#starting nearly every paragraph with they is an artistic choice and the choice is to be bad at writing

[ofjcnnys]

self para: honey im not doing so well.mp4 when: day 19 where: beach, odessa’s body, cave

tw: depression, death, odessa lmao, psychosis

tldr; after the rain starts, jenny goes to check on odessa before going to camp. they find themselves a spot in the cave, they lie down, and probably don’t move the rest of the day.

Move. 

You have to move.

When the rain starts, they don’t move. Not for a long time. They see the rain falling and feel the weight of clothes growing wet before they ever feel the drops hit them. They think maybe they don’t have to move. Maybe they could stay there. Let themselves sink into wet sand, let cold overtake them. In many ways it was the easier option. 

Move.

They think of the others. They think of their family, they think of Shane and the people here that they were closer to than people they’d known most of their life. And they push themselves up. Feeling weight that had been pressing down on the centre of their chest shift to their shoulders as they sat, hunched over, and forcing themselves to stay there instead of lying back down again. They felt the heavy rain sting the top of their head and their exposed legs. They squeezed their eyes shut, and pulled in a deep breath. Letting it out slowly. It would be so easy to just lie down again. Let their body become numb from cold and pelting raindrops. The temptation gripped them for another long moment. In the same way they’d laid in their bed for months after breaking their arm. They remembered the way their family had looked at them. How they’d whispered outside their door like they’d forgotten the walls were paper thin. Them only moving around like a robot when they absolutely had to, not present in their own body.

This wasn’t like that. They were horrifically present. Every movement was aching and challenging and they were having to think about it and force their body to do it. They didn’t want to be that person that people worried about, they didn’t like being that person. Though they worried that maybe it was just ingrained in them. A part of them they couldn’t get away from. 

They breathed in again, and they wanted to move again. They wanted to stand up. They had to. They had to. Next big breath, they promised themselves. Taking another second to breathe calmly, or as close to calmly as they were capable of before they steadied their hands either side of them. You have to get up. They breathed in deeply, pushing themselves to their feet as they did. They wobbled initially, their body stiff from their lack of movement in the last 12 hours, but they steadied quickly. Blinking rapidly and breathing in and out. They were up now, the option of staying in the sand no longer available. They had to move. 

They turned, knowing where they were going before they even did. It wasn’t shelter, not yet. There was something they had to do, something they had to see. They had allowed themselves to avoid it yesterday, but now they thought if they didn’t do it, they might never. They walked up the beach, not long before they were making a direct path for Odessa’s body. It wasn’t just selfish reasons, they thought. Make sure it’s real, make sure it really happened. For everyone else. Because what if the tide took her too? If that was what they were believing happened to Jill’s body. Which they didn’t really. But whatever, right? What mattered was Jill’s body had been buried, then it rained, and she was gone. They worried the same thing might happen to Odessa, and while they didn’t have it in them to move her (physically or emotionally) they could make sure she was really there. So if she wasn’t when the rain stopped, they could be sure of it. 

It’s not as hard as they imagine it to be, walking up to her. They thought once they started to see her that they would have to stop but they just kept walking until they were standing beside her. Their hands shoved into hoodie pockets as they looked down at her, trying not to think of how strange it was to see her like this. There was just nothing in her. No life. Which, obviously. But it still shook them a little. They remembered the things they had asked Leo to look for when he had been allowed to go to Mia’s funeral. The proof that the body they had on display wasn’t really her, the proof they were so sure had to be there. But he’d probably just looked at her and seen something similar to what Jenny was seeing now. Just death. Just nothing. 

You should do something. For her.

They took another breath, lips pursed together in thought. They didn’t know if the desire to do something was for them or for Odessa. They didn’t know if the her in their thoughts was Odessa or Mia. All those things tangled so easily. They moved at last, pushing wet curls out of their face and sniffing back and tears that threatened to show in that moment. They didn’t deserve to cry for Odessa, they hadn’t even been able to say they were friends. Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do when people died? Say nice things about how close you had been? They crinkled their nose for a moment, holding their hands into tights fists as they urged themselves to move again. Another moment, letting that energy collect uselessly in their hands before they let it go and moved. They kneeled beside her, feeling the cold of her arm against their skin as they reached over her. First they moved her arms closer to her body, as much as they could without feeling like they were forcing her body in a way it wasn’t supposed to move. After that, reaching over so they could pull edge of the raft over her. Trying to protect her from the rain as much as they could. They shuffled backwards, holding material in place with their hand until they could scoop some wet sand to hold it instead. 

They shuffled back again but didn’t stand immediately. Wiping their hands on their legs though given the rain and the sticky nature of wet sand it didn’t do a whole lot. They sat for a moment longer, looking at their work, looking at where they knew Odessa was laying. A moment of reverence, they thought. A moment they hadn’t been able to give her the day before after pulling her from the water. They sat there, in silence, and they could swear they were trying to think of Odessa and her memory and just honour her but they couldn’t. They kept thinking of Mia. Just when they thought they had distanced themselves from her, she was back. They thought of the way they made Leo describe her to them. And he had. He had done that for them. How cruel of a sibling were they to ask that of him? And how cruel of a person were they to scream in his face and call him a liar when he tried to do it?

They lower their head, feeling their breath shake with the threat of tears. They hold it for a second, as if emptying their lungs would empty their head too. Pressing eyes closed as they tried to stop themselves from imagining Mia and her body and how those bruises had looked before someone covered them in make up. How she would look if she was just here, like Odessa was. No way to preserve her body for her family, make her easier to remember. Just faced with the awful truth that she was dead. They try to focus on the rain again. Better that then Mia. Better that than Odessa. Better that than the way their hands hurt from holding their fists so tightly. The rain. The sound it made against the sand, against the raft, against them. The sound of the ocean in the distance, the way it grew rougher and less forgiving in the weather. 

They breathe again at last but as they do, they hear something unexpected. Two distinct crunches in the sand. Not unlike the ones they heard yesterday, like they heard every day on this island. They looked behind them instinctively, to see who made the sound, to see who was walking towards them. They were already cold from the rain, but they felt freezing chill spread over their body when they turned and no one was there. No footprints but their own.

They look further, turning their head the other way, praying to whoever the fuck would listen to them that there would be someone, fucking anyone around that made that noise. But nothing. No one. They forced themselves to finish breathing out rather than holding the breath any longer. Their hands moving slightly in the sand as they continued looking for a moment longer. They were sure they’d heard it. But no one was there. 

They try not to give into the impulse to start breathing quickly. They’d imagined the sound. It was reasonable. And not a warning sign of something worse. They’d heard it multiple times yesterday, and the rain was so loud anyway. They could explain it away in their own head as they forced their breath to stay steady, even if it felt like they were holding their breath at times. 

Move.

Before it happens again.

They swallowed, because they knew what they had to do. They pushed themselves to their feet, it wasn’t as hard as it had been before. Maybe because it felt as though they were running from something now. They pushed wet hair out of their face again as they started moving away from Odessa. There was a temptation to look back at her, make sure she was properly covered, but they couldn’t do it. They stared at the ground as they walked, at the sand that moved with their weight in each step. What if it was different when they looked back? Then all of that would have been a waste. They wouldn’t be reliable anymore. They weren’t reliable now, but pretending they weren’t aware of that was something they were well practiced in. Pushing it to the back of their mind, allowing swirling whirlpool to retake its place front and centre. 

They dipped their head as they finally entered the Eves cave. They realised then just how wet they were, how long they’d stayed in the rain, how heavy and cold their clothes were. But they kept moving. They didn’t want to talk. They didn’t believe they could. Their thoughts were jumbled enough, how could they possibly say anything? Speak to anyone? No. Instead they weaved between Eves, head down as they passed them. Finding a place for themselves against the side wall of the cave and settling there. They’d intended on taking off hoodie, using it as a pillow now they had it again but they couldn’t. They didn’t have it in them. They were so fucking exhausted. They just sat and then laid down in a swift movement before they could think about it. Curling up on their side, comforting, secure position. It felt protective. Just like it felt protective to be in the cave with the others instead of searching for who had made the crunch in the sand. 

One final movement, one final thing to protect themselves: They pulled hood up lazily, lifting their head only enough for it to enclose their hair before they rested against the ground again. Letting fabric cover part of their face, letting them fade into the background. They wished they would sleep, but they knew they wouldn’t. They knew it wouldn’t come. They’d just lie there. They’d just lie there and let the time pass. As if holding still, holding completely still, would help them at all. Like they could escape their own head by just holding completely still. 

[crimeronan]

ik youre not a therapist and i dont want like therapy or anything but im 17 and ive known i was bipolar for 3 years now and i dont know how im supposed to live the rest of my life like this. im so fucking tired. how do you stay alive

you sent this a couple days ago & i’m posting at a weird time so i’m not sure if you’ll see it but.  

i’ve been looking at this message trying to decide how to respond

because i don’t know your situation, your symptoms, how you’re feeling, whether you’ve had positive or negative experiences with medication, psychiatrists, therapists, hospitals, all that related shit

the bipolar life advice i give to people is vastly different depending on the individual. it’s not a one size fits all thing.  and there’s never even a guarantee that my advice will be the right choice

so since i don’t know about your situation or experiences or what you want, i’m not gonna tell you what to do.  i’m gonna focus on the “how do you stay alive” question and try to pen down some personal feelings. and if they help then great, and if they don’t then... this is the most honest i can be

(you can always ask another question to get a better answer. my inbox is a coin slot and i am a vending machine of varied-degrees-of-helpfulness replies offered at varied-inconvenient-too-long-intervals)

-

how do i stay alive

it’s a 2-parter, actually.  i pondered how to condense my thoughts/feelings, and it came down to these two things

1. love 2. spite

-

1. love

the spite is easier to write about than the love.  love is hard to reach when i feel like shit.

spite is where i go when i want to die.  love is where i go when i want to want to live.

maybe i don’t want to be alive.  but maybe i wish i did.  spite doesn’t help me much there.  spite keeps me afloat, but it doesn’t make the floating pleasurable.  there’s more to life than outlasting everything that ever hurt me.  i need a reason to continue when there’s no enemy to fight

so. love

i almost wrote about the spite alone because that’s rawer, realer, more visceral.  that’s the shit that CONNECTS when everything feels hopeless.  but it would be a lie of omission.  spite is only one of the major food groups, you’ll waste away from malnutrition if you eat it for every meal. or at least, i will.

“so you’ve got a bunch of people you love,” you say, “and you stick around for them.  cry on them.  support each other.  like each other.  fine.”  you’ve heard this story before

nah.

i mean - yes.  i have people i love.  i live with two partners, i’ve got a third girlfriend, i’ve got a long-distance platonic life partner.  i have a support net, i have a family i’ve forged, i have confidence that i’m not alone.  i have, in a bare-bones checklist sort of way, fulfilled my physiological human need for connection

but i could live without every single one of them.  i’m not dependent upon any of them for my survival.  i’m not dependent upon them for love, given or received.  (this isn’t a callous cruelty, it won’t hurt them if/when they read this.  i’ve told them all this, they know.  they’re glad of it.)

so.  what the fuck does “love” mean, then?

the short explanation is that it’s my love of life, of things in the world.  it’s all the little connections i’ve made.  every time i love something, a hook tethers to the universe.  hook enough tethers, and i no longer feel the need to float away.  no dissolution of self today, sir

the rest of this section is some of the things i love. partially it’s to show how i connect to little things and ascribe magic to the mundane.  partially it’s because i like thinking about things i love, i like typing them out, and i like that i could keep going for thousands and thousands of words.

i am laying in bed at 7:30 AM with the lights off and the shades drawn.  blue  light comes through the slats because it’s the better time of year, the one where i finally get vitamin D, the one where the birds chirp at 4AM, the one where the sky isn’t impenetrably black til 10PM.

there’s a weighted blanket tucked around my legs.  my partner rafi bought it for us to share because it’s soothing and heavy and comforting and helps with my physical pain.  right now it’s soft on my skin and if i get too emotional as i write, i can pull it over me like a cloak until i’m settled.

the apartment’s walls are blank because we’ve spent eight months intending to put art up and keep forgetting.  but there’s a newly-unearthed dining area in the kitchen because i finally shifted around the unpacked boxes that were dominating the space.  it’s new and it surprises me every time i walk out there.  it’s open and inviting and bright and it’s a sign that we’re making this place home.

we’ll put a cheap IKEA table by the window and we’ll probably never eat family dinners there - why would we sit in hard chairs and make stiff conversation when we could all cuddle on the couch - but my partner dev will create a place to do their art and the surface will be constantly littered with drying watercolor experiments.

we’ll hang our art one of these days, too, when our collective adhd offers a miraculous combo of remembering + having time + having motivation + having inspiration.  rafi has the most art because they’ve been collecting it for years.  i have to start smaller.  i’m not used to keeping physical objects.  dev has a few pieces thrifted or bought at local artist events or painted themselves

so we’ll put art up in the living room, my single “you are magic” flower print alongside a naked monster lady that dev fell in love with when we browsed art at a yuletide event months ago, alongside rafi’s monster girls and comic characters and book characters and literature art and quotes and abstract pieces and whatever else they have hiding in boxes.

my head protests that naked monster ladies do not belong in the living room, although the picture isn’t overtly sexual.  but then i remember that they do, actually, because it’s our space and we can do whatever we want with it as long as the lease isn’t broken.  there isn’t anyone in the local social circles who’d be perturbed by the decor, as far as i know.  i don’t have to hide anything from my parents because i live 3600 miles from them, and even though i miss my mom, the distance is good for me

there are two exquisite chairs on the porch.  they fold and recline from thrones to nearly-horizontal beds.  there are pillows and cupholders and trays and specific spaces for both a book and a phone.  i can sit there while the morning sun rises and read or play word games or browse tumblr, cup of coffee beside me, trees shielding my eyes from stabby sunbeams

there are remnants of the last tenant’s garden in one corner of the yard.  we’ve done fuckall for yardwork but plants struggle through anyway.  some seem to have sprouted by accident.  mushroom clusters populate the edges of the fence.  the apartment squirrel (there are probably several, but i like to think it’s a single energetic creature) runs back and forth along the fence & i always lose my train of thought & then laugh my ASS off at the “SQUIRREL! XD” adhd moment.  birds kick up leaf litter and play on the ground looking for insects to eat, they wiggle their tail feathers and flap their wings and sometimes they disappear and then return with friends

a little more than eleven months ago, i packed all of dev’s and my shit into a uhaul and drove and drove and drove to get to this city i’d never been in before to live with a partner i’d never cohabitated with.  we were homeless for more than a month, we weathered some financial disasters, we met some great people and some shitty ones

on the drive i fell in love with the sky.  i didn’t know how big it can get - actually, that’s a lie.  i’d FORGOTTEN how big it can get.  i’ve loved the sky thirty miles out to sea, no land in sight in any direction, just blue water and blue space above.  i’ve loved the vastness and the yawning beneath me and the knowledge that everything is BIGGER than i can fathom.  the depth of the sea doesn’t frighten me, it’s home. i don’t want to die, but if i had to, the ocean makes a soothing grave

in north dakota i discovered that i’ve been partially blind my whole life, which is a different tale that showed me i’ll never stop learning myself.  in montana we struggled up thousands of feet of mountains with the car huffing and puffing at the trailer’s weight, and when we finally coasted downward, it felt like sudden freefall.  we ended up in the pitch darkness of night on sheer winding interstates with midnight construction projects forcing detours.  the mountains felt hungry, they had teeth.  mountain cliffs are much scarier to me than the ocean depths

i bought a red bull and poured a little out the driver’s side door as an offering to hermes, because i’m not particularly religious but i’ll take help where i can get it.  slammed that back in a few gulps and shook to bright-eyed alertness and ended up behind a slow-driving red pickup truck that guided us over about a hundred miles of mountain terrain

i thought, that’s just some construction worker driving between sites.  the roads are empty at this time of night, but it’s an interstate.  of course we’d end up behind someone.  this isn’t divine intervention.  this isn’t the benevolence of a god

i thought, but it can be a little magic.  if i want it to be.  

and it was.  it stays with me.

god help me but i’ve been writing this stream of consciousness for more than 30 minutes and i’ve said nothing.  i haven’t talked about the city, the parks, the people, the conversations, the books, the tv shows, the movies, the communities, the library, the animals, writing, reading, singing, acting, swimming, analyzing, creating, supporting, building.  and i can keep going.  i can come up with hundreds and hundreds of things i love and i can write paragraphs about all of them

so i’ll stop here.  you get the picture.  love is the life i’ve made for myself, the surroundings i’ve built, the quiet moments i can capture, the inspiration i pin, the magic i commit to memory.

i had to work so damn hard for every single bit of this.

i’ll be fucking damned if i let it go because my brain tried to trick me into thinking death is better.

-

2. spite

there are people who want me to die.

i don’t mean that i have a giant entourage of personalized enemies who curse my name and plan my individual demise.  although there have been plenty of people who have not liked me much.  probably some of them would enjoy my death.  i don’t give a shit about that

there are people who want me dead because i am a dot on a grid they dislike.  a faceless anonymous enemy who meets too many bad criteria with numbers and percentages and shrinking majorities and shifting public opinion

because i’m gay.  because i’m bipolar.  because i’m autistic.  because i’m a dropout.  because i grew up poor.  because my spine curves and my shoulders ache.  because i squandered my potential, because i didn’t have enough potential, because i didn’t love god enough, because i love the wrong gods, because i don’t worship, because i worship wrong, because i didn’t seek a husband, because i never wanted one, because i talk too much, because i can’t be controlled, because i chose to leave the fold when i realized it was suffocating me, because i’m ugly, because i’m gorgeous, because my body belongs to me

pick your poison.

this bothered me growing up, a lot. i knew i did not deserve to die. but if enough people tell you that you should, a little part of you will wonder if they’re right.  that little part might become bigger the closer they get and the louder they shout and the longer they wear you down

we know the rough shape of this story, i don’t need to tell it.  mine was messy and not triumphant and i survived more by chance than premeditation.

i’m older now.  by and large i’m still young as shit - i’m 24 - but GOD i am LEAGUES away from 15, 16, 17. i know who i am. i know what i want. i know how to get it. and when i don’t know that, i find out. i tell the truth.  i ask for what i want.  i use my time how i want.  i do what i want.

there are days that i can’t access the “love” side of the equation.  no finding poetry in birdsong or sugared coffee for me, thank you, i feel like shit and the world is awful and everything is too big and fast and cruel and everything wants me to die and it wants everything i love to die, too.  everyone i love.  it’s all garbage. the good doesn’t touch me

trauma is difficult to describe.  the difficulty is compounded by the fact that my trauma is influenced by my various neurodivergences, bipolar included.  i never know if i’m feeling what other people do.  i don’t know if i’m voicing unpalatable feelings others are afraid to express - or if i’m just othering myself, admitting i’m not as human as everyone else.

there is something malevolent and monstrous inside me.  i don’t touch it all the time.  but i don’t pretend it isn’t there.  it sits in my chest and molders or radiates or oozes.  it presses at my throat.  it curdles in my stomach.  it hurts what it touches, whether that’s me or someone i love or someone i hate.  it sets things aflame with no regard for the precious or the fragile.  it tears down walls and razes shelters and begs for apocalyptic rain.

i can give this thing names, clinical descriptors.  i know what it is on a diagnostic chart, in a ponderous article, in an academic debate, in a fiction novel, in a war movie, in a memoir.  there are a thousand ways to describe this thing.  the descriptors aren’t important.  what is important is this - i have learned that most people do not walk side-by-side with a tornado-hurricane-hellfire-weaponized-open-nuclear-reactor.  this is not a “normal” expression of human emotion, this is not me trying to ascribe power to “bad bipolar feelings.”  this thing lives in me and i know why it’s there and it is not designed to be held/silenced/muzzled/controlled by my body.

it does not help to pretend this thing does not exist.  it does not help to try to reason it away or ignore it or tell it to stop.  it wants what it wants, it does what it does.  possibly if i was better at therapy or stubbornness then i wouldn’t resign myself to that

but it is fucking EXHAUSTING to try to fight something that’s part of me.  to try to reshape it, rename it, pare it down, make it consumable for the masses.  it’s a war i have never won and it’s a war that i will lose if i keep fighting it.  i cannot fight with myself.  i cannot beat my monster into submission.  if we’re gonna battle like that, head to head, me trying to cut it down, me trying to be the hero, it rearing back like a fire-breathing dragon,

then it’s stronger.  it’s always stronger.

so i surrender.

but that’s not where i stop.

can’t fight it.  can’t kill it.  can’t muzzle it.  can’t reshape it, can’t disarm it, can’t contain it.  

alright.  

so what now.

if the surrender was a full giving-up, this is where i’d passively accept that i’m doomed to hurt and destroy everything precious to me.  can’t fix it.  will lose everything, will never experience or deserve happiness, will make the world worse simply by existing.

that sure does sound like impending-doom rhetoric.  hop skip and a jump from some dire-ass conclusions.  

so fuck that, i say. 

here’s a better question.

if it has to get out, then what happens if i control where it goes?

here’s the thing.

the monster doesn’t care what it kills or destroys or hurts.  

“have a conscience, care about things, remember love, stop yourself, don’t do this don’t do this don’t do this.” 

 losing battle.  lost war.

 it’s not the monster’s fault.  the monster doesn’t have complex motivations or hates or fears.  it exists to protect me through scorched earth.  a remnant of a chemical imbalance, maladaptive coping mechanism, bipolar crazy, traumatized injury.  it doesn’t know that its job is obsolete.

i can’t change the monster.

but my mind is a separate thing.  my mind knows what matters, what my priorities are, what i find precious, what i want to protect.  my mind remembers all the things the monster doesn’t.  

my mind has learned things the monster can’t.

when i fight it head-on, the malevolence is stronger than me.  but as i am, walking with it, sitting in my bed writing this while examining the void and the consciousness, describing it, quantifying it,

that’s when i’m stronger.

and with my mind as the stronger force, i can decide where the monster goes.  what it touches.  what it destroys.  what it burns.  where the ashes land.

i do not want to be a destructive person.  i want to be someone who builds, repairs, changes.  i want to make the world better for kids like me.  i want to stop pouring more gasoline onto a fire that’s been burning since long before i was born.  i want to believe - i do believe - that positive change is better than negative.  i do my best to plant good things and enact that positive change instead of becoming a beacon of wrath.

but there are a lot of kids surrounded by people who want them to die, and not all of them have a protective monster.

so it’s good.

when i’m depressed, my mind loses its battles.  my cognizance slips.  i forget why i care.  i forget what i want.  i forget how happiness feels, how to find pleasure in quiet moments.  

i don’t get depressed as often as i used to since my meds are adjusted correctly now.  but it still happens.  it will keep happening for the rest of my life.

my mind weakens and curls up and stops fighting, and the monster is always there.

it’s a very powerful thing when it wants to be.

it wants to survive.

the thing is, it knows there are people that want me/us/whatever dead.  it’s been fighting them forever.  die like they want?  my mind says, sure, what does it matter.

the monster says, nah.  our work isn’t done.  and fuck them, anyway.

so we get up.

-

so that’s how i stay alive.

i typed this for 90 minutes and after editing i’d spent two hours on this post.  i don’t know if anyone will read it all.  i don’t know if it’ll mean anything.  i don’t know if these thoughts even make sense, much less if i’ve conveyed the feelings i have.

i love being alive.  and when i don’t, i love being a monster.  it’s good.  all of it is good.  i’ve reconciled my uglier pieces.  it’s not one or the other, love or spite.  it’s symbiosis.  i need both, i love both.

no guarantees that this is helpful, but based purely on my own life experience, these are my tips for survival:

you’ll have to find your own roots.  i can’t give them to you.  

but it’s possible to dig them in and spread them far enough that one uprooted peg doesn’t shift your whole equilibrium.  

and when you’re tired, rest, and let yourself be tired, and find the reason why you’re staying in the world. 

 i’m positive there’s at least one.

figure out why you’re losing your battles and then change the game.

if you can’t win one setup, don’t try to beat the system.  adjust your strategy.

you’ll be surprised by what you can love when you stop fighting the disparate pieces of you, and instead figure out how to use them.

[tessatechaitea]

Kid Eternity #2

This cover says, "Don't look at who wrote it! Just look at how interesting these visuals are! Sucker."

In my review of Kid Eternity #1, I threw out a few theories on why Ann Nocenti's writing is so weird. After reading page one of this issue, I've thrown those theories out again but in a different way. That makes complete sense if you understand English idioms and also understand that everything Ann Nocenti writes is basically pre-trash.

This is page one of Kid Eternity #2 and it will probably get this review banned on Tumblr.

I have a new theory: Ann Nocenti asked what a Vertigo comic book should be and editor Tom Peyer probably joked, "They're mostly tits and profound nonsense." So Ann Nocenti's vagina gobbed in her underwear and she squealed with glee. "That's what I do!" she chortled merrily! I probably shouldn't abuse Ann Nocenti for writing things I don't understand. I have plenty of choices of other people to abuse for it: my elementary school teachers for not calling me out on doing just enough to get by; my junior high school teachers who let me get away with not putting any effort into big year-end projects (In science, we were supposed to make a stone age tool. I rubber glued a carved-to-a-shoddy point stick to another stick (which was worse than my friend Robert who put some pine needles into a split stick, calling the weapon "Ow"); in English, we had one project based on Romeo and Juliet (because all we did that quarter was watch and read various versions of the play) and I refused to do it because the teacher was wasting my time; in Computers, I found Dan Felipe's project, a trivia program, and I just copied it and used it for my own project (changing all the questions and line numbers and other things to make it seem like it wasn't plagiarized but, I mean, come on! In fairness to me, I only did it because the stupid fucking school changed computers halfway through the semester, dropping the TRS-80s for Apples and my project was relying on the Poke images of the TRS-80 to create an animated sequence)); my high school English teacher, Mr. Borror, for reading nearly everything I wrote in front of the class so that I began to think I was the wittiest fucker in Santa Clara High; my college teachers for some reason or another that allows me to not blame my own lack of ability; and probably my parents because if they were any good at their parental jobs, I wouldn't be writing a blog about comic books. In other words, I'm sure Ann Nocenti is a philosophical genius while I'm just a guy who blames everybody else for things I don't understand. Even if I truly felt Ann Nocenti was an underrated genius whose writings I'm incapable of parsing, I would never ask her to explain what she meant by this first page of Kid Eternity #2. I just wouldn't feel comfortable putting her on the spot like that. It's not up to the artist to explain their art to the foolish audience! Only the Christian Messiah bears that responsibility (and, let's face it, he wouldn't have had to explain every fucking parable if he'd been able to convince smarter people of his bullshit). So if it's up to me to interpret this first page gibber gabber, I suppose I should get to business. Or kill myself. I mean, killing myself would be easier and less painful. And I totally would kill myself before reading more Ann Nocenti comic books except I have plans to cut my toenails in a few months. Before I begin trying to understand this hogwash, I'd like to point out that if she'd written it as a sonnet, I wouldn't have a problem with it. I'd read it, think, "Yep, that's a sonnet!", nod my head in sage understanding, and then jerk off to the titties. But this is not a sonnet so it is not allowed to be obtuse simply for obtuseness' sake. So this fucking speech. First off, who is speaking? The serpent trying to fuck the naked lady? Is this the speech the serpent used on Eve to get her to eat the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil? Although if that's the case, how would talking about Buddha convince Eve of anything? I'll assume the serpent is omniscient (because he may or may not be Satan, depending on what holy men or con artists you believe but certainly isn't Satan if you're simply going by the Book of Genesis. I bet the serpent was God doing one of those Zeus things minus the rape. Zeus loved to trick people so he could get laid; Yahweh tricks people to test their faith). I guess since she had yet to eat from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil (come on, God! That name is terrible), she wouldn't know what she doesn't know and can't defend against any nonsense the serpent spews at her. Let's assume the art goes with the speech and it's the serpent speaking. So why is "God in repair" and what the fuck does that mean? And why is it followed by the statement, "Why not call the wisest man a freak?" Does the snake only speak in non sequiturs? Was that a stupid question since I already know the snake's dialogue is being written by Ann Nocenti? It is kind of refreshing to see that her dialogue style never changed in thirty years. The shit the serpent says on this page could be nonsense spewed by Coil from Nocenti's New 52 Katana. You know what? I don't have to continue this because, in the end, it's just a carnival barker's pitch to get people to believe in the freaks in his freak show. He's all, "What's the difference between freaks and religion?!" That's not a riddle I have an answer for. The only religious joke I know is "What do Noah's Ark and The Bible have in common?" That might be a joke that was extant before I came up with it but I did come up with it on my own. And I think the answer is so obvious I would be insulting the intelligence of all four people reading this. Oh, and the snake trying to fuck the lady? It's a tattoo on the Tattooed Lady. The reason the comic begins in a circus freak show? Because Kid Eternity is the newest freak on display! The opening sideshow scene is just one of Kid Eternity's dreams. The demon angel babies get into Kid Eternity's dream and when he wakes up, they've tied his hair to the floor which totally has him trapped for like three panels. That was a close one! Kid Eternity decides he can't truly know what he's doing unless he utterly knows himself. So it's time to get his brain probed.

Let me guess: Carl will blather on about synchronicity and dreams while Freud tries to figure out how big Kid Eternity's penis is.

Carl doesn't initially discuss anything. He's just the straight man for Freud saying all the typical things you'd expect Freud to say: penis this, envy that, fuck your mom, kill your dad, more penises, many more penises, everything is penises. But then he comes on fast and furious with his archetypes and collective unconscious and human mythology stuff, all the biggest Carl Jung hits (aside from synchronicity but I'm sure he'll get around to that later. Ann Nocenti isn't going to miss showing the readers all the knowledge nuggets she mined to make her brain big). If only Nocenti would spend as much time writing the story as she spends making sure the readers know she knows a lot of shit then maybe I would have kept reading this comic book. Meanwhile, Zeus wanders around looking for somebody to trick fuck, Madame Blavatsky hunts down the next best burger before she slips back to the past, Beelzebub and Judas wander through Limbo, Jesus gets drunk and falls off a bar stool, and a phone yells at a woman. That all happens on one page to make sure the reader remembers other things are happening. But why does Ann Nocenti spend two panels of that dense page on Madame Blavatsky when she could have updated the reader on the non-X-File FBI agents who will probably hate fuck each other before the story ends? I also wanted an update on the Buddha Christ Trash Child. But no! Instead Nocenti just moves on to more of her proof that she's read all about Freud and Jung and totally understands the shallow top layer of their theories and philosophies. I don't mean to say I know any more than Ann Nocenti! But I understand how little I know of Freud and everything she's had him say are things everybody knows about Freud from all the dirty jokes about him: ids, supermen, parental relations, and phalli!

Oh, that's why we didn't get an update on the dense update page; Nocenti needed a full page to document the hate/fuck.

My new Ann Nocenti writing theory: Ann Nocenti has never had an original thought. She simply reads things, takes copious notes of bits and quotes she likes, and then shoves them sideways into whatever script she's currently writing. No wait. She does have original thoughts but they're almost not worth having. Like "everything in life is a prison" and then proving it by stating a few things about life that can be cell-like. It's profound in that way that things are profound when you're on acid. If you don't think about it, you can find yourself nodding along going, "Yeah! Yeah! Everything is a prison! Life is a fucking prison!" But if you do stop to think about it, it's like coming down off acid. You start to see how that thought you had about how the number three ties everything else in the universe together because of the way the corners meet didn't wasn't as mind blowing as it was six hours ago. Although the rant you went on about how pressing play on the VCR remote play the show and pressing pause pauses it but then to unpause it you have to hit pause again when you should really hit play was pretty fucking good. Speaking of acid, I'm two-thirds of the way through the acid documentary on Netflix and it's fucking fantastic. I wasn't really thinking a lot about it but I was nodding along going, "Yeah! Yeah! Everything they're saying about acid is absolutely spot on!" throughout. I actually had to take a break because it was making me too happy listening to all Sting and Carrie Fisher tell their acid stories. I don't know why I didn't just spend five paragraphs discussing why the FBI agents were playing Scrabble while they fucked. It's probably just one of Sean Phillips' kinks. Oh, maybe they were just playing Scrabble and not hate-fucking. It's hard to tell because on the next page, Jerry asks Val if they can finally fuck and Val is all, "You're a nerd!" Then she slits his throat. But then in the next panel, his throat isn't slit and he's all, "You feeling better?" And she's all, "Yeah!" So I don't know what the fuck is going on and I don't really care. I've still got like eight pages of this mess to get through and I'd rather just nod along than try to understand it. And then just like last issue, Ann Nocenti sputters out a bit of writing that I totally agree with because I've said basically the same thing before. About how every day, I fall in love with some person I see on the street because of the smallest of things. And then I love them forever.

My story isn't as good but I once fell in love walking through the airport in Minneapolis. I was passing by an attractive woman and she was gazing off somewhere as I looked at her face. She was coming up on my right and then I glanced down at her breasts and back up at her face. And that was the moment she noticed me, as I glanced from her breasts to her face. And, catching me, she smiled and laughed and kept on walking. And I still love her to this day.

And for this page alone, I forgive all of Ann Nocenti's past (future?) transgressions and find myself eager to read Kid Eternity #3. Oh wait. I still have a few pages left in this piece of crap. I read a lot of books in college that I sometimes still say are my favorite books but I should probably just say they stuck with me because I know which books are almost always in my top five and a lot of the ones in college aren't those. But Edith Wharton's Age of Innocence always stuck with me. It's possible that I completely missed the message of the novel but to me, the book was about how true love only exists when it's unrequited. Archer Day-Lewis doesn't love Ellen Pfeifer more than May Ryder for any other reason than that she was the one he didn't marry. It seemed to me that Wharton was trying to portray how hard love is and true, phenomenal love only exists in the imagination. Only a love we can imagine can remain magical. Only when we love an object, or the imaginary person we've placed on a pedestal, can we evade disappointment in the reality and flaws of another actual human being. Being in love with Ellen Pfeifer was easy because she wasn't there for all those years. There were no fights or disappointments or multiple times accidentally walking in on her taking a huge shit. She was pure and beautiful and imaginary. But then again, maybe that wasn't the point of the book at all. I was young and romantic at the time and I still absolutely loved the women I'd had unrequited crushes on in junior high and high school while my college relationship was slowly circling the drain due to personality conflicts. But not due to sex. The sex was fucking great! Anyway, Freud and Jung decide Kid Eternity is in denial and they leave. Hemlock and Dog spread some new reality across the world via a computer virus. Madame Blavatsky starts making time go backwards, probably so she can vomit up all the Twinkies she ate and eat them again with their delicious creamy filling. And the devil and Judas wind up in a bar in Limbo with Jesus to make plans for Kid Eternity. There's probably a lot more going on but there'd be too much for me to process even if it wasn't confused by Nocenti's writing style. No wonder I gave up on this book after three issues. There's no way by the third issue I could remember anything that was going on, if I even understood it the month prior. Kid Eternity #2 Rating: C-. A confusing mess that's about 90% Ann Nocenti just vomiting out things she's read. Even the things that, with the benefit of the doubt, I want to believe sprang from her own philosophical musings, I can't bring myself to absolutely believe it. I feel like every thought and piece of dialogue she's placed in this story just came from piles of notebooks filled with notes she's made while reading other people's works. It's practically a collage of philosophical ideas and moral musings pulled from myriad sources and shoved into a Kid Eternity framework "written" by Ann Nocenti. Which could explain Nocenti's penchant for stilted dialogue. If she were making up all the character's thoughts, the dialogue would flow from one character to the next. But when each character can only respond with some profound thought Nocenti read elsewhere, it comes across like a ransom note, each word cut from the mind of somebody else and pasted as a reply to another bit cut from some other thinker, no relation existing between the two thoughts except the proximity relationship Nocenti has given them.

[mymindsmadness]

MyTake!Monday

For those of you that are new, make sure to also check out WorkOfArt!Wednesday where we feature a Drarry artist that deserves love and recognition, and Fanfiction!Friday where I recommend and summarize a new Drarry fic every week!

MyTake!Monday is just a glorified way of saying that I’m going to rant about something either canon or headcanon’ed in the Drarry community. You can suggest topics or ask for opinions by dropping by my ask box! . Anon asks are always open!

Disclaimer: Anything talked about during MyTake!Monday posts are simply that - my take. They are in no way a reflection on the writings of J.K. Rowling, or the thoughts of others in the fandom. Even during topics I feel passionate about, I respect the thoughts, ships, and headcanons of others. Please respect my thoughts as I respect yours. I am always up for a lively debate, but any comments or asks left with malicious intent will be ignored, and I ask that my followers ignore them as well. Thank you!

This week on MyTake!Monday: A Drarry Headcanon I’ve had forever. 

Draco + Harry + A Garden

Honestly, I’ve had so many Drarry headcanons at this point, there is no possible way they can all fit in the same universe. This one would fall along the lines of partially epilogue compliant, which was a surprise even for me. Typically, I like to imagine that Draco never joined Voldemort and got the help of the order instead. 

However, I’ve has this tiny little headcanon I wished I could think of a story for. Basically, I imagine that after the war, Draco is broken. People treat him like trash, his family name means nothing, his father is in prison, and his mother is on house arrest. Basically, Draco is completely alone, which isn’t a new feeling for him. This is a new kind of alone though. At least before he had followers. He’s so desperate and broken that when Harry turns up with his wand, he doesn’t have it in him to make a snarky remark. 

Harry sees this and doesn’t immediately bolt out of the manner, even though the place gives him horrid flashbacks. It could be worse, because Narcissa and Draco had been redoing the entire manner, room by room. They want the house to be as different as possible. The one place Draco wanted to remain the same, however, was the garden. On one of Harry’s visits (because he inexplicably kept coming back), Draco tells him as much... 

Draco used to spend every summer with his mother in the garden. It was the one place the house elves weren’t allowed to work. Draco didn’t do much in the way of yard work, that was more his mother’s thing, but he loved being out there. His mother’s hard features softened when she tended to the roses. When he was little they would walk for hours, his mother pointing out all the different flowers. As he got older, they would take their tea out there, sometimes simply sitting and reading. 

When Voldemort took over the manner, his mother couldn’t tend the garden. The spells wore off, and the flowers died. It started with the apple trees along the edges of the manner, and ever so slowly the rot and death spread. For a week nothing stood in the ruins except those bright red roses, and then those died too. What had once been a vibrant sanctuary had turned into a graveyard of thorns and decay - like everything the dark lord had touched. Although Draco and Narcissa worked to rebuild the manner, the garden was left in ruins. Neither could bare to see their once glorious nursery reduced to a reminder of their poor choices. 

Although Harry is still weary around Draco, he finds himself drawn to him. Maybe it was because he needed a friend. Maybe it was because no matter what was happening in Harry’s life, he was always drawn to Draco. The story of the garden breaks his heart. It takes him three months and a dozen more visits to work up the nerve to ask to see it. 

It’s far worse than he thought. In his mind, Harry had imagined his Aunt Petunia’s backyard overrun with weeds. Or maybe even the gnomes that trampled Mrs. Weasley’s much smaller garden. The Manner’s garden was at least ten times the size and tan all over. It practically reeked of dark magic. Every instinct in his body told him to turn away and never return. But then he sees the look on Draco’s face. 

He calls Neville that night for advice.  

It takes them nearly a year to get the garden into ‘acceptable shape’. Though, it only took Harry six months to work up the courage to kiss Draco as he knelt in front of a bed of snapdragons. 

By the time summer had caused the garden to erupt in a kaleidoscope of colors for the third year in a row, Harry knelt among the bright red roses and asked Draco to marry him.

I hope you guys enjoyed that. It honestly got away from me. It was supposed to be like a two paragraph explanation!

But yeah, feel free to use the concept if you’d like, just make sure you tag me so I can read it!!!

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[spelviin]

Vitya Week Day 3: Loved

Happy Birthday to the best boy!

Victor is 16 years old when he first becomes aware of Victor Nikiforov, in his bedroom at Yakov and Lilia’s house, reading an article in a sports magazine entitled “5 Up-And-Comers to Watch Out For This Season”. Next to the number 3 in the article, his own face stares back at him from the page. Victor Nikiforov, Men’s Singles Figure Skating, Age16, Russia. It’s your standard magazine fare, a little two-paragraph blurb about his background, his past accomplishments, his hobbies, his interests.

Victor Nikiforov loves dogs, it says. His favourite thing to do outside the rink is to curl up with a good book, it says. His favourite flowers are blue roses, it says, and Victor grins bemusedly at the page. He isn’t sure where the author of this particular column had gotten that idea. His favourite flowers have always been lilacs. His grandmother had had a few lilac trees in her garden back home when he was young, and the scent has always made him think of her.

It doesn’t bother him, at the time. It’s an insignificant tidbit of misinformation, nothing to worry about. And two out of three correct factoids isn’t bad, he supposes. And then, at his next competition, when he finishes his skate, the crowd showers the ice in blue roses.

Victor doesn’t dislike the roses, and it would be both rude and pointless to try and correct people about his preferred type of flower. So he accepts the bouquets with a gracious smile and a wave to the crowd.

That’s how it starts, in his mind, that disparity between the real Victor and Victor Nikiforov.

Victor Nikiforov loves roses, where Victor loves lilacs.

Simple enough.

And then it starts to grow.

As Victor’s accomplishments pile up, so does attention from sponsors, from fans, from sports media outlets. And with each interview, each publication, each sponsorship deal, Victor Nikiforov grows, a perception, an idea of him and the kind of person he is that exists completely in the public’s collective imaginations, completely out of his control.

Victor Nikiforov is effortlessly graceful on the ice, while Victor has to put in hours of gruelling, sweaty work at the rink each and every day.

Victor Nikiforov lands his quads smoothly, surprising and delighting his audience, while Victor is sent sprawling to the cold, hard unforgiving surface of the rink over and over and over again.

Victor Nikiforov’s skin is flawless, and his hair flows elegantly over his shoulders, pristine and shimmering. Victor breaks out on the regular and it takes ages for him to brush out his tangles each morning.

Victor Nikiforov is delightfully bright and charming, always ready with a winning smile and cheeky wink that send young men and women alike swooning.  Victor has days where he feels so empty and hollow and drained inside that he can barely bring himself to get out of bed to take Makkachin for a walk.

Victor Nikiforov is a playboy, hopping from relationship to relationship, leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake. And Victor? Well, Victor isn’t quite so lucky in love.

It’s not that he doesn't want love; quite the opposite. He craves it so much it hurts, this ever-present ache in his chest in the shape of someone, anyone, who could ease the terrible loneliness that eats away at him. He seeks out love in all its forms, falls briefly in love with nearly anyone who shows him positive attention.

But none of them want him. They all want Victor Nikiforov. They want beauty and glamour and talent and charm, and he can do that. He does that, for them, for a time. He learns to perform Victor Nikiforov flawlessly, to live in that mask for days, weeks, months on end. Long enough, he hopes, to make them stay.

But they never do. No matter how well he performs Victor Nikiforov, he can’t keep up the charade forever. Eventually, inevitably, Victor shows through. Workaholic Victor, forgetful Victor, Victor with bedhead and no makeup on, Victor who occasionally gets annoyed and snappy and sarcastic. Victor who sweats and bleeds and works and works and works and works. Victor who can’t “just cheer up.” Victor who is too clingy, too needy, too much.

They hadn’t signed on for that, none of them had.

So they leave, all of them, over and over again, and honestly? Victor can’t blame them. He prefers Victor Nikiforov, too. He knows if he ever wants a hope of finding love, of deserving love, he has to do better.

So he leans into Victor Nikiforov, tries to become him. He puts in more hours at the rink, working from the crack of dawn until he can barely move from exhaustion, pushing himself to his absolute limits and beyond. He practices that winning smile in the mirror, practices and practices and practices until you can barely even tell that it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He destroys himself over and over and over again, breaks himself down and rebuilds as many times as it takes to live up to people’s expectations.

Victor Nikiforov is an image, you see, a concept rather than a human being, so it’s easy enough to change and mold him as the need arises. One season he is Victor Nikiforov the Rebel, the next he is Victor Nikiforov the Sensitive Artist, the next, Victor Nikiforov the Playboy. He becomes a new person each year, becomes whatever is necessary to continue to surprise his audience, to exceed their expectations, to be worthy of their admiration and love the way he knows Victor could never be. And it is exhausting work.

He lives in the ever-changing mask of Victor Nikiforov for so long that he might have forgotten it was even there, if not for that cold, lonely, desperately sad part of him curled up deep inside, begging for a love that was real and whole and unconditional, a love that he knows Victor could never be worthy of. But even that becomes easy enough to ignore after a time. His career is flourishing, the sponsor offers are pouring in, the world is at his feet. There are more than enough distractions to keep that ugly, broken part of himself quiet.

But try as he might, he can never silence it completely. It’s always there, and more pronounced than ever in the quiet moments when he returns home from the rink to his empty apartment, when he stands on the beach looking out onto the ocean, when he wakes up every morning in a cold and empty bed.

Victor Nikiforov has everything in the world, and yet Victor has never felt emptier.

Those closest to him might notice, he thinks. Yakov notices, but he never says much. As long as Victor continues to medal and pay his coaching fees, it isn’t really his place to pry into his personal life. Makkachin notices too, when Victor comes home exhausted, slumps down against the door and buries his face in her fur. But of course, she never says anything either.

His career slowly loses its allure. The constant pressure to continue to exceed expectations starts to weigh on him. He is 25, and he knows his body can only do so much for so long. Even Victor Nikiforov has limits, after all, and for the first time, he is struck with the prospect of eventually having to face them. He can no longer shock and amaze the audience like he once could. They still love him - still love Victor Nikiforov, that is - but it’s only a matter of time until he can no longer handle the physical toll of this sport. He has reached the apex of his career, reached as high as he can… it’s only downhill from here.

So, these are his options. He can stay in competition until his body gives out entirely, getting knocked lower and lower on the podium until he never even makes it on at all, and shrink into obscurity as the sad story of a once-talented skater who had fallen from grace.

Or he can walk away from the career that is slowly killing him, retire while he is still on top… and then what? He has given everything for his career, everything, always. He has nothing else. Nothing but an empty apartment and a beloved dog who is pushing 14. That’s it. His whole life.

And either of those options would kill Victor Nikiforov.

If he stays in competition until he burns out, his carefully constructed persona wil crack, and the world will see him as he really was. Clumsy, imperfect, unworthy.

If he walks away from the world of figure skating, Victor Nikiforov will fade into obscurity just the same. And with his limited interests outside the sport, few friends and no family, he’d just end up stuck in his apartment with a stranger be barely even knows.

It’s an impossible choice. So, like every other difficult and painful thought, he pushes it deep down inside himself, plasters a dazzling smile on his face, and pretends nothing is wrong. Lets the concern fester inside him along with everything else, and, for the time being, keeps going with his career like he always has.

And then Sochi.

Another medal like a noose around his neck. Another empty smile. Another boring banquet, sipping champagne and waiting for it to be over so he can go back to his room, take off his mask, and shut out the world again.

And then Yuuri Katsuki.

Confident, alluring, inebriated Yuuri Katsuki, dancing like a fool in a room full of the creme de la creme of the figure skating world.

Victor Nikiforov would never do something so tasteless. Victor Nikiforov is polished and perfect, sociable but reserved enough to keep himself out of too much trouble. Victor Nikiforov really shouldn’t even be watching this, should just smile fetchingly and then politely direct his attention somewhere else.

But Victor can’t take his eyes off the man.

Yuuri Katsuki is breathtaking. He moves like pure sin, drawing Victor almost unconsciously into his orbit. His dark eyes bore into him, hazy from the drink but sparkling with want. He asks him to dance, and before Victor has time to think it though, he’s in Yuuri Katsuki’s arms, the world is spinning around them, and he feels lighter than he has in years.

Victor Nikiforov shouldn't be doing this, he knows. Victor Nikiforov has an image to uphold.

But Victor is weak. He wants to stay in Yuuri Katsuki’s arms forever.

“Be my coach, Victor!”

…And maybe, just maybe, he can.

But Yuuri Katsuki never calls him back.

He passes the time working on new programs. Eros, because his dreams are filled with dark eyes and champagne and strong arms around him. Agape, because he wonders what it would be like to experience a love that was truly unconditional.

What it would be like if that dark-eyed man could love him, unconditionally. It’s a pipe dream, he knows, but it’s also the only thing that keeps him going.

And then, a link to a YouTube video. And then, a plane. And then, a hot spring in Japan.

Victor Nikiforov would never do something this impulsive and irrational. Victor doesn’t care.

While putting his things in his room, he catches a glimpse of Yuuri’s own bedroom down the hall. Specifically, of the posters lining his walls. Victor Nikiforov, in all his carefully posed and airbrushed glory, stares down at him from every angle.

The posters go back through nearly his entire career. Victor Nikiforov with long hair, with short hair, the rebel, the artist, the heartthrob. They all look down at him, this confusing hodgepodge of masks he’s worn throughout the years. Looking back at these perfect, idealized versions of himself, an uncomfortable feeling forms in the pit of his stomach.

Which version do you want, Yuuri?

He makes sure to greet Yuuri Katsuki in a manner befitting of Victor Nikiforov, rising from the water and posing himself like a statue in the middle of the hot spring. Beautiful, confident, beckoning. Victor is terrified. By the looks of it, Yuuri Katsuki is, too. This is surprising.

The first of many surprises, all of which boil down to one simple fact:

Yuuri is not like Yuuri Katsuki.

He is timid, polite, and turns beet red every time Victor goes near him. He stammers and flinches away when Victor tries to touch him. He starts to actively try to avoid him.

Af first, Victor worries that maybe he was wrong, after all. Maybe Yuuri doesn’t like him. But then his mind flits back to that poster-adorned wall, all those versions of himself - of Victor Nikiforov - staring down at him.

Which one do you want?

He doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be. He doesn’t know what mask to wear that will convince Yuuri that he’s worth his love, his attention, his time, that he’s worth anything at all. So finally, in desperation, he asks. Sitting on a sandbank, sandwiching Makkachin between them, his question hanging in the air with the smell of saltwater and the sound of seagulls’ cries.

And Yuuri thinks.

And Yuuri answers.

And of all the things he could have said, he chooses the one reply that sends a bolt of terror straight through Victor’s heart.

He doesn’t want him to be anything. He just wants him to be Victor.

Just Victor.

Victor doesn’t even know who Just Victor is. He doesn’t even like Just Victor. And why should he? No one else ever has.

But if it’s what Yuuri wants, he’ll do it. He’ll do anything for the chance to stay by Yuuri’s side, even if it means being Just Victor.

So he tries to let his walls down. It’s a long and painful process, and he still slips into old habits. He hides behind his smile when he’s angry or sad, tucks himself away behind the mask of Victor Nikiforov in the public eye, but… he tries.

And somehow, somehow… Yuuri manages to love Victor.

He manages to love the Victor he sees first thing every day, with bedhead and morning breath. He loves the Victor he sees in the hot spring, makeup washed off and hair sticking to his too-large forehead (when Victor mentions he’s insecure about it, Yuuri tells him it’s the perfect size for covering in kisses, and proceeds to do just that). He loves the Victor who is clumsy with his words, who doesn’t quite know how to handle Yuuri’s anxiety yet, who makes mistakes. The Victor who is flawed. The Victor who is human.

And Victor loves the Yuuri who shies away from him. Who can be cold and aloof, who assumes the worst of people. Who gets so lost in his own thoughts that he forgets to communicate. Who has his selfish moments and jumps to conclusions too easily.

And Victor loves him. He loves him. Loves him more than he ever thought it was possible to love another human being. Loves him so much he feels his heart might break out of his chest every time Yuuri smiles that gentle, cautious smile in his direction.

He feels light, free in a way that he hasn’t felt in years. There is still a disconnect between himself and the public’s perception of him but he doesn’t mind so much anymore. They can have their Victor Nikiforov if they want. Yuuri thinks that Just Victor is enough, and that is more than enough for Victor.

__________

Still, he has his moments of weakness. Moments where he doubts himself and his worth. Moments where he feels small, weak, inadequate.

He asks Yuuri how he feels about Victor Nikiforov one night, curled up in bed together as Yuuri runs his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t exactly mean to, it just comes tumbling out. When he finishes speaking, Yuuri looks desperately sad.

“Don’t you, you know... prefer him?” Victor asks, his voice just a shade above a whisper, so afraid of the answer that he can barely manage to ask the question.

“I used to,” Yuuri admits after a while, and Victor’s heart sinks. Yuuri must see it in his eyes, because he cups Victor’s face gently and turns it to look at him. “And then I met you, and you were so much better.”

Yuuri’s eyes are so unbearably soft and earnest that Victor has to look away, his eyes stinging and vision blurring, but he’s stopped again by Yuuri’s gentle hand on his cheek.

“Listen, Victor. Whoever it was in your past that made you feel like you weren’t enough, they were wrong. So, so wrong.  And honestly, I feel sorry for them, because they’ll never get to see you the way I see you. They way you always know what to say to cheer someone up on a bad day. The silly little songs you make up when you brush Makkachin.” He smiles cheekily. “The way you snort when you laugh too hard.”

Victor gasps, offended. “I do not!”

“You do!” Yuuri grins. “You absolutely do, and I love it. I love you, Victor Nikiforov.”

And there it is again, that gentle smile that knocks him off his feet every time. He blinks back his tears and cuddles into Yuuri’s chest. “Call me Vitya?”

Yuuri hums, tender and full of love, and leans in to press a soft kiss to Victor’s forehead. “I love you, my Vitya.”

“I love you too, Yuuri.”

_______

“Victor Nikiforov is dead,” Yurio spits at him on a beach in Barcelona, several weeks later.

It’s true, Victor thinks as his ring sparkles in the early-morning sunlight,  but not in the way that Yurio intends it.

Victor Nikiforov is dead, and good riddance to him.

He likes the sound of Victor Katsuki-Nikiforov better, anyways.

[knadire]

Art Theft Committed by CreepypastaDotCom and Chilling Tales for Dark Nights

Hey everybody. I just wanted to tell an important story to anyone out there that’s an artist or a fan of horror media. In the wake of the mess last weekend surrounding Twitter account @RareHorror failing to attribute art they reposted to the creator and having a massive and embarrassing meltdown (which you can read more about here, language warning: http://www.pajiba.com/film_reviews/rare-horrors-twitter-meltdown-ignites-debate-over-artist-rights.php), I want to share a similar experience I’ve been having. It’s going to contain some disturbing (but fake) Photoshops and paintings so I’m sorry in advance if this sort of thing upsets you.

 So about a month ago, while talking with some friends, one of them drew my attention to how the Twitter page for CreepypastaDotCom was tweeting out about a story on their main website using an image that looked a little familiar. There was no credit to be found. After a little digging we realized that it was the work of a rather well known, found footage-style artist who goes by SlimeySwampGhost, which many of us were familiar with. After discovering this, we collectively began filling their comments section with remarks about this lack of attribution. SlimeySwampGhost himself eventually asked for credit.

After a full day with no further response from CreepypastaDotCom, I decided to scroll deeper. I discovered that for the past few months, ALL their Twitter content was made up of uncredited artwork. Every post contained an excerpt, a link to the story it was from, a handful of hashtags, and an uncredited piece of artwork. Through this, I found another account called Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. They themselves are a horror audio drama/narration channel I’ve known about for a while. Not only did they have posts identical to those made on CreepypastaDotCom’s Twitter page, but they had made even MORE promoting their podcasts, audio recordings, and YouTube videos, still using artwork that they had no ownership of.

I want to put it into perspective how much of a profit these websites are making. If you visit CreepypastaDotCom (which I do not recommend), it is filled to bursting with ads. Their most recent story, which is only 1500 words long, contains four standard and one video ad to the right, a banner across the side and bottom, and three built right into the story, between every four paragraphs or so. I have seen an even higher number on longer stories. Though not an exact number, the site Worth of Web estimates that nearly 10 000 people visit CreepypastaDotCom and it earns nearly $150 USD daily. Though their site’s lack of ads is a little less apparent in its source of income, Chilling Tales for Dark Nights offers a subscription service starting at $5 USD a month and capping at $79.99 a year, locking many of their stories and recordings behind a paywall . On top of this, Social Blade estimates their channel earning between $144 and $2.3K USD monthly. These are not small groups making a mistake; these are large companies making the active decision to omit credit, at times going out of their way to do so.

So, I decided to spend a free afternoon going on a little crusade of using a combination of Google Images and other backwards image searching services to find and credit nearly ALL of the art they reposted in their respective comments section.

The most disturbing cases I’ve seen are:

-a few artists that I was able to tag directly that stated that they hadn’t permitted them to use their art nor was it free for anyone to repost or use (at bare minimum without credit)

-multiple artists who were selling the piece they used or others as a print

-several drawings that had logos, names, signatures or watermarks cropped out of the image to even further remove credit

-a handful of concept art from indie games

The most disgusting one I found was an advertisement featured on both Twitter feeds for a book on Amazon by K Banning Kellum. Attached to this was a piece that I discovered was hand painted by François Baranger for a crowdfunded book, cropping out the full resolution to hide the space where the text was meant to be placed. They were using art from an unrelated book to advertise another. Both Banning and Baranger have made statements asking that the advert be taken down.

It took a few hours before I heard any word from either of them. CreepypastaDotCom initially excused all this to Twitter’s word count, citing that their Facebook page properly attributed the specific artist I was referring to (which they mentioned was a “friend” of theirs). I pointed out that though yes, they did credit that very specific artist on that other social media, they failed to do so with a good majority of the art they were sharing, and that they had no issue adding an additional tweet to that chain after I mentioned it but still to none of the others.

Both pages did eventually remove all of the incriminating posts, but not before blocking me immediately after this interaction.

I had this on the back of my mind until a month later, when I decided to check up on both of them after the RareHorror incident occurred. When plugging their most recent text-based stories they began using (what I hope to be) stock photographs, and most of CreepypastaDotCom’s Facebook feed now consists of memes. But all of the images that they had removed on Twitter had not ben touched on this social media page, and I also discovered an Instagram page for Chilling Tales doing the same thing. While going about making similar remarks on these respective pages, I recognized the watermark of Omega Black, who’s work was stolen by them before, directly used in a thumbnail for their podcast, which is one of the ones currently hidden behind their paywall. In fact, a majority of their recent thumbnails on their website, as well as on YouTube, have art done by other people that they have not credited. They only credit the artists that they commission art from, which they can, have, and CONTINUE to do. I have made efforts to properly attribute and ask that they remove these images as many places as I have been able.

In the middle of writing this, CreepypastaDotCom has removed ONLY the post about post about K Banning’s book, leaving up everything else, and has banned me from commenting on their Facebook page any further. Chilling Tales yet to make any sort of statement about this behaviour. Since posting this to Facebook, I have now been officially blocked on both Chilling Tales for Dark Nights and CreepypastaDotCom on there, as well as CTFDN's Instagram. The posts that got the most negative feedback over theft (belong to Francois and OmegaBlack respectively) have all been completely removed, BUT all the others are still there. All my comments linking back to their respective portfolios, ArtStations and DeviantART profiles have been wiped clean and they are left uncredited once more.

In the end I just want this sort of thing to end. It’s not right that these pages are piggybacking off of the artwork of others to generate more interest and clicks, to earn a profit that the original creators will not see a cent of. As an artist myself who has had their art mistaken for free clipart in the past I can’t image what it must be like to have your work used on a much larger scale. So if anyone from the CreepypastaDotCom or Chilling Tales for Dark Nights team is reading this, please consider removing all these. It’s neither legally nor morally right.

If anyone following me is able to, I ask that you consider addressing all this yourselves on your social media of choice. I don’t want any outright harassment, but it seems like as with most large corporations, a large group of people expressing their dissatisfaction is the only way to incite any change. As only one person there’s only so much I’ve been able to do.

Any artists following me should be extremely cautious of who is using your art and for what purpose. If this is happening to anyone I know personally I’ve got your back and I’ll do everything I can to get it removed or appropriately attributed.

If you intend on doing anything like Chilling Tales in the future, even tangentially related, the Creepypasta Wiki is a better while still expansive resource for stories. Here are also some resources you can use for royalty free or public domain photographs and images:

https://pixabay.com/

https://unsplash.com/

https://stocksnap.io/

https://www.pexels.com/

If you want to use art that you like, at least ask permission first. The worst they can say is no, and no response is NOT approval. Credit the artist, and Google Images is not a source.

Below is a list of all the artists I was able to find who’s work has been stolen and left unattributed. It is not completely comprehensive since backwards image searching only goes so far, and as only one person I have only been able to track their posts back to the beginning of January due to their absolutely massive backlog of images.

https://www.deviantart.com/drfaustusau

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2331644373749140/?type=3&theater

 Gary Pullin

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2330164767230434/?type=3&theater

 Joe Webb

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2329562920623952/?type=3&theater

 https://www.deviantart.com/jflaxman

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2328831980697046/?type=3&theater

 *https://www.deviantart.com/koidl

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2326650480915196/?type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2326647174248860/?type=3&theater

https://www.instagram.com/p/BsnqEW_lpsc/

  https://www.deviantart.com/almanegra

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2326866630893581/?type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2445654418787737/?type=3&theater

https://www.instagram.com/p/BxYy84xFsc6/

 Masahiro Sawada

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2324896661090578/?type=3&theater

 https://www.deviantart.com/daverapoza

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2324062071174037/?type=3&theater

 https://www.deviantart.com/chromattix

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2324881584425419/?type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2440420665977779/?type=3&theater

 Emil Melmoth

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2322323768014534/?type=3&theater

 https://www.deviantart.com/kumpan/

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2322322098014701/?type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2433247106695135/?type=3&theater

 https://www.deviantart.com/jasonedmiston

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1955865917993656/2313320382248206/?type=3&theater

 https://www.deviantart.com/panchecco/

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2290413431205568/?type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2349352058417974/?type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2294791423874038/?type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2255315011155013/?type=3&theater

  https://www.deviantart.com/loish

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2286125321634379/?type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2338187819534398/?type=3&theater

 Ares Dragonis

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2284644478449130/?type=3&theater

 Matteo Ascente

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2282149892031922/?type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2327855437234303/?type=3&theater

 Klaus Wittmann

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2274267342820177/?type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2307437519276095/?type=3&theater

 Miklós Ligeti

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2272191189694459/?type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2302082193144961/?type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2442398692446643/?type=3&theater

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KiT77ezGfzY

 Eric Felten

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2271754523071459/?type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2301019089917938/?type=3&theater

 Jay Zhou

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2268483903398521/?type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2292754607411053/?type=3&theater

 https://www.deviantart.com/danielgrzeszkiewicz

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2265915273655384/?type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2286888337997680/?type=3&theater

 https://www.deviantart.com/nrjin

https://www.facebook.com/creepypastadotcom/photos/a.1890769041170011/2260490967531148/?type=3&theater

 Alex Monge

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2354560677897112/?type=3&theater

https://www.instagram.com/p/BvIqWUTl76c/

 OmegaBlack

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2433720263314486/?type=3&theater

 https://www.deviantart.com/dloliver

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2414995095187003/?type=3&theater

 Fernando Acosta

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2262643733755474/?type=3&theater

https://www.instagram.com/p/Bss96BaFaC1/

 Pedro Silvia

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2238916129461568/?type=3&theater

https://www.instagram.com/p/BsEgbuqFJRD/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xVeESsQbBl4

 https://www.deviantart.com/dominikbroniek/

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2458696254150220/?type=3&theater

https://www.instagram.com/p/BxsD7zXli7y/

https://audioboom.com/posts/7265417-the-art-of-imitation-chilling-tales-for-dark-nights

 https://www.deviantart.com/eemeling

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2454194474600398/?type=3&theater

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_zvU9u1epc

 https://www.deviantart.com/s-caruso

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2346953118657868/?type=3&theater

https://www.instagram.com/p/Bu7Wkr1FseL/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4jae1pm4ui0

 Dario Puggioni

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2326173137402533/?type=3&theater

https://www.instagram.com/p/BuWnJ93lLjp/

https://youtu.be/kaLO87La0q0

 Clint Nitkev

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2309484632404717/?type=3&theater

https://www.instagram.com/p/Bt7iHxDlFzm/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=97ZFM1EyBFQ

 https://www.deviantart.com/emerald-depths

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2273329246020256/?type=3&theater

https://www.instagram.com/p/Bs_DQ9nlKMe/

 Blaz Porenta

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2249680588385122/?type=3&theater

https://www.instagram.com/p/BsWkhdDldGI/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kd0o6Lfac9o

 https://www.deviantart.com/jflaxman/

https://www.facebook.com/chillingtalesfordarknights/photos/a.684108731608990/2244718002214714/?type=3&theater

https://www.instagram.com/p/BsOEvcVleCu/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2qOOCS49RVM

[fyrapartnersearch]

Long term M/M roleplays

Hey! I’m Kat, and looking for some more roleplays. I’m in my early twenties, so no worries there, and I’m in the GMT+3 time-zone, though I tend to be up at odd hours and I’m often online.

I mainly want to roleplay M/M right now. I tend to write multi-para and more often than not my replies are 700+ words. I don’t mind shorter replies, as long as I get at least a few good sized paragraphs and correct spelling/grammar. Mistakes happen and that’s fine, but I don’t want to read something with no punctuation and that’s nothing but mistakes.

Also please read this whole thing before sending me a message!! I ask you don’t just send “wanna RP?”, because I won’t know unless you tell me something you had in mind: a plot, an idea of mine you liked, anything really.

As for smut, I adore it. I don’t want to write only smut for now, but anything from 20/80 to 80/20 on plot/smut ratio is good for me. Just tell me if you want more plot or smut.

In M/M smut I prefer playing a submissive/bottom character. I can play a dominant character, but I don’t enjoy it so I wish you’ll be willing to play an exclusively dominant role.

What I like:

- Medieval/historical settings (especially ancient Egypt/Rome/Greece) - Forbidden love - Arranged marriage - Lots and lots of drama and dark themes - But also fluffy scenes and cute/happy moments - Mpreg (not a must at all, if you’re not into it) - Supernatural beings (werewolves, vampires, demons, gods etc.) - Omega verse - Role reversal (such as, for example, a bully getting himself in a situation where the bullied has complete control)

I’m rather reserved when it comes to modern day settings, but I can do those as well if there’s a lot of action and drama involved. I prefer a plot-heavy story in modern setting though.

Pairings I’d like to try: (Dom/sub)

- Warlord/prince - King or prince/prince in an arranged marriage setting - Pirate or thief/nobility - Samurai/geisha - Nobility/prostitute - Servant/nobility or royalty - Guard/nobility or royalty - Bullied/Bully - Nerd/popular student - Stepbrothers - Demon/angel - Poor guy/rich guy in an Victorian era/early 20th century setting - Mage/human (yes I have just finished rewatching all Harry Potter movies lol) - Werewolf/human - Professor/student

And many more fun things, but I can’t remember everything off the top of my head. Feel free to suggest anything, really. I’m also very much into playing femboys/crossdressing characters, though if that’s not your thing I can do other kinds of characters as well. I know it’s a concern for many with these kinds of characters, so I’ll promise my characters are never the “I-can-do-nothing-on-my-own-and-will-cry-at-the-drop-of-a-hat-and-whine-the-rest-of-the-time” blushing virgin, maiden in distress types. No need to worry about that.

I am busy a lot, so I might not always have time to reply every day or even every other day, but I try to be as active as I can. Feel free to poke me if it takes more than a week or so though.

A few plot ideas: (MC = my character, YC = your character)

1) Insipred by the TV show “Lucifer”. YC is the Devil himself, ruler of Hell, the first fallen angel. He has grown tired of the same old tortured souls and fires of damnation scenery though and decides it’s time to visit Earth for a bit. A notorious playboy, seducer to sin, the owner of one of the hottest nightclubs in town is the image he creates for himself among humans. He grants wishes in exchange to favours and soon enough everyone knows of him. MC is a struggling student, or someone who has just graduated and can’t get on in life, and as a last resort goes to see YC. YC takes an immidiate liking to him, and initial fascination quickly turns into something more… human. Love, maybe? Suddenly YC has to make a choice of whether or not he’ll reveal who he truly is to the innocent human he has fallen for.

2) Once upon a time MC and YC were lovers, young and oh, so in love. They were happy together, planning their future, until one day YC disappeared without a trace and MC never saw him again. Until 10 years later; YC has inherited a large fortune from his uncle who had no family of his own, and one lonely evening he heads to a brothel to ease his longing for company. There, much to his shock, he is reunited with MC who is a shell of what he once was. The bubbly, social human, always so full of life, has turned into someone with a haunted look in his eyes and a deep distrust for other people. Not able to leave MC there, YC buys him from the brothel and takes him home. Now he needs to decide what to do with him. (Historical setting)

3) (Omega verse, preferably mpreg included) MC is a rare kind of a shifter, an omega desired by many. He was born in a different kind of a prison: to a man who breeds only the best omegas for the royalty. He and the other omegas he lives with have never seen the outside world. They are kept safe behind locks in the innermost monastery on the castle grounds, where there’s no chance of them getting out on their own. They are given to the harems of the royal family, or occasionally bought by the wealthies of the wealthy. But MC wants more, he wants independence and a life of his own, rather than a life dedicated to fawning over an alpha with an ego big enough as it is. YC is an alpha who has made a considerable contribution to the kingdom (could be anything from being an honored soldier to being a famous artist, whatever you come up with) and who is being gifted one of these rare omegas by the royal family themselves. On his visit to the monastery to choose one of them, he takes a liking to MC, the spiteful little thing who can’t seem to know when to shut up and who won’t bat his lashes and swoon at everything YC does. It seems like MC will be getting a new home.

4) MC is a shifter (species can be discussed and decided on later) who has been separated from his pack and survived alone for a while now. He gets caught in the middle of a fight between YC’s pack and YC’s rival pack, and after - possibly accidentally - saving YC’s life he is accepted into the pack. Some time passes, YC and MC grow closer, the suspicions some had about MC fade and MC feels he’s starting to belong in a pack again, when he finds out his old pack has merged with YC’s rival pack. Now he’ll have to choose whether he is loyal to his new, or his old pack. (I would prefer this had mpreg, but again not a necessity)

5) YC is a shapeshifter, the leader of a clan of dragons. Dragons have long ago been thought extinct, but the truth is there are still some clans left. The problem is, with the dominant personalities of dragons, it’s quite difficult to find a mate or a breeding partner. YC thinks to look for the solution outside the clan, to make humans their child-bearers. He picks MC as the first test subject. (Includes Mpreg)

6) Two countries have been at war since the beginning of time, as long as anyone can remember. All boys who come of age must join the army and go to war. MC knows he could not survive the war - he’s never touched a sword in his life, never hurt anyone. He’s not physically strong nor does he have any knowledge of fighting. His family has already died because of the war, leaving him alone on a small farm. So, to avoid having to go, just before coming of age MC started disguising himself as a woman. For some years it has worked out well, he’s lived his life peacefully on his little farm, until the enemy forces take the city just outside of which MC lives. YC is a high ranking officer (or the king) who takes an interest in MC, thinking he is a woman. Now MC must figure out what to do with the peculiar situation he finds himself in.

7) (A rare futuristic plotline I’ve been dying to do since I watched Black Mirror; Nosedive) People want good ratings on their pictures, on their posts and videos - on themselves. Everyone has a technological chip inserted into their eyes when they’re born that lets them see how other people are rated. Only the “best” humans in society are rated 9 or higher overall - 5 or lower makes life Hell on Earth for a person. Anyone can rate anyone on their phones every time they interact in person. One’s rating has a tremendous impact on their lives; whether they get the job they want, whether they can apply to a certain school, even whether or not they can buy a house in a certain neighborhood… this system makes creating deep relationships nearly impossible, because people are too afraid to show who they really are in fear of being rated badly. MC is the youngest son of a well-off family, an ideal family where everyone is rated 8.9 or higher, loved by most people. YC is from a family who have never much cared about the system. They are decently rated, but they don’t seem to care - what they care about is the honestly and real human relationships that are so hard to find nowadays. When MC and YC meet, MC is intrigued, but YC thinks MC is an empty shell only after numbers just like everyone else. Eventually, feelings start to develop between the two, but there are many problems to overcome, especially in their society. That’s it for now. I’m always happy to hear any ideas you might have as well, and all the ideas above can be modified or changed up a little!

My e-mail: kat_vainio@outlook.com

Anyway, hope to hear from you soon!!

[not-so-innocent-bi-sander]

His Artwork

So this is a Human/College/Soulmate AU because…. I dunno. It made sense to me. Here we go!

(Idea from @thomassandersownsmysoul)

Premise: Anything your soul mates write on their skin appears on your own

Pairings: LAMP/CALM, polysanders

Tags: @twentyoneparades-to-panic-at @celiawhatsherlastname @de-is-me @authordreaming13 @introverts-assemble @lilylunalovegood2002 @musicwitchthomas @spoooky-bird

Virgil laid back on his bed, his arms out and his legs spread, clad in only a pair of basketball shorts. It was late Saturday morning, and this was what he normally did during that time. He knew any moment now… There it was. A little tickle on his forearm, it felt like.. butterfly kisses, if he had to describe it. He lifted his right arm, seeing words appearing there.

/Milk Eggs Sugar Brown Sugar Frosting x 3 Baking Soda/

Saturday was grocery day for his Butterfly. He didn’t know them, but he liked the feeling of their spirit. Most people had a soulmate but Virgil.. He had at least three. Three that regularly wrote on their skin at least. Technically there could be more if they were shy, like he was, and never wrote on themselves. His soulmates didn’t know about him… As far as he knew at least. He didn’t think he had ever written on himself. Like clockwork, his left arm began to tingle. This always happened. His second soulmate, who he nicknamed Teach, began to write.

/You know you need to get more than just ingredients for sweets./

Virgil chuckled to himself. While Butterfly’s writing felt like gentle tickles, Teach’s writing felt like someone literally writing on him with a pen. The handwriting was also very perfect and precise, like a teacher writing on a white board in contrast to Butterfly’s which was sweet and loopy. Finally, his right leg began tingling as well, it was warmer… More.. purposeful somehow. In fanciful calligraphy a paragraph began to appear. He assumed the Royal did some kind of acting, or was just obsessed with Shakespeare. Saturday seemed to be the day that they their wrote down their lines or… Just wanted to share monologues with them?

Virgil hesitated for a moment… Maybe today he could… He tentatively walked over to his art supplies and grabbed a paintbrush and some black paint. Pulling up his shorts to uncover his bare thigh he began to paint. Large, beautiful, swirls and contrasting thinner lines, turning his entire left leg into a canvas. Virgil loved painting patterns, it calmed him. He eventually added more colors, the colors he associated with his soulmates. Within the swirling black designs that represented him, he added robust reds for his Royal, a calming navy blue for Teach, and a cheery yellow for his Butterfly.

He was so lost in his painting he didn’t realize he had filled his left left and had unconsciously moved to his other limbs, using just that soulmates color to make the swirls and designs. When he finally looked up at the time it had been hours. All of his limbs were coated in paint, most of which had dried. For a final touch he went and looked in the mirror, adding small designs on his chest. A yellow butterfly, a red crown, a blue pair of glasses… and he paused with the black. What was he? He felt warmth again as what felt like his Royal adding below the three insignias, a black paintbrush. Virgil smiled and felt a blush spread across his cheeks. In a bold move, next to the paintbrush he added in a small “-V.” Most people didn’t like to use their soul-markings to find their soulmates so specifically, it was considered something that should be left up to fate. So hopefully he didn’t upset them.

Almost instantly he felt all three of the others adding to his chest. They suddenly had each other’s initials. P, R, L, and his V.  He smiled to himself and gazed at the art all over himself before once again looking up at the time. “….Crap.” He stated out loud to himself. It was his college’s art show tonight and he needed to get over to help set up. He was an art major, and this was one of his big assignments. He normally didn’t like to draw attention to himself. But at least he could just sit in the corner and people watch.

He quickly threw on his favorite skinny jeans and hoodie, effectively covering all the painting on his body, and headed back to campus. After a couple hours of set up, he found himself hiding in the corner watching people walk around and look at the art. Every so often he’d pull his sleeve back to his wrist and see his swirls still there. They made him smile, finally definitively showing a part of himself to his soulmates. He simply sat back against the wall and watched as people drifted around the gallery, smiling inwardly when people talked about his pieces, he sat just far enough away that it wasn’t obvious which art installation belonged to him. Two people caught his eye. A young couple, by the way they seemed to interact with each other. One slightly taller, he stood straight and stiff, his arms crossed over his chest as he viewed the art pieces. The shorter one had a smile stretched from ear to ear, eagerly pointing out different pieces to his companion and explaining what he liked about them and how they made him feel. The taller one seemed amused about the other’s antics, smiling at him with a quiet earnestness. They both wore the same large black glasses but while it gave one the air of an astute learned type, the other seemed to look cuter and more innocent by the addition.

Virgil watched them from afar as the smaller one continued to spend time on each and every piece and the taller began to scan his eyes over every installation in the room, as if choosing what would catch his eye. He suddenly froze, his eyes widening. 

“P… Patton.” He spoke. 

“What is it, Logan?” the innocent one spun to face him. Logan shakily held up a hand and pointed at a nearby art both. “Look… Look at those.” His voice was just above a whisper. Patton eagerly looked to see where Logan was pointing. Virgil’s eyes followed their line of sight and realized, it was his art they were so shocked by. 

“LOGAN.” Patton suddenly said, his eyes huge. He grabbed Logan’s hand and they quickly walked over to Virgil’s art.

He watched all of this happen, unsure what was going on. Did they hate it? Did he offend them in someway? How could that even be possible? Virgil began to scan his own artwork to see if he had done something he shouldn’t have. It was just more of his usual pattern work. The only things he felt confident enough in to show people. He suddenly was brought back to reality and tuned back into their conversation. 

“Logan… It has to be. There’s no other way. It looks exactly the same. It just has to be…” Patton said, he began wildly looking around the room, scanning over everyone. Logan was as close as possible to the art without actually touching it.

 “These designs, they are so intricate. So purposeful… The colors… Such specific choices. I believe that you are correct, Patton. It’s too perfect. It has to be.” Logan said quietly, his eyes still trying to take in all of what was before him.

Did they think his work was plagiarized? It sounded like they did… Virgil didn’t think he had gotten the idea from anywhere.. But.. What could they be talking about? It didn’t click in his head until Patton pushed up the sleeve on the cardigan he was wearing and got closer to the art in question. There was no denying the soft yellow swirls matched the ones on the canvas. Virgil’s eyes opened extremely wide as he watched them now, they matched his artwork. They found him.. He found them. Two of his soulmates. Logans eyes began to scan again, stopping on Virgil. He was staring back, his eyes huge. Logan leaned down to whisper to something to Patton.

The smaller one immediately turned to Virgil, his entire face lighting up before he bounded over toward him and sat immediately next to him, their thighs touching.

 “Um.. Hi?” Virgil managed, Patton being even more adorable up close. 

“HI! I’m Patton! What’s your name?” He asked, his voice cheerful and warm. 

“Uh.. I’m.. I’m Virgil.” He responded shakily. Patton somehow managed to get an even more excited look in his eyes. 

“You know.. Names that start with V are pretty uncommon… Although I guess i’m one to talk. Patton is kind of an unusual name too.” Patton managed to temper his excitement a bit and the two began to talk. Logan stayed near the artwork letting the two get acquainted for a bit, which Virgil was rather happy about. Patton was nearly overstimulating just on his own. Logan smiled fondly as he watched the two meet one another. A large amount of movement out of the corner of his eye distracted him for a moment, however. A relatively large crowd of people filed past the art gallery windows. It struck him that there was a big play happening next door in the college’s theater and it must have just gotten out. It was interesting, he saw a couple glance inside, a few actually walked in to peruse the artwork. But strangely he saw a small group of three, a taller boy and his two smaller friends look in and look over the art. Their eyes also grew large and the three ran back toward the theater. Logan watched their antics with confusion.

Before he could draw any hypotheses, he saw another running past the window and burst through the door. He must have actually been in the play, he hadn’t even had time to change out of his Prince costume. The Prince looked around frantically before finding the art Logan was standing in front of and he made a beeline for Logan. He paused when he reached his destination, placing his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Patton and Virgil watched as this Prince ran up to Logan. Both of them glancing at him and then back at each other. The newcomer stood, acting as though he hadn’t just done that entire scene. “Hello! Are you the artist responsible for this magnificent display?” The Prince’s eyes were full of hope. 

“I... Am not sadly. But.. Allow me to ask you this..” Logan stated, his cheeks flushed. The bespectacled one began to recite, from memory, the Shakespearean passage that all four of them still had written on their thighs. Roman’s face lit up and he threw his arms around Logan. He looked surprised but smiled and hugged the Prince back. Virgil stood and tentatively held out a hand to Patton, who took it with a smile, and lead him over to the other two.

As Roman and Logan pulled apart, they saw they had been joined by the other two, Roman realizing who they must be. To break the silence, Virgil spoke up.. 

“I uh… I painted these.” His cheeks blazing red.

 “And I bought more than ingredients for cake today! I also bought pre-made cake!” Patton beamed, causing Virgil and Roman to burst out laughing while Logan simply rolled his eyes.

[spacednp]

Zombies

TW: gore, zombies(is that a trigger?), panic attack (kinda), shitty title

SUMMARY: whats the guidelines 4 dis lmao ima need to fix this later

ADDITIONAL NOTES: the ending is BAD

 the title sucks fuck off i knoww 

yo yo follow the people below (and me cough cough) bc.. Yeet

Beta- @callmekiddo-2 (thank for putting up with my constant grammar errors fam)

Artist- my bro,,, @owlpip (Art links gonna go here when i get them)

WC: 7.3k (really short i knowww)

The sound of rushing water filled the room and the steam from it rose into the air. Small bubbles occasionally flew from the sink, floating away gently, like a peaceful and soft dance. Dan’s hands were covered in suds and began to wrinkle because of the constant stream of hot water embracing them. Dan picked up the last plate and wiped it in a swift motion with his sponge, making a circle of soap that he quickly rinsed off. He set that final dish aside before washing off his own hands and turning the water off. He then grabbed the dish towel and set to work, drying off the dishes. He swabbed the clear droplets of now cold water from each dish, concentration etched onto his face. Once each dish was dried he rushed about the kitchen, putting them all away. He and his flatmate had only been living in that flat for a few weeks and he was still getting used to, well, everything. Due to this, he was sure he had put a few things away wrong. But hey, Phil had asked him to do the dishes, and he did. Kind of.

The padding of footsteps behind him made Dan jump, nearly dropping the rag in his hand. “Fucks sake, Phil,” Dan hissed, throwing his damp rag onto the counter behind him. He came very close to knocking over an unlit candle, “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Whoops,” Phil replied, crossing his arms in the doorway, a smile painted on his face. Dan loved Phil, they were best friends, after all, but Phil was probably the least empathetic person when it came to scaring people. He couldn’t care less. Every once in awhile dan would like to hear a, “Oh, I’m sorry, are you okay?” instead.

“You’re an ass,” Dan muttered, turning back to his abandoned rag to put it away.

“Pfft, you know love me,” Phil said. (what should i do here looks kinda lame)

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Dan responded, trying to not smile. Dan and Phil had been best friends for years, hell, they had pretty much grown up together. After being essentially joined at the hip for almost ten years, the boys were pretty much family. They even started going on family holidays together, calling each other’s mothers’ “Mum” the whole time just to spite the other. The two were as close to brothers as anyone could get without the matching birth certificates.

“Thanks for doing the dishes,” Phil said after a minute.

“No problem, but you’re sweeping tomorrow to repay your debt,” Dan countered.

“What? But it’s your turn,” Phil whined. Dan turned back to Phil and shrugged, the smile that had left Phil’s face set on his own.

“It was your turn to do the dishes,” he pointed out, smile widening.

“Fair enough,” Phil sighed, rolling his eyes a little. He didn’t really think it was fair as sweeping was much harder than washing a few plates, but he didn’t say anything. After all, Dan did have a point and it was Phil’s turn to do the dishes. Phil turned and began to walk away.

“You heading off to bed?” Dan called after him. Phil turned, smiling a little.

“What, you want a goodnight kiss?” Phil teased, laughing lightly at his own joke.

“I don’t, but about eighty percent of the internet would want me to,” Dan joked back, causing both to snicker. The shipping didn’t bother the two anymore. After years of thousands of people reading into their every move, it got kind of dull. Of course they made jokes about it, it came naturally after a while. It was apart of life for them, and everyone made jokes about their life. People made death jokes because it was a part of life, they made sex jokes because it was a part of life, and Dan and Phil made shipping jokes just like that because it was a part of their lives.

“See you in the morning, Danny,” Phil shouted over his shoulder as he walked to his bedroom. Phil never really called Dan by the nickname, unless he was in the teasing mood. Just as an older brother would tease the younger.

Dan looked to the clock to see that it read about midnight, which was the usual time for Phil to turn in for the night. As for Dan, he had a sort of reputation to uphold-stay up on the internet for a few more hours until the blinding light of his laptop screen made his eyes red. Sometimes Phil would join Dan and they’d sit on their couch and occasionally tap the other on the shoulder, pointing to their own screen when they found a post they thought would make the other smile. For whatever reason that made the whole experience way better for Dan. Maybe he liked Phil being there because they were best friends, maybe it was just the presence of another person being sat next to him, or perhaps a tangle of both. Dan wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, Dan enjoyed it very much.

Dan soon retreated into his bedroom as wasn’t comfortable with just standing in the kitchen alone. He unplugged his laptop, glad to see it at full battery, and sat down on his bed. In record time, Tumblr was pulled up and he was scrolling through impressive amounts of shitposts and the occasional problematic rant by some self-righteous teen. He only skimmed through the posts, reblogging the few that made him blow a bit more air out of his nose than usual. Years of being a “full time internet homo” had that effect on him, barely laughing, mostly just exhaling more intensely.

One post on his dash stood out to him. Usually he’d scroll through phanfiction, ignoring the ones that seemed badly written by some 12 year old girl in twenty minute. That seemed to be the majority. However, every once and awhile he’d find one so amusing or highly requested he had to read it. Hell, he even found a few really well written ones that almost could be published or poetry. Naturally, when Dan found something like that he just had to read it. In any case, fanfiction was just writing-sometimes bad or… inappropriate writing, but: writing. It was better than getting high or drunk, so Dan figured he might as well support it, even if there were a few bad and emotionally damaging seeds.

The room was almost pitch black. The only sources of light being Dan’s open Macbook and the light peeking in through Dan’s window with the drawn curtains, caused by the street lamps, head lights, stars and moon of the outside world. It made the whole situation seem way more scandalous than it really was. Of course Dan would clear his search history after reading, and of course he’d deny ever reading the fic, and of course he would die if Phil found out, but that didn’t make it scandalous. Okay, maybe it did, but that was only because Dan made it so scandalous, it could be totally innocent and Dan could be open with his dirty little secret. However, that seemed too easy. Dan didn’t get much excitement in his life, so why not act like the whole reading phanfiction thing was this whole secret that was done behind closed doors and drawn blinds in the dead of night? It wasn’t like he secretly got off to it or anything, it just- he was just curious. That was it.

Well Dan being just “curious” lasted all of five paragraphs into the story. Then, he started to enjoy it. He loved the word choice, the characters (even if he was one of main ones), and even the plot. The whole story was based off of the zombie apocalypse and what would happen. Now, since Dan was such a massive nerd, the story called to him. It was thousands of words long- double digit thousands. However, Dan didn’t mind it at all. In fact, that was another thing he liked about it. If he could ignore the fact that it was he and his best friend’s names’, he could actually picture it being a real young adult novel. The writing was excellent and the pace was just right, he could actually see the characters falling in love. Shamefully, he fell in love with the characters as well. He even caught himself wondering why his Phil wasn’t like the one in the fic. If that was his Phil, of course he could be in love with him, the way the shippers wanted. That hit really close for Dan. He loved Phil, of course he did, but as a brother. The Phil in the story, however, he was different. He was more empathetic without being suffocating, he was strong and still sweet. Dan could see the resemblance to his Phil- wait, what? Dan just ranted in his own head about how great this character was, how he could have a romantic relationship with him, and then compared him to his 100% platonic best friend. That had to be crossing a ton of friendship boundaries, even for he and Phil. They were friends. That was it. But maybe it didn’t have to be… No. That was how it was. Friendship, only friendship. Period.

Dan knew that phanfiction was doing weird things to his brain. He knew he should click out, unfollow the person who put it on his dash, delete his search history and never go back. He didn’t though, he should of, but he didn’t. God, how he should of.

Instead of doing what was right, Dan gave into the alluring temptation. That had to be some kind of a sin, right? Imagine Dan being damned to Hell because he didn’t click out of a phanfiction, that seemed to be a very Dan thing to do. Rather this was true or not, it didn’t prevent Dan from reading the fic, and enjoying it. His bloodshot eyes focused on the brightness of his laptop screen and the black words on it in front of him, the rest of the world a massive blur of grays and streaks of white light shining in. Dan continued to read until the whole world went dark around him and he slipped into the warm embrace of sleep.

Dan awoke in a bed that was not his own, a warm hand on his left arm shaking him. Not wanting to wake up just yet, Dan rolled over onto his right side, away from the hand. Doing so, he was met by a sharp pain in the arm he’d rolled over on, which was luckily his right and non dominant arm. He heard a familiar voice, but it seemed distant and echoey, almost like it was at the opposite end of a tunnel. A long, dark, warm tunnel… Dan found himself drifting back into unconsciousness but was pulled out of it by the calloused hand that was still gripping him whilst shaking. Dan decided because of the the sharp pain burning into his flesh and the constant shaking there was little to no chance of getting back to sleep. The pain confused him because it wasn’t the type of pain you got when you slept wrong, it felt as if it was more of a open wound that could quite possibly be infected. Not that it would even make sense to have a sleeping pain in his arm, as Dan both went to bed and woke up laying on his back. As well as the odd pain, the weight of Dan’s laptop was gone. Had Phil came into his room, found the laptop on Dan’s stomach, and put it away for him? Oh no, had Phil seen what was on the screen? Dan didn’t remember closing the tab.

“Dammit Dan! Don’t you quit on me now!” The voice suddenly came into focus, like a camera. Once fuzzy and blurry, then sharp and clear. He knew that voice, it seemed a little worn though, broken from yelling. It was Phil’s voice.

“M’up, I’m good,” Dan slurred, opening his unfocused eyes trying to sit up. Doing so, the pain intensified, burning so fiercely Dan fell back. “What the fuck?!” Dan shouted.

“You got stabbed, idiot, remember?” Phil said, setting a hand on Dan’s chest to keep him down. When the world came into focus around Dan, he saw that the Phil next to him was not Phil. Or at least it wasn’t his Phil. This Phil’s skin was far too tan, his face was smeared with dirt (or dry blood, but Dan hoped it was just dirt), and his hair was way too long, his roots showing way too much. Dan looked at his pained right arm, seeing a white rag knotted around his slightly larger and more muscular bicep that was stained crimson with what Dan knew was his blood.

“Stabbed? What?” Dan gasped, voice coming out breathy and strained. His breathing quickened and he tucked his hands into fists, ignoring the pain caused in his right arm, digging little crescent moons into his sweating palms. He tried to force himself upright but was held down by Phil’s hand, who was ridiculously strong, so much so it was discomforting.

“Dan, you need to calm down,” Phil sternly said. Dan threw his fists at Phil’s hand, which seemed to be crushing. He just wanted to be alone, wanted to wake up in his room to the sound of Phil- his Phil, waking up obnoxiously loud. He didn’t want to be in this strange place with this strange Phil like some strange phanfiction…wait a minute. Phil’s description, his actions, Dan being stabbed- this was just like that phanfiction he fell asleep reading. But that was impossible, and even the idea of it increased Dan’s panic. He opened his mouth to scream at the weird person who was kind of like Phil, yell at them to go away, bring him back to his home, to his Phil, but nothing came out. His tongue felt too big in his mouth and his saliva felt like thick, dry cotton. He just wanted to go home! He wanted to wake up in his bed, yell at his Phil for waking him up so early, catch his Phil eating his cereal- he wanted it to be a weird dream. How could it be a dream? Dan felt pain, that didn’t happen in dreams, did it? So it wasn’t a dream? Did it mean Dan could never go home?

“Daniel!” Phil’s hand pressed harder on Dan’s chest and somehow brought him back to reality, or whatever it was, kind of. “Breathe Dan, breathe.” Dan was heaving for breath, he tried to listen, tried to breathe, tried to do what Phil said, but it wasn’t working. Dan just wanted everything to stop, please just stop. After a few minutes of struggling for air Dan felt himself start to calm down, the shaking he wasn’t even aware of started to slow, breath came easier, until he was only crying, yet another thing he wasn’t aware he was doing. He wiped his now unclenched hands on his face, trying to rid it of tears. He felt stupid, like an idiot. He’d just cried, like a complete child.

“I’m good,” Dan breathed,  relaxing his head on the pillow under it. He went to bring his hands over his face to cover it but was brutally reminded of his injury in the form of a sting.

Dan had never been one to believe in the supernatural or even religion. He believed facts. Yes, a zombie apocalypse was theoretically possible. It was also something religious, to a sense. No, zombies didn’t carry around bibles and sit in pews on Sundays, that just sounded stupid. However, there was three main things religions tended to have. A higher power, the beginning of time being created in a ‘big bang’ sort of sense, sudden and with no explanation besides before mentioned higher power, and, of course, “The End”, or, in other terms, “The Apocalypse”. In a way, it made sense. Logically, life itself had to have a start. Therefore, it also had to have an end. Who’s to say life doesn’t have to follow the same rules it creates, a beginning and and end, birth and death? However, that theory didn’t explain why Dan was magically sucked into some post apocalyptic universe birthed from the brain of one of his fans. That didn’t make any sense. Dan wished he could make it make sense. When things made sense you weren’t scared of them, you could convince yourself it wasn’t dangerous. Dan didn’t have that luxury.

“I think I need some fresh air,” Dan announced, moving to sit up. He, of course, was blocked by Phil’s hand. It was really starting to get annoying, being pinned down. He felt trapped, caged in like an animal, a beast with no humanity. He felt like Phil didn’t trust him, then again, why should he? Dan wasn’t the person this Phil knew, and deep down he thought Phil would know that. Maybe Dan should just play his part, calm this man a bit. After all, why should both of them feel lost? From reading the phanfic he knew how sickingly codependent this universe’s Dan and Phil were, who was he to rip that apart? After all, Dan knew everything the other Dan knew. They acted quite alike - this universe’s Dan and the real Dan. It made sense, after all, this Dan was based on the real one.

“Good luck finding any,” Phil snorted. Dan had almost forgotten he had spoke, so lost in his own thoughts, trapped in the prison of his mind. Phil lifted his hand off of Dan’s chest and instead used it to help Dan stand, which was a difficult task. Soon Dan was upright and he and Phil were heading to the rotted door decorated with metal locks and deep scratch marks, which were pale in contrast to the dark finish of the door. As they walked Dan noticed the many weapons and cobwebs littering the walls of the cabin, he appreciated them, though he had no idea how to use them. Phil grabbed a machete off the wall, very worn and coated in a brown substance that Dan knew was dried blood. Dan hoped he wouldn’t have to see Phil use it.

No part of Dan protested when Phil walked him out, or when held the door for him, or even when Phil rested his hand on Dan’s lower back. He wished he would have, wished he could have made himself. The truth was that Dan didn’t mind. His stomach didn’t drop, his skin didn’t burn or tingle. If anything, Dan felt safe. Warm. Content. Like what was happening was just… right. Was that insane? None of it was right, he wasn’t where he was supposed to be-not by a long run. He was supposed to be home, in bed, eyes bloodshot from his bright laptop screen. He wasn’t though, and that wasn’t right. It would be nice if it was, it’d be nice if his own kind of paradise wasn’t standing there consumed in the feeling of a man he didn’t know, a man that wasn’t real.

When the two exited the shack Dan woke up in they were engulfed by a forest. Shrubs, moss, and mushrooms littered the floor and above the canopy of the trees were so thick you could only catch a sliver of blue when you angled your head right. It wasn’t what Dan expected at all. He expected a city in ruins, bloody human like creatures digging into the corpses of children. The air, however, was just as he expected it. Thick, hot, smelling of rotting flesh, far from the musky, cool breezes a forest should carry. Dan suddenly remembered why everything was the way it was. In the phanfiction Dan and Phil decided to take shelter away from civilization because the cities… they were just as you’d picture. Gray, covered in a thick layer of crimson blood, only populated by zombies or sick bastards that couldn’t care less about you and only wanted your supplies. Evil place, the world had become.

“Zombies aren’t even the problem anymore,” Phil said, as if he was reading Dan’s thoughts. “Hell, they weren’t even the problem to begin with. People were. People created it and let it out. People… People started this mess…” Phil’s voice trailed off meaningfully. Dan understood what Phil meant, thinking back to the phanfiction. The writer had a bit of a prologue before they wrote the story. It described the beginning of the end, in a sense. It was like most starts to fictional zombie apocalypses, new drug that’s not tested enough creates a sickness. That drug was somehow leaked into the water supply and the world got sick, however, a few were immune. The drug was fought by a mutation in the genes of certain people. That gene was the blue eyes gene, which Dan did carry. Blue eyes was a recessive trait that didn’t show in Dan because of the brown eyes trait (a dominant gene) he also acquired. Phil too had this the blue eyes trait but his did show. However, those infected were given the instinct of spreading the pathogen. The only way they could do so when someone carried the blue eyes trait was via injection of contaminated DNA. Basically, if you carried the blue eye trait you were fine to drink, but it could still get the illness if you got bitten.

In Dan’s peripheral vision he spotted movement. He grabbed at Phil for reasons he couldn’t explain nor did he want to try and understand. Phil seemed unphased by this and just shook Dan off. “I think there’s one,” Dan tried to explain, pointing to where he thought he saw movement. Dan swore he saw concern paint Phil’s features for a split second before it was gone, but it was probably nothing. This version of Phil wasn’t the one Dan knew so well, it was a variation of him, but it wasn’t him. This Phil was made up by some teen girl on her laptop at four in the morning, and Dan couldn’t forget that. No matter how real this Phil seemed, he wasn’t.

Dan didn’t have much more time to fuss over his weird feelings for his friend’s character in some story he was somehow a part of (wow his situation was complicated) because they were joined by a freak of nature. The creature burst from the undergrowth, running towards them with a slight limp, arms outstretched and fingers like the talons of an eagle. The creature was just as you’d imagine a zombie; It’s pale skin was almost green but still carried the gray tint of death. It’s features were hollowed out, reminding Dan of one of those before pictures on an eating disorder recovery story. It’s clothes were torn and blood soaked. Gashes covered it, skin peeling away to show bloody and rotting flesh. Around its mouth there was the trace of its last meal, dried blood and chunks of flesh that didn’t seem to be its own. It’s eyes no longer held the glimmer of life and carried dark bags under them, far worse than the eye bags you got after a few nights of restless sleep. Everything about it was horrible and made Dan do a little sick in his mouth. A scream lodged itself in his throat but stayed there.

Phil stepped into action immediately and Dan wished he could say he didn’t find it ridiculously hot. The way he pushed Dan behind him and raised his machete up made Dan audibly gasp. If he hadn’t been so terrified out of his wits he’d consider it a turn on, which was concerning because this was Phil, Dan’s no homo best friend and roommate. Well, maybe it wasn’t Phil Phil, but still. The zombie ran faster and just when Dan was certain they were dead and Phil had no idea what he was doing, Phil surprised him. He stepped forward (towards the terrifying monster, Dan might add) with his left foot, and used all his strength and sung as he stepped, slicing the zombies head off. The body collapsed and the decapitated head rolled away. Dan was certain he was going to actually vomit.

“You’re bloody insane,” Dan breathed, staring at the open eyes and mouth of the head on the ground a few feet away from him. He felt like it was looking into his soul, and it was terrifying.

“You’re welcome, for you know, saving your life,” Phil said, turning to Dan and glaring at him.

“You’re an arse,” Dan spat, angry at Phil and not really knowing why. He had a point, without him Dan would be zombie food. He should be grateful, so why was he angry?

“Excuse me?” Phil’s eyebrows furthered and it seemed like venom laced his words. “You know what? I don’t even care!” Phil let out a dry and humorless laugh. “You know what the funny thing is? For a minute there, I thought you gave a half of shit about me, looks like I thought wrong, you don’t care about anyone. Not even yourself.” Phil growled, pushing his way past Dans and making his way to the shack.

Dan remembered why this was happening. Why he was angry, why Phil seemed like someone shoved a stick in his butt. In the fic, Dan threw himself in danger, went off without Dan and ended up getting hurt, Phil ended up saving him from getting eaten/infected, but still, a few heated words were shared. Before this, they had a bit of a, well, they slept together. Dan knew from the fic that Phil was felt that made the two more than friends, but the fic Dan didn’t think so. The fic Dan didn’t mean to hurt fic Phil he just didn’t think one night changed anything whereas fic Phil thought it meant everything. The whole thing was a mess and Dan was stuck in the middle of it, it was like if The Walking Dead was a gay soap opera. Shaun of the Dead meets General Hospital meets… gay. As for Dan, “not caring about himself” was probablybecause of when Dan got hurt, he wasn’t careful and overall it was like he didn’t care anymore.

Dan was lost in an ocean of thoughts and of course he was so deep that there were sharks. His senses failed him, he didn’t hear the shuffling of footsteps, couldn’t see what was coming as it was behind him, nor did he smell the putrid stench of rotten flesh and despair nearing him. No, all those senses failed him. However, one did not. The final sense, the one that paints a soft blanket or your lover’s hand, was the one that told him. The boney hand lacking any fat and only covered with a thin layer of peeling skin was what told Dan that he wasn’t alone. It pulled Dan back with remarkable strength for a creature with deteriorating muscles. Maybe a scream found its way through Dan’s mouth, maybe it didn’t. Perhaps it stayed lodged in Dan through, glued there by pure terror. Either way, Dan was pulled back and somehow managed to get himself turned around so he was face to face with husking skin and yellow, sharp teeth. It’s breath smelt of rotting teeth and metallic blood. Dan’s whole body was shaking and he could feel death nearing. He imagined a grim reaper lurking in the bushes near by, scythe in hand and dark cloak on its back.

The world was in slow motion, Dan felt every millisecond pass and felt like he could write an entire novel of each passing moment. Dan watched as its yellow teeth neared him, felt his heart beating out of his chest and shut his eyes tight, waiting for death. Dan wondered if this was the way out of the nightmare he had someone gotten himself in. He had heard of death being the one sure fire way out of any dream, maybe it was the same kind of thing. Maybe he would finally wake up in his own bed. Maybe he would finally be able to go hug his own Phil. Dan doubted he would sleep alone in his bed for weeks after this whole ideal, he’d just sleep with Phil. They used to do that all the time, it was just comforting. Dan was sure Phil wouldn’t mind, why would he? He always enjoyed it just as much as Dan did.

There was a swoosh sound in Dan’s ear and then he felt chunks of something splatter all over him. The grip that once help extra tight on his already hurt arm weakened and then slid off. A violent shudder ran through Dan’s body. He opened his eyes and felt tears run down his cheeks. Phil stood behind the limp body of the zombie that had previously been three seconds away from killing Dan. It didn’t even matter that it wasn’t Dan’s Phil, the real Phil. It didn’t even matter that this whole thing was probably some kind of odd hallucination. None of that mattered, because his eyes were Phil’s eyes and if Dan focused hard enough he could pretend this man in front of him was the same Phil he watched from behind a computer screen as a teenager, the one that ended up being his first and only best friend. So, Dan wrapped his arms tight around Phil’s neck and he cried, but he only cried harder when Phil didn’t smell the same as he should have and when he felt way too broad to be his Phil. Still, Phil dropped his weapon and held Dan close and at least that was comforting. This Phil still wrapped his arms tight around Dan’s waist and let him cry on him. Even if this wasn’t the real Phil, he still shushed Dan and rubbed his lower back and didn’t care that Dan was getting tears and snot all over his shoulder.

“I hate this place,” Dan sobbed, and he didn’t care that Phil wouldn’t know the truth behind his words. He didn’t care. He just wanted to be held and told ‘I know, I know,’ even if it wasn’t true. Even if it was all a lie, it was the only lie Dan would let himself believe, just for now, just until he felt a little better. They were both covered in dirt and blood, but that was okay. It was okay that Dan’s wound opened back up, it was okay that he almost died twice within an hour, it was okay that this Phil was in love with not this Dan but a different one, that was all okay.

“Let’s go inside, yeah?” Phil suggested, slowing the circles that he was rubbing on Dan’s back. Dan nodded into Phil’s shoulder and let Phil pull away and guide Dan inside. Phil sat Dan down on the bed. “I’ve gotta go get my machete, okay? I’ll be right back,” Dan nodded even though Phil was no longer looking at him and was already halfway out the door.

Dan’s heart felt sad. It was like a huge cloud of sad decided to park above his rib cage and just sit there. It was like the days when Dan would just wake up sad. Dan wasn’t depressed or anything, sometimes he just had sad days, and that’s okay. However those days he didn’t have any reason to be sad, but today he had all the reasons to be sad. He missed Phil, his Phil. He wanted to hug him, not this store brand version of him.

“Do you need another hug?” Phil asked, frowning above Dan. Dan didn’t even realize he was back.

“Yes, I need a thousand hugs,” Dan breathed. Phil smiled sadly and sat next to Dan, wrapping an arm around his waist. A few minutes passed before Phil spoke.

“You don’t feel the same way about me as I feel about you, and that’s okay,” Phil paused for a minute and moved Dan over a bit so he had more room to sit. “However, I don’t want you to lie and say you do, I can’t handle that. I’m in love with you, and you’re not in love with me, that’s okay, but please don’t lie to m-”

Dan didn’t know why he did it. But he did it. He cut Phil off by sitting on his lap and forcing their mouths together. He didn’t let Phil pull away or object; when he felt like Phil would try and stop him he kissed harder. He did that until Phil set his hands on Dan’s sides and kissed him back. The kiss tasted dirty and wrong and it made Dan’s heart sad even more, but he still did it. Even after they pulled away and caught their breath, Dan’s heart was sad. So, he kissed Phil again. He knew it was wrong and he was just using Phil, but he didn’t stop. He could tell Phil wanted him, he could tell he loved him, and that felt nice. Dan liked to be wanted and loved. He let Phil’s hands learn their way around his body and he forced his brain and heart away and just acted. He traced his hands all over Phil. He let Phil take off his clothes and he took Phil’s off as well, and he let the thing that started the first argument happen again. He let Phil think Dan felt the same way for him, but one dark truth lurked. This Phil was in love with his Dan and Dan was in love with his Phil. Dan didn’t want to believe it but he knew it was true. He wanted this, but not with this Phil.

The only way Dan could cope with his new realization was to block it out. He let fic Phil have whatever part of Dan he wanted and Dan pretended he loved this man. Because the two Phil’s were completely different people, it only got hard when fic Phil did something that reminded Dan of his Phil. That’s when Dan’s heart would get sad again. Dan would block that out too though, and soon Dan hated himself. He hated how naturally deceiving Phil came to him. He hated how no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t bring himself to look fic Phil in the eye because those eyes reminded him of the real Phil. Slowly self hatred and destruction became a habit. Even though the world was full of actual zombies plagued with a cell destroying disease, Dan still felt that the sick monster was himself. Fic Phil still took care of Dan and saved his life almost daily but sometimes Dan wished he wouldn’t. Maybe if Phil was a little late one time then Dan wouldn’t have to be the one to break his heart, it would just be cruel Mother Nature and another case of star crossed lovers.

Well naturally the one wish that did come true during that whole ordeal was the one involving Dan’s own death. Of course. It wouldn’t of made sense for it to be Dan wanting to wake up or not having one useless arm that always hurt and the second he moved it would begin squirting blood, no, that was just too nice of whatever cruel higher power put Dan in that mess. That angsty God just wanted more drama.

It happened when Dan left the wood rotted shack for a little time away from the mess he’d weaved himself in with Phil. Phil ran up and gave Dan a kiss on the forehead before he left and Dan felt he was going to be sick. Still, he smiled at the gesture and gave Phil a peck on the lips and a muttered “I love you”, still holding back his sick. He’d never really been one for mega sappy relationships and it didn’t make it easier that this whole relationship was lacking any love from his part. He wish he meant the “I love you”, but he felt nothing as he said it, only longing for someone who had aspects of this man but who wasn’t him. Dan quickly got out of that hell house of a shack and walked a bit deeper into the forest than he should have. He stood on the ledge that overlooked a gray city and a lake that looked to be covered in a thick layer of dust. He watched creatures that weren’t quite human limp about and tear apart corpses of what might of been a person that might of had a family. Then again, maybe they were the last one of the family and they wished death upon themselves like Dan did. Even if life beyond this wasn’t life at all, even if he didn’t wake up in his own world with his own Phil, maybe that was okay, at least then he wouldn’t have to lie to anyone. No matter what happened after this, Dan never wanted to lie again. Lying was too much for Dan to handle and it was tearing him apart.

Dan had a bit of Déjà vu when he felt the boney hand grab him, digging into his upper arm. He felt it began to bleed but he did nothing, not even scream. Then it dug into his other arm, the healthy one. That one started to bleed too. He felt crimson liquid drip down his body but he did nothing but shut his eyes and wait for the teeth. They snuck into the part between his neck and shoulders, they ripped through tendons and ligaments. They crunched nerves and punctured veins. Then they were ripped from him and took the chunk of flesh with them. The hands digging into his arms also pulled out of him. He heard familiar slicing and he felt his knees give out, he opened his eyes when he felt arms around him. He swore he was going to be sick. It was Phil, and as always, he saved him. Well, not really. Dan looked at him with glassy eyes and smiled sadly. He felt his resolve fading and he slipped into insanity and sickness.

“Do it,” he croaked. Tears covered Phil’s cheeks and it made Dan ache. Even if he didn’t love this Phil, his eyes were still the same three-colored ones of his flat mate and best friend, and those eyes should never cry. Dan wanted to dry his tears but he couldn’t move his arms, they were in too much pain.

“I can’t,” Phil managed, voice breaking. “I just can’t do it.”

“Please, Phil, it hurts,” Dan said, voice dripping with pain. It was like the worst flu ever mixed with open wounds and bleeding out. Phil nodded once and returned Dan’s sad smile. He got his machete and laid Dan down comfortably on a soft patch of grass.

“I love you,” Phil told Dan as he raised his weapon. He was determined to do it quickly and in one even swipe, that would make Dan suffer less, and that’s all he wanted at this point.

“I love you too,” Dan lied. Or maybe he didn’t. Of course he was grateful for this man, he had saved Dan’s life a few times, but did that equal love? Probably not. Still, Dan wanted the last words Phil heard from him to be that he loved him, even if it was a lie. He needed that, so he would give it to him.

Phil raised his machete and one minute Dan felt all his pain, then for a split second he felt incredibly sharp pain in his neck, and then he felt nothing. For a moment there was black, nothingness, but then Dan was opening his eyes in his room, in London. He felt the familiar weight of his laptop on his lap and he didn’t feel any pain. Dan sighed in relief. He got up to go find Phil, needing him right that moment.

The smell of coffee and the clinking of dishes lead Dan to believe Phil was in the kitchen. As he walked into said kitchen he was aware that his suspicions were indeed correct. Phil stood next the a counter in his pjs, stirring a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, Danny Boy,” Phil said when he saw Dan walk in. He took a minute to go back to making his coffee but then he continued the one-sided conversation. “I read last night that more people are killed by donkeys than plane crashes, isn’t that cool?”

Dan was so happy that Phil said it. It meant it was the real Phil, the Phil that he met in Manchester on the train station so long ago. This was Phil. His Phil. Dan had so many emotions that he didn’t know what to do with them, so he cried. He just burst into sobs right there, a few feet from Phil.

“Dan are you okay? Did a family member of yours get killed by a donkey? Did I just bring back traumatic repressed memories from your childhood?” Phil rambled, and Dan just cried harder. “Can I do anything to make it better?”

Dan nodded once. “Hugs, please,” he requested. Phil nodded and abandoned his coffee to wrap Dan up in his arms. Dan cried harder, happy tears, because this was the Phil he knew. He smelled like coffee, liquorice, and apples. He smelt like Phil. His arms wrapped tightly around Dan’s back and made him feel safe. He felt like he could say anything and it would be perfectly okay, so he said the one thing on his mind. “I love you,”

Phil didn’t say anything back for a long few seconds. It stretched out like an eternity, but he didn’t lessen his grip on Dan and Dan was beyond grateful for that. Only sound in the room was their breathing and Dan was nervous about how heavy his was compared to Phil’s, who kept his composure too well for Dan’s liking. Dan expected Phil to reject him or something. Phil didn’t say anything. It seemed like eons of waiting for something-anything. Finally, Phil responded.

“I love you too,” and Dan’s heart stop and he started over analyzing. Of course Phil loved him, as a friend. Friends say ‘I love you’, right? Was it just he and Phil that never said it? Or maybe they did, Dan’s mind was too fuzzy to recall. Well, there’s really only one way to find out how Phil meant it. Dan somehow managed to loosen Phil’s grip on him enough to push their mouths together. Phil didn’t retaliate for a few seconds and Dan thought he was going to die of embarrassment and waited for Phil to again, do something.

Phil did do something. Dan felt the pressure being returned and he actually thought he was literally going to die. He didn’t though and when they had to pull away to breathe Phil hugged him tighter and Dan was glad that Phil’s breathing was just as heavy as his. As happy as he was, Dan was still kind of worried for the Phil in the phanfiction. What happened to him? When Phil finally let Dan go and Dan looked into his eyes Dan felt guilty again.

“I’ll be right back,” Dan breathed, as if he was scared that if he was too loud what just happened with he and Phil would shatter. Phil didn’t say anything but looked concerned.

Dan hurried back to his room and quickly read the end of the fic and almost threw his laptop across the room. The last line was:

“After Dan and Phil shared their kiss Dan rushed back to see the ending of the story he was trapped in, wanting to know the ending.”

And then it ended. Just like that, an open ending. Everyone hates those and yet authors keep writing them. Over and over again.

The end.

[entergamingxp]

Dealing With Insecurity in Animal Crossing: New Horizons

April 20, 2020 2:00 PM EST

Animal Crossing: New Horizons is a cute, fun game. So why do I feel bad whenever I play it?

For me, one game has risen apart from the rest in recent months. One of the few AAA releases that doesn’t focus on performing wrestling moves on zombies or using a demon’s spine as a pull-up bar. One that’s rather gentle and has become a great comfort to people recently. If you don’t know what I’m talking about yet, it’s Animal Crossing: New Horizons.

This latest entry in the adorable village simulator has hooked me and millions of others. It’s sold insanely well in the U.S, U.K and Japan, and amidst the ongoing pandemic, it’s been used as a stress ball for so many players. New Horizons is something that you can launch and play for about ten minutes, getting away from the problems of the world.

But there’s one part of Animal Crossing that makes it really stand out, not just this entry but the series as a whole. It doesn’t judge you. There are no scores, no wrong or right choices. You, the player, can do no wrong in the world of Animal Crossing. Everyone’s more or less just happy that you’re there.

“You, the player, can do no wrong in the world of Animal Crossing. Everyone’s more or less just happy that you’re there.”

Games often use scores to reflect your performance. Sometimes they’re literal scores like in sports titles, others offer up completion rates, and in first-person shooters, your K.D. ratio tells others whether you’re a badass spec-ops kind of player or a baby with a Nerf gun. And while these metrics are all good in their own respects, they open up a player to judgement. Not just from outside sources I.E your friend who won’t stop giving you the business for your low rank in CS:GO, but also internally.

So many games somehow punish or reprimand a player for not performing their best. In some of the 3D Sonic titles, when you’d receive a low grade at the end of the level, Sonic sounds disappointed. And who’s he disappointed in, himself? No, Sonic knows he’s fast, it’s you that he’s disappointed in. How could you, the player, make the fastest creature alive, slow? What the hell’s wrong with you?

That’s where Animal Crossing is different. It doesn’t care how you play. So long as you play, the game offers up nothing but good vibes and positive reinforcement. Seriously; you can give a villager a tree branch and they’ll react with “oh my gosh, this is the coolest thing ever, you’re so great.” To a tree branch. It’s unrealistic levels of support, and I’m here for it.

I’m not saying that games are too harsh or anything. Hell, I’m proud of my good K.D ratios, and my (extremely) modest rank in nearly every single competitive game I’ve ever played. But sometimes you just want to pick up and play a game without feeling like you need to perform to some metric. For once, there’s no stakes – nothing to unlock after exploring a level, no shiny medal, no prestige levels. It’s just you and the game, without any conflict, and that’s a hole in my gaming heart that’s needed filling. It’s this sensation that Animal Crossing delivers in spades.

Sometimes.

Yes, I know I just went on for six paragraphs about how Animal Crossing is endlessly supportive, yadda yadda. And it is. That part of it hasn’t, and most likely won’t, change for me as long as I play it. What does change that sensation is other people.

Strangely enough, for a time the worst part of Animal Crossing for me was looking at other people’s creations online. It was a weird case of impostor syndrome. I had built a small town, don’t have terraforming yet or anything, but I’m proud of what I’ve made and what’s there. Then I log on to Twitter and say “wow, did that person really make their island into a full-on city already?” What am I doing wrong? How is this possible? In order, the answers to those questions are not time traveling, and time traveling.

But that feeling remains, even if I’m just looking at a little garden someone made, or a playground. I immediately start thinking “why didn’t I do that?” and eventually, I think that I’m playing the game wrong. Not only is that antithetical to the entirety of Animal Crossing – it just sucks.

I made a vapor wave area for my island. It’s coming along nicely! #AnimalCrossing #ACNH #NintendoSwitch pic.twitter.com/nv3MPjw99S

— Ross O’Donovan (@RubberNinja) April 15, 2020

The whole point of Animal Crossing, to me at least, isn’t to amass the most bells or get the rarest items. It’s to create something you’re proud of. That’s part of why I’m so happy the village is on a deserted island that you’re free to eventually change however you want. Players get to take a blank canvas and paint what they feel, and it always comes out beautiful. But just like real artists, you eventually look at someone else’s art and think that yours is garbage.

It was only when I stopped looking at other player’s Animal Crossing posts on Twitter that I started to feel better about the game, like how I felt when I had started playing it. When I totally ignored the often amazing creations of others, I looked at mine with an actual sense of pride; like my time was worth putting into this little beach-side with palm trees and fishing equipment. It’s not a lot, in fact, it’s quite small, but it’s personal and I’m happy about it.

“The whole point of Animal Crossing, to me at least, isn’t to amass the most bells or get the rarest items. It’s to create something you’re proud of.”

Recently though I had a change of heart around this whole issue. I was talking to my partner about this piece, and she said “so it’s about you getting over feeling bad about what you make, right?” And I didn’t really know how to answer that. So far this has been about blocking out what other folks have made and well, that’s not really a good way to cope. I realized how childish that is, and decided to take a new approach.

It’s difficult to avoid being self-critical, especially in games. If you’ve ever been outplayed in a fighting game or dominated in a shooter, you know what I mean. But being self-critical in Animal Crossing is different. The skill barrier doesn’t relate to tech, inputs or aim: it’s all about creativity. It’s my desire to be as imaginative with the tools that I’m given as other players are.

So instead of turning away from other people’s work, I’ve been looking at them critically. How do these pieces bring a room together, how is furniture spaced out and pathing used to make an outdoor area look delightful and inviting? If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m not the best at decorating things, but it’s something I’m working on.

“It’s a disservice to Animal Crossing to be endlessly concerned about how your island looks compared to everyone else’s.”

This has been a strange thing to write about. At face value, Animal Crossing: New Horizons is a simple game. It’s cute; you manage an island paradise and money literally grows on trees. At the same time, this game made me take a good long look at how I approach playing games and the feelings derived from them. It’s not what I expected when I picked it up, and it’s still surprising as I type this sentence.

If there is anything I want you to take away from this piece, it’s that you shouldn’t play like me. It’s a disservice to Animal Crossing to be endlessly concerned about how your island looks compared to everyone else’s. Earlier on, I said that this series is about giving players a blank canvas to paint something beautiful on. That’s still a point that I very much believe. I just have to work on getting there.

April 20, 2020 2:00 PM EST

from EnterGamingXP https://entergamingxp.com/2020/04/dealing-with-insecurity-in-animal-crossing-new-horizons/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=dealing-with-insecurity-in-animal-crossing-new-horizons

[alifeincouches]

Fishing

On average, I fall in love at least 10 times a day. One might assume that falling in love that often is absurd. It is. One might also assume it would be exhausting. Most def. In reality, the falling part isn’t all that tiring, it’s quite the opposite. Every time a stranger smiles at me, I become instantly flush, giddy, and bug-eyed with enthusiasm! Then my enthusiasm is typically met with broken eye-contact and regret from the recipient.

Rejection is exhausting.

I once had an English teacher tell me that I should feel empowered by rejection! Like, what? He said that, “rejection is a conclusion, which is something we so rarely get in this life. Feel empowered because you took a chance, you put yourself out there and got an answer. It might not have been the answer you were hoping for but you got one, and that’s something!”

That’s something.

I suppose he’s kind of right. We so often get nothing at all, especially in the modern dating world. From ghosting, to thinly veiled “u up?” texts, we’re all swimming in an endless sea of weird emotional ambiguity. The deepest and darkest of these waters lie in online dating. I mean, Tinder alone has given me nightmares. But really. I’ve seen more dead animals in the last couple months, than I ever anticipated seeing in my entire life! I saw one man who had a normal enough opening photo, just him like standing in a field. Then his next photo was him in a nice suit, followed up by his final photo which was him taking a selfie holding a bunch of knives in front of his face! That’s obviously a murderer, right?

Nightmares.

Okay, I am aware that Tinder is not the most respectable place to go looking for love. I should have expected frightening creatures from the deep to appear with any given swipe, but love exists even in the darkest abyss. How rude is that? I know several fantastic people who have found love on Tinder. That fact is what enticed me to try it, but these people are the exceptions to the rule. The rule being that most people are the worst. Knowing this, I still ventured into other online dating pools, and unsurprisingly have exclusively found variations on the theme of gross. Next up was Bumble, which is very progressive in that women have to start the conversation! Finally, someone had the wild idea that women have a power of will!

Do you want to know my opening line? Yeah you do, it’s: “What’s your jam? Mine is space.”

Do you get it? I think it’s pretty good. In the rare case you don’t, I really love Space Jam. In the even rarer case you don’t know what Space Jam is, it’s a beautiful film starring basketball legend Michael Jordan, and the Looney Tunes. They join forces to defeat a group of evil aliens in a wacky basketball game, and Bill Murray is there too. So, yeah, it’s a strong opening line. It tells you what my priorities are in life, which are obviously comedy and great artistic works. It also sets up the opportunity for a riveting discussion. Most of the time I didn’t get a reply back. When I did, the answer was almost always: strawberry.

Finally, I waded into the waters of OkCupid. I was told this is where you went if you were serious about dating. Right off the bat, I was intimidated. You have to write essays and answer a ton of questions about yourself, and what you think your ideal partner would be like. Doing all that helped me figure out that my ideal partner would most likely not be using a dating site. They would be alone in their home watching Wes Anderson films, and journaling with their dog. Really, my ideal partner is Elijah Wood. Once I figured that out I decided to just throw caution to the wind, and put it all out there. I came up with a new goal. I was going to try and get catfished so I could be on that MTV show. I thought it was a pretty solid idea, and right away I met the perfect guy! After only a few hours with my interest parameters set to anywhere, and down for anything, a grade A cutie slid into my messages. His name was Kyle. He was a 23 years old currently living in L.A., but was originally from New Zealand. Then, to top it all off, he worked for SpaceX. Yeah, like that SpaceX! Jackpot, right? He even had an interesting opening line! Well, it was more like a little paragraph. His first message to me was,

“I could comment on your looks, because I find you absolutely beautiful, but that’s too easy. I’d rather comment on the fact that you seem like a really interesting person. You’ve lived a storied life, haven’t you?”

I was hooked. Day 1 we sent over a hundred messages back and forth before we finally upgraded to phone conversation on Day 2. His accent alone made me forget how entirely impractical a relationship would be. To top it all off, he was funny. Not nearly as funny as me, but still, pretty funny! On Day 3 we decided to have a Skype date, which was surprising at first, but I’ve seen every episode of Catfish and have learned that someone can look like their picture and still lie about everything else. So I remained cautious and prepared for disappointment. When that light blue screen faded into the man I’d been staring at in pictures for days, my brain fully tapped out. Basic sentence structure was long gone. At first I just giggled a lot and made vaguely affirming noises in response to his questions about which movie we should watch. I finally got it together enough to suggest we watch The Incredible Jessica James. I thought it was a good choice because it’s about a dope queen who dates a cute man with a fun accent, and that seemed too relevant to pass up.

We had a great time, and made plans to do it again the next day. I even found out that he really did work for SpaceX, his picture and bio were on their website. He was exactly who he said he was. Now, this is the part of the story when reality finally sets in. My brain got around to letting my heart know that this relationship wasn’t sustainable. On Day 4 he offered to fly across the country to hangout for the weekend.

That hella freaked me out.

In my opinion, I think I was justified in my reaction, but he didn’t feel the same way. His reaction was very similar to other guys I’ve said no to. He got mean. He brought up my weight, and said that I should feel grateful that he would even be interested in me. I hope you find that shocking, and aren’t like me, who is used to that experience. Though I may be used to it, I know it’s some straight bullshit. I’m a dope ass queen he was lucky to know, and now I’ve learned some things too.

I cast my net too wide, got tangled, and now I’m here.

Still very much alone.

Don’t get me wrong, I know that everyone will not find me to be a catch and a half. I’m a confident, loud, funny fat girl, and that can cause some people to quake in there lil’ fishing boots. I suppose it’s for the best, really. If I was admired as much as I admire, my heart would implode. At least with rejection, you bounce back, catch another smile, and do it all again. It’s not all that hard when you know you’ve got, at minimum, another 9 opportunities today.

[sunshinemiranda]

Starlight Grounds - Phillipa Soo x Reader

Summary: The reader is a barista at a coffee shop. There is a beautiful girl who comes in at the same time every day to get the same drink. She asks after the music. A mixtape happens. 

Warnings: None, except for MAJOR TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF. Honestly. 

Words: 2,424

A/N: Day 2 of the Write-A-Thon! Sorry for posting so late, I had a really big day. There are songs that go along with this fic, and I’ll add links in the paragraphs! Just click on the titles. Thank you to @protecting-my-legacy for proofreading this and letting me use your wonderful self as a side character. 

askbox | masterlist

Starlight Grounds was a little hole in the wall coffee shop, tucked neatly into the corner of West 46th Street in the busy crowd of New York City. It serviced the tired actors and crew who needed a morning pick-me-up before going to a day of rehearsals at the Richard Rodgers, which happened to be just down the street. Every day was a long one, even for such a small coffee shop, but the job was happy and provided good tips. It was perfect for you.

Every morning, right on time, a dark-haired, beautiful girl came in and ordered a venti cinnamon dolce latte. Every morning, she hummed a different song and even sang softly, with a beautiful, crystal clear voice. Every morning, you swooned a little more over the stranger who you only knew as “Pippa”, as it was written on her coffee cup.

“All you know is her favourite drink and her nickname, and you’re half whipped for the girl already.”

“I am not!”

This argument with Mackie, your sweetheart of a coworker (correction: scathing sweetheart) had been going on as long as the customer of your affections had been coming to your workplace.

“Look,” sighed Mackie, all hands on hips and perked eyebrows. “Just ask the girl out. Maybe write something cute on her cup if you’re feeling risky. Don’t just stare at her like an idiot and ask her the same question every day.”

“It’s my system.” You pouted, crossing your arms with a huff. “And it works.”

“Like hell it does.”

Despite your colleague’s hard work to push you forward, the next morning followed the very same schedule. The doorbell rang as the minute hand on the clock hit 5:36, and you scrambled out of your seat to take her order.

“Hi!” You inwardly cringed at your cheery employee voice. “What can I get you?”

“A venti cinnamon dolce latte, please.” She grinned, sliding exact change over, already knowing the price by heart.

God, she was adorable.

“Oh, also, could you maybe tell me the name of this song?” She smiled, gesturing to the speakers that happened to be playing music that you had selected.

You were bursting with pride as you pulled her drink together. She liked your music. Yours.

“Of course!” As you slipped a protective sleeve onto the cup, you pulled out the Sharpie that was perched behind your ear and scribbled out, Blue Velvet - Lana Del Rey, before handing it to her.

She looked down, eyes following your note as her smile grew. “Thank you so much!” Reaching over, she pushed a ten dollar bill into the tip box, sending you a heart-stopping smile before exiting the coffee house as quickly as she had left.

Frozen on the spot, you stared at the door that had already closed, the doorbell echoing softly, full of a blush and a heart that just couldn’t slow down.

Mackie looked up from her magazine, cocked an eyebrow and took a pointed bite of her apple.

“Jesus, you have it bad.”

No amount of denial would change the fact that she was utterly correct.

The next morning, Pippa whooshed through the door, looking pretty as always and rubbing her hands together from the cold winter outside. She was humming a song, and it wasn’t until she had pulled up to the counter that you realized it was the very same song you had written on her cup yesterday. Your heart did a tapdance.

“Hi there! Can I get a-”

“Venti cinnamon dolce latte?” You offered a shy smile.

“Yes!” She exclaimed, a little louder than she had planned, and blushing. “I do come here a lot, don’t I.”

Mackie coughed from behind the panini press, something that sounded dangerously close to the word, “whipped”.

Pippa tilted her head, listening to the speakers that were, again, playing your music.

“Jeez, it’s like every time you come in here, you’re playing music I like! Can I get the name of this one too?” She smiled sheepishly.

“Of course!” You blurted. “You like French music?”

“Oh yes! I love the language. Always wished I could speak it.”

“Me too,” you smiled, pulling out your Sharpie to add, Ava - Coeur de Pirate to her cup.

Giving you a word of thanks, she sent you a beautiful smile and swept out the door and on her way. This girl was killing you with her wonderful smile, her great taste in music, the way she dressed, talked, and sang your favourite songs under her breath. God, there was no way you could survive the shift without poring over your song selection to find the perfect song for tomorrow morning. The day would not end fast enough.

The “music incidents” as you and Mackie had come to know them, kept going throughout the week. Every morning, your infatuation would appear like an angel at the door, right on time, always humming the last song you had suggested. Sometimes she even sang it under her breath and your world pretty much exploded. Always, she would ask after your song choice.

On Monday, her cup said The Only Thing - Sufjan Stevens.

Tuesday, it read Sleepwalk - Santo & Johnny.

Wednesday morning brought, Sea of Love - Cat Power.

Thursday was marked with, Someone New - Hozier.

Mackie was certain that it was her way of hitting on you, but you, on the other hand, summed it up as some angelic kindness on her part. After all, this girl was practically perfect in every way. In what twisted, upside down world would someone of this league and stature want anything to do with you and your disorganized playlists? It was too good to be true, and though Mackie tried (more than once and in many different ways) to prove that you were wrong, the concept was simply too unfathomable.

After the Thursday shift had come and gone and you had been nearly run off your feet with grumpy New York inhabitants, grumpy before their first touch of caffeine, you slouched into a leather chair next to an equally tired Mackie.

“I think I know what I’m gonna do.” You mumbled, eyes closing to gather your thoughts.

“And what exactly would that be? Gape at her beauty some more? Keep giving her song names and nothing else? Memorize her coffee order and never get her number? Stare at her agai-”

“Mackie, no. I’m gonna make her a mixtape.”

There was a pause and you opened your eyes to gauge your best friend’s reaction. She glanced over at you, expression serious now.

“I think that’s the best goddamn idea you’ve had since you decided to join me in this horrible barista job. Now get home, you’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ll close up.” She sent you a lopsided grin.

“Oh my God, seriously? Yes, you are the best Mackie, I love you, I promise to-”

“(Y/N), I didn’t give you free time just for you to waste it. I’ll close up. Now get the hell out of my coffee shop.”

There was no point in throwing away the opportunity.

A quick bus ride and a two-block-walk later, you had arrived comfortably at home and got straight to work. A few weeks ago, you had bought a few blank cassette tapes, planning on making some birthday playlists for some close friends and family when the time came. Thank God for that. Immediately, you pulled up all your music on your phone, sifting through it and marvelling at how many of the songs reminded you of the beautiful girl who appeared in your dreams.

It took two hours to finish the tape, and you realized that doing so was not easy. A load of calculation went into how to fit the songs on both sides, and that wasn’t even mentioning the twenty minutes you wasted trying to find the perfect song to start the playlist with. By the time everything was finished, your eyes had been strained so badly that it was hard to write out the names of the songs and artists on the slip of paper in the cassette case, but it was worth it. Your motivation stemmed from excitement to see her face when she saw your gift. Hopefully, it would lead to a nice enough segway into asking her out on a date, but for now your focus was entirely on the mixtape in front of you.

As you fell asleep that night, your stomach flipped in waves of anticipation and nervousness. It was like being a high school kid again, the night before the Valentine’s Day dance where you were planning to ask your crush for a slow dance. Except, this was real life, not a dream, and you were an adult, which meant people were quicker to judge and expectations were easily crushed, stabbed, punched in the face and run over with a bus just for good measure.

Pippa (or whatever her name might be) seemed to be different. Her smile promised warm hugs and her laugh made you want to hold her hand and there was just something about the way she sang that hit your heart like a warm bath against tired skin. She was the epitome of beautiful and it wasn’t just a coincidence that she appeared so frequently in your dreams.

Before you went to sleep that night, you wrote out a neat title on the cassette: For the girl who likes cinnamon dolce lattes.

No morning before a confession can be fully complete without an almost complete freak-out. The clock was speeding towards 5:36 and Mackie had spent the past half hour trying to quell your fears.

“She’s going to hate it, I look so creepy, oh God, why am I doing this?”

“Because you like her. And you made this awesome playlist and you are going to give it to her and ask her on a date.”

“I can’t,” you breathed, head in your hands as you quaked at the very thought. “I can’t do this, I really can’t-”

“(Y/N) (L/N).” The decisive way she threw your name out, like it was a command, caught your attention. “You listen to me and you listen hard. You stayed up all night making this disgustingly adorable mixtape for a girl you like. You put time into this. If she doesn’t appreciate it, then she’s not worth all the fuss and bother and frankly, I don’t want you going out with someone who can’t appreciate the work you put in. This is going to happen, and it’s going to happen well. Now get yourself together, stand up, and face her. That’s right.”

She stood you up with a firm grasp, turning to the counter to retrieve the cassette you had banished and pressed it into your hands just as the doorbell rang. You mouthed a silent, thank you, before moving slowly but surely to the till to take Pippa’s order.

“Hey! Just the regular.” She threw you a grin that sent your mind into a tornado as you typed her total out, taking her money with mechanical movements.

“Sounds good,” you managed, but your voice was weak and wavering.

As you reached for a cup to scribble her name down, her eyes widened as she caught sight of what you had still clasped in your hand.

“Oh! Is that a cassette?”

“What?” You almost jumped, realizing that you had it in plain sight and quickly hid it in the pocket of your apron. Quickly, you busied herself making her drink. “Um, y-yeah. Yeah it is.”

“That’s so cool. I have a tape player at home but nothing is on cassette anymore, so I’m not sure if there’s a point.” She sent you a sad smile as you topped her drink with a black plastic lid.

“It should come in handy one day.” You replied with a watery smile of your own, passing over the cardboard cup.

“I hope so! Thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow.” She waved over her shoulder, still smiling before walking out the door.

The cassette hung heavy in your pocket, full of regrets and ultimately, a plastic reminder that you had completely failed. You were just accepting defeat when Mackie hurried over and grabbed your sleeve, tugging on it viciously.

“Go after her.”

Something about the way she said it pushed you right into gear and before you knew it, you were hurrying out of Starlight Grounds and into the morning crowd of West 46th Street, still clad in your green barista apron and armed with a cassette for a beautiful girl. A familiar head of hair caught your eye and you wasted no time in hurrying forward.

Your voice seemed to take control of its own fate and without even noticing, you called out her name.

“Pippa!”

Her head whipped around and she startled as she realized it was you, but waded back towards where you stood on the sidewalk.

“Oh my God, (Y/N), hi.”

“Wait. You know my name?” You stared at her in shock.

“Of course. It’s on your nametag.” She grinned, pointing.

That was more than embarrassing.

“Oh. Right.” Rubbing a hand over your face, you steeled your nerves. “Listen, I just…I wanted to give you something.”

Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out the tape gingerly and offered it to her in an open palm.

“This-This is for you. I made it. It’s got all these songs I thought you’d like since you always ask me about the music I play so, I thought you would appreciate it?”

She stared, breathless at the gift and reached forward, picking it up with awe in her eyes.

“This is…oh my goodness, (Y/N), this is too much. I can’t believe you did this for me.” Looking up, she grabbed your hands, giving a wide smile. “Thank you. Really.”

“Anytime.” You smiled, giving her hand a squeeze as your heart fluttered in your chest.

“Hey, would you…like to go grab — well, maybe not coffee, ‘cause you must be sick of that — but do you wanna get dinner with me some time?” She asked, blushing badly as she stared at where your hands were clasped.

“I was just about to ask you that.” You grinned. “Yes. Of course, I’d love to.”

She let out a delighted giggle that made your knees weak. “Awesome. What’s your number? I’ll call you.” When Pippa appeared at your door the next night, right on time at eight o' clock, she was holding a mixtape with your name on it.

[aion-rsa]

The Best Geek TV Deep Dives on YouTube

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From the heyday of Television Without Pity to niche podcasts that cover every small screen angle you can think of, TV show deep dives have always thrived online, and popular platforms like YouTube and Vimeo provide opportunities for talented creators to add a visual angle that can often make a well-edited analysis of your favorite series even more compelling.

YouTube is positively teeming with potential rabbit holes for TV obsessives to fall down. Sometimes at 3 a.m. Sometimes after a few beers. Sometimes when you should be working (couldn’t be us) but whether you’re drawn in by a near-obligatory shocked reaction thumbnail or you accidentally stumble across an interesting take on something you’re passionate about, there’s usually a rabbit hole waiting that feels like it could have been made just for you.

With any luck, falling down one of those rabbit holes ends with you landing far away from the world of destructive opinions, of which there are many, and not just on YouTube. Most of us have probably seen a clip floating around of someone spouting the most harmful, misinformed nonsense at one time or another, and asked ourselves whether giving that person a platform was really the best idea.

Well, this isn’t that. Instead, we’ve pulled together some weighty YouTube-accessible examples of what happens when someone loves a TV series or franchise so much, they can’t stop talking about it – even decades later. Most of these deep dives are a labor of love, which is not to say that they always have a happy ending.

The Retrospective

Ian Martin, who runs the YouTube channel Passion of the Nerd, says his journey began rather accidentally in his early 30s when he found himself feeling a little lost in life. He admits he tried a variety of ways to rid himself of the sensation, including “too much alcohol,” but after deciding on a career change and fruitlessly looking for ways into the voiceover industry, he decided the best course of action was to go ahead and just …make stuff. After all, this course of action didn’t require anyone else to give him a break, and made him the master of his own destiny.

“I sat down and wrote a script about a show I’d become consumed by and edited it into a video called Why You Should Watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” he wrote. “In that video, I mentioned that Buffy’s first season was a little rough and, for people who just wanted to get into the show, I would create a short little episode guide just to get them through the first season.”

Six years later, Martin is still at it, and his audience has grown into a supportive community that includes over sixty thousand subscribers, propped up by funding from Patreon. Not only is he still covering Joss Whedon’s first series in depth, episode-by-episode, he’s now delving into spin-off show Angel and Firefly.

Martin’s videos don’t pore over every aspect of these shows, and rarely does an instalment hit the 30-minute mark. Rather, they tend to examine the philosophy behind their themes, citing absurdist and existentialist influences. The host himself doesn’t push these ideas on his audience, but if you don’t end up buying a copy of Jean-Paul Sartre’s Nausea by the time you get to the end of Season 3, it may be that you’ve missed out on a pretty essential element of Buffy’s enduring appeal.

“It took me a long time to figure out what Passion of the Nerd was but I started to find its shape through the journey it was taking ME on,” he explained. “On any average day it’s a chance to make someone laugh over our shared interests. But my favorite experience of art is the one in which we find ourselves. That movie, piece of music, performance, or show that makes us feel like its creator opened up our heart to take a picture of its inner depths. And I love talking about why media MATTERS and finding those moments in popular culture. Sometimes I get to distil those moments for other people and when I do, I hope it does for them what the channel has done for me.”

Martin’s coverage of the very first episode of Buffy lies below. If you continue watching his series of videos after that, it’s unlikely you’ll want that time back. They’re incredibly thoughtful and, frankly, an absolute joy.

The Deconstruction

Ah, Twin Peaks. The show that changed television forever, and one that has been hard to forget ever since. You’ve not been able to throw a golden shovel without hitting a Twin Peaks deep dive online in the last three decades, but occasionally one arrives and threatens to pull apart the backbone of its dreamscape for good.

Twin Perfect’s Rosseter turned in a Twin Peaks deep dive last October with a running time not for the faint of heart. His deconstruction of David Lynch’s endlessly puzzling mystery, supported by myriad quotes from its beloved co-creator, is over four-and-a-half hours long, but its length certainly hasn’t put off curious viewers – over a million people have already chosen to hear what Rosseter has to say about the real meaning behind Twin Peaks.

“Garmonbozia, the Black and White Lodges, Mike, Bob and the Little Man, Judy, Audrey and Charlie, Season 3’s ending… The mystery of Twin Peaks has survived for nearly 30 years… until now,” the video promises, which is a tease that even casual fans of the series can’t possibly resist. Their mileage may vary with the host’s loud impression of Lynch throughout the video, however, even as he produces what feels like a fairly accurate interpretation of Twin Peaks’ initial intentions, its ongoing message in the prequel film Fire Walk with Me, and a gut-punching look at 2017’s The Return.

Rosseter starts out by warning his audience that if they haven’t consumed all three Twin Peaks seasons and the film, they should consider stepping back until they have, which stands to reason: he’s about to spoil most of their various twists and turns. But he then goes on to say that die-hard Twin Peaks junkies should also reconsider watching the video, because after they’ve heard him out, they might never be able to look at Twin Peaks the same way again.

For many, the temptation to potentially peek behind the red curtain has been too great to ignore, and the comment section is filled with people who sat through the whole thing, having felt truly changed by the experience.

“David Lynch didn’t even know what this show was about until he saw this video,” someone joked, while another added more solemnly “I just feel regret. I appreciate the show on a whole other level but the haunting magic that it had for me is gone.”

One viewer thought that Rosseter’s comprehensive offering “may legitimately and unironically be one of the most intelligent and well-constructed videos ever put on YouTube,” but others hit the nail on the head when they realised that unwrapping Twin Peaks’ clues over the years had only led to one significant discovery: “we were controlling Twin Peaks the entire time.”

So, what’s at the heart of Rosseter’s theory? You may want to find out for yourself, and he certainly makes an incredibly detailed case for it. In this event, a brief explanation in the next paragraph will be a SPOILER.

While it’s common knowledge that David Lynch didn’t want to reveal who was responsible for killing Twin Peaks’ central victim, Laura Palmer, and that he was forced by TV bigwigs to wrap up the storyline and the investigation into her murder during Season 2 in late 1990, Rosseter posits that the reason we were never supposed to uncover the mystery of who ended her life and get closure on her death is because Lynch fundamentally believes that consumable TV violence is rotting our brains, and that’s why he created the series in the first place.

Still intrigued? Take a look…

The Discussion

Two-time Shorty Award winner Kristen Maldonado launched her YouTube channel in 2014 as a place where pop culture meets community, and she has the kind of drive, ambition and fast turnaround skills that make other creators look like they’re napping on the job, frankly.

While working as a social media manager for MTV, she’s used her YouTube platform to support women, diversity, and LGBTQ+ representation, discussing everything from the acknowledgement of Kat’s identity on The Bold Type, to the highs and lows of TV’s YA-skewed failures, emphasising the importance of why representation matters “on screen, behind the scenes, and critically.”

Along the way, she’s become a notable queen of deep dives, and not just where TV or movies are concerned – at one point she was even documenting her own musical journey on Spotify, where she was keen to bring attention to emerging artists. Discussing TV still feels like Maldonado’s reigning passion, though, and she usually explores her favorite shows in bite-sized segments that add up to a comprehensive look at their subjects.

One show she’s been extremely passionate about is the Charmed reboot, which she was beyond excited to see come to fruition on The CW. The fantasy drama series originally ran for eight seasons between 1998 and 2006, and CBS had tried and failed to reboot it before, but this time The CW intended to get the job done, bringing the story of magic and sisterhood back to TV and hoping to entice both fans of the old series and a new, younger audience.

The reboot was initially touted across industry trades as a project that would star three Latinx actresses, and that casting choice meant a lot to Maldonado. When news later emerged that only one of the new Charmed sisters would be played by a Latina actress, she posted a video addressing her feelings of confusion about how the show was originally announced, her disappointment that the roles wouldn’t be filled by three Latinx performers, and why series creators need to start using valuable representation opportunities properly.

Maldonado has covered the Charmed reboot comprehensively since it began in 2018, and this year has moved into livestreaming her reviews, switching from shorter videos to longer discussions about the episodes. If you’re a fan of Charmed, or any of the other series she covers (and there are quite a few) you might well find her channel to be an insightful addition to your subscription list.

The Takedown

Chances are, a TV show has pissed you off or upset you before. That Game of Thrones ending? Probably. Bobby Ewing stepping out of the shower? Sure. Quantum Leap? We’re not over it. Only a few of us take the time to make a video detailing just how upset we are about a show and upload it to YouTube, though.

Mike Stoklasa is likely to be a pretty familiar face to some of the Very Online movie and TV addicts reading these words. He’s the founder of production company RedLetterMedia, through which he’s been creating content and offering his desert-dry opinion on various facets of pop culture for well over a decade.

On YouTube, Stoklasa is regularly accompanied by cohorts Jay Bauman and Rich Evans as they take a hard look at some of their favorite films from the past, some of the worst straight-to-video movies of all time, and some of the bigger releases, too. He also voices a character called Mr. Plinkett, and when he does, viewers know that they’re about to peer screaming into the void, because ‘Mr. Plinkett’ does not hold back, especially when it comes to Star Wars or Star Trek.

Stoklasa is one of the most vocal Star Trek fans alive, and is known to consistently derail otherwise unconnected discussions with his Trek references, often explaining how Star Trek may have influenced the subject’s storytelling, and how it might have been – or should have been – a positive lesson from TV past.

To say that he’s not a fan of Star Trek’s fairly recent resurgence under the eye of executive producer Alex Kurtzman is probably an understatement. He covered CBS All-Access’ Star Trek: Discovery, a series that has, for the most part, chosen to abandon Trek’s previous lean towards standalone stories and episodes in favor of season-long arcs, and he seemed interested but trepidatious ahead of Star Trek: Picard’s arrival on the streaming service. But after the show had run its course, he uploaded a 94-minute takedown called ‘Mr. Plinkett’s Star Trek Picard Review’.

The broader world of YouTube takedowns is, objectively, a cesspool – misogyny, racism and homophobia have often run rampant – but Stoklasa has been in the business of keeping more of a constructive balance going for a long time, so when ‘Mr Plinkett’s’ review of Picard appeared online towards the end of May, anyone with even a little backstory on his recent problems with Trek’s TV universe suspected that the fresh adventures of the aging ex-Enterprise captain had finally pushed him over the edge …but they weren’t quite prepared for the ‘Dear John’ letter that ultimately arrived.

Whether you enjoyed Picard or not, Stoklasa makes some constructive points in his video review, and his breakup with the current Star Trek TV world is one for the ages.

The Art of More

If it’s the visual element of a TV show deep dive you’re into, YouTube has plenty to offer.

Art meets skill as Skip Intro takes a fascinating look at the editing behind David E. Kelley’s Big Little Lies, Ladyknightthebrave spends the best part of an hour pondering how Fleabag’s gimmick of breaking the fourth wall serves the show’s characters and story, and balancing ‘point of view’ vs ‘the big picture’ becomes the focus of Lost Thoughts’ It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Island.

Here, Thomas Flight explores how HBO’s award-guzzling Chernobyl became a masterclass in perspective…

We hope you found something worth your time in this piece, and writing it up wasn’t really an excuse to discover more of them, but it also wasn’t NOT an excuse to discover more of them. So, if you’ve found any notable examples to keep us busy, please direct our attention to them in the comments, thank you.

The post The Best Geek TV Deep Dives on YouTube appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[fyrapartnersearch]

Looking for long-term M/M roleplays

Hey! I’m Kat, and looking for some more roleplays. I’m in my early twenties, so no worries there, and I’m in the GMT+3 time-zone, though I tend to be up at odd hours and I’m often online. I mainly want to roleplay M/M right now. I tend to write multi-para and more often than not my replies are 700+ words. I don’t mind shorter replies, as long as I get at least a few good sized paragraphs and correct spelling/grammar. Mistakes happen and that’s fine, but I don’t want to read something with no punctuation and that’s nothing but mistakes. Also please read this whole thing before sending me a message!! I ask you don't just send "wanna RP?", because I won't know unless you tell me something you had in mind: a plot, an idea of mine you liked, anything really. As for smut, I adore it. I don’t want to write only smut for now, but anything from 20/80 to 80/20 on plot/smut ratio is good for me. Just tell me if you want more plot or smut. In M/M smut I prefer playing a submissive/bottom character. I can play a dominant character, but I don't enjoy it so I wish you'll be willing to play an exclusively dominant role. What I like: - Medieval/historical settings (especially ancient Egypt/Rome/Greece) - Forbidden love - Arranged marriage - Lots and lots of drama and dark themes - But also fluffy scenes and cute/happy moments - Mpreg (not a must at all, if you’re not into it) - Supernatural beings (werewolves, vampires, demons, gods etc.) - Omega verse - Role reversal (such as, for example, a bully getting himself in a situation where the bullied has complete control) I'm rather reserved when it comes to modern day settings, but I can do those as well if there's a lot of action and drama involved. I prefer a plot-heavy story in modern setting though. Pairings I'd like to try: (Dom/sub) - Warlord/prince - King or prince/prince in an arranged marriage setting - Pirate or thief/nobility - Samurai/geisha - Nobility/prostitute - Servant/nobility or royalty - Guard/nobility or royalty - Bullied/Bully - Nerd/popular student - Stepbrothers - Demon/angel - Poor guy/rich guy in an Victorian era/early 20th century setting - Mage/human (yes I have just finished rewatching all Harry Potter movies lol) - Werewolf/human - Professor/student And many more fun things, but I can't remember everything off the top of my head. Feel free to suggest anything, really. I'm also very much into playing femboys/crossdressing characters, though if that's not your thing I can do other kinds of characters as well. I know it's a concern for many with these kinds of characters, so I'll promise my characters are never the "I-can-do-nothing-on-my-own-and-will-cry-at-the-drop-of-a-hat-and-whine-the-rest-of-the-time" blushing virgin, maiden in distress types. No need to worry about that. I am busy a lot, so I might not always have time to reply every day or even every other day, but I try to be as active as I can. Feel free to poke me if it takes more than a week or so though. A few plot ideas: (MC = my character, YC = your character) 1) Insipred by the TV show "Lucifer". YC is the Devil himself, ruler of Hell, the first fallen angel. He has grown tired of the same old tortured souls and fires of damnation scenery though and decides it's time to visit Earth for a bit. A notorious playboy, seducer to sin, the owner of one of the hottest nightclubs in town is the image he creates for himself among humans. He grants wishes in exchange to favours and soon enough everyone knows of him. MC is a struggling student, or someone who has just graduated and can't get on in life, and as a last resort goes to see YC. YC takes an immidiate liking to him, and initial fascination quickly turns into something more... human. Love, maybe? Suddenly YC has to make a choice of whether or not he'll reveal who he truly is to the innocent human he has fallen for. 2) Once upon a time MC and YC were lovers, young and oh, so in love. They were happy together, planning their future, until one day YC disappeared without a trace and MC never saw him again. Until 10 years later; YC has inherited a large fortune from his uncle who had no family of his own, and one lonely evening he heads to a brothel to ease his longing for company. There, much to his shock, he is reunited with MC who is a shell of what he once was. The bubbly, social human, always so full of life, has turned into someone with a haunted look in his eyes and a deep distrust for other people. Not able to leave MC there, YC buys him from the brothel and takes him home. Now he needs to decide what to do with him. (Historical setting) 3) (Omega verse, preferably mpreg included) MC is a rare kind of a shifter, an omega desired by many. He was born in a different kind of a prison: to a man who breeds only the best omegas for the royalty. He and the other omegas he lives with have never seen the outside world. They are kept safe behind locks in the innermost monastery on the castle grounds, where there's no chance of them getting out on their own. They are given to the harems of the royal family, or occasionally bought by the wealthies of the wealthy. But MC wants more, he wants independence and a life of his own, rather than a life dedicated to fawning over an alpha with an ego big enough as it is. YC is an alpha who has made a considerable contribution to the kingdom (could be anything from being an honored soldier to being a famous artist, whatever you come up with) and who is being gifted one of these rare omegas by the royal family themselves. On his visit to the monastery to choose one of them, he takes a liking to MC, the spiteful little thing who can't seem to know when to shut up and who won't bat his lashes and swoon at everything YC does. It seems like MC will be getting a new home. 4) MC is a shifter (species can be discussed and decided on later) who has been separated from his pack and survived alone for a while now. He gets caught in the middle of a fight between YC's pack and YC's rival pack, and after - possibly accidentally - saving YC's life he is accepted into the pack. Some time passes, YC and MC grow closer, the suspicions some had about MC fade and MC feels he's starting to belong in a pack again, when he finds out his old pack has merged with YC's rival pack. Now he'll have to choose whether he is loyal to his new, or his old pack. (I would prefer this had mpreg, but again not a necessity) 5) YC is a shapeshifter, the leader of a clan of dragons. Dragons have long ago been thought extinct, but the truth is there are still some clans left. The problem is, with the dominant personalities of dragons, it’s quite difficult to find a mate or a breeding partner. YC thinks to look for the solution outside the clan, to make humans their child-bearers. He picks MC as the first test subject. (Includes Mpreg) 6) Two countries have been at war since the beginning of time, as long as anyone can remember. All boys who come of age must join the army and go to war. MC knows he could not survive the war - he's never touched a sword in his life, never hurt anyone. He's not physically strong nor does he have any knowledge of fighting. His family has already died because of the war, leaving him alone on a small farm. So, to avoid having to go, just before coming of age MC started disguising himself as a woman. For some years it has worked out well, he's lived his life peacefully on his little farm, until the enemy forces take the city just outside of which MC lives. YC is a high ranking officer (or the king) who takes an interest in MC, thinking he is a woman. Now MC must figure out what to do with the peculiar situation he finds himself in. 7) (A rare futuristic plotline I've been dying to do since I watched Black Mirror; Nosedive) People want good ratings on their pictures, on their posts and videos - on themselves. Everyone has a technological chip inserted into their eyes when they're born that lets them see how other people are rated. Only the "best" humans in society are rated 9 or higher overall - 5 or lower makes life Hell on Earth for a person. Anyone can rate anyone on their phones every time they interact in person. One's rating has a tremendous impact on their lives; whether they get the job they want, whether they can apply to a certain school, even whether or not they can buy a house in a certain neighborhood... this system makes creating deep relationships nearly impossible, because people are too afraid to show who they really are in fear of being rated badly. MC is the youngest son of a well-off family, an ideal family where everyone is rated 8.9 or higher, loved by most people. YC is from a family who have never much cared about the system. They are decently rated, but they don't seem to care - what they care about is the honestly and real human relationships that are so hard to find nowadays. When MC and YC meet, MC is intrigued, but YC thinks MC is an empty shell only after numbers just like everyone else. Eventually, feelings start to develop between the two, but there are many problems to overcome, especially in their society. That's it for now. I'm always happy to hear any ideas you might have as well, and all the ideas above can be modified or changed up a little! My e-mail: kat_vainio@outlook.com Anyway, hope to hear from you soon!!

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When you are just starting up a brand new interest, don t make investments a lot of cash in it straight away. You need to ensure that the hobby is one thing you are going to take pleasure in for a long period just before you find yourself spending a ton of money on issues you may never use yet again.

Switching your children to hobbies and interests with an young age can help them in several methods, and research advise it will also have them about the straight and filter. Kids who participate in more-curricular sports activities, artwork actions, and various night clubs readily available often do better in education also. Bring in those to a lot of hobbies and interests, and allow them to select their preferred!

If you like focusing on personal computers, you may want to take the next step and change computer coding in a hobby. This is among all those pastimes that can repay (virtually) over time. The better you teach your self, the better marketable abilities you ll when looking for employment. As well as coding might be loads of fun too.

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Seashell collecting is an excellent interest that can present you with happy remembrances of beach front getaways. Seashells could be academic for youngsters plus make great elaborate accents for that home.

This post ought to have uncovered that there are reasons for having hobbies and interests that are not well-known. To find the most out you pastimes, you will find stuff you must know about. Use the ideas from the post to assist you to attain a fresh respect towards your favorite hobby.

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