#i am not above buying my own art

[k-k-armadillo]

love this pokemon... eeper

[kryptonitejelly]

art donaldson x childhood friend reader who he hasn’t seen in a long time (whose had a crazy glow up) visits him at stanford at the same time as patrick and patrick starts hitting on her (him and tashi are in an open relationship) and art gets jealous.

(maybe she tells patrick she knows he’s in a relationship and he tells her tashi wouldn’t mind and she would probably be down to join idk)

art donaldson x reader // challengers // fluff; happy ending

a/n: i did not hit the prompt on the head 100%, but i’m not mad at it. this ended up turning into a monster i had no control off and ended up being alot longer than i expected (i haven’t done a word count, and did not mean for it to spiral into this but i enjoyed writing this very much). i am an art donaldson defender and this is my way of giving him everything he deserves (i hope you guys can see what i subtly tried to do in places - please leave comments/reblog if you see them, it would mean the world). also i typed this entirely on my phone without proofreading - you’ve been warned.

edit - as a disclaimer, i do not purport to comment on the victim/villain/any dynamic in the challengers universe. this space is purely for delusional thoughts and fiction only (see also)

-

Good luck.

Art shoots the text off to you before taking a swig out of cup of diet coke he has in hand. He leans forward, his forearms on his knees, teeth crunching on ice cubes as lets his gaze sweep across the court in front of him. It is devoid of players but already has the umpire and linesmen ready and waiting.

You’ll buy dinner if I win?

Art doesn’t expect to get a text back, so he checks his phone absently, but his face breaks into a tiny grin as he sees your reply. Most other players would have been hyper focused in the moments before a match but you, in the breezy light hearted way you always were, still had it in you to joke around.

Yes, but if you lose…

Art sends his response, the tiny grin still on his face.

I’ll feed you.

Your reply is fast and it makes art shake his head lightly a quiet chuckle dropping from his lips. He is just about to type another reply but is interrupted by the loud cheers that erupt from around him. Art looks up from his phone to see Anna Davies walk out on court in the same colour red as he had on. He claps politely with the rest of the men’s team who he was sitting amongst in the stands, in a show of support.

Art catches sight of Tashi and Patrick, both perched a few rows down from him with the rest of the women’s team both clapping and hollering in support. He notices the turn of Patrick’s head, no doubt to check in on Art but he doesn’t tilt his head or smile back in acknowledgement as he usually would - he is far too distracted by you.

Art can feel his jaw slacken slightly as you walk on court. He knows what you look like, but you in the flesh - Art thinks you are breathtaking. Your top is in a shade of your college’s colour, paired with a white tennis skirt that shows off a pair of toned, long legs. He catches a glint of metal just above your ankle, and he finds himself squinting in a feeble attempt to make out the look of the ankle bracelet that you have on. Art moves his gaze your face, taking in what he can see from his perch on the stands as you walk out towards your designated bench on the court, bright neon green bottle in hand, your tennis bag slung on a shoulder.

You had been close back home for most of your childhood and more formative teen years, and the both had kept in touch since he left for Stanford and you to your own school of choice, but too infrequently - the occasional text, more frequent reaction or comment on each other’s social media and the small conversations that spiralled from those interactions - like two planets orbiting in the same solar system, but not close enough. Life had overtaken, the excitement of moving your separate ways to a new environment, of college - tennis, academics, people, parties, it had overwhelmed you both, individually and together - made you just about forget that you had each other.

Art is transfixed. You are, lithe, glowing and with a hop in your step - Art finds himself questioning why he had never made more effort to keep you closer since you had both gone on your separate paths. He watches as you settle your bag on the bench, turning your gaze to the stands, eyes narrowing from the glare of the sun as you search the stands, only for your gaze to fix on his. Art sees you smile, lips turning up as you wink directly at him. It makes a series of heads turn to look back at him - your fellow team mates, the small group of supporters from your college who had come along, and the Stanford women’s team plus Patrick, half curious, half puzzled. Art can only raise a hand beside his chest in greeting as he remembers to breathe, letting the air he had been holding in his chest out.

He sees turn away while reaching for your phone which you had wedged in between the band of your tennis skirt and skin. Your fingers flying over the keypad briefly before you toss the phone into your tennis bag, hand fishing out your racket. Art feels his phone buzz in his hand and he looks down at the text that had come through.

Stanford still hasn’t taught you the right way to wear a cap huh.

Your text, a reference to his penchant for securing his cap on backwards, makes Art laugh, out loud, the sudden sound causing his team mates to crane their necks in attempt to look at his phone. Art swats them away as he refocuses his attention back on you, watching as you do a few hops, shifting your body weight from side to side before walking to your position on court, racket in hand. You lose the coin toss, and Anna choose to serve and yet your demeanour is one of ease, something Art can’t help but think is so stark in contrast to Tashi before a match. You aren’t smiling anymore, and yet in an unexplainable fashion, Art can feel you smiling as you bend to ready position, your hands flipping the handle of the racket around, poised to receive. He sees Anna toss the ball, her back arching, hand shooting up, before she connects her serve, and he watches you receive it with ease, your body moving in a smooth motion as you hit it back. Your strokes have their own weight and intention behind them, they are careful, thought out - but what surprises Art is he sees little calculation behind each. Instead, he watches as you let yourself feel each shot, as you let your instinct take control with each step. Art sees himself moving pieces of chess across the court when he watches replays of his game, but with your game, - Art manages to see colour, life, ease. He sees something he hasn’t seen in his tennis since he had last played with you, Art sees fun.

-

The match isn’t long drawn out, you win - effortlessly, just as each of your strokes and movement are. It frustrates Anna, as is evident from the increasing number of unforced errors she makes on her art which leads to her swearing loudly as you easily hit the last heavy, driving it quick and to the opposite corner of the court from where she is positioned. Art finds himself clapping enthusiastically along with the crowd as the umpire calls the game.

-

“You never told me you had such good looking friends,” Art feels an arm sling itself around his neck, pulling him close as he stands outside the court, waiting for you to finish your match debrief with the rest of the team.

“Shouldn’t you be with Tashi?” Art questions as he tugs himself out and under, away from Patrick’s hold. His eyes remain focused on the door of the tennis court, waiting for you to emerge.

“Some strategy meeting,” Patrick offers as explanation, “refocusing or something like that.”

Art starts to say something in response only to be stopped by the view of you walking out from the courts. You both lock eyes, not too similar from how you had with you on the court and him on the stand. Art thinks that your smile is more brilliant up close.

Neither of you say a word, as you walk up to him, hands reaching up to tug his cap off his head only for you to pop it promptly on your own head, the right way around.

“The right way,” you say in greeting, pointing towards his cap which is now sitting on your head, the Stanford red a confusing contrast to your your top, now a loose fitting tshirt in your college colours, as Art chuckles while running a hand through his hair, attempting to shake out any flatness.

“The red looks good on you.”

“Perhaps I should transfer.”

“Didn’t peg you for a traitor,” Art teases which makes you laugh.

“Do I get a hug,” you ask, both of you oblivious to Patrick who is just watching.

“C’mere,” Art says, his words inviting, but just almost slightly shy as he opens his arms to you. You step into his embrace, arms slipping around his body as Art brings his arms around your shoulders, hands bumping into the tennis bag you have on your shoulders. His embrace is familiar, and you let yourself relax into his hold.

“Could I get a hug?” you hear a different male voice chime in and you pull away to look curiously at the brunette who is standing just beside you both.

“Fuck off Patrick,” you hear Art say with no bite, but notice as he steps just that one inch in front of you in an attempt to place himself as some sort of barrier between you and the brunette.

“Patrick Zweig,” the boy says, ignoring Art as he proffers a hand to you which you shake to be polite while introducing yourself.

“Do you go to Stanford as well?” You take in his attire of jeans and a white tee, the lack of red - you would guess not but it didn’t hurt to ask.

“I’m just visiting,” he says, “I’m actually playing on tour.”

“Losing on tour,” Art corrects.

“Your tennis is insane,” Patrick comments, ignoring Art, “when will I see you on tour?”

“I don’t intend on turning pro,” you respond with the flash of a smile.

“Why?” Patrick continues the conversation, now slightly befuddled, “you’re a natural.”

You shrug with a laugh, not answering and simply brushing off his question.

“Why don’t I take you to dinner and you can tell me why.” Patrick’s statement makes Art roll his eyes.

“Aren’t you taking your girlfriend our for dinner?” Art chips to which Patrick simply shrugs not phased in the slightest and answers with a no.

“Thanks, but I already have a dinner to cash in on,” you offer Patrick a smile, before glancing at Art.

“I’m sure Art wo-”

“Nope, fuck off Patrick,” is what Art says again, not even giving the other man a chance to finish his sentence. It makes you laugh, but you follow as Art grabs your hand, tugging you off in a direction away from Patrick.

“It was nice meeting you Patrick,” you call out, turning your head towards him giving him a wave with your free hand, “good luck on the tour!”

You walk for a minute or two more until the tennis courts are out of range before Art stops. He lets go off your hand, but reaches instead to grasp the top of the tennis bag on your shoulder. You raise a brow questioningly only to have him tug again with a slight tilt of his head. You relinquish the bag to him and he hoists it on his shoulder instead.

“What a gentleman,” you joke, but with a smile on your face.

Art does a mock bow with a flourish of his hand which makes you laugh with a shake of your head.

“Your chariot awaits my lady,” he extends a hand to you, waist still tilted in a bow, but his head up and looking at you.

“Lead the way,” you place your hand on top of his again.

“My car is that way,” he says jerking a thumb towards his right as he intertwines his fingers with yours. Its the second time in the day where he’s holding onto your hand but you don’t think too much of it and neither does Art. It feels right, comforting, familiar and like it’s supposed to be - and you go with it.

-

“Sorry about Patrick,” Art says as he fiddles with the paper casing of the straw. You are both sitting in a booth, plates cleared, your drinks left in front of you. Art is leaning back but being across him you can feel his knees knocking into yours. Dinner had gone by way too fast for Art’s liking. There had been both plenty to catch up on, as well as new information to learn and yet - it had felt like no time had passed between you both.

“He’s a bit of an ass isn’t he,” you say as you lean back, a mirror of Art. Your comment elicits a bark of laughter from him.

“Girls don’t usually say that about him.”

“What do they say?”

“Well not say, but they usually fall at his feet or into his bed,”

“No,” it makes you crinkle your nose while you shake your head.

“His girlfriend Tashi,” Art says, fingers still fiddling with the wrapper, “we played tennis for her number, she chose him.” Art said referencing the tennis match between him and Patrick. His sentence is blunt, to the point, and yet manages to be vulnerable at the same time. Art surprises himself as the words slip out from his lips so easily but it feels easy to tell you, safe to let himself be vulnerable, fine to let you view him for who he truly is.

You both sit in silence for a beat or two, the only sound between you both being the rustle of paper in Art’s fingers.

“Well,” you begin, “if she made you play for her number, maybe its for the better you didn’t win.”

Art’s fingers give pause and he looks up at you. His expression is unreadable, but you don’t feel like you’ve said anything wrong - just the obvious.

“I guess you are right,” he says after a few seconds of silence, before raising his head to look at you. There is a small smile on his face that you can’t quite place.

“When have I been wrong Donaldson?” You challenge in jest as you lift a leg under the table to jostle one of his lightly. Art leans forward, managing to capture one of your legs, your calf in the warmth of his palm.

“You really want me to start?” Art questions as you wriggle your leg in attempt to get away but no no avail.

“No.”

“Let’s see, the time we were six and you thought that the way to get strawberry milk was to dump pink food colouring in normal milk.”

“Stop,” you protest, but with a laugh on your lips.

“Or the time we were ten and you were convinced that the park we passed by on the way home from school was haunted and we had to sprint past that stretch of sidewalk for 3 whole months.”

“It was creepy!”

“How could we forget the one time we were thirteen and you thought that the way babies were made wa-”

“Arthur Donaldson,” you protest, managing to wrestle your leg out of his grasp which has grown looser with each anecdote. It allows you to set your foot on the ground, body shooting up to lean across the table, your palm coming to cover Art’s mouth to prevent him from announcing any further recollections from your youth.

You can feel his breath hot against the palm of your hand as his muffled laugher fills the space of your booth.

“Art,” you huff, relinquishing his full name for his nickname again. You move to drop your hand from his face, but Art catches a hold of your wrist. You sit back down, butt hitting the seat again, but with your hand still stretched across the table, wrist still loosely wrapped in one Art Donaldson’s hand. His shoulders are still shaking, now with a silent laughter.

“Art,” you try again.

“I’m sorry, it’s just so funny,” Art exhales, trying to collect himself as best as he can. He doesn’t remember the last time he laughed like this, freely and with such reckless abandon over something so innocent.

“Your dedicated court jester, always here to serve,” you mock with a roll of your eyes.

“You’ve been derelict in your duties,” Art says, now calm, but his eyes still twinkling under a mop of strawberry blonde hair. He keeps his tone light but what he really means to say is that it has been too long. You chuckle, not really having an answer for him.

“It’s been a while,” you finally admit, both your hands now resting on the table between you, you wrist now lying upturned in Art’s open palm. You had always been close

“It has, hasn’t it,” it isn’t really a question. Art has missed you - something he hasn’t realised until today. He had let himself be distracted by the complex, focused toxicity that was tennis, Patrick and Tashi, letting himself get sucked into the whirlpool, that he had forgotten to hold on to the things that grounded him.

“Maybe we should change that.”

“We should change that,” Art corrects you and you can feel the tips of your ears burning, and the skin across your cheek bones tingling for some reason.

-

You aren’t quite sure how ended up here, but one thing had lead to another as you both made your way out of the restaurant and back to Art’s car, and the next thing you knew you were heading back to his dorm to watch reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer for some reason.

“How do you not find her hot?” You ask again for the tenth time as you both focus on the screen of Art’s laptop which is perched half on his thigh and half on yours. You are both sitting on his bed, shoulder to shoulder, both of your heads damp from (separate) showers in Art’s ensuite, and you smelling quite like him from having used his toiletries and borrowing a short and shirt set, both of which which were a baggy fit for you.

“I don’t know, I just don’t.”

“You’re rubbish Donaldson,” you snort, nudging your elbow lightly into his ribs with a simultaneous yawn.

“Tired?” Art asks, as you stifle another yawn.

“Yeah,” you accept, seeing little point in trying to hide it. You had after all, played a match today.

“I should really get back to the hotel,” you mumble, the back of your head leaning against the wall beside Art’s bed, eyes closing.

“You could just stay here,” there is a hint of hesitation in his voice because he isn’t sure if you’ll stay.

“Here?”

“My bed’s a double,” Art shrugs, “it would also be quicker for you to get to the matches tomorrow.” You aren’t playing but Art knows you would be expected to show up as a supporter for the series of matches between your two schools that continued tomorrow.

“Are you sure?” You don’t mind, after all - it’s Art, the boy you had known growing up, shared milkshakes and apple slices with after school, but you wanted to be sure he was truly fine with it.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Art moves to shit his laptop, lifting himself to bend over the edge of the bed to place the laptop on the floor, “you can take the inside.”

He flops down on the outside of the bed that is further from the wall too easily, his right hand going behind his head. Him moving forces you to move in tandem as you flop down on Art’s left, legs scrambling under the covers which Art has somehow managed to worm his way under in the flurry of movement.

Art reaches a hand over, his arm extending over you in the process to hit the light switch that he has beside his bed. It plunges you both into darkness, the only light the faint glow from the street lamps creeping in from below his curtains, and the glow of his digital clock.

You flip onto your right side, eyes closed, missing the turn of Art’s head as he observes yours features, closed eyes, lashes, nose, lips, finding his gaze lingering a moment too long on your lips.

“Stop staring Art.”

“Am not.”

“I can feel it,” you respond, lips curving into a smirk. It was a habit he had developed from the sleepovers you both had either in his living room or yours when you were both younger. You would close your eyes, just about to doze off, only to hear the faint shifting of a head against a pillow while Art turned to stare at you, his blue-brown eyes boring into you.

“Am not.”

“Go to sleep Art.”

-

“So I guess I’ll see you around,” You are standing just a distance off the side of the bus which is supposed to take you back to campus. The matches for the day had ended, with your school having won by one match.

“Yeah,” Art replies, drawing out his words as he takes you in, he finds himself think that he had very much preferred you in his clothes despite them being oversized and not as well fitted as your own. You had managed to change into a fresh set of school colours before the matches started earlier that morning, having pleaded with your angel of a roommate to help you lug your overnight bag, which you hadn’t even had the chance to unpack the night before, over to the courts before the matches had begun. She had taken one look at you in Art’s tshirt, shorts with his hoodie thrown over, and had given you the widest smirk known to man despite your insistence that nothing had happened.

“I think you are scheduled to come play next month,” you refer to the Stanford men’s team, “I’ll see you then?”

“Or I could see you next week?” Art says almost shyly as he raises a hand to rub the back of his head. Art was a walking oxymoron, easily grabbing your hand, asking you to sleep in his bed, and yet somewhat bashful in the moments in between, “the drive over is an hour, max.”

“I would like that,” your response earns you a mega watt smile, his eyes twinkling at you. You both hear voices calling Art away from the bus, one male, one female - but Art ignores them both.

-

“Yeah and I told her-” your sentence is cut off by a nudge to your shoulder.

“Stanford” you friend explains with slightly too much glee in her voice. She had seen the smile on your face after returning from your away game last weekend, and the way you had been constantly glued to your phone, grin on your face, laughter peppering your days, the name Art Donaldson a constant fixture in your notifications.

Your head swivels up and to your left to spot Art leaning against his black jeep, hands crossed loosely across his chest. He smiles when he sees you, and your face mimics his expression.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” you friend calls out as she pushes you in Art’s direction. You pull a face at her while rolling your eyes, but letting your legs carry you towards Art.

“Are you stalking me Donaldson?” You ask in jest. Art had texted you half an hour earlier, asking which part of campus your last class of the Friday was in and where he should pick you up from.

“Hundred percent,” he says as he opens his arms; you step into his embrace for a brief hug, before he turns to open the car door for you. You unload your bag from your arm, dropping it onto the floor of the passenger’s seat before climbing in. You move to close the door, but Art is in between you and the door, reaching over to click your seatbelt into place.

“Ready?” He asks, and you nod, gazing into bright blue-brown eyes.

-

“Positivism,” Art says simply at your question of what theory of jurisprudence he found himself most inclined towards. You think for a moment, the side of your face propped up with a hand, elbow on the counter of the bar you both are seated at, your body turned towards Art who is likewise, facing you.

“Positivism,” you roll the words around your tongue, “I guess it tracks,” you shrug, before raising a brow slightly, “but how does an engineering undergraduate so much about jurisprudence?”

“I read.”

“On jurisprudence?” You frown nose wrinkling as you reach your hand out to place the back of it against Art’s forehead as if to check if he had a fever, “are you alright?”

“You mean you don’t read engineering daily in between sets?” Art questions you with mock horror as he reaches up to tug your hand down from his forehead. Your hand ends up, yet again, in Art’s, which is resting on his knee.

“Why engineering, and not something with a lighter course load?” The underlying question is clear - Art had every intent of going the pro track post-Stanford, and it wasn’t that he would be making full use of his degree anyway.

“I don’t want the only skill I have to be hitting a ball with a racket,” he shrugs, “it feels good to know I can do something else.”

You hum in bother understanding and agreement as you feel Art’s thumb begin to stroke the back of your hand. It distracts you, his calloused thumb sliding across your skin.

“In another life I’m sure you would have made a darn good engineer Art Donaldson.”

Your words make Art laugh, something he found himself doing a lot with you.

-

“So, this is me,” you point towards the dormitory buildings up in front and Art slows his car to a stop, pulling the gear into park. He kills the engine before hopping out of his seat. Your hand is on the handle of the door, ready to open it for yourself but Art is faster, his hand on the outside lever, pulling the door open for you.

Art offers you a hand as you hop out of the jeep before he shuts the door behind you.

“I had fun tonight,” you find yourself saying, suddenly feeling slightly shy for reasons you cannot fathom.

“Me too,” is what Art says in response, his hands stuck on the pockets of his jeans, heels rocking in a back and forth motion. You see his gaze on you, locking with yours before flickering to your lips. It makes you bite down one on side of your lip, an action which causes Art to gulp, making the Adam’s apple on his throat bob.

“We should do-”

“Can I kiss you?” Art blurts out his question in a burst and you can see his face flush slightly as he asks, a surprising and yet apt contrast to the Art who had no qualms about holding your hand in his. You feel your heart quickening, and with the silence between you both - you almost feel as if you can hear each beat.

“Yes,” you breathe out, a small nod accompanying your response. You see Art’s gaze flicker to your lips again, but you would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about this.

Art takes a step forward, pulling his hands out of his pockets. You feel him cupping your face gently, and you tilt your head towards him. Your eyes flutter close and your lips meet.

Art’s lips are softer than you imagined. You feel his hands move, slipping down the sides of your body, circling your waist and pulling you closer. You drop your bag off your shoulder onto the floor as your hands move up, one to cradle the side of his face, and the other reaching behind, fingers weaving into soft curls as you tug him closer towards you. First kisses with someone new had always been awkward for you - teeth, lips, noses, as you each try to figure out the grooves and crannies of each other, but with Art - there was no such thing. It felt as if you both had learnt each other long ago, each in and out, the curve of his neck, and the the planes of your body.

You break the kiss first, pulling away, eyes still closed, feeling as if the breath had been knocked out of you in the best way. Your forehead pressed against Art’s, body held firmly against his.

“I hope you aren’t going to send me packing after that.” Your eyes flutter open at his words.

“You packed an overnight bag didn’t you?”

“I might have,” Art pulls you even closer, his arms wound tight around you.

“Presumptuous much?” You run a hand through the front of his hair, pushing his fringe back.

“Just good at reading the room.”

-

12 years later

The skin across your knuckles are visibly tight, your hands clenched into fists, the only sign of the nerves that have taken over and riddled your body. Your eyes are shielded by dark oversized glasses, but your pupils are darting left and right as the final point of the match plays before you. The stadium is silent, save for the pop of the ball and the grunts from the two players on court. You hear an exceptionally loud grunt, the whizzing of a racket whipping through the air, and then you hear it before it hits you - the roar of the crowd, the thundering claps, and you feel your body freeze as even the announcer goes wild.

“Art Donaldson, ladies and gentleman, our new US Open champion.”

You remain glued to your seat despite the commotion around you - family, Art’s team, cheering, jumping, excited hugs being passed around. Your eyes watch as Art runs towards the center of the net, hand raised as he waves to the crowd around. He shakes his opponents hand, before waving to each section of the stadium in thanks of their support and there he is, jogging towards you. His hair is dripping with sweat, plastered to his head, shirt clinging to his body. He extends a hand to you even before he reaches the sideline and your body reacts from habit, standing, your hand extending back towards him. A warm hand, the back of it still slick from sweat grasps yours, tugging you forward lightly.

“Hi,” is all he says as Art’s lips meet yours. Art enjoys the tennis, but he doesn’t need it - doesn’t need the tennis, the fame, the money, or the trophies - all he needs is you.

You hear the crowd go wild at the display of affection, the announcer’s voice booming over the sound system with something about Art Donaldson and his wife, but it all fades - the commotion, the sound, the people, the tennis, because all you see is Art.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

[venusinmyrrh]

You said you love a good fashion doc- do you have any more to recommend?

Designers and tastemakers

Very Ralph (2019). The preeminent American designer of our time, one of the very few who can stand toe to toe with the titans of Paris and Milan. To call Ralph Lauren's work "sportswear" is to call the Sistine Chapel "kind of a big painting".

Halston (2019). Speaking of going head to head with Paris, Halston did it first. Skip Ultrasuede-- this is a much better doc about the king of American 70s disco glam.

McQueen (2018). When people talk about fashion as an art form, chances are they're thinking of Alexander McQueen. Worth watching for the pulse-pounding runway shows alone.

Westwood: Punk, Icon, Activist (2018). Obviously you already know about this one, but it's gotta go on any comprehensive list. Without Vivienne Westwood, punk would have been nothing but a handful of noisy assholes.

Diana Vreeland: The Eye Has to Travel (2011). My icon, my north star, my personal hero. The empress of taste and high priestess of personal style. Watch this doc whenever you need encouragement to do and wear whatever the hell you want.

The Gospel According to André (2017). Diana Vreeland's protegé and a godfather of style in his own right. If it happened in fashion in the last fifty years, André Leon Talley was there for it.

Lagerfeld Confidential (2007). I have a high tolerance for difficult and unpleasant people as long as I like their work. Your mileage may vary, but Karl Lagerfeld's immaculate, relentless taste cannot be denied.

Institutions and events

The First Monday in May (2016). Witness all the hustle, bustle, savvy, and stress that goes into planning the Met gala!

The September Issue (2009). Same as the above, but for the famous September issue of Vogue. Watch this to learn who Grace Coddington is.

Dior and I (2014). How do haute couture collections get made? In 8 weeks from start to finish, I guess, if you're Raf Simons during his first season at the House of Dior. A documentary and a thriller.

Scatter My Ashes at Bergdorf's (2013). No matter what other retailers might want you to think, Bergdorf Goodman is the last great department store. A portrait, already halfway to a time capsule, of what luxury shopping used to be.

Peripheral, but may be of interest

Nose (2021). The passionate, delicate art of perfume creation for the House of Dior. The French landscapes where they source their materials will make you swoon.

Larger Than Life: The Kevyn Aucoin Story (2017). As the makeup artist to pretty much every single icon of the 80s and 90s, Kevyn Aucoin invented the image of that era as much as any designer.

Fabergé: A Life of Its Own (2014). Come for the dazzling jewels and sumptuous objets d'art; stay to find out how this illustrious name ended up on hair care products in the 70s.

Crazy About Tiffany's (2016). Another luxury jeweler whose name alone is the stuff dreams are made on.

Bill Cunningham New York (2010). The original street style photographer, since before "street style" was even a thing. A love letter to curiosity, and a testament to the power of taking an interest in the world around us.

Still on my watchlist

Salvatore: Shoemaker of Dreams (2020). Directed by Luca Guadagnino, which is enough to put this Ferragamo doc at the top of my list.

Advanced Style (2014). Portraits of seven women aged 62-95 with truly fab personal style. Top Letterboxd review is seething about how out of touch they are with the real world, which means I am probably gonna love it.

Suited (2016). A study of gender through clothing in modern culture.

Dries (2017). A year-- and four collections-- in the life of Dries Van Noten, who, interestingly, doesn't see the point of clothes that people can't buy to wear, and so does not do couture.

Yellow is Forbidden (2018). This doc about Guo Pei appears to use her career as a framework to understand the gatekeeping of global culture by the West. Dope as hell, if it can pull it off.

American Style (2019). The political, social, and economic history of America through its fashion. Another one that could be really awesome if done with insight and panache.

Quant (2021). She may share the credit for inventing the miniskirt with two other people, but it cannot be argued that Mary Quant invented 1960s Swinging London. And for that we say thank you Dame Mary.

[edwin-paynes-bowtie]

Do you think there is a way to ethically watch Sandman and Good Omens? What about Dead Boy Detectives?

Andddd this was why I originally turned off anons. I knew this was coming eventually, but I guess I'll respond just this once so everyone knows where I stand.

I don't love that I feel the need to disclose this, but I have personally experienced grooming and sexual assault in the past. So this post is coming from someone who has Been There and understands the importance of supporting victims. I also love all of the efforts NG-related fandoms have been putting into raising money for sexual assault charities. It's wonderful to see people rallying behind the survivors and supporting them so vocally.

- DEAD BOY DETECTIVES: NOT A GAIMAN WORK

I do not think that there is a world where Dead Boy Detectives would be unethical to stream. It has virtually nothing to do with Neil Gaiman, by his own admission, and is the brain-child of Steve Yockey.

Besides the first chapter where Charles and Edwin were introduced (with no development), he didn't even write the comics! Several artists did, including Toby Litt and Mark Buckingham - whose run the show is based on and who the sprites are named after.

Yockey was the sole person to pitch DBDA to Warner Brothers. Gaiman did not do that.

Streaming Dead Boy Detectives primarily supports its writers, cast, and crew - Gaiman, who only wrote 2 scenes, is getting essentially nothing in terms of royalties.

Someone on Twitter did a really good job of unpacking why Dead Boy Detectives shouldn't be lumped in with Gaiman stuff - I'll link it here.

But this leads me to the next section.

- HANDLING GOOD OMENS AND SANDMAN

I think that there are a lot of valid reactions to the way people handle the consumption of Gaiman's shows after what he has done.

Some people are going to be unable to stomach anything he has written, and that is okay. Others whose lives have been massively impacted by his work aren't going to be able to let go since - and I know people like to deny this, but it's true - the art you love more than love itself is going to have a serious material impact on your personality.

Both of these approaches are alright! The only incorrect approach is to harass those who disagree with your personal choices.

It also is, in my opinion, Bad to give Gaiman money. Purchasing his books and buying Good Omens official merch puts cash in his pocket.

Streaming the shows, though, is a little more nuanced to me.

I'm going to use Good Omens as an example here. I personally will not be continuing with Good Omens. It gives me a Yucky Feeling. I may one day change my mind and stream a pirated version, but I don't think so.

However, I don't think Sheen and Tenant's fans are wrong to stream it in support of the actors who have brought their favourite characters to life.

But this leads me into my next point, and the point that will probably get me Canceled.

- THE IMPACT OF SHOWS ON PEOPLE

The way that people handle their favourite shows post-allegations is going to depend on the impact that the show had on their life.

I like Good Omens. It's a fun show. I enjoyed it while watching it, and think (see: thought) positively of it. But it had no real deep impact on my life - it's not part of me. When I look at Good Omens now, I see Gaiman's work above the finished product. It puts a sour taste in my mouth.

But in a hypothetical world, if Dead Boy Detectives were a Gaiman production? I have the self-awareness to know that I probably would still stream it to support the cast and crew. I am attached enough to it that I think I would divorce it entirely from Gaiman (if he were the creator, which he is not.) My point is that other people who are still streaming Sandman and GO probably don't look at it and see Gaiman. They see something that they have absorbed into themselves.

The part that's going to get me canceled is that if George cameos in Sandman, I will stream that one (1) episode to support George Rexstrew (Edwin Payne's actor). This is because Edwin has had a material impact on my life (hilariously, because I am a sexual violence survivor who did not get justice, and Edwin did not get justice for his murder and fights for that.) I feel that Edwin is part of me and my life, because Edwin (and George's work as Edwin) has made me feel less alone.

A lot of people feel that way about Crowley and Aziraphale.

I think that asking people to ditch a show, characters, and performers that have had a deep impact on their lives is unfair to them. Like, yes, Neil Gaiman is a bag of shit! Anyone who defends him is also a bag of shit! But I don't think that it's fair to stop people from supporting works that have had big material impacts on their own lives.

- HOW TO PROCEED

TL;DR

My personal ideal outcome here would be:

Wrap up Good Omens with the 90-minute movie and nothing else.

Wrap up Sandman with season 2, and do not renew.

Revive Dead Boy Detectives WITH THE CAVEAT that Gaiman gets his name removed from it, even if he currently isn't making much money off it. Take the Sandman characters and references from DBDA and let it become its own standalone thing.

Cancel all future Gaiman productions and never hire him to work on television or anything else again.

Let Gaiman's career die entirely and let him fade into obscurity.

Arrest Gaiman, which will never happen but it should.

I think people should:

Stop giving Neil Gaiman money through books or merch.

Make their own decisions about whether or not to officially stream the shows in support of the actors and crew members who have worked hard on it.

Not harass anyone for either their decision to stream the show, not stream the show, or stream a pirated version of the show.

Engage as much as they want with fandom and fanworks, as they are divorced from the source material's creator.

Vocally speak up against Neil Gaiman. Amplify the voices of the survivors, and don't let fear for the future of your show get in the way of that. At the end of the day, real women were put through the most traumatic and horrifying experience of their lives, and that's what matters most.

[zot3-flopped]

Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in an oven for this! When Taylor Swift took the Grammys stage last month to claim her award for Best Pop Vocal Album for Midnights, she saw that spotlight as an opportunity to announce her 11th studio album: The Tortured Poets Department. The follow-up cut to audience members—Swift’s music industry peers, mind you—told us all that we would ever need to know, and the collective disinterest across the crowd echoed through our TVs.

Folks from all walks of life took to social media to express a multitude of reactions. Swifties clamored to their beloved monarch’s forthcoming era, while others lambasted the terminally cringe title and artwork and ridiculed Swift for making a night recognizing musical achievements across an entire industry about herself—knowing perfectly well that it would send her fanbase into a surge that would, no doubt, overpower the excitement around the ceremony itself.

Quite a few people questioned whether or not that moment suggested that a critical—definitely not commercial—tide would turn against the world’s most-famous pop star. And, perhaps it has—but, to most, it will look like nothing more than a single ripple in Swift’s ocean of successes.

Swift remained relatively hush-hush about The Tortured Poets Department up until its release, leaving her fans, admirers and haters alike with nothing but an album title to ponder about. And it’s a bad title.

If you have never been in Swift’s corner, her taking the route of labeling her next “era” as “tortured” was likely catnip for your disinterest. If you are a fan—not necessarily a Swiftie, but even just a casual lover of her best and brightest work—you might be beside yourself about the first Swift album title longer than one word in 14 years.

In terms of popularity—certainly not always in terms of quality—no musician has been bigger this century than Swift, which makes it impossible to really buy into the “torture” of it all.

This is not to say that Swift being the most famous person in the world makes her immune to having multi-dimensional feelings of heartbreak, mental illness or what-have-you.

But, she has made the choice—as a 34-year-old adult—to take those complex, universal familiars and monetize them into a wardrobe she can wear for whatever portion of her Eras Tour setlist she opts to dedicate to the material.

Torture is fashion to Taylor Swift, and she wears her milieu dully. This album will surely get comparisons to Rupi Kaur’s poetry, either for its simplicity, empty language, commodification or all of the above.

And, sure, there are parallels there, especially in how The Tortured Poets Department, too, is going to set the art of poetry back another decade—as Swift’s naive call-to-arms of her own milky-white sorrow rings in like some quintessential “I am going to take pictures of a typewriter on my desk and have a Pinterest mood-board of Courier New font” iPhone fodder. 2013 called and it wants it capricious, suburban girl-who-is-taking-a-gap-year wig back!

Soaking our book reports in coffee or having our moms burn the edges with a kitchen lighter cannot come back into fashion; the cyclical notions of culture cannot make the space for such retreads.

There is nothing poetic about a billionaire—who, mind you, threatens legal action against a Twitter account for tracking her destructive private jet paths—telling stadiums of thousands of people every night that she sees and adores them.

Tavi Gevinson says it well in her Fan Fiction zine: “When 80,000 people are also crying, you become less special, too.” If Swift can return to one of her dozen beach houses across the world, kick up her feet and say “I’m a poet of struggle,” then who is to say that millions—maybe billions—of people with access to a notes app and a social media account won’t dream that dream, too?

Maybe that looks like a net-positive, but it’s inherently damning and destructive to take an art form that has long stood on the shoulders of resistance, of love and of opposition to power, systematic injustice and climate warfare and boil it down to the new defining era of your own 10-digit revenue empire. “My culture is not your costume,” yada, etc.

The Tortured Poets Department does begin with a shred of hope that, just maybe, Swift knows what she’s talking about—as she sneaks in a cheeky “all of this to say,” textbook transitional phrasing for poets, on opening track “Fortnight.”

But “Fortnight” unmasks itself quickly as a heady vat of pop nothingness, though it isn’t all Swift’s fault. “I was a functioning alcoholic, ‘til nobody noticed my new aesthetic,” she muses, attempting to bridge the gap between a behind-the-scenes life and on-stage performance—only for it to occur while propped up against the most dog-water, uninspired synth arrangement you could possibly imagine.

Between producer Jack Antonoff’s atrocious backing instrumental and the Y2K-era, teen dramedy echo chamber of a vocal harmony provided by out-of-place guest performer Post Malone, “Fortnight” chokes on the vomit of its own opaqueness.

“I took the miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary,” Swift muses, and it sounds like satire. This is your songwriter of the century? Open the schools.

The Tortured Poets Department title-track features some of Swift’s worst lyricism to-date, including the irredeemable, relentlessly cringe “You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate, we declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist / I scratch your head, you fall asleep like a tattooed golden retriever” lines glazed atop some synthesizers and drums that just ring in as hollow, unfascinating costuming.

Aside from the Puth nod, which I can only discern as a joke (given the fact that he is one of the 150-most streamed artists in the world and is one of the blandest pop practitioners alive—I don’t care if he can figure out the pitch of any sound you throw at him), I think Antonoff should stick to guitar-playing. Get that man away from a keyboard, I’m begging you.

Synths can be, if you use them correctly, one of the most emotional and provocative instruments in any musician’s tool-box. There’s a reason why keyboards defined the 1980s; they rebelled against the very oppressive nature existing outside of the cultural company they kept. There’s resistance in electronic music that, while they brandish an aesthetic that, to a layman’s ears, seems like technicolor hues for any infectious pop track, it’s a genre that aches to tell its own story. That is simply not the case here, and that electronica hangs Swift out to dry when she drags us through the lukewarm “I laughed in your face and said, ‘You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith’ / This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots” lines, only to hit us with a softly sung F-bomb that sounds like a billionaire’s rendition of that one Miranda Cosgrove podcast clip.

I used to rag pretty heavily on Reputation—mostly because I thought (and still do, mostly) that it sounded like Swift had given up on making interesting, progressive pop music; that, in the wake of her (arguably) best album, 1989, it seemed like she’d lost the plot on where to go next. But as she’s put out Midnights and The Tortured Poets Department back-to-back, I find myself clamoring for the Reputation-era more than ever—at least seven years ago, Swift wrote songs like she had something to prove and even more to lose.

That was the always-obvious charm of Reputation, even despite the downsides—that she took a big swing from the echelons of her own musical immortality, that the comforts of winning every award and selling out the biggest venues in the world were no longer pillowing her aspirations. Even though that swing didn’t land, she still made it in the first place—and Swift is at her best either when she is clawing upwards (Reputation) or faced with nowhere to go but into the studio and noodle with the bare-bones of her own sensibilities (folklore).

You get something like The Tortured Poets Department when the artist making it no longer feels challenged, where she strikes out looking.

The mid-ness of The Tortured Poets Department will not be a net-loss for Swift. She will sell out arenas and get her streams until she elects to quit this business (a phrase decidedly not in her vocabulary, surely).

She will sell more merch bundles than vinyl plants have the capacity to make, and rows of variant LP copies will haunt the record aisles of Target stores just as long as Midnights has—if not longer.

Perhaps, in five or six years’ time, we will speak of this record just as we now do of Reputation. But right now, it is obvious that Swift no longer feels challenged to be good. The Tortured Poets Department is the mark of an artist now interested in seeing how much their empire can atone for the sins of mediocrity.

Can Swift win another Album of the Year Grammy simply because she released a record during the eligibility period? The Tortured Poets Department reeks of “because I can,” not “because I should.”

On “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can),” Swift tries stepping into the shoes of the country renegades who came before her—the Tammy Wynettes and Loretta Lynns of the world. But her self-aggrandizing inflation of importance, glinting through via a seismically-bland bridge, is backed by a minimal set dressing of guitar, drum machine and keys.

“Good boy, that’s right, come close,” she sings. “I’ll show you Heaven if you’ll be an angel—all mine. Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man. No, really, I can.” On “Florida!!!,” Swift calls upon Florence + the Machine to help her sing the worst chorus of 2024: “Florida is one hell of a drug / Florida, can I use you up?”

Even Welch, who is a fantastic pop singer-songwriter in her own right, delivers a grossly watery verse: “The hurricane with my name, when it came I got drunk and I dared it to wash me away.”

Not even the typos on the Spotify promotional materials for this album could have foretold such offenses. I won’t even get into the sonics, because Antonoff just rewrites the same soulless patterns every time.

What separates The Tortured Poets Department from something like Reputation is that, on the latter, Swift made it known what was at stake and who she was making that album for—herself, in the aftermath of her greatest long-standing criticisms (“Look What You Made Me Do” triumphs exactly because of this).

On The Tortured Poets Department, there is a striking level of moral nothingness. The stakes are practically non-existent, and the album sounds like it was made by someone who believes that they had no other choice but to finish it, as if Swift fundamentally believes that her creative measures are firmly embedded in the massive monopoly her name and brand currently hold on popular music. That’s how you get meandering pop songs about hookups, wine moms, Stevie Nicks comparisons, Jehovah’s Witness suit mentions, hollowed-out, tone-deaf nods to white-collar crime in lieu of empowerment and, topically, Barbie dolls.

(Don’t even get me started on the Anthology lyrics, which feature these absolute barn-burners: “Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto” and “My friends used to play a game where / We would pick a decade / We wished we could live in instead of this / I’d say the 1830s, but without all the racists / And getting married off for the highest bid.”) This album and its hackneyed grasps at relevance exist as “Did I just hear that?” personified, but in the most derogatory sense of the notion.

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” features another low-point in Swift’s lyrical oeuvre, as she sings “I felt more when we played pretend than with all the Kens, ‘cause he took me out of my box”—perhaps a measure of her capitalizing on the Barbenheimer mania that none of us could escape, not even the musician who spent most of 2023 flying across the world from one country to another.

But you, us, the listener—we want to believe that Swift makes these records because she has the artistic will, drive and interest to continue giving us parts of her story in such ways that they exist as an archival of her life.

But the problem is that, on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift is packaging her life into a form that is easily consumable for the 17 or 18 years olds who pour over her music. Just because her Eras Tour film is on Disney+ doesn’t mean she has to strip her songwriting (which we know can be, and has been, phenomenal) down for the sake of it being digestible by a wide spectrum of ages.

And, sure, maybe that makes the work accessible. But on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift makes Zoomer jargon her bag—titling a song after one of the most popular video games in the world and conjuring flickers of “down bad” and “I can fix him”—and it feels like she’s cosplaying because the Fountain of Youth was out of order.

Now that Swift is in her 30s, it sounds like she is infantilizing her own audience more than ever before—that singing to them at a level that could force them to reckon with something more akin with adulthood would be some kind of kink in the coil or her consumeristic threshold, that writing lyrics that sound like they were penned by a 30-year-old would, somehow, deter the interests of the billions of people who adore her.

If making one, continuous coming-of-age album is what Swift has been doing for 15 years, folklore and evermore were hiccups in the timeline—existing as the most fully-formed renderings of Swift’s own insecurities and concerns. They mirrored our platitudes towards an uncertain future with sweet, stirring remarks about isolation and heartbreak and the unavoidable, hard-worn truth about getting older. On those records, her larger-than-life living seemed, for once, to truly feel as close to the ground as ours.

Now, though, Taylor Swift is at the top of the mountain. Far better artists have made far worse records than The Tortured Poets Department, but you can’t read between the lines of this project. There is nothing to decipher from a place of quality.

Sure, Swift’s fan base will pour over these lyrics for the rest of their lives—insisting they know, for certain, which song is about who. But you cannot place a bad album on the shoulders of lore and expect it to be rectified.

We are now left at a crossroads. Women can’t critique Swift because they’ll run the risk of being labeled a “gender traitor” for doing so. Men can’t critique her because they’ll be touted as “sexist.”

And, sure, Swift is probably too easy a punching bag in this case—and most of the time, I would argue she is undeserving of being a victim of such barbs. But, you cannot write about someone being a “tattooed golden retriever” and get away with it and still retain your title as the best songwriter of your generation. You just cannot.

Sisyphus should be glad he never got the boulder to the top of the mountain—because Taylor Swift is showing us that such immortality and success ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. And, when you’re standing on the peak alone, who else is there left to hit?

In a recent interview with The Standard, Courtney Love said that Swift is “not interesting as an artist,” and I think The Tortured Poets Department proves as much. She has nothing to fight for, no doubters left to drown.

So where does she turn? Well, to boredoms of celebrity thinly veiled as sorrow everyone and their mother can latch onto—because we’ve all had to “ditch the clowns, get the crown” at some point in our lives, right?

The billionaire is having an identity crisis, but there are no social media apps for her to buy up. So she sings like Lana Del Rey and writes meta-self-referential songs about looking like Stevie Nicks.

What’s hollow about The Tortured Poets Department is that the real torture is just how unlivable these songs really are. No one can resonate with “So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street, crash the party like a record, scratch as I scream ‘Who’s afraid of little old me?’ You should be.” And normally, that wouldn’t be an end-all-be-all for a pop record—but when your brand is built on copious levels of “I’m just like you!” as the demigod saying it to their fans does so from a multi-million-dollar production set, it’s hard to not feel nauseated by the overlording, overbearing sense of heavy-handed detritus we’re tasked with sifting through on The Tortured Poets Department.

Love’s words to Lana, her advice to “take seven years off,” should be applied to Swift. Now, that doesn’t mean that, to make a good album, you must sit on material for years and labor extensively through the sketching, shaping and recording in order for it to be transcendentally landmark. But it’s obvious now that not even Taylor Swift wants to be the head of an empire—that she, too, can’t outrun the damning fate of being plum out of ideas by hopping in her jet and skirting off to God knows where.

See you at the Grammys.

****

[wijdan309]

Dear friends, For the past few days, I have been experiencing the shock of the situation and trying to understand what might happen after the ceasefire. After everything we had endured, I was finally able to return to northern Gaza, where our homes once stood, now in ruins.

I am contacting you because I need help. The cost of moving my family and our belongings is very high, and unfortunately, we cannot afford it on our own.

There are no tents in the north, and buying new ones is not an option there.

I can't leave our stuff behind; They are all we have left.

My heart is tied to this place, to the sky above our house, even if it is uninhabitable.

I miss him so much, and I need to be there with my loved ones, surrounded by the rest of our lives.

I trust you my friends, and I consider you my family. Please, if you can, help us cover transportation costs.

Every little thing counts, and your support means a lot to us during these difficult times.

Please donate and contribute what you can, it makes a difference for us.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

with love,

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #370 )✅️

@dirhwangdaseul @b0nkcreat @tamamita @chokulit @3000s @apas-95 @pitbolshevik @ot3 @punkitt-is-here @vampiricvenus @turtletoria @paper-mario-wiki @valtsv @omegaversereloaded @i-am-a-fish-stinks @catsgifsarefun @spongebobssquarepants @postanagramgenerator @feluka @nyancrimew @90-ghost @beserkerjewel @neechees @memingursa @certifiedsexed @afro-elf @11thsense @sawasawako @spacebeyonce @skipppppy @beetledrink @fools-and-perverts @dailyquests @evillesbianvillain @wolfertinger666 @taffybuns @ankle-beez @sabertoothwalrus @meshugenist @isuggestforcefem @hotvampireadjacent @marxism-transgenderism @rickybabyboy @valtsv @komsomolka @prisonhannibal @hotvampireadjacent @r0zeclawz @marxism-transgenderism @teaboot @boobieteriat @chokulit @3000s @ot3 @90-ghost @apas-95 @pitbolshevik @punkitt-is-here @b0tster @vampiricvenus @ankle-beez @remindertoclick @dyrdeer @tamamita @omegaversereloaded @sawasawako @feluka @postanagramgenerator @memingursa @certifiedsexed @afro-elf @11thsense @spacebeyonce @dailyquests @neechees @beserkerjewel @beetledrink @spaghettioverdose @specialmouse @tlirsgender @grox @minmos @paparoach @jackalopescruff @slimetony @redbuddi @liberalsarecool @juney-blues @aflo @skunkes

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[weepingpussywillowtree]

for the hate of trendy fast fashion sweaters

Okay, I want to preface this that there's nothing wrong with liking the style of these types of sweaters, though I think most of these are ugly, I do like some of them, I just wanted a place to put down my frustrations with these sweaters from a sustainability and wear-ability perspective, as well as my frustration with people coming into knitting spaces asking for dupes of these sweaters and then becoming upset when experienced knitters suggest that these sweaters are not the best idea. be an aware consumer. If you really must own one of these kinds of sweaters, understand that it will probably be a short lifespan or incredibly high maintenance garment. Or realistically, both.

Have you seen the newest sweater? everyone is talking about it. It looks like this

Or this

Or this

Yes. They are very unique looking. they're striking and sometimes even cool (in a photoshoot at least), but lets take a look at some of the problems with these types of sweaters, and how I feel that they exemplify fast fashion culture, and that culture invading fiber arts spaces as well.

Ethics, Pricing, and plastic waste

Let's take a look at this sweater as a case study for some of the ethical, sustainability, and pricing issues.

I think it exemplifies a lot of the issues with this wave of trendy sweaters.

first, lets take a look at the website. 260 dollars + shipping, 94% plastic, and from a cursory research, there seems to be no evidence that any of that price is going towards a living wage for its factory workers. So, not to be rude, but what exactly am I paying for? I have seen similar pricing and ethical issues almost across the board with these trendy sweaters.

There's nothing wrong with acrylic yarn on an individual level, it is cheap, easy to care for, and easily available, but for 260 dollars on an item that already it dry clean or gentle hand wash only due to its construction? I would expect higher quality materials. also, not this sweater in particular, but in many of these types of sweaters/brands it really bothers me that they have been able to market themselves as 'vegan' as a form of greenwashing when all of their clothes are plastic or mostly plastic. So yes, while its technically true that they are vegan, are vegan clothes really better for the environment when most of the time vegan clothes means more microfiber shedding pollution and eternal piles of plastic clothes waste?

okay, so now lets get to some common issues with the actual wear-ability and construction of these types of sweaters.

Roving Woes

I think everyone remembers these massive, chunky sweaters or even the roving blankets (roving is wool that has been processed but not yet spun). I'm not sure if the tops/sweaters of very chunky yarn are in peak trend anymore but I do see them around.

Here's the issue. If you want a garment that will fall apart in one wash, these are for you. If you want to have a garment be a lasting part of your wardrobe, move on.

A good example is above. These kinds of sweaters sell like hotcakes on Etsy and go upwards of 300 dollars a pop, but see that fuzziness around the edges? the lack of any twisting look that you'd typically see in yarn? this is roving and will pull, snag, pill, and straight up fall apart at the slightest provocation because the thing that gives spun fibers their strength, is well... the spinning part. The woolery has a great video about this where you can see the roving fall apart over time, and also collect, dirt, dust and other grossness over time with no good way to clean it. Making that 300 dollars you spent a disposable purchase, not an investment. Like buying a 300 dollar disposable rain poncho, but with even less use.

Finicky detailing

Things like ribbons, charms, and other items make an item hard to wash. If they are not properly secured, or sometimes even if they are, they will come off and either need to be thrown away or somehow reattached. These items can also tug, snag at, or warp the main fabric of the garment.

Neglecting Weaving in Ends

Another trend I've been seeing is not weaving in the ends of a garment, as you can see in that flower sweater above. This may give a cool sort of ripped jeans effect for some, but it will ultimately lead to the garment coming unraveled, and you will have wasted, in this case, like 600 dollars on nothing.

...

Overall, all of these trends lead to more plastic waste, disposable clothing, difficult or impossible to wash items, or clothing that you'll spend a lot of money on only to have it fall apart.

Its frustrating to see this clamoring for dupes or this rush for similar styles take over some fiber arts spaces and lead to wasteful consumption of yarn, and trend cycles where these sweaters quickly get created and then discarded.

thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

[icycoldninja]

heyy again its me the one who asked about rafayel. thank you for responding! you dont have to but if you could and it wouldnt be too much trouble id love to see just some general headcanon stuff! or like a story of him and the reader going out on a cute little date to the art store or something art related.

Alright! Here you go!

My beautiful merman (Rafayel x Reader fluff)

Giggling like a pair of kids up to no good, you and Rafayel bolted across the street, hand in hand, breezing past a group of apathetic pedestrians and a large, curious dog. Your destination, this one small art store that Rafayel always loved going to, was just a block or two away. As long as you hopped across the crosswalk and only stepped on the white lines, you'd be clear in a few moments.

"Go, go, go!" Rafayel was shouting happily, while you both hopped awkwardly across the street, balancing on one foot.

"I'm going, I'm going," You laughed, letting out a loud "phew" when you reached the other side of the street. Once Rafayel caught up, you headed for the entrance, swinging the door to the art store open and ringing the cute little bell above it in the process.

A pleasant chime rang through the shop, alterting the elderly shopkeeper to your presence and signaling Rafayel to depart from your side and hurry off towards the paint-filled shelving, admiring each tube like a child visiting the aquarium and seeing fish up close for the first time.

Chuckling to yourself, you followed him, giving the shopkeeper a nod of acknowledgement as you passed by. Rafayel was far too lost in examining colored pencils now to even notice you were standing behind him, but it didn't matter, just getting to see him so happy and distracted was endearing sweet. While he browsed, lost in his own world of imagination, your attention drifted over to a set of little glazed clay sculptures sitting on a small display case. There were an assortment of little animal figurines, some of dogs, cats, mice, and little piggies, but the one that stood out to you the most was this beautiful rainbow fish that had apparently been dipped in glitter while the glaze was still wet. Casting a look over your shoulder, you saw Rafayel still absorbed in reading the back of a pack of alcohol markers, and decided then and there that that fish would be a gift from you to him.

Quietly, you snatched the fish figurine and padded over to the register, whispered a short "I'd like to buy this" to the shopkeeper, who likely saw the whole thing and knew what you were planning, and in under a minute or two, you had paid for your gift and had it placed neatly in a little gift bag small enough to be concealed behind your back. When Rafayel finished his shopping, which wasn't long after you finished yours, you followed him out of the art store, offering to carry his bags for him, which he accepted. It didn't occur to him that you had seemingly left the art store empty-handed, which was great, it gave you the element of surprise.

Once you were home, Rafayel went to put his new things away in his studio, giving you time to sneak into his room and leave the fish figurine on his nightstand, where he would surely find it later. "Later" turned out to be a few minutes after you left his room. You didn't have to ask him if he liked it; his excited shrieking and whooping told you more than words ever could.

"Awwww!" You heard him squealing as he practically flew off the stairs and into your arms. "I love it! Thank you thank you thank yooou!"

"How do you know I gave it to you?" You smirked, deciding to confuse him.

"Who else knows who I really am?" He returned, throwing his arms around your shoulders. "It could only be you."

You had to admit, he got you there, so you rewarded him with a kiss.

"It's a present," You said, upon pulling away. "A present for my beautiful merman."

"Aww," Rafayel cooed, burying his head in the crook of your neck to hide his raging blush.

[thetownwecallhome]

Call Out Post

((OOC: Sorry tender lumplings for the impromptu callout. I genuinely don't like doing this at all but it's this person's fault for talking to me. Well @everythingjackskellington, here's your feature. Also delete your blog.

PLEASE don't buy from @everythingjackskellington. They are THEFT, an AI junkie and a SCAMMER.

They just recently dropped a promo ask in my box and I immediately recognized their art as being both AI and stolen in their collection on ViralStyle.

The moment I saw the "Ragdoll Coffee" insignia I recognized it as being that of Ellador's art from Redbubble. Buy her actual design here.

Given that I am A) a redbubble artist myself, and we have to sift through LOTS of art theft, including our own art being stolen, and B) have a sister who's been ripped off herself, I will not tolerate this. You are exploiting other artists and TNBC fans who don't know any better.

Please, everyone reading, do NOT buy TNBC fan merch that does not clearly have the artist's name attached. We get our work stolen enough for AI. Also I don't care if the above artwork you linked me with isn't AI. You stole it. You didn't make it.

Thief.

Do not buy this. If you have some time to kill while you're on vacay and/or wrapping xmas presents, see Hbomberguy's latest video on creator theft and plagiarism. It is worth you time and is a great example as to why I have no tolerance for this kind of thing.

The only silver lining, to spare you all from looking yourself and giving them anymore traction, was laughing at some of the clearly unthought out automated stuff they slapped Jack and Sally on. It'd be funny if you actually had any thought behind it, but again I know you didn't:

To the antiJallys/Sally-going-her-own-way-crowd, these would be funny if they weren't baseless generative crap. In fact, make your OWN gay sally designs outta this. I believe in you~

Well, you got the Blink182 lyrics right but wow you missed out on the one opportunity to spam Jack's face on something and needlessly swear. Good one, but I don't know why the Monster High logo is there.

Also yes this person swears like a sailor and does just what I said. If you want Jack on a bunch of stuff that has nothing do with him...you should still flag this store and not buy from them. But here they are, regardless.

Oh, and nice Autism Speaks propaganda there.

[saturnyukaa]

Wakfu Human AU stuff I’ve been cooking up because I’m too lazy to draw it yet

(also yes I’m using their S2 iterations because THAT IS THE BEST SEASON + I hate S3 & 4 with a BURNING PASSION.)

Yugo and Adamaï are adopted fraternal twins, they live above their dad’s restaurant downtown and help him out with cooking. Yugo has a form of dwarfism and Ad is albino because dammit this is my AU I can do what I want. At this time they’re 12 / 13 and attending middle school. Also, they both have ADHD.

Yugo is big on Pokémon, Minecraft and MLP, and has a hat he literally never takes off in a Neurodivergent Kid kinda way (think Louise Belcher). Additionally, he has a pet budgie he’s crazy about.

Adamaï is a theatre kid (in a “I’m totally not projecting” kinda way) , and likes Transformers and Lego Ninjago. He also collects bracelets. You know what, I’m throwing in that he’s intersex because I can.

Amalia is 14 and a year away from highschool, she’s a big environmental activist and frequently drags her friends to rallies, and she has a decent social media following on Instragram where she essentially just vlogs. Her father is a politician and she comes from money, but she insisted on attending public school because she dislikes her status. She’s also a hardcore K-Pop stan because she WOULD (I’m not familiar with any bands but feel free to suggest any you think she’d like).

Tristepin is 17 and spent a year at military school, where he met a gruff dude a couple years older than him whom he now considers one of his best friends (Rubilax). He lives with his older cousin on his dad’s side, and boxes in his free time with coaching from said cousin (which is Goultard. by the way). Chronic shonen anime watcher…. he would SO eat up DBZ,, also a fan of combat related video games. He got held back a year in highschool and is dating Evangelyne.

Evangelyne is 18, has technically graduated and owns her own apartment. She does a ton of extracurriculars (figure skating, fencing, archery, tennis, creative writing, was on the debate team, etc.), and therefore was able to get into a really good college on a scholarship. She babysat Amalia when they were kids and Amalia’s family let her live with them for a few years when her dad left town. She regularly visits museums and adores the arts. Also a LOTR fan.

Ruel is OLD, an ex-rockstar / athlete / nepo baby and is absolutely LOADED, although now he just owns a pawnshop downtown and takes Yugo and Ad on fishing trips, where he gives them unwarranted advice about buying stock. He and Alibert are married for “tax benefits”, and co-parent the twins (I am a MASSIVE Rubert believer don’t @ me), although he’s still currently paying alimony to his ex-wife. He also owns an exotic, likely illegal pet and has gotten involved in more than one pyramid scheme.

Additionally, they all play DnD together and in this AU, the entirety of Wakfu is their custom DnD campaign (with Adamaï as the DM, ofc :3)

[0hwonderboy]

I had the absolute honor and pleasure of meeting Tim Downie, Samantha Béart, and Amelia Tyler this weekend at 2D con!! Got pics and signatures (Amelia art cropped down bc I found out afterwards that the artist has me blocked, lol)

ok now for some stupid funny stories regarding meeting Tim

so when me and oomf went up to him on the first day, he saw me and went “oh GOD. you-“ and i just freaked out. he RECOGNIZED ME. i immediately was like “hey oh my god Tim I am so SO sorry for the. everything that I am oh my god this is so augh I’m so sorry-“ and he said, “don’t worry, I’ve come to terms with it now” 😭😭

BUT he did also say that he was so excited to meet me and that since he knew I’d be coming he was LOOKING FOR ME IN THE CROWDS and he was so glad I was there and he said I was a pleasure to meet and he was so happy to finally meet after 6 months (which when I told him he went “there’s no way it’s been that long!”) and oughshdh i was freaking OUT

also- as pictured above, I gave him a print of a drawing my best friend (tepidti everywhere) did of the absolutely abhorrent creature i edited a while back. which, for context, was because i misheard my friend (jojo/bonjeacon, also known as peak_deak) when he was streaming and long story short, “pikmin” turned into “peakmin” which turned into me making “Peaktim” which turned into my friends buying a cameo of Tim reacting to it. when I gave him that drawing he said he’d use it as a bookmark which was so fucking hilarious

ALSO. back in April, my friend (tutterwutter on twt) made me this t-shirt, which I ended up showing Tim on twitter. I knew I was gonna bring it with me to the con bc I’m crazy and thought it’d be funny- didn’t think much of it though…

APPARENTLY

this fucking man. told me. HIS OWN, ACTUAL, REAL LIFE WIFE, THAT HE IS MARRIED TO IRL AND THEY LITERALLY HAVE CHILDREN TOGETHER- SHOWS HIM THIS PHOTO “all the time” AND THEY BOTH LOVE IT SO MUCH.

WHAT. THE FUCK.

absolutely fucking crazy. CRAZY!!!!!

also also- i ended up getting a second picture with him cus the first time I just threw the “this is my wife” shirt OVER my shirt and i didnt love how it turned out due to that (neither did my mom, she was very upset) so i told him “my mother doesn’t approve of my wife!” which he was veryy offended by

but also this man was so sweet and when I told him he has to come to my state next time and not me flying across the country for him he said “oh yes I’LL put in the work for YOU! what’s a lil distance between friends?!” i just died… when saying goodbye i told him “i’ll see you on twitter and other social medias with my terrible edits” and he choked 😭😭

what an interesting man, had an absolute blast finally meeting him.

[thecomfywriter]

✨ thecomfywriter blog ✨

Hi! Call me Comfy, call me Naveena, call me Nav... All of the above work just fine. I'm the author of Throne of Vengeance: Volume One, a writer, and founder/previous owner of thecomfywriter writing bar. This masterpost will act as a navigational tool to all important links pertaining to my blog, including links to buy my books, read my short stories, writing excerpts, my art, or see the highlighted features i give to my fellow writer mutuals. Enjoy your stay. Cheerios!

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status: i am unofficially ghosting for a bit. i shall only be active on communities

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Notable posts:

Throne of Vengeance Official Synopsis

Buy my book, Throne of Vengeance: Volume One

Join the Throne of Vengeance Community!

The NaveenaVerse Anthologies

Read Throne of Vengeance: Volume One PDF

Tags:

#thecomfywriter = all original posts written on and for this blog

#throne of vengeance and #tov = posts specifically about my book, 'Throne of Vengeance'; its an umbrella tag for Volume 1 and Volume 2

#TNV anthologies = the NaveenaVerse anthologies series, which is just a collection of short stories I write for tumblr or for fun as writing practise and I share on tumblr

#tcw art = all original art made by yours truly (me)

#tcw wips = posts pertaining to my wips

#tcw ocs = posts pertaining to my original characters

#thecomfywriter rambles = anytime i go on a tangent, essentially (which is quite often)

#thecomfywriter answers = answering asks or other questions

#thecomfywriter reblogs = a hub for all posts i reblog, typically featuring #other writers

#sai (typically accompanied by #sai live reacting) = a series where i live react to my wip, SaI, while i edit it

#cos = posts specifically about my wip, CoS, which is book 1 in the spinoff series for ToV, LotF

#tis = posts about my wip series, informally known as TIS

Click READ MORE to learn more about my specific projects, WIPs, OCs, and lore!

My Books/WIPs:

Throne of Vengeance (ToV):

Throne of Vengeance is now available for purchase!!! 👇

Throne of Vengeance: Volume 1

"Oh, but temptation is the wildest intoxication of them all."

Throne of Vengeance is a 2-volume high fantasy narrative following the protagonist, Alan, and his reflections on his inevitable downfall as he becomes entangled in the political and magical conspiracies set out to assassinate the dragon queen, Von Doro. Volume 1 acts as his humble beginnings and showcases how he became so involved with the entire group of thieves, decorated-heroes-turned-mass-murderous-villains, and the 'prince' of their kingdom, as well as plants the seeds of his eventual spiral downwards. Volume 2 showcases the consequences of all his early mistakes and what it means to become no better than the villain he sought to eradicate.

ToV Main Cast: Alan, Caramel, Von Doro, Hilbert, Morreial, Cara, Markum ja, Jervee Iyzela, Jervee Revenold, Amara, Pietro

LotF Series:

"Beauty is not so artificial than it would only exist in one's exterior, but especially not his. For when I say all the gold in the Singer Palace paled in comparison to the only one that fluttered, one gaze into those divine eyes, and you too would be awestruck at how such gentle loveliness could exist."

The LotF Series is the spin-off series to ToV, following the next generation-- the children of the main cast-- as they enter this new age of supposed peace. CoS: After the young Evan accidentally becomes an accomplice to a horrific crime, he becomes the scapegoat to a ruthless conviction, that too, at the hands of his own parents. Upon his return to society, the story follows his journey in navigating strained family dynamics and the burdens of trauma he is forced to conceal. GotN: Reveal in future... EoJ: Reveal in future... MotT: Reveal in future... SoC: Reveal in future... LotF: Reveal in future...

LoTF Main Cast: Evan, Elenfa, Fawn, Alan, Caramel, Cara, Morreial, Faer, Qatya, Aiyana, Bimyllis, Noctem, Riyzela, Raheer, Donovan, Nyla, the skeletons, Heen, Yozar, Gama, Boaar, Erier, Kehm, Nain

CoE:

"Oh. I'm honoured. But bowing isn't how you show me your devotion... Sacrifice is."

She's still very much in the drafts right now, but the CoE is a spin-off to the LotF series, set in the world of Elayza 5 years post-SoC war. It's a pirate-mythology story following 3 main characters and 2 separate storylines that eventually converge when divine forces begin interfering with mortal battles. There are 7 books planned for this series, all of which I have already made covers for and plots I have already outlined. Oopsies lmao.

Main Cast: F'dryx, Boor, Sanre, Qatya, Telgin, Yern, Morohav, Yozar, Evan, Faer, Inqa

TIS:

"Roy has attacked our esteem--our honour. And now, they will learn. Roy will fall."

I've been pretty vague about this one, mainly because it's also in the drafts for now, but the TIS is a high political fantasy mystery series following the kingdom of Liyana, its rise to becoming the superpower nation of the world of Inkarnyus, its bloody role in both the first Inkarnyus wars, and its inevitable role in starting the second.

Main Cast: Naliya Luceras, Kiamu TIvan, Selven Sarcony, Blaire Wynnen, Amaka Luceras, Zeena Luceras, Shadow, Fiona Desai, Ashley Valencia, Vrankensini Stein, Prince James, Alexander Marine, Jade Esterion, The One

AoNaS:

Also currently in the drafts, but the AoNaS is unique in how its my only middle-grade series. It follows the twin Ghotra sisters as they find themselves transported into an abstract, illlusionary world with mysterious powers. In order to return back to life as they know it, they have to discover the original hosts for these abilities, but things don't go as planned when they realize their new powers have made them the target to the dictator of this new world. Honestly, this is one of the more lighthearted, for gaffs, stories I've written. The narrator is hilariously theatrical. The villains are whole comic book characters. The twin sisters are constantly bickering. Its so early 2010s, I love it.

Main Cast: Neha Ghotra, Serina Ghotra, Forys, Zebratron (yes... i know LMAO), Typhareus, Octopious (I'm not even joking with these names), Squally, Therysea

The Blog Lore / Culture:

Offical Timeline of TCW society

Historical Events of TCW

Who is TCW? What is TCW society?

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I hope you enjoy this masterpost! Enjoy the blog! Enjoy the wips! Enjoy the vibes! If you have any questions, leave a comment, post in the ToV community, or @ me!

Happy Writing!

[therecordconnection]

Some Thoughts Regarding James Somerton

I know I'm rather late to the conversation and some of these points may have already been talked about in some form elsewhere on the site, but if you don't mind, I have some thoughts of my own regarding the subject of hbomberguy's latest video and I would like to take time to voice. This blog is normally dedicated to music and music writing, not posts about disgraced Youtubers, so I apologize for the detour in regularly scheduled programming.

First, I think it's important to make the distinction that Somerton isn't just a case of "problematic Youtube guy got owned... twice" but rather a genuine case of academic dishonesty, which is several grades above youtuber drama. This isn't something like Tati Westbrook getting angry at James Charles for sucking dick and cock at a birthday dinner. This isn't Ethan Klein and Trisha Paytas or whomever having beef. It's not Charlie Critikal talking about some stupid drama of the day or someone just using Youtube videos to say a bunch of gross and problematic stuff. No. This is a fucking grifter who not only lied, cheated, and stole his way to the top, but also did it by using a vulnerable community that has long had their voices snuffed out and their history completely rewritten or wiped from existence altogether. What history he didn't plagiarize, he twisted and outright lied about. He just made shit up to suit his own gross agenda.

A lot of things about James Somerton left me absolutely livid, and I admit that I didn't even know who he was until hbomberguy's video. I think what makes me the most mad is that I went to undergrad and grad school with a number of jackoffs that were just like him. People that didn't give a shit about the art of writing and research and just treated academia and the pursuit of knowledge and how to critically engage with art and media into a stupid game that only chumps take seriously. Somerton pisses me off because I AM a writer. When I write the Ranting and Raving series of posts on here, that stuff doesn't just fly out of my ass. I have to sit with a song, study it, research it, and make sure I know what I'm talking about so I don't look like a clown. I also have to make sure that I link and credit where I'm getting information from. It's not just important for my own satisfaction, but it's important for anyone who stumbles upon a post on this blog and takes time out of their day to read it and/or reblog it.

I think that's the part that makes me the most mad. That he and Nick Hergott have so little respect for the work that goes into researching and writing about a topic that other people are really passionate about. Spending time with something, studying it, and figuring out an interesting and unique perspective on it is a great feeling. Sharing what you find or how you see something with others and having them either like or reblog your work is an even greater feeling. That's my writing that somebody enjoyed and thought was worth sharing with others. Fuck fuck fuck Somerton for thinking you can take a million little shortcuts to get to that result.

While I'm on the topic, I don't think Hergott gets a pass for Somerton's actions. I've seen some people make the argument that he isn't complicit and there's a chance that he genuinely had no clue that Somerton was doing this... but I don't buy it. There's no way he didn't know and wasn't in on it in some capacity. Even if he wasn't, as Todd in the Shadows pointed out in his video on this situation, Nick is, whether you like it or not, an accomplice to Somerton's lies and he is complicit in the blame, due to his name being included in the "Written By" credit of a lot of those videos with Somerton. The way I see it, I find it hard to believe that he couldn't have known. I imagine part of Hergott's signing on with Somerton was that in the event that shit hits the fan, Hergott would be used as a fall guy to help deflect accusations of plagiarism.

To return to Somerton, in a way, he's almost worse than AI/Chat-GPT because, really, an AI has no morals. It can only do what someone punches in and tells it to do. Somerton is a guy who does have genuinely insidious ambitions and knows fully what he's doing. That shit about "only the boring gays who didn't mess around in the eighties survived the aids crisis" is the wildest and grossest accusation I've seen about gay people in some time. The wild takes about the Nazis (especially all the wrong things he said about fitness relating to Nazis) should also raise a lot of red flags. I'll say this though, I don't blame anybody in the slightest for not fully realizing Somerton was saying shit like that or doing all of what he was doing until hbomberguy and Todd presented it a certain way and made it all very clear. It's easy to not notice it when Somerton buries it by ripping stuff off from other, better writers. So, if you were someone who was a big fan and was genuinely shocked by the things Todd had to fact-check and debunk and worried that you're a bad person for having not caught any of them, trust me, you're not. Nobody should blame you for not catching it. <3

While I'm ranting about this, I want to say that Somerton's patreon grift was really gross to see exposed as well (through Dan Olson's really great thread, which can be read here). I understand the allure of wanting to buy expensive gear and thinking that's somehow needed in order to make Good Content™️, but there's a stark difference between someone saying "I think I need to shell out a little money in order to get something of higher quality" and "I need to have the appearance of looking like my stuff is being made with high quality stuff." As someone who has been experimenting with trying to turn his writing into video, I did some audio tests this weekend and realized that maybe (just maybe) the old Turtle Beach microphone my brother left behind when he moved out isn't going to cut it. If I want to record something I can be happy with, I'm gonna have to bite it and look at getting something decent, but somewhat affordable from a Best Buy or something. You don't need the best tech in order to make something great, but you can't use copper tools forever if you have the means to be able to enjoy using iron ones, you know?

Somerton's grift reminded me of guys like Onision and Spoony. Grifters who looked to Patreon and other creator donation sites for an easy pay day and would bitch and cry and complain that it's your fault when they don't get it. Somerton making poor financial choices ON TOP of it being money that he scammed from a community of people that were looking to invest in a voice that they genuinely thought was speaking for them in a meaningful way, only makes the grift more disgusting and foul. Even if he's just "some Youtuber," Somerton still had a responsibility to his audience to present queer topics in an ACCURATE manner. He didn't and we all have the right to be angry with him about it. This isn't just silly youtuber controversy, this is academic dishonesty in it's purest form and if it gets you expelled from any college program, it should get you expelled from being able to show your face on Youtube as well, which is how Somerton's story will end.

I've been on the internet for many years. I've seen some of the worst, most problematic creators of all time find a way to bounce back from all kinds of controversy and find some kind of success again. I don't think that will happen for Somerton. Not one bit. What he's done is something you can never come back from, no matter how much you try to reform. If two different youtubers can make two completely different videos about why you suck, I don't think there's any recovery. What happened this weekend is a now classic episode of World's Most One Sided Fist Fights Caught on Film.

This post has gone on for a while, so let me wrap it up. I mean this without hyperbole and without exaggeration: James Somerton is a disgrace to both media criticism and the art of video creation. I genuinely hope he remains propped up as a cautionary tale of what can happen when you fully decide you have absolutely no respect for the Humanities and decide that lying, cheating, and stealing your way to the top, all while scamming and being incredibly shitty towards a community that has long suffered and is STILL suffering greatly to this day, is better than any kind of academic honesty. I understand that Somerton is just "some youtube fraud" to some people, but the problem lies more in what Somerton's actions and motivations represent. I really think hbomberguy's video on plagiarism is going to do a lot of good. It's going to help a lot of people avoid doing it as well as help people become more aware of what it really looks like and all the damage it can do.

Thank you for your time.

P.S. It doesn't really need to be said at this point, but make sure you support the queer voices and writers that did the work Somerton thought was good enough to just copy and paste into a video. They're the ones that suffered the most through all of this and my heart goes out to them, from one writer to another. <3

[razorblade180]

9 days of Lancaster Day 1: Training

Ruby considered herself an honest girl. Maybe a light fib every once and awhile but she really tried speaking her mind often! She meant it when she said she wishes to be a normal girl with normal knees. However, as Jaune flipped her onto a sparring mat, the next words out of her mouth made her wish seem like a lie.

Ruby:I am better than this outcome! I’m a natural born fighter, so why is this so hard!

Jaune:You really weren’t kidding about your hand to hand skills. I’m not even good.

Ruby:Lies! We all can’t be roommates with a ninja and learn cool skills!

Jaune:Yeah but…YOU have a ninja roommate.

Ruby:….

Jaune:…And a martial arts sis-

Ruby:Shut up! *springs up* Again! I’m focused! I will get you.

Jaune:Ren said most things come down to balance and timing. Try not rush this.

Ruby:I’d like to point out my weapon gives me reach and an immaculate pace. Without it you’re like two of me.

Jaune:Yeah but you’re amazing. I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it soon enough.

Ruby:Your kindness has no effect on me.

Jaune:Pin me and I will buy lunch. If you lose then you do it.

Ruby:You’re on!

Without hesitation, a flying kick went past Jaune’s head. He barely had time to put his hands up to block a flurry of tiny but rapid fists.

The pressure was short lived when Jaune threw a punch that forced Ruby to weave. Darn his long arms! She put all her concentration into bobbing left and right, successfully avoiding slower but powerful blows as she worked the ring. Lunch was on the line and it wasn’t looking too good for her. She had to really think about her attacks. She was faster but Jaune was no slouch. It all comes down to timing.

Ruby noticed his right shoulder move back and began ducking as Jaune sent a right hook. As she ducked, Ruby made her move; a right uppercut was headed his way then immediately pulled back as he went to block. The faint worked! Ruby twisted her body into a left jab aimed right for his face! Unfortunately, the blow failed spectacularly. Jaune raised his right palm and caught it! No way he predicted that! Ruby immediately went for right but was once again caught and both arms were raised above her head. She refused to give up her free lunch!

Both of them made their move. Ruby went to knee him with her right but wasn’t expecting him to lean her body backwards. She quickly lost balance and her leg was caught with his left hand as her wrists became pinned by his right against a wall. She hadn’t even noticed how far back they moved during the fight. Did he purposely lead her over here!? The proud but surprised smile on his face told her yes. Ruby couldn’t help but pout as he chuckled.

Ruby:Ren has taught you too much.

Jaune:Lunch is on you today.

Ruby:This is clearly a draw.

Jaune:Rubes, you’re pinned.

Ruby:Last time i checked, your arms are full. Looks like we both can’t properly attack. I call that a draw~

She confidently huffed. That was until their little stare down slowly grew closer.

Jaune:You really think I’m out of moves?

Ruby:Pr-Prove me wrong.

Why was she stuttering? Now was not the time to show weakness to the enemy! Cobalt eyes grew ever larger as they got closer to pools of silver. The grip on her wrists became a bit more firm, as well as his fingers behind her knee. Escaping the pin suddenly felt more like a suggestion than a need, and Ruby was so thrown off right now all she could think to do was close her eyes and wait for his “attack”

After what felt like an eternity, a soft press against her forehead connected with his own before leaving. Suddenly her limbs were free and she felt his presence back off. Ruby opened her eyes to see her friend looking completely the other way with his ears as red as her cape l; and her face at this point.

Jaune:See? I could’ve headbutted you.

Ruby:Y-Yeah…right. I can’t argue with that. *rubs head* Lunch is on me.

Jaune:Let’s call it here. Also… I will but dessert.

He briskly runs off, leaving Ruby to stew in the moment. She didn’t know what was worse; that he might’ve been going for a headbutt from the start but she clearly puckered up, or the fact she could still feel his grip on her. Either way, she was dying inside.

Ruby:(Why does hand to hand have to be so close?!)

[raziiyah]

I love how it's a common headcanon within the collective fandom that prior to the whole Scream Extractor ordeal, Randall was in a romantic relationship with someone that went south due to him becoming more and more involved in the Scream Extractor

Like not even just your oc, but I've noticed this with a lot of ocs that get shipped with Randall?

Like wow Randall fans certainly live for that angst huh? 💔

(yes i sketched this because of this ask)

okay first off thank you sm for sending me an ask related to my oc, i've had her for a very long time but i've never shared her on any of my socials prior to this year so i'm happy to talk about her!

with a character with randall yeah angst is inevitable 😔✊️ i've seen a bunch of art of people's ocs that they ship with randall, but i'm mostly unfamiliar with narratives that people give said ocs so that's interesting to hear! i'm curious on how other people write the scream extractor plot into their stories

if im being real, if i wasn't in love with randall (a world i don't even want to imagine LOL) i don't think i would've headcannoned him to have a romantic partner

but HAHA guess what i am, so yeah randall has a wife and it's me!!! :)))

UM okay so for real though, how i've written it, is that lia and randall's relationship didn't exactly go downhill after randall started working on the scream extractor. yes they fought more after randall started working on the scream extractor for reasons i will mention here, but they were just as supportive and caring towards each other since university, and still very much in love. in fact, right before the events of mi, their life was at a peak. randall was on the path to getting the scare record, and lia was about to transfer from scare industries to start a new career at monsters inc. they were both happier than ever. but of course, you know what happens to randall during mi's runtime

lia was unaware that randall was building a scream extractor. sometimes randall would feel guilty about keeping such a big secret from her and sometimes ponder about the lies he's told her while in bed with lia lying just right next to him. sometimes, randall would return home extremely hungry and lethargic with his lunch uneaten, from working on the scream extractor on his lunch break. with randall having little time to work on the scream extractor in the day he would often also stay at work after hours to engineer and refine it, which would cause him to arrive home very late. causing lia to worry. sometimes lia wouldn't see him until the next morning. randall's late nights and absences didn't go unnoticed.

whenever lia would confront him about it, randall would brush it off and make up different excuses such as having to stay late to do paperwork or wouldn't specify and would say things like waternoose had a task for him or he was just busy with "work stuff." a couple times she'd even find some stray papers hanging out from randall's work bag or in his office at home such as odd blueprints or a list of strange tools and parts to aquire (i don't think she'd ever get a good look at them) though she let him off for a bit, after some time, lia wouldn't buy it

when lia would accuse randall of hiding something, he would deny it up and down. but with lia seeing past his facade, she would sometimes keep pushing him to tell her the truth, while randall insists that he is or tells her to mind her own business. unable to mention the scream extractor, and just saying that he's busy, lia would also think that he's putting too much attention into work and isn't taking care of himself, as well as putting his job above their relationship. this would typically result in arguments.

these arguements could get quite explosive with randall's short temper and lia's stubborness, but after some time to cool off they would eventually make up and apologize to each other. lia would tell him things such as she's happy that he's close to getting what he's wanted for years (the scare record) but she's worried about him working so hard that he's compromising all other aspects of his life, and bring that she can't help but worry when there are times where she doesn't see him all day. randall, focusing lia's attention away from the scream extractor and towards the scare record would express his feelings and tell lia that once he gets the scare record he'll feel comfortable with taking it easy and they can truly live the life they want but right now he can't afford to slow down. however, he'd sometimes feel bad and make some time for himself and lia, even if only a little. this would slow down the production of the scream extractor, but these moments would only be temporary. lia would sometimes tell randall things like "you know you can tell me anything" and randall would ensure her that he knows and he will. however, lia would sometimes still have suspicions

the scream extractor was an undercover operation, and considering its ethics, i don't think randall would've told lia about the scream extractor until it was finalized, if at all

for me at least, i try to write lia in a way that is in harmony with the canon story as much as possible. i love mi and randall as they are so i do not want to drastically change his personality or alter him or the story in an outrageous way. lia and randall have been together since uni and i'm hoping to uncover more about their relationship through my posts, and i've hopefully made it in a way that makes their relationship believable

i think randall's bitter attitude and temper is definitely something he accumulated from years of trying and failing to overtake sulley which impacted his temper and attitude in general, so even if he's not angry at lia, his frustrations with work/sulley/fungus/scare record/scream extractor/etc can cause him to be hot headed, impatient, and give lia attitude since he's already agitated

even though issues arose after randall started working on the scream extractor, they didn't fall out of love or anything during it's construction, but it certainly dampered their relationship. after all randall is a villain and his personality, actions and story are going to interfere with a perfect relationship (which no relationship is 100% perfect but you get what i mean) so of course its going to come with some angst, but it just makes things more real and interesting lol 😃✊️

[fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic]

Good Omens Fic Rec: creature of mine

"Dunno why, but s'not working this time. M'not resssponding to it." Crowley's eyes flickered with something entirely unreadable. "I need a warm body." "I see." "Can't even use my fingers properly with these bloody claws. Still, feels better to have something warm, something moving." Aziraphale attempted to make sense of Crowley's words, his head pounding viciously. A warm body. "Would you like me to... hold you again?" Crowley smiled, open-mouthed and beastly. His fangs glistened in the darkness. "Need you to fuck me, angel." Or: Aziraphale buys Crowley a snake plant, hoping to please Crowley with the appealing smell of its flowers. Its effects on Crowley are far more extreme than Aziraphale anticipated, and it’s down to him to face them head-on.

Length: 21,253 Words

AO3 Rating: Explicit / Spice Level 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

Best for: After Dark, Canon AU

Triggers: None

Read it here, fic by ineffabildaddy, omens_for_ophelia

*Minor Spoilers* Buckle in, it's long post time. I admit to bias in the length of this post because I love this author, but above all, my enjoyment of this story is so genuine and I am so proud to recommend that you all read it too. This was written for the sex pollen event that has been going on recently (so many more for me to read!) and it's one I knew was coming but didn't know too many details about. So when I woke up to the email that it was posted, I knew I was going to have such a good morning, and oooh boy did I.

Caught outside in the rain, Aziraphale steps briefly into an exotic plant shop to stay dry. When he spots a beautiful flowering snake plant, well, he's free from Heaven now and free to buy his friend a gift. And what a gift it will be when they realize that the plant's pollen contains the exact pheromones that trigger Crowley's snake desires. Even though I knew exactly where this was going, the actual journey was so intoxicating. When the effects first take hold, neither of them knows exactly what to do. Both are locked into shame and embarrassment over the situation, but the trust and protection they have for each other is sturdy. Crowley struggles with losing control and the pain of vulnerability, while Aziraphale tries desperately to deny his own wants and desires. He represses it all to protect Crowley. And isn't this just the most beautiful metaphor for their entire relationship? As always, they get there in the end. It's as heartwarming as it is sensual. I will never tire of them completely surrendering to each other.

The thing I always love most about this narrative style is how it blends poetry and smut. It will paint with gorgeous prose and then snap our attention back with its explicit language. It's thrilling to me and a shining example of how rich smut stories can be. I'm awed and horny! And I have to say, this was such a clever and interesting take on Crowley's snake body! Naga/Monster fuckers, this one needs to be made a priority for you. It was described in excellent detail but also depicted gorgeously by the included art! I've still got goosebumps over the third piece of included art! The color palette! The bodies!! The emotion! I'm in love. Both author and artist have a talent for making me feel so at home in my own body with their works. I just trust them implicitly, and they make it so easy to imagine how everything would feel to my own skin.

This is an at-home, after-dark read. It will have you sweating and squirming, but also in awe of their closeness and the trust they have in each other. How endless their devotion is. How beautiful this story is. But let's be real, I'm also thinking about how fun their next round with this plant could be now that they're on the same page. Next time, with the walls completely down, they are going to have the most pleasurable night of their life for the rest of their lives.

Read it here, fic by ineffabildaddy, omens_for_ophelia