#i wrote this and didn't edit it

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[jq37]

Aelwyn is sixteen and preparing for midterms at Hudol. Uniform pressed and starched, head full of incantations and spell components. She doesn't mean to bump into Adaine and get orange juice all over her shirt but today isn't the day she's going to start showing weakness.

"You know, you really should watch we're you're going," she says archly, playing off the clumsy mistake as a purposeful jab.

Playing it off a bit too well because, the next thing she knows, Adaine is flipping her off and a bolt of queasy looking, green energy is coming towards her. Ray of Sickness. And she can't spare the spell slot for Counterspell because she needs it for her exams.

"You little bitch!" Aelwyn says once she's emptied the contents of her stomach down the front of her shirt.

"Good luck with your exams," Adaine says sweetly.

Aelwyn is eighteen and the oldest, mangiest cat she's ever seen in her life has just vomited on her shoes.

"My," she says, casting a shield spell around her ankles to stop the cat from clawing at them. "You weren't kidding. He is a little bastard, isn't he?"

The shelter volunteer looks mortified. "Oh, gods! I am so sorry. I tried to warn you--I mean, not that I'm blaming you but--"

"No, it's alright. I did ask you to show me stragglers."

The shelter worker gestures to another pen on the other side of the room. "I can show you the kittens we just got in or there are some very well behaved older cats as well if you'd--"

But Aelwyn cuts her off, scooping up the old cat--though she holds him at arm's length for now, just to be safe. "No need. I haven't changed my mind. I'll take this one." She looks at the tag on his collar. "Hector."

Aelwyn is three and, as of a month ago, no longer the youngest Abernant.

She's had baby dolls in the past but never a baby sister and this is exciting new territory. She's full of questions. When is she going to be able to walk? When is she going to be able to talk? When will she be old enough to have lembas bread instead of formula?

Her parents seem less fascinated by the new addition to the family than she is but her mother is amused when she slaps away the hand of a colleague of her father's who tried to touch Adaine before sanitizing his hands, standing between the much larger man and her sister.

"So defensive. Perhaps she'll be an abjurer."

When Aelwyn asks what that is, her mother says that it's a kind of magical protector and she likes that a lot. That sounds like a good thing to be.

At night, Adaine cries. Except, she doesn't hear it because the mobile above her crib is etched with runes that cast the Silence spell.

"But what if she gets hurt?" Aelwyn asks.

Her father brushes her off. That's what the Unseen Servants are for. But she thinks that's what an abjurer might be for too and even though she isn't one yet, that doesn't mean she can't start practicing.

So, every night, Aelwyn waits until her parents have put Adaine down for bed and then tiptoes into her room. She checks to see if Adaine is silently wailing and if she is (and even sometimes if she isn't) she presses her face between the bars of the crib and sticks her little hand over Adaine's face.

"Don't cry," she says, even though the Silence spell mutes her words as completely as the tears. "Mum said I'm an abjurer. Nothing will get you. Don't cry, baby."

Adaine grabs her hand with impressive grip strength for something so small and, within a few minutes, she's trancing peacefully.

Aelwyn is seventeen and her sister is off to save the world again. This time from a Night Yorb--whatever that is.

It feels cruel that Adaine should have to go risk her life again so soon after she just almost died--not almost died, she did die before being raised by her cleric.

She wants to come with, to help in some way. Surely she could be helpful--last quest they brought Gilear for Helio's sake!

But Adaine doesn't ask her and she can't bring herself to say the words she needs to have the conversation she wants. So, instead, she lightly whaps Adaine on the shoulder with her spellbook as she's packing for the quest.

"I know you haven't done much studying lately what with your grades being based on how many hobgoblins you kill or whatever ridiculous system Aguefort has cooked up," Adaine rolls her eyes at that, "But if you don't mind a little cram session before you leave tomorrow, I can show you how to cast Teleport like I said. Might help you stay a touch less dead on your quest."

Her tone is light but her eyes betray her: Please, please, please don't die again.

Adaine's expression softens but then she scoffs, playing her half of their game. "I don't know what a Hudol dropout who's been in jail for the past year is gonna teach me but do your best."

Aelwyn is seven and her father is cross with her.

"Really Aelwyn," he says and even though they're talking via crystal she can feel the frost of his glare. "You thought it was appropriate to call me at work for no good reason? How many times have I told you and your sister to not bother me while I'm working."

She hates the word bother. She doesn't want to be a bother. She tries very hard not to be. Maybe she just didn't explain herself well enough.

"I know, father. But Addy got really scared and panicky on the playground. She was breathing really hard and--"

Her father makes a noise of disgust. "I don't have time for this. She is in primary school now. Stop coddling her. And her name is Adaine, not Addy. Please speak properly. I'm raising you better than that."

He hangs up before she can say anything else.

Aelwyn is eighteen and most of the claw marks on her arms have healed, which is nice. On her lap asleep is Hector who has apparently decided he likes her enough to use her as a radiator but not enough to submit to medical treatment without using her arms as a scratching post.

"You little heat vampire," she says as she slides her thumb across the screen of her crystal, searching for a video that will help her out. Eventually she finds one that looks promising and she calls it up.

On the screen, a halfling is standing next to a cat who is actively shredding her sweater with its claws. "You're going to be tempted to use some kind of a shield spell when applying the ointment," says the halfling. "But cats can smell abjuration magic and they don't love it. You won't get close enough to do the job. Isn't that right my darling?"

In response, her cat hacks up a hairball.

"Darling indeed," she says under her breath.

But even laced with sarcasm, the word is sweeter against her tongue than she anticipated.

She sinks her hand into Hector's fur and scratches his back for a few moments before tentatively speaking aloud. "Sleeping well, my darling?"

Hector says nothing--he's asleep and a cat. But warmth blooms in Aelwyn's chest--more than enough to make up for what Hector is leeching from her.

Aelwyn is seventeen and her father has just given her the most horrible command she's ever received in her life--and she's counting being made to sink a ship full of people in that calculation.

She knows her father doesn't expect her to delicately extricate the knowledge he needs from Adaine's mind. He expects her to get it at all costs. To ransack and pillage the memories if necessary with no heed of the consequences on her psyche. He'd probably prefer it that way--the more broken Adaine is, the easier it will be to mold her into a version of herself that is more useful to him.

Aelwyn is usually a smooth talker and a convincing liar but now, she stumbles all over her words, babbling out a stream of deflections and pleas as her heart squeezes tighter and tighter in her chest until she can't hold back the truth that she's been suppressing for years anymore.

"Adaine's just…she's a baby."

Aelwyn is eighteen and her apartment is full of cats.

She's always thought that the phrase, "One thing led to another" was a bit of a cop out--clearly there were key steps between point A and point B being glossed over--but in this case, there is truly no better way for her to articulate how she went from zero cats to ten cats in such a short amount of time.

She's sure that if she was still living with Jawbone, he'd have something to say about it but that's exactly why she isn't currently living with Jawbone.

She portions out food for all of the cats, saving Hector for last because he likes to eat curled up next to her.

"My darling baby boy," she says, lifting him onto the couch with her because the jump up is a bit much for him and his old bones. She kisses him on the top of the head and then pulls out her crystal. She scrolls mindlessly for a bit before checking her messages despite the fact that there's conspicuously no notifications.

Not that she has many people to expect texts from but she hasn't heard from Adaine in a few weeks and it's unsettling. When they weren't getting along, they were still living under the same roof. She was able to keep tabs on her, more or less. Now, they're closer than they've been in ages but barely talking.

I'm the older sister, I suppose, Aelwyn thinks. I should take the initiative.

She pets Hector with one hand and drafts a message with another: Are you alive, bitch?

She's about to press send but then she frowns and deletes the draft. After a few moments of thought, she taps out a new message: Can't believe I'm gonna say this. Miss my little sister. Everything all right?

Aelwyn is seventeen--though she doesn't feel like it.

Her mind is telling her that she's sixteen and that she was just been broken out of a jail cell in Solace but Adaine is telling her that she's just been broken out of an entirely different prison after being tortured for months even though she doesn't remember any of that.

But her body feels frail and Adaine says she's been in her mind which means she must have used the hard reset.

She's suddenly feeling very vulnerable--not because of the disorientation or the of the levels of exhaustion she can feel weighing on her like leaden chains. No, it's because of the fact that Adaine using the reset means that she must have read the treacle-y note that she left there for her to find.

It was just an insurance policy, she tells herself. There was wisdom to buttering up your savior to make sure she'd do what you needed her to do.

She manages to mostly believe it. But the small, truthful part of herself that knows how deeply she meant the words is so uncomfortable that she antagonizes Adaine until she's annoyed enough to hit her with a spell, sending her into blissful unconsciousness.

Aelwyn is nineteen and she's going to kill her mother.

Well, not alone of course. Adaine deserves the kill at least as much as she does if not more. It'll be a group effort.

It's a strange mix--the cold fury at her mother mixed with the warmth she feels for her sister, sitting across the table from her. She summons a flame to her palm, a preview of what their mother has waiting for her. She watches Adaine's eyes harden with resolve and she sees the face of her baby sister, left to wail alone silently for hours, soothed by her presence. "Let's get her."

"Yes, my dear," she says, the endearment coming freely as if this has always been their dynamic. "We'll get her."

But there will be time for that later. Right now, it's time for ice cream and seeing Adaine so content in such a simple pleasure causes the warmth in her to surge so suddenly that it would be startling if it wasn't so pleasant. The urge to voice it is so powerful that she doesn't know that would have been able to stop it at any point in life, let alone now.

"I hope we get to eat ice cream and cast magic forever," she says, words that would have been impossible for her to say one short year ago and impossible not to say now.

And, to her delight, Adaine agrees.

[macksartblock]

beware of burnout it's so real i'm afraid

also bc ended up making my writing into a font to avoid killing my hand as much and bc I saw Caden do this, I thought it would be fun to see who y'all think it suits lol

[audisive]

💭...

dbf!ghost who has to deal with your occasional visits to the base. it's for your daddy, you claim. why are you wearing such a cute little outfit, then? how dare you show off what's rightfully his to the greedy eyes of these dirty men! >:(

dbf!ghost who lets you strut to his office, pretending to be oblivious to your desperate attempts to seduce him, to rile him up, to take you right then and there. he makes no effort to stand up when his desk covers his growing hard-on.

dbf!ghost who lets it go on for months – even he's surprised he's lasted for so long – until he gets fed up.

dbf!ghost who catches you off guard. just when you think he's about to yell at you, he harshly grabs you and bends you over his lap. whispering dirty words and promises of punishment into your ear is the only indication you're given before his hand connects with the cheek of your ass.

oh, silly girl, of course he knew you wanted this! how could he not? he's taken care of you in your younger years, after all. consider this his reward for being such a good friend to your father. ♡

dbf!ghost who ends up letting you sit on his lap and make out with him. to have sex— no, to make love with him. you pant against him as you come down from your high; his praises are long gone when it all dawns on him. or maybe he already misses the feeling of your pussy.

you kiss him with the expectation of his acceptance of you, but you instead receive a gruff, "i'm too old for you, lovie."

"you deserve better."

"you should be with someone your own age."

oh, sweetheart, you overestimate him. how could you have forgotten? he's a complicated man.

dbf!ghost who tells you off, letting you cry your poor little heart out when you step out of his office, feeling like a whore he'd gotten sick of. it breaks his own to ignore your weeping.

it breaks his heart even more to see your heart get caught by a better man. :(

this cute divider is made by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more ! ♡

[seventeendeer]

this isn't at all meant to be condescending or finger-waggy because 100% we all have blind spots like this, but I'm really, really hoping that the people who never found Gaiman's approach to his own fandom concerning in any way will take this all as a learning moment.

he was an older, hyper-famous author engaging directly and frequently with an online audience of largely vulnerable young marginalized people. he presented himself as cultured and worldly, and made himself approachable as someone to go to for advice, encouragement and "wisdom." his manner of speech was extremely pathos-heavy and clearly intended to be comforting and encouraging in exactly the way his target demographic needed it to be to swallow every word. the way he spoke about stories and creativity was designed to make young creative hopefuls feel special and important, while sweeping real analytical techniques under the rug - in hindsight, likely so no one would think too critically about the disturbing amount of patriarchal abuse played for cheap shock value and voyerism in his own body of works.

Gaiman saw a target demographic that was desperate for an older creative role model to tell them they were worth something, and he exploited that pain to twist a narrative around himself where he was king and any critique leveled at him or his works were the enemy.

to be clear, he could have been innocent. he could totally have been just an out-of-touch old man saying nice things to people because he wanted to be kind and he thought he was a lot smarter than he really was. red flags are warning signs, not a surefire way to tell if someone is actually "secretly shitty."

but if you used to look up to him, PLEASE take this moment to revisit the ideas you absorbed from him. did you take his words to heart because they seemed to have objective merit? or did you take them to heart because it felt good to believe what he said? do you still hold these values? does knowing he was intentionally manipulating his online audience make you less certain? do you need more information from a different source before deciding one way or another?

again, I'm just really, really hoping people on here will take a moment to reevaluate the ideas and opinions he's injected into tumblr fandom culture, because his reach is immense and he has absolutely been manipulating popular perception of relevant topics to gain further influence and control the narrative around both his own and Pratchett's legacy. please, please take this moment to notice what he's been doing - and next time someone tries to pull the same shit, hopefully we'll be able to apply what we've learned from experience.

[akiacia]

post-credit domestics (⚠️ mildly saucy doodles below the cut)

[dr3amfyr-e]

moon, river - c.s. ( w. 1049 )

꒰ cregan will always defends your daughter’s claim ꒱ — cregan stark x reader

୨ ⎯ period typical misogyny. implied trouble concieving children. reader is written to be very influenced by her environment, and therefor uncertain of herself and her self worth. girl dad cregan. cregan's kind of a medieval feminist. i named your daughter for you, sorry. this is very cregan pov, not many of reader's thoughts. umm maybe not canon cregan but it’s my cregan. uhh dialogue heavy. tbh i don't even know what i was writing here. fem!reader. ⎯ ୧

i advocate for creganwives who don’t want to have ten children.

Cregan wasn’t nearly as physically imposing underneath all of his armour. 

You had observed as much before — watching keenly as he unclasped his cape and slid out of the thick leather armour. It was a sight to behold, the muscles in his shoulders and arms as he fought to disrobe. 

He was much different here, in your shared chambers. Lord Stark shed with his dayware, Cregan stood in his wake. 

You had been married for years, and still, your heart fluttered like an infatuated girl when he loomed over the bed, hair damp from the bath. 

Married for years, with two children, and yet — sprawled across the bed in naught but a thin nightgown, you ogle him as he makes his way to bed. 

He's hard to wrangle; he walks the keep and checks on your daughters, among other mindless tasks, before finally getting into bed every night. It gives him ‘time to think’, and makes you senselessly anticipatory. 

Most nights are the same. He curls into you, head on your chest, to decompress. It's sweet, to see such an intimate side of him.

Tonight, in lieu of the typical mindless drivel that lulled you both to sleep, you had been quiet. Cregan could feel the tension of whatever weighed on your mind, but he had not wished to pry.

You rub aimless little circles against his back before finally speaking, “Are you content with this?”

Cregan looks up, lifting his head from your breastbone. He doesn’t speak for a moment, reading your expression, “Content?” When you don’t reply he continues, “Of course I am content. What has prompted you to ask such?”

He can see the solemn, contemplative expression written across your face; the way you gaze down, as if through him, “It is just…” You hesitate, he keeps firm in his stare, “We have been married years, and I have not given you many children. And, no boys.” 

He doesn't reply, unsure how or what to say. True, it is, that in the years you have been married there have only been two children — both daughters. 

“Do you think,” He begins, sitting up more, “That I am discontent because you have not given me a son?” 

Silence hangs heavy in the room. You look guilty; he cannot tell what it is you feel guilty for, but he wishes you did not feel guilty at all. 

Cregan says your name once, his voice low and soft. When you meet his eyes he can sense the resignation — you wish you had not brought this up.

“I just worry, that is all,” You reply, quietly.

His expression stays set. There is solace in knowing him well enough to read his microexpressions; he isn’t brooding, he is concerned. 

He speaks, “What is it that you worry about – my discontentment?”

“Perhaps I have not performed by duty,” You shrug, as if to pass the comment off as nonchalant. Maybe it is; ladies raised to believe their self-worth lies in their good stock and ability to breed and please can talk about such matters with a level of insouciance. 

Frustration blooms in the space between his lungs. He understands the way polite society worms into young women’s brains, and how hard it is to remove that sickness once it's taken root. Still — you surely must know that your worth does not lie within your womb, he thinks.

“Your duty?” He asks, tone firmer now, “And what duty is that? To be bred like a milking cow?” 

The abruptness and near vulgarity of his words are enough to leave you taken aback, blinking at him. Cregan was certainly not one for eloquent metaphors. 

When you seem not to have a response, he begins to feel bad. This isn’t your fault. You were raised to think like this.

“I have not given you an heir,” You’re quiet, almost embarrassed. 

“You have,” He counters. 

“You have no son,” 

“I have Lyanna,” 

A log in the fireplace shifts and crackles as you sit in silence; a scullery maid shuffles by in the hallway. 

He watches you gather your composure before you speak, “And you do not mind?” You sound unsure, he hates it. 

Cregan reaches, sliding his fingers under your jaw to make you look at him fully, “Tell me — if we should have a son, would you be content to strip Lyanna of her birthright?” 

The question feels harsh. He watches guarded confusion swirl into your eyes.

Of course, you would not wish for your daughter to have her title taken from her. But so many others, men in Cregan’s council, mocked the idea. They rued Lyanna’s power, the status she already held above them as a girl of all but five. So it would be no shock if someone insisted she be stripped of her title as heir to Winterfell, and it was frightening. Frightening to imagine someone stealing your daughter’s future and freedom. 

“If it is what you wished,” You answer, resignation thinly veiled. 

“I asked you a question,” He’s firm but gentle. 

You gape for a moment, before answering, “No, never. I could not imagine doing that to her.” 

“And do you think I would?” 

“No,” 

He nods, sliding his hand up to cradle your face. You look ashamed, he tries to soothe it away with his thumb over your cheekbone. 

“Do you think you’ve disappointed me, pet?” He doesn’t wish to subject you to the humiliation of answering such a vulnerable question, so he continues, “You need not worry so much. I do not need a boy; I am more than pleased with things just how they are,” He strokes his thumb slowly, “Do not agonize over something so trivial.” 

He catches the tear that rolls down your cheek.

When you speak your voice is quiet, “You are so good,” And then, “Many lords do not care much for their daughters.”

The thought makes his chest burn; to not care for his daughters? Unthinkable, “Do not praise me for loving my children. Those girls are my world, as are you.” He feels lighter when he sees the edge of your mouth tick up, so he speaks again, “I care not that I have daughters in place of sons — I have, and for that I am lucky.”

He has and he is lucky.

[necrotic-nephilim]

au - tim sneaking out of jason's room one night at the manor and accidentally locking eyes with dick who is sneaking out of bruce's room at the exact same time, breakfast is very awkward the next morning

(i did think of having it be jason instead of tim but honestly jason has 0 shame and even less issue outing himself if it means fucking with bruce and, to a lesser extent, dick)

i'm cackling I love these types of things so much. they're so silly. sometimes we deserve mindless crack for these ships. have a *very* low effort ficlet bc this just makes me snort, enjoy <3

Dick closed Bruce's door as quietly as he could. Usually, he didn't have to sneak around when he slept with Bruce. But the temporary room Bruce had given Jason in the manor was just down the hall, and Dick didn't feel like looking Jason in the eye if he walked out of Bruce's bedroom in the morning at the wrong time.

Just because he was pretty sure Jason knew, didn't mean he needed confirmation and confrontation.

Dick had almost caved to staying in bed with Bruce when Bruce tried to pull him back down, but he kept some level of wits about him, prying Bruce's arm off of him and giving him a final kiss on the cheek before heading for the door.

The one thing Dick did allow himself, though, was wearing one of Bruce's shirts instead of his own. It was a size too large on him but smelled safe and comforting. Dick breathed a quiet sigh of relief when the door latched silently. He let go of the handle, turning around to creep off to his own bedroom in another wing.

And found himself staring at another figure.

With all of the lights off and only faint moonlight streaming through the windows, Dick couldn't tell who it was, at first. His reaction was embarrassing no matter who it was, jumping nearly a foot backward and clutching a hand over his chest.

He was a goddamn vigilante. This was just embarrassing.

The other person wasn't nearly as shocked as Dick, but they stood perfectly still, staring with wide eyes that faintly reflected what little light illuminated their face. Dick squinted, leaning forward to see who it was.

"Tim?" Dick hissed, trying to keep his voice to a whisper. Bruce had fallen asleep and if Dick woke him up now, he was never going to get the stubborn bastard back to bed.

Tim, still looking like a deer in headlights, just blinked at Dick.

"What are you doing up this late?" Dick asked. They'd all agreed to take tonight's patrol off, letting Babs, Helena, Dinah, and Zinda handle it in exchange for tackling the massive human trafficking ring in the morning with fresh eyes and cleared heads. The job was the only thing that had gotten Jason to agree to work with them in the first place. Bruce barely managed to strong-arm Jason into sleeping in the manor, with a decent amount of guilting from Alfred.

Jason, who was in the room only a few feet away from Dick. The room that Tim's hand was resting on the doorknob of.

"That's Jason's room," Dick said slowly.

Tim just nodded. "I know." He wasn't whispering like Dick was, but his tone remained impossible to read.

He just saw Dick walk out of Bruce's room. Had he put it together? It was Tim, after all. if he hadn't yet, Dick assumed he only had a couple minutes before it dawned on Tim.

"What were you doing in Jason's room?" Dick frowned. If he focused on Tim, it could keep the focus off of him for as long as possible. Dick tried to ignore how fast his heart was beating.

Tim's expression was hard to make out in the dark. "We were talking about the case." Still, his tone remained entirely neutral.

Too neutral, for Tim.

"At two am?"

"Well, what were you doing?" Tim huffed slightly when he said it, folding his arms over his chest.

He was shirtless, Dick just realized.

Shirtless and coming out of Jason's room.

"I was-" Dick stumbled over his words, choking as he tried to come up with an alibi. "We were talking about the-"

"I already used that excuse, pick your own," Tim deadpanned. Dick was pretty sure he also rolled his eyes. "I've known about you and Bruce for years, you know. You don't have to pretend."

The noise that came out of Dick's throat was almost as mortifying as the realization that not only did Jason likely know, but so did Tim.

"It... okay it has not been years," Dick's face was hot and he was glad it was too dark for Tim to see his blush. "I mean- it's been a while but not years-"

"Whatever you say." Tim shrugged, sounding unconvinced. "There have been feelings between you two for years, close enough for me."

If Dick died, right here, in this hallway in front of Bruce's door, he hoped the cause of death would be put down as homicide instead of natural causes. Because every word from Tim's mouth made another piece of Dick die inside, just a little.

"It's none of your business either way." Dick tried to stand up straight to sound more in control of the situation, clearing his throat.

"Trust me, I don't want it to be my business."

Dick would've laughed, if this was happening to anyone but him.

"What about... you and Jason?" Dick asked carefully.

Tim shifted on his feet. "What about it? I told you, we were talking about the case."

"Right." It was Dick's turn to roll his eyes. "In his bedroom, at two am, without your shirt?"

Tim stared at Dick for a long, torturous moment. A moment that made Dick agree with Tim, about not wanting to know any sordid details.

"I'm going to bed," Tim said suddenly, turning away from Dick. "Goodnight."

Dick had a thousand more questions he wanted to ask. How Tim and Jason even got together, when it happened. Last Dick knew, they could barely stand to be in the same room.

But Tim was walking away at an alarmingly brisk pace and Dick just sighed. He was too tired and mortified about his own secrets to chase Tim down for an impromptu interrogation that would just end up embarrassing them both more.

Maybe it was best for Dick's sanity if he didn't know the specifics.

Dick didn't consider how awkward it would be until he was standing in the kitchen, staring at Jason bent over a cup of coffee.

Did Jason know Dick knew? It didn't seem like he did, but he had always had a good poker face.

When Tim ambled into the kitchen and grabbed overnight oats from the fridge, he didn't even look at Dick. He seemed to be pointedly avoiding it, sitting as far away from Dick as he could at the oversized dining room table.

All while Dick couldn't seem to stop staring.

"Your cereal is going to get soggy," Jason muttered, and it took Dick a moment to realize Jason was talking to him. "At least eat it before trying to explode my head with your mind, or whatever your staring problem is."

"I'm not-" Dick stuttered. he shut himself up with a mouthful of cereal when Cass gave him an odd look.

Would she be able to figure it out just from his body language?

Dick had never fully understood the lengths her ability to read people could go. he looked away from her and stared at a random spot on the table, trying to eat at a normal pace.

Bruce was the last to wander into the kitchen. He squeezed Dick's shoulder as he walked by, making Dick jump. It was an innocent enough touch that no one would question, but all Dick could think about was the brief look from Tim before he quickly averted his eyes again.

The silence around the table was going to eat Dick alive. He started eating cereal faster.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Jason broke the tension, throwing his head back and slamming an empty mug down onto the table. "Everyone knows you two are fucking, alright?" He gestured between Dick and Bruce. "Stop being so goddamn weird about it, you're acting like there's a bomb in the room."

Bruce choked on his coffee. "Jason." He tried to sound reprimanding, but his voice was a few octaves too high.

Dick threw his hands in the air. "I knew you knew about that, but I didn't know about you and Tim until last night so excuse me for feeling a little awkward."

"You didn't know about what?" Bruce nearly yelled, spinning around to face Jason.

"Damnit, Dick!" Tim groaned, putting his head in his hands.

Jason just scoffed, pointing a fork at Bruce. "Oh don't even give me that self-righteous bullshit-"

Their argument went back and forth while Tim just rubbed his temples, muttering to himself and glaring at Dick.

Worst of all, Dick was pretty sure Cass was giggling next to him under her covered mouth.

Dick just sighed and ducked his head, dutifully waiting for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

So much for his breakfast.

[miraclemaya]

SAYO: “Yes, as you can see, a player that is being pocketed, that is one that a medic player is focusing their attention on, typically has a higher chance of survival in any engagement. As such, a pocket medic is rather desirable for most people playing classes such as Demoman, Solider, or Heavy. Even other classes like Scout, Engineer, and Pyro can greatly benefit from a pocket, though typically the heavy and solider are the most common to receive one.” Sayo coughs into her hand, seemingly embarrassed for no reason.

THE CHASE - Ask her what’s wrong. Be attentive to her needs, and she’ll never want to leave you. She’ll never even consider it a possibility.

THE LADY - I concur, though that scoundrel’s reasoning is as always off-putting. Rather, the correct decision is to inquire into Lady Hikawa’s sudden shyness, as that is what a proper lady would do.

CHISATO - “What’s wrong, Sayo-chan? I don’t see what could be embarrassing about, uh, ‘pocketing’? Am I saying that right?”

THE DIRECTOR - Your pronunciation was impeccable. To pretend that you were worried you might have gotten it wrong is unbelievable. A failing grade. You are assigned an hour of rehearsal tonight.

THE DOLL - No, no if she thinks you’re better then her, she’ll hate you, you have to be small please, please be small, you can’t let her hate you.

THE CHASE - Kiss her, kiss her now, don’t let her ruminate on your mistake, give her pleasure so she forgets, don’t let her get away.

SAYO - “You said it correctly, Shirasagi-san.”

THE DOLL - Tell her to call you by your first name. She’s your friend isn’t she, she has to be, she said so before, so tell her to call you by your first name.

THE LADY - She isn’t simply your friend, as disgusting as it is. No, Lady Hikawa is the target of your affections, and as such, distance is to be maintained. You are not yet, wed, after all.

SAYO - “But, ahem, my… embarrassment comes from what I wish to ask you, Shirasagi-san. Would you be… open to playing this game with me? And taking the role of my pocket medic?”

THE DOLL - SHE WANTS TO PLAY WITH US? SHE WANTS TO PLAY? YES!

THE WALL - Tell her no. To get too close to another is to relinquish the right to your own existence. Has Sayo truly proven herself? Will she not use you like all the others? Why continue this charade, this saccharine attempt at some sort of relationship with another human being. End it now.

THE CHASE - This is your opportunity. Someone like Sayo inviting you to play games with her is tantamount to accepting you as her girlfriend. This is what you want most, isn’t it?

THE LOVER - I think it would make Sayo-chan happy if you say yes. I think that’s a good enough reason as any.

CHISATO - “I… I would like to give it a chance. I’m not sure that I will be any good at it, though. I have only played a few….”

SAYO - “First-person shooters?”

CHISATO - “Yes, those.”

SAYO - “This is embarrassing to admit, but I have an ulterior motive in this. I wish to spend more time with you, Shirasagi-san. So even if you are not fantastic at the game, you will still be helping me out… i-if that makes sense.”

THE LOVER - Sayo is such a thoughtful, kind person. She deserves the world, don’t you think?

THE CHASE - She’s in your trap now. Take her, she’s yours.

THE LADY - An offer such as this should be considered fully before it is accepted. This is the least you own Lady Hikawa.

CHISATO - “I… Sayo-chan, you’re awfully sweet, aren’t you?”

SAYO - Sayo blushes, looking away from you. She is smiling.

THE WALL - Is this some bizarre attempt at suicide. Do you want to let her hurt you, you fucking moron?

THE LOVER - She’s… she’s beautiful.

CHISATO - “I would love to. I’ll be in your care while we play Team Fortress 2 together, Sayo-chan.”

SAYO - Sayo still too embarrassed to look you in the eye, nods slightly. You catch her muttering something under her breath.

THE CHASE - What the fuck is a pocket gf?

[kitocrystal]

I'm tired.

[raiiny-bay]

the kids released a new album

[thedistortionshallways]

Okay fiddleauthor fiddlestan or whatever fiddleford ship you like in the 80s era gravity falls is cute and fun and all but I feel like not enough people comment on how difficult it would be to be a gay man in the 80s⁉️ yk the aids epidemic ⁉️⁉️⁉️ homophobia without it would be bad in a rural area with probs even less progressive views than a big city but it would be through the ROOFFFFF at that time, I'm a big fiddleauthor fan but I feel like many people don't bother to come up with a reason on why he'd fully cheat on his wife when an explanation is right there: they're in a beard marriage because he knows he can't be openly gay and she's tired of being with a man who she knows doesn't love her and while she may or may not have married him knowing he wasn't straight she deffo expected him to spend more time with their son and her instead of running off for months with his boyfriend 😭 or you can go with the worse option of she has no clue and fiddleford is just a deadbeat who cheats 💔💔💔💔 my man you need to get a act together no wonder your son won't talk to you

[defiledtomb]

we're so fucking back baby

[ecle-c-tic]

Middle Earth Asks

🥔 po-tay-toes: one of the hobbits invited you for a meal; who are dining with? Which of the seven meals are you enjoying?

🍞 lembas bread: what's the best road trip snack?

🌾farmer maggot's field: what is your favourite plant? Do you enjoying gardening?

🌼 simbelmynë: You've got the opportunity to bring one character back to life, who is it?

🍃 leaves of lórien: what gift would you most like to receive?

📽 action!: rank all six of the films (or three if you're a hater)

🚲 bicycle basket: what is your favourite middle earth meme?

🌟starlight: you're allowed to live in one of the Elf Kingdoms of Middle Earth, which one are you picking?

💀 Hey, did you know-: What is your favourite piece of behind the scenes trivia?

🌙 moon runes: which of Tolkien's languages would you most like to speak?

🧂 best salt in all the shire: which small joys do you most look forward to? (particular tea, using a perfume, rereading a book, etc.)

✂ cutting room floor: of all of the things that didn't quite make it into the movies, what would you have most liked to see?

☕ may I tempt you with a cup of chamomile?: What is your favourite hot beverage?

🐎 bill the pony: who is the best mount in all of middle earth?

🌳 fangorn forest: Which of Tolkien's creechurs is your favourite?

🔮 palantír: you've found a palantir! Who are you hitting up in middle earth? What are you telling them?

⏳ time and age: which poorly aged scene from LOTR is your favourite?

✨ evenstar: Who is your favourite middle earth couple?

🎆 fireworks: you're invited to Bilbo's 111th, what present do you think you'd receive?

🕷 creepy crawlies: which of tolkien's creatures do you think is the most frightening?

💍 my precious: what role do you think you'd play in the fate of the ring?

📜the company of Throin II Oakenshield: who is your favourite dwarf from the company?

🕶 i care not: what common complaint about the movies or novels doesn't bother you?

📢 motivational speech: which film speech do you find most invigorating?

🔥 barbecue: who is the worst antagonist?

🍿 popcorn: list your top 5 supporting characters

🎇 firefly: which (known) deleted scene would you most like to see?

⛏ expedition to Moria: which side character's adventures would you watch a spin-off movie about?

🎞 extra film: is there an extended scene that should have absolutely made it into the theatrical cut? which one and why?

🎵 can you sing, master hobbit?: Which song (from books or movies) is your favourite?

🖋 quill and ink: which of tolkien's themes resonates most strongly with you?

🗝 lost heirloom: which heirloom/object in the films or novels would you like to learn more about?

💿 leitmotifs and orchestras: which of the films songs (Howard Shore or singer) is your favourite?

🍲eowyn's home cooking: which other way could the ring be destroyed? (funny answers only)

🧙‍♂️precisely when he means to: what is your favourite gandalf moment?

⚔ you have my sword: what is your favourite aragorn moment?

🏹 and my bow: what is your favourite legolas moment?

🪓and my axe: what is your favourite gimli moment?

🍄 MUSHROOMS!: what is your favourite moment from the hobbits?

💎 the arkenstone: favourite Thorin and/or company moment?

🧵 spool: list your top five favourite costumes from any of the films.

📕 the red book of westmarch : what is your favourite quote(s)?

💛 family: what is your favourite family moment throughout the novels/films?

👀 the eye of sauron: who are you looking at disrespectfully?

🗺 arda: if you could travel anywhere in middle earth, where would you go?

👑the silver crown: the war is won, the world is saved, the king has been crowned. Who are you partying with at the coronation?

✏ rewrites: here's a pencil, which ONE thing in the novels/films are you changing?

🐺 GROND GROND GROND: which of the battles is your favourite to watch? is there a combat scene in particular that you enjoy?

⚠ fucking buckleberry ferry: from the clip of Dom and Billy discussing the one swear word they could theoretically get by censors, which line would you change?

📚 boxset: how were you first introduced to Middle Earth?

🏔 the misty mountains: the pass is treacherous, which two characters are you taking with you to make it over the mountains?

🌄 the rolling hills of the shire: what is your favourite outdoor activity?

🌋 mount doom: what middle earth take are you throwing into the fire?

⚙ technology: everything is exactly the same but you can give one character a modern invention. Who is it and what are you giving them?

⛵valinor: we're approaching the end of this game, is there a take/opinion you absolutely want to share?

🦅 the eagles: What thing or thought saves the day when it's not going so well?

🦗 weta: you're allowed to take one prop (or the canon useful version) home with you from the set, what are you taking?

☀ when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer: either share a piece of good news or something you're looking forward to.

📖 final chapter: what unanswered questions do you have middle earth?

[bemusedlybespectacled]

I volunteer with an organization of very high needs disabled people and I have to say, they delight in using AI to put stories together. It even inspires them to make their own edits and additions, though many struggle with typing or verbal skills. I don't want to tell anyone how to feel but it seems like weird ideological purity policing to exclude them from a social event where they might connect to people and find community.

So my first question is: why AI specifically? Why not literally any other method of writing? If they're capable of doing edits/additions, then why can't they first write the story out using speech-to-text, or an AAC device, or dictate it to someone else, and then edit/add to it later?

Coming up with ideas/a plot is creative and requires skill, but it's a different kind of creativity and skill than actually writing it down/connecting those dots. Like, James Patterson doesn't write most of his books; he writes out long outlines for a ghostwriter to work off of, then makes notes or changes to the draft before sending it back to the ghostwriter. It would be unfair to say that he doesn't have any skills at all, but it would also be unfair to say that he wrote all of his books himself when they were actually mostly written by someone else. A lot of the time, movies will have separate credits for the person who came up with the idea and the person who actually wrote the screenplay, because they are separate things requiring different skills.

NaNoWriMo, as a concept, is about practicing the latter skill. You're presumed to have already learned how to come up with ideas – otherwise, what would you work on for a month? The actual work of crafting enough sentences that your story becomes a full text and not an outline is really fucking hard, and that's why so many writers get stalled at the ideas stage and never actually write anything. If you don't have those skills to start, that's okay, because most people don't! The whole point is to practice them over the month! And even if you never hit 50k (I haven't!), you can at least say that you practiced that skill. Even if you only wrote ten words a day because that's literally the most you can do, writing ten words every day for thirty days is still a huge accomplishment!

To use the marathon metaphor from the originating post: both driving a car and running a marathon are skills, but they are not the same skill. If you can't run a marathon – if you are just trying to get to the point where you can walk briskly for five miles without tasting blood when you breathe – reaching that goal is still an accomplishment, even if you're not full on running a marathon. If you are just starting to learn how to drive without having a panic attack, being able to do that is also an accomplishment, even if it's not the same thing as winning the Indy500. Modest goals are still goals and achieving them is a thing to be celebrated.

But I don't think it's ideological purity to say that there's a difference between achieving a very modest goal because the "full thing" is just not feasible for whatever reason, and achieving a totally different goal entirely. "I finally drove to the store and back all by myself!" is genuinely great, but not something you'd necessarily work on in your running group.

[batsplat]

pecco rant please please

*spins wheel on possible topics* absurdly underrated but in a dumb way. you'd think you can stumble your way into two premier class titles. I don't care he's on the best bike - let's be honest, how often this century have the title winners not been on the best bike? 2004 and to a lesser extent 2005 you can say clearly weaker bike, 2007 late 2010s 2021 there's a clear enough disparity with anyone else riding the bike that you can say clearly the rider is making the difference/it's an unrideable wreck one guy is making respectable, then there's a few seasons where it's at least very close whose machinery is best or they're fighting with people on equal equipment, which pecco has done! but generally speaking, good/promising riders end up on good bikes and then they win. that's how the game works!

the thing about 2022 is that it had such a massive mid-season swing that overhauling a ninety something point margin cannot come down to any single factor. is it fair to say fabio lost that title? on balance, it's a bit harsh - yes, there were a few too many errors post-sachsenring, yes, some were driven by desperation, but also you can't really expect anyone to ride a flawless season. but pecco did win that title as much as yamaha lost it. I don't care if you're riding a literal rocketship with two wheels, you can't win four races in a row if you're not extremely good at what you do! if we're saying that title was worth less because the yamaha turned to shit in the second half of the season, then let's keep going. let's put an asterisk next to 2013 because jorge and dani both got injured (let's not even get into the 'if marc hadn't been injured' asterisks because that's where you get into truly silly territory). is 2006 not a legit title because of all the bad luck valentino faced that year? let's say all titles between 2007 to 2015 were worth less because at any one time only 4-6 bikes had a realistic chance of winning races. throw out any title before 2009 because they were constantly fucking about with the tyres and there wasn't a level playing field. if you're motivated enough, you can play this game with basically anything, but it's dumb and pointless because that's not how sports works! you can only win against whoever you're facing. it has always been thus and it will always be thus

it's narratively fun and juicy that pecco has these insecurities himself - but within the context of everyone else doing discourse over it, the whole thing is massively overblown! linked to some of the worst sports discourse about how much people love to disparage late bloomers, because they need every single successful athlete to fit the same mould of the ultra-talented wunderkind, apparently. it's more interesting when it's not always the most 'talented' (whatever tf that means), naturally gifted, *fast the second he touches a bike* bloke who wins. sometimes they have to work hard for it, sometimes they have to improve themselves year on year and be smart about how they do it, sometimes they have to be in the right place and right time, sometimes they have to be very lucky. sports is all about competition, and competition is all about contrast. it's a contrast that can be generated in a whole lot of ways, and in fairness to motogp they have come up with a bunch of interesting narratively tense contests that don't rely on a massive fundamental 'talent' differential - but at the end of the day, that's one of the best ones you can have! the more ways you can have to win in any given sport, the better, both in the literal sense of how you go about the actual process of winning and how you even become a winner. none of this means that pecco isn't very very good, it means he got there in a different way than every other multiple champ this century has. it fundamentally flattens the sport if you want every top-level competitor to be an alien-level talent... one of the best things about this current era is that it has given us something new and exciting in that regard, where you well and truly believe some very different blokes might have what it takes to eventually be champion

anyway, pecco is absurdly adept at digging himself into holes and absurdly adept at digging himself out of them. he's one of the worst frontrunners imaginable in every sense, biologically incapable of dominating without at least a perpetual hint of jeopardy, both in the context of a race and a season. but when his back is against the wall, somehow he keeps finding performances you never imagined he was capable of. his mixed up and slightly odd skillset, his strengths and weaknesses, how he's better and worse than he has any right to be... all of it lends itself to perpetual momentum shifts and thrilling seasons - because you never quite know what you're going to get. love him or hate him, he's a gift to the overall competitive landscape! god knows the racing hasn't been much to write home about these last few years (though, yes, we did have a good little run this season), but somehow he's managed to get himself involved in two out of the six title deciders this century back-to-back. is that not the dream for the viewer, to have a bloke at the top of the sport with a little self-combust chip in his head every time he builds too much of an advantage? build a hundred of those guys! throw a marc marquez at him and see what he does! I can't wait to see what he'll come up with next