#why is it that art is so much easier to do when you're supposed to pay attention to literally anything else

[spoonv]

I just found a bunch of old Harvey doodles from forever ago when I was in school

I was too busy drawing my wife to ""learn math concepts"" and ""get an education"" whatever that means

tumblr crop strikes again 💔💔

[whokilledsamara]

Could you please write a mr scarletta x afab reader smut 🙏🏼 high key based on all the art of his umbrella being his member or it brings him pleasure when rubbed. Maybe where reader is riding the curved handle of rubbing it between her legs 🫣 if not thank you for taking your time to even just read this!

UMBRELLA

a Mr. Scarletella x afab!reader fic. {an: ooo when i tell you i think about this NIGHTLY}

warnings || misuse of an umbrella, humping, riding an inanimate object, public {for Mr. Scarletella}, afab reader, smut, indirect sex

he always made sure you had it- his umbrella. it was his entire heart and soul, literally him as a being. he trusted you enough- enough that he would leave you with it at all times. he could feel every touch from it, every time your fingers grazed the mesh. you were his human, and he would do anything to mark you as his. regardless if you gave him your name or not.

honestly, you never realized how much it really affected him. you thought all the times he would flinch as you opened the umbrella was just him being, well, him. the way his face would flush and eyes would widen as your hand held the handle, seemed normal to you. though, the more you thought about it, it all started to make sense. Mr. Scarletella was known to be weird and unsettling, but you didn't mind too much. he scared off any creatures that posed a threat to you, plus he was kinda hot-... in his own, creepy way.

it was late at night, or so you assumed- there really wasn't any way to tell time here.. but as you grew restless, tossing and turning on the makeshift bed you had, an idea came to mind. though it was rather risky,, and rather lewd, you couldn't help it. there was really no action here, and all this built up sexual tension definitely didn't help.

your eyes glare daggers at the umbrella that was perched next to your bed. a long stare at that. your thoughts kept debating whether to take the risk or not, until you finally sighed and grabbed it.

he was busy at the time, doing who knows what, but his actions paused when he felt your hands on him- his umbrella. you're supposed to be sleeping, why are you awake? his eyes narrow but he decides to carry on with whatever he was doing.

you on the other hand, were too busy shimmying off your small red panties, still debating your life choices as you rub your fingers down to your entrance, lubing your whole pussy up before shifting in a sitting position, umbrella underneath you. the stick of it was long, and slightly thick. there was a curve at the end for the handle. sighing softly, you lower your cunt on the stick part of it, rubbing your clit on the long pole. your breath instinctively hitches, a hushed whine leaving your lips. your hips move faster and faster, eyes clenching shut.

his heartbeat speed up, so fast he could hear it. his back hits the wall near him and his face turns red, hand coming up to cover his mouth. eyes still wide and staring off into space, his legs slightly trembling as he stays pressed against the wall.

oh.. so thats what you're doing..

meanwhile, your small moans grew heavier, pussy lubing up the pole and making it slide easier. one hand was places on the mesh of the umbrella, while the other was on the side of it, keeping you held up. your cunt was so desperately humping it, seeking as much friction as it could. unfortunately, it wasn't enough.

when he feels the pressure be pulled off, he sighs, having a hard time catching his breath as he processes what just happened. his boner was noticeable even through his raincoat, so prominent that it was impossible to cover. his eyes clench shut and he lets out a shaky breath, attempting to catch himself, his eyes widen with shock and a loud groan suddenly escapes him as he feels you actually slip onto the handle of the umbrella. his fucking cock. he drops to his knees and clenches his stomach, eyes wide and a grin that stretches ear to ear. his teeth sunk into his lip, blood seeping out. shaky breaths and whines spill from him, hair somewhat covering his face as his eyes stare off. you were gonna be the death of him.

your breath hitches and you let out a loud, pleased moan, the handle of the umbrella hitting just the right spot so deep inside of you that you almost came as soon as you started. you couldn't get enough, both your insides and clit were being stimulated from your frantic riding. your hips shuttered, moving at an impossible pace, head thrown back and mewls slipping freely from your lips. you needed it so bad, wanted to cum so desperately that you didn't care how you got it. nor did you care that you were riding a fucking umbrella.

the handle hits a perfect peak. your eyes roll back so far into your skull and you let out one last loud moan, hips sputtering and an orgasm crashing though you. the handle was still deep inside, a bit of drool sliding down your chin. your eyes dart down at the sight- a messy umbrella covered in both your juices and orgasm, but also.. semen?

oh shit.

embarrassment covers your face, realizing your mistake. you hopelessly forgot that his umbrella was practically him as a being, and you just rode it, let alone came on it. you slowly pull it out of you, an unwilling whimper leaving your lips at the feeling.

how could you possibly get out of this one..?

{ made by @whokilledsamara }

[comicaurora]

Hey, sorry if you’ve been asked this before, but I have ADHD and I’ve been following your comic for years and just now have started to write my own comic (partially because you really inspired me). But I’m really struggling with staying on the project even when it’s boring and getting myself to work on it in the first place. Do you have any tips on how to keep your brain invested or just to make yourself do the work at all?

I have excellent news, I literally just figured out something really important about this.

So when you're an ADHD kiddo or otherwise have difficulty staying on task in a structured environment where Task is the Priority, the main way people try to MAKE you stay on task is by removing your access to anything that is not The Task. No phone, no TV, no doodling, no going outside, etc. In practice, this just makes us miserable because it takes the boredom that's always simmering around a 2 or 3 and cranks it all the way up to 11. In the same way that you would have difficulty staying on task if you were in physical pain, this crushing existential monotony makes it very difficult to work. The work might get done simply because you have no other options, but it will not be done quickly or well, and it will take a while to recover from how much it hurt.

What I realized earlier this week is I caught myself doing this to myself. I had 42 pages of background colors to do, and I thought to myself "this sounds really tedious, but I suppose I have nothing better I can do." And I realized what I'd just thought, and got very alarmed.

Because back when I was an ADHD kiddo imprisoned by school scheduling and a million little factors that keep children immobile and restrained, I couldn't stop thinking about how big and exciting the world was, and how much I wanted to be anywhere but here. When I was feeling really crushed in I'd pick a random spot on the maps on my wall and just imagine being there instead of my bedroom. This was the impetus behind almost all of my creative energy. I've said it before - anything is a prison if you can't leave, and being in a prison makes it easy to imagine how amazing things could be outside of it. Aurora's initial worldbuilding was forged in the crucible of fifth grade misery. My enthusiasm for art and my creative drive are inextricable from my sense of wonder and yearning for excitement in the real world. Not escapism, but appreciation. Wonders unimaginable are out there, and I gain just as much joy seeking them out as I do conjuring them up in my head and sharing them with all of you.

So now that I'm a grown-up with actual freedom in every way I've been able to get, the idea that I was staying on task by making myself believe the world was small and not worth seeing was extremely alarming. It could keep me on task for an afternoon, but at the cost of slowly extinguishing the thing that made me want to make art in the first place - the hunger to experience and draw inspiration from all the myriad complexities in the world.

So what I've been doing is I've been purposefully and intentionally taking excursions whenever I catch myself thinking "I could take a break but it wouldn't be worth it, it's the same outdoors as always, I'll be uncomfy and unproductive and tired." Because that is never true. Every time I've put down the stylus and gone out, I've been renewed in one way or another, and when I come back to comfort fully recharged I get a lot of shit done. Because it is easier to work on anything if you remember why you wanted to make it in the first place, and it is self-defeating misery to just lock yourself in with it and tell yourself you're a bad person if you can't get it done.

I honestly don't know how widely applicable this is. I have worse wanderlust than anyone I know, so for me this has always been modeled as imprisonment vs freedom. I've also been extremely lucky to find myself in a profession that lets me set my own pace on literally everything I do. But I genuinely believe that when it comes to making art with ADHD, you need to give yourself freedom to move laterally, not just in the direction of obvious forward progress. We don't think linearly in any other part of our lives - art is no different.

[punkpandapatrixk]

🍁Essentially, What’s Your Main Aesthetic? ♦︎ Timeless Pick A Card

Aesthetic is anything concerned with beauty or the appreciation of beauty💋Don't you think beauty is essential for human health? It inspires and uplifts the mind and heart, after all. I think the pursuit of beauty whether in things, people(?) or creation makes Life exciting~🎨And the attainment of that very beauty makes Life worthwhile~🩰

Beauty contains an essence of something Cosmic. If you get it, if you live by it, it has the capacity to connect the Human Expression to a Divine Experience. Why religion when there is Art?🎀lmao

What about your Beauty? Do you know where to find it? I think every person's Cosmic Beauty can be found in their Story🎠Your unique blueprint that's just waiting to be expressed whether in writing, in a melody, in a sculpture or perhaps a painting, and in aesthetic décor or personal fashion choices💄

Live and breathe your Art, aliens~🛸

pov: You Found The Enchanted Garden You Dreamed in Your Childhood | ultravclet

vlog: productive days 📝📖 finishing books, writing reviews, journaling, organising✨ | cups and thoughts

deck-bottom: 9 of Swords Rx, Gold Historian (Raphael Holinshed), Priestess of Success

[PAC Masterlist] [Part 1] [Part 3]

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Pile 1 – I’m Hurt, But the Show Must Go On

vibe: HER by MINNIE

poetic suffering – Ace of Cups Rx

Oh, almost your entire Life has been one bloody show—like, actually bloody, figuratively or literally—and you’ve survived it all, although some screws inevitably got loose here and there. You probably identify as having somewhat of a multiple personality disturbance—yeah, just a disturbance, not so much an actual medical disorder, but what do I know? The point is, you’ve developed many voices in your head🍹

I once read something someone wrote on a YouTube comment: ‘The voices in my head make fire podcast.’ I believe that resonates loudly for you and your kind of ‘problem’🥂lmao For some of you, this was developed as part of survival; but for some others, you couldn’t help but develop this ‘disturbance’ simply because you’re high-IQ. It’s just part of the mechanics of your brains. So, it isn't to say you're damaged...

The crux of the matter is that you were always an empathetic child. Creating all these characters or personalities was your way of understanding other people—why they did what they did, what they’d do in a given situation and some such. Like I said, some of you could’ve developed these voices in your head to anticipate chaos, but for some of you, this was simply a philosophical pursuit🎡

aesthetic insanity – Queen of Pentacles

Having said that, it isn’t to say that your whole existence has not been painful. After all, with such a sweet and sensitive heart you’ve had to fight for your place in this cold, cruel, criminal world where you were preyed upon. You were preyed upon because your aenergy was so good. Empathetic people tend to get preyed upon by narcissists not so much because they’re good just like that—but because destroying your sanity and sense of self feels good to a bitter narcissistic monster🤹

You get the difference? A narcmon could target just about anybody whether or not that person’s good. But you were always a much easier target because soft-hearted people can be very accommodating to other people’s wounds. And empathetic people tend to be willing participants in the cruel shitshow created by a narcshit because they want to be a hero in someone’s Story~🎭So, that’s been your shitstorm.

How’s dealing with that supposed to not fuck people up somewhat? But in the grand scheme of everything you’ve had to deal with, you see now that you’ve still got your integrity and sense of humour. That’s all that matters, really. Someone wrote a meme that says ‘You forced me to study narcissism. Now enjoy my educated ass.’ The most ironic iconic outcome here is that now you know how to play up narcissism to get back at real narcmons you meet in society🩰lmao

dramatic scene – Page of Pentacles Rx

So, essentially, if we could summarise what your main aesthetic is: you’re simply INSANE. You were forged in hellfire and came out a little woo woo, but you’re also genuinely superbly intelligent that you know how to use this woowoo to your advantage. The you that has come out of this hellfire is now operating on VENGEANCE🏵Could be for your past; could be for any abuser/manipulator you meet in society; could be for culture, tradition or the establishment.

Simply said, you want to wreck it. Fuck it all up. But with style and humour. You’re going to mirror back society’s cruelty and lack of empathy with sarcasm and a really dark sense of humour. Show ‘em how unintelligently they’ve been interacting with Reality! Either you’re a Gen Xer in your 40s or you’re going to really vibe with this generation’s dark, almost sick sense of irony🤪

Any form of self-expression that showcases your crazy, uncontrollable, unhinged personality would feel most authentic to you. Something deep in your psyche wants to get back at society; for that, you’re willing to play up the villain or menace in society, so long as that re-educates them about what it means to be Human. But deep inside, I know that you know that you’re still the same kind and caring little child with an unchanging loyalty to…Love😘

DIVINE FACT🔻❤️

dream design – Red Alchemist (John Dee)

essence of my identity – Priestess of Magick

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Pile 2 – I Still Dream of Everything I’ve Lost

vibe: Summer Rain by IRENE

poetic suffering – Page of Cups

Ah, you are a poet. A total romantic. Even if your idea of what’s 'romantic' differs from most people. If anything, more than anybody else around you, you seem to be the only one who’s got a saner, purer grasp of what ‘romance’ is all about💞More than anybody you know in your surroundings you want something much more honest and sweet. Most of the time, people just think you’re starry-eyed and unrealistic—but what you feel in your heart cannot be denied❣️

If what you’re feeling isn’t real then why does it exist in your Heart of hearts?💚That’s why you needed to do Art. Maybe poetry was your way to make sense of this clash between your inner world and the world around you. Maybe you devoted massive amounts of time and energy to creating aesthetic collages just to see your beautiful inner world reflected in the physical Reality—even if all of that beauty exists only on paper, illustrations or digital edits💻

Of all the people you’ve ever known, for some reason it always felt like you were the only one with a Heart for Poetry. It could be that your society didn’t much like this type of pursuit. Or maybe it was just your family that didn’t seem to have a high level of appreciation for the kind of Beauty that ever so naturally captures your Heart. In many ways, growing up could’ve been somewhat isolating for this reason…🧸

aesthetic insanity – 6 of Wands Rx

Always the weird one out. All because you have so much feeling. You feel and feel your emotions to oblivion. It hurts to be you, if anyone cared to know. To have your kind of Heart means to be so easily moved to tears by the smallest of things. A beautiful melody, a nostalgic vibe, a display of genuine kindness or happiness, people being unconditionally helpful and patient with each other. Things that may seem so casual in the grand scheme of human greed and ambitions…but you have no such ambition to become like the rest of ‘em🔫

It's hard to be this way from time to time. It’s a challenge to navigate the pond of compassion that exists deep within your Heart. In today’s world especially, it’s so much trendier to be jaded and cynical. For many, of all ages, that seems to be the most acceptable modus operandi🕹Even if you tried you wouldn’t be able to operate well on such a negative and unexciting command. Lucky you, you’re weird enough to not give a little bunny shit about fitting in or, obeying~🐰

You can be really emotionally divorced from the world outside of your imaginations that, to your own surprise, it really is that easy to detach from the expectations of society and drift to Neptune instead—probably dreaming your whole Life away on some distant nebulous fantasies🍄That’s why you identify as an introvert. Your rich inner lives are always far more interesting than any mundane conversation some Normie is capable of conjuring.

dramatic scene – Ace of Pentacles

In the grand scheme of everything that’s wrong with modern societies, you most likely feel that Humanity has lost much of its cherished values that you tend to like things that are either old—very, very old and out of fashion—or simply childish and/or otherworldly. In essence, you’re far more attuned to aesthetics that remind people of INNOCENCE. When things used to be much more beautiful, classy, thoughtful, innocent, and just….my gosh, cute🐶

And yet, you’ve most likely been told that you act motherly, or that, ‘You’re going to be a really good mother one day.’ People can sense that you’re trustworthy and dependable—very Old Soul, you know?👽In spite of how sweet and feminine or even weird you look on the outside, on the inside you’re integritous, and most everybody can see that because you exude this charmingly calm, mature and wise aura🌾

If you’re a creator or have a social media presence, what you put out there—illustrations, poems, edits, fanfics(?), etc.—seems to possess a healing attribute. I’m sure your audience have told you that your channel/page/blog serves as their safe space🚠People who tend to be loners or those who've often been misunderstood in society gravitate towards your vibe in real life and Art on the Internet. In that sense, you really are a nurturer and protector of some motherly sort🎀

DIVINE FACT🔻💙

dream design – Silver Astronomer (Galileo Galilei)

essence of my identity – Priestess of Contemplation

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Pile 3 – Utterly Lost in this Sad Girl Escapism

vibe: Tejano Blue by Cigarettes After Sex

poetic suffering – Knight of Cups

Let’s admit it, you’re constantly drowning in feelings that you escape through obsessive drinking habits, yeah?🥃Most likely anything to do with liquid substances, so this could involve alcohol or coffee, or endless cups of herbal tea with heavy uses of creamer, or you could be the type that smokes obscene amounts of ciggies in a day or snacks violently on crisps all day long or… I dunno, putting yourself through hours of trance on some of Tchaikovsky’s most dramatic pieces?🎻

Perhaps this Reality is just that disappointing for you because the unnatural world doesn’t seem capable of offering ecstatic experiences what would match the feelings you carry since birth—thus your effort to escape into alternate states of feeling. You were born different🌜You feel more intensely, you feel more types of emotions, and you know more of the colours that make up the natural world; but in modern everyday reality, obviously something is missing. Cold-blooded post-war capitalism has made everything ugly…

Human interactions, as a result, become distant and dreary, unspiritual, unempathetic and unkind. And every single day of your waking hour, this awareness tortures and kills you on the inside🥓Depending on how artistic you are and how much Art you’re capable of producing, you may generally feel a sense of inadequacy from not being able to function ‘well’ in modern society. Even if you may appear to be doing just fine on the outside, on the inside you’re melting and flaring and swinging through everything…🌪

aesthetic insanity – XI Justice

If, for example, you’re the type that watches vintage movies, you realise that others your age may watch them for the laughs or other analytical pursuits, but you watch them genuinely for the staggering display of emotions, no matter how theatrical, and you get so involved and your heart aches and you let out a sob or a silent tear…🎭If not vintage films, umm, I dunno, anime, cartoon or perhaps, murder shows? Some of you may have a rather disturbing way of finding ‘materials’ what would let you feel your feelings more vividly🌈

The truth of the matter is, all of these pursuits are fuelled by a desire to find more honesty in the world. You find it vexingly difficult to express your true feelings in society; perhaps because you know this world ain’t ready for your kind of honesty. It feels like tedious intensity to them. And you’ve noticed that most people, actually, truly enjoy shallow interactions🦥Stooping to their level would be humiliating to you.

So then, you just do the best you can to feign normalcy and showcase a temperate disposition when interacting in society. But once you’re in your own company, that’s when you indulge in watching, reading or writing or creating or listening to exasperatingly profound things what would let you shiver from the core of your being☃️You, have a need to gasp and choke by emotions… And that’s intensely insane. And not many people would know what to do with any of it.

dramatic scene – Knight of Pentacles Rx

Well, not many indeed would know how to connect or get through to you. It’s true. And you may have felt very lost in this sad gurl escapism that seems neverending. As if you’d want it to end. If only you could verbalise this accurately and in a succinct manner: you have absolutely no idea how to be a responsible grownup. To begin with, what is ‘responsible���? But at this point, you don’t really give a damn anymore🙈

You grew up watching grownups perform duties and fulfil expectations—and they seemed responsible and sensible and capable. But your little heart always knew that these humans weren’t necessarily responsible in a spiritual sense. Your little sage mind always suspected that a lot of their ‘practical’ choices would sooner or later lead to much more disastrous outcomes🐾So in the end, what’s in being a responsible adult?

It was all too humiliating. And from a rather young age, you decided already that you would avert your eyes from the world of the grownups. And such it was that until now you still don’t know how to be ‘normal’ and ‘temperate’. Actually, more accurately, you don’t really know how not to be a destructive force to yourself. You just, have so much to say, and you don’t know what to say; so much rage, and you don’t even know who to be angry at…💔

DIVINE FACT🔻💗

dream design – Silver Physician (John Dee)

essence of my identity – Priestess of Luxury

Access bonus, cards + affs on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

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[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Psychic Self-Defense

Dion Fortune: submitted for the approval of the midnight society, i call this the tale of the winged bull Fortune: its about a woman who falls in with an evil occult society run by this disgusting slug of a man hugo astley Aleister Crowley: haha couldn't be me Fortune: who also wears a pyramid hat Crowley: wait a minute

Fortune: now hugo Astley's occult society is irresponsible and wanton Fortune: not like mine Fortune: i like my occult societies to be socially acceptable and on the up and up Barker: this sucks Poe: clive

Fortune: see, the occult isn't about orgies and hashish Fortune: it's about morals and ethics and carnal forbearance Barker: oh my GOD Barker: i hate this SO much Crowley: hey wait a minute is that hugo Astley guy supposed to be me??

Crowley: ooo! so you think i'm real gross do you, dion? Crowley: well maybe you'll rethink what gross means Crowley: when you smell like cat piss! Crowley: I'M THE GREAT BEAST!!! DO WHAT THOU WILT!!

King: oh jeez! King: what's that awful smell? Barker: it smells like cat piss! King: Barker: Poe: Koontz: Lovecraft: why are you all looking at me?

Barker: well you do like cats soooo Lovecraft: edgar likes cats just as much! Barker: yeah but honestly Barker: you just seem like a cat piss sort of guy, howard

Dion Fortune: i'm sorry, everyone, it's me King: Poe: Koontz: Lovecraft: Barker: Poe: do you have a cat? Fortune: no it's a curse

Poe: it's a curse? Dion Fortune: yeah i got cursed to smell like cat piss Barker: damn that's real rough Barker: sounds like maybe you ought to read up on your psychic self-defense Poe: clive

Fortune: for your information Fortune: i wrote the book on psychic self-defense Barker: and yet here you are Barker: smelling of cat piss Fortune: Barker: and we're supposed to take you as an authority huh? Poe: clive

Mary Shelley: sup fuckers Shelley: what's UGHHH Shelley: the fuck is that unholy stench??? Dion Fortune: that's me Fortune: i was cursed to smell like cat piss Shelley: someone open a fucking window, jesus christ Shelley: what's wrong with you lot? Shelley: just stewing in it, ugh!

Dion Fortune: don't worry everyone Fortune: i am highly skilled in the art of psychic self-defense Fortune: using the awesome power of my mind, i will defeat this curse Shelley: [flipping switchblade] i got a better way to defeat a curse

Shelley: look dion you just tell me who did this and i'll get em to lift that curse right quick Fortune: you can't just stab away a curse! Fortune: you have to use psychic vibrations! Shelley: stabbing is way easier Shelley: way easier than Shelley: Shelley: whatever the hell you're doing

Shelley: listen dion just tell me who did this Fortune: it's a mystery, it could be any one of my many many enemies Shelley: it was Crowley Fortune: how do you figure? Shelley: it's always Crowley innit

Fortune: when investigating a psychic attack, it's important to approach the problem methodically Fortune: first eliminate non-psychic possibilities, like, say, low blood sugar Fortune: or sick building syndrome Shelley: [shivving crowley] too late, i stabbed him

[thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels]

This, my greatest masterpiece (this, a curse unmatched)

Day 2 of The Long Halloween - event masterlist here

pairing: bruce wayne x reader (gender neutral)

length: 7.2k

genre: horror, fluff, hurt/comfort

warnings: gargoyle bruce, vague religious imagery, pretentious artist but I write it with love, reader falls off of the tallest building in Gotham so I hope you're not afraid of heights

a/n: me ??? write a bruce wayne fic ??? ig finally

"You know they said," you murmur mostly to yourself, smoothing over the block of marble with your palm, "that you're to be my greatest masterpiece. What do you think, hm? Will you live up to it?" Your hand raises, hammer held tightly in your palm as your other hand presses a chisel against the solid stone.

And then you let your arm swing down. The chisel chips away fragments of marble in flying flashes. The project begins. 

It will be a gargoyle, one day, much like all of your other pieces. That is the name that you've carved for yourself in this city - that is the fame that you've sculpted. You're commissioned quite often to build these creatures, to twist them and warp them into something akin to art, having them placed on top of buildings like solitary statues of the night. Monsters twisted out of blocks of stone.

"You know," you continue on as you carve, your breath coming out in a heavy sigh as you sniff and tip your head back, your arms already beginning to feel the weight of the chisel in your hand. "The Mayor, when he asked me for this, I mean - he asked why I choose to do this." 

You readjust your grip, running a thumb over the work that you've done. You'd never carved out of marble before. Other stones, yes - limestone, mainly. It's cheaper and softer - easier to break, easier to bend to your will. But marble? Marble seems to take on a life of its own.

And you will have to break it, you know. You will have to bend nature to your impossible will.

"I told him," you continue, your voice echoing through your studio as you stare at the block of marble, at the creation to be. "But I don't think he listened. They never really do, do they?"

Gargoyles, you'd reminded the Mayor as he'd signed your cheque, are purveyors of evil, creatures that drip malice and violence onto the darkened city below. However, it has also been believed that gargoyles are protectors against evil, that they act as great guardians that watch over cities and towns to keep the evil away. It's been thought that they hold curses at bay.

It's always seemed to be a bit of a mystery, then, that Gotham has so many gargoyles dotted along its rooftops and lining its skyline. Because Gotham is where curses are born. It's where they fester and breed. 

"Sometimes," you continue on, stepping back to stare at one of your sketches and chewing on your lip in thought. "I think that you just… Well, it's that you sort of just catch all of the evil in this world. Someone has to shoulder it. Someone has to swallow it." You glance around, then, at the various sketches and designs and photographs of old pieces that are scattered around the studio. Every gargoyle, every face - they all have their mouths open, snarling and snapping. 

"That's why I make you," you say easily, raising the hammer again. "Someone has to be the villain. Someone has to take the fall."

But it's not quite fair, you think, for Gotham to swallow all of the evil in this world. It's not quite fair, you consider, for you to be the one cursed with creating that evil. It's not quite right, you feel, to create these creatures over and over as they swallow endlessly, a hunger living within them that cannot be satiated.

"You're going to be alone, though, you know," you point out, running your hand along the veins of the marble. "That makes you different, I suppose. City Hall only wants one." But maybe you get it, you think, as you stand back and stare. 

It's to be your greatest masterpiece, they told you. One creature, alone, looming on the rooftop and looking out onto the city.

It's to be your greatest masterpiece, they'd reminded you as you'd taken the cheque, folding it and tucking it into your pocket. It's to be the city's pride and joy. 

"May I ask?" you'd said at the time. "Why me? There are plenty of artists in this place who'd kill for something like this."

"I'm sure you know why," the Mayor had huffed. "And this is important, so don't blow it."

"That's why I'm asking," you'd pressed. "Why me, to create something so holy?" The Mayor rolls his eyes at the question, crossing his arms over his chest and grumbling, but he humours you nonetheless.

"People talk about your work," he explains, like the words are being pulled from him against his better judgement. "They love to say that… well, I'm sure you've heard it. People say that your statues come to life at night."

"It's just a figure of speech," you soothe, but your grin makes him scowl.

"Of course it is," he snaps. "They're not real, they're not alive. But… but…" he begins to search for the words, struggling as you laugh.

"It's the soul, of course," you murmur to the block of marble, brushing away stray debris and dust. "You have to carve a soul into things to make people feel for them. And I… want that. I need that." Your chisel chips away more of the stone and you grip onto it tighter. You need it, you think. You need to make people swear that your creatures stand and stretch their wings and come alive by the light of the moon.

The days begin to feel endless after that, and the work continues on and on and on. There are much smaller carvings, busts and faces and hands - little elements of practice and failure scattered around countless tables that sit in your studio. But the floor has a large spot cleared in the centre, now, for the huge, looming block of marble to sit.  

The work is hard. It makes your arms ache and your muscles burn as you spend neverending days chipping away at the stone. It takes much longer than it had for any of your other carvings for this one to begin to finally become something. It feels like time stretches endlessly before the figure of a man is finally apparent, rough and undetailed and jagged, with two shapes that will soon be huge wings sprouting from his back. 

But that's how you leave him, one night, a white sheet thrown over him. You pause on your way out of the studio, one of your hands rubbing at your shoulder as it aches under the constant work. The calluses on your palms have begun to throb, the skin ripping and bleeding in places. Your head pounds, as well, the tension in your arms and shoulders twisting and clenching your muscles until the pain radiates through you.

He'll be worth it, you tell yourself. He'll be your greatest masterpiece.

You find yourself more than slightly unprepared, however, for your return to your studio in the morning. You find yourself more than a bit taken aback by the sight that awaits you. You're just pushing open the door, rubbing at your forehead and grumbling about your poor night's sleep to yourself when you step on something just inside the doorway of the great room.

When you lift your foot, you realize that it's a small piece of stone, broken and jagged and crumbling.

Something, you think immediately, is wrong. Your skin pricks in alarm as your heartbeat hammers in your ears and you look to your sides, finally seeing the state that your studio is in. 

The entire room has been turned in on itself. Faces and busts have been smashed and the pieces are strewn across the floor. Sketches that you'd made painstakingly in preparation and had pinned up are torn and shredded. A table by the window has been knocked over and crumpled pieces of stone are strewn around. 

And then there's the marble. In the barest shape of a man, he's not in the crouching position that he'd been in when you'd left him. He's not in the shape that you'd designed him to be. He's caught, instead, lunging toward the door of your studio with the white sheet that had been draped over him now tangled around his torso and legs. There's a desperation in his unmoving form, as if he was trying to escape, to flee this place that's brought him into creation. The breath leaves your lungs in one freezing gasp at the sight, and your eyes widen as your hands tremble and your mind begins to spin.

There's a crumpled piece of paper clenched in his closed fist, you realize, as you take the smallest step forward. Your legs are beginning to feel numb, waves of shock rolling over you in painful rhythms as you take in the sight before you. It takes a fair bit of slow stepping and trembling before you finally pry the scrunched-up paper from his stiff marble hand and unravel it, smoothing it out so that you can see what it is.

It's him. It's the finalized sketch that you'd done of the piece. It's the face that you're going to give him, snarling and violent and cruel, fangs bared like a bat while he spreads his wings out behind him. Your thumb smooths over the writing at the bottom of the page and you breathe out a heavy sigh.

You always name them, of course. Every gargoyle that you've carved, you've given a name. You've breathed life into them in that way. In this finalized sketch, you have his name written across the bottom of the design in scrawling, messy writing.

Bruce.

But he shouldn't be alive, you think desperately as you shove the sketch into your pocket and begin to circle the statue, tapping your knuckles against the solid marble. He's not, you think. He's not, he's not, he's not. He's unmoving, unbreathing, unwaking. He's not alive. He's not alive. He's not alive.

But he was, you suppose, breathing deeply as an eerie sort of calm begins to wash over you. Morning's light begins to stream in through the tall, narrow windows of your studio. The rays of the early sun shine down in beams to shimmer against the cold stone and dance across the rough, half-finished surface.

This is to be your greatest creation, they'd told you. This is to be a curse unmatched. 

The Mayor comes to visit eventually, curious to see how it's taking shape - curious to see how the city's money is being spent. Your studio is in disarray, although if it's again or still, you're not quite sure at this point. You'd cleaned and tidied it at first, putting everything back in its rightful place and sweeping up the debris. 

But when you'd come in the next morning, the space had been destroyed again. Bruce, the gargoyle, had been twisted into a new position once more. You'd cleaned up again, admittedly less so than the first time, and then moved along.

The next day, when you flicked the lights on and were greeted by shredded paper and smashed limestone once more, you'd mostly given up on trying to wrangle it into anything other than the mess that it has now become.

The Mayor steps over small piles of rubble, eyeing you and the way that you roll your shoulders and wince. By now, Bruce has moved again, of course. He's turned his back to the door and is reaching endlessly up toward the light streaming in from the windows, the white sheet clutched tightly in his other hand as if he's ripped it off of himself.

It's like he doesn't know, you think, that gargoyles cannot live in the light of day. It's like he's trying desperately to become something that he is not.

"I'm not sure this is quite what we had discussed," the Mayor grumbles, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the figure. You peek your head around the marble torso to look at him, shrugging in an unbothered sort of way.

"It's art, Mr. Mayor," you say slowly, like you're explaining it for the first time. "It takes on a life of its own. That's sort of the whole idea."

"Don't get smug," he snaps back. "If you were only half as talented as this, you wouldn't be getting away with speaking to any of us in this way." You laugh at his words, leaning closer to the gargoyle to work on his face and neck, carving the veins and tendons into his smooth, stone skin. 

One of his massive hands is curled near your waist as you work, his claws brushing against you as you step closer. It's a coincidence, of course, the way that his fingers are nearly wrapped around your waist. It's serendipitous fate, the way that it seems like he's pulling you closer. He's not alive, after all.

"You never know," you say easily, glancing at the Mayor past Bruce's cold, defined bicep. "Maybe it will turn into something completely different again before the end."

"I don't want that," he says shortly. You pout a bit mockingly and put your hand on the gargoyle's chest as you lean up to examine the work that you'd just done on his neck. "I want what I paid for."

"You paid for me," you snap back, a wild sort of grin flashing across your face. "This is exactly that." The Mayor shuffles on his feet, muttering and grumbling as he stares up at the towering figure of marble and the stepladders that you've left scattered around as you've begun to need the height to reach his face.

"What's his name?" he asks eventually.

"Hm?"

"I know you always name them," the Mayor says stiffly. "What's his name?"

"…Bruce," you say eventually, and as you step back one of his claws catches on the fabric of your shirt, momentarily making you stumble as if he's tugged you closer to him.

"Why name him a thing like that?" the Mayor huffs. You roll your eyes and untangle your shirt from the gargoyle's grip, patting his bicep as you step away from him fully to face the Mayor.

"The name Bruce," you explain with a laborious sigh, "is connected to the willow tree."

"So?"

"So," you continue, exasperation seeping into your tone, "the willow tree symbolizes life. New life, rebirth, morphing into something different."

"It's just a statue," the Mayor says dully. "There's no need to act like it's anything more."

"If he's just a statue," you challenge, and when you stand in front of Bruce, his wings spread out behind you like some kind of omen, "then why do you want him so badly?"

There's no response to that, you suppose, as the Mayor just huffs and grumbles and says something about upcoming meetings as he makes a hasty departure. Not that you care much, too preoccupied with staring up at the gargoyle's face and watching him take shape. 

It's to be your greatest masterpiece, right? You may as well make it something grand then, right?

It takes months for the creation to be completed enough for it to be transferred to the rooftop of City Hall. The weather has begun to turn by now, your breath coming out in foggy clouds and your fingers freezing in your pockets as you watch the movers gently adjust the giant sculpture into his new home.

It's here that you're supposed to do the final touches on him, smooth him out and polish him and perfect him. It's here that your art is meant to come to life. As the movers are bickering back and forth about the weight of the thing and how to make sure that it's placed safely, you begin to ignore them and choose to look out toward the city, instead. From here, you can see glimpses of everything - every statue, every carving. You can see every part of Gotham that you've left your mark on, every crack and crevice where you've carved yourself into the lifeblood of the city.

When you look beside you once more, your newest creation stands tall and proud, his marble glimmering under the sun and shining through the everlasting fog of the frantic city. He's to be your greatest masterpiece, you remember as you pull off your gloves and smooth your hand over him. He's to be the protector that bears the weight of the entire city on his shoulders. 

What a burden, you think, as you're handed your kit and you begin to dig around for your tools. What a burden to be built as such a thing.

What a burden, you think, to be the thing that always builds this.

But it is on this day, nonetheless, that he's finished. With a chisel and a hammer, you carve life into marble. You mould and sculpt, like something holy creating something damned. The day wears on until the sun begins to dip below the horizon once more and the two of you are bathed in hues of pink and violet and deep, deep blue. 

It's when the sun finally drops low enough that darkness reigns that you finally drop your chisel, your hands throbbing and your head pounding and your face frozen from the cold. You wonder, as you stare up at the gargoyle's looming form and feel a panic start to fester within you, what on earth you're supposed to do, now that you've fulfilled your only purpose.

That hollowness, you find, sort of sticks with you, clinging to your soul and wrapping around you as you make your way home in the depths of the night. The buildings of Gotham tower around you, your own statues leering down at you from rooftops with vicious snarls, as if they're mocking you for your own hubris… as if they're cackling at the sick karma of it all.

Like Icarus falling from the sun, you wander through the twisting, winding streets and back roads, the darkness blanketing over you and crushing you under the weight of it all, under the curse of this city. 

A shadow flickers overhead and you keep your eyes trained on the ground, almost afraid to look up. It's as if you've become afraid of your own creations, terrified of them outgrowing you and leaving you behind.

You can't even bring yourself to return home, you realize, turning instead to head to your studio and sit in the silence of the now-empty room. There's a large, empty patch of floor in the middle where Bruce had stood for so long, and as you walk through the space, crumbled stone and torn-up paper crunch under your shoes and you feel something hollow eating at you from the inside out.

That was to be your greatest masterpiece, you think. And now he's gone.

When you wake the next morning, it's on the floor of your studio, your jacket rolled up under your head as a makeshift sort of pillow and light streaming in from the windows. The notifications on your phone, though, as you grumble and rub at your sore neck and check the news, have you shooting upright to a stumbling stand. 

News has broken out all over the city of destruction, some kind of vandalism having taken place overnight. Gargoyles all across the city have been destroyed, smashed and battered and knocked from their posts.

You scroll through the news feeds frantically, something akin to dread curling in your gut as you sift through photographs of your creations, crumbled and attacked and lying in pieces across rooftops. 

There are rumours spreading across the news outlets of people having seen a dark, flying shape swooping over the city. Some, mainly a few of the rather less reputable news sources, claim that it was the Mothman.

But you just shake your head and scoff at that. People will believe anything these days, you think.  No one knows who could've done it. No one knows how it really could've happened.

But as you stare at the wall of your studio, finished photographs of Bruce on the night before he was transported out of this space hang on the wall and mock you. You stare at them and something settles deep in your gut, a knowing sort of pain stabbing into you there. 

You know what happened. You're sure of it.

It doesn't take long to weasel your way into getting roof access at City Hall - something about needing to make final touches on the gargoyle and how you're sure the Mayor wouldn't be happy if you weren't allowed to work. You just claim that you need to see the carving again - you need to fix something, need to put your hands on it one more time.

Sure enough, when you get up there you're faced with the evidence of it all. There are chips and gouges in Bruce's fingers, his claws dulled and broken - like he had spent the night clawing and breaking and destroying across the city. 

He looks… like a protector, you suppose, with his scars and his dents and his looming wings spread wide. And you… you are his creator, after all. So you sit in front of him, trying to rub the cold from your fingers before taking his huge, freezing hands in yours so that you can polish and smooth and repair the damage that he's done to himself and you. 

You're trying to rub the feeling back into your fingers, your hands trembling from the cold and the pressure of your work, when the sun finally begins to dip below the horizon. You'd finished your fixing and your polishing hours ago, leaving Bruce to, instead, sit by the edge of the roof and simply wait. You sit with your back to him, staring out toward the endless, cursed city and you wonder if this is what it's like to be one of your creations - if this is what it's like to wait for something holy to happen.

When the sun finally does disappear beyond the skyline, the impossible wall of fog hazing the colours of dusk, you begin to hear him behind you. It's a creaking sort of noise, marble grinding and crunching against itself as he begins to move, as he begins to breathe life into himself.

So it's true, you think weakly, standing ever so slowly and keeping your back to him. He's alive, he's alive, he's alive.

Still, knowing it in theory and seeing it with your waking eyes are two different things, and when you turn to face him it's like all of the air has been punched out of your lungs. Bruce stands in front of you now, huge and powerful and terrifying, with razor-sharp claws that gleam in the darkness and wings that spread so far that they black out the horizon behind him and around you.

You stand frozen and you watch him and you wonder in a dizzying, endless sort of way what sort of a thing you are for creating a creature like him. It's a bit like staring god in the face, you think nauseously, when he stares down at you with his towering, imposing gaze. 

And you can't really help it - it just makes you wonder… are you anything like a god for making him? Or is it all… him? Can you claim responsibility for bringing something like this to life?

You're beginning to spiral, your heart hammering so loudly in your chest that if you had a bit of rational thinking left, perhaps you'd be concerned about it bursting from you. But then Bruce reaches for you, wrapping one giant, clawed hand around your waist and lifting you up as you shriek and he spreads his wings to bring the two of you into the sky.

He soars up and up and up, keeping you in a firm grip with one hand and pressing your back against his chest to keep you steady. Not that that comforts you much as you cling onto his bicep and forearm, digging your nails impossibly into the marble as the tangled, twisting streets of Gotham flash by underneath the two of you. 

He brings you to the clock tower eventually, dropping you ever so gently and letting you steady yourself with gasping breaths and shaking knees. It's the tallest building in the city, and your head spins as you look out and can see the whole of Gotham sprawling out at your feet. 

"Oh my god…" you murmur as you stare out with wide eyes, able to see, from this vantage point, all of the destruction that he'd caused the night before. "Bruce… what have you done?"

"What have you done?" he says in response, his voice rumbling from behind you in a deep bass. "You are what made me, after all."

"No!" you shout as you whirl on him, glaring up at him with panicked eyes. "I didn't make you into this. I didn't make you do this."

"You created a monster," he responds calmly, reaching for you. You let him, your breath held as you tremble. But he's gentle, brushing a stone knuckle across your cheek and wiping away a tear that you hadn't realized had fallen. "You cannot be upset when monstrous things follow."

"You were… you were supposed to protect the city," you respond quietly, your brows furrowing as you look up at him. "That's what you were made for. I… I gave you life, perhaps, yes. But - why use it for this?"

"You are my creator," Bruce responds simply, and his massive hand trails down to wrap around your throat with a delicate, barely-there touch. "I am made of you. My weight is on your shoulders."

"No!" you shout again, pulling away from him and stepping back. "I have made you, yes, but I've… I've released you out into the world. You've taken on a life of your own, have you not? You are made of yourself now, aren't you? You… you brought yourself to life… didn't you?"

"Did I?" he muses, but there's an uncertainty in the stone rumble of his voice. "I'd always thought that it was you. You drew me, after all. Carved me from a block of stone."

"You… I - what?" you ask desperately. "Bruce, I… you remember all of that?"

"Of course," he says simply, and when you clutch your chest and make a panicked sort of noise, he steps toward you. "I was there when you built me. I was there when you carved me out of nothing and turned me into this. And I have to wonder…" He steps further, still, until you have to crane your head back to look up at him, at his stormy eyes and furrowed brows and snarling face. "I wonder… if you made me, why… why turn me into something evil?"

"I didn't," you say weakly, stepping away from him and glancing back as the edge of the roof gets precariously close. "I didn't… who brought you to life, really, Bruce? Are you sure it was me? Are you sure it wasn't you?"

"Are you saying that you didn't?" he questions, stepping toward you for every step that you take back.

"I'm saying that I don't know," you answer desperately, an edge to your voice. "I'm saying that maybe - it's… it doesn't matter, Bruce."

"What?"

"It doesn't matter who built you. Can you not just belong to yourself now? You belong to yourself, don't you?" He frowns at your words, stepping closer still. When you step back this time, your heel catches the edge of the roof and your heart lurches painfully in terror at the drop behind you. 

"You made me," he says, pressing further.

"You belong to yourself," you repeat. "Learn… learn to live for yourself, Bruce. You are not mine anymore. You belong to yourself." He snarls a bit more at that, taking another step forward. This time, though, you have nowhere left to go, and when you step back there's only open air and the crisp fog of night to catch you.

So you fall… from the impossible height of the clock tower and toward the city that writhes with malice, you fall. And you think, as you feel the air rush past your ears, that perhaps this is the only way that it should be - death by your own creation, by your greatest masterpiece, thrown off of the highest point in a city that you helped to build. Perhaps this is how it feels to really, truly take a fall.

But it's not the ground that meets you. It's the feeling of cold, solid marble, instead, that wraps around you and hauls you up and up and up again. It's Bruce, with his arms keeping you pressed against his chest until he has you safely back on the top of the clock tower, this time with him standing between you and the edge of the roof. 

"You… saved me," you say slowly, your words coming out in halting gasps as your teeth chatter from the cold and the shock of it all. 

"How could I not?" he responds easily, and he reaches forward to smooth a large palm over your cheek gently. "How could I not come for you? How could I not follow wherever you go?"

"You don't have to," you say quietly.

"But I will," he responds in that sturdy, solid way of his. You lean against the solid wall of the large clock face and sigh, your knees buckling slightly at the weight of it all as you look up at him with anguish.

"Is that what it was all about?" you whisper. "The… the studio, the… the things you did there?" You think back to it all, to the destruction of your space, to the ripping up of the sketches and the smashing of the practice busts. You think back to him, frozen mid-movement, always clawing at himself, trying to rip himself from your grasp. 

A tear rolls down your cheek and your bottom lip trembles. Bruce just shushes you gently, brushing his clawed thumb against the frozen, bluish tint of your lip and stroking your cheek.

"You created me," he says lowly. "So why did you turn me into something evil?"

"I didn't…" you say, your voice catching and warbling. "I didn't know. I didn't know I could create anything that wasn't that. I didn't know that my hands could shape anything other than malice."

"How foolish," Bruce murmurs gently, cupping your face in both of his hands now so that he can wipe away the tears that have started streaming down your cheeks, "to think such a thing when you made me with this love. How foolish to think… when you made me love you like this." His face is close to yours now, so close that your noses brush together and his eyes bore into yours.

"Can you?" you say quietly. "Can you really love someone like me? Can you fall in love with the thing that made you?"

"That depends," he responds simply, so close to you now that your lips brush against his. "Can you ever really love me back?" The way he kisses you, then, probably proves that you both can. He presses you against the clock face, hard marble leaning against you and keeping you steady as your head spins and you grab onto his biceps. Around you, the city rages on, swirling and moving and tangling in on itself as night blankets the two of you and he wraps his wings around you, shielding you from the outside world.

"Bruce," you say quietly, parting from him just enough to speak. "Why did you destroy all of the others? They aren't - they weren't even alive. Not like you. You're… you're the only one like this. Why did you do it?"

"Because," he offers honestly, trailing his lips across your cheek and down the side of your neck. "I didn't want you to ever love them more than you love me."

"How foolish," you quip back, but its effect is dimmed by the breathless quality of your voice as Bruce presses further against you and tightens his grip on your waist, "to think that I could ever love anything more than I love my greatest masterpiece." Bruce laughs at that, an action so carefree that it feels almost holy as he throws his head back and lets his wings spread wide.

You look past him as he moves, staring back out towards the endless, mangled streets of Gotham and the curses that fester within them. Bruce smoothes a hand over your back and sobers as you look out with furrowed brows, glancing over the rooftops and the crumbled remains of your work. The past spirals endlessly before you and behind you and a need takes hold, a burning drive to move forward, to reach further.

"Have I…" you begin quietly, still looking past him. "Have I been protecting it? Or have I just been… feeding it?" You look up at Bruce again, then, something desperate and imploring in your gaze. "You belong to yourself, now, Bruce. You have to move forward. I - we both do."

"What am I supposed to do?" he asks somberly. "What am I supposed to do with a life that I did not choose?"

"Anything," you answer simply, spreading your arms wide with the city at your back now. "You own the night, Bruce. You own Gotham City. You can do anything."

"But," he begins, frowning. You just shake your head and continue, the freezing night air making your breath fog between the two of you.

"It doesn't matter, Bruce… It doesn't matter how you were created. It doesn't matter what you were made to be. It only matters what you choose." 

"What…" he begins slowly. "What am I to choose?"

"Anything," you stress. "The night belongs to you, Bruce. Choose what you want to do with it." He blinks, then, rolling his shoulders back and he stares past you and out toward the shining city. 

"It's beautiful, you know," he says, his voice a smooth, pleasant rumble.

"What?" you respond, a bit distracted as you try to rub warmth back into your fingers. He looks down at you rather fondly, then, before he gestures to you with one of his massive hands. And that's all that it takes, really, to have you closing the distance between the two of you. He wraps his giant arm around you, tucking you into the safety of his side as he wraps a wing around you, blocking the frigid wind and letting you shiver. 

"Gotham," he clarifies, and you look up at him while he looks out, his eyes shining with something that looks suspiciously close to love as he stares at the city. "It's beautiful."

"You know," you muse, letting one of your hands rest against his chest as the other searches for his own hand so that you can curl your fingers around his, "I'd never really… I don't know. I guess I've just never really looked at it that way."

"How could you not?" he questions, but there's no bite to his voice and when you look up with your nose wrinkled, he laughs once more.

"It's easy, I think," you explain with a shrug. "It's easy to just… get lost in it. All these years I spent being paid to build this city into something more, I… I guess I never really stopped to look at it." Bruce hums in confirmation, rubbing his hand up and down your arm as he continues to shield you from the cold.

"You know," you continue thoughtfully. "Someone really does need to look out for the city."

"What?"

"Gotham… Gotham needs a protector. I'm - I'm not saying you have to. It's… it's your life, Bruce, it's your choice. But I just - I don't know, you…"

"Go on," Bruce says gently, tearing his eyes away from the city to look down at you just as fondly. "Say it."

"I… I made you," you say slowly, a heaviness to your words. "I breathed life into you - I didn't know that I was doing it at the time but - I did. And I can't take that back. You were built to be Gotham's protector, to keep it safe and watch over it through the night. I want you to do that - if you want to. I think… I think you're good at what you're made to be. I think that, maybe, we both are." Bruce sighs at your words, a contented sort of thing as he reaches to smooth a thumb between your furrowed, anxious brows. 

"So I was right," he says easily. "We really are just the things that we were made to be, at the end of it all."

"Maybe it's just… not so bad?" you offer waveringly. He smiles down at you, a monster making peace with the malice that drips from his bared teeth, and something feels like it sort of just… settles into place.

"It doesn't have to be bad at all, I don't think," he offers gently. You sigh and let your forehead thump forward against the cool marble of his chest.

"Where would I be without you?" you murmur. A laugh rumbles through him, jostling you as you lean against him. 

"Victim of the Mayor's wrath, no doubt," he jokes. You lift your head to glare up at him, flicking his solid marble chest. 

"The Mayor loves me," you say haughtily.

"He does not," Bruce responds easily, but when you begin to splutter out protests he's quick to silence you with another kiss, bringing you closer to him with a tight grip.

"What will you do now?" he whispers against your lips. Something in you lurches painfully, a panic stirring.

"Oh," you say hollowly. "Right. I…" But then you look out toward the city, toward the ruin and the failure. Your greatest masterpiece having already outgrown you, you can feel yourself begin to spiral endlessly, your hands itching to bring life to something, to do something that makes you worth it. 

But then your fingers twitch, the calluses on your palms burning from the cold air, and you feel a sort of calmness overtake you as you look out toward the crumbling statues with new light. 

"I think," you say carefully, "that I have some things to rebuild. I think I have a new life to make for myself." Bruce hums in understanding, a hand stroking over the back of your head. "But," you continue, tipping your head back to look up at him with big, round eyes. "I certainly wouldn't mind working more often at night now. What do you say?"

"How could I say anything but yes," he rumbles back, "to my creator?"

"You're an awful distraction," you murmur as you work, chisel in hand as you feel a razor-sharp claw trace delicately up the length of your spine underneath your shirt. You're on the rooftop of the Bank of Gotham, night wrapping around you and Bruce as you work at recarving and smoothing out the mistakes of the past, buffing them out with new stone and new hope. If only there wasn't a slinking, skulking gargoyle who doesn't know how to keep his hands to himself. 

"I'm not sure what you mean," Bruce muses as he curls around you, his wings churning the night air. It's warmer these days, the cold front having passed months ago to make way for hotter, stickier nights. 

"Yes you do," you quip back, but your smile gives away your lack of real annoyance. He's an awful distraction, yes, but it's so worth it to be intertwined with him, you think. The artist and the muse, tangled endlessly just like the city that created them.

"I'm helping," Bruce murmurs stubbornly, burying his head in your shoulder and wrapping his arms tightly around your waist. 

"You've already helped plenty," you say slyly, but the way that he hums in confirmation and presses closer has heat rising to your cheeks.

"I could always help again -"

"No," you splutter out. "Bruce, the sun is going to come up soon. You need to be back at City Hall before the night is over."

"I'll make it in time," he says distractedly, training his lips over your neck and slipping his massive, clawed hands under your shirt.

"You will," you laugh at him as you squirm away from him, standing and teetering on the edge of the rooftop. Bruce frowns and reaches for you, wrapping a secure arm around your waist to keep you steady. "You will," you repeat calmly, "because you're going to leave now. I'll come up and sit with you in the morning if you'd like. I have some sketches to work on."

"It's not the same," he says, a frown still tugging at his lips.

"I know," you soothe. "But it's only during the day."

"Promise me something, then," he whispers as he draws you in to wrap around you one last time before daybreak.

"Anything," you respond honestly.

"Come back for me," he says lowly, pressing a final kiss to your lips. "Come back to put your hands on me again when night falls. Come back to turn me into something good."

"You've already done most of that for yourself, you know," you murmur back, your lips brushing against his. "But… always. I'll always come back for you." And you mean it, of course, as you reach for him one last time before he has to flee. You'll always stand next to him while he moulds himself into something new, day after day after day. Just as he will always do the same for you.

Morning really has begun by the time you're making your way out of the bank, trying yet again to roll the everlasting tension out of your shoulders as you walk outside. The sun is cresting over the city, making the buildings shimmer as the newer gargoyles shine with flecked limestone on top of the towering rooftops. 

But there's still only one of them that's made of marble, and he stands, now, on top of City Hall. You stop outside of the bank to look up at Bruce, staring at the way that his wings splay out as he snarls. The sun is rising up from behind him and it begins to bathe the gargoyle in a holy, glowing halo of endless golden light that fights through the constant fog of Gotham.

He looks sort of like an angel, you think as you giggle to yourself, the calluses on your palms burning with the memory of carving him. He looks like something holy. 

But really, you know… you know that you did not tell him to stand like that - that you did not carve him in that pose. You know that you did not lift the sun to shine down onto him. He did that for himself. 

As the sun crests even further, shining past him and onto your face, breaking through the murky, polluted air just enough to breathe warmth onto your skin, you know that you've done it for yourself, too.

[burningcheese-merchant]

Ok, I have good news and bad news regarding the BurningCheese time travel AU (that sounds more and more ridiculous every time I say/type it lol)

Good news: Not only have I come up with an official title and written an official plot synopsis, I found someone willing to make cover art for the story!

Bad news: The cover art is going to take several months because the artist is busy with more important things at the moment

It sucks to have to wait that long, but I really adore this artist and their style, so I am ready and willing to do so. I will be using the time in between now and then to iron out the details of the AU. There are a lot of important questions (that other people have actually asked me about/brought to my attention, which I really appreciate!) I need solid answers for for the sake of maintaining functioning logic (the actual time travel especially, time travel is a very tricky concept to work with and I need to make sure it actually makes sense or else the entire narrative is broken)

Gonna go ahead and say this much, since people actually seem interested in the idea:

Will probably be sticking to the Back to the Future approach to time travel rather than the Avengers: Endgame one, it's easier for me to grapple with and I don't like how Endgame handled that shit anyway

Timekeeper will continue to appear even after sending Golden Cheese into the past. She's having too much fun with her new made-up soap opera to stay away like she probably should lol

The other Beasts (or Heralds, in this time) will appear, but I will not explain when, how or why

Slow burn romance. Just because Burning Spice is a hero in this time doesn't mean Golden Cheese automatically gets over her fear and hatred of him. The only BS she's ever known up until this point is the Beast of Destruction; the mass-murdering, obsessed lunatic that was actively trying to hurt her before Timekeeper intervenes. She will warm up to Herald Spice eventually, but it will take time and effort on both of their parts

There is an ending. I've already come up with an ending to the story. It came to me while I was out running errands and I simply cannot get over it. It's bittersweet, but I think it fits. Now I need to write everything else around it because I refuse to let it go lol. (You're really not supposed to do this in writing, but I'm forging ahead with the risk this time. I love the ending too much to throw it away)

You're all more than welcome to reach out and ask stuff about the story, even as it's still a WIP; it's been really nice to see people actually express interest in this concept (and as I'm sure you've noticed, I Like To Ramble lol). I just can't reveal the more important parts, so I encourage you to stick to more basic/general comments, questions and/or concerns.

Thank you all for your enthusiasm and your patience! I'm cooking something really special for you all, I promise!

[olderthannetfic]

Genuine question: what's the point of writing fanfic? As in, what's the purpose? No one in the fandom I'm in comments on fics and I even got told off by one person for doing so, as it "encourages bad writers and makes them think they're good". So it seems that it's a lot like book writing, where people work hard and are creative, but instead of getting paid and getting comments on the work, you just sit there silently hoping someone will press the kudos button and make a number go up. I feel like that time and work could be better spent on making something you might get some kind of profit off of. Don't get me wrong, I love doodling fanart, but I don't post it, as I'm aware that there's no point to doing so, and while it's a nice way to fill the time on a commute, it's not something that takes me as much time and effort as fanfic does. So... why do people bother? Sometimes I describe ideas I have and people I know in my fandom will tell me I should write it, but I don't see why. I get more interaction from just saying "imagine if [thing here]" than I would by sitting down, writing for hours, editing and posting [thing here], so what would the point be? I'm not punching down or going "haha women and their fanfic lol!", I genuinely do not get what the point is and this blog feels like it might have someone reading who knows the answer.

--

Do you make art for profit? Genuine question.

There's nothing inherently wrong with being motivated primarily by external factors, but it's not actually why a lot of people create things, whether it's books or recipes or doodles in a notepad.

I enjoy the actual process of writing.

I think many people lose sight of that aspect in an era where tons of <500-word fics that are mostly outlines and "Imagine if..." posts get disproportionate attention for being easy to consume. But the satisfaction of doing a bigger art piece and doing it right is real and motivates a hell of a lot of creation.

I suppose you might be thinking "Okay, but why not just write it alone and never post?", but I like sharing. Showing off my finished creation is part of the joy, and sharing with other people like me is too. But those aren't quite the same thing as worrying about kudos. It's like dressing nicely when you leave the house because you feel great when you know you look good vs. needing another person to tell you you look good.

To be honest, though, this type of feeling has grown in me the better I've gotten at a craft. The closer my finished projects get to the vision in my head, the easier it is to find them fulfilling and to be excited to share them. When I fall short of my own ambitions, it's discouraging no matter how much attention I might get from others.

I feel like it's time for my regular reblog of Adam Westbrook's video essay series The Long Game.

The third and least known in the series is all about this idea of who you're making art for if you're not getting material rewards in the short term. It talks a lot about autotelicity—being internally driven instead of externally.

--

But if you really just want clicks, anon, start a blog that accepts anon asks and posts about wanky stuff. Actually tag things, unlike me, so people can find you.

No, writing for attention isn't worth it.

The time investment is too great and your brain will always fixate on the times people didn't respond instead of the times they did.

But that's not actually why most people write.

[galaxysupreme17]

Cooking Dinner Together

Y/n = Your Name

AgathaRio x daughter!reader!

The Harkness-Vidal household was quiet, save for the gentle hum of a record player spinning an old jazz tune in the background. Y/n stood in the kitchen, her hands busy unpacking groceries from a brown paper bag. A determined smile tugged at her lips as she reached for her apron, a soft blue one with little embroidered stars her Mama had gifted her last Christmas. Sliding it over her head, she snagged it around her waist before twisting her long, wavy hair into a high ponytail. Her hair, nearly identical to Agatha's, gleamed under the warm kitchen light, the resemblance unmistakable.

"This is going to be perfect," she murmured, rolling up her sleeves and surveying the ingredients before her.

Y/n was determined to cook dinner for her parents as a surprise—a small token of appreciation for everything they did for her. It wouldn't be fancy, just a cozy, comforting meal of homemade pasta with marinara sauce, garlic bread, and a simple salad.

She had just started kneading the dough for the pasta when she heard the unmistakable creak of the staircase. Her heart sank slightly. Please don't come down yet. Just stay distracted a little longer, she thought, but her luck ran out as Rio appeared in the doorway.

"Cariño," Rio said, her voice warm with amusement. "What's going on here?"

Y/n froze for a moment before plastering on a sheepish smile. "Hi, Mom. Nothing. Just... cooking dinner."

Rio raised an eyebrow, her dark eyes sparkling. "By yourself?"

"Yes, by myself," Y/n replied firmly, dusting her hands with flour.

Rio stepped further into the kitchen, hands on her hips. "Do you need help? It's dangerous to leave your mother hungry for too long."

"I've got it under control!" Y/n insisted.

But Rio was already reaching for her amulet, the green crystal glinting in the light. With a wave of her hand, a stack of bowls and a whisk floated into the air, arranging themselves neatly on the counter.

"Mom!" Y/n groaned, throwing her hands up. "No magic! This is supposed to be—"

"A surprise for us? I know," Rio said with a grin, "but why not make it easier?" She flicked her wrist, and the pasta dough began kneading itself, the rolling pin spinning on its own like a small cyclone.

When Y/n opened her mouth to protest, another voice interrupted from the hallway. "What's all this racket?"

Agatha's voice was unmistakable, smooth, and teasing as she sauntered into the kitchen. She took one look at the magical chaos and smirked. "Oh, so we're using magic in the kitchen now? No wonder I smelled trouble."

Rio turned to her wife, feigning innocence. "Trouble? I'm just helping."

"You're cheating," Agatha countered, striding to Y/n's side. She gently plucked a wooden spoon from the counter, examining it as if testing its quality. "Cooking is an art, Rio. You can't just wave your little green crystal around and call it a meal."

Y/n pinched the bridge of her nose. "Mama, I don't need help—"

"Nonsense," Agatha interrupted, tying an apron around her waist. Her tone turned mock-serious. "This is a family affair now."

"Great," Y/n muttered under her breath.

The kitchen quickly devolved into chaos.

Rio, ever the practical Green Witch, attempted to use her magic to speed up every process. She summoned a bunch of herbs from the garden, their leaves swirling into a vortex before landing in a perfect pile on the counter. But in her haste, she accidentally summoned a little too much basil, and soon, it was raining green leaves all over the kitchen.

"Oops," Rio said, brushing basil out of Y/n's hair with a chuckle.

Meanwhile, Agatha took the opposite approach, insisting on doing everything manually. She dramatically rolled up her sleeves and declared herself the "Sauce Queen," taking over the marinara with the flair of a Broadway performer.

"Proper sauce needs care and attention," she said, her voice dripping with mock sophistication. "Not shortcuts, mon amour." She shot Rio a sly grin.

Rio crossed her arms. "Care and attention don't mean hovering over a pot for two hours, cariño."

Y/n sighed as the bickering began. "Can we please focus?"

Y/n quickly took charge, assigning tasks like a diplomat brokering peace between two rival nations.

"Mom, you can work on the salad. By hand," she added pointedly, narrowing her eyes at Rio.

"Fine," Rio said with a playful pout, grabbing a knife and chopping vegetables precisely.

"And Mama," Y/n continued, turning to Agatha, "you're still on sauce duty, but no more taste-testing. You've had, like, ten spoonfuls already."

"Eleven," Agatha corrected, smirking as she stirred the pot.

Y/n couldn't help but laugh despite herself. It was chaos—basil in her hair, flour smudged on her cheeks, and garlic bread dangerously close to burning—but it was her chaos, her family.

When the meal was ready, the kitchen looked like a war zone. Flour dusted every surface, bits of pasta dough clung to the walls, and a small mountain of basil leaves had somehow ended up in the corner.

Y/n set the table while her parents cleaned up, Rio using her magic to whisk away the worst of the mess despite Agatha's grumbling.

When they finally sat down, Y/n felt a swell of pride as she looked at the steaming plates of pasta, the perfectly toasted garlic bread, and the colorful salad.

"It's not perfect," she admitted, fiddling with her fork.

Agatha reached over and placed a hand over hers. "It's perfect because you made it," she said, her voice soft.

Rio nodded, her smile warm. "And because we made it together."

Y/n rolled her eyes but couldn't hide her grin. "You two nearly destroyed the kitchen."

Agatha and Rio exchanged a look before bursting into laughter.

The conversation flowed easily as they ate, filled with teasing and laughter. Rio complimented Y/n's pasta-making skills while Agatha waxed poetic about the balance of flavors in the sauce, much to everyone's amusement.

By the end of the meal, Y/n felt full—not just from the food but from the love that filled the room.

Later that night, the three of them curled up on the couch, a cozy blanket draped over them as they watched an old black-and-white movie. Y/n nestled between her parents, her head resting on Agatha's shoulder while Rio's hand absentmindedly played with her ponytail.

"Thanks for dinner, Y/n," Agatha murmured, kissing her daughter's temple.

"Yeah, cariño," Rio added, her voice soft. "It was perfect."

Y/n smiled, her eyes drifting shut as the moment's warmth wrapped around her like a second blanket.

In the end, the food didn't matter. What mattered was the time they spent together—flour fights, basil explosions, and all.

[maybeelse]

"Has anyone ever done this for you before?"

"No. Uh, a bit lower ..."

Sparrow barely holds in a moan as their hands find the right spot on his shoulders. "Really? A cute morsel like you ... well, I'm honored you chose me, then."

"Um. Could you, uh."

"Yes?"

"... u-use a different word. For me."

"Oh, of course! What would you prefer?"

"U-um. Something, uh," he hides in face in his hands, not that it matters much, "something masculine?"

"Ah. I think I understand. Well, I'm honored that such a handsome thing would choose me for ... hm, his?" Sparrow shivers under their hands. "His first time. Most of my clients are, let's say, more experienced. Not a bad thing! It's nice to work with people who knows exactly what they want, but, well. Helping someone discover what they want? That's a treat."

"I-I hope I won't disappoint, then. Since I don't, really ..."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I can't be disappointed," they laugh, "literally, in fact. One of the conditions written into my original summoning. Would you like to see the others?"

"N-no. That seems, uh. Cruel?"

"Maybe for humans. But, trust me, it's easier for things like me to exist when we have very clear parameters for what we should be."

"Demons?"

"Ah, the horns gave it away?"

"Y-yeah," Sparrow's grin fades, "though I haven't met any before ..."

"Not many of us out in public, mhmm? Even when our terms allow it."

"Do yours?"

"No. But I have everything I need in this room, so it's not a big deal, you know? And a steady stream of clients to practice my art on. Now," their hands leave Sparrow's skin, "would you like to discuss what you want?"

"Um. I, uh ... it's sort of embarrassing."

They nod, humming; a practiced eye roving over Sparrow's naked body. His blush, never far from his skin, returns with a vengeance. "Most of my clients merely want the, ah, equipment," their gesture leaves no ambiguity, "or a few little tweaks to deepen their enjoyment of their bodies. Or their partner's enjoyment. I do get a fair number who just want to reignite fading interest, poor things."

"Oh. Is it really so ...?"

"It's certainly not unusual," they pause, a strange look on their face. "Though, you do know that I can't do anything permanent? Though I think the Madame has someone who—"

"Yes! I know. I, um, just want to try it out, I think? For a bit. To, to make sure."

"Of course. Is there anything in particular, though? I can make whatever tweaks you want once I start, but it's easier to have at least some idea, mhmm?"

Sparrow's blush reaches all the way down to his toes by now. He knew it would be hard, of course he did, but—saying it, in the moment? Even knowing that the demon can't judge him? It's damn near impossible!

They just sit there, waiting, though, their only expression a faint smile. Patient; unconcerned.

And eventually he manages to squeak out "a beard. I always, always ... and my voice? If you could. Make it a bit ..."

"Of course. Well, I'll start, then? If that's okay with you."

"Please."

---

It hurts less than Sparrow feared, but more than he hoped.

---

Afterwards the demon is somehow diminished; drawn inward. Their motions are slowed, and their many eyes seem just a hair more glassy. Still, as Sparrow examines himself in the mirror—a tall one, that the demon had brought out to allow him to follow along—their smile is full of the satisfaction of a job well done.

"T-thank," Sparrow stops, repeats the word. Feels the way it rumbles in his chest. Smiles. "Thank you. Really."

"No problem at all! I'm always happy to assist such a handsome young man, and, well. This is why I exist."

"... do you have to say it like that?"

"No. But I am allowed to."

"I see," Sparrow frowns. "You're not—no, I suppose—how long did you say it lasts?"

"A few days, usually. Although," the demon smiles, "these might last a bit longer, if you're careful."

"Oh. Thank you!"

"Put in a good word for me with the Madame before you go, mhmm?"

They don't linger on their goodbyes, and soon enough Sparrow is dressed and gone, the door closing quietly behind his last wave. The demon remains, in the room they've spent the last three decades in, alone. Their contract permits them a single sigh.

.

(author's notes: this piece is somewhat of an experiment in terms of subject matter. It's much easier for me to write this sort of fluff about transfeminine characters, and I'm much more confident in writing about those experiences. I hope I haven't misstepped too badly ... but please tell me if I have.)

[quibbs126]

So after that last practice thing, I figured I should probably try out the previous forms of Orion and D-16, or at least their heads since those I find significantly easier than the whole body (which I guess isn’t really a shocker there)

And also because as I keep bringing up, Lux, because I remembered that technically she should resemble these forms more than the final form Optimus and Megatron. Considering she's technically from before those two forms, and also those were upgrades. If she came after she might resemble their final forms more, but logistically she shouldn't

Honestly, I think I found the left side ones more difficult when sketching than the right side, not sure why. Though I do admit, I think cogless D's bottom side things look a bit off. I'm not sure how to draw them from a lower angle, or at least I wasn't until I already finished

Orion's side circles are still a bit difficult to draw, and I have no clue why, particularly since I draw them often on my AU designs. I think I just struggle with making them look good.

Also a note on the colors, it's more noticeable on Orion (probably because his helmet doesn't change colors), but the cogless forms are supposed to be a bit duller in colors. I think that's how it is in the movie, which makes sense, since the miners probably weren't getting proper paint maintenance due to their status and occupation

With the expressions, I was trying to have it so that with the cogless forms, Orion's probably got a scheme cooking, but D-16 loves him for his unadulterated self anyways. Meanwhile in the cogged forms, D-16's having his crash out, becoming a bit too aggressive, and while Orion's trying to go along with it, since he at least seems happy to be able to transform now and is just on an adrenaline rush, he's also concerned about his current behavior, hoping that it'll just go away with time and he'll be back to normal. Not sure I fully conveyed that

But anyways, on to talking about the cogged forms in particular, I had some trouble looking for good refs of these designs, particularly the colors. Like I'm still not 100% sure those are the right colors for D's helm. Yes, I have concept art, but the concept art isn't always the same as the final, as I've come to realize. And while these forms were in the movie much longer than their final forms, I can find screenshot references for those much easier

And this extends to fanart I think as well. You have the cogless forms when you want wholesome dpax before the tragedy, you have the upgraded forms for the angsty megop and stories that come after. And in AUs where nothing bad happens, I feel like you tend to get one or the other of those two or a mix of them as the default looks, depending on what you want. Even though I feel like in AUs where nothing bad happens and the Primes don't die, the characters should logistically be in their middle, cogged forms, especially since the cogless situation was a manufactured lie by Sentinel. I feel like you only get the middle in AUs where D doesn't become Megatron, and even then, they might still give him the Megatronus cog, he just didn't rob it from the corpse of the bot he executed. Or if Orion has the Matrix ripped out by Megatron and he isn't reverted back to cogless

I think it's because those cogged forms are basically seen as the middle stage evos for them, and by that point you're waiting for them to get their proper Optimus and Megatron forms. Like their original cogless forms are what we start with, what the marketing leading up to the movie showed us first, and when everything was happy between them. And then their final forms are what they end the movie with, and are the iconic Optimus and Megatron designs, the characters we know, and what they'll stay with moving forwards in the story. The cogged stages are just the day or so in between those changes, where things are falling apart and falling into place for what we know to come later

It's also sort of again, where the relationship is falling apart, due to D-16's crash-out. Technically it happens at the tail end of D-16's cogless state, but he gets his cog immediately after and that's when he starts reacting to the horrible information and Orion starts losing him, so it's more associated with this form of them

But it's also kind of interesting to me because in universe, I think these cogged forms are technically supposed to be their final forms. These are the full forms of Orion Pax and D-16, and their future forms are upgrades instead of a natural growth. It's just that we see them as middle stages because we know they become Optimus Prime and Megatron, and these aren't fully those designs yet. If they were to never become those two, or in a world where they never had their cogs removed, those middle stages are what they'd look like by default. It's just that we know they have another stage to go

I don't know, just thoughts that stemmed from drawing these

[thebluestbluewords]

banter for banter’s sake

I started thinking too hard about this post, and now here we are. This isn’t really about why Ben dresses like a cartoon character, but that’s where it was SUPPOSED to go.

~

Evie holds up a swatch of gauzy blue-green material.  "I know it's horribly cliche to dress the Atlantica girls in ocean colors, but Aria specifically requested it. D'you think I could get away with giving her a caramel sea-foam sort of shawl?" 

"E," Mal asks oh-so-neutrally, without looking up from her book. It's not that Through The Wardrobe: A History of Magical Portals is a riveting read, it's just that she'd rather stab her own eyes out with a rusty spork than look at another princess dress. "Do I look like I know jack-fucking-all about what colors a mermaid is supposed to wear?" 

"You're the one taking Art History this semester. I've seen your homework, I know you're writing a paper on heraldic imagery for each of the historic royal houses," Evie says, tossing the fabric swatch at her. "You ought to know what colors they can get away with."

The square flutters down to the floor, where Dude the dog immediately trots over to sniff at it. The little monster isn't supposed to be in their room at all, but he keeps sneaking in somehow. Mal suspects foul play. Her shoes have been smelling suspiciously like salami as of late.  "Chartreuse and navy." 

"Like ocean water and piss." Evie agrees. "Perfect."

"My piss isn't chartreuse," Ben says thoughtfully. He's not supposed to be in their room either, but he's a much larger monster than the dog. Harder to kick out. Also, having him here makes Mal's stomach go all warm and tingly, like Ben lying on her floor is the new, goodness-approved equivalent to half a shot of bathtub whiskey. It's easier to sleep when she'd got him close too, and-- 

Yeah, she's not exploring that feeling any further. 

"Skill issue," Evie says cheerfully. "You need to drink less water. If you're overly hydrated your piss will be too clear, and we can't pass it off as a sports drink when we replace everything in Chad's locker." 

"You don't have to torment Chad, you know." 

Evie tips her head to look at him straight on, even though she's sitting in her desk chair with perfect posture, and the king of Auradon is laying on the floor with his head propped up on one of Dude's toys. "But it's so fun?"

"I told Chad you're not messing with him," Ben says evenly, rolling over so that he can face Evie straight on, like that ever makes it easier to stare her down. Evie's not as scary as Mal's mother when it comes to staring contests, but she's got a special sort of mortal talent for them. Mal suspects it's the eyeliner. It's too perfect. She cuts through your focus with it, like the sharp ends are a knife. "Don't make me a liar." 

"Don't tell lies." 

"My father will hear about this," Ben lies, smoothly. "Probably from Mal's father, when he dies of a stress-induced heart attack and goes to hell." 

"Hey!" 

"Not that I really believe Hades is your father! It's just that you said he is, and I'm trying to be good and take you seriously." 

"Don't," Evie advises. "She lies all the time. She'll lie to your face for fun." 

"I am a wicked fairy," Mal tells her book. "By the magical laws of the universe, I technically can't lie." 

"And we all know you've found ways around that." 

"Misdirection isn't lying. It's strategic." 

Ben tugs Evie's fabric sample from Dude's mouth. Or tries to, at least. The little monster is tenacious, which is one of their vocabulary words in English class this week. "Like when you misinterpreted my question about how many chocolate bars you had, and threw up all over the carriage." 

"That," Mal says haughtily, drawing herself up to her full seated height, which isn't very tall, "Was a strategic misinterpretation of the truth, yes. But it technically wasn't a lie." 

"He can eat that fabric, by the way," Evie breaks in. "I don't think it's the right weight for this dress anyway. If Aria really wants her ocean green, she's going to get something structural to contrast the cliche of it all. It's like, I know I have a signature color, but you don't actually need to wear your kingdom colors all the time." 

"It's not good for him to eat any fabric. And I do have to wear my kingdom colors all the time." 

Mal kicks a foot out at her boyfriend, pointing her toes towards his lounge pants, which are black. "No." 

"These aren't mine." 

"Stolen goods?" 

Ben's cheeks flush beautifully, delicately pink. Like a sunburn. "Borrowed, actually. I have permission." 

"They're too short for you," Evie observes, leaning forwards in her chair to survey this new weak point. "Black could be anyone, but I recognize my own work when I see it. Why are you stealing Jay's pants?" 

"Borrowing." Ben squeaks out. His face is progressing from sunburn-pink to blood red rather rapidly.

"Mm. Sure. Why are you borrowing them?" 

"Normal reasons." 

Mal resolves to ask Jay about the “normal things” he’s been doing with Ben’s pants as soon as possible. 

“Well, the next time you two do normal things together,” Evie says, with a face so blank and sweet that it could belong to a doll, except for how the very corner of her mouth is twitching, “tell me beforehand and I’ll make you a pair of your very own.” “I, uh—“ 

The doll mask breaks into a wicked grin. “You what, baby?” 

Ben groans, rolls face down, smashes his entire head into the dog’s belly, and somehow flushes so bright that the color starts traveling down his neck. “I like wearing other colors sometimes, that’s all. I know I’m breaking dress code, and I don’t want to encourage you to make me more stuff that I can’t wear, but I do like it.”

“Dress code?” 

“Family dress code, yeah.” Dude’s underbelly says. “I—blegh.” Ben emerges from underneath the dog. “Why does he taste like licking a trash can? I thought Carlos was washing him every week.” 

“Yeah, he started doing that cause he rolls in garbage more than once a week.” 

Ben recoils. “He sleeps on my head!” 

“Ooh, see, I know for a fact that he doesn’t,” Evie says sweetly. “Because he sleeps in the boys’ room whenever he’s not in his kennel, which I know because I’m the one who walks him down to the kennel when we kick him out of our room. So unless you’re sleeping in the boys’ room….?” 

“I’d never break curfew.” Ben lies. He does it smoothly, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth while he’s saying it. 

Mal points. “Evie—“ 

“Breaking curfew means being in the halls, dorm rooms of students of another gender, and common spaces after hours, yes.” Evie, her beautiful human dictionary, confirms. “It doesn’t technically say that you can’t be in the dorm room of another student, just that boys and girls can’t mix. Sleeping with us would mean breaking curfew, but the boys aren’t technically addressed in the rules. An oversight that I’m sure a good student council member or two must have noticed, am I right?” 

“I get lonely,” Ben admits. “Doug noticed it first.” 

Doug, her mortal enemy, working in Ben’s favor? Mal doesn’t want to believe it, but the guy does have some weird sort of friendship with Ben. It’s like they genuinely enjoy each other’s company, or something. “I feel like there’s a story here.” 

Ben flops his sweet golden head down onto the floor again. "Not really. I got lonely as a kid, and Doug and Chad were in a double together, and we just never corrected the loophole after I stopped sleeping over. I haven't used it much since then." 

"Since you stopped sleeping over with my mortal enemy," Mal says, teasing. "I see how it is."

Evie throws a pin at her. "Doug's a nice guy, M! Just because you think he's your mortal enemy doesn't mean we all feel that way." 

"He stares at your boobs when he thinks you're not looking." 

"So do you."

"I'm allowed." 

Evie tosses her hair back over her shoulders in a gesture that, in the wrong hands, could level nations. "So's Doug. I think he's cute. Besides, you're distracting me from my goal here, which is for Benny-boo to tell us why he's got a dress code and we don't." 

Ben groans. "I don't, really. It's just. Royal stuff." 

"Which is why you wear the same boring blue suit every day," Evie prompts. "Because of your secret dress code. You can tell me what it is, I'll work around it." 

"I have a dozen slightly different blue suits, actually," Ben says, ignoring the question. "And I'll wear them until I die, just like my dad." 

Mal shuts her book. She's starting a strict no-parent talk policy, and her boyfriend's in immediate violation and must be distracted or killed before he can bring the mood down further. "Unless you die on the toilet." 

"Why would I do that?" Ben asks. He looks genuinely confused. It's so sweet, Mal could just vomit. 

Evie bounces down from the desk to join him on the floor.  "Chronic constipation can lead to straining so hard you burst a blood vessel, which could travel to your brain, and kill you?" 

"I don't have that?" 

She pats his golden head. "If you keep wearing terrible suits you will."

[mermaidsirennikita]

interesting how they think dark romance is "grooming" women into being abused meanwhile actual right wing figures are trying to ban both books and porn...dark romance and romantasy are not the problem y'all

Lol yeeeep

And the sad thing is, a lot of supposed left-wingers have fallen for the "save the children (women) from sexual content" argument hook, line, and sinker. They've pushed the neopuritanical wave just as much as right-wingers have, just in different packaging.

Don't get me wrong: Porn can be harmful. Any sexual content, like virtually any content of any kind, has the potential to be harmful. But the reality is that pornography of some sort has always existed and will always exist. Just like (a lot of, but not all) people have always enjoyed an element of voyeurism. People like looking at art depicting sex. They like reading about sex. They like watching people fuck. There's a point where you have to just chalk it up to human nature. Again: NOT ALL PEOPLE. But most. Probably the vast majority, when you strip away hangups and society. And that's not me erasing those who don't; you are valid and your needs should be accommodated, and I frankly think they.... often are. Especially in this cultural moment.

But it's okay to want to consume explicit content, whether it's because it turns you on or just because... because.

There are many reasons why people perceive a porn problem, but the root of all evils is not that content. It's how we as a society treat it, and, on a basicl level, how we as a society expect and encourage people to fucking parent their children.

I so often see people say "But I don't want my kids to read those books" "I don't want my kid to watch that".

Dude. They most likely will if they want to. Even if that content is banned—and I hope it isn't, but I'm bracing myself, and a good cluster of states in the US, including blue ones, have essentially banned porn through age verification laws—people will find a way to access it. Just as they found a way to access alcohol, and weed, and so on. People do find a way to access that content in countries that currently ban porn.

So the thing is—you can either bury your head under the sand and train people to become weird about it... or you can have honest conversations and encourage healthy consumption. My mom told me that there was a difference between porn and reality. My mom read romance novels with me to get an idea of how I was consuming them (and it was fun, because I was lucky and had a pretty cool mom, overall).

And it bums me out, frankly, to see so many women act as if the "pornifiation of society" is what's keeping women down, versus the MUCH MORE PRESENT issues of like... the wage gap. Poor childcare options. The encouragement of the idea that having children is what you're meant for if you're born with a uterus. People trying to rape us all the time, which they ALWAYS HAVE, that's not porn! Red pilling, which is not a porn thing (a lot of red pills eschew porn!). Systemic racism and transphobia, which hits women of color and trans women, and as long as they don't have equal rights, women will not have equal rights.

Dark romance is not leading women down the tradwife lifestyle. You know what is? Christian indoctrination linking up to the crunchy granola girl pipeline. The mass spread of conspiracy theories and the twisting of gender essentialist "I know my body and therefore that of my child better than any dooooctooooor" bullshit that push the idea that you're this Earth Mother and not a normal human being. Not to mention a shitty economy, all those factors relating to women in the workforce I mentioned above, utilized to further push the idea that it would be soooo much easier if you just stayed at home with your babies. And then we throw in the dismantling of the public education system, which is only getting WORSE..... People are just less educated, and they want women to be less educated than men, and that has a LOT going on that has nothing to do with the dark romances women read.

And these people would probably be better able to think critically if not for those issues, so.

[fearcrowz]

I feel like a lot of young people need to hear that advice you gave. I'm not trying to call anyone out, but I've seen art posted made by young people on Twitter and animated videos and shorts young people made on YouTube and then either get upset that their videos or original art works aren't making those big numbers like the want.

I've seen a lot of young people get upset when their fan works, both art and videos, do better than their original works and then either give up for some reason or delete their fan works hoping to draw attention to their original works. News flash, it doesn't work. It had the opposite effect actually.

But yeah, I think a lot of young creatives need to hear your advice because they seem too focus on numbers and growth and wanting to stand out without understanding what they actually want or liking what they are even putting out or even knowing what kind of audience they are trying to court.

Almighty rambling below ✨️

The art world is really hard to be in these days. A lot of it is luck based, sometimes algorithms don't even work. Sometimes it isn't even us, sometimes it just depends on one certain person to share our art and it sees thousands. I knew someone who was stuck at like 4-6k and they made one post and the next morning they already hit 40k followers. Sometimes it's just pure luck. (Totally am happy for them btw)

It's not an easy dream and the chances of it happening overnight is like 0.0001% out of like thousands. I've had this dream since I was like... 13 to be an artist, make comics, go to conventions, etc. As someone has posted nonstop constantly for almost 20 years, I haven't been able to do any of these things, you can tell the dream is not easy. (But to be honest, my life is not good and never was growing up, and I had a lot of things taken away from me at a very young age, so just because I suck major balls and can't get anywhere doesn't mean YOU can't!!! DON'T GIVE UP EVER AHHHHH)

I've tried to figure it out for so long on why I'm a ghost in the machine, but after awhile you just grow tired and just draw whatever, it is NOT worth the stress at all. Never give up, do all sorta of things, everything, all the things and keep posting and posting and posting. If you keep posting it will get there, that I can promise you. It may not be tonight or tomorrow or the next month but it will get up there in time.

When I was a teen, things were much harder to share and stretch out. Nowadays these kids got all these social media and tags and can draw and animate on easier programs and all sorts of things now. I think they can do it, they just have to have a lot of patience, and have very strong unmoving willpower of pure stubborness. It isn't suppose to be easy. But who knows? Maybe one day you make the right thing and it hits big? But until then DRAW for yourself and your OWN GROWTH, not for the sake of being the next big thing. This job isn't going to pay you in followers or money any time soon if you are startin' out. You're gonna have to get jobs to support this dream, you are gonna have to do a lotta things you dont wanna, but if you love art as much as I do, I know you can do it. Like I said before, art is a passion, and though some people say "oh you are so gifted and talented"... well yeah you are! But you also have to WORK for it. Art world ain't free baby. Gotta work your butt off. A lot. Even when you get ✨️famous✨️, you still have to work your butt off. Especially if you get money. IRS loves artist money they stick their grubby feelers in it like crazy.

All I'm saying is if I can keep going in my state, I absolutely KNOW you can. Whether it is for fun hobby, for dreams, for work, for whatever you wanna make your art. We are constantly growing as humans, and decisions will change, but if you are firm on what you wanna be, it will happen. I can promise you that and I cheer anyone who reads this to have all their dreams come true! I want them to very much so.

[milkamel]

I managed gacha collab servers before….. and i sucked at it haha… lets not think about that anymore

Can i have your discord mel? /j

In all honesty i think my discord is the only one that isn’t really shared among my socials and not sharing the same name as everything else the only people that should have it is my friends, whatever family has discord and the collabs people who knew me in 2020 😭

-lore anon

Well I never managed or even joined any servers before- I barely understand how discord works besides basic stuff like texting/calling XD I prefer to stick to the groups I'm currently in, I'm quiet so it's kinda hard to befriend someone new (ily besties who I met in 2017-2018 and still talk to to this day you're the best)

I think I should know your true identity before giving something as precious as my discord /j

Anyway same I don't really want to share it, it's more personal and I prefer talking here first and maybe then move to discord if it's tedious (if any of you finds my discord.. sorry but I don't think I'd reply no nuh uh don't- please) I'm just terribly anxious when it comes to talking to people in general and my heart skips a bit when I see notifs from people I don't know lol (a reason why I don't wanna make a server I'll feel bad for banning people or something gfgkhg I'm too soft)- I remember how I used to be so scared of posting my art now it's so much easier- sounds ridiculous but it's just that bad. I'm scared of people,, But receiving so much positive feedback with my art certainly boosted my confidence but I'm still sometimes worried if what I post is good enough/won't get any negative reaction.

Okay, I'm yapping now but I just wanted to share some things about who I am I suppose- I don't do that often but I wanna express myself a bit XD

(I'll probably read this later and think about how cringy I am but who cares at this point lmao I'll go make myself some tea now)

[qwertyprophecy]

hi !! i recently played storyseeker and really loved it !! i was curious about how you went about designing the story for it ?? was it hard to keep track of all the moving narrative parts ?? how did you decide where to reveal what info ?? hope you dont mind me asking -- i really love your art !! have a great day !!

I'm glad you enjoyed Storyseeker! Old as it may be, out of everything I've made it's still the game I'd most like to make a spiritual successor to.

Answers to narrative design questions after the cut:

It's funny, Storyseeker's design process was so organic that realistically it should've turned into a right mess. But just as organically it lead into design principles that made organising the story a breeze, honestly.

What I mean by organic: As touched upon in this reply regarding worldbuilding, the story kept writing itself as long as I kept asking it questions, so I just let it do its thing. The player is meant to experience the narrative in much the same way, with me imposing as little control over them as possible while they travel as they please and narrate to themselves the story of what they see.

It sounds freeform and terribly unstructured, but I established a principle of design that aims to help the player connect the dots instead of feeling lost in a cacophony of random details. While making the game I called them "paths": routes the player is likely to take or subtly guided to take, that connect together related parts of the narrative. Visually some are literal paths or roads, but they could be anything that the player might follow. Footprints, streams of bubbles, the line of sight of an NPC, the sight of something irregular peeking at the edge of the screen...

A path presents both a question and a direction to go look for the answer. Oftentimes, the exact questions I was asking myself when building the world piece by piece. Where does this road lead? Where are these weasels swimming to (or, approaching from the opposite direction, where did they come from)? What dislodged itself from this hole in the ice and where did it go? What kind of a body are these giant toes connected to? Ie., to answer your question of when to reveal information: when the player asks for the information by moving towards where it's revealed, whether on purpose or unknowingly.

If the player follows the direction they must end up on another path because good answers beget more questions. The single most important design document I had was a piece of scrap paper with a rough sketch of the map and a whole lot of coloured lines flowing across it to mark the paths I was prepping for the player. (Lines, not arrows, since I couldn't predict which direction they'd be traveled in.) By visualising them I tried to make sure none of them stopped abruptly or looped in a circle, and that all the places of interest were covered.

(The biggest exception to this design is of course the dead end of a room that is the game's final area: the temple interior that can only be found by completionists. That's why it "completes" the game by being a narrative dead end, too.)

I genuinely didn't even plan it this way on purpose, but it turns out that it really helps keep track of a narrative when you make a game where webs of cause and consequence are all visually illustrated on a literal map. :D If you're the type of person who benefits from visually organising things, I don't see why you couldn't draw abstracted maps of your narrative even if it's not so visual in nature.

I know I definitely need to do more of that! Just last week I rescued my current project's dialogue rewrite with visualisation and arrow doodles. It had grown into an overwhelming mess of unplanned splitting and rejoining branches and microreactivity, so to have any chance of looking at it without inviting a migraine, I closed the document and instead mapped the whole script into a single page outline of what each conversation is supposed to convey to the player. It's so much easier for me to think about the shape of the story when I can see it in one glance!