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its-actually-minicika · 2 years ago

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Hi, love your works so much! Can't wait for more updates 🥰🥰 I was wondering maybe you'd like the idea where book!Aemond and Velarion!(Strong?)Reader are in an arranged marriage. But Reader just knows what to say and how to act so that Aemond is wrapped around her finger (kinda thought of Margaery and Joffrey situation, she was such a talented schemer, worthy of winning the Throne 😭). I don't really know about the setting, like if it's before, during or after the Dance... just thought it'd be interesting to see this kind of plot with our beloved Prince 🤴🏼🐉

If you don't like it, just ignore me 🙈

Dragon Sickness (18+)

Pairing: bookcanon!Aemond x Strong!Niece!Reader

Warnings: No usage of (Y/N), Greens win AU, bookcanon Greens, the obvious Targaryen incest, mentions of major character deaths (we're entering spoiler grounds, but not really), blood, gore etc.

Word Count: 3.5K+

Author's Note: I fell in love with this idea the moment I saw it! I ended up altering the plot line for this one-shot a little bit - the reader will definitely grow into the Margaery architype, but today you shall see her as she was when she just learned how to make ends meet with her newfound life at Court.

I don't know if I should turn this into yet another series, but if you guys enjoyed this, let me know

Also, thank you so, so much for your kind words ♡ i'm hugging you to the moon and back!

PART 2 IS OUT NOW ♡♡♡

Who could ever blame you for your indiscreet acts? Alliances change when the world you know suddenly turns upside down.

She remembered how weak she was. How scared she had been.

How her eyes widened into two brown specs of uncertainty, how her mouth fell agape, as she mulled over Alicent’s words.

‘You shall marry Aemond within the next moon turns. For the good of the Realm.’

The Dowager Queen had openly admitted to being against the match – of course, the prospect of her perfect son, married off to a lowly bastard of Rhaenyra's (otherwise said, her last surviving child), didn’t specifically thrill her. Much less her demanding and scornful father.

Still, it couldn’t be helped. And if the Velaryon wanted to keep her head away from a spike, she had no other choice but to comply.

Although… she wasn’t a Velaryon now, was she? Aegon the Usurper made sure of that.

His final gift to her was to strip her of all her titles. She had been openly declared a bastard – before the masses, before the Court.

With a wide smile upon his burnt lips, the “King” had told her she’d be a Targaryen instead. Driftmark wouldn’t matter, her legacy wouldn’t matter. Aemond would inherit the seat with the Usurper’s blessing, as a homage brought to his able fighting and his shown bravery on the bloody battlefield.

Never mind that he’d never partaken in a fight; save for the one that killed her stepfather, Daemon, and sent her poor mother in a downward spiral. Aemond had chosen his adversaries wisely, and managed to go through the whole war without as much of a scratch upon his silver armour.

‘I shan’t marry your son. Not now, not ever.’ Her own voice rang out.

‘You will do exactly as demanded.’

‘I would rather die than bear the treacherous children of that monstrous beast.’

A monstrous beast. That is what Aemond was.

And that is what he shall remain. No matter how many gifts he brought to her. No matter how many hours of their days and days in their weeks and weeks in their months they spent promenading those ghastly gardens.

‘You will if you know your best interests. Your own head may hold no value to you, but a single swing of my son’s sword would be enough to bring forth the ruin of House Blackwood.’

At first, she’d been restless in her attempts to escape the Keep. Her every waking hour was spent shamelessly inside the Sept, where she prayed not for the safety of her brothers’ souls, but for revenge against the mutted Greens.

The slight breeze of the cathedral mended her flesh from the heat of summer. And no one dared to approach or talk to her. The quietness was a welcomed deed.

During the first night of their betrothal, her glossy eyes scanned Aemond’s face. His hands wantonly gripped at his thighs and a slight twitch of his mouth, accompanied by an elongated hum escaped his lips.

There was no other discernable expression. And when he led her to the chambers of her early girlhood, he merely bowed and kissed her hand.

She spent the first night of their betrothal scraping her knuckles so harshly, that they broke and cracked under the stimulation of the cold water.

Her thirst for vengeance ceased after the first two months. Her wedding date was approaching swiftly, and she found herself faced with the abhorrent truth. She had no allies. No more friends at Court. The girl had shut herself in her tiny room, losing her mind with the pain and grief that flooded her at night: the faces of her mother, her brothers, her father. The sound of their screams and their endless pleas for help.

Every night, without a fail, she woke up tormented by nightmares – her throat burning with absolving shrieks of fear, exacerbated breaths of air and flimsy nightdresses, damp throughout by breaks of sweat.

The first night she lashed out onto her bedding was the night she found out Aemond had moved his Quarters next to hers. He yanked the door open and stepped into the light of her candle – looking ravished, completely out of breath and startled. Started not for his own accord and safety, but for the state that his future wife had been in.

‘Shit, it’s alright, I’m here–’

The echo of his mellow voice deterred her to let out a blood-curdling scream, that would have rivalled even the one of the late Queen Rhaenyra, after Aegon the Usurper ceased her at Dragonstone, and reeled his dragon to eat her whole.

‘Get the fuck away from me! Get the fuck out of my room!’

Her sobs pierced into the man’s heart, but his hurt expression was masked quickly with one most bitter and taciturn. He clenched his fists ruefully by his side, and spat out an apology in a low and dangerous tone.

‘As you wish.’

And how dearly he loved those words:

‘As you wish.’

'As you desire.’

Even though nothing had been, or ever will be, as she achingly wished them to.

“You could at least attempt to look happy.” His chastising tone rained upon her, as his Lady remained hammered in her seat. Maids flocked to her like lost chickens to their cock, arranging her hair and picking out dresses fit for their engagement parade.

Her face contorted into the mirror, and a faint sigh beleft her lips. Carefully she turned around, reflecting his stance with a subtle arch to her shapely brow.

“It’s bad luck to see your bride before the wedding ceremony.”

“An old wives' tale. And one that applies only on the day itself.”

“Perhaps we should encourage tradition more. Make it so we don’t cross paths at all til then.”

Just as fast as it came, the feral look dissolved over his tired face. Aemond heaved out a heavy exhale and merely settled to growl at her maids.

“Leave us. Now.”

A discontented look painted over her fair features. His niece opened her mouth in protest, to try and stop the fleeing girls from truly making their escape.

“I must remind my Prince that the engagement assembly will be held in less than an hour. I believe I should like them to stay.”

The gathered women exchanged lost and protruding glances, until the former King Regent spoke again.

“They will leave us at once.”

“They’ll do no such a thing. They must make haste to get me ready. We wouldn’t want to upset your mother.”

“I’m more than capable of lacing up a loose bodice.”

The tight expression on her face deserted her features with the leave of his smug retort. She swallowed thickly in enraged abandon, and silently beseeched her ladies not to leave her all alone.

Still ravishing her with his bold stare, Aemond stepped another foot into the cosy confinements of her tidy prison. “If I’m to turn around now and find any of you standing before me, I’ll arrange that you’re all flogged and defiled beyond the utter of salvation.”

Brisk footsteps swallowed the room, echoing wildly through the narrow dark hallways. The former Velaryon shook her head in disarray, and graced her soon-to-be-husband with a tight smile and a nod.

“Congratulations.” She uttered humorously, “I should enjoy looking like a fool tonight much more than being proper by your side.”

As if drowned below a trace, Aemond took another step in the direction of the frowning Princess. His face remained impenetrable, but as he opened his mouth to speak, his voice ran meek, unsure and hoarse.

“Turn around.” He commanded her gently, whilst grabbing a deep green garment from the cluttery made on her bed. Despite her lack of desire to abide by his request, the woman turned her back to him and muttered slowly, though much softer than intended.

“I don’t like that one. It’ll make the skirts look out of place.”

“Which one do you want, then?” His whisper had made her draw in a sharp gasp; the warmth of his breath fell soothingly over the nape of her neck, caressing her delicate skin in a way she hadn’t known was possible.

“The red one with black lacings.”

His hand came to spin her back around, and their noses nearly touched together. A smile tugged at the ends of his upturned lips, but the look inside his eye remained frigid and unforgiving.

“Your petticoat won’t be those colours.”

A conceited scowl graced her face. She reached her hand behind him and skillfully snatched one of a different design. “Fine. I want to wear this one, then.”

The obnoxious blue and silver danced across her paling skin. And if Aemond weren’t so dazed by their proximity and lack of air, he might have laughed at her feeble attempts of vexing him.

“Those are Velaryon hues.”

“Perfect. I shall honour my house well.”

“You are not a Velaryon to grace them with such a feat.”

“No, you are absolutely right. Your brother did name me a Targaryen.”

Their faces were so close to each other, that their moving lips were almost touching.

“Yet I can’t wear black and red either.” A prompted look disarmed the Prince, “It is all very confusing.”

His lone orb descended to her puffing bosom, but Aemond soon directed himself upon a more elusive image. His fingers twitched with the need to grab a hold of her – to pull away those last pieces of cloth that shielded her away from view.

“You know full well why I can’t allow that.” He hummed in unmoving disapproval, “As much as I enjoy your voice and the raptures of your closeness, I must say this conversation bores me.”

“I should be able to wear what I want.” Came her prompt and swift reply, “But of course, Your Grace, forgive me. ‘Tis not for men to pounder on laces and brims.” Her palms took to rest upon his bulging chest, and the girl nearly removed them at once, as the thrumming of his heart enterlaced with her slim fingers. Still, she furrowed her brows in a most perplexed of mockeries, and insatiably drove on, “Indeed resilient men such as yourself occupy their time much better.”

The callouses of his hands fell heavily upon her cheeks.

“Fucking their ways through brothels, getting their pricks wet, and fantasising about wars.”

The harshness of his next tug nearly broke her brave facade – her eyes widened in mistrust, and a slight recoil braced over her straightened back. Her small fingers clasped over his shaking wrist, which held onto her face with a gentleness untoward; one completely mismatching with the predatory glimmer in his eye.

The man he was, and the man he was trying to be would surely never mend to one.

A Kinslayer. A monster. A divergent freak.

Nothing more, and nothing less.

His thumb played absent-mindedly at her lower lip, and the young Princess tried her damnest not to bite him. “Did I strike a nerve with that one?”

“You are as imprudent as you are beautiful. A family trait, I assume.”

“You have my gratitude for the flattering commentary. I’m very proud of my heritage.”

His lilac orb bore into her, and the man let out a reserved laugh, “Your bastard brothers were ample proud. Look where that brought them.” The rough end of his hand gripped her own painfully, before she could make for a swing at his handsome face. “Lost in the seas, rotting at the bottom of an ocean, nestling inside Sunfyre’s belly.”

While her hands were clasped together, her mouth wasn’t sown shut. With a single and effective move, she spat harshly in his face, eliciting a groan from her broader perpetrator.

Though his nostrils flared up in disdain, the man graced her with a calculated smirk. “Did I strike a nerve with that one?” He mocked her with feigned interest.

“Fuck you,” She hissed out slowly, “Don’t you dare talk of my family – my brothers were ten times the man you are.”

“Oh, but I have every right to talk about your family. Given that I will be yours quite soon.” Once more he forced her to turn around, and kneeled over to her spasming form, to begin dressing her up; in nought else, of course, but the mundane silks of his choosing.

"Doesn't the prospect thrill you? To become my lady-wife, to finally bear a true Targaryen inside your royal womb?"

So hopeless and defeated she felt, that the youth jerked herself relentlessly, while repeating him the same plethora of words. “You cannot force me to be your whore. You cannot force me to wear this. I will not bear your Hightower green.”

Aemond could feel his patience running thin – and when her foot came into contact with his setting knee, the man let out a ferocious growl, and promptly trapped the girl in his arms, with the aid of a nearby wall.

“So you want to be difficult? You don’t want to wear this? Hmm? Well, who am I not to abide my Lady’s burning wishes?”

The sharpness of his dagger came into quick contact with the milky skin of her thighs. And she might have almost screamed, if Aemond didn’t immediately pull himself away. His hard chest grazed hers for but a moment, as the Prince cast his attention to her moving shadow.

“If you wish not to attend our engagement parade wearing the clothes I’ve chosen for you,” He muttered against her face, a scorned look adorning his own, “Then you won’t be wearing anything at all.”

She huffed out a dispensing pant and pursed her lips into a tight line.

She remained rigid and poised, until a spark of amusement swirled into her eyes.

The first crack was that of a lax smile. The next, a tremor to her lips. The calm before the storm approached, until all rattled down with a mirthed laugh cascading from her reddened lips.

“Do you mean to frighten me with this promise?” She asked through the arch of an uncertain brow, “As if every man in this cursed Keep won’t get to watch me whore myself out to you anyway, when our wedding night will come?”

His face suddenly hardened at the notion of their reality – as if he didn’t give much thought to the bedding ceremony. To his Lady being watched by a thousand other eyes but his.

Aemond suddenly darkened, and his fist came into contact with a near spot on the wall, so awfully close to her frightened, paling face.

She watched with wide eyes how his stare contorted from one of realisation to one of fury. He stiffly peeled his body away from hers, and strained himself to leave her be. The jealous and possessive knots that churned painfully inside his stomach burned his skin upon the surface, and constricted the air he brashly took in.

He nodded to her in a spry and calloused manner, and brought his hand out to touch her cheek. His knuckles had begun to bleed, busted by the force of impact that his fist had faced for him. Behind his eye danced a look of seldom shame – he gnawed harshly at his bottom lip, and pondered, for a while, on apologising to his niece; for his lack of princely conduct, for his show of impropriety – for his inability to keep himself at bay.

Still his thoughts failed to merge to words, and so the man ran his eye one final time over her defensive pose, and merely left her standing there.

As if turned into a statue, the girl barely registered the lethargic closing of the door, the hurried and heavy footsteps that travelled further and further away from her quaint and cluttered space, and the animated curse that slipped past her uncle's throat.

Did he just dare to leave her there, with her petticoat half up her legs, in nought else but a flimsy nightdress?

At first she thought that his avoidance was a blessing in disguise.

For after clashing wits with Aemond, and after his swift hurried departure, the man had barely graced her with another word.

His hand held onto hers for the whole duration of the procession. He wordlessly forced her to dance two dances, and led her to her Quarters as soon as she mentioned that she was tired.

But his palms didn’t linger on the shape of her narrow waist – his lips barely grazed her knuckles, and Aemond turned with lest a word to add after their fake sympathies were exchanged.

Had he gotten bored of her? Realised what a terrible match they made, and begged his mother on his hands and knees to break off their ill engagement?

For the first time in a while, a new notion of fear engulfed her.

The Greens couldn’t kill her. Of that, she was almost certain. It wouldn't be a wise move, and it would anger the North beyond the power of salvation. The war had had its say on every army that fought into it, yet the Crownlands were especially weak.

But if Aemond were to sever their solidary alliance, then her future would be most uncertain.

Otto Hightower would make her join with an old and withered Lord, no doubt – one with more than enough sons to further on his pesky line. One who couldn’t even get it up to her, who’d never procreate and mend their blood, who’d make sure Rhaenyra’s line would end with her.

Or perhaps she’d be sent to join the Faith – become a Septa or a Silent Sister, among the infamous Maris Baratheons of the Realm. Yet another girl who wouldn’t keep her tongue when asked.

And history might remember them as ‘the women who couldn’t be tamed’, but their lives would be thrown to ruin. Their existence would remain a sham.

No, she had whispered to herself, as she writhed into the soft bedding. If she still thirsted for revenge, she would have to marry Aemond. Keep him interested and relaxed – yearning for her voice and company.

… And if she had to whore herself to him to do it, she would obediently assume her role.

“I beg your pardon?” Aegon asked through another gulp of bitter wine, “Gods be good – I believe that now I’ve heard it all.”

Aemond paced about his brother’s room, with his hands clasped behind his back, and his face set into a deep grimace. He hummed in admission to his brother’s words, and glanced his way with the instance of a hooded eye.

“There is to be no bedding ceremony.” He repeated himself with ease, “I frightened her enough already. The girl will be plenty uncomfortable without the aid of chafing eyes.”

His brother smiled and raised his brows in nothing else but blinding wonder. A small shake of his head indicated his perplexion, and a sharp inhale his drawn decision.

“Mother insisted upon it. You know that well.” The man steadied himself in his chair as he spoke, whilst letting out a small grunt at the contact that the wood made upon his burnt remnants of skin. “I don’t see any reason to annul it. Especially now, an eve before.”

Another sip of the stinging liquor interrupted his smooth and ready trail of thought. The Targaryen brushed off Aemond’s concerns, and gleefully bided his teasing.

“It’ll do the two of you good – you’ll get to see she’s as pure as a bastard girl can be; and she’ll have no deniability that any of her future heirs are yours.” He pointed his weary digit in the direction of his stiffened form and swallowed down a hefty laugh. “Not to mention that Lord Redwyne and Tarly already placed bets on the state of her maidenhead. Would be a shame to disappoint them both, don't you think?"

“What mother thinks is of no consequence. And the amusement of the Realm matters not to me. There will be no bedding ceremony.”

“Nonsense, Aemond. It is our duty to upkeep the Realm – and to entertain its inhabitants if need be.”

When his reckless teasing was met with glacial silence, Aegon sighed as he briskly leaned forward. He watched his sibling with an indiscernible expression across his scorched veneer, and yawned greatly at his indisposed behaviour.

“Of course, we’re here to talk it out. But after so much time spent in your company, I fail to see the necessity for such a thing.” A sly smirk danced across his puffy lips, “Are you concerned that she won’t bleed? Or that you’ll be too cunt-struck by her to last enough to make a statement?”

Aemond’s fists descended upon the polished wood of Aegon’d desk. He thrashed his brother with a defiant glare, and hissed through his gritted teeth, and tight-set jaw.

“There will be no bedding ceremony for my niece and I. Tell that to every Lord that wishes to glance upon my wife – if they do so much as to cast their eyes on her, they’ll be fucking their own wives with a wooden cock.”

Amusement laced with grave concern – the finality of Aemond's words ought to have vexed him, irk the King in his sibling's weighty insolence. Instead Aegon nodded, pushing back the feeling of dread that settled deep within his bones. His head jerked towards his closed oak door, signalling to his brother that his visit had been overstated. “What sort of brother would I be, to not grant you with this simple whim?”

The younger Targaryen mirrored his stance, and turned abruptly on his heel after a low grunt of gratitude.

His hand reached for the golden handle, but Aegon's words deterred him to a halt.

“But be careful with that one, Aemond. She’s brash and wholly unpredictable. Make sure the blood that stains your sheets come morning isn’t somehow your very own.”

Perma Tag List: @welcometothelioncage @kravitzwhore ♡

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bergdg · 2 months ago

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Analyzing Invention: Jan-Aug 2024

We are now two-thirds through 2024. Each week, a new challenge has appeared as part of the Inventor's Fair, a Magic: the Gathering card design contest blog here on Tumblr.

For the uninitiated, each week, a design challenge is announced on the blog and members of the community create cards meeting the design specifications. At the end of the week, a few winners and runner-ups are selected from the submission.

So let's take a look at some of the trends so far this year - January through August.

Art. Katerina of Myra's Marvels. Illustrated by Gaboleps

The Contests

Through August, there have been 33 contests: 11 being led by @abelzumi, 10 being led by @spooky-bard, and the rest led by an assortment of judges (Note: there were 6 contest in which the judge didn't identify themselves).

Throughout these 33 contests, there have been 723 entries, spread over 110 unique participants. Of those participants, there have been 17 who have submitted at least 17 submissions (50+% participation). A special shout-out to @nine-effing-hells for their 33 submissions.

On average, there have been 22 participants per contest, with the highest being Common Wonders (30 participants) and the lowest being a tie between My Better Half, War Never* Changes and Spoiled for Choice (16 participants).

Fig. 1 - Line Graph of the Number of Entries Per Contest. Blue dots represent the number of entries for a contest, and the green line represents the 3-contest average.

The Submissions

As previously mentioned, there have been 723 unique entries (some of which had multiple designs, such as all the ones submitted for My Better Half).

In previous evaluations, we looked at all sorts of data: such as card types, mana value, and rarities. While prepping for this iteration, I asked what folks would like to see. The request: let's see some color breakdowns. So let's deep-dive!

Starting off, let's look at general color identities. If they are at least partial in the color, they'll be included here. In order:

Black: 232

Blue: 224

Red: 215

White: 211

Green: 156

Most of the colors are pretty close in the number of entries, except poor ol' green. This is the same from what we saw in the January-April update as well. (The order then was almost the exact same, with just blue and black swapping places).

The pattern is similar when we look at solely mono color entries, with Blue and Red swapping places:

Black: 91

Red: 87

Blue: 83

White: 80

Green: 55

Fig. 2 - Image of Kermit the Frog, with text saying "It's not easy bein' green".

Now let's dip into a well we haven't before: multi-color entries!

Based on our general color tendencies, you might think Dimir (blue-black) OR Rakdos (black-red) would be in the top spot. And while they do make a good showing (at #2 and #4 respectively), the top spot might surprise you:

Orzhov (W B): 35

Dimir (U B): 34

Izzet (U R): 30

Rakdos (B R): 26

Azorius (W U): 24

Boros (R W): 23

Simic (G U): 22

Gruul (R G): 20

Selesnya (G W): 16

Golgari (B G): 13

Unsurprisingly, all 4 green guilds were lowest on the list. I was surprised that Golgari was lowest though, with the general black designs being the most prominent.

For three colors, most of the 10 options are fairly close, between 3 and 5 entries each. The slight stand-out was Abzan (W B G) with 6. There has been only a single 4-color design, Atraxa's Command designed by @khyrberos (g w u b), and four 5-color designs.

There have also been 35 colorless cards designed. I'll give a note here on lands - since we are looking a color identity and not mana cost, many lands are in a color bucket, not just here in colorless land.

Well, that about sums things up for this time around. It's always cool to see everyone's submissions each week as part of the @inventors-fair! Y'all are awesome, and I can't wait to see what designs you come up with through the end of the year. And maybe, just maybe, think about adding some green :).

#inventors fair #magic: the gathering #custom cards

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iamamythologicalcreature · 7 months ago

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Pitch Manor Progress (which is sort of like Six Sentence Sunday but also not)

It's still Sunday for five more minutes, here. SO....

Okay, I haven't written anything on the Haunting of Simon Snow in awhile. But I have been working on my floor plan for Pitch Manor, which is more than tangentially related to the potential progress of that fic. And today's a rough one for me, so I'm going to post about it like it's progress so I might feel a tad better. Ahem.

OKAY. SO. I've been working on a floor plan for Pitch Manor for... pretty much forever and a day. I ran into trouble when I was writing chapter 2 of Haunting and Simon (Construction Worker!Simon) began to describe the house. I realized... I had no idea what he was describing.

(Warning, there is a long winded geeky ramble ahead. It's just how I do things. Ahem.)

What was supposed to be a quick "let's find a floor plan that I can just copy with some minor adjustments" project has since turned into my special interest project. As a history nerd, that means a lot of research, looking at dozens of floor plans for other houses ranging in origination from the 16th century to the 20th (and probably a few older than even that, since a ton of religious buildings were repurposed into estates. Think Downton *Abbey*.)

But this past week, I feel I've really pushed through a lot of the issues I kept running into. (I've ridiculously been trying to make it as true to the descriptions in Carry On as possible, and something that fits the purposes of my fic, which of course I have envisioned in many, sometimes incompatible, ways.) I've had to make some "this or that, you can't have both" choices, but I'm finally happy with the basic shape and layout.

Whew.

Just for funsies, here's a cross section snippet of my floor plan WIP. It's pretty messy still, but I'm still excited LOL

And (finally), instead of six sentences, I will instead offer you all six tidbits of information about Pitch Manor, as I've envisioned it:

There are four (4!) different sitting rooms. Because the aristocracy just loved their sitting rooms. (Parlor, Withdrawing room, Drawing room, and Reception/Receiving room.)

There is a ballroom. Try and stop me.

The original manor house was built in the 17th century, and has been refurbished and updated a few times.

The most extensive refurbishment happened in the 19th century, which is how it gained its current stylings. (Baz is a freaking troll and I love him for it. The most popular architectural style in the Victorian era was "Gothic Revival." "It's not Gothic; it's Victorian." Hah.)

Some rooms were added on during the Victorian refurbishment, including a Smoking room. They were very popular at that time.

The largest room in the house isn't the ballroom. It's the library. (It's two stories. Try and stop me.)

(I do hope to release the floorplans into the fandom wild after they're complete, in case anyone else wants to make use of them.)

I want to ramble more. But it's almost midnight. Sooo.... Gratitude and hellos under the cut!

Thank you to @blackberrysummerblog, @shrekgogurt, @rimeswithpurple, @thewholelemon, @monbons,

and @cutestkilla for the tags. I'm looking forward to seeing what everyone is working on!

Thank you also to those of you who have willingly (I hope) listened to me ramble on about this damned project of mine for ages. Because boy howdy, do I ramble. @cutestkilla, @hushed-chorus, @artsyunderstudy, @youarenevertooold, @ic3-que3n,

@best--dress, @monbons, and @mooncello. It's good there are a few of you, that way no single poor soul has to bear the full weight of my obsession special interest. (If anyone reading this actually wants to join these ranks, hit me up on Discord XD)

Thanks also to everyone that has tagged me even when it's been ages in between progress posts from me. I appreciate being kept in the loop on what you all are up to creatively!

Hellos and howdies to @noblecorgi @bookish-bogwitch @that-disabled-princess @bazzybelle @messofthejess

@imagineacoolusername @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @prettygoododds @emeryhall @ileadacharmedlife

@valeffelees @fiend-for-culture @bubble-gumhead @brilla-brilla-estrellita @aristocratic-otter

@j-nipper-95 @whatevertheweather @ivelovedhimthroughworse @drowninginships @alexalexinii

@facewithoutheart @angelsfalling16

#six sentence sunday #pitch manor #estate houses #floor plan #simon snow trilogy #baz pitch is a troll and I adore him for it #tbf I adore him pretty easily #it's not gothic it's victorian #gothic revival #I have so many other things I'm supposed to be working on #but also I'm super excited about this #and it's given me ideas #which is the best thing #the haunting of simon snow #I ramble a lot #sorry not sorry #okay it's technically monday now but posting this anyway #jodofic

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wrestlingarsenal · 8 months ago

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In the early Aughts, my favorite Tag Team was "America's Most Wanted" -- James Storm and Chris Harris. These two studs were booked nearly every week to suffer some incredible beatings on TNA Wrestling. In 2004, they were involved in a Handicap Match which I wrote about on my old Wrestling Arsenal website 20 years ago today, on April 11, 2004 (and continuing the following week on April 18, 2004).

It seems James Storm had injured his shoulder and couldn't wrestle, so the promoters booked his partner, Chris Harris, against one guy from their rival tag team -- the Naturals. Harris won, so the Evil Promoter forced him to immediately wrestle the other member of the Naturals! THEN THE POOR WHIPPING-BOY WAS FORCED TO WRESTLE BOTH OPPONENTS AT THE SAME TIME in a HANDICAP MATCH! (I's all worked up because I love unfair 2-on-1 tag team beatings.) TNA was notably homo-erotic in those days, and also got good ratings. Hmm, I wonder if those go hand-in-hand?

To revisit and update my old static images describing this sadistic scene, I went and found this episode of TNA Wrestling (which aired as a pay-per-view on 2/25/2004) and created this edited video, focusing on the "Wildcat" in agony. I mashed the two preliminary singles matches together with the Handicap Match to make it seem like one long, glorious, two-against-one torture scene. I must say, Chris Harris looks great selling in his tight blue trunks and tall shiny boots, and his partner is adorable outside the ring worrying about him, looking like a chubby Jordan Catalano.

#project 20 #wrestling arsenal website #wildcat chris harris #cowboy james storm #the naturals #america's most wanted AMW #two against one #double teaming in wrestling #tag team wrestling

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see-arcane · 1 year ago

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The Vampyres (PREVIEW)

Something is culling the dead.

Whether they imbibe blood, leech life, or merely traded mortality away to their devil of choice, the revenants of the world are disappearing. A phenomenon that has been carving its way through the undead like a belated necrosis moving steadily through the past century and more. One which the Vampyre, a possessor of many names and collector of many lives, has been fretting over for some time.

A laughable fear, for he is one of those canny cadaverous few who made a deal for perpetual resurrection. The bitten may crumble, but the bargainer may rise from death after death. So he reminds himself. So he worries is no longer the case.

Not when the old boyar in the Carpathians was one of the first to vanish. Still, the monster from the mountains may simply be in hiding, just as the rest must be. The Vampyre himself is surely jumping at shadows. So he convinces himself for a single night…

…before a Thing known only as ‘Quinn Morse’ makes itself and its work known.

Surprise! I accidentally finished a novella during what was supposed to be a short story break. Whoops. Updates to come.

Below is a preview of the opening chapters. A link to the Google Doc version is here.

Warnings for some grisly imagery. Keep an eye out for some familiar faces (such as they are).

The Vampyres

“Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it.

Think’st thou that I who saw the face of God

And tasted the eternal joys of Heaven

Am not tormented with ten thousand hells

In being deprived of everlasting bliss?

O Faustus, leave these frivolous demands

Which strikes a terror to my fainting soul!”

—Mephistopheles, Doctor Faustus

The phone came alive at midnight. A fact he would mercifully only become aware of well after two in the morning. He followed at least one form of etiquette at the table by silencing the device from start to finish of each game. He broke no rules in any casino, however polished or derelict. It was what preserved his hobby. The gambling itself he could leave or take.

But the players themselves were excellent sport.

He beggared every starved and bloodshot player hoping to win funds enough to live off for a month, then played as if blind in order to lose it all to whichever moneyed tick needed it least. Considering how equal the misfortune spread across the board for any who played with him—rich or poor, Good Samaritan or giddy sinner—it was rarely too long before even the least credulous in his circles began to shiver when he showed his face. Or so it was in less congested metropolises where the cattle weren’t so bombarded with other distractions that they couldn’t recognize an ill omen when he took a seat at the felted table. It remained true now, as always, that whoever played against him wound up either penniless or slated for an avalanche of misery the moment they spent the money he’d lost to them. A fact that so many of them never bothered to notice even in this age of conspiracy and wildfire gossip living in their myriad screens.

Bless their blunted little souls.

That night he was feeling slightly more at ease than he had in some weeks. Even one of the cocktail girls, whose mind carried a pleasing well of empathy and whose fingernails were still lined with soil from a group tree planting, tickled at his peripheral senses and twitched his appetite half awake. If he wanted, he could talk her number out of her over a drink he would never choke down, perhaps keeping her pinned at a stool with his face and his wallet. He might dance her along for a date or three and then bite her throat out before they struck June. The same could be said for the svelte young man behind the bar who had almost fumbled his showman mixologist pour upon making eye contact with him. He had a tang of hope and action sweating from him, the kind that was destined either to make a hero or a martyr of him someday. It would almost be a mercy to put him down in his prime.

The girl, then.

He flung a little mental nudge her way. Enough to make her turn her head. At the same time, he fished out the phone to play with. Just to have it ready should the exchange come quicker than anticipated. A small mountain of text messages sat fresh and unread there. This was surprising by its own merit, considering how scant his contacts were. Then he saw the name. Irritation broke out on his mood like a rash.

Taking himself to a private corner, he began to read. And read. And read. Irritation grew into something heavier. Sicker.

At the bottom of the reading, he tapped play so he might watch.

When all was seen and heard, his hand twitched, crunched in the phone’s sides, and sent spider web cracks flying across the screen. A ruddy gentleman stopped en route to the toilet in time to see this and mumble something about how he ought to invest in a device of higher quality. The man had this cousin working for a new startup, you see, and if he was so inclined—

The last mote of joy he took away that night was the look on that rubicund face as it met the eyes of something no longer bothering to pretend it was human. A grey eye might be ignored. Not so for a dead one. He left the man scrambling his way to the stalls.

On his way to the doors, he made sure to radiate every deathly ounce of his presence into the air as he could. A quelling cold that made the glee of the night’s winners crumble into a dread of things they could not name. Then he was out and under the moon. He nursed from that pale waxing wedge in a desperate reflex. It was a thin taste here, lost in the searing pollution of streetlights and neon, but he basked just the same. Still basking, he crushed the phone in his fist and dropped the remains down a sewer grate. Then he was gone, one of a thousand streaks of rolling light and metal on the asphalt.

He only ever carried phones as a prop.

In this age and those to follow, it would be imperative to keep one of the aggravating little slabs on hand for the purposes of adding the phone numbers of sundry quarries or engage in the back-and-forth patter that so many of them insisted on in those hours when they weren’t side by side. Fortunately, he’d found himself blessed enough to dodge one of the maladies which others indulging in a healthy unlife hadn’t. True, the form he had bartered for had only so many perks, but opting out of extravagant powers had trimmed down the amount of tells.

Some poor bastards had to walk around without reflections or shadows while grumbling over the barriers of running water and uninvited thresholds. Others only discovered their drawbacks as the 20th century budded, revealing too late that their photographs came out either empty or hideously distorted. Even the audio of their voices came out muted or garbled into static. He’d avoided all of these caveats by trading for a more thinly arcane state of undeath rather than glutting himself on all the powerful options in reach. And why not? It still came with the most desired prize without any need for filigree.

Given blood and moonlight enough, there was no iteration of death from which he could not rebound. Same as any of the self-made devils lurking about in the shadows. Such shadows as were left for things like them. In a lighter mood, he might have enjoyed the notion of picking at the wounds of those who’d not bothered with the foresight of arranging investments and back doors of identification for the centuries to come. Only fools could miss how tight the noose of bureaucracy was becoming. A body loitering among the mayfly mortals had to be prepared and he had once laughed to himself at how many times the sorcerous types had to gnash their fangs and scramble to cover themselves as time ticked on and their lounging hedonism softened into corrosion.

But such amusing thoughts had iced over in recent decades.

He had not gotten as far as he had alive or undead by resting on his laurels. Oh, he might enjoy playing with his food and sowing a bit of casual desolation where it could be nurtured, but he never gambled when it came to things that might inconvenience him. Things like other bloodsuckers, for instance. A few had been proper nuisances of old. The majority of the stray vampiric beauties wandering around crypts and lonely midnights luring gullible lovers into their teeth were invariably the result of irresponsible collecting by the usual harem hoarders. Such carelessness often led to sleeping cadavers staked and slaughtered in their boxes like oversized leeches. Not a concern for himself, naturally—he could enjoy a bed rather than graveyard dirt or casket walls—but the attention itself got too many hackles up.

Enough of them raised about a certain type of person could lead to inconvenience. One of his older worries had been the notion of an outright arrest. A trial. A boxing away into a great stone cage of a prison where he would have no choice but to resort to his teeth rather than his daggers or risk being found out as a perpetually young and deathless inmate. A bloody break out, an escape, some secret place where he could lay under the moon and heal from the bullets, going on the run for a decades-long stint until all assumed he must be dead, all these he could picture…

…but frankly would rather avoid. Hence the need for cannier sorts with this unique condition. Those who knew how to take their fun and their fodder between the lines of human living and laws.

It was not against the law that certain formerly-benign persons around you turned apoplectic with madness, horror, or rage after spending a few months in your company. Nor was it against the law to stamp someone’s empty little head with the alien impression of infatuation, lust, or that softly syrupy joke called romance so that they, like the insect drawn to the pitcher plant, would come within reach willingly; regardless of former commitments or fearful kin. There was no law against trances, against the mystic weight of locking an unwitting brain inside an oath with more power to it than hollow words, against having a seventh sense of awareness when it came to the makeup of a soul.

And, apart from those silly backwards places where superstition still ruled, there was certainly no law against being an accused vampire. Or a vampyre, to go by his preferred spelling. Kate Northcott mocked him for this and other affectations on those sparse occasions when they met.

Her name was not Kate Northcott any more than his was Gordon Williams, but it was the name she was the most attached to.

“I turned into a proper ghost story with it in the 1880s. Back when the mesmerist fad was booming, you know. Popped one little stage magician’s blood vessel right there in the middle of his act.” A dainty finger waggled. “I take offense to people playing with my toys. It’s his own fault for trying to walk my poor John around.”

Her poor John, who had, like every beau before him, been told the exact nature of both their lovely cruel Kate’s being and precisely what she intended to do with them should they go through with marriage and life thereafter. More, that she would see them dead if they abandoned her. Each man had run. Each had died. Perhaps they’d have lasted longer if she ever allowed a trip to the altar before laying out the truth post-honeymoon, but the rules of her own contract demanded the revelation come before any wedding bells. Not a terrible bargain, all things considered.

This in mind, he had posited that she might have better luck keeping a paramour if she used her fine senses to detect one of those lot who would trip over their own aching members for the chance to be an eternal puppet to her psychic appetite and the twitch of her riding crop. Miss Northcott had batted her lashes. As always, the lambent shine of her eyes tried to work their magic on his own will. As always, they’d scrabbled for a grip on the frictionless wall that shielded his mind from all such parasites; dead drinkers of blood or soul or otherwise. Following the expected failure, she had huffed and tittered.

“Now what’s the point if they want it? I don’t see you jumping at the sea of willing victims hoping for unlife eternal draped in your arms at the cost of a hickey and a liquid diet. You could have had a set of twins that one time, no? The brother and sister, whoever they were. The Audreys? The Ambers?”

“The appetizers,” he said with all the pining recollection of an epicure mourning an especially pleasing steak. “They were a pleasant distraction. It’s the most any quarry can aspire to.” So saying, he made a point of revealing one of the daggers he still kept on his person. Antique and bejeweled, he took some small pride in keeping the whole set gleaming and up to the task whenever the latest game came to an end. He’d unsheathed his current pick, admiring the dead grey of his stare reflected in the steel. “I have no interest in collecting sycophants.”

“Likewise.” She had sipped at her cup daintily. Perhaps purposefully, the better to show she was capable of consuming more than the spirit of a collared victim. Whether she could taste anything the café had to offer was not a topic he was interested enough to pry for. “But that begs the question of why you’re suddenly so concerned for your fellows that you would bother with the labors of social interaction to pass the warning on.”

Gordon regarded her stonily over his untouched plate.

“I’m not concerned for any of our ‘fellows’ any more than I’m concerned for you. I have every belief that I am one of the least endangered of our kind and all its branches by dint of having some amount of grey matter dedicated to not flaunting my reality like those idiots who decided to take Bowie and Deneuve as role models. At most, I give you credit for being canny enough to dwell within plausible deniability with your methods. More, you have senses enough to glean for yourself if this threat is in your midst and have enough intelligence to enlist others to help with culling it.”

She muffled a laugh and picked at her croissant.

“Even if I believed you would exert effort to come to my aid, I still fail to see what threat you’ve conjured to be afraid of. Your only evidence so far is that you haven’t been in touch with the others of the old guard in some time. Most have never been keen on letter-writing or trading numbers. The last I checked, the bulk of them prefer the sedentary life to our migratory lifestyle. Castles and manors and villages turned into necropolises and so on. Hermit types by nature.”

“Hermits would be at home. All the places I’ve visited have been empty.” He was surprised at having to keep his throat from bobbing in anxious imitation of a tic from his living years; back when there was need to fret for his life. “And filled with dust.”

Miss Northcott had frowned up at him.

“Dust..?”

“Dust and growth. There were flowers growing in the messes that were fresh enough in their conversions to have flesh leftover. Compost.” He thought back to the surreal gardens left behind in that sequestered corner of Munich that belonged to Dolingen. Then a Serbian village that had been swallowed by a ravenously loving pack of wurdulacs, stopped short of virulence by their rules of homeland borders. Among others. Dust in piles, dust wearing ancient clothes, dust in coffins. And scattered throughout, the bounty of younger fledglings. Meat and bone converted to soil from which wild roses, ash trees, and garlic sprouted in healthy crops. As for the nobler estates?

“The chateaus and mansions are either abandoned, passed on to the wealthy living, or museum pieces now. Maybe their former masters left it all behind in the past hundred or so years to dodge modern eyes scrutinizing the family tree. I’d like to think so. Just as I’d like to think there was a less worrisome reason that all the pseudonyms and auxiliary domains I tried to follow up on had no recognizable owners when I checked in. But even if I were dense enough to convince myself of such, there’s at least one case that suggests—,”

“The Carpathians.” She beamed at him and his stunted oration. “The castle in the mountains has been gutted since 1897, dear. Looted and halfway dismantled to the foundation by the locals. What’s left of it is there for the tourists.” Her slim hand patted his knuckles. “If you’re worried about the handsy old boyar, don’t be. He’s been mobbed and murdered before. A shame about his girlfriends in their boxes, but they were only born of a bite, poor things. No contractual resurrection to fall back on. The Count, if he is still bothering with being a Count, is doubtlessly off haunting some contemporary castle someplace. Probably a nice high rise for him to skitter down or make his batty flights from. Just as the other oldies have likely taken themselves to higher ground. And if their minions really have run afoul of some sterling sorts with hammer, stake, and axe?” Miss Northcott shrugged. “Well, there’s always more pretty chattel to choose from.”

Now she did laugh aloud. A brittle crystalline sound.

“Honestly, I’m shocked that you’d be the one to turn jumpy over such a thing. Supposing there was some active force in the world bumping the lower tier wraiths off, it would still be no more than an annoyance for us. We’ve both had our share of murders to prove as much. The dried-up old conqueror certainly had his fill in the warlord days, if I don’t mistake the legends.”

“He did,” Gordon granted. “And he has reassembled himself plenty of times before. Which is my point. Supposing he is undead and active today, or was a hundred years prior, why would he let the peasants harvest his fortress down into a ruin?”

“Well, he’s obviously left the place,” Miss Northcott shrugged without looking at him. Her attention had gravitated down to her phone. A manicured thumb tapped and scrolled. More appetite than apprehension lived in her gaze. “You can only pass yourself off as your own descendant so long before things start getting sticky. Everyone hits the point where you have to get on with setting up elsewhere. And really, the warlord days are ancient history. If he’d gone out with a flourish of a massacre on the neighboring towns squirming under his eye, it would only have gotten him more unwanted attention. I recommend you start trawling through top mogul names and see if you can’t spot his picture lurking in there, gone fat and happy slurping up interns.” Her lips pursed. “Supposing he was one of the lucky sorts who can have a photo taken.”

With that, the topic was dead. Gordon managed to sit through another quarter of an hour in which she lamented the double-edged factor of her electronic allergy, woeful at never having a decent photo to spare for social media or dating apps, but likewise glad of the identity-baffling glamour it leant.

Chirpily, she reminded him that even those who grew suspicious of her would never be able to take a reliable photo or video of anything but a spectral horror with mist for eyes, unlike some. Better still, no one even spoke on the phone anymore. Bless texting.

He held on until she started regaling him with talk of her latest doomed darling—a Mr. Quinn Morse, the mortuary assistant who she had met in the before and after of her latest fiancé’s funeral—and what a scrumptious psychic treat he was to the palate. She was frankly surprised at herself! He had proven so pleasant a distraction she might not even bother goosing his mind into vomiting out a proposal. Not for a while anyway. Why, she may even take up two-timing the boy just to snack on a fiancé behind his back, ha ha.

Gordon didn’t bother wishing her bon appétit. He picked out a young couple on his way back to the train. Mister and Missus would be found folded inside a dumpster later that evening, chests carved and throats torn. A rejuvenating bout of gluttony that only gave him new energy with which to curse the lack of answers he sat with. Worse still was the lack of competent allies to make up for the former’s deficit. For a while longer he strained to lower his suspicions to the level of Miss Northcott’s confidence.

His main concern was so implausible as to border on impossible, after all.

The turned might be slain, it was true. But those who had commissioned their states from their devil or deity of choice were immune to total destruction by any of the cattle, no matter how endowed in strength or holy accoutrement.

Days and nights were spent rereading these facts in the volumes that still traveled with him to whatever land or identity he haunted. They remained preciously stored in enhanced safes as the centuries ticked on, now handled only with silk gloves and the most delicate turns of cover and page. He scoured the old tongues, some living, some dead, some entirely detached from human script, and took as much solace as he could from the facts laid there.

His contract was one of perpetual function. So long as he drank his dose of blood, he would go on forever. So long as his dead skin was grazed by moonlight, he would shed any injury or temporary death. So long as he was the thing he was, no act of man would have the power to unmake him.

All these were still maintained. He was safe. As anyone else at his level or higher would be. The more grandiose warlocks and dealmakers who’d glutted themselves on fearsome add-ons available to other forms of revenant had simply moved on and were going about their business elsewhere, under new names. Of course. Of course.

“Of course,” he murmured to the yellowed pages. “They all just happened to do so within the last century. On a whim.”

It could be, couldn’t it? Technology and the microscopic examinations of increasingly thorough systems surrounding properties and owners thereof would make it necessary to move on from old roosts sooner or later.

“Without taking any measures to preserve their estates.”

But then what of the villages? The ones full of living peasantry gleefully peeling the properties down to floorboards. The dead spaces where only silence and specific warding flora bloomed. What sense was there to those, if not the fact that something had been and gone and torn the masters of the land out by their bloody roots?

Something.

That was the prospect that worried him most. Something coming to call, something culling the undead and undying, something roaming across borders of land and water to pick them off year by year, decade by decade. Something that may have been active since the boyar in the mountains disappeared. Something which was not human and so did not fall within the parameters of their sundry pacts’ protection.

Gordon grimaced. It would come down to a technicality, wouldn’t it? Be they gods or demons or Folk in-between, there was always some damned loophole built in to ensure a trade was never quite as advertised. Gordon had studied and sworn and dealt with a god wearing the aspect of one of those horrors that passed for divinities in the Mediterranean. One of tripled faces, of lunar light, of words stitched with power. After so many centuries, he had dared to become complacent enough to think he had gotten away with an impenetrable exchange.

But now came this worrisome century and a quarter in which all those dead who lived off the living were dropping out of sight. He might have dared to make an inquiry to Powers beyond mortal matter if he weren’t likewise concerned that this culling was the work of said Powers themselves. Terminating contracts, as it were. Even if this weren’t the case, what more did he have left to barter with for protection from…

From what?

He didn’t know. Still. The result left him twisting unhappily between throes of frustration at his ignorance and grimmer dread of knowledge that might come in the shape of the long-avoided coffin come to collect.

As always, the cure for his own despondency was to share it with others. Hence the casino. The brief high that had almost transfigured into relief.

And then had come the texts from ‘N.’

Even with the phone safely demolished and abandoned, its final bleak gift stayed branded behind his eyes, searing through his thoughts awake or asleep. The first came at ten past midnight:

R. Need help. My arm’s going black. The knife, it

A lull of minutes followed this. The next message came through at 12:15 AM:

It’s real. He’s here and he’s real. Quinn Morse was a cover. I can’t find any of his pictures in the album now. He replaced everything with their markers. All of them.

Another beat. 12:22 AM:

Pick up, damn it! This isn’t a joke! He’s got all the doors and windows cut off and the police won’t be here in time! I already tried to put him down, but he just keeps going. I can’t drink him. I can’t even hold him. He knew he knew the whole time he

Beat. 12:30 AM:

Pick up you bastard

12:31 AM:

Please, R, he’s outside. He’s got my arm. What’s left of my arm. The door’s breaking and h

The next message came at 12:41 AM. A video. Hitting play, the clearest thing throughout the few endless minutes was the background. Miss Northcott’s plush bedroom stood out in crisp relief compared to the two figures in the foreground. One was a vaguely female haze that Gordon recognized as what was left of Kate Northcott. She flickered in and out of the camera’s concept of her reality. One moment she was spectral fog made of hunger and venom. In the next, she was something far more tangible and suffering for it.

Each flicker revealed a new stage of decomposition twitching in a bloodied sundress. Only one arm was left to flail with as the right was missing, swinging only a necrotic stump at the shoulder. The rest of the body was following suit between spasms. Sometimes a glottal noise that could pass for a voice broke through the static. What had been crystal was now a shrill and dwindling rasp. Dimly, Gordon thought it was strange the noise was not wetter—his cuisine almost always gurgled when enduring the kind of wound he saw staining her breast.

A crimson slit, quickly drying to maroon, had opened where her heart would be. Her remaining hand alternated between scrabbling at the wound and trying to wave off the shape throwing its shadow over her from outside the borders of the screen. As she tried to kick herself back along the floor, the reason for her scuttling along the imported rug was made clear: a bullet hole had gone through one knee. The knee itself was now almost obliterated with decay while the calf and thigh on either side were going hideously spongy. Much like the rest of her.

The last noise she made was as close to a scream with dust for a throat could manage—

“Quin—,”

—before a flash of silver-white swept down. It flew in a shining arc from the upper corner of the screen and through the hazy shriveled stem that had been a neck. A moment later there was no haze left. Only the corpse of the thing known as Kate Northcott collapsing in two pieces. The bulk of it flopped to the floor with a gruesome rattle. Her head, the lush tresses now so much grizzled and flimsy white, tumbled away until it struck the nightstand. When it stilled, the sockets revealed that the eyes had dried away to nothing.

Then Quinn Morse stepped into frame.

If Miss Northcott was mist, her killer was a ghost. The impression of a man smeared just out of true. Really, it was the impression of a character; some escapee from a folk legend or a graphic novel. Such was the outline Gordon could make out in the blur of him. He was a strange medley of huntsman and mourner. Sheathed in black, Gordon could pick out suggestions of both the late Victorian and the fantasy of the American adventurer in his attire. Or perhaps he was assuming too much by the hints beneath the hanging duster and the broad brim of a hat dark as charcoal. The only things not some shade of ink were the white fall of hair growing from under the hat in wild drapes and the twin infernos of the eyes floating in the shadowed void where a face should be. Not red, but a sickening grey that might have matched Gordon’s own but for how they burned.

He thought of cats. He thought of foxes. He thought of carrion birds.

He thought of coins not unlike the pair Quinn Morse held up in his gloved fingers. Gold pinched in old leather. They shined just as bright as the long blade gripped in the opposite hand, its helping of blood dripping.

Gordon watched with the camera as Quinn Morse first held the coins up to be seen, then popped one apiece into each of the eye sockets. Finally, a bundle of familiar blossoms and sprigs appeared from the dark mass of the coat. This was tucked neatly into the head’s sagging maw as if arranging a bouquet. Quinn Morse stepped out of sight. The video ended.

A final text message appeared the instant the show finished:

My God, my God! Look not so fierce upon me! Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile! Ugly Hell, gape not! Come not Lucifer! I’ll burn my books!—O Mephistopheles!

He had wanted to laugh. To roll his eyes. To make himself tap out a reply in mocking returned verse. To inform Mr. Morse that he was lacking for proper material to parrot, especially in assuming his gods and devils brushed anywhere near something so young and gaudy as the Abrahamic.

He could. He would.

But somewhere in these plans he had found himself crumpling the phone to shrapnel and racing home to start clearing out his necessities for a trip to distant quarters. He kept more than one residence as a rule whenever he wasn’t taking one of his gourmand tours. A fact Miss Northcott may have known, but not well enough to have learned his other addresses. Or names.

Gordon Williams was thrown away that night.

Mason Darvell greeted the morning.

#in which I trip and fall into completing an entirely different piece while being distracted from the mountain of other WIPs #I am become Arcane the Clown #anyway #The Vampyres #the vampyre #john barrington cowles #dracula #horror #my writing #tw death #tw gore

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ohworm-writes · 1 year ago

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alrighty, here goes. there was this one time a firefighter came to my school years ago to do one of those job presentations. And apparently firefighters have to write a goodbye letter in case they die while on the job. they always have it kept up to date, stored in their locker with rest of their gear. but just imagine firefighter! schlatt writing his goodbye letter or better yet, someone reading what he wrote.

Anon, I was getting on a flight after I read this and I looked high I genuinely cried so hard. I didn’t know that was even a thing and it makes me so emotional about it.

Firefighter!Schlatt who spent weeks trying to put even one thing down on his letter. The only thing he wrote consisting of “Engine Co. 219 Ladder 131, Brooklyn, New York City. Firefighter Jay Schlatt.”

Firefighter!Schlatt who has over 100 scrapped letters to signal his goodbye, too stuck on critiquing what would make the letter sound more professional or, simply better.

Firefighter!Schlatt who leans more on a short and sweet letter as opposed to a long and wordy one, but writes one that crosses over 11 individual pages nonetheless.

Firefighter!Schlatt who thanks every single one of his family members, no matter the relationship, and writes the longest paragraph for the one person who got him into computer related things and signs off the letter to them in specific.

Firefighter!Schlatt who names every single person at the station and thanks them individually with so much heart that even he sheds a few tears at his own words.

Firefighter!Schlatt who grabs the two kitties' paws who he's called his own and paints them black, pressing them into the paper with their names written over them, hearts and renditions of them around the paws.

Firefighter!Schlatt who draws a little portrait of himself at the end of the letter, simple smiley faces decorate around it and a (poor) rendition of his gear.

Firefighter!Schlatt who writes down every struggle and success he has dealt with in his letter, some of the words and sentences blurred for the water of his tears disturbing them.

Firefighter!Schlatt who, once he finishes his letter, refuses to touch it after it's done, less he need to update or change it in the future, and shuts his locker with such force and goes about his business as usual, as if nothing had ever happened in the first place.

Firefighter!Schlatt who spends months refusing to touch or even look at his letter, stuffing it in the back of his locker behind and under a random assortment of things.

Firefighter!Schlatt who spends all of this effort to put the letter out of his mind, accidently taking one thing out and resulting in the letter gracefully flying to the floor.

Firefighter!Schlatt who doesn't realize it and leaves to tend to his cats and rest up, leading to one of the members of his crew to come across it- well, at least one of the pages.

Firefighter![X] who finds the first 3 and last 2 pages and nothing more an hour or so later, give or take, being confused by what it was until reading the title of the paper: “Engine Co. 219 Ladder 131, Brooklyn, New York City. Firefighter Jay Schlatt.”

Firefighter![X] who only doesn't want to read the whole amount of pages they have, but can't help themselves as they read their own name and Firefighter!Schlatt's message to them and sobs.

Firefighter![X] who reads through the whole thing and is left in tears by the end of his, moving to clean themselves up before consulting Firefighter!Schlatt.

Firefighter!Schlatt who is disturbed in the middle of falling asleep by Firefighter![X] clearing their throat in front of him, handing him the loose pages with a quiet "I think these are yours... sorry" before vacating the area as quick as the entered.

Firefighter!Schlatt who reads over the first words of one page before shoving them in his pocket, placing his hands over his face and hoping, at the very least, Firefighter![X] won't tell anyone.

Firefighter![X] who keeps their mouth sealed tight with no desire to share a word of what they read.

#Firefighter![X] can be read as either a reader insert or a random character #Either one of Schlatt's friends or something else #I'm trying to appeal to both audiences you know?#SCHLATT FANDOM ACCEPT ME #BUT ONLY IN SOME CONTEXTS #Y'KNOW #YEAH #firefighter!jschlatt #firefighter!schlatt #firefighter jschlatt #firefighter schlatt #fireman!jschlatt #fireman!schlatt #fireman jschlatt #fireman schlatt #jschlatt x reader #schlatt x reader #jschlatt #schlatt

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sleepyy-27 · 11 months ago

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Heroes of courage

Chapter 1: darkness in the peace pt. 1

Page 4

Prev | next

IM SO SORRY I TOOK SO LONG WITH A SINGLE PAGE I HAD A LOT OF SCHOOL LAST WEEK AND A FEW OTHER THINGS THAT TOOK A LOT OF MY TIME TOO

(sorry if sounds like I’m making excuses I’ll try to get the next page out as soon as possible)

Sorry about the poor quality of the page and the horrible handwriting

Page transcript:

Old woman: little one, are you alright?

Link Oc POV: wait… those.. eyes.. why..?

Link Oc: Yeah.

Link Oc POV: I’ve never met her… yet.. she seems oddly familiar.

(This comic update was very short sorry)

#hoc au #heroes of courage au #loz au #tloz au #zelda oc #link oc #loz oc #tloz oc #loz art #loz fancomic #fan comic #traditional comic #traditional art #sleepy doodles

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its-a-me-mango · 9 months ago

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(Two Cents Anon) Glad to see we got a response about the workplace allegations! Imo it seemed pretty solid and I kiiiinnda understand why he remained quiet for awhile.

HOWEVER, I still find it odd that Kevin or Luke haven't said anything about the whole situation with Celeste, which, iirc, was what started all of this. I hope they speak up about that soon- I just want her to get a real solid apology :( Also, speaking of the Celeste situation, it really does feel like the result of just. Assuming and jumping to conclusions. Still makes me feel... weird in regards to watching SMG4/Glitch Productions, so I'll continue abstaining from it.

Oh god hi anon so sorry for taking forever to answer, I've been mega busy the past week so everything's been slow as hell </3 I was also waiting at first to see if anything else will happen but things seemed to have quiet down a bit so I'll say something now.

I agree, Kevin's response was a pretty solid one, acknowledging what Glitch's current working situation is like while also acknowledging how it was in the pass definitely show some growth and change since then. I feel that a more dishonest approach would be to completely deny everything and worse yet, not address it at all. I do think the past criticisms are valid and shouldn't be disregarded now, but having a more even distribution between good and bad experiences really helps balance things out.

However I do agree though, the lack of a response to Celeste is definitely disappointing, I get the main focus of Kevin's response was to address the working conditions allegations, but this would've been the perfect time to say something. I mentioned before that Celestes' situation is probably more of a private matter unfortunately, in that any conversations are going to be between Celeste and Glitch privately.

It'll be up to them if they wish to share it publicly again, if they do or don't is up to them, I can only hope that Celeste gets a proper apology and some kind of closure privately at least, it's kinda one of those things that is more personal and therefore doesn't have to be shared publicly. I'm just glad she doesn't hold any ill will towards Lottie, as we know she's innocent in all this, I'll respect any decision that they make in regards to who keeps voicing Tari.

It's sad to think this whole situation started from poor communication, we can all sit here and say how easy this was to avoid because in all honesty, it was very easy to avoid. We can only hope that Glitch learns from this, but it sucks that this comes at the expense of loosing one of their first VA's, and subsequently all the others who quit too. I still genuinely wish all of them the best and that they can move onto greater things.

I do think Jasmine's apology is all we'll get unfortunately, but it's at least something.

I get what you mean about still not feeling comfortable watching Glitch, I'm still not entirely comfortable with it, but for me personally I'm probably gonna go back to watching them soon, even if this never gets fully resolved. Don't get me wrong, I'm still upset and disappointed with Glitch over this, but I do genuinely believe they can improve from this, I'm willing to give them another chance basically.

Part of my reasons to stop watching was because of the workplace conditions, I was under the assumption every single employee was horrifically overworked and underpaid, and I would take no comfort in watching something I knew was made under those conditions. But now that we have clarified that those claims are not entirely true (again maybe for in the past but definitely not as much now), I can take some comfort in that.

I will still 100% keep myself and everyone else here updated incase any new developments happen, but I do genuinely think this is all we're going to get unfortunately. Wether you can continue to watch Glitch or not is entirely up to you and as I've always said, I hold no judgement towards anyone, if you're not satisfied enough to keep watching them, thats fine and understandable.

I don't want anyone to think I'll be forgetting about this just because I'm gonna go back to watching and making content soon, and neither should anyone else forget about this, I just genuinely think Glitch can improve and change from this and I'm willing to give them a chance. Obviously if something like this happens again then I'm done, but I've seen enough accountability this time around (albeit kinda weak) to keep watching them for now.

That's all I'll say for now, I'm still happy to keep hearing from people about this, I don't want this to become "old drama", it's literally 2/3 weeks old now that's not old, I'm old, my back aches.

#mangos mystery ask box #Mango try not to write a dissertations worth of text challenge (impossible)

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giselle-v2001 · 3 months ago

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Blog Post #3

How does our dependence on technology affect us in our basic day to day lives including our health, finances, and overall well being?

Our reliance on technology can affect our day to day activities in many ways. One single server maintenance or a crash can change the way we pay for our groceries, fast food and sometimes even our bills. For example, the software update from Crowdstrike paralyzed the online paying aspect for many stores like Chipotle. In the example of the reading, Technology played against the author and their partner by flagging their medical expenses as fraud even though Jason had suffered an accident. Our dependence on technology can have a severe impact on the quality of life if there is a more impactful outage.

How does technology help margianlize minorities in our society?

A great example that was given in this weeks reading was how a Republican governor from Maine released false information regarding families who recieved cash benefits from TANF. He suggested that these families recieved the money and would later spend it on alcohol, cigarrettes and buying lottery tickets. Analyzing the transactions, they concluded that .03% of the 1.1 million that was withdrawn was used for these purchases. Maine would later enact a bill that required families to retain their reciepts from 12 months for state audits. This shows how different forms of technology was used to spread misinformation, make it harder for families to recieve government benefits, and increase the margin between the rich and poor.

How do technological advancements create a negative impact on our society?

I believe technological advancements can play a big role in our society that can improve our quality of life but can also create inequality. In this weeks reading, we go over a case where a person was wrongfully jailed for a crime that happened 30 miles away where he was at. Thanks to facial recognition police officers arrested Nijeer Parks on a crime he did not commit and was jailed 10 days. 3 other cases of wrongful detainment with the facial recognition technology happened which only affected black men. These incidents can create a negative impact on our society and a distrust with our justice system based on a overdependence on these sorts of techonologies.

How has technology helped feminist create equality?

A great example that was given in a reading was how people often mention that feminism is for white, affluent women but this reading shows how feminism is for everyone and also mentions that even those in developing countries have a greater online presence than men. Technological advancements on the Internet help bolster their promotion of equality and also as a great medium in communication.

Daniels, J. (2009). Rethinking Cyberfeminism(s): Race, Gender, and Embodiment. WSQ: Women's Studies Quarterly37(1), 101-124. https://dx.doi.org/10.1353/wsq.0.0158.

Eubanks, V. (2018). Automating inequality: how high-tech tools profile, police, and punish the poor. First edition. New York, NY, St. Martin's Press.

Hill, K. (2020, December 29). Another arrest, and jail time, due to a bad facial recognition match. The New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2020/12/29/technology/facial-recognition-misidentify-jail.html

#wgst320f24

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musewritingsforyou · 2 years ago

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Changed

Summary: Spencer gets out of jail and reunites with Y/N but is afraid he has changed too much.

Warnings: crying, angst, mentions of prison, mentions of injury (very minor)

words: 2.4 K

Pairing: Spencer Reid X Gn!Reader

A/N: its been a while so I thought I would write a single chapter thing to please the people. if anyone has any cool ideas for another single or even a multichap lmk, I would be happy to oblige.

*I do not own any CM characters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I scurried around Spencer and I’s apartment hastily grabbing his old satchel and tossing a jacket into it. Even since he left for prison this was the only bag I would use, no matter how many things I had to carry I would only use his satchel. It was just a way for me to be with him even if I couldn’t really be with him. The first visit anyone from the team had with him he made them promise that they wouldn't let me go see him. He said he would call me when he could, and he did, or tried too, but after a week the calls stopped. JJ assured me that he was okay, she continued to see him once a week and would always call me and update me every chance she got, but it just wasn't enough. I needed to see him.

So today, I woke up. I called the prison to let them know I would be visiting, and I packed up to leave. I was more nervous today than I was on the day he was put in there. That day I was so confident that he would be fine, I thought it was a cut and dry thing and he would be home for dinner that night, but he wasn't. Just as I put my hand on the doorknob to leave I heard a ring come from my phone inside Spencer's satchel. I looked down at it to see a picture of JJ holding Henry lighting up my screen in the dark of my apartment.

“JJ, hi, I was about to call you actually, well sort of, i'm on my way to see Spence and I know he didn't want me to come, but I think I have a way to get him out of there and I just need to be the one to tell him you know?”

She was silent on the other end for a second before taking a very deep breath.

“Y/N, he's here.”

“What do you mean he's here, are you at the prison?”

“No, Y/N, he’s at the BAU, he's been out for a day”

Right away my mind went to all sorts of places I knew it shouldn't.

“Why didn't anyone tell me! What, does he not want to see me! Is he even okay?” I was screaming into the phone even though I knew it wasn't fair to her. Whatever this was, it wasn't JJ’s fault.

“Hey, hey! Don't go there, it wasn't like that I promise. As soon as we got him out we had to throw him into a case, he wanted to call you I promise but, Y/N, it was about Cat.”

“He was out for less than a day and that bitch tried to take him away from me again? Where is he, he couldn't have called me?”

“It wasn't just about Cat, it was about his mom, listen she's fine now, everything’s okay, but I need you to come get him from the BAU. he needs you to take him home. He needs you”

“I’m on my way”

It was those last three words that got me out of my head. Who was I to be angry at him when poor Spence had gone through so much. Still with his satchel on my shoulder I finally left our small apartment. Barely moved into before he was taken from me so abruptly. It just wasn't fair, the universe had it out for him I swear, first his mom gets sick, and then when he goes to help her he’s almost killed, and then he was convicted for something we all know he would never in a million years do, he won't even tell me what happened in there because it was so bad, and then he finally gets out, unbeknownst to me, is thrown into a case before he can even call, has to go back to that horrible women who tears him apart. Even just thinking about it makes me cry for him. He didn't deserve any of it.

I wipe a few stray tears from my eyes as I step into the car and put his satchel on the passenger's side of the car. I look up at the picture of him I placed on the console and place it back in my bag, ever so ready to replace it with the real thing.

“I'm coming Spence”

~~~~~~~~~

The drive from our apartment to the BAU is particularly long, but it seemed even shorter to me this time. Maybe I was speeding, who knows, but I was almost surprised when suddenly I found myself in the parking garage outside of their buildings, as if my brain had decided it wasn’t important to focus on driving when there was something more important to come.

I grabbed the brown satchel and threw it on my shoulder before running into the elevator and frantically pressing the level six button repeatedly. Spencer's voice in my head chuckled, you know that wont make it go faster, right? He's so close. I couldn't help the tears that started to fall again as I took shaky breaths to calm myself. I didn't know what sort of pain he was in right now, and it wouldn't be fair of me to make him have to take care of me. I wiped them off again as the elevator stopped on floor six. I waited impatiently for the doors to open and tears started again no matter how hard I wanted them to stop. And then the doors opened.

It was like I was seeing him for the first time all over again. He had obviously heard the elevator ding and began walking towards it as the doors were opening slowly. So when, finally, the doors were opened all the way he was facing me, battered and bruised and opening up the glass doors I had seen him behind many times before. I was frozen as I looked at him. He was there, he was my Spencer but, different. I took one step out of the elevator before I just stopped breathing all together,. He walked toward me still with the whole team behind him, sorry looks on their faces. I finally unfroze and ran the distance to him, throwing myself into his arms. It startled him and he flinched but wrapped his arms around me automatically.

“It's you,” I said in between sobs and he nestled his head into my neck.

“Its me”

I continued to cry as he held me. When I finally lifted my head from his shoulder I looked at his team, who were staring lovingly back at me. I looked at all of them and mouthed; thank you, before pulling back from Spencer to kiss him. His lips were chapped and mine were salty. But the love that he put into that kiss was more than I had ever felt from him. When we finally broke apart I clung to him as we walked into the elevator. The entire interaction was about ten minutes, all of which were just me crying as he held me. Ten minutes seemed like a lifetime to me.

In the elevator he was silent. He looked down at the floor, obviously deep in thought and I just started at him. The more I looked the more worried I became. For each second I looked at him I saw one more cut, one more bruise, one more scar that wasn't there the last time I saw him. Even though he didn't look up at me or even speak at all, he put a hand on the crook of my elbow like he always used to and held it tight for the entire walk back to the car. He still had a slight limp from the incident last week. It served as yet another reminder to me that the Spencer I’m with right now is not the same Spencer that i knew before.

The drive home again felt short. He never spoke and neither did I, but I could feel his gaze on me as I drove, just trying to tell if I was really there. When we made it up the stairs to our apartment door he stood behind me and stared at the door. When I opened it with my keys and held it open for him he shook his head quickly as if trying to wake himself up from something and then finally walked inside. Every move he made was like he was afraid of hurting himself or me.

“Go sit, i'll make you something to eat”

I wasn't going to say it for fear of sounding like a grandmother, but he looked very thin. I mean I love my string bean boyfriend don't get me wrong, but this wasn't healthy.

I reheated him some Rossi pasta leftovers that I knew he would love before placing it in front of him at the counter. I sat on a stool beside him and got a comb to work through his hair. He ate tentatively but seemed to relax as I brushed through his hair. The comb did nothing so eventually I just worked my fingers through his curly locks, trying to bring more comfort than fix it.

That entire night we didn't speak at all. Well, he didn't. Every once in a while I would talk to him, just one sided things, i'll go clean up, why don't you get changed, let’s go to bed. And finally when we laid in bed I moved all the way onto his side and tried to have as much of me touching him as possible. He touched my back carefully, like he was afraid of breaking me. Eventually I fell asleep, but I don't know if he ever did. At some point I suppose he must have because he woke me up screaming. Rocking himself back and forth with glassy eyes and heaving.

“Spence? Spencer, you're okay! Look at me hey,-” I moved so that I was sitting in front of him but was careful not to touch him.

“You're okay, i'm right here, it’s okay” the screaming stopped but the glassy look in his eyes stayed and he still cried and rocked back and forth. He looked so..pained. After he had stopped screaming I placed a tentative hand on his arm careful to do it slowly so I wouldn't startle him. He flinched and looked at me with terrified eyes.

“Don’t, please, don’t.” I took my hand away but started to cry.

“Spencer, you aren't going to hurt me, it's okay.” he shook his head and looked almost angry through his tears.

“You don't. You don't know that.” so that's what this was about.

“Of course I do. I know you, and you would never hurt me, I know that.” I was crying but trying to keep myself calm so i wouldn't startle him.

“Do you know what I did today?” he raised his voice a little and his eyebrows pulled together.

“Did JJ tell you that she had to pull me off of Cat?” i could feel my heart breaking into pieces, he wasn't just scared of hurting me for nothing, he had actually hurt someone.

“Did she tell you that I put my hands around her neck and shoved her against a wall? Did she tell you that I wanted to- no, that I would have killed her. If she wasn’t there to pull me off I would have killed someone. Did she tell you that?”

I sat there in shock not knowing what to say. She hadn't told me.

“Spencer you had good reason, anyone who’s been through what you have would-”

“Would what? Kill someone?”

“Spencer I know you wouldn't hurt me!”

“No, you don’t! Prison changed me, Y/N, i'm not the person you loved anymore!”

“Don't you dare say that! I love you Spencer! I love you now and I loved you then, you are the same person that I loved!”

“No. no i’m not. The Spencer that you fell in love with would never have done that. Would never have done this.”

He gestured to me, we were both crying fervently, covered in salty tears and snot. I was still sitting in front of him on the bed.

“Don't tell me that it didn't change me. It did. It did change me.”

“Fine. it changed you. It also changed me. And you know how it changed us both?” I looked him dead in the eyes and placed a hand on his cheek wiping away a few tears.

“It made you more compassionate. More observant. It made you even more.. You. and it only made me love this new you more. So yes, yes it changed you, but that doesn’t mean I don't love you, that doesn't mean you are suddenly less deserving of love! I love you Spencer Reid, and I won't stop doing that just because you went through hell! You got out! And I am here! So why don't you just shut up and let me love you!”

He was silent for a couple of minutes after. We had both stopped crying. He placed a hand on my cheek just like mine was on his and looked me in the eyes with a small smile.

“Well, what's that for” I was still crying a little but when I heard him chuckle it took all of my tears away.

“Well, you told me to shut up and let you love me, so that's what I'm doing.”

he laughed a little, but bit his lip after he said it, trying to make himself stop laughing. But as soon as he said it I started laughing. The both of us laughed at each other. Snot covered and torn apart, but somehow still laughing.

“You know, I threw a book today” he laughed and pulled me into his chest where I looked up at him.

“A book? My goodness, maybe you aren't the same man after all!” I laughed at him and he shook his head as he smiled down at me.

“Nah, same man, I felt really bad afterword and made Garcia order another copy”

We both laughed and he kissed the top of my head. He slid down so we were both laying down in bed again. After a few minutes I noticed that his breathing was slow and steady. He was asleep. Peacefully asleep. I looked at him from his chest and with a small tear on my face kissed him on the cheek.

“I love you Spencer Reid. Always”

#spencer reid fluff #spencer x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds

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coagulatedink · 4 months ago

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Thoughts on my 1st* Art Fight!

Thought it might be helpful to write up what my (*mostly) first experience with Art Fight was like! Those who have participated in multiple years of AF may not find this helpful and thats ok! This will be going over my Goals, my Final Stats, why I tried AF and why you might enjoy it, who might not enjoy it, and any other final thoughts. If you're looking for more insight into the art I created (and everything related to that) you'll want to check out a future post that will be linked here! Now! Onto the words!

My Goals for AF 2024

As someone who very often takes projects and runs with them once I get momentum, I knew it was important to try to enforce (keyword try) some sort of limitations with AF. The hope was if I kept to these "rules" or limits, I wouldn't end up biting off more than I could chew and avoid burnout n bad feelings! My goals/limits ended up being;

Choose characters that seem fun

Don't start art without a concept

Some aspect must be experimental

Attempt to finish art in under 3 hours!!

No re-dos! Go with the flow!

Try to submit a total of 30 attacks

Attempt at least 1 revenge

Dang! That sure is a whole lot to keep in mind and work towards!! My logic behind "fun characters" and "no concept no art" was this; if I can't enjoy myself while drawing the character there isn't a good reason to be drawing them. This doesn't mean the character design is poor or boring- it just means that based on my restrictions already listed I needed to make sure I also was having a good time! Having a concept, even if it was just an idea, also guaranteed that I'd draw something vs nothin! Overall these goals/limits felt manageable and I'm glad I went with them. Now! How did it all go?

- - - - - -

My 2024 AF Outcome!

Here are my final stats as of August 3rd 2024 when AF closed its submissions (I'll update this post with any changes in the future);

Points: 1008.5 -- Attacks: 14 -- Friendly Fire: 2 -- Defenses: 7

As you can see; I didn't reach my goal of 30 attacks. 😔 I know, I too..think that was too high of a number LOL! When I wrote it down I think I thought I'd be doing simpler, smaller, less time consuming submissions! I also thought I'd be doing a lot of single character illustrations with minimal bgs, so composition and consideration of flow for a larger cast didn't enter my mind (at the time). Aaannndd then I came up with multiple concepts for art that had many many characters and that plan went out the window haha!! Even though I didn't submit 30 attacks, I did end up;

Fully rendering art of 27(28?) characters that weren't my own!

Drawing my new sona Guy twice!

Designed a whole new sona during AF!!!

Came up with roughly 20 concepts all together (5 did not get finished in time)!

Getting some AMAZING defenses/revenges from some lovely artists!!

Had all 5 of my characters drawn!!!

Spoke to/found a love of amazing artists I wouldn't have met/seen otherwise!!

Stayed true to the majority of my goals/limits!

Again, I'll go into the art side of everything in another post (with pictures) but I will say I love everything I made for AF. Its a very nice feeling to set goal and surpass them- esp after a very long period of art block/fatigue! I went in expecting 0 revenges or attacks/defenses and was delighted at what I ended up reviving. To those of you who drew me something- thank you! If I get your permission I would love to show off your art here as additional thanks!! So, after all that- was it worth it? - - - - - -

Was Art Fight "Worth it" to me?

Yes. LOL! Art Fight was def "worth it" to me. Sorry to jump to the end of it haha- let me go into it a little more like I said I would!

I joined Art Fight the second week of July- partly bc I wasn't sure if I really wanted to take part. As I mentioned, I had attempted to take part in Art Fight in the past! The first time I completed 2 attacks, but never ended up posting ether (if memory serves) or writing down the artists name (so I dont even know who they belong to). A couple of years ago I tried again, but those attacks were aimed at my partner at the time and mostly just an excuse to draw something for them-- it wasn't really made in the "spirit of Art Fight". In both cases I wasn't very familiar with the interface, the point system, the submission system- you get the idea. So when I started fresh and began the process of uploading characters, and later attacks, I was pleasantly surprised! Everything was simple enough and the things I was unsure about (mainly how to rate my works) had articles or answers on the official Art Fight Tumblr that helped a ton! These factors + the encouragement from friends who had already taken part gave me the push to set my goals/limits and give it a try!

At first I was a little discouraged- I didn't think anyone would like my characters or my artwork. I worried I was creating for no one but myself, which isn't bad!!! HOWEVER! This can feel isolating when you're submitting it to a place they're literally a hive of active artists, and as someone who hasn't posted a whole lot of art publicly in the last two-three years I was nervous to put myself out there!! Thankfully I got a lot of love and kind comments from friends, mutuals' and even complete strangers! It was immensely gratifying!!! My submissions were a little sporadic the rest of AF- if I felt up to working on something I'd work on it. If I didn't..I didn't! That did mean there was a lot of last minute attacks haha, especially after going over the top with a sona-centric illustration. Still! In 22 days I managed to make 16 fully rendered works- each one unique in its own way! Thats great!!

My reasoning for taking part in Art Fight is pretty simple; I enjoy drawing other folks characters and I love to experiment with my artwork. When I was younger I spent a lot of time on Deviant Art, specifically in clubs/groups. It was always fun to flip through groups and see all the different character designs, all the different styles and settings, and soak it all in. Now-a-days art based RP groups aren't really a thing, and finding places where you can easily flip through a varying range of artists and hobbiests works isn't as easy as it used to be. AF brings back a touch of nostalgia and a lot of good vibes from me! Its nice to feel like you're not only being acknowledged, but seen as an artists, esp online where its so easy to get lost in the massive sea of creators. To me AF didn't feel like I was going against anyone, but working alongside a ton of creatives- and that is an amazing feeling!! Its the same feeling I got from those old DA groups, from working on zines and even the fabled OCTs. Collaboration is beautiful and amazing and I hope other folks left Art Fight feeling as good as I did!

- - - - - -

Should YOU try Art Fight?

Are you older? Younger? New at art? Been doing art for a while? Tall? Short? An alien? Well! Art Fight may just be for you! No but seriously, AF isn't just for teens or people in their early 20s- its for everyone at every skill level. When I looked for characters I wasn't thinking "oh how talented is this artist" I was thinking "would this character be fun to draw". If you can approach AF like that you will most likely have a lot of fun! Well that and making sure you set yourself up for success. For those who have never taken part, or took part but feel like you had too much slack/creative freedom I suggest the following (in no particular order);

Use the tag system and find types of characters you KNOW you will enjoy drawing. If you love clowns look for clowns! If you would prefer object heads look for object heads! The tagging system is new, and I encourage everyone to use it, so it won't have EVERYONE but it will have options! This can help narrow down your choices vs just looking at the newly submitted or random characters.

See if any artists you admire/are friends with/are mutuals with are taking part! Sometimes the total unknown can be daunting! It can be easier to draw art for a friend, or someone you admire- and it gives you an excuse to do so.

Give yourself a limitation of materials you will use! Maybe you'll only use color pencils, or GIMP, or everything can only be down with blue ink- limitations like that can help establish a through-line through your submissions that can add a little stability.

Pick a theme for your attacks- maybe the first week everyone is drawn as Spooky Monsters, and the next week everyone is painted like they're from a Picasso painting. Just make sure to respect any character rules listed on character profiles!!

Stick to characters who have rules and suggestions! Personally I found these characters to be much more appealing (or unappealing) bc it automatically told me what I could or couldn't do from the start. If it felt too restrictive I'd say "no thanks" and keep looking! And if they had prompts I was more likely to use them bc it gave me a jumping off point.

Set a time limit. This can be the amount of time you will allow yourself to work on an attack, or it could be how much of Art Fight you're willing to take part in! Its ok if you say "I'm only going to work on weekends in July" or "I'm only going to attack the second week and thats it" ect! You do not need to take part every day! Do what works well for you!! Its your time and you should be having fun!

Art Fight should be FUN and if its not fun for you I'd suggest stepping away and doing something else that will bring you joy. My biggest suggestion for anyone who wants to try it out is to go in with low expectations and do what feeling good to you. If you have a hard time with any sort of competitive atmosphere, major anxiety about time restrictions, or just don't enjoy showing you art publicly, you most likely won't enjoy Art Fight. This doesn't mean you can't try!!! You can!! It just might not end up being your cup of tea.

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Final Thoughts (I promise I'm almost done)

Art Fight is, to me, what you make it. Setting limits, creating prompts, "gamifying" the event; that made taking part manageable even with everything else I need to juggle on a day-to-day schedule in my personal and work life. I think not taking too much of it too personally also helped- and I did struggle with this at the start! But then I saw I could draw a literal sock and was like "I think maybe I should just have fun" LOL! And I super did!! Drawing that sock was fun! Drawing a lot of what I made for AF was fun- I'm sad I didn't get to finish everything but I'm glad I was able to share my art with new people and get some cute stuff in return. I feel like I keep repeating myself with my positive comments, and I probs am, but I can't help it! The internet gave me a cool thing! And it ended well! Thats the total opposite of what I've experienced online LOL!!! To see people come together, see them create and gush and just be full of mirth n joy is very VERY nice during these not so nice times. I'm not sure if I'll be able to take part in next years AF, if I can though I totally will! Thanks for taking the time to read my lengthy write up! Did you take part in Art Fight? If so, what did you think? Would setting limits for yourself help you out, or would you prefer going loose-goosey? If you haven't tried might you attempt next year? Lemme know! I'm curious!!

Till next year-- Happy Art Fight yall!!!

#art fight 2024 #artfight #untitled grave #text post #had some thoughts #this isn't tea this is cold refreshing water #I really want to join an OCT #this isn't even all my thoughts I just didn't want to ramble for 30 more pages about the beauty of collaboration #ty for bringing back my art drive AF #time to sleep for 10 years tho jfc #team stardust #wonder who will win? :0

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