, you play the fiddle?” Gaz asked, holding it up by the neck like it was his prized catch of the day. Price’s eyebrows raised to kiss his hairline as he looked contemplatively between the instrument in question and his hiding Sergeant. 

A huge sigh heaved though Soap, and he rocked his head to the side to peek out at them with one blue eye, a ruddy blush still staining his cheeks, “Aye.” He reluctantly confirmed, “Ah can.”

“Will you play us something?” Price asked, a hidden eagerness colouring his question. 

“Nae,” Soap shook his head back into the crease of Ghost’s pecs, the rest of his answer lost to the plush of Ghost’s chest. 

“He said he needs to tune it and check it wasn’t damaged.” Ghost relayed after clearing what sounded suspiciously like a giggle from his throat. 

“Another time then,” Price permitted with a nod, ignoring the irreverent wave Soap tossed him. 

Gaz packed the fiddle back into its case with gentle hands, by its age he guessed that it probably belonged to someone else before Soap, maybe a parent or a grandparent. He thought of asking, but a glance over dissuaded him. 

Ghost had herded Soap back over to their sofa and had the Scot tucked up securely on his lap with his head pressed into Ghost’s neck as skillful fingers scritched over his scalp, making a mess of his warhawk. Not that Soap seemed to care, if the blissed out hums that he was letting a very self-satisfied Ghost wring from his throat were any indication.

Thank You For Reading!

I know absolutely nothing about playing the fiddle, nor do I have any idea about how'd I go about writing someone playing it. So we just neatly sidestepped that.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

[disguisedcheezed]

what made you like dirkjohn so much? like how did the ship pop into your head?

"how did the ship pop into your head?"

Okay. So, I just did some digging through my old abandoned accounts, and it turns out dirkjohn was my main reason why I read Homestuck in the first place. XD

They got me with their dumb looking faces and I thought I should just ship them because they're my favorites. And the fact that they were a blue orange color combo, which is the color combination I am very obsessed over, is just a mere coincidence that just made me like them more.

I don't even remember other shit from 2020-2022 because I was busy fighting for my life. 😭 I did knew that they had one interaction, so I just read the comic without expecting much of them as a ship but I loved them as their individual characters.

"what made you like dirkjohn so much?"

I don't just like dirkjohn. I LOVE dirkjohn. It's not even an exaggeration. I couldn't talk about dirkjohn(or just themindividually) without making poetry.

Anyway. The depressed weed boyfriends dirkjohn 2016-2019 shippers were right this. It was made sometime after the release of the snapchats where John is alone in his room for quite a while. And then there's other people who say like "of course they're being paired because they're the left overs of the kids ships", but what if it's like they were meant to be that way? What if they finally get to talk to each other and call out on each other's destructive behaviors? What is more romantic than being understood? Everyone else has figured out what to do with their lives.

Dirk helps John be grounded back into reality and tell him that there are friends that care for him. John tells Dirk to get out of his head, stop over thinking about the future and take care of himself. They inevitably take care of themselves by taking care of the other. They should take care of themselves for the other. And over time they get to share interest in watching animes, shitty movies and pranks.

The above is only showing "the good part" of dirkjohn.

"The worst part" ? Dirk and John were created in love of Everything, but they were doomed to be Nothing.

Similarities : They heavily mirror each other through almost all aspects of their lives.

Ex. (only a few. this isn't even the half of it.)

John: Rise up / Prince: Rise up

Liv Tyler / Lil Seb (puttin the bunny in the box)

Dirk sending gifts to his friends through a sendificator(red box) that helps/interacts with his friends physically(robots). John sends gifts to his friends through mail(blue box) that would give them their unique identity forever.

These conversations have the same vibe where they wanted to know what the other is really like apart from them knowing their adult counter parts:

In what aspect are they The Same? :

They hate themselves. Dirk dwells in it. John pushes it in the back of his head and doesn't want to think about any of it.

Dirkjohn Conclusion/Bare essentials: They effortlessly make the appeal themselves.

This is also why looking at HS^2 through a dirkjohn perspective just makes it a huge dirkjohn fanfiction. X

They ascend the need for a label in their relationship/any form of romance because of how intertwined they are to each other that they are a concept as a whole. (looks at the camera)

Dirk and John are the very threads of what makes Homestuck, Homestuck... Which means nothing.

End of ask mood moard;

My body is a vessel that collected every piece of Dirk and John's showed it back into the audience piece by piece and I will never stop doing it.