#it’s so creative! just like all your designs

[goldandrosered]

sooo i didnt really think of anyyyyy.. (i hate logo design, and thats basically what cutie marks are LMAO) (also im lazy lol)

BUT

i do have some rough ideas!

i feel like my jimmy would be a blank flank since hes a changeling, and so therefore doesnt have a cutie mark since the magic is pony-specific (as far as i remember). i also like the idea that changelings can be perfect mimics of others, except for the fact that they cant copy cutie marks properly / at all, so its an identifying feature of a mimicked pony is if they have a distorted/missing cutie mark - kinda like how people in folklore were warned to count the number of fingers a person had if they suspected they were fae? a perfect replica, apart from one detail that is slightly off..

also, i feel like hes not creative enough to come up with a fake cutie mark for himself, so he just keeps his flank covered and hopes people dont notice

for curly, ive seen a couple of people give him spaceship/rocket-themed cutiemarks, but i personally disagree, because i feel like it would be more interesting for him to have a more non-specific cutie mark since hes not sure about his place as a captain/pilot, but hes still unsure about what to try instead? maybe he would have a weightlifting/winter sport -themed mark since he’s genuinely passionate about those, maybe mixed in with a heart motif to represent his caring nature?

i feel like anya could go either way: shes very passionate about becoming a doctor, but “isnt good enough” to be one according to most people (including medical school). so she could actually have a medical-themed cutie mark due to her determination in trying medical school and her competence and passion (natural talent) in medicine despite failing med school due to struggling in some areas, or she could have a cutie mark completely unrelated to being a doctor, explaining why she struggles in that field so much

if youre lucky, i may sketch out some concepts of their cutie marks, but im not making any promises haha

heres a link to more of my ramblings explaining more choices i included in the designs! (mostly name symbolism)

I LOVE MOUTHWASHING

*throws mlp tulpar crew at you*

closeups:

[scudevils]

it’s beginning to look a lot like christmas — QH43

pairing: quinn hughes x fem!reader

warnings: fluff, bit of a rushed ending sorry, not proofread!!

inspired by: “it’s beginning to look a lot like christmas” by bing crosby [1.2k]

a/n: a quick one for boyfriend quinn appreciation

it was a rare quiet day in the middle of the season, quinn who was usually surrounded by the hustle and bustle of hockey life, found himself sitting beside you in the warm glow of holiday lights, the smells of cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger filled the air, mixing with the sound of soft christmas music playing in the background.

you'd been to the store earlier in the week, a gingerbread house kit lay spread out on the kitchen table to welcome him home from the road game in carolina, your niece's expectant eyes looking up at the pair of you as the pieces game in their own neatly placed bags, you and quinn shared a look of hesitation.

"this is way more complicated than it looks," was the first thing he said, peering at the instruction booklet with a playful grimace, eyeing up your niece's miniature house which was going a lot better than yours. his hair, slightly messier than usual, hinted at the fact that he had been running his hands through it in frustration, dark strands falling in front of his face. you laughed softly, enjoying the moment of calm in an otherwise busy season, and even off the ice he was just as competitive. (even if it was against a 9 year old)

"i thought you were good at building things," you teased, taking a sip from one of the hot chocolate you'd made for the three of you, choosing to take a step back from the building business as it was getting a big heated. "you're an athlete, you know... strategy, precision, focus?" you gave him a wink.

quinn grinned, his eyes lighting up in that characteristic way that always made you smile. "i play hockey, not architect. but i'm willing to try. you're the one with all the crafting experience, right?"

you raised an eyebrow at his suggestion, the most building you'd ever done in your life was a science fair project when you were 11, and even then your dad had built the majority of it. "crafting experience? skylar's got more crafting experience with me, she still does homework."

"alright, alright, I'll admit it," he said, grinning, the little girl beside them too busy already decorating her gingerbread house to care about what you had been saying. "maybe I need your help after all."

he reached for the frosting bag with a dramatic sigh, and you couldn't help but laugh as skylar's first order of business was to take the icing out of his hands. "read the instructions first," she said, flipping the booklet open and starting to explain the steps.

quinn looked at the pieces in front of him, tempted to give up and just eat the gingerbread, but that wasn't his nature, squinting like he was trying to figure out the lines on a hockey rink for the first time again. "wait, do you put the roof on first, or the walls?"

"okay, we need to build the base first. that's the most important part," you said, guiding him through it, looking to skylar for approval and she nodded, adding sweets onto her own now. "if the walls don't stay up, it's game over."

with a bit of teamwork, and an insane amount of luck that neither of you bumped into the table, you two managed to assemble the walls, and quinn was about to put the roof on before an idea struck him.

"so, are we going for traditional?" he asked, his tone suggesting he had something else in mind as he eyed the candy decorations, almost as if he was a real interior designer planning the layout for their house. "or... are we going for something a little more creative? like... a hockey rink gingerbread house?"

you raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, of course he would say that, you loved the man but sometimes you swore hockey was the only thing on his mind. "hockey rink? you've got to be kidding. i’m surprised you aren’t dying to get away from your job."

but quinn was already pointing out ideas, his mind running with possibilities, the coloured icing they could use to represent the teams, the different positions they should put in. "what if we add little gingerbread players with tiny sticks? and like, a frosting rink with icing lines?" he was grinning now, clearly enjoying the process way more than he'd let on, enjoying the design park much more than he had the building part.

"you're impossible," you spoke through a laugh, his enthusiasm something you loved about him and couldn't help but let you get in the spirit too.

together, you piped out a frosting rink on the base of the house decorated little gingerbread men with icing and tiny candies, making them into the most chaotic-looking hockey players you'd ever seen, some with more lopsided faces than the others. quinn insisted on adding mini pucks made of chocolate chips.

skylar had also finished her house, adding the final touches the one you and quinn had made too, her a candyland inspired design with sweets lining the road and covering the house.

as the arena started to take shape, you felt a warmth that wasn't just from the hot chocolate on the counter. it was from the way his eyes lit up with every silly detail he added, down to the numbers on the jerseys that his teammates wore.

by the time you were both done, the gingerbread house hockey arena—although a little uneven and very unconventional—was something to be proud of. it was uniquely yours, and in that moment, it was perfect. beside it sat the little actual gingerbread house your niece has made, edible glitter covering the icing and pieces of sweets missing from where she'd eaten them.

quinn stepped back, inspecting your creation with an exaggerated squint. "i think we nailed it," he said, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.

you leaned back in your chair, your head falling to rest his shoulder, admiring the gingerbread arena too. "honestly, it might be a little off-center..." noticing how the roof sloped down on one side while the other held up, "but it sure can't be called basic."

quinn chuckled, sitting next to you. "i think that's what matters most."

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Proud to be a blockhead

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/21/blockheads-r-us/#vocational-awe

This is my last Pluralistic post of the year, and rather than round up my most successful posts of the year, I figured I'd write a little about why it's impossible for me to do that, and why that is by design, and what that says about the arts, monopolies, and creative labor markets.

I started Pluralistic nearly five years ago, and from the outset, I was adamant that I wouldn't measure my success through quantitative measures. The canonical version of Pluralistic – the one that lives at pluralistic.net – has no metrics, no analytics, no logs, and no tracking. I don't know who visits the site. I don't know how many people visit the site. I don't know which posts are most popular, and which ones are the least popular. I can't know any of that.

The other versions of Pluralistic are less ascetic, but only because there's no way for me to turn off some metrics on those channels. The Mailman service that delivers the (tracker-free) email version of Pluralistic necessarily has a system for telling me how many subscribers I have, but I have never looked at that number, and have no intention of doing so. I have turned off notifications when someone signs up for the list, or resigns from it.

The commercial, surveillance-heavy channels for Pluralistic – Tumblr, Twitter – have a lot of metrics, but again, I don't consult them. Medium and Mastodon have some metrics, and again, I just pretend they don't exist.

What do I pay attention to? The qualitative impacts of my writing. Comments. Replies. Emails. Other bloggers who discuss it, or discussions on Metafilter, Slashdot, Reddit and Hacker News. That stuff matters to me a lot because I write for two reasons, which are, in order: to work out my own thinking, and; to influence other peoples' thinking.

Writing is a cognitive prosthesis for me. Working things out on the page helps me work things out in my life. And, of course, working things out on the page helps me work more things out on the page. Writing begets writing:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/09/the-memex-method/

Honestly, that is sufficient. Not in the sense that writing, without being read, would make me happy or fulfilled. Being read and being part of a community and a conversation matters a lot to me. But the very act of writing is so important to me that even if no one read me, I would still write.

This is a thing that writers aren't supposed to admit. As I wrote on this blog's fourth anniversary, the most laughably false statement about writing ever uttered is Samuel Johnson's notorious "No man but a blockhead ever wrote but for money":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/20/fore/#synthesis

Making art is not an "economically rational" activity. Neither is attempting to persuade other people to your point of view. These activities are not merely intrinsically satisfying, they are also necessary, at least for many of us. The long, stupid fight about copyright that started in the Napster era has rarely acknowledged this, nor has it grappled with the implications of it. On the one hand, you have copyright maximalists who say totally absurd things like, "If you don't pay for art, no one will make art, and art will disappear." This is one of those radioactively false statements whose falsity is so glaring that it can be seen from orbit.

But on the other hand, you know who knows this fact very well? The corporations that pay creative workers. Movie studios, record labels, publishers, games studios: they all know that they are in possession of a workforce that has to make art, and will continue to do so, paycheck or not, until someone pokes their eyes out or breaks their fingers. People make art because it matters to them, and this trait makes workers terribly exploitable. As Fobazi Ettarh writes in her seminal paper on "vocational awe," workers who care about their jobs are at a huge disadvantage in labor markets. Teachers, librarians, nurses, and yes, artists, are all motivated by a sense of mission that often trumps their own self-interest and well-being and their bosses know it:

https://www.inthelibrarywiththeleadpipe.org/2018/vocational-awe/

One of the most important ideas in David Graeber's magisterial book Bullshit Jobs is that the ground state of labor is to do a job that you are proud of and that matters to you, but late-stage capitalist alienation has gotten so grotesque that some people will actually sneer at the idea that, say, teachers should be well compensated: "Why should you get a living wage – isn't the satisfaction of helping children payment enough?"

https://memex.craphound.com/2018/06/20/david-graebers-bullshit-jobs-why-does-the-economy-sustain-jobs-that-no-one-values/

These are the most salient facts of the copyright fight: creativity is a non-economic activity, and this makes creative workers extremely vulnerable to exploitation. People make art because they have to. As Marx was finishing Kapital, he was often stuck working from home, having pawned his trousers so he could keep writing. The fact that artists don't respond rationally to economic incentives doesn't mean they should starve to death. Art – like nursing, teaching and librarianship – is necessary for human thriving.

No, the implication of the economic irrationality of vocational awe is this: the only tool that can secure economic justice for workers who truly can't help but do their jobs is solidarity. Creative workers need to be in solidarity with one another, and with our audiences – and, often, with the other workers at the corporations who bring our work to market. We are all class allies locked in struggle with the owners of both the entertainment companies and the technology companies that sit between us and our audiences (this is the thesis of Rebecca Giblin's and my 2022 book Chokepoint Capitalism):

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

The idea of artistic solidarity is an old and important one. Victor Hugo, creator of the first copyright treaty – the Berne Convention – wrote movingly about how the point of securing rights for creators wasn't to allow their biological children to exploit their work after their death, but rather, to ensure that the creative successors of artists could build on their forebears' accomplishments. Hugo – like any other artist who has a shred of honesty and has thought about the subject for more than ten seconds – knew that he was part of a creative community and tradition, one composed of readers and writers and critics and publishing workers, and that this was a community and a tradition worth fighting for and protecting.

One of the most important and memorable interviews Rebecca and I did for our book was with Liz Pelly, one of the sharpest critics of Spotify (our chapter about how Spotify steals from musicians is the only part of the audiobook available on Spotify itself – a "Spotify Exclusive"!):

https://open.spotify.com/show/7oLW9ANweI01CVbZUyH4Xg

Pelly has just published a major, important new book about Spotify's ripoffs, called Mood Machine:

https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Mood-Machine/Liz-Pelly/9781668083505

A long article in Harper's unpacks one of the core mechanics at the heart of Spotify's systematic theft from creative workers: the use of "ghost artists," whose generic music is cheaper than real music, which is why Spotify crams it into their playlists:

https://harpers.org/archive/2025/01/the-ghosts-in-the-machine-liz-pelly-spotify-musicians/

The subject of Ghost Artists has long been shrouded in mystery and ardent – but highly selective – denials from Spotify itself. In her article – which features leaked internal chats from Spotify – Pelly gets to the heart of the matter. Ghost artists are musicians who are recruited by shadowy companies that offer flat fees for composing and performing inoffensive muzak that can fade into the background. This is wholesaled to Spotify, which crams it into wildly popular playlists of music that people put on while they're doing something else ("Deep Focus," "100% Lounge," "Bossa Nova Dinner," "Cocktail Jazz," "Deep Sleep," "Morning Stretch") and might therefore settle for an inferior product.

Spotify calls this "Perfect Fit Music" and it's the pink slime of music, an extruded, musiclike content that plugs a music-shaped hole in your life, without performing the communicative and aesthetic job that real music exists for.

After many dead-end leads with people involved in the musical pink slime industry, Pelly finally locates a musician who's willing to speak anonymously about his work (he asks for anonymity because he relies on the pittances he receives for making pink slime to survive). This jazz musician knows very little about where the music he's commissioned to produce ends up, which is by design. The musical pink slime industry, like all sleaze industries, is shrouded in the secrecy sought by bosses who know that they're running a racket they should be ashamed of.

The anonymous musician composes a stack of compositions on his couch, then goes into a studio for a series of one-take recordings. There's usually a rep from the PFC pink slime industry there, and the rep's feedback is always "play simpler." As the anonymous musician explains:

That’s definitely the thing: nothing that could be even remotely challenging or offensive, really. The goal, for sure, is to be as milquetoast as possible.

This source calls the arrangement "shameful." Another musician Pelly spoke to said "it felt unethical, like some kind of money-laundering scheme." The PFC companies say that these composers and performers are just making music, the way anyone might, and releasing it under pseudonyms in a way that "has been popular across mediums for decades." But Pelly's interview subjects told her that they don't consider their work to be art:

It feels like someone is giving you a prompt or a question, and you’re just answering it, whether it’s actually your conviction or not. Nobody I know would ever go into the studio and record music this way.

Artists who are recruited to make new pink slime are given reference links to existing pink slime and ordered to replicate it as closely as possible. The tracks produced this way that do the best are then fed to the next group of musicians to replicate, and so on. It's the musical equivalent of feeding slaughterhouse sweepings to the next generation of livestock, a version of the gag from Catch 22 where a patient in a body-cast has a catheter bag and an IV drip, and once a day a nurse comes and swaps them around.

Pelly reminds us that Spotify was supposed to be an answer to the painful question of the Napster era: how do we pay musicians for their labor? Spotify was sold as a way to bypass the "gatekeepers": the big three labels who own 70% of all recorded music, whose financial maltreatment of artists was seen as moral justification for file sharing ("Why buy the CD if the musician won't see any of the money from it?").

But the way that Spotify secured rights to all the popular music in the world was by handing over big equity stakes in its business to the Big Three labels, and giving them wildly preferential terms that made it impossible for independent musicians and labels to earn more than homeopathic fractions of a penny for each stream, even as Spotify became the one essential conduit for reaching an audience:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/03/16/wage-theft/#excessive-buyer-power

It turns out that getting fans to pay for music has no necessary connection to getting musicians paid. Vocational awe means that the fact that someone has induced a musician to make music doesn't mean that the musician is getting a fair share of what you pay for music. The same goes for every kind of art, and every field where vocational awe plays a role, from nursing to librarianship.

Chokepoint Capitalism tries very hard to grapple with this conundrum; the second half of the book is a series of detailed, shovel-ready policy prescriptions for labor, contract, and copyright reforms that will immediately and profoundly shift the share of income generated by creative labor from bosses to workers.

Which brings me back to this little publishing enterprise of mine, and the fact that I do it for free, and not only that, give it away under a Creative Commons Attribution license that allows you to share and republish it, for money, if you choose:

https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

I am lucky enough that I make a good living from my writing, but I'm also honest enough with myself to know just how much luck was involved with that fact, and insecure enough to live in a state of constant near-terror about what happens when my luck runs out. I came up in science fiction, and I vividly remember the writers I admired whose careers popped like soap-bubbles when Reagan deregulated the retail sector, precipitating a collapse in the grocery stores and pharmacies where "midlist" mass-market paperbacks were sold by the millions across the country:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/04/self-publishing/

These writers – the ones who are still alive – are living proof of the fact that you have to break our fingers to get us to stop writing. Some of them haven't had a mainstream publisher in decades, but they're still writing, and self-publishing, or publishing with small presses, and often they're doing the best work of their careers, and almost no one is seeing it, and they're still doing it.

Because we aren't engaged in economically rational activity. We're doing something essential – essential to us, first and foremost, and essential to the audiences and peers our work reaches and changes and challenges.

Pluralistic is, in part, a way for me too face the fear I wake up with every day, that some day, my luck will run out, as it has for nearly all the writers I've ever admired, and to reassure myself that the writing will go on doing what I need it to do for my psyche and my heart even if – when – my career regresses to the mean.

It's a way for me to reaffirm the solidaristic nature of artistic activity, the connection with other writers and other readers (because I am, of course, an avid, constant reader). Commercial fortunes change. Monopolies lay waste to whole sectors and swallow up the livelihoods of people who believe in what they do like a whale straining tons of plankton through its baleen. But solidarity endures. Solidarietatis longa, vita brevis.

Happy New Year folks. See you in 2025.

[deezbignutz]

REDACTED TUMBLR AWARDS INFO AAAGHHHHHHHH

okay, since majority chose to start from the top again (again, I am sorry for those who didn't want that), I'm gonna restate the rules, prize, category stuff and all that shit here in this post.

Da Rulez (literally just the same rules plaqii had):

you can nominate yourself for as many categories as you like

don't vote for yourself in the polls, play fair

only nominate yourself for categories you feel you fit, for example, if you don’t create Redacted art, don’t nominate yourself for the artist category

if you feel like someone should be nominated for a category, tag them! you cannot nominate anyone other than yourself

if you are tagged, you need to reply to confirm being nominated!

please try and put your nominations in replies and not reblogs!

if a character doesn’t get any nominations, then their will be no award, but if one person nominates themself for a character they will win the award, so make sure to nominate yourself!

if someone wins 2 or more polls, i’ll get them to choose and give the title to the runner up of the poll of the character they didn’t chose the title, cuz if the original winner didn’t pick that character then they ain’t that characters no1 can after all!

have fun with it! if you don’t win, don’t get too upset! this is just a load of silly fun!

Ze Prize (again, still the same prize plaqii had offered):

winners will get personalised userboxes! they’ll look something like this

(this was made by plaqii, not me. all the credit for this (and honestly the whole awards event) goes to them!!)

you can choose the colours (they’ll probably look better than this) (hopefully)

Le Categories:

these are the categories that are currently in place, but if there is a character or extra category you would like added, please reply what you would like added!

Creatives -

best artist

best fic writer

best hc writer

best ocs (not listener designs)

best listener designs (this is for listener designs :))) )

coolest listener/oc cassettes/icons

best roleplay blog (idk if this is the category to put it in, but oh welp)

‘THE’ fans (note - if a character doesn’t get any nominations, then their will be no award, but if one person nominates themselves for a character they will win the award, so make sure to nominate yourself!)-

Aaron

Anton

Asher

Avior

Azmidi

Blake

Brachium

Caelum

Cam

Christian

Damien

David

Elliot

Gavin

Geordi

Guy

Hush

Huxley

Ivan

James

Lasko

Milo

Ollie

Porter

Regulus

Sam

Vega

Vincent

misc -

the most 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂

As stated in Da Rulez, please reply to this post to nominate yourself or tag others if you feel like they should nominate themselves!

You do NOT have to make a whole new nomination post for this, you can just use the one you made before. But if you really want to make another one or if you are in a new category you weren't in before, then feel free to make a new other one or just add more info into your old one.

this even might take a while for me to actually flesh out and stuff, so I'm sorry in advanced if there'll be any bumps along the way

I am only a mere man, and I also have a life outside of this (sadly), so pls understand if I end up making a few mistakes or run into any problems

NOMINATIONS WILL BE OPENED UNTIL DECEMBER 30TH (yes, i know then it would technically not be the '2024 Redacted Tumblr Awards', but that's okay we can discus that later)

Thank you for coming to my TedTalk :))))

[er1nne]

unraveling threads

Pairing – coriolanus snow x female!reader Word Count? 1.4k Summary – Modeling for Tigris leads to an unexpectedly tense encounter with her cousin, Coriolanus, that leaves him questioning his composure. Tags: some cute fluff, some indecent exposure, flustered coriolanus AN: Something I wrote in-between classes, something cute & sweet & not too long. lol hope y'all enjoy. again, do not plagarize or copy my work, if you do you're going to hell.

The workshop buzzed with the creative chaos that was Tigris’s signature. Bolts of fabric spilled from their shelves, pooling in soft heaps on the floor. Pinned sketches of daring designs adorned the walls, each one a whisper of ambition and artistry. You stood in the center of it all, perched on the raised wooden platform framed by three mirrors. Today’s project—a delicate long-sleeve blouse with sheer detailing and an intricate open neckline—felt like something out of a dream, shimmering faintly under the warm afternoon light. The soft fabric hugged your frame like a secret meant only for you. You had been friends with Tigris since before she started attending fashion school, and when she asked if you would help her with her projects, it felt natural to say yes. She needed someone to model her work—her doll, her muse—and you couldn’t resist the idea. You’d stepped in to be her muse and “living mannequin,” thrilled to help a friend bring her visions to life. “What girl doesn’t like playing dress-up?” It was fun to see her artistic vision come to life on your body, and even more so to support her as she poured her heart into every stitch. Sometimes, you wondered if she realized how much you truly enjoyed being part of her creative world.

Tigris circled you, her sharp eyes taking in every angle of the unfinished design. “Stay still,” she instructed, her tone clipped but not unkind. Her fingers deftly adjusted the fabric near your collarbone. “The neckline is tricky. If you move too much, the stitching might—” Her words were cut off by a faint but unmistakable rip.

The silence that followed was heavy. You froze, glancing down at the blouse in the mirror. A seam along the neckline had given way, causing the fabric to slip lower on one side, baring more of your chest than you intended. Your breath caught, heat rushing to your cheeks as you instinctively clutched at the torn material to keep it in place.

“Well,” Tigris sighed, straightening and pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I warned you, didn’t I? It’s not a disaster, though. I can fix it.” She stepped back, scanning the damage with a critical eye. “Just stay here. Don’t move, or it’ll get worse. I’ll grab my sewing kit.”

“I didn’t move,” you protested softly, your tone tinged with indignation and humor. Your reflection in the mirror betrayed your flustered amusement, caught somewhere between embarrassment and mischief.

Tigris waved you off with an exasperated flick of her hand, already walking toward the adjoining room. “Of course you didn’t,” she muttered absently as she disappeared.

Left alone, you sighed, holding the torn blouse carefully in place as you studied yourself in the mirror. The design, even in its incomplete state, was stunning. The sheer sleeves were embroidered with delicate golden threads, catching the light like tiny strands of spun sunlight. But now, with the neckline slipping dangerously low, the blouse seemed to transform from ethereal elegance to something daringly seductive. A small smile tugged at your lips. Perhaps the rip wasn’t such a disaster after all.

The sound of the door creaking open behind you pulled you from your thoughts. Assuming it was Tigris, you didn’t bother turning around. “Did you find the—” The words died on your lips as you glanced over your shoulder.

Coriolanus Snow stood in the doorway, his tall frame framed by the soft glow of the hallway light. His usually composed expression was frozen in surprise, his pale blue eyes locked on you. His gaze flickered to the torn neckline of the blouse, lingering for a fraction too long before darting away.

“Coriolanus,” you said, your voice calm despite the sudden tension thickening the air. “I didn’t know you were coming by.”

His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. For someone who always seemed to have a sharp reply or calculated observation, he looked completely undone. “I—I thought Tigris was here,” he stammered at last, his usual smoothness replaced by a rare awkwardness. His hand tightened on the doorknob, his knuckles pale against the polished brass.

“She stepped out,” you explained, adjusting the fabric with deliberate slowness. “The blouse ripped. She went to get her sewing kit.”

His jaw clenched, the muscles working beneath his pale skin as if he were physically willing himself not to look at you again. “I shouldn’t interrupt,” he said stiffly, already stepping back toward the door. His movements were abrupt, almost frantic, as though the very air in the room burned him.

“You’re not interrupting,” you said, tilting your head slightly. A teasing smile danced on your lips, the sight of his flustered expression too tempting to ignore. “Unless you’re afraid of a little torn fabric.”

His eyes flicked to the torn neckline, and for a moment, he forgot himself. The fabric had slipped just enough to bare the soft curve of your chest, still modest but undeniably daring in its exposure. The delicate embroidery and sheer material only added to the effect, catching the warm light and creating a shimmering contrast between what was hidden and what wasn’t. He could he should look away—should step back and give you space—but his gaze lingered a fraction too long, drawn to the elegance of the moment. It wasn’t just the exposure that held his attention; it was the way you stood there, unbothered, one hand carefully holding the fabric in place while the other rested at your side, as if you hadn’t noticed how the blouse now seemed to toe the line between sophistication and seduction. The faint smile on your lips, almost amused, only made the image more arresting. He blinked, realizing too late that his hesitation betrayed him, and he forced his gaze upward, his expression carefully blank.

His cheeks flushed a faint pink, the first crack in his stoic façade. “I’ll come back later,” he muttered, his voice strained. Before you could say anything else, he turned and fled, the door clicking shut behind him.

Later That Day

When Tigris returned minutes later, she found you still standing on the platform, the torn blouse carefully held in place. “This design,” she muttered as she worked to repair the seam, her skilled fingers moving with practiced ease, “is going to be the death of me. But it’ll be worth it when it’s finished.”

You hummed in agreement, though your thoughts were elsewhere. Coriolanus’s reaction played on a loop in your mind, each detail more amusing than the last—the widening of his eyes, the faint flush creeping up his neck, the way he couldn’t seem to get out of the room fast enough. For someone so composed, so calculated, it had been thrilling to see him unravel so completely.

“I didn’t move,” you murmured again, a quiet chuckle escaping your lips. Tigris glanced up briefly, raising an eyebrow at your cryptic remark, but said nothing.

Later, you found Coriolanus in the sitting area near the back of the workshop. He was hunched over a teacup, the porcelain dwarfed by his long fingers. His back was to you, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his posture. Tigris was already there, leaning casually against the table with an amused smile playing on her lips.

“Something wrong, cousin?” she asked lightly, her tone laced with faux innocence. Coriolanus didn’t look up, his gaze fixed intently on the steaming tea as though it held the answers to all of life’s problems. “No,” he said curtly, his voice clipped and controlled.

Before Tigris could respond, a soft laugh escaped your lips, drawing both their attention. You leaned casually against the doorway, still dressed in the repaired blouse, the shimmer of the fabric catching the light just so. “Thanks for today, Tigris,” you said with a smile, your voice warm and genuine. Then, turning your gaze to Coriolanus, your tone shifted into something softer, lower. “Goodbye, Coriolanus,” you said, the faintest hint of teasing lacing your words.

His breath hitched, his posture stiffening as your words lingered in the air. You slipped out of the room with a playful sway in your step, not bothering to look back. But you didn’t need to. You could feel his gaze burning into your retreating figure.

Once the door shut behind you, Coriolanus let out a heavy sigh, his head falling into his hands. “She’s impossible,” he muttered, his voice muffled but laced with something that sounded suspiciously like defeat.

For the first time, he admitted to himself the truth he’d been avoiding all afternoon: he had a crush on you. And worse, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Tigris smirked, watching him over the rim of her teacup. “You’ve got it bad,” she teased, but he ignored her, groaning softly as he leaned back in his chair. The memory of you—half

© ER1NNE est. 2024 belonging to @er1nne, do not plagarize or copy

[richarlotte]

What do you think makes your friends so magnetic?

It’s because they’re genuinely interesting, funny, well-rounded women. They’re not just people who you want to get to know better; they’re people you look up to and want to be. They’re put together, qualified, educated, and great to be around. They all have goals, they’re all motivated, and they’ve all had experiences that they’ve allowed to shape them for better or worse. They’re all confident in who they are, and they all have passion projects and interests that they’ve spent hours pouring themselves into.

Twilly has her travel blog, her zine, her poetry, her cooking, and her fascination with other cultures and ways of life. She’s rarely afraid of taking action or doing something new, and I’m proud to call her my bravest friend. She leaps at the chance to do new things, goes to parts unknown, and vibrancy and creativity are her life’s goals. She’s an amazing person to get to know.

Camilla speaks seven languages (not including English), has walked at Copenhagen Fashion Week, and is amazing with people. She’s always talking about interning for Condé Nast, how she’d style people, what she’s experienced, and how she’s honed her eye for aesthetics and design. I honestly believe that Camilla has the potential to become one of the best fashion editors and artistic directors of our generation.

Those are just two examples, but having a clear image of the sort of woman you’d like to be one day and doing what it takes to build your confidence and your personality, finding what makes life feel better for you (having passions and hobbies), and learning how to convey your emotions and converse with people are some of the steps you need to take. People are drawn to people who they are genuinely interested in; that’s always been the case and always will be. Part of making yourself interesting is being someone people want to hear more from, being able to speak about yourself without coming off as pompous, actively trying to engage with the world around you, and building quality relationships with more people.

[shirecorn]

Hello there!!! I just wanted to ask if it was okay if I referenced your Rudolph design for a character I’m making for a campaign (but with cats instead of reindeer), my character is paralyzed and missing one back leg and there’s rules in place that mean any character outfits have to be reasonably craftable by hand (or paw) and I thought the sled mobility aid idea was so perfect and cute, given we can’t use wheels without changing backstory stuff. I just didn’t wanna reference it without asking!! Your reindeer are all insanely cute and creative and I’m gonna buy all the ornaments ASAP haha

that's absolutely fine!

Here's a breakdown of how his sleigh works.

runners rather than wheels will be most useful on snow, slick surfaces like hardwood floors and ice, and carpet. If you get to complex terrain, wheels and treads (like a tank) will be more useful.

im not sure where the wheel prohibition comes from, but remember that the wheel is an ancient infection and all you need is a round thing and a stick. You don't have to buy a wheel from a store in order to use it. you can just make it out of tape,

Or out of bottlecaps. Watch the first 1:40 of this

ignore the rubber band part. Making wheels is shockingly easy. If your critters can carve sleigh parts, they can carve wheels out of wood and hook them on a simple axle.

whatever locomotion you choose, try to make it make sense for the location. good luck!

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: None

Summary: Daryl helps you reignite the Christmas spirit as best as he can.

A/N: This started as an incorrect quote inspired by a friend and her epic battle with a christmas tree. You can find the quote here. A special thank you to @shadowcitrine for allowing me to bear witness to this gladiator battle to the death. It was the hardest I have laughed in a long time. And furthermore, thank you again for allowing me to use your suffering to my creative advantage. I love you. ❤️

🎶Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree🎶

“How ya even know when it is anyway?” Holding the hex nut up to eye level, he turned it over between his fingers. Yep, that was the one. He placed it in the designated spot and fitted the wrench, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he worked. 

“I don’t, but it’s mid winter and it’s snowing and why not? Don’t be so bah humbug, Daryl.” You chuckled at his expression. He never knew he was making it and you never told him. He would certainly make every attempt to stop and it was far too adorable to allow that. 

“I ain’t.” He grumbled, sitting up to scrutinize his own work. A droplet of melted snow landed on the apple of his cheek. He didn’t seem to mind, if he noticed at all. The roof of the old stall was known to leak. “Just—never understood it, s’all.”

Your smile faded. “You never had one.” You didn’t need him to confirm, and he didn’t. Not verbally. The way he paused with the wrench halfway to the bike spoke volumes. After a heartbeat, he cleared his throat and continued his work. 

The holiday wasn’t something that had been celebrated in the several years since the turn. Truthfully, no one had paid attention. Some of the children likely didn’t even know what Christmas was. The thought had always made your heart heavy but there had always been something standing in the way of any reclaiming of the holiday. 

“We should celebrate this year.” You blurted, not even really realizing that you had spoken out loud until Daryl scoffed. 

“Good luck with that.”

“I’m serious.” Crossing the space between the two of you, you crouched and balanced yourself with a hand on the bike’s front tire. “Come on, Daryl. It’ll be great for the kids. Hell, maybe it’ll do everyone some good.” He sighed, allowing his hand to fall away from its task. The pout you pinned him with was certainly what did him in. 

“Fine.”

Biting your lip in the center of a beaming smile, you lunged at him, almost toppling him over with the embrace. “Thank you!” Daryl nodded and patted your back, still awkward in his reciprocations of your touches even after so long as a couple. It was endearing. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whaddaya need me to do?”

With a firm grip on his upper arms, you pushed him back to arm’s length. “You’re gonna be Santa’s little helper! Come on!” 

Daryl scrubbed a hand over his face and gave a heaving sigh. “M’a regret this.”

It had taken six days and four supply runs to gather enough decorations for at least your own home to be decorated. You enlisted the help of some of the children for drawings and crafts that could be used as well. Though you wished you could color the community in lights and garland, your space would have to do for that first year. 

Your hope was for it to coax the holiday spirit from within the adults and inspire a sense of wonder from the little ones. Even with all the effort, it seemed so lackluster. And Daryl, bless him, was granting a valiant effort toward your endeavor. 

You had just pulled some cookies from the oven—gingerbread men for the kids to decorate with what little frosting and candy you could manage—when there was a knock on the door. 

“Yeah, one sec!” You called, pulling off the oven mitts to discard them on the countertop. A spared glance into the living room had you smiling. The multicolored lights you ran for a few hours each evening cast a brilliant illuminance across the door and then Carol’s face when you opened it. “Hey, come on in.”

Her boot had barely touched the floor on the other side of the threshold when a loud crash sounded from the living room. “What was that?” She queried.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it!” Came Daryl’s gruff response before your lips could even part. Carol’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline before another thump thud crash could be heard. 

“What was that?” She chuckled. 

“You’re askin’ a awful lot’a questions for someone who ain’t even in the goddamn room!”

Try as the two of you might to withhold, you broke out into laughter. You hid your knowing smile behind your hand. “Daryl’s putting up Christmas decorations.” 

“No I ain’t!” He shouted with obvious annoyance.  “M’playin’ “whose dick’s bigger” with a plastic fuckin’ tree!” 

More ruckus echoed, and you finally decided that maybe your archer needed some assistance. “Are you okay in here?” You chortled, rubbing your lips together in an attempt to maintain a straight face. 

Daryl was chewing his bottom lip in earnest when his eyes met yours. There was no anger there, but something more akin to embarrassment. Tilting your head, your nose crinkled and brow furrowed. What on earth could he be embarrassed—

Oh. 

The tree leaned to one side, bare spots where lights should be, limbs missing and broken on the floor. No matter the battle, it appeared the tree had won. Carol was snickering behind you, shushed by a wave of your hand and a stuttering ssh as you tried not to join her. 

“It looks—” You began.  

“Like it needs a stage name.” Carol finished for you. You turned to her again, your smile belying your admonishing tone. “Something about it seriously isn’t right with Jesus.” She laughed heartily. 

“He ain’t got nothin’ to do with this.” Turning back, you could almost see a pout decorating his handsome face. “May be his birthday but this is my tree!” Oh, how hard it was not to tease him. “Why couldn’t he just’a got a cake like everybody else?”

“Daryl!” You gave in, nearly doubling over. 

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a lighter and some beeswax.” He grumbled, petulantly yanking his arm away when you laid your hand on it. 

“It’s got character.” You assured him, face mockingly serious. Arms crossed, you stood next to him, head tilted to match the lean of the tree. “Like an extra in the Nutcracker.”

“One ya ain’t gonna let dance in the front.” He mimicked your pose, appearing a little more at ease—almost as if he himself might laugh. Carol joined the two of you, three sets of eyes studying the colorful disaster. 

“It really says something.” She affirmed with a hint of amusement. 

“Yeah, says m’sorry.” Daryl huffed. Smiling genuinely, you switched the tilt of your head to the other side, your temple resting against his shoulder. 

“I love our little crooked tree.” Your smile broadened when you felt his arm move and come to rest around your shoulders, his lips pressing into your hair. “Thank you.”

“Mhm.” 

You weren’t sure how long you stood there, comfortable in his embrace, but the excited yays from Judith and RJ broke the trance, your already upturned mouth splitting into a beaming smile. 

“Uncle Daryl, we have a tree!” The young boy exclaimed, jumping up and down. You had explained the gist of things to a group of children, delighting in their excitement when you promised to try your hardest in reviving the season. 

“Sure do.” He sounded almost proud, sparking something warm inside your chest. 

“How about some cookies before we invite everyone over?” You offered, your eyes on the children before finding Daryl watching you, a corner of his mouth upturned. 

There almost wasn’t room in your modest home for all the townsfolk but you made it work, serving stew and desserts and heaping helping of cheer. The laughs and smiles were all you had ever wanted for the community, the desire to uplift their spirits and inspire hope where so little had remained.

“Hey.” Daryl breathed against your ear, his arms wrapping around your middle. All teeth and crinkled eyes, you laid your head back against his shoulder and just watched. “Think ya did it.”

“We did it.” You corrected him, angling your face upward to kiss his chin, his whiskers comfortably scratching your lips. He hummed.

“Got a surprise for ya.” Daryl stepped back, arms releasing their hold only for his hand to find yours with a gentle tug. A curious expression crossed your face. 

“A surprise?”

“Mhm.” 

It took no coaxing for you to follow him to the door, watching him open it with sheer excitement reflecting in your bright orbs. You weren’t sure what you were expecting but to see his bike, strategically wrapped in garland and bells under the gentle peppering of snow was not it. 

“Oh, Daryl.” Your bottom lip quivered, your voice trembling. “You did this for me?” The tears that began to escape were unbidden, born not of sadness. 

“Well, yeah.” He kicked at something nonexistent on the porch, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Y’deserve something too.” Your smile was dazzling but dimmed after a moment, expression falling as you watched him. “What?”

“I didn’t—I couldn’t get anything for you.” 

Daryl stepped into your space without hesitation, the side of his forefinger below your chin while his thumb stroked your cheek. “Got all I need right here in this house.”

“Daryl.” You sniffled, a sob cut off by his lips on yours. The kiss was chaste, the taste of sugar and smoke so deliciously Daryl that you felt your heart flutter. 

“C’mon, let’s take ya on a sleigh ride.” 

With your hand in his, he guided you to the bike, your eyes wet and your heart full. Not even the cold winter wind whipping against your face could erase your smile. 

[slightlymad]

L'AMICA GENIALE — ELENA FERRANTE ↳ a special poster for the wonderful and brilliant jo ( @dylanlila ) <33

[amarald-pastry]

So cute!!!

Here's the new oc I was talking about ^^

Name: Nada (and Tutto)

Pronoms: she/her (and Tutto does not care)

Age: young adult, did not keep the count

Specie: human (and creature :3)

Home multiverse: Nadirverse (Mimosa's old home :P)

Timeline: current timeline

Family: orphan but considers Tutto as a family member

Likes: her eyes, grilling meat, pretty places, sleeping under the night sky, Tutto

Dislikes: cucumbers, the color orange, hunger, pain flares from her chronic pain ( left hand)

Relation to my other ocs: has met Jasy a few times, talked with Fancy once before he left.

Trivia:

-Nada is ambidextrous and has chronic pain in her left hand

-Tutto has the habit to rest on her left hand as she said his warm lil' body makes it feel better

-They sometimes play card games but neither now the rules so they make them up

-Nada likes to put things in her mouth when bored or thinking, the lace from her bag is the most common victim to that

-Tutto does nocturnal "walks"

-Tutto is an anomaly in his own specie, unique kind of guy

General story:

Nada has always been used to be pretty independant and lived a part of her life in a random orphanage (she did not care about them much).

After the big War, she ended up roaming around Nadirverse alone. Few were the survivors and most were pretty "hostile".

She somehow ended up in a desertic land where stone doors were littered here and there. A lot of them destroyed, the rest at least damaged. No sign of life except a lone old small house, full of stuff but void of people.

She slowly learned doors were doorways to other places and took to exploring.

The house and the land became her "base".

She met Tutto soon after and they became pals quickly.

Nada has usually a lot of luck which allows her to have a nice life despite the hardships of surviving there.

(She is unaware that her stubborness and skills are nice but the fact all is going so well is also mainly because she got the attention of the multiverse itself whose playing favorite)

Tutto is a smart and energic lil' guy. He feds on magic he finds around. He isn't a heavy eater due to his size but still needs to eat once in a while. He's not very empathetic but he tries his best! Nada is a warm body to sleep on and a fun distraction. Pal to protect.

Bonus:

Tutto zoomies

[starsandnoodles]

Today I did a lot of doodles so I’m going to post them now because I haven’t been posting a lot!!

First, the crossover no one asked for

Second, Taranza picking a fight and being angry because part of my soul needs more bastard Taranza content DESPERATELY. Like guys… feed my soul.

Third, Susie Haltmann but a Gijinka based more or less on my own outfit today (I cannot write T’s very well I apologize if it looks like an R)

And last but not least a drawing of Susie Haltmann I started months ago and finally finished today

[match-your-steps]

kinda funny how most programmers would prefer to not have to touch apple products with a ten-foot pole but if you talk to basically any designer over like 25 they'll swear up and down and backwards to friday that nothing could ever hold a candle to any apple product

[bugisbonkerz]

my reaction to ppl hating on some human designs for the main 3 bc they aren’t conventionally attractive 🖕🖕

[bmpmp3]

thank god for indie devs making like tiny little maximum 10 megabyte freeware games on itchio keeping the art of filesize optimization alive. ASSET REUSE FOREVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[mokeonn]

I think the frustrating thing about Spotify recommendations is sometimes it really does introduce me to lots of cool Indie Bands that I really vibe with and allow me to try some new stuff and sometimes it keeps telling me that I need to Listen to Mother Mother (I have not listened to Mother Mother ever and at this point I never will because it is a pride thing.)

Or a random unfunny tiktok joke song from 3 years ago/ a viral YouTube song from over a decade ago.

[red-moon-at-night]

Survivor.

kind of a 'then vs now' comparison (idolhood vs living through everything post-idolhood) but in the same outfit.

the urge to quote "despite everything, it's still you" is very strong right now.