#thing I wrote

[djregular]

My friend @knitmeapony encouraged me so praise/blame them.

[theanticool]

Ring of Fire: Undisputed Heavyweight Championship

Even I can't deny there is no prize in sports like being the heavyweight champion of the world. While the quality of the division has ebbed and flowed with time, the mystique and allure of the heavyweight champion has never faltered. There are few prizes that so intimately tie you to the the history of the sport like being called the heavyweight champion. It ties you to monumental sports figures such as Mike Tyson, Joe Frazier, Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano, Jack Johnson, George Foreman, and Muhammad Ali. People who have transcended the sport of boxing and are just widely known outside the sport. Being a part of that lineage ties you to some of the most significant athletes the modern world has ever had.

So when Oleksandr Usyk and Tyson Fury face off this Saturday (May 18th) to determine who is the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world, they are bringing all of that history with them into the ring with them.

Undisputed - a quick explainer

One of the little secrets that many non-boxing fans don’t know is that there has never been a singular heavyweight title (or any weight class) in boxing. Titles are conferred by organizations called sanctioning bodies. The title of undisputed goes to the boxer that has won all major titles in a weight class at the same time. Men like Muhammad Ali was the undisputed heavyweight champion in the 2 belt era of boxing (WBA and WBC) while Mike Tyson was undisputed in the 3 belt era (WBA, WBC, and IBF). The last undisputed heavyweight champion was Lennox Lewis back in 2000,another in the 3-belt era. It’s a hard feat that involves not just skill, but a lot of political maneuvering and money being thrown around to make it happen. 

Currently, there are four major sanctioning bodies: WBC, WBA, IBF, and WBO. No individual belt is technically worth more than any other, but having one signifies you are one of the very best in the world at your weight class. The winner of Usyk-Fury will be the first heavyweight to ever win all four belts.

[saturnplaza]

 He wraps his arms around my waist keeping his gaze locked onto my eyes.

 I press myself closer to him. 

Arms around him, Staring right back. 

Looking into his eyes. Everything around seems quiet and slow. 

Shallow breaths. 

Hold on tighter. 

You know this is when you’ll meet your demise. 

Embrace your death while holding onto a stranger. 

Someone you’re intertwined with, in such little time.

A bond that couldn’t compare to any companionship.

No matter how long the time.

The urge to survive is gone. It's time to accept it. 

Me and You at the end of things. 

If you had asked me yesterday i’d say: 

I’d say you were no one to me. 

Now look, what are we? 

This is real love, and I see it in your eyes.

We both can feel it.

Real love. 

Not what they tell in tales.

Real love is death in the arms of a stranger. 

Cause no matter how little you know of each other.

Trauma Brings Love Among Other Things.

No matter how strong a bond may be — You can never have your souls intertwined

Unless you’re like this. 

To have lived together.

To have survived together.

To have lost and regained hope.

To have it all means almost nothing.

But to know it all had a reason. 

So you can both feel it.

Real love.

[burdened-boy]

2086 :: death rings thru my cell phone

Limbo, on a whim, journeys out to the wasteland to kill a random guy in cold blood. For money, of course.

Death Rings Thru My Cell Phone

I can imagine the orange sunlight painting the grass and dirt around me as fire. Gasoline pumped into the eternally hungry Toronado, the price of this fillup soaring into the three figures in under a minute. Even out in the wastelands, fuel of the most impotent quality was still so fucking expensive. Me and the car were alone at the sketchy old Gulf station, an empty concrete island floating in the aforementioned burning landscape around me. The flames around me raged on, giving way to a nighttime that was as dark as nuclear winter.

Silently, I watched the little wheels of the gas pump spin faster and faster, like a slot machine. On further thought, gassing up my car here was a lot like gambling; who knew if my supercharged block of 1970s iron would even run on this soup of various ethanol, additives and detergents?

Feeling a buzzing sensation on my thigh, I slid my phone out of my pocket. My cracked glass screen displayed a grim message: there was an open contract in my area. A future victim, running on borrowed time from the moment I felt my phone vibrate. I ruminated on the message for a moment, debating if I wanted to even bother with this clown or let someone else have it. Harsh white LED lights cast a shadow from my hand and wrist and onto the concrete slab on which I stood. Noticing the natural sun setting, I decided not to rest on my laurels just yet. The moment I stop is the moment I lose touch. 

With a click, the car was full. Jackpot. I nonchalantly slammed the nozzle back onto the pump, and muscle memory naturally lifted my finger to press the “no receipt” button. However, for a brief moment, instead of asking me if I even wanted a receipt, the phrase, “YOU WILL REAP WHAT YOU SOW” suddenly appeared, flickering and jarring like an old VHS subtitle. Heart jumping, I took a second look at the message, only to find that it was instantly gone. The screen on the gas pump went black all together after that, leaving me to look at my own reflection, completely dumbfounded. There was nobody around, not even an attendant to mention this to at this credit-card-only station.

The open can of Red Bull in my cup holder still fizzed as I eased myself into the driver’s seat. With a turn of the key and quick pump of the gas pedal, the supercharger before me whirred to life as I started the car, confused, and wondering if what I had just seen was even real. My head unit switched on and started playing my music, but as I eased out onto the desolate highway and floored it, I turned the volume all of the way down. I wasn’t planning on making some money tonight, but then again, idle hands are the devil’s playthings.

Hits in out in the wasteland are rare, which, come to think of it, make bugging out here a pretty solid idea if someone ever wants you dead. Just don’t expect much company. Or running water. My headlights sliced through the gloom as I sailed further and further away from the gray walls of Los Angeles, and out into the irradiated wasteland. 

A few minutes later, and the last verse of Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now slowly faded away. In my peripheral vision, a small flash of light gets caught by my rear view mirror. It was an ultralight aircraft, a flimsy, triangular job existing somewhere between the form of an airplane and a powered paraglider. The mystery aviator was positioned at what was roughly my eight o’clock, and traveling in the same direction as me. Deep in my electronic brain-bucket, my eyebrows frowned, and my stomach dropped. I glanced at my surroundings, pondering just how desolate they were. A small, low-flying aircraft, out at this hour, over the dangerous wastelands? My first instinct was the raiders. They were reconnoitering me, and coordinating a roadblock not too far ahead. In this scenario, I would have tried to shoot the plane down, and use the hopefully injured pilot as a bargaining chip. This, in reality, was delusional, though. For one, none of my guns could reach that far. It was also entirely possible that this was some insane, incompetent hobbyist, and I would be wasting ammunition and courage on someone that was completely oblivious to what was happening. Even if it was a civilian, they shouldn’t have been out here.

Worse still, I couldn’t even turn off my headlamps. It was getting dark, and barreling into a raider blockade at highway speeds was obviously not how I planned to die tonight. I sighed, loaded my shotgun, and turned this into a race. According to my GPS, I was only on this empty highway for about fifteen more minutes. If I could shave some time off my ETA, maybe I would reach my target’s house before the hypothetical blockade would be completed. Then again, that was assuming they weren’t already ready for me, and more than fifteen minutes out. There really wasn’t all that much I could do, other than to be ready for a sudden stop and an armed confrontation. I wondered if these scrawny, meth-crazed jackals knew who they were dealing with.

Nevertheless, I pushed on, the yellow glow of my headlamps burning like eyes in the night. Gradually, the little airplane began to slip away, but it remained in my peripheral vision like a floater in my eye. Dread pinched my stomach, but it slowly began to fade into a dull numbness. The white lines of the highway blurred into a translucent beam, dashing past my mirror while the engine droned in my ears. I yawned; paranoia is exhausting. 

Suddenly, I saw something. Instantly, my foot went to the brake, and both hands gripped the wheel. On the left side of the road, a large, rectangular object, with the outline of a pickup truck parked beside it. I braced myself, ready to broadside a possible assailant and let them have it with my gun. Closer and closer it crept, my supercharger whooshing as I let off the gas. Noticing motion on my phone’s screen, I glanced down, and immediately felt like an idiot. I had arrived at my destination. There were no raiders, no blockade. All I had to worry about was murdering someone. 

I let the shiny black door of my Olds clap shut, kicking up a puff of grit into the air. By now, the sun was just barely peeking out from behind the horizon, and darkness had taken over for the most part. The air was cool, and my surroundings peaceful. Silently, I thanked my lucky stars that this hit didn’t appear to involve a dog. In my worries about the raiders, I had forgotten to consider that I might have to contend with a German Shepherd as soon as I pulled up. If you live in a dangerous area, your most vital asset is a dog. Tiny begged me to set up this space-age security system in our house that probably wiretaps our conversations and steals her fingerprints, but I think the best way to protect your shit is to buy a mean looking dog from the pound.

After checking for tripwires, a few good whacks turned the trailer’s paper-thin door into tinfoil, and I’m inside. The flashlight on my shotgun is already on, flooding the pitch black single-wide with holy white light. It was two paces to the drab trailer’s only bedroom, and a single steal-toed kick to the door sent it open. My target, asleep and surrounded by empty bottles, barely stirred as I leveled the shotgun at his face. I squeezed the trigger, my gun letting out two consecutive booms. The murder shakes glass, soils sheets, and pounds my eardrums, but as soon as the violence is here, it’s over. My stomach flooded with a familiar soup of satisfaction and easily-dismissed disgust with my actions. Another faceless stranger wasted by another faceless stranger, all because I opened a text on Telegram. I didn’t even check to see if there was anyone else in the trailer; this settlement’s design was far too rudimentary to even bother. The master bedroom didn’t even have a closet - my target’s clothes were scattered on the floor amongst aforementioned booze and codeine cough syrup bottles. 

In the kitchen, I could already hear my colleagues calling me a coward for killing a man in his sleep. Let it be known now that I am beyond caring. After all, the other guy having a gun or a knife doesn’t get me any more money. Their jeering voices prattled on in my head as I cranked all of the knobs on the stove wide open, and stepped outside. For good measure, I popped one of the lines off the trailer’s air conditioner, and let the flammable refrigerant out. My movements were robotic and methodical as I assembled a molotov cocktail out of some junk I found strewn across the property, and as glass shattered and the house burned, I checked my phone. The pictures of the crime scene I had sent had been received, and the precious bounty for tonight’s work was instantly deposited into my bank account. The transaction was labeled “second hand Macbook Pro.”

Slowly turning around, my heart jumped as I spotted the ultralight from earlier. However, instead of stalking me from above, its skeletal outline was comically parked in front of my car. Swallowing, and steeling myself for further confrontation, I drew my 9mm and pointed it at the masked occupant unbuckling themselves from the seat. The pilot must have seen me, because their body language hardly changed upon having a gun brandished at them. 

“It looks like the early bird gets the worm, Mr. Limbo,” a female voice cooed. She reached up to take her helmet off, but by the first syllable of her quip, I already knew what this was. I recognized this assassin’s tone, but I didn’t know her personally. 

“Yeah, but the second mouse gets the cheese,” I muttered, walking towards my car. 

“Your pictures were incredible,” the aviatrix called out after me, “I just saw them now. You’re so…efficient.”

Oh, geez, thank you, I wanted to pipe up sarcastically, but I could already feel the adrenaline fading. Instead, I remember muttering something under my breath and slipping away in my car. 

[roboticnebula]

Pros of re-reading your own fic

a good time;

Has exactly the tropes you like and the characterization you want to read;

Gratification: yes you did finish a thing and yes you did do good;

just a very fun time all around.

Cons of re-reading your own fic:

Is that another TYpO

[kedreeva]

Following the author of The Last Unicorn on Facebook is the only thing that makes being on that site worthwhile.

(source)

[mollycustard]

https://1drv.ms/w/c/b8579965daff0d21/EX61A1QBz6dIh1OPRz0By4ABkSuiiI5Ik82F3H_58uCxxA

I finally finished chapter 1 of my story!

I hope you guys like it :] will be posting art of it soon enough.

You can donate if you want on my kofi, where you can also find the story :]

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[riddlerosehearts]

"Be Our Guest" original draft storyboards vs final film (💖)

The song was originally written by Ashman and Menken to be sung by the enchanted objects to Maurice instead of Belle. However, story artist Bruce Woodside felt that the song would make more sense if it was sung to Belle, the main character, as opposed to secondary character Maurice, and directors Kirk Wise and Gary Trousdale agreed.

[eightspringdays]

Never forget the fact that, because he was roleplaying as his nonexistent lil sister, his twitter account got banned for a while and had to scream publicity he was, in fact, Tatsuki Fujimoto roleplaying as his nonexistent lil sister.

And no one believed him at first.

[adriles]

when we’re done with our overwhelming grief we’ll eat i guess

[solarmorrigan]

So "Uptown Girl" released in 1983, and I feel like Steve would have sung it to Nancy sometimes, and she would humor him, because it was sweet, and he actually sounded pretty good when he wasn't doing it just to be goofy

Fast forward a few years, Eddie and Steve are dating, and they're sitting on the couch at Eddie's place one evening, comfortably high, Eddie noodling around on his acoustic and Steve just kinda vibing. And Eddie knows Steve likes Billy Joel, so he starts up with the tune of the first one he can think of: "Uptown Girl." And suddenly Steve's mouth is dropping open like he's just had some great realization

Eddie: What is it?

Steve, in a hushed voice: I'm the uptown girl

Eddie laughs so hard he falls off the couch

[dcxdpdabbles]

Bruce: Attention, please. I understand a majority of you had plans this weekend. I want to be considerate of your time, so I'll make this brief. Lex Luther has hired a boy to seduce Wayne Enterprise secrets out of Tim. I need you to be weary at the gala. Dismiss.

Tim: Hold on hold on. I'm going to need a LOT more information than just that.

Bruce: I said dismissed Tim. Your siblings have plans.

Dick: *Raises a hand*

Bruce: Yes?

Dick: I can tell this approach is from the parenting books Uncle Clark got you, which is great. Thank you for trying, but we really need more details B. You can be considerate of our time by properly using it.

Bruce: hmmmm. Alright, if everyone feels this way. I suppose I can explain

Batkids: *Nodding*

Bruce clicking on the computer to show a picture: This is Daniel Fenton. His family used to own Fenton Works until the unfortunate loss of Mrs. Madeline Fenton in a car accident. Mr. Jack Fenton was convinced a ghost killed his wife. He was arrested after he crossed state borders chasing it and went on a rampage in downtown Gotham. He was deemed mad with grief and has been in Arkham for the last four years. Neither Jasmine nor Daniel were able to keep the family business afloat and were eventually bought out by Luthor.

Steph: I remember Mr. Fenton. He made that weird ray that was just throwing green goo on people. Besides scarying a few civilians, he didn't do anything bad. No one was harmed.

Bruce: That was the Fenton children argument as well. They were unable to get Mr. Fenton out of Arkham and into a different institution. I fear corruption is at play. During his stay in Arkham Mr.Fenton, has continued to create inventions, though no patent has been filed. All funds from said inventions are being made by local Mafia families instead.

Jason: Those thieves are preying on a grieving man. Rumors has it, Mr. Fenton isn't even aware his wife is dead. His mind blocked it, but he's slowly deteriorating. They're trying to squeeze out every drop of cash they can from him before his mind is completely gone.

Bruce: Exactly, and his children know it. Recently, Clark overheard Luthor offer Daniel a deal. He steals Wayne Enterprise secrets from Tim - probably got the idea after reading the article of Tim coming out, no doubt - and Luthor pulls enough strings to get Mr. Fenton out.

Tim: That's horrible. Is there any way we can help the Fentons instead? Move Mr. Fenton to a different place?

Bruce: I'm working it, but I believe Luthor is blocking my attempts. He did the same to Miss Fenton's college and loan applications. The pair are in a finical crisis that does not seem to get better no matter what they do. Luthor has employed similar tactics before.

Damian: Thus trapping the Fenton siblings in a box, unable to defy Luthor. They may be so desperate they would agree to anything after this many hardships.

Bruce: Exactly.

Tim: Alright I'll sleep with him

Cass: Literally, no one said you needed to sleep with him.

Tim: It's will be tough but I'll take one for the team.

Duke: Tim, that's not what B is saying at all.

Bruce: Wait, wait. I think Tim wants to sleep with Daniel Fenton. Hold on, let me consult the experts *opens parenting book*

Bruce: This isn't covered in the book. I don't know what to do.

Dick: I do. Tim, you're not sleeping with Daniel Fenton, but you are going to pretend his seduction is working. We're going to stop Luthor and the Mafia families controlling Arkham. We need to buy time to do that.

Tim: Kisses and over clothes stuff only. Got it.

Damian: Life has been hard for you since Dowd left you, hasn't it Drake?

[charlikesalmon]

sunny disposition

[dreamsteddie]

Steve and Eddie who kind of flop in life and end up poor, living in a trailer in a different small town living quiet lives of no import.

The kids, Robin, Nancy, and Johnathan all seem to take the small handful of opportunities offered to them by the government in the aftermath of the Upsidedown to take off and make something of their lives. They're off writing headlines, making news, and living their lives to the best of their abilities, but Steve and Eddie find themselves stuck.

Steve stayed in Hawkins until the kids graduated and left for college. By then Nancy, Johnathan, and Robin are all in their second or third years of college. John and Nancy have their own apartment in New York together and don't reach out all that often, only seeing the rest of the Hawkins crew on Holidays and some vacations. Robin is flourishing at an all-women's college in Maine and has a partner and a cat and plans for graduate school brewing. She's always saying Steve can come out and join her whenever he's ready, but when the time comes it feels like he would just be trying to insert himself in the middle of a life he doesn't know how to fit into, so he turns to Eddie instead.

Eddie is permanently disabled in a number of ways following the events of season four. He struggles with chronic pain, has breathing issues due to the loss of part of his right lung, and lost enough muscle mass in his left leg that walking will never be easy or done without the use of a walker or arm bar crutches. The doctors said he recovered as well as he could have. The kids said he would get better with time. Wayne said it didn't matter if he never got better, he could do anything he set his mind to.

Steve is the only person who tells him the truth.

Steve tells him that it sucks. Tells him that it will probably always hurt. Doesn't give him false hope when he's trying to grieve the loss of the life he wanted to live. The goals he wanted to reach. When he falls deeper and deeper into himself, stuck in the muck of depression, Steve is the only person he lets in. The kids try their best but their lives are moving fast, and taking care of someone like Eddie is exhausting, no matter what they try to say. Eventually, everyone but Dustin gives up on reaching out, the younger boy showing up every Sunday to try and get Eddie out of the house. He always leaves disappointed.

When Steve asks him if he wants to use what's left of their partly government payouts and Steve's equally meager Family Video savings to buy a truly shitty trailer in a town an hour and a half south of Hawkins in the fall of 1990, it feels like the first boon he's been given in almost five years. He'll never be who he could have been if he had ignored Chrissy that day in 86', but he's always thought maybe he could be more than a ghost between Wayne's walls if he could just get out of this god-forsaken town full of people who know too much and too little of what's happened to him.

They get the trailer, pack what little they have, let Wayne hug them close, and leave.

Steve has already transferred to their new town's Family Video, moving up to claim the dubious honor of being the opening manager. Mostly he just unlocks the door, signs into the computer, and makes sure nothing catches fire. Eddie hoped that moving would miraculously make him fit to enter back into the world, but he spends most of his days with a blanket on the front porch, watching people pass by. He does, though, finally accept that he needs to apply for disability to help Steve keep the lights on and the water hot. That last little bit of hope that he could be what he used to be dies, but he's learning to be content with what he does have. He starts taking a walk, just ten minutes around the loop of the trailer park saying hi and trading polite nods with his fellow residents. He's not ok, but he's starting to build a new community of people not too different from himself.

The new trailer only has one bedroom. Eddie sleeps on a fold-out mattress in the living room. It had been a major argument when they first moved in with Steve insisting that Eddie needed the bed. Eddie argued that it wasn't fair for him to take the room when Steve was the one working 40 hours a week to keep them afloat. In the end, Eddie was the more stubborn of the two. It helps that Eddie has absolutely no qualms about crawling into bed with Steve on the nights when the couch bed really won't cut it for his aching body. Steve never questions it, just shuffles over a little and lets the other man in.

Steve doesn't question a lot of stuff.

He doesn't question when all their effects are shared between them with no effort to distinguish between yours and mine, Eddie's and Steve's. He doesn't question it four months in when Eddie starts to get his feet under him and decides to take up cooking, always trying his best to have everything done just as Steve walks through the door. He doesn't question when a good chunk of Eddie's first disability check goes to buying Steve a sturdy, if not very fashionable, new watch for his birthday since his old one went bust almost a year ago.

He doesn't question it when Eddie holds his hand for the first time under the stars hanging above their front porch.

He doesn't question it when Eddie introduces him to one of his new neighbor friends with a hand resting comfortably on his lower back

He doesn't question it when Eddie starts sleeping in the bedroom every night.

Or makes him box mix cupcakes for Valentine's Day.

Or kisses him for the first time on the couch that's never a bed unless they want to spend the day binge-watching bargain bin films.

Because really, isn't this how it was always going to go? Wasn't this exactly what Steve was asking for when he asked Eddie to skip town with him?

Isn't this what Eddie was hoping for when he said yes?

[thebluemallet]

Portia may not have always been the best mother, but she was the only one who noticed and brought attention to the fact that Penelope wrote terrible things about herself in Whistledown once she learned the truth.

Someone should write a fic where that is brought to Colin and Eloise's attention by someone else and they both have that "oh shit!" moment.