#diy for love and profit

[moderndaypandora]

learn a craft. the various accoutrement might come in handy for installing light fixtures

[grymoria]

Rant: Hot Topic needs to stop

Ok, I understand that the store is called Hot Topic, meaning they will make clothes based on the latest pop culture. But to make a jacket and a backpack based on a character that is literally Anti-capitalist is fucking ironic.

Hobie aka Spiderpunk would not approve of this. He would rather for y'all to make the jacket by thrifting and DIYing. He would rather for y'all to steal this from a Hot Topic instead of buying it. Being Anti-capitalist and an Anarchist is common within the punk subculture.

So if you're a fan of Hobie, then show your love for him by making your own Battle Jacket based on his by spending as less as possible. Don't support these multi-million dollar companies. They're just using the character for profit because he's popular.

Edit: Hobie being a fictional character isn't the point. The point is that he's a punk and like I said it's common within the punk subculture to be anti-capitalist and an Anarchist. So for Hot Topic, a company that is almost worth a billion dollars, to make pricey items based on a punk is literally against what the subculture stand for.

[theresattrpgforthat]

Any ttrpgs with a distinctive “grunge” aesthetic?

THEME: Grunge

Hello friend, I’m really glad you asked this question! Grunge feels like it fits indie ttrpg design so well, because so much of it emphasizes low-budget, DIY and messy styles. As a style of music, I understand grunge is about being dissonant, dark, and “ugly”. As a theme, what I understand about grunge is that it’s about alienation, isolation, and disenchantment with how society is right now, which is so so relevant to how we feel about our current quality of life right now.

That being said, there’s so much that can be explored in grunge, I feel like there’s a lot of different pieces that could make a work “grunge’. So while I think the games that I’m presenting here all fit some element of grunge, some of them might not fit the elements of grunge that you’re looking for.

Games by Adam Vass.

Adam’s games are often nihilistic, horrific, and creatively designed with mixed media, visual distortion, and a focus on the grotesque or the weird. This includes No Future, a time loop game about punks throwing one last party, Born To Die, a pamphlet ttrpg about anthropomorphic animals in a post-human waste world, and Cybermetal 2012, a lo-fi metal cyberpunk game about surviving in an isolated city of warped technology.

If you love horror as well as a bit of a dystopian edge, you’ll probably want to check out Adam Vass’s work.

Here, There, Be Monsters, by wendi yu.

No matter what they tell you, there’s still weirdness and wonder everywhere. You just have to know where to look. At the edges and cracks of ‘normal’ life we exist, we persist, and we resist: the monsters, the magicians, the anomalies, the freaks, and the outcasts. We gather in the shadows, trying our best to live our lives in a world that, when it doesn’t exactly fear or hate us, doesn't even believe in our existence.

But we’re still here. We’re not going anywhere. And we fight back.

While the layout and art direction of Here, There, Be Monsters is purposeful and cohesive, the goal of this game feels very grunge in the sense that it is meant to acknowledge the messiness and unapologetic anger present in the monster characters. There's a lot of bodies in this art, and these bodies are meant to challenge you - if you find them difficult to look at, that's a you problem, and that feels in tune with the spirit of grunge.

I feel like this game is probably more on the border of punk and grunge, but if what you’re looking for is a game that feels chaotic and embraces the dark and “disgusting” material that grunge is known to celebrate, than this might be worth checking out.

Dead Mall: The Last Great Beast, by Hunter J Allen.

They built us altars only to abandon them. Now they sit as dying, empty relics. No matter what they tell you never forget: These are our relics, not theirs. Don't let them pass gently into that sweet goodnight. They were made for profit but they remain as our playgrounds. If we choose to let them.

This here is a mini-zine and Bingo card about the American shopping mall and its relationship to us, our collective nostalgia, and the significance of cultural ruins.

This is more of a solo bingo game than a roleplaying game, but I think it might be an interesting way to build a modern “dungeon” for something like Liminal Horror. The zine also re-contextualizes a piece of American architecture that was so ingrained into the middle-class experience of the 80’s, 90’s and early 2000’s. I’m intrigued by how you could use this idea of decay and neglect in other urban fantasy and horror games.

MÖRK BORG, by Ockult Örtmästare Games.

MÖRK BORG is a pitch-black apocalyptic fantasy RPG about lost souls and fools seeking redemption, forgiveness or the last remaining riches in a bleak and dying world. Who are you? The tomb-robber with silver glittering between cracked fingernails? The mystic who would bend the world’s heart away from it’s inevitable end? Confront power-draining necromancers, skulking skeletal warriors and backstabbing wickheads. Wander the Valley of the Unfortunate Undead, the catacombs beneath the Bergen Chrypt or the bedevilled Sarkash forest. But leave hope behind - the world’s cruel fate is sealed, and all your vain heroic efforts are destined to end in death and dismay. Or are they?

This is a black comedy style of game that I think has a lot of overlap with the grunge aesthetic. It’s received a number of awards for its art style, which is chaotic, monochromatic, and as best as I can describe it, “sludgy.” Then again, you might look at Mork Borg and feel like it’s more metal than grunge: it’s not casual, but rather designed for shock value. The world is destined to end, and your characters are futilely trying to make a difference in it; a lot of the cues seem to point to your own characters being not necessarily good people.

The Prophet, by The Punk Theologian.

The Prophet is a solo-journaling role-playing game. It requires a tarot deck and can be played in as little as 30 minutes or over days.

Receiving Revelations: Turn over a tarot card and let the prompts and the card image be the revelation from the deity that called you. Navigating through visions of struggle and cries of despair, following the guiding flames of insight, to help turn your people’s trajectory towards justice and equity.

Overcome Events: Flip coins to find out if the people heed your warnings and are aided by their deity in overcoming enemy invasion, surviving a great earthquake, or a raging fire, or are crushed by the weight of divine condemnation reaping upon themselves the consequences of sewing the seeds of inequity.

When it comes to aesthetics, The Prophet feels very DIY-inspired, and when it comes to design, I think the fact that it’s a solo game contributes to the feeling of isolation: your status as a prophet may separate you from your peers, and if your predictions go unnoticed, you could feel even more alone. The inspiration of the creator is defined as “punk,” but since punk is a genre that grunge pulls a lot of inspiration from, I don’t think that this necessarily disqualifies The Prophet from being a “grunge” - style game.

#iHunt, by Machine Age Productions.

#iHunt is a story telling game about killing monsters in the gig economy. In it, you play millennials scraping by paycheck to paycheck to make ends meet. A gig app called #iHunt offers them more money than they've ever made to hit the streets and kill vampires, werewolves, demons, and anything else that goes bump in the night. 

The base game of #iHunt centres around the soul-crushing nature of the gig economy, which in and of itself I think is a great focus for a grunge-style game. The supplemental zines created by the designer have a very chaotic and collage-like look, taking photos or public domain art and re-mixing them to create something new. If you want to get really grunge, you might want to check out The 90’s Sucked Ass Or Whatever, which is focused on the specific events and details that would affect your disillusioned monster hunters during the height of grunge.

[occasionally-good-ideas]

Amity Park

It’s been three years since the portal opened in amity, and since then the people have changed. ‘Liminal’ is what most people call it ‘death touched’ has also been thrown around. It made the people, the kids mostly, different, faster, stronger, higher endurance, almost silent, sensitive hearing.

to them it was normal, and besides! being able to run full speed for long distances was useful when your town was constantly under attack, and extra strength and agility is great for games!

Ever since the town got yoinked into the ghost zone amity’s had its own electricity and plumbing systems, the world outside the town doesn’t hear from the folks inside, and the people inside just don’t need to talk to outsiders, what would they even talk about anyway?? School? They don’t have ghosts, or the same standards! The weather?? ‘Hey did you feel that ecto-storm last night? I couldn’t sleep till it died down at 4!!’ Nope, definitely not the weather.

But this isolation forged a close community in the town, they were all in this together and they all knew it. Working parents, little kids and rebellious teens, when it came down to it they all had each others backs

The teens ecpetionaly bonded through CHAOS!! Pranks and sceems targeted at each other and the mayor, games of Extreme Tag (which was like a mix of tag, parkour, and the occasional gun) were the norm for the youth of amity park.

Shouting and laughter followed them as the kids ran up walls, across rooftops and through the streets and alleys of amity. For normal kids they would tire themselves out in three hours TOPS, but this is Amity, and the kids here are anything but normal. A single game could go from sunrise to sunset without even a water break, ‘if you’re thirsty get water. Just don’t get caught’ and who would back down from a challenge like that??

One summer they decided to do their own version of the hunger games, half in the woods on the outskirts of town and all through the streets, it was all fair game.

They built their own bases, going home was forfeiting, from holes in the ground to multi story lairs of wood and rubble. Food was foraged or stolen, if you got caught? Youre out, if you got tagged with paint (or otherwise incapacitated) you’re out. trust at your own risk. it goes till the last man standing.

Friendships were made and broken, old enemies became trusted allies, teens found love in the heart of battle and even more found the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of seeing your enemy fall and emerging victorious in the face of all odds.

It went on for a straight month before the parents had to band together to bring their kids home.

The Games were over, but no one forgot them, the high of adrenaline and Victory was one they could chase, and in the case of the towns sports coaches, one they could profit from.

The Amity Park Ravens became infamous for their endurance, their strength and speed, but mostly, their bloodlust, they were ruthless. Word of them spread through schools like a legend, the unbeatable, almost inhuman nature of them.

Outside of games they were always easy going and good sports about the competition, but on the field? Where Outsiders had to face off against dozens of amity parkers dead set on victory?

They were only whispered of with one name.

The Unkindness 

TLDR- amity park kids take competition WAY too seriously and they end up scaring the shit out of the whole public school sports program 

They also did a diy hunger games and I WILL read anything anyone makes about that bit (please tag me)

[3liza]

re: last reblog - saw a TikTok ad the other day of a zoomer lifestyle peddler visually coded as a Nonbinary Dirtbag Leftist (dyed ratty hair, conspicuous piercings, cheap punk clothing) attempting to sell me an ebook about how to elevate my class position by buying a turnkey business like a laundromat.

so, exploiting the poor. and I mean they aren't wrong, that's how you get class mobile. I don't think it's actually possible to run a business like that ethically and still make a profit. maybe I'm wrong. but it seems like every bit of the profit is extracted from a dependence upon the poverty of the clientele, eg, lack of access to home laundry, charging greater than cost for time, water, soap and cleanliness which are all human rights, hiring employees at minimum wage, etc. the entire basis of charging money for such an amenity is a process of creating waste also, it creates waste in travel from home to the Laundromat, it creates waste in putting a laundromat in a storefront where housing could be, it creates waste in handling money and bills for a business that isnt essential etc etc. and it's an economic coercion because clean clothes aren't something you can budget or cut down on, you basically have your clientele by the balls.

on the other hand I'm rapidly approaching a grinding surface in terms of either entering into one of these exploitative processes as a means-of-production owner, which would be accomplished purely through debt on my part, or having to withdraw to permanent poverty, and the third option is winning the lottery either literally or figuratively through an unforeseen inheritance, sudden recovery from illness, or getting popular on social media in a way that produces profit

I think the anarcho syndicalists are broadly correct in that small organization is the correct move, eg, I'm about to lead test my apartment water supply and do some other moves that I expect to use to lower my rent, but the bigger project would be to contact the other tenants and see if they'd be interested in essential a "hostile" acquisition of the building based on having it fail a bunch of inspections, which I absolutely think is possible.

I could see using a small syndicate of partners/friends to collectively purchase the laundromat as a co-op. but would the profit splitting make it not worthwhile? maybe we would recoup from not having to hire any employees and just taking the shifts ourselves. this is the classic American immigrant model and it's a classic for a reason. I would really hate trying to do all that horizontal organizing though (huge cost for me personally)

idk how any of those stuff works. my parents are from the managerial-intellegentsia officer class and are stupid about money from a weird combination of having too much of it and too little. the overeducated poor. food insecure people who get all the jokes on Frasier. extraordinarily weird class position, it's sort of like being in the circus or being a pickpocket. you can fool people into thinking you're wealthy when you aren't, which is why I'm so insane on here about grammar and spelling, because you don't know until you're actually on the other side of it how much your level of education affects your material existence, even if the education is DIY. I have been literally homeless for periods of time and have almost always been poor, and the amount of "skating by" you can do on good grammar and nice table manners is like a big secret no one tells you anymore because the boomers pretended they got rid of all that jive during the summer of love. people have gotten REALLY mad at me on here about this topic I think because they think I'm enforcing these cultural standards every time I try to teach people about them. I'm trying to warn you!!

think of it this way: how long is someone willing to let you stay in their coffee shop or diner or house if you're "acting poor", vs how long if you're charming and helpful and conscientious? if you're loud and using "low class" dialect vs if someone has at some point taught you to act fancy? this is extremely racialized obviously. I can't speak on that.

the communist coin op laundry could have a shuttle service and group wash nights where people can combine laundry to use the big washers and dryers for larger loads at lower total cost if they were willing to sort out their clothes at the end 😔

[starqueensthings]

Dork Love: Part One (of probably three because I can’t be tamed)

AO3 | Next Chapter

Summary: A scowling stranger brings a damaged riflescope into your store for repair and, always willing to defer responsibility for the sake of charity, you take on the challenge. When you return it to him, he brings along another… obstacle. An adorably goggled, bad-postured obstacle who seems as infatuated with your intelligence, as you are with his twinkly (magnified) eyes.

Pairing: GN!Reader x Tech (can also be read as ND!GN!Reader x ND!Tech if you squint)

POV/Rating/WC: 2nd, all readers welcome, 6355 Words.

A/N: This masquerades as a Crosshair fic at first, but I was insistent on writing something other than Medic!Reader for this one, and Tech is not the kind of man that develops intimacy quickly so it’s structured as a slow burn with a little more backstory. Extra thanks to @staycalmandhugaclone for beta reading this one… twice. She catches all my made up words (slajacked? embarriered? LOL) and makes my disjointed writing readable. LYSM ❤️

A heavy sigh, laden with guilt and culpability, left your lips at the sight of the impending workload behind your cash register. The teetering stack of acrylic trays, each holding the paid invoice of an order in need of processing, sat benignly on the counter, awaiting the moment that you would finally succumb to the gnaw of responsibility and turn your wandering attention to them. The smattering of plastic containers that you’d locked the door on without even a breath of anxiety, your overstimulated mind full of assurances that you’d gift them your undivided attention the following morning, had somehow mutated into a looming tower of things to do and the desperate desire to defer them again now consumed you.

The impeccant ring of the bell that hung above the door had thankfully silenced, and the void of its tinkling alarm saw a peaceful moment of respite and a fresh mug of caf wreathed by hands covered in dried lens polish and seemingly permanently stained with the ink of your trusty red lens pen.

In spite of the lingering exhaustion and the continuous ache in your feet, every complaint that threatened to spill from your tongue was swallowed and substituted with a quiet murmur of appreciation. Since you’d purchased the optical store from your uncle, you’d been blessed with an expanding clientele and an increasing revenue, though despite the economic growth, the inception of your ownership had been fraught with challenges. Your uncle was, and always had been, a kooky and eccentric old chap, and one that had stubbornly deferred his retirement from the industry for decades too long. His later, wizened years had seen him develop a peculiar and surreptitious habit of concealing his deteriorating mind with impugnable, makeshift repairs on his already ancient optical equipment. More troublesome than his DIY endeavours, however, was the recurrent burying of evidence, ensuring that his mounting financial hardship was conveniently camouflaged and ‘misplaced’ with the several hundred overdue invoices. Three consecutive years later, and thousands of credits funnelled regrettably yet optimistically into the pocket of an accountant, the metaphorical dumpster-fire that you purchased from your father’s zany older brother had finally turned profitable.

The storefront was auspiciously located on the uppermost level of Coruscant’s nefarious ‘Underworld’, meaning the demographics of your clientele was as diverse as the galaxy was. Politicians, concealing their bulging wallets beneath expertly-sewn and ornate robes, were some of your favourite customers to interact with, as years of experience in medical sales had seen you master the tactful art of disengaging lowball negotiations. Paradoxically, it was the impoverished customers making their way up from the callous clutches of the lower levels that posed your biggest challenge; their often heartbreaking stories of systemic neglect fueled the philanthropic flame that flickered deep in your gut. The inception of the war had enchained many in the shackles of financial hardship and desperation, and while pleading ignorance and naivety was the route that many Coruscanti citizens opted to take, the desire to temporarily close your shop and traverse the galaxy doing missionary work was becoming difficult to stifle.

Yet you were as logical as you were benevolent, and despite the constant pull towards a life of nomadic altruism, the fact remained that you had invested too many days and even more credits resurrecting this business to simply abandon it in its infancy.

The squeak of the rolling desk chair echoed around the quiescent room as you sat yourself down behind the computer, determined to use the hot caf in your hands as a catalyst to ignite the engines of motivation into life. The chrono on the wall ticked on, unaffected by the looming task list that you continued to abscond from; moments stretched to minutes, your hands poised and motionless over the keyboard, and the resolve to work kept simply evaporating, wafting into the air and vanishing faster than the steam from your mug.

‘Damnit, I forgot to water my plants this morning…’ Your eyes were affixed on a the pair of prescription swimming goggles nestled in the tray that you’d perched in front of you nearly twenty minutes ago, yet the mental image of your limp fig tree, neglected the decency of water for the second straight week, was all your unfocussed eyes could see. ‘But I should probably prune it before I water it… and if I’m going through the hassle of pruning it, I should probably repot it fi—’

The sudden jangling of the bell broke you from your listless stupor, sending a startled jerk through your shoulders and pulling your gaze upward to the figure stepping into your space. The detail of his appearance remained momentarily obscured, shrouded in the shadows cast by the bright sunlight pouring in the door behind him, though it was immediately apparent by the rigid armour that enveloped his tall frame that he was a soldier or mercenary of sorts.

“Hello,” you called to him, alerting him of your presence behind the counter, but his response to the greeting and the small smile you’d hitched onto your face, was nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement, his eyes narrowing slightly as they darted around the walls of your shop.

Curiosity tipped your head to one side, and you watched him with reserved intrigue as he neared the counter, his big, metallic boots thunking heavily on the wood floors with every step. The armament that adorned his figure was dark, and unlike anything you’d seen before. The clone troopers on Coruscant typically wore protective suits of white plastoid, and were conversationally quite warm and friendly, but this man’s presence, complete with a frown and a crosshair tattoo, issued none of those vibes.

“What can I do for you?” you probed, ignoring the protest of your aching feet as you stood and met him across the counter. He hastened to fold his arms over his chest, throwing into sharp relief the sniper pole extending proudly from his left shoulder bell.

“What do you know about scopes?” he asked you, the smoke that bathed his words raising the small hairs on the back of your neck.

“What kind of scopes?” you quizzed back to him, wrenching your eyes from the intimidating tool on his shoulder. “Oculars? Speculars?”

“Rifle.” In stark contrast to the way he carried himself— slithering and softly, as if he funneled every effort into not preventing his movements from making a sound, his reply was direct, curt, and impatient, and despite your best efforts to repress it, the contradiction pulled a small smirk onto your face.

“I should have known,” you answered apologetically, gesturing with a flick of your eyes towards the pole on his pauldron, and for the second time in as many minutes, he forewent a spoken response, instead flicking his eyebrows and letting the ghost of a laugh huff from his nose.

“I studied a decent amount,” you continued, bewilderment budding inside of you as the peculiar stranger reached around to a pouch on his belt and retracted a toothpick. “But we don’t sell them. We’re mainly a spectacle sho—”

“I’m not buying,” he interrupted with another impatient little shake of his head. “There’s something… off… with mine.”

The intentionally vague nature of his complaint prompted the arch of your left eyebrow to raise, and it was with genuine perplexity that you replied. “Off? In what way?”

The rhythmic dance of toothpick across scowling lips filled the silent space of his hesitation, and the shadow of scepticism flitted behind his eyes as he peered down his nose at you.

“It sounds idiotic,” he muttered through teeth clenched around his wooden pacifier, “But the visuals are being distorted… and it seems to be at random.”

Your brows furrowed against the continued ambiguity of his complaints, and though you would never voice it aloud, his grievance did sound somewhat idiotic and nonsensical. Intermittent distortion through a set of lenses was not a concept you had ever come across, as typically someone’s vision was either clear, or it wasn’t. His hesitation to provide the description now seemed warranted, and it was your turn to entertain a scowled moment of hesitancy as you fought to digest his undetailed explanation.

“I’m not following you,” you sighed, both coming up short on an explanation and growing increasingly wary of his man-of-few-words attitude. “Do you have it with you?”

He unfolded his arms from their knot across his chest, exposing a thin, black plastoid case previously invisible by the tight ensconce of his gloved hand. The rigid container looked vaguely familiar to you, though your mind barely had a moment to dawdle in potential recognition before he was deftly unlatching the closure on the lid and pulling the scope from its velvet bedding.

Eyes widening with wonder, you collected the tool from him, your outstretched hand instantly sagging under the unexpected weight of the equipment. Your exposure to military grade weapon accessories, and knowledge of the various optical tools available for combat was limited, but one did not have to be an expert in the field to know this was a highly sophisticated, and highly coveted tool.

“Sometimes I’ll line up a shot with no issue,” he divulged, his sharp eyes dissecting your movements as you rotated the scope delicately in your fingers. “Other times, the image of the target seems warped. But I haven’t been able to establish a pattern, and none of my brothers see anything wrong.”

“Hmm,” you acknowledged, concentration pulling your lips tightly to one side. “That’s definitely… odd… and it seems random? Intermittent?”

He offered nothing but a small grunt of confirmation, supervising your twiddling of the tool with unwarranted intensity as if poised to pounce should you dare to mishandle his prized possession, but curiosity had entirely banished your unease of his demeanour, and it was eagerly that you returned the ocular to your eye.

The Snellen chart, hung at eye level across the room and inscribed letters of varying sizes, became the recipient of your attention; while designed to measure how effectively one could see at a specific distance without their glasses on, it acted appropriately well as a makeshift visual barometer for your diagnostics. Though despite alternating eyes, rotating the scope both clockwise and counterclockwise, and shifting your position behind the counter to create a variance in lighting, you failed to see anything that was overtly distorted or warped. The notion that you may not be able to solve the stranger’s problem simply because you couldn’t see it to diagnose it, pulled a disappointed frown onto your lips, usurping the confident determination you’d felt only minutes previously.

Still, he watched you mercilessly, impatience and expectation etched into the every superficial crease on his forehead. It was only as you moved to the lower the scope, prepared to sadly explain that he’d have to try elsewhere, did your departing gaze finally catch a micro glimpse of the issue. The distortion was there… but barely, and his brothers’ failure to corroborate the issue became instantly validated.

“Interesting,” you mused under your breath, locking your gaze on the minutely warped quadrant of the chart and turning the scope slowly in your fingers. “I think I see what you’re talking about,” you continued quietly, your refusal to lose sight of the issue subconsciously keeping the tone of your voice hushed. “It… it doesn’t seem like an issue of direct clarity, so the integrity of the lens coating must be intact… and the reticle itself is orientated at the correct rotation, so that rules out the first focal plane…”

Your hushed diagnostic rambling trailed away to silence as a theory emerged to the forefront of your mind. Before his frowning lips could wrap themselves around a sardonic response, you lowered the equipment from your eye, gripped it tightly in your hand, and flung your arm aggressively downwards, a motion reminiscent of trying to force a small amount of ketchup through the opening of a large bottle. His posture straightened hastily, and his horrified expression on his lithe face combined with the sharp gasp that slapped his throat, had you momentarily fearful he might pluck the toothpick from its clamp between his teeth and toss it at you like a javelin.

“Kriff, be careful.” It was not a request but a demand, leaving his lips in a hiss that suited his demeanor much more than that curt impatience he’d emanated earlier. “That’s my favourite scope.”

His warning went ignored, a prideful self-satisfaction smothering the duress of his mistrust as you peered through the scope again and found the resolution you had expected. “Ha,” you cheered in a whisper, orienting yourself towards him again. “Look now. Tell me if it’s any different.” You held the weighty scope out to him and gestured to the chart across the room. Still tinged with the horror brought on by your seemingly impulsive disregard for his property, his scowl intensified, exacerbated by a budding sense of scrutiny, but despite his dubious disbelief, he took the tool from your extended palm and brought it to his tattooed eye.

The speed in which he ran the scope through his own set of visual diagnostics was nothing short of remarkable, and it was this behavior, not the hissed warnings of care that reinforced his attachment to the tool. “Hmm,” he eventually grunted, his expression now impassive. “Seems normal actually.”

Eager to share your theory, you shifted your weight to your elbows. “I’m thinking the second focal plane might have dislodged in the chamber somehow,” you advised him. “Is there quite a bit of recoil from your rifle?”

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, almost entirely banishing the tension in his brow and softening his expression to a nearly unidentifiable degree, and it was only barely that you contained the smile threatening to engulf your own features. “She’s got a bit of a kick,” he admitted slyly, flicking the toothpick noisily with the tip of his tongue. “But that’s not going to change. So what now?”

You sighed through your nose, gaze affixed on the piece of equipment clutched in his long fingers as a merciless tug-of-war erupted in your mind. It had been years since the opportunity to tinker with something as niche and unique as a long-range rifle scope had fallen into your hands, but the mountain of work already awaiting your attention was formidable, and could not be ethically delayed any longer.

“I’ll see what I can do,” you offered, sheer curiosity sending a right hook in the direction of your better judgement. “But I won’t be able to identify the root of the problem, or the solution, until I take it apart and run diagnostics on the individual pieces.”

His softened expression receded entirely, the soggy strip of wood in his teeth continuing to dance across now scowling lips as he cocked a dark eyebrow and glowered at you, but you matched the reemergence of mistrust with a neutral stare, drumming your nails lightly on the desk between you and watching the cogs of indecision turn behind his eyes. His top lip flattened slightly, tense with threats and warnings of caution that he longed to voice aloud, but he was as aware as he was cranky; his desperation for a solution seemingly outweighing his skepticism, and he restrained every admonishment lingering on his tongue.

“Like I said,” he snarled, refusing to soften the glare he was sending your way. “It’s my favourite scope.”

You swallowed against a mixture of disappointment and offense, embittered that this unnecessarily stern man had actively sought your help with his problem, but was too suspicious and wary to grant you the permission to fix it, despite having seemingly identified the root of the issue before his eyes. You hitched an ingenuine smile to your face and shrugged, perching yourself back on the seat of your squeaky desk chair and pulling the swimming goggles towards you. “It’s your choice,” you reminded him, rousing your slumbering monitor to life with the prod of your finger. “You can leave it and be no worse off… or I can take it apart and have a go at fixing it.”

Silence ensued in the following moment, a quiet broken only by the occasional click of wood against molar and the rhythmic tapping of your fingers on the keyboard, but despite his seemingly steadfast refusal to accept your offer, he didn’t move from his perch against the counter.

“Fine,” he grumbled, taking you by surprise and immediately stealing your attention back. “But I fly out at sunset, so I’ll need it back before then.”

“I can do that.” Thrilled by the valid excuse to delay ordering it (and its neglected comrades) for another few hours, you happily pushed the acrylic tray housing the goggles away from you and stood from your chair. “I close up shop before then anyways. Actually, there’s a shooting range about a block west of here. I can meet you there in a couple hours, and you can fire off a couple shots to see if my handiwork holds up.”

“Deal.” He stood up straight and plucked the strip of wood from his lips, flicking it to the floor at his feet without a second thought. “Name’s Crosshair.”

“Crosshair,” you repeated after offering your name in return, and with a gesture towards the tattoo around his eye you said: “Should have known.”

***

The sun that had so refreshingly bathed the planet that afternoon was readying itself for another night of slumber, sinking ever lower toward the horizon with each passing minute, and its void in the musty industrial building sent a shiver down your back.

A small alcove set into the wall, adorned with a smattering safety notices, acted as a landing zone for those entering and exiting the active firing lanes. An obnoxiously heavy, rolling durasteel door separated the two areas, and it was with an almost comical level of exertion that you managed to roll the door ajar just wide enough to squeeze through the gap. The audible rumble of the long-ago seized wheels was lost amongst the echoing din that bathed your ears in the room beyond; each of the two dozen lanes occupied by a duo of armed beings, jeering at each other over missed shots and poor grips.

If the sniper pole protruding menacingly from his shoulder wasn’t enough to make him easily distinguishable in the shadows opposite, then the stunning contrast of his silver hair and his dark armour certainly was, and it was with haste that you crossed the room toward his pacing position. The separation from his prized possession seemed to have rendered him, shockingly, more impatient than hours previously, the soggy toothpick between his frowning lips dancing ceaselessly while the thumb on each of his hands aggressively cracked the knuckles of its neighbouring fingers. But while his appearance and obvious restlessness had initially captured your attention, it did not hold it. Something else caught your eye… someone else.

A second man stood in close proximity to the sniper, almost identical in height though the stoop in his posture, brought on by the intent downwards gaze toward the device clutched in his hands, ensured a less imposing presence than his broad shouldered, glaring neighbour. He seemed at first glance, to be an extraordinary dichotomy to his companion, the perfect ying to Crosshair’s yang; where one’s hair shone brightly in the light of the buzzing fluorescent bulbs overhead, the other’s reflected the dark of shadowed corners, where one’s cuirass was deliberately painted dark, the other’s remained white, adorned with colour only minimally, and where Crosshair’s impatience was evident, with his sharp eyes darting mercilessly around the room, his companion seemed content to remain still, gaze affixed to the screen only inches from his nose.

‘Must be one of his brothers,’ you concluded as you approached the loitering duo.

Crosshair detected your arrival almost immediately; the intensity of his unrelenting gaze as you crossed the room to his position rendered your friendly “hello,” completely redundant. A double-take interrupted the greeting poised on your tongue for his companion, the unexpected allure of his features, thrown into relief by close proximity and the fleeting shift of his attention from the device in his hands to you, rendered you briefly inarticulate.

He continued to look remarkably different from his brother at second glance, with a squarer jaw, fuller lips, a more substantial frame (disguised by poor posture, a slight bow in his legs, and significantly less armour), and a set of dark goggles framing a pair of stunningly warm, brown eyes.

“Any luck?” Crosshair probed impatiently, opting to forgo niceties for the second time that day.

“Yeah, some,” you assuaged with a nod, tearing your gaze away from his brother. “My first assumptions were largely correct. The second focal plane must have dislodged in the scope’s housing at some point. Unless you knocked it pretty forcefully against something, a theory I can rule-out based on the otherwise pristine condition of the equipment, it was likely the extended period of repeated recoil that caused the dislocation.”

The large, goggled eyes had directed themselves to you again, this time almost urgently and paired with an abrupt jerk of his head in your direction. The jarring motion stole your attention mid-sentence, the recited explanation rolling off your tongue turning laggy and discombobulated under the intensity of his wide-eyed, astonished stare. Your eyebrows lifted slightly as you turned to face the slack jawed stranger, but no sooner did your gaze fall onto his blushing face, did he avert his focus from you again.

“Okay, and?” Crosshair asked, his probe prompting you to frantically try and find the lost train of thought from the previous second.

“Honestly,” you continued, redirecting your attention to the sniper, “With how minutely displaced the lens was, I’m impressed you even noticed.”

“Impressed?” Crosshair repeated, cocking an eyebrow in apparent disbelief. “Why?”

“Well… mathematically, any change in the relative vertex distance between focal planes will cause a deviation in the refracted ray, thus distorting the perceived real image…” The goggled man’s head snapped violently upwards again, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates as his attention darted back and forth between you and his silver haired brother. “...but the second focal plane was only dislodged by about a millimetre. You must have pretty fantastic eyesight to pick up on such a small visual misalignment.” A fleeting glance to your right confirmed that the goggled man’s twinkly brown eyes were affixed on you, and it was with a foreign sense of budding shyness, that you extended the plastoid box out to Crosshair.

“Did you fix it?” he queried, collecting the offering and promptly unlatching the lid.

“Only temporarily, unfortunately.” A disappointed grimace weighed down your response. “It likely happened during the initial dislodging, but the bevel that holds the lens in place is significantly chipped. I’ve re-embedded it into its grooved housing, but I wouldn’t rely on it being a permanent solution.”

The disappointment that saturated your explanation did not seem to be mutual as the sniper wasted no time dropping to a knee beside you and pulling the pack from his shoulders. He retrieved the scope from its enclosement first, abandoning its container to the stone floor at your feet, before collecting and clicking together the deconstructed rifle parts that he wore on his back. Eager to avoid being accidentally knocked by the intimidatingly long rifle barrel being mounted into place, you turned and took a small step sideways.

The toe of your boot, however, didn’t descend as gracefully as you’d intended, instead snagging itself upon something domed and rigid, simultaneously sending your right ankle tipping sideways, and your arms outwards in a frantic motion to stabilize yourself. It wasn’t until you’d steadied the breath in your lungs that your eyes located the tripping hazard, ready to kick it away lest you step on it again. Embarrassment flooded your veins. It was a boot…

“Oh kriff, I’m sorry!” you cried, immediately relieving your fingers of their iron grip around the goggled man’s forearm. “I should have looked before I moved. Did I hurt you?”

Fuelled by the pounding of your heart in your chest, a heat rose quickly and earnestly to your cheeks as dazzling brown eyes widened behind those goggles again. An awkward silence expanded in the air between you as he failed to answer, and you hastily shifted your attention to Crosshair’s retreating figure, reconstructed rifle pointed upwards to the ceiling as he headed towards the nearby shooting lane.

“You did not. Our footwear is impregnated with a multilayered durasteel core that is able to withstand over 150kg of pressure, and you do not appear to have a mass equivalent to or exceeding that. However, the unanticipated need to anchor yourself with my arm nearly caused me to drop my datapad.”

It may have been the curt, matter-of-fact tone in which he spoke, another complete inverse to the slithery smoke of his brothers voice; it may have been the awkward and inelegant cadence of his reply; it may have been the adorable shift of his goggles on the bridge of his nose as he averted his gaze from you again that triggered a flutter in your gut, but for the second time, you found yourself momentarily tongue-tied.

“That would have been bad,” you somehow managed to force out under the duress of the giddy smile fighting to adorn your lips.

“Indeed,” he breathed.

His attention returned bashfully to the illuminated screen in his hands, the tops of his ears reddening slightly against the brush of his dark hairline, and you took the deviation of his gaze as an opportunity to survey his goggles. It was not the untraditional choice of eyewear that warranted your curiousity, as a strapped goggle was an entirely appropriate choice for a soldier who was likely constantly active, nor was it the recording device, mounted expertly along his right temple and aglow in the dim lighting of the corner either. It was his lenses: tragically thick, horribly smudged, and inducing a degree of magnification that you saw only rarely in the industry.

‘Poor hyperopes,’ you thought to yourself, the inherent squint of his eyes as they fought to focus through a series of ungodly fingerprints pulling an adoring smile onto your lips.

“Sorry if this is a little strange but… can I clean your lenses?” You spoke deliberately lightly and aloofly, intent on ensuring that he took no offense to your offer, and it was with a subdued tentativeness that you watched the adam’s apple bob in his throat.

“Clean my lenses?” he repeated, returning his gaze to you with dark brows knitted slightly in befuddlement.

“Yes,” you confirmed, blindly reaching into your bag for your trusted, green microfiber cloth. “They are filthy, and I don’t know how you can see anything.”

An unexplained affection welled inside of you as his thin fingers nimbly shifted his goggles again, exposing the repeated gesture as a soothing motion; the smallest of irrelevant movements acting as a pacifier against situations where discomfort threatened to provoke him.

“I did not realize the poor nature of their condition,” he admitted, indefinitely suspending the back and forth of his attention by stowing his datapad away into one of many pouches around his waist.

“You wouldn’t,” you answered with a small shrug and a smile, watching his features tense momentarily under the duress of pulling his goggles off. “Hyperopic, or ‘far-sighted’ people, by nature, struggle to see anything in the immediate vicinity of their gaze. That’s why they can never tell if their glasses are dirty or their lenses are scratched. So… you can’t help it.”

“You… are correct.” He answered slowly, his tone still dripping in what sounded like pleasant astonishment as he extended his goggles out to you. “A mutation in my genetic structure caused an innocent yet bothersome bilateral malformation of my corneas, resulting in a significant degree of hyperopia.”

“That’s probably putting it lightly.” A small chuckle left your mouth as you swaddled the left lens with your cloth and began to deftly wipe away the sea of fingerprints. Much like Crosshair had while his precious scope was being tended to in the foreign clutches of a stranger, this man watched your practiced hands intently and possessively as you worked to polish away any signs of a smudge.

The fluorescent bulbs suspended two-dozen feet above you were nowhere near as effective as the optical-grade backlit yellow panel that sat in the corner of your workshop, but were just luminescent enough to affirm you’d removed the last of the oily smears before you pocketed your cloth. A knowing smirk peeled its way across your lips as you shifted the lenses to-and-fro in front of your mildly squinted eyes, observing how the biconcavity on the front surface bent the reflection of the overhead light. “What’s the nature of your prescription?” you questioned as your left eye closed and your fingers rotated his goggles. “I’m assuming just based on the Against-Motion principle, that you’re probably around a +8.00? Maybe a +9.00?”

He blinked rapidly and repeatedly, seemingly trying to rid his vision of the anatomical blur that would forever plague him in the void of his goggles before answering.“I… am not certain of the exact dioptric correction,” he divulged, now grinding his knuckles into his eyes. “But I believe your estimation to be accurate. I am impressed that you could make such a determination based loosely on the principles of magnification alone.”

“It’s my job.” While you were able to modestly shrug away the giddiness of his inferred praise, your composure was no match for the accentuation of his sharp jawline, thrown into relief as the first hint of a smile tugged his cheek toward his ear. “I handle dozens of lenses every day,” you continued, averting your eyes to the goggles you held out to him. “I’m well practiced.”

“That is obvious.”

The affable response waiting just behind your smirking lips was halted in place by the return of the sniper as he reappeared at his brother’s side, his lithe face impassive and his rifle already snuggled into its cradle in his pack.

“Big improvement,” he uttered, the nod of appreciation that followed his words filling you with a mixture of relief and pride. “What do I owe you?”

“Not a thing,” you answered with a dismissing wave of the hand. The sight of notoriously scowling lips now taut behind a satisfied smile was enough to support that delaying your nefarious to-do list, while undeniably irresponsible, was the right decision. “It was actually nice to have a bit of a challenge for once. Like I said, it’ll hold for a while but it’s not a forever fix.”

“Disappointing.” Faster than it had come, the sly smile on his face disappeared, replaced in a breath by a glum grimace as he plucked the toothpick from the tight clamp of his teeth and flicked it to the floor at his feet. “Pretty sure that model is out of production now.”

“Sure is,” you confirmed, sympathetically matching his grimace with one of your own. “I did some research today—” (goggles snapped his head in your direction again) “—from the limited information that I could find, your model was the last that incorporated a biconcave first focal plane. But… I actually found an alternative tucked away in my workshop.” You reached a hand blindly into your bag, the keys to your speeder jingling as you roughly pushed them aside in search of the stiff plastoid box you’d shoved into the depths before leaving work. “The internal components are the same, but the barrel attachment clip differs from yours.”

Crosshair spared the offering only a microglance before the crease between his dark brows deepened, his top lip flattening at the thick layer of dust that blanketed the white plastoid case. You grinned apologetically at the sight of his disgusted expression, and an understanding began to click together like puzzle pieces in your mind. Crosshair’s man-of-few-words ethos was not one of implied supremacy as you had initially presumed, he simply communicated more effectively with his expressions and mannerisms than he did with words.

“The box looks like it hasn’t been touched in centuries,” you admitted, pushing the case into his chest, “but the scope itself is pristine. You’re welcome to keep it if you think it’s suitable.”

His gaze danced across your features skeptically as if dissecting it for any sign of an ulterior motive that hadn’t managed to previously identify, but the reassurance you offered by means of a small smile must have silenced his concerns, as he moved to unlatch the container and flip it open.

It was barely an hour after Crosshair had departed your establishment that you realized why the plastoid case that housed his scope had seemed vaguely familiar to you, and it was with a sense of excited urgency that you’d jogged to the back corner of your workshop and snatched the step stool from beside the broom. Tucked away on the top shelf of a precariously hung cupboard above the lens polisher and caked several decades worth of dust, the white box sat seemingly waiting for you. Countless times in the past had it been regarded as nothing but left over detritus from your uncle, unceremoniously pushed aside and ignored as you fervently looked for something else among the clutter, but today, as recognition had flared inside of you, it’s time in the spotlight had finally come.

The sniper’s abnormally long digits pulled the foreign scope from its foam mattress, hovering it in front of his tattooed eye while turning to orient himself toward the target sheets on the opposite wall.

“Hm… not bad actually,” he relented a moment later, turning back around and holding the scope out to his brother. “Tech, do you think you could modify the barrel attachment?”

So his name is Tech. The wordless introduction ensured another flush of your cheeks, and eager to repress the giddy smile that threatened to expose you, you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and ignored the brown–eyed man still passively gaping in your direction.

Crosshair shook the scope impatiently in the space between them, seemingly hoping the motion would shatter the muted reverie in which his brother was currently enthralled. “Tech? …Tech.”

“Um… yes,” Tech confirmed to your surprise, having collected the tool from his brother and agreeing to the task without even sparing it a glance. “Yes… I am able to… attach… myself.”

The chuckle that threatened to spill from your lips forced your gaze to the floor. The weathered and worn painted concrete beneath your boots was nothing but the epitome of lusterless and drossy, but in this moment of featherbrained awkwardness, you’d never seen a more interesting floor.

“Maker, since when can you not talk?” Crosshair hissed through clenched teeth.

Hot in the face and growing increasingly embarrassed by both the awkwardness of the conversation and the rapid emergence of this schoolgirl crush, you turned your attention back to your bag, thrusting your hand into its depths once again and pretending to dig around for something. Your peripheral vision saw Tech shift his goggles on his nose again, and immediately retract the datapad from his waist pouch.

You cleared your throat quietly before adjusting your bag on your shoulder and swinging your keyring noisily around your finger. Tech was blushing furiously and had turned his gaze to the screen of his small device, fingers dancing across the multicoloured buttons as if he���d injected rocket fuel directly into his knuckles. Crosshair, on the tail end of an elaborate eye roll, shook his head impatiently and huffed.

“You sure about this?” he asked you, tapping the lid of the plastoid box in his hands.

“Absolutely,” you answered without even the thought of hesitation. “It was just taking up very limited cupboard space so, if you want it, it’s yours.”

He nodded once, surveying your expression fleetingly once more before tucking the parcel under his arm. “Thanks again,” he mumbled, tossing you a casual three-fingered salute of acknowledgement before turning on his heel and heading the opposite way to the heavy, sliding door.

The sudden abandonment at the hands of his brother seemed to have roused Tech from his vigorous tango of typing, and his magnified eyes flickered to yours only briefly before darting towards the door. Mild amusement pulled another smile to your lips as discomfort erupted across his features; his jaw tensed, his posture straightened, and despite having spent the previous dozen minutes intermittently gawking at you, he now avoided your gaze.

“You better go,” you smirked, gesturing towards the disappearing head of silver hair. “It was nice to meet you. Good luck going… wherever it is that you’re going.”

“The ideology of ‘luck’ is illogical,” he intoned, raising a know-it-all finger into the air, the gesture somehow only intensifying your affection for him though he continued to evade eye contact, “but the sentiments are appreciated. And it was a pleasure gaining your acquaintance as well.”

His stooped frame made it barely three long paces before an urgent idea erupted in your mind. “Tech, wait!”

He turned his slumped shoulders back around to face you, mild curiosity etched into the small furrow in his brow as he lowered his datapad and held it limply at his side. “Keep this,” you offered, extending out the green microfiber cloth to him. “You need it more than I do.”

He stared, adorably flummoxed, at the fabric in your hand. “Keep it in one of your six hundred pockets,” you added with a goofy smirk and small gesture down to the series of cargo belts that seemingly adorned every inch of his tall frame. A mildly affronted expression ghosted across his face, but it was succeeded almost instantly by the same small smile that had sent your heart aflutter earlier. He took the cloth from you with a small nod, tucking it into the pouch perched just above a dangling spanner wrench on his hip, before muttering a quiet “goodbye” and continuing toward the door.

[roblogging]

hii im asking your thoughts on something because i agree w a lot of what you say - i see a lot about the inherent misogyny in the fandom but not as much as the transphobia side of it. could you talk about it a bit?

below the cut for anyone who wants to skip 🫶🏻 (this is really long i'm sorry)

HI OKAY:

first of all, i dislike the use of the word inherent in these discussions - i don't think it applies. a fandom (made up of individual people) cannot be inherently anything in my opinion. and that includes misogynistic. if it were built ON misogyny/transphobia and everything and everyone followed those ideals then yes, we'd use the word. but it wasn't built on those and the presence of such things does not make them inherent. it's an individual basis.

it's a very typical view - one that i've discussed a lot before - that simply engaging with this fandom is transphobic. i (a trans man) have been called transphobic for engaging with jkrs world in non-profitable ways. so, if part of the argument is that it's inherently transphobic to be in the fandom when jkr produced the world, i refute that entirely. her views on many things may bleed into the original works and are the forefront of her "public image" but fandom does its best to alleviate the harm that causes. it's not separating art from artist, it's acknowledging that she's awful and creating a space where people from these harmed communities can still engage with something they love.

that being said,,,, yes. lots of transphobia in the fandom. BUT i think it's worthwhile to note that as a trans person with a platform, of course i see more of it. and though that might make me a better person to talk about it, it does mean i'm obviously subjected to it and see it more. i truly don't know how prevalent it is naturally, it just so happens that i see a lot of it.

not that i'm excusing it. because some of the things that have happened to me are fucking vile. but i think it the vast majority of it comes down to the eroding of fandom etiquette (and the rise of fandom on social media).

i posted a video about peter being friends with the marauders for example, and people disliked it. i got a lot of comments about my appearance because people disagreed with me, and i ended up being posted onto reddit truscum. which, if you aren't aware, essentially means they posted screenshots of me in makeup and debated how trans i am (see also: cis "feminine" sirius discourse). i had a notion page of fic recs that i made and put up because i thought it would be a fun and cute thing to do and i thought people would enjoy it. some disagreed with jegulus being on there and my irls had countless dms demanding to know what my deadname is. i've had to block it from my comment sections. if there are disagreements in my comment sections, slurs are thrown easily. i've been posted onto transmed pages because i posted a video talking about my experience on testosterone and i pointed out some of the negative things, which had led to me "not being actually trans because trans people wouldn't complain" (sorry that i don't particularly like shaving my tits ig. diy top surgery isn't particularly my goal). if i post about a ship people don't like, slurs are thrown.

or, my fav, i got multiple dms telling me that they feel as though trans people are "taking over the fandom" when i hit 10k. like??? god fucking forbid people who enjoyed these books as kids now feel comfortable engaging with them again??? god forbid we've made trans people feel welcome. and no, they aren't taking over. you're just paying too much attention to their identity. i truly don't think about the numbers on my account at all because traction means fucking nothing to me when i just want to yap and meet friends (like obviously, ofc so fucking grateful but it's not my goal or priority) but i fear i didn't get 10k for being trans, i got 10k because i'm generally a nice person who people like.

if i do *anything* that people disagree with, i'm subjected to transphobia.

because fandom etiquette is gone, because i'm confident in my identity, because i don't adhere to traditional masculine gender norms that cis men get praised for subverting, but i must just be a confused woman if i wear makeup, right?

i've definitely had my fair share of just,,, transphobia. like just people who dislike *me*, but 99% of the time it's just that people dislike my ships/hcs and instead of being a normal person and scrolling or engaging in something they enjoy, they know an easy way to get back at me. to get back at me for,,, having fun i guess.

and i could go on for ages about certain discourses, but i've said it all before on my tiktok (see again: sirius in makeup).

i think,,, there's a lot of transphobia in the fandom, from my experience. i think a lot of it stems from the fact that these spaces have become more prevalent on social media which is generally an awful place and horrible to trans people, and people can leave a comment and scroll without connecting the fact that it's an actual person.

but on the flip side, there's less transphobia than there is acceptance. i can post a yap and receive transphobic comments for the things that i've said, and i will delete those comments and watch as other people say that my voice sounds so different. or i can open up comments and see "you look so masc here", or i can reply to dms from people starting their own gender identity and be happy about the fact they thought of me to come to.

again, fandom has become more prevalent on social media. social media relies on traction, hate gets more traction than positivity, boom. we see the hate more.

i'm not gonna sit here and say it doesn't hurt. i'm not gonna sit here and say that there definitely isn't a transphobia problem in this fandom. because there is. but i'm also not gonna say that it's inherent, when every single person that i've connected with on a meaningful level, alongside a good 80% of the interactions i've had generally, has been nothing but overwhelmingly accepting.

the transphobia is there, but i won't be there to listen to it or entertain it. those clearly aren't the people i want in my bubble.

[xxamorxexmortexx]

I love the Profits, but I want DIY to get those belts back. They shouldn't have taken it off them so quickly

[anarchoherbalism]

Rechosting this rant from like a month ago here

Something that bugs me is that autonomous health & medical experimentation is widely accepted and celebrated--only when it succeeds *and is accepted by the wider establishment (usually bc it makes money and doesnt drastically contradict establishment ethos and/or profit.) Laypeople who become experts out of desperation or love or passion or whatever reasons and have a celebrated breakthrough in medicine are lauded only once they transcend into honorary members of the Medical Professional Class. I've seen people freak out at the idea of bathtub insulin and go on to talk about how openinsulin is doing it the "right way" when like. Buddy? Hon? The thing you're scared of resulting in nebulously dangerous medicine is their goal, it just looks different when they say it because they know what they're talking about and they have a nice website. The trans women making huge strides in DIY HRT are carrying on the legacy of the women who INVENTED HRT, you're just terrified of them because the people of the past have either been erased by the licensed docs that stole their work uncredited for personal glory or, or those women have retroactively been lifted to Honorary Professional Status. You're applying the same transphobia and transmisogyny and classism to the people in front of you that their foremothers faced. We gotta shoot the medical licensing boards in our heads and focus on building working knowledge because the bum (affectionate) on ur Street corner can DEFINITELY know more than many doctors. Our culture recognizes this in all kinds of places, like the relatively widespread recognition that disabled people need to be experts in our own care because the docs sure as shit usually ain't, but then when it's all put together into a real, useful praxis it gets screamed down because of all of these oppression structures and brainworms and learned helplessness; not to mention all of yall that go around beefing theory about medication production with 0 even beginner-level knowledge of how these things work or what real risks are involved or what the mitigation strategies currently in place look like.

[unintentionaloracle]

I admit, I was pulling more for DIY because they were robbed in Cleveland (and I love Johnny), but that was such a good match I can't complain (especially because I like The Profits too and they deserve a shot, too).

Honestly, we won getting to watch that match.

[ciarancreature]

Hey! Since it seems like goth women's fashion is a lot easier to find examples of and information about, I've decided to create a short visual guide to a good, basic look you can do as a male or masc goth! Note that this is intended as a guide for more casual, everyday wear; for a fancier goth style, like a vampire or Victorian goth look, this might not be the right guide.

For a good, basic, every day casual goth look, here's what I like to do.

Let's start with shoes. I typically wear black Dr. Martens with platforms. They can be bought new or used, and I recommend real leather, as it's much longer lasting and more environmentally friendly. But Docs are expensive. If they're not in your budget, any similar black boot will do. You can also get creative and do a different kind of black boot, or, if you manage to get your hands on some, a pair of winklepickers (also known as goth pikes) are a classic look!

The next thing to look at is pants. You'll probably want a nice, simple pair of black jeans. I would recommend skinny jeans, but if they're not comfortable or you don't like the look, a pair of straight or athletic jeans, or anything else should work! That being said, I'd stick to black (or something else that you feel looks gothy). Normal or ripped are both great!

After that, a completely optional step is a belt or several layered belts (black if possible). Not everyone wears them, but one or more edgy belts are another classic look with a deathrocker vibe. Some fun options are belts with chains and O rings, studs, or bullets. A wallet chain is also an option.

Over that, a classic staple in any goth wardrobe is a black goth band shirt. This is a way to show you know the music, look cool, and support bands you love - many bands make the majority of their profits as musicians from merch!

One thing you can do, especially for a more tradgoth or deathrocker look, is to add either fishets or a layer or two of ripped tights as sleeves under the t-shirt. Not everyone does this, but it's a fun element for extra flair. If you go with fishnets, I recommend getting tights and simply ripping or cutting a hole in the crotch rather than buying a shirt, because it's much cheaper, and because the ripped look is cool.

On top of that, you'll probably want a jacket. Some people wear trench coats. Some people wear a black denim vest or jacket with patches, studs, or spikes (again, this is more common among deathrockers). Some wear a black leather jacket; it could be new or vintage, real or pleather, and plain or covered in painted band logos/patches/spikes. Some even wear distressed sweaters. Most goths prefer black, regardless of what you go for, and if it's got spikes or patches, most goths DIY them rather than buying them like that. Patches are another way to show off your love and support for bands.

You may also want to add jewelry. Some goths wear a lot of creepy rings. Many wear chokers or necklaces, and often layer them; some classic ones are rosaries, ankhs, and bats. Many goths of all genders and sexualities also wear black nail polish. If you choose to wear facial piercings, avoid tribal ones. They're culturally appropriative and will alienate marginalized people and lead to people getting upset with you.

If you have hair, you have several options for styling it. Most goths choose to dye their hair black, but some may bleach it, keep it natural, or color it. Some may even choose to wear different wigs for different occasions. How you style it is up to you, but many choose to style it by backcombing/teasing it, applying a strong hairspray (got2be Glued is typically the most recommended), and using a hair dryer to make it stay in place (there are several tutorials for this on YouTube). Alternatively, you can simply leave it long (this is a less classic look, but many goths do it). Many, especially deathrockers like to style their hair in a deathhawk, which is a mohawk or crest hairstyle with backcombed hair. (There is some debate about whether this is culturally appropriative or not. I've met someone online who claimed to be from the Kanien'kehá:ka Tribe (the indigenous name for the tribe) who told me they don't consider it appropriative because the original hairstyle involves plucking, not shaving the hair, and involves a certain amount of ritual and spiritual significance; this person also said they don't think it should be called a Mohawk because it's not the same hairstyle as the one associated with the tribe. That being said, I'd never met them before and don't know if they were being honest with me. I've also met a white person who sent me an article by another white person who claimed to have asked members of the same tribe, who said they do consider it appropriative. If someone who is actually from the Kanien'kehá:ka culture would like to tell me what the consensus is, or if there even is one within the culture, I would appreciate it.). I've also see goths with any number of styles that involved shaving various parts of their heads, so you can also just go wild with the clippers and see what happens. A tower (a style in which the sides and back are shaved and the top is styled to stick up) is also an option. Just be aware that something that involves backcombing and hairspray is a lot of work to be doing on a daily basis and can damage your hair; using extensions instead may help protect it. If you have textured hair, many Black goths tease or comb it into various styles. The important thing with many looks is that it has body and sticks up, that it has shaved parts, that it's generally edgy, or some combination of those traits at play. When in doubt, look to goth icons like Robert Smith and Dave Vanian for inspiration, or simply try to look as much like a vampire as you can. Or, you can look at modern goth artists, like Twin Tribes, Male Tears, and She Past Away!

Most goths (even cis, straight men) wear some amount of makeup, although it's not necessary if you don't want to. A basic beginner look may just be black eyeliner and/or eyeshadow smudged around the eyes. If you'd like the get creative with it, some contouring, black or red lipstick, or more elaborate eye makeup may be in order. You can imitate women's looks or do something more elaborate; I'll make a separate post for that. Goth makeup often focuses on looking gaunt and pale, but this is not because goth has always been for skinny, white people (it's never been just for them); it's more that the goal when goth makeup became a thing was to look like a corpse. Being pale and being skinny are not requirements. Looking dark and edgy is the goal, not looking conventionally attractive.

Doing all or most of these things will give you a good, basic goth look, and with just a few band shirts, you'll have a solid wardrobe to work with that doesn't have to be expensive. Remember, goth fashion has always been pretty androgynous, so don't be afraid to borrow ideas from goth women as well! If you're able to spend time around other goths or follow them on social media (Goth Dad is an influencer who has his own goth male fashion tutorials that are worth looking at, and others like Sweeney DeVille and James from the band Male Tears have good tutorials for things like hair and makeup), you'll pick up on more ideas, and can even get creative on your own!

[fromchaostocosmos]

Instead of spending money of hogwarts legacy take that money and spend it on people who diy their harry potter merch. small esty business that create lovely and beautiful and cute harry potter things like jewelry or clothing or bookmarks or stuffed animals, clay figures, and whatever else

people who get to keep the money, people who don't profit from antisemitic, racist, and transphobic.

why not do that instead of giving jkr and all the gross corporations involved a single cent

because there are people who make stuff, who understand the harm going on and don't interact with the harmful things, they just want to be able back some of the joy we all felt in our joy childhood.

do that instead, okay.

[walks-the-ages]

Can you please imagine for me if the 2022 reboot was actually about telling a continued story from the original series instead of capitalizing on cheap nostalgia.

If the writers actually cared about telling a good story and telling it well.

Can you imagine if Sam Leaped into a young Ben Song to save his life from some childhood disaster and Ben carried that memory of the Future and the Waiting Room with him through his entire life, knowing that a complete stranger saved his life, and dedicating his life towards mastering quantum physics and, with an entire message board and forum of similar past Leapees,

an entire team of former Leapees sneakily joins/ infiltrates various government agencies until they've managed to convince the relevant politicians that reopening Project Quantum Leap is super duper profitable, actually , and that they could *totally* send people into Leaps to gather top secret intelligence information from enemies of the state and find out who assassinated xyz and etc,

all while acting like they're complete professional strangers to each other ..... Up until the first unmonitored day at the New Project Quantum Leap 2 , where they all immediately break character to show that they're a bunch of people from all walks of life who have dedicated their lives to finding and bringing home the person who saved them and their loved ones so selflessly with no thought of reward except for the hope that the next Leap will be the Leap home.

And the team here is determined to make that hope a reality, each with their shared history with Sam, either directly being past Leapees themselves or closely connected to someone who was; perhaps a friend, or loved one, who was Leaped into to change history for the better, and team member found out and want to help Sam the way he helped them/their loved ones?

Like, just imagine how many people out there, how many lives Sam has touched. How many people there are in the world that were personally impacted by Sam's actions? Heck, there even be a lot of fun villains thrown into the mix because Sam Leaped into shitty people to save the people around them from the Leapee, like the guy with the gun, or the cheating sleazebag with a million wives and kids-- throw some vengeful Leapees into the interpersonal drama and you've got grade A concepts to work from right then and there, a team with dozens more in the background working to get Sam home and make some kind of contact with him, setting up their own DIY hologram chambers at home with tinfoil rooms and sci-fi projector so they can sit in there with a laptop and look at wiki pages and digital history libraries to get info to Sam to try to help him on the newest Leap, just.

Literally anything that actually has any proper, Heartfelt connection to the original show and it's characters.

A love letter to Quantum Leap and it's meaning, instead of just trying to profit off the IP.

Also it would keep the fun scifi 80s aesthetic because know how to have fun in this house. Not just generic 2022, give me flashing earrings and light up pronoun pins with matching gas pedals for your car.

[slayingqueenchal]

Well that's interesting, have you ever thought of dating a singer? | bucky barnes x y/n stark

Note: this is a treat for those who loves music, y/n likes bucky and she's a singer, so she makes music about him, all music is not mine, most of them is from Lana Del rey, Taylor swift, Conan gray, Olivia rodrigo

Warning : none, fluff, confession, reader is 21

GIF : lizzie-olsen

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Copyright Disclaimer under Section 107 of the copyright act 1976, allowance is made for fair use for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, scholarship, and research. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favour of fair use.

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

It's been a few months since a certain bucky barnes had joined the Avengers. All the time, he was so caring, but so oblivious.

When you wake up, almost screaming from dreaming, he comforted you.

"Doll, doll, are you alright? " He got into your room. He softly woke you up. "It's alright, I'm here, and, it's just a dream" Bucky comforts you. He ends up cuddling with you since he felt bad for you and your dreams.

And that one time when you accidentally entered the wrong room, instead of your room you got into bucky's. When he was still a bit sensitive, he was sweet to you, cold to others.

Oh, and that one time where you introduced pinterest to him, and he has a board special for DIY's, mostly paper rings.

"Y/n look, Pinterest is so cool, dope? Does that make sense? Peter said it" Bucky said, showing his boards.

That one time when he caught you staring at him. "I know you have your eyes on me," Bucky giggled, while he continued eating his pancakes.

He was ethereal, made you want to have love like the movies, but at the same time he made you feel like you're crazy, and not enough for him.

You knew you had no rights to cry, let along make a song about him. The only person who knew his Steve, and, your life is in his hands cause if Steve tells Bucky, that'll end you and Bucky's friendship.

That day, you made songs about him, Say yes to heaven, Anti-hero, Blank space, Paper rings,Movies, Ride, Enough for you. You scolded your self for making a whole album about him.

But, your 21, and barely making money, would publishing some music be that bad? And you did it. You published it, without telling your father, Tony. It was your first time doing something without telling you father, or Natasha, or Steve, or, bucky.

"That's great, y/n, your music is now published" The music publisher, alorea smiled and hugged you. You payed so much money for this, half of your life savings.

But, it was bittersweet. The musics became favorites for many people, but you didn't think of the consequences that well.

The news flooded, with 'Tony stark's daughter, Y/n stark published an album not long ago'. Your father was happy, that was a miracle, but..

"Hey doll, uhm, cool album" Said bucky. He sat next to you on the sofa, with nobody around. "Thanks, buck" You smiled. "Who's the guy? " He asks, it sounds like he was.. Defensive?.

"No one, really" You said, looking down awkwardly. "The guy must be so oblivious, you made a whole album about him and he didn't do anything, wait, did he? " He asks.

"No, he didn't do anything, and yes, he is so oblivious" You said. This is the time its now, or probably never "why are you do oblivious, buck? ".

"Wait what? Was the album about me? " He said that in a small voice. "I'm sorry, buck" You looked down too scared to look at him.

You two didn't say anything until he said. "You like me? How come you like someone like me? "

"Cause you are you, you're bucky barnes, and you made me fall so hard for you, and I'm sorry about not asking for permission or what, but if you don't want to be friends with me, honestly that's fine, because it was so wrong for me to-" He cuts you off with, "no, y/n, I do like you" You looked bucky in the eye.

"Really? " You said. "Yes, y/n, and, do you want to make us like, official or something, I know it's stupid" Bucky doubted him self. "No, no it's not stupid, buck, and yes" You smile.

That was the day when he dated a singer, and that is you.

[silent-dragon]

TWST OC Profile ~ Reinhardt Goldthread

TWSTsona oc #4

Personal Info

Name: Reinhardt Goldthread

Nickname: Sir Gold - Divus

Little Croc Imp - Sam

Gender: Transmasc

Age: ??

Species: Half Fae Human

Birthday: 3/28

Zodiac: Aries

Height: 162cm/5ft'4in 

Orientation: Androsexual

Eye Color: Sun Yellow

Hair Color: Emerald Green

Homeland: Briar Valley

Twist Of Rumplestiltskin/The Dark One from Once Upon a Time(Loosely)

Work Info

School: Night Ravens College

Occupation: Magical Potions Professor,Potion/Tonic Maker & Seller,Thread Maker

Other Info

Dominant Hand: Left

Favorite Food: Cookie & Cream Ice Cream

Least Favorite Food: Tomatoes(Allergic)

Dislikes: Pools,Worms,Sponges,Broken Glass Sounds,Ants,Summer Heat,Dangerous DIY Potion Recipes,His Back Pain,Being Deceived or Tricked,The Fairies that zip around NRC,Parents who brag about their children

Likes: His Work,Bottle Collecting,Butter Cookies,Science,Gathering Ingredients for Potions,His Store Stall,Making Deals with Sam & Others,Being Shady

Talents: Powerful Potion Making,Making Tonic/Home Remedy Recipes,Magical Infusion Potions,Napping,Making Thread for Sewing to Sell

Unique Magic: At What Price? - Using his magic can make a potion that can do almost whatever the drinker of it wants truly in their heart at the moment of sipping it all but this potion has a random side effect or price that even he can't tell what will happen. This potion does not work on himself.

Personality: As a professor and salesman to mostly all he is a happy go lucky guy always smiling. Can be a little unsettling with his fangs showing though. However when it comes to deals,trades,bartering,borrowing,or wanting something from him he seems to flip to a more serious personality that can be shady or selfish. Around co-workers he is quiet and kinda unnoticeable for a moment when in a room with them. He is not great with normal conversation and struggles so he often watches others have them to study how to.

🧵

Some Facts: He loves making deals,It's his favorite thing. Worse than the Octavinelle leader as he has no reason for it other than it's fun.

🧵

Known for his eccentric flair at his store stall that is on-campus on certain days. Other days he is at rsa selling his wares or day off.

🧵

He sells regular potions,magical potions(college accepted ones only on-campus)and strangely magical sewing thread. Potions are standard but the thread is curious cause its always a different price each day and can only buy a small spool of it per day.

🧵

If you are wondering, yes Sam and Reinhardt know each other. They have a business and questionable friends(?) relationship. Sam often sells some of Reinhardt's potions at his shop for him and they split profits or trade for something.

🧵

Just for students who struggle in his class he has a self tutoring kit he sells just to them that helps significantly if they follow it word for word. The cost? Could be madol..but also an item he is after from somewhere so almost free..how generous!

🧵

Usually spends his days in his workshop either on the spinning wheel making the magical thread or at his potion station making the normal stock potions,class potions,or making something new.

🧵

Used to be a father but lost his child when they were 4yrs old to illness.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

This day in history

#20yrsago BBC’s new site learns from you https://memex.craphound.com/2002/11/20/bbcs-new-site-learns-from-you/

#20yrsago Turducken: chicken-in-duck-in-turkey https://www.nytimes.com/2002/11/20/dining/turkey-finds-its-inner-duck-and-chicken.html

#15yrsago Disney lawyers enstupidize ride with dumb legal disclaimer https://www.flickr.com/photos/unsupervised/2050682942/

#15yrsago UK tax authorities repeatedly lose 25m peoples’ tax records https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2007/nov/21/immigrationpolicy.socialexclusion

#15yrsago Sardine in Outer Space: Cheerful anarchist comix for kids https://memex.craphound.com/2007/11/20/sardine-in-outer-space-cheerful-anarchist-comix-for-kids/

#10yrsago Beyond the public debt: making a wider case for openness https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2012/nov/20/pharmaceutical-research-open-access

#10yrsago US publishers sabotage treaty on the rights of people with print disabilities https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2012/11/lets-close-deal-treaty-blind-and-print-disabled

#10yrsago Buyer beware: Nintendo nukes $400 worth of downloaded content during DRM-fail migration to Wii U https://arstechnica.com/gaming/2012/11/how-nintendo-drm-trapped-400-of-downloaded-games-on-my-failing-wii/

#5yrsago Scientist puts his dog on the editorial boards of seven predatory journals as proof of their negligence https://www.perthnow.com.au/news/wa/the-perth-dog-thats-probably-smarter-than-you-ng-a4de0d201ce420e0302c69532a399419

#5yrsago Puerto Rico, abandoned by Trump and facing disaster capitalism looting by big business, turns to socialist and anarchist collectives to rebuild https://www.nybooks.com/online/2017/11/17/puerto-ricos-diy-disaster-relief/

#5yrsago America’s private health-care is rationed, but socialized medicine is luxury medicine https://jacobin.com/2017/11/single-payer-health-care-medicare

#5yrsago How technology’s built in “engagement maximization” destroys mental health in the Trump age, and what to do about it https://memex.craphound.com/2017/11/20/how-technologys-built-in-engagement-maximization-destroys-mental-health-in-the-trump-age-and-what-to-do-about-it/

#5yrsago After Roy Moore threatens to sue AL.com, the publisher puts him on notice to preserve all documents for their countersuit https://twitter.com/ErikWemple/status/932351827756056586

#1yrago Inflation or price-gouging?: Big business loves inflation talk https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/20/quiet-part-out-loud/#profiteering