#good practice for diverse characters

[lirotationside]

Your setup with Astarion? Far from standard, but hey, this is Night City. Nothing’s standard here. He’d latched onto you after you pulled him out of that shitshow, half-dead and running on charm. You figured he’d crash for a couple of days, maybe heal up, give you the intel he promised, and bounce. People didn’t stick around in this town; the city chewed through connections faster than your neural processors.

Credit where it's due - he delivered. His intel got you into that mixer, gave you the perfect shot at your Kong Tao mark. Clean hit, fat stack of eddies, even tossed him his cut. Should've been done. Gig closed. Next job.

But no.

Days bled into weeks, and somehow, he just... stuck.

He wasn't exactly a model tenant - scattered empty stims and synth-food containers like some twisted treasure trail - but hell, your own living space looked like a Scav den most days.

He even cooked once. Or tried to. Whatever the hell he’d attempted with the synth-meat still clung to the edges of the kitchen.

You weren’t gonna sleep with him—not after what happened—and he mostly kept out of your way.

Then there were the nights he’d vanish. No word, no note, just slipping into the neon blur like a shadow.

And when he came back?

He looked like he’d gone a few rounds in a back-alley pit fight with someone twice his size. Clothes shredded, lip split, cradling an arm that looked one hit away from falling off. Whatever poise and polish he normally carried was long gone, replaced by a raw, jagged exhaustion.

One morning, curiosity got the better of you.

“What the hell happened to you?” you asked as he limped into the kitchen, half-draped in his torn coat.

"Nothing," he said, waving you off, wincing as he slumped into the nearest chair. "Got into a little scuffle."

You snorted. “A little scuffle? Choom, you look like you kissed a cyberpsycho’s mantis blades.”

That got you one of his trademark smirks, though the effect was somewhat dulled by his split lip. “Should see the other guy.”

Classic deflection. You weren’t buying it, but you didn’t push. You weren’t his keeper. 

Still, there was something about the way he carried himself—haunted, wary, like he was running from something bigger than Night City itself. It stuck with you, even when you told yourself it didn’t matter.

In Night City, you don't go digging unless you're prepared for what crawls out.  And you weren’t ready. Not yet. 

_________________

The moment you stepped through the door, you knew something was off. The air in the apartment was thick, humid, stinking of sweat and something sharp. You rounded the corner, and there he was—collapsed on the floor, shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, pale as a ghost. One wrist locked to a water pipe with cheap security cuffs that have already torn skin.

Your stomach dropped, then twisted into a knot.

“What the actual fuck, Astarion?” you snapped, your voice ricocheting off the walls like a shot.

His head turned slowly; eyes glassy but flickering with recognition. “It’s... not what it looks like,” he rasped, his voice barely there.

You stormed over, anger bubbling hot under your skin. “Not what it looks like? You’re cuffed to my fucking plumbing, lying in your own sweat. What the hell does it look like?”

He winced, trying to sit up but barely managing a slump. “I didn’t bring anyone here,” he said, his voice firmer this time, but the words came with a tremor he couldn’t hide.

You glared, heat rising in your chest. “Oh, so I’m just supposed to take your word for it? I don’t care what you’re into, Astarion, but you don’t bring it here. This is my space, got it?”

He flinched, and for a second, the cracks in his usual charm showed. The vulnerability in his expression wasn’t something you were used to seeing, and it hit harder than you’d like to admit.

“I didn’t,” he said, his tone sharper now, almost desperate. “I don’t... I wouldn’t. Not here.”

“Then what the hell is this?” you demanded, gesturing at the cuffs, the mess, the whole damn scene.

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, refusing to meet your gaze. “It’s nothing,” he said finally, voice low and clipped.

“Fine,” you said, standing up abruptly. “Stay here. Figure your shit out. But this? This can’t happen again.”

You turned to leave, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on.

“Wait,” he called after you, "Can you hand me the key over there?"

you pause for a bit, pushing down the rage burning inside you, when you tossed him the key to the handcuff, he said softly, “I’m... sorry.”

You turned didn’t look back. “Yeah,” you said, the word heavy with exhaustion. “Me too.”

_______________________

The night stretched thin, neon lights bleeding through your grimy apartment blinds.

You stumbled through the door, the sharp tang of cheap liquor still on your tongue. The burn in your chest had dulled the anger from earlier, but not entirely.

Your eyes fell on Astarion as he moved silently, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the floor.

He looked up as you swayed against the doorframe, a disarming smile already in place. “You’re back,” he said.

You feel like your head is spinning. You don't get the whole situation. shoulda kick him out, shoulda never let him in.

He stepped closer in your silence, cautious, "I know I owe you an explanation.”

“I promise you—no one else was here. Whatever you’re thinking… it’s not what happened. I’ll tell you everything. I just need to sort it out first.”

You sank onto the couch, arms crossed, glaring at him. “Why the hell should I believe you? You’re a con artist. A sweet-talking joytoy who’s too damn good at playing people.”

He took another careful step toward you, his presence intoxicating despite yourself. “I know I’ve made mistakes,” he said, his tone shifting, smooth and coaxing. “You’re angry, and you should be. But I see it. I see how you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. You want me. Let me prove I’m worth it.”

You stared at him, taken aback by this sudden change of topic. You realized that he never tried, and if he wants, how easily he can slip past your defenses.

“I’m not falling for this,” you muttered, voice weak even as you tried to sound firm.

He moved closer, his hand brushing yours, light as a whisper. “Aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice velvet-smooth. “Because I see the way you breathe when I’m near. The way your pulse quickens.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snapped, but the words lacked weight.

“Oh, I think I do,” he countered, leaning in, his lips just a breath away from yours. “Tell me to stop, and I will. But if you don’t... well, that tells me all I need to know.”

Your heart raced, your body betraying you. The logical part of your brain screamed to push him away, but the pull was undeniable. He was too close, too intoxicating, and you hated how much you wanted him.

“Astarion…” you started, but his lips were already on yours, soft and teasing, testing your resolve. When you didn’t pull back, he pressed closer, his hands finding your face, cradling it like something precious.

When he pulled back, you swallowed hard, “You’re trouble, Astarion. I can feel it.”

He smiled, soft and knowing, “Maybe. But trouble has a way of finding you, doesn’t it?”

Whatever this was, you decided to let it play out. Maybe he was trouble, but for now, he was your trouble. And in Night City, that was as close to a connection as most people ever got.

______________________

______________________

The apartment was dim, the only light spilling out from the half-closed bathroom door. You kicked off your boots, the weight of another night in Night City heavy on your shoulders, but something was wrong. The air carried a sour stench that turned your stomach. You moved closer, and then you saw it.

Astarion.

He was curled in the tub, his body trembling violently, water splashing onto the tiled floor with each convulsion. His pale skin was flushed a sickly red, sweat mingling with the cold water that barely covered his shivering form. The floor was a disaster—puke smeared across the tiles, bile and spit dripping into the water below.

“Shit,” you breathed, rushing in and dropping to your knees beside the tub. “Astarion?”

His eyes cracked open, pupils blown wide, unfocused. His lips moved, but no sound came out, his body arching weakly like he was fighting something invisible. You pressed your fingers to his neck, checking for a pulse. It was there, but rapid—way too fast. His skin burned under your touch, fever-hot despite the cold water.

“Fuck, you’re burning up,” you muttered, already reaching for your holo. “I’m calling Trauma Team.”

“No!” His hand shot out, weak but insistent, grabbing your wrist. His grip was slippery, his fingers trembling like leaves in a storm, but his eyes found yours—bloodshot, desperate.

“You’re dying,” you snapped, heart pounding in your chest. “I’m not about to let you flatline on my bathroom floor!”

He shook his head, the motion jerky, his teeth chattering hard enough to sound like gunfire. “No... no Trauma Team. Please.” His voice was raw, barely audible over the sound of his labored breathing.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” you hissed, pulling your wrist free. “You’re burning alive, Astarion! I don’t even know what’s happening to you!”

He let out a strangled laugh, more of a wheeze, collapsing back against the edge of the tub. “It’ll pass... Just... need time.”

“This?” You gestured wildly at the scene, your voice rising. “This doesn’t just pass! What are you on?”

His eyes slid shut, and for a moment, you thought he’d passed out. Then, so softly you almost missed it, he whispered, “Nothing... not anymore.”

You froze, the words cutting through the chaos like a blade. Realization hit, slow and ugly. “You’re withdrawing.”

He didn’t answer, but the way his jaw tightened told you everything you needed to know.

“Goddammit, Astarion,” you growled, sinking back on your heels, running a hand through your hair. “What were you on? 'Dorph? Black Lace? Fucking Glitter?”

“Does it matter?” His voice was a rasp, sharp edges dulled by exhaustion.

“Of course it fucking matters!” you shot back, your voice cracking. “How the hell am I supposed to help you if I don’t know what you’re fighting?”

His head lolled to the side; his gaze unfocused again. “Don’t need help... I’ll handle it.”

“Yeah?” you snapped, gesturing at the mess around you. “This is you ‘handling it’?”

His breath hitched, a shudder running through his body, and for a moment, the anger drained out of you, replaced by something quieter, heavier.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, your voice softer now, though it still trembled with frustration. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you say something?”

His laugh was bitter, a hollow sound that made your chest ache. “Because... it’s my problem. Not yours.”

You stared at him, at the shadow of the man who had strutted into your life with charm dripping off him like oil. The veneer was gone now, stripped raw, leaving nothing but pain and vulnerability.

“It is now,” you said, standing up and reaching for a towel.

“What are you—”

“Move,” you barked, cutting him off. “You’re getting out of that water before you go into shock. I will call my ripperdoc, you can trust him.”

His expression was a mix of confusion and something else—something almost like relief. For once, he didn’t argue. He just nodded, letting you pull him up, shivering and unsteady, as you wrapped the towel around his trembling shoulders.

Astarion in Cyberpunk AU

POV: How you met him in Night City =P

You’re just another low-tier merc in Night City's meat grinder, same as any other. Sure, you smoke, you chug whatever synthalcohol gets your synapses sparking, maybe pop a little Black Lace now and then for kicks. But one thing you don’t do? Pick up joytoys from Jig-Jig. Nah, choom. Not your scene.

Until tonight's clusterfuck.

You were on a gig, dressed to fool the corpo crowd—chrome hidden under slick, expensive synth-leather. Playing at being one of Night City's untouchables. Then your optics lock onto him.

A joytoy, but not just any joytoy. Lux-grade. The kind of beauty that made your targeting systems glitch and your tits perk up. Picking him up wasn’t the plan—never the plan—but here you are, trying to blend in, figuring if all these suits are doing it, maybe you should too.

Preem bastard had a silver tongue worth more than his chrome, smooth like pre-War whiskey. He leaned in close, casually dropped the very intel you need - an exclusive corpo mixer, one hosting Kong Tao mid-level procurement officer - your target - fresh from Guangzhou. The two of you hit it off, chatting over overpriced drinks at the bar, and one thing led to another. His place.

Then you wake up.

Your choom on the other end of the link, screaming. Your brain feels like it’s been through a shredder. You’re sprawled out on some piss-stained mattress, butt naked, weapons gone.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

You’ve been played. Conned. During a job, no less. Just your fucking luck.

Gotta escape before they rip you open, gotta figure out where the hell you are. But one thing’s for sure—you’re gonna find that pretty bastard, and when you do, he’s got a world of hurt coming his way. _______

Your head’s pounding, but you’ve been in tighter spots before. You force a reboot, running a quick scan. Typical corpo blacksite flophouse—The stink of blood, sweat, and bad decisions clings to the walls.

You find a rusted shard of metal and grip it tight. Better than nothing. You rigged the lock and slipped out of the room, the sound of your bare feet drowned out by the buzz of cheap fluorescents overhead.

The hall’s empty. Nobody watching the cams—amateurs. You find a storage room with your gear dumped in a corner like garbage. Your Militech pistol? Check. punknife? Check. Even your boots. Slipping them on feels like hugging an old friend.

Now clothed and armed, you should be bailing, cutting your losses. But the faint sound of muffled screams crawls under your skin, pulling you back into the fray.

You creep closer, the door half-open. Inside, him.

The joytoy. Astarion.

Strapped down like a Maelstrom test subject, neural wires spiderwebbing from his temples into some black-market brain-dance rig. The machine's whining like a dying cat, each pulse making him scream. Some chrome-headed ganger's working the controls, grinning like he's watching prime-time BD entertainment.

“Picked yourself a zero, didn't ya? No creds, no dirt—just a fucking merc with nothin’ to give. You are lucky boss is not in town.” the ganger sneers, twisting a dial, “What good’s a pretty face if it doesn’t deliver?”

Astarion convulses, tears streaking his otherwise flawless face, “I—tried,” he whispers.  "Please, give me another chance.”

Something snaps in your gut. You’ve seen people broken, but this guy? He’s built to endure. Still, this is next-level fucked.

Your blade whispers through the air, clean and silent. The ganger drops, and you catch the falling remote and cut the power to the rig.

Astarion slumps, breathing shallow. You free him, pulling the wires from his skin. He flinches but doesn’t resist.

“Can you walk?” you ask, dragging him to his feet.

He groans but nods. “I’ve had worse.”

The two of you fight your way out, bullets and curses flying. By the time you hit the street, you’re out of breath and out of ammo, but alive. Barely.

You lean against a wall, wiping blood off your hands. “I should fucking gut you for this,” you say, leveling him with a glare.

Astarion chuckles, though it’s more pained than amused. “I’m flattered. But I was under orders, if that softens the blow.”

“Doesn’t,” you snap.

Still, you don’t hurt him. Just turn to leave, figuring he’ll disappear back into whatever pit he crawled out of. But when you glance back, he’s trailing behind you.

“What are you doing?” you snap again, tired and still on edge.

“I have nowhere else to go,” he says softly, eyes downcast, his voice a quiet plea.

“Not my problem,” you grumble, turning to keep walking.

“Wait,” he calls out, stepping closer. When you face him again, the vulnerability in his posture is tinged with a familiar, deliberate charm. His lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. “I could… make it up to you.  I’m quite skilled at certain things”

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That so? You think I’m just gonna take you in because you bat your lashes?”

“Not just because of that,” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough to catch the faint light. “I can be useful. I wasn't lying before, you know? the mixer? I can get you in.”

You pause, damn it he is beautiful. He shifts closer, his voice dipping into something silkier. “Let me stay, just for a while. I’ll keep out of your way. Or,” he adds, his smile sharpening ever so slightly, “if you’d rather, I could be very in your way. Whatever you prefer.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Fine. One screw-up, though, and you’re out. Got it?”

“Crystal clear,” he purrs, bowing his head slightly. “You won’t regret this. I promise.”

As he falls into step beside you, you mutter under your breath. “Already regretting it.”

His soft chuckle is barely audible, but it lingers all the way home.

[insomniphic]

Posting these here to just tell you guys that I am still very much alive ^-^

They’re for an upcoming illustration (maybe plural if I feel like it)

Oh and of course here’s some very messily drawn Narry Brothers content because I can’t function without thinking about them every once and a while…..

(Ft. @braisedhoney’s and @beartitled’s Narrys [as usual 😅])

[u3pxx]

i want to have the time and energy again to draw more complicated illustrations. i want to draw drawings within drawings. i want to spend hours on carefully inking, i want to enjoy the rendering process. i want to go bonkers on a piece. hello, can anyone hear m

[anotherartblock]

old macdonald had a farm or something idk

[toyherb]

every time I see elliot and leah together they're having a blast. besties b4 the resties

[sootcrow]

Me trying to figure out how to draw side profiles

[a-nybodys]

spending any amount of time on twitter is like walking slowly towards the chernobyl elephants foot

[disaster-vampire]

why do culturally christian americans think it's okay to rewrite the mythology of cultures that have nothing to do with them to make them fit their ideals

[midwinterhunt]

hot artists don't gatekeep

I've been resource gathering for YEARS so now I am going to share my dragons hoard

Floorplanner. Design and furnish a house for you to use for having a consistent background in your comic or anything! Free, you need an account, easy to use, and you can save multiple houses.

Comparing Heights. Input the heights of characters to see what the different is between them. Great for keeping consistency. Free.

Magma. Draw online with friends in real time. Great for practice or hanging out. Free, paid plan available, account preferred.

Smithsonian Open Access. Loads of free images. Free.

SketchDaily. Lots of pose references, massive library, is set on a timer so you can practice quick figure drawing. Free.

SculptGL. A sculpting tool which I am yet to master, but you should be able to make whatever 3d object you like with it. free.

Pexels. Free stock images. And the search engine is actually pretty good at pulling up what you want.

Figurosity. Great pose references, diverse body types, lots of "how to draw" videos directly on the site, the models are 3d and you can rotate the angle, but you can't make custom poses or edit body proportions. Free, account option, paid plans available.

Line of Action. More drawing references, this one also has a focus on expressions, hands/feet, animals, landscapes. Free.

Animal Photo. You pose a 3d skull model and select an animal species, and they give you a bunch of photo references for that animal at that angle. Super handy. Free.

Height Weight Chart. You ever see an OC listed as having a certain weight but then they look Wildly different than the number suggests? Well here's a site to avoid that! It shows real people at different weights and heights to give you a better idea of what these abstract numbers all look like. Free to use.

[circumlocutoryconlanger]

huh i guess i actually *am* pretty decent at hand drawing. i don't do it hardly ever so this surprises me

[bluefuecoco]

one of the stardew groups im in on fb is having a fun time with tier lists, and people keep putting demetrius in F tier equivalent and its like........why? i get that he has some weird things in vanilla, but he’s literally the only black man in the entire game, isn’t it.....a little weird that you’re so vehemently against him?

also imo he’s autistic coded which accounts for so many cutscenes that people seem to hate him for, like...

[scarlet--wiccan]

Agatha All Along, the highly anticipated follow-up to WandaVision, begins airing this week on Disney+. Now is the perfect to revisit some important information about both shows and the context in which some of Agatha's new characters are being introduced.

WandaVision primarily followed the character Wanda Maximoff and expanded on her family history by introducing her late parents as well her twin sons, who are born from magic and age rapidly over the course of the series.

In the Marvel comics source material, Wanda is part of a large, multigenerational family of Jewish and Romani characters whose stories frequently reflect the systemic violence and oppression that both communities face-- including Romani Holocaust victims, who are critically underrepresented in both education and media. In the MCU, these identities and histories are completely erased, and the characters are all played by white actors. Alternate versions of these characters also appear in the Fox X-Men films, and are similarly whitewashed.

The Romani people are a racialized minority that originated as a South Asian diaspora, and who face severe systemic oppression in Europe and North America. The modern Romani population is quite diverse, but they are not of white ethnic origin, and despite the fact that Wanda and her family have historically been drawn with white features, they are minority characters and ought to be considered as such.

Depictions of witches and witchcraft are often entwined with antisemitism and anti-Romani racism. In pop culture, witches and fortunetellers are typically portrayed as visual stereotypes of Romani women. In the real world, fortunetelling is a profession born from survival work, one which Romani families are often heavily policed and racially profiled for practicing. While Wanda usually subverts these tropes, they are often played straight elsewhere in the superhero genre, and any story about witches, especially one featuring Romani characters, needs to be critiqued in this context.

Agatha All Along introduces viewers to a new cast of characters, including Lilia Calderu, played by Patti LuPone, and the enigmatic "Teen", played by Joe Locke, who is heavily speculated to be an incarnation of Wanda's son, Billy.

In the comics, Lilia is a member of a prominent Romani family in Wanda's community. Often lauded as the "witch queen of the gypsies," Lilia embodies many racial stereotypes about Romani women. In Agatha All Along, Lilia is depicted as an older Sicilian woman, however, being portrayed as a batty fortuneteller with a tawdry psychic shop, she still embodies an offensive trope. Although Lilia is far from "good" representation, this is not an improvement-- if anything, it's even more exploitative.

Billy was raised in a Jewish American household and places a very strong emphasis on his Jewish identity, in addition to having Romani heritage. His identity as a young gay man is always presented in conjunction with this heritage, not in spite of it. Though there is a significance to Locke being a gay actor playing a gay character, his casting-- if he is indeed playing Billy-- is not authentic. White gay representation should not supersede racial inclusivity, and it is not an excuse for whitewashing or Jewish erasure.

Marvel Studios recently announced that the character Doctor Doom will be played by Robert Downey Jr., who is returning to the franchise after many years in the role of Iron Man. In the source material, Doom is also a Romani character with a very similar background to Wanda's. This identity is central to Doom's character-- although he is written to be both morally and politically challenging, the liberation of his people has always been a primary motive.

Clearly, this type of whitewashing is an ongoing pattern in the MCU franchise. Although "Teen's" identity is still unconfirmed and Lilia may, ultimately, be of little consequence, they are part of a larger problem, and Agatha All Along needs to critiqued in that context.

[milkteabinniechan]

♡Dear Lover - Hyunjin

MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY MEMBERSHIP//M.LIST

pairing: fiancè Hyunjin x fem! reader

summary: Your parents have picked a husband for your sister and the two of them have been writing love letters back and forth for years before they meet on their wedding day. There is just one problem: you've been the one sending the letters to her future husband and now you're in love!

warnings: just fluff! some angst, drama, very soft hyunjin, lovesick reader

“Maybe start with why you were the one writing me the letters and not your sister?” Hyunjin’s nostrils flared as he spoke. But his tone wasn’t angry, just confused. You looked exactly how he pictured you from your letters. A softness about you that translated through your words.

“She asked me to. In the beginning, she didn’t want to write to you. So, she asked me to do it instead to make our parents happy.” You pulled at the hem of your shirt, twisting it this way and that while your eyes stayed fixed on the ground. “Please, don't be upset with her.”

Hyunjin stepped back for a moment. His eyes searched yours as the two of you finally locked onto one another. Eyes that he had pictured late at night. A face he had only seen in his dreams. Everything he had said in the letter was true. He was in love, just not with your sister. But the wedding was planned, the invitations sent out.

It was springtime when the letters first began. You remember the sound of birds chirping outside your bedroom window when your parents made the announcement that your sister was to be wed on the year of her 21st birthday.

“But I don’t want to marry someone I’ve never met!” She screamed. You were only partially paying attention. You were no longer the focus of your parents' attention. You were twenty-four now and practically a spinster. Your sister was going to have her wedding the very next spring. One year. She had one year to comply and accept what was happening.

“We’ve already failed with your older sister, we will not fail with you.” Your father boomed. His fat finger pointed sternly at you.

While your little sister protested for a few weeks, she ultimately agreed upon the marriage if she could at least see who she was to be betrothed to. But letters are all his family would agree to. A stern, traditional family that negotiated the terms of advised letters to be written once a week for one year until the wedding day. Meetings were held in secret by the patriarchs of the two families. Hands were shook and large cigars were smoked in celebration of the upcoming union. Then one cool spring night, your sister came knocking at your door with a favor to ask.

“You’re a writer. Just write the letters for me and make me sound good okay?” She begged, her hands folding together while her eyes pleaded with you.

Reluctantly you agreed. One week after the other, you tried your best to sound like your sister. You wrote about her interests instead of your own. You included her favorite color and her favorite kind of food. But somewhere down the line, you slipped. Hyunjin had written about a favorite book of yours – Little Women. He had written paragraphs discussing the different characters and the depth of their description and diversity from one another. He had gushed about the writing style and the eloquent use of simile and metaphors. And your heart fluttered, fluttered and flipped in a way that was new and exciting. Your next letter was completely you. It was your voice, your thoughts, your ideas. The words just flowed out of you like wine and you would feel almost drunk by the time you signed your sister’s name at the bottom.

Hyunjin would soon write about more personal subjects; his fears and insecurities. Of which you felt a kinship with. You would respond with words of comfort and love, thanking him for being so open and vulnerable with you. You would tell him about a beautiful sunset you saw or the lovely sound that snow made when you take a step early in the morning. Hyunjin would tell you how ready he was to hear that sound. How eager he was to hold you, to hear your laugh and touch your lips at last-

When everything was said and done, you knew the exact moment that things had gone too far. You had said “I love you” in your final letter before the wedding. Hyunjin had responded that he was on his way and that he “loved you more that there were stars in the sky.”

You held that last letter tightly in your hands as the all black town car pulled into the driveway of your family home. You would see him, finally see him, and he would see you. Only you would be a shadow cast behind your sister. Hyunjin could never know that those words were not hers. He would marry her and you would go back to your life before. As Hyunjin slowly stepped out of the car, the sunlight shone through his hair like a beacon. His forearm flexed as he gripped the car door and closed it behind him. He stood still for a moment, his eyes flicking between you and your sister until his gaze finally landed on you. Your sister hastily stepped in front of you and introduced herself. Hyunjin shook his head for a second to break the stare between the two of you before smiling warmly at your sister. He held her tightly, his long arms sweeping around her waist and pulling her close to his chest.

“I am so happy to meet you in person, my love!” He exclaimed, his hand coming up to cradle your sister’s face.

Dinner was a complete blur. The clanking sound of silverware and glasses swirled around your ears while your mind drifted further and further from the dining room. The voices of your family were distant, just an echo of a sound as you attempted to keep your food down. After dinner, Hyunjin and your sister snuck off somewhere in the house to be alone. You made your way up to your room and lied on your bed, willing your brain to erase the last year so the heaviness in your chest would subside.

“Fine! Okay? I didn’t write those stupid letters! But that doesn’t mean anything, right?” your sister shouted from the other side of the wall. You stayed in bed and made your way to the wall that divided your two rooms to see if you could hear anything. “She’s a loser! You don’t want her!” Your sister screamed.

“If she is the one that wrote all those letters, then I do. I do want her.”

Your heart dropped. You moved your head away from the wall and turned to face your bedroom door as you heard footsteps approach.

“Please, don’t be upset with her.”

“I’m not upset with her.” Hyunjin took a step closer, closing the gap between the two of you. “You look just as I imagined.” He whispered, his breath brushing softly against your neck.

Your breath hitched as he moved closer. Your hands move instinctively to his waist. Your hips coming into contact with his as his hands move down your back and come to rest at your sides. He leans into your ear and speaks in a low tone. A secret shared just between the two of you. Something intimate that nothing in this world could penetrate. “You’re the one I want to marry. You’re the bride I have been waiting for.”

taglist: @simply-trash5 @sugawhaaa @trixiekaulitz @chrizzztopherbang @cassidymb121 @roanns-posts @staysinbloom @yaorzu-blog @bubblebisk @cotton-candycloudz @beautyinhypnosis @domicaru @strawberry31 @slxtmeri @newhope8 @tinyelfperson @dandelions-143 @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21 @msauthor @fun-fanfics @ell0thebell @stephanieeeyang @juskz @kimahreummm @readr1221 @kayleefriedchicken @ovulatingrn @hwnglixho @darthmaddie25 @queen-in-the-shadows @itgirlalisaa @miinhoo @greyaia @chanchansgirly @skzleeknowcore @skz-smut-reader @thatisrankharry @hearts4yawnzzn @jchotch726 @cherricola-star @minh0scat

[sunarots]

so high school ━━━ atsumu miya

pairing. atsumu miya x fem!reader

summary. after your best friend reveals he’s moving out of your shared flat, you’re presented with a tough choice: let one of the creeps who are begging you to let them move in with you, or find a cheaper flat in another area of town. a do-over couldn’t have come at a better time for you, but your only option for a place to stay is with someone your best friend knew from high school, and his two teammates.

tags & warnings. new girl au, fake dating. strong language, discussions of sex, alcohol use, die/kys/kms jokes, mental health issues & discussions, innuendos, ooc.

taglist. open! send an ask to be added <3

status. completed!

additional. any images i use for the character of y/n is only intended as a reference and not to imply that is what you look like. i am going to try my best to use diverse images for these references, however it may not always be possible. that being said, i do not own any reference images other than the general social media images.

y/n’s long-distance therapists || atsumu’s enemies

♡ = contains written portion || dark mode = atsumu’s pov

chapter one. the rich and famous bokuto

chapter two. darlin

chapter three. cocky ♡

chapter four. hate crimes?

chaoter five. onigiri

chapter six. yassified

chapter seven. a real job

chapter eight. fake af

chapter nine. practice ♡

chapter ten. darlin’ ♡

chapter eleven. fangirls

chapter twelve. damage control

chapter thirteen. so…

chapter fourteen. hard launch

chapter fifteen. actually toxic

chapter sixteen. pretend ♡

chapter seventeen. limits

chapter eighteen. the best

chapter nineteen. always.

chapter twenty. movie nights

chapter twenty-one. michael jackson

chapter twenty-two. career change

chapter twenty-three. first day ♡

chapter twenty-four. dinner date ♡

chapter twenty-five. the good old days

chapter twenty-six. on probation

chapter twenty-seven. chatty…

chapter twenty-eight. stealing from the poor

chapter twenty-nine. surprise! ♡

chapter thirty. haters gonna hate

chapter thirty-one. scary

chapter thirty-two. game, start!

chapter thirty-three. he said what?

chapter thirty-four. no pressure ♡

chapter thirty-five. we’re getting the band back together!

chapter thirty-six. evil bitch

chapter thirty-seven. aftermath ♡

chapter thirty-eight. explanation

chapter thirty-nine. petty ♡

chapter forty. 5 YEARS LATER

[max1461]

I think that the average internet Marxist is actually not much of a materialist at all, in fact in their behavior and rhetoric they seem very concerned with moral purity, the redemptive power of suffering, and the ability of narrative to shape the actual world. As myriad as the senses of the word "materialist" have come to be, none of this would seem to comport well with any of them. This all feels very Christian.

In some cases I really do think there is a latent Christianity in it, but I think the stronger source of this trend is simply the leftist emphasis on sloganeering. Somewhere along the line, maybe with the Bolshevik policy of democratic centralism or maybe somewhere else, the importance of the slogan, the party line, the supreme power of the speech act seems to have been elevated for many leftists above all other concerns. From this follows the kind of disingenuous, obviously fallacious argument you so often see from the online ML left. The point is to say the magic words that have been carefully agreed upon, the magic incantation that will defeat all opposition.

Whether it's "I don't want to vote for a candidate who supports any amount of genocide" or "The Is-not-rael Zionist entity is on the edge of collapse!" or whatever else, a rational person can recognize the impotence of these words. They don't do anything. They're just words. But the feeling seems to be that once the perfect incantation is crafted—the incantation that makes your opponent sound maximally like a Nazi without engaging with their position in good faith, or the incantation which brushes aside all thoughts of defeat, or whatever else—once the perfect incantation is crafted, all that is left to do is say it and say it and say it, and make sure everyone else is saying it too.

This is not a materialist way of approaching politics. This is a mystical way of approaching politics.

I think it's also worth saying that this tendency in Marxism seems old, it certainly predates the internet. Lots of Marxists today are vocal critics of identity politics, of what they see as the liberal, insubstantive, and idealist Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion framework. I share this criticism to a significant degree, but I'm not very eager to let Marxists off the hook here. The modern DEI framework evolved directly out of a liberal/capitalist appropriation of earlier academic ideas about social justice from such sources as Queer Studies, Black Studies, academic Feminism and so on. I say this as a neutral, factual description of its history which I believe to be essentially accurate. In turn, disciplines like Queer Studies, Black Studies, and academic Feminism each owe a great intellectual dept to academic Marxism, and likewise to the social movements of the 1960s (here in the Anglosphere), which themselves were strongly influenced by Marxism.

Obviously as the place of these fields in the academy was cemented, they lost much (most) of their radical character in practice. To a significant degree however, I think their rhetorical or performative radicalism was retained, and was further fostered by the cloistered environment of academia. In this environment the already-extant Marxist tendency to sloganeering seems in my impression to have metastasized greatly. And so I think the political right is not actually wrong, or not wholly wrong, when they attribute the speech-act-centrism of modern American (and therefore, online) politics, its obsession with saying things right above doing things right and its constantly shifting maze of appropriate forms of expression, at least in part to Marxism.

Now I should say that I don't think the right is correct about much else in this critique, and I also don't think this is wholly attributable to Marxism. But I think there's plainly an intellectual dept there.

More than anything else, this is my genuine frustration with both Marxism as it exists today and with its intellectual legacy as a whole. I fundamentally do not believe in the great transformative power of speech acts, I do not believe in the importance of holding the correct line, I do not believe that the specifics of what you say or how you say it matter nearly as much as what you do. I do not think there is much to be gained from playing the kind of language games that Marxists often like to play, and I do not think that playing language games and calling it "materialist analysis" is a very compelling means of argument.

[deception-united]

Let's talk about writing fantasy.

Fantasy is one of my favourite genres, to read and to write. But the worldbuilding required and the existing tropes can make it difficult to craft a unique, compelling novel. There are a number of less-discussed nuances that might not always be at the forefront of writing discussions. Here are some tips to help you out:

Ground it in reality: Even though fantasy allows for boundless imagination, grounding your world in elements familiar to readers can make it more relatable and believable. Making it too otherworldly can make it difficult to understand or follow, and will likely make it much more difficult to interweave the explanation of your world and its society into the text seamlessly.

Consistency: Fantasy worlds can be complex, with their own rules, magic systems, and histories. Ensure consistency in your worldbuilding, avoiding contradictions or sudden changes without explanation. I find it helpful to keep a world bible or notes to track details and maintain coherence throughout the story.

Character-driven plots: While epic battles and magical quests are exciting, don't forget that compelling characters drive the heart of any story. Develop multi-dimensional characters with strengths, weaknesses, and personal arcs that resonate with readers (see my post on character development for more).

Avoid clichés and stereotypes: Fantasy often draws from familiar tropes and archetypes, but try not to rely on them too heavily. Subvert expectations and breathe new life into old conventions by adding unique twists or exploring lesser-known mythologies and cultures. Make it your own!

Magic has consequences: Magic adds wonder to fantasy worlds, but it should also have limitations and consequences. Consider the societal, environmental, and personal impacts of magic on your world and characters. A well-defined magic system can enhance the depth and realism of your story.

Worldbuilding through storytelling: Instead of dumping large chunks of exposition, reveal your fantasy world gradually through character interactions, dialogue, and plot progression. Show, don't tell, and let readers piece together the intricacies of your world as they journey through your story (check out my previous post on worldbuilding for more tips).

Embrace diversity: Fantasy worlds should reflect the diversity of our own world. Include characters from various backgrounds, cultures, and identities, and explore themes of inclusivity and acceptance within your narrative.

Conflict beyond good vs. evil: While the battle between good and evil is a classic fantasy trope, consider adding layers of moral ambiguity and complexity to your conflicts. Explore themes of power, redemption, and the consequences of choices made in the face of adversity.

Research is essential: Even in a world of imagination, research plays a crucial role in grounding your story in reality. Whether it's drawing inspiration from historical events, cultural practices, or scientific principles, thorough research can enrich your worldbuilding and add depth to your narrative. Even fantasy worlds and elements require some sort of basis to make them more believable.

Revise: Like any genre, writing fantasy requires extensive revision and polishing. Be prepared to revise your manuscript multiple times, seeking feedback from beta readers or critique partners to strengthen your story, characters, and worldbuilding.

Happy writing!

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