#ineffective advertising

[elftwink]

to preface this post i am anti-advertising i think we should explode the entire industry but it's sooo funny when you people make posts like "and they don't even work!!" like. sorry to be the bearer of bad news but yes they do. that's why we have to put up with so many despite everyone hating them and thinking its annoying. because they actually work really well and make a shit load of money

[astrophysicistnotastronaut]

hello, this is my audition for job of 'friend'. I seem to be struggling to make some, so this is a last resort.

Pros:

can solve a Rubik's cube in 12 seconds

can sing you yakko warner's nations of the world at double speed

will eat pasta with you

very good at spelling

Cons:

has only done the first dot point three times so its a bit concerning that it's being used as a pro

cannot cook the aforementioned pasta, or literally anything else

will stay up late reading 'books' on my phone.

very annoying if you make spelling mistakes

contact me for references, I have at least 2. Genuine inquiries only. available for interviews during the next two weeks. After that I will have given up and will be retreating to the countryside to live out my destiny as the random lady down the road that talks to herself.

Thanks!

[zorciarkrildrush]

I don't know who those people are, I don't know where that is, IT'S NOT 2014!!!

[boltlightning]

the “for you” tab is for seeing all the unfortunate text posts that broke containment, and also for finding the pettiest, most detailed discourse from fandoms you didn’t even know existed

[werewolfetone]

I will say that amazon does know exactly what to show me so that I am extremely tempted to spend more money on their godforsaken website. have to give them that

[msgexymunson]

The Ink Shop

Description: Desperate for a job, you answer an advertisement not knowing it's a tattoo shop. It's not particularly difficult work, except for one thing: having to deal with Eddie Munson. 

Warnings: NSFW, minors DNI or I'll tell your parents, fem reader, thick sexual tension, angst and smut. Fingering. 

A/N: I finally wrote it! The teach me fic I've been day dreaming about forever. This will be part one of three, and honestly this is one of the hottest things I've written. If you enjoy it, please comment and reblog, it means the world to me. 

8k words

Masterlist Part 2

Screwing your nose up in confusion, you look at the meticulously cut snippet of newspaper neatly attached to your resume with a paperclip. Sure enough, receptionist and administrator wanted for a place called ‘The Ink Shop’. 

The outside of the building looks a little bleak, all decked out in black with frosted windows, but the fading lettering above does indeed spell out ‘The Ink Shop’. 

Weird. This does not look like a printers. 

You smooth down a minor wrinkle in your white shirt and open the door with unsure hands, the bell above ringing out loudly. 

Oh. 

This is not a printers. This is a tattoo shop. 

The thought hadn't even crossed your mind. The noise is a cacophony of buzzing, rock music and loud conversation. Art hangs on every available wall, the wallpaper underneath a royal purple, faded over time. There's frames upon frames of predesigned pieces for people to choose from, and an enormous wooden counter, black and gouged with use, directly in front of the doors. 

Taking a confidence boosting breath you march forward, pencil skirt stretching and heels clicking on the black and white linoleum, and stand by the counter. No one seems to have noticed your arrival, and a polite cough is not going to cut it. 

“Hello?” Calling out to the shop, a devilishly handsome tattooed man in a ripped band shirt, black jeans and scuffed army boots turns his head. Loose dark curls escape a low bun and swivel with him, framing his animated face. He saunters over to the counter and towers over you, giving you an appraising look. 

“You old enough to be in here sweetheart?” He asks, amused, as he points to the sign on the wall that states ‘Strictly Over 21s, no exceptions’. 

“Yes?” You're trying to be confident but it comes out as a question, entirely taken aback by the strength of his stare. 

“Oh, well then I'm Eddie,” he holds out a hand and you're forced to reach up to shake it, but to your surprise he doesn't let go. The skin is rougher than you thought it would be, and absolutely covered in small tattoos. “What is it today? Let me guess, cover up an ex boyfriend's name? I can help you forget all about him.” 

The grin he shoots back is nothing short of predatory. All you can think of is that old childhood song, never smile at a crocodile…

“No, no, I'm here about the job?” 

He looks genuinely surprised, taking in your outfit in another flagrant stare. 

“Really? You?” 

“Yes, me.” You respond, cheeks flushing in annoyance. 

“Hey, Mac!” He calls over his shoulder and a big guy with a shaved head lowers his tattoo gun, glancing over at you both. “This girl's after a job?” 

Mac stands up slowly and begins to walk over. 

“You can let go now princess.” 

Staring at Eddie dumbfoundedly, you realise his grip on your hand has softened completely. Whipping your hand away, you flash him a defiant eye. It's ineffective; he merely grins wider and winks at you, poking his tongue out playfully. You see a hint of silver, a tongue piercing. 

“Hey there, I'm Mac, the owner.” another handshake, but gentler and brief. You introduce yourself and go to hand him your resume. 

A phone rings on the counter and Mac shouts “no!” just as Eddie picks it up. 

“Mac’s Roadkill Café, from your grill to ours.” Eddie delivers the line as smooth as silk, never taking his eyes off you. “Yeah, it's Eddie, of course. Oh, I'll tell him. Thanks.” 

As Eddie turns to Mac he's given a small but effective slap to the back of the head by Mac. 

“What did I tell you, stop answering like that!” 

Eddie just grins wider and looks at you again, a fake pout on his full lips. 

“You see that? Harassment in the workplace. Wanna kiss it better?” 

Mac shuts his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, then turns to face you again. 

“Are you immediate start?” 

“Er, yeah. I've got my resume, and references here-” 

“Listen Miss, if you can read and write, answer a phone, and put up with that-” he says, gesturing a thumb at Eddie, “then you've got the job.” 

Thank God, two of those references were your best friend with different names. Stunned, you just nod fast.

“Great. Tomorrow morning. We open at 10am.” 

Saying goodbye, you turn to exit, and risk one final glance over your shoulder. Eddie's still at the counter. A disarming wink, and then the door shuts behind you. 

********************

So, not exactly what you expected, but a job's a job. After getting a degree, you'd assumed doors would open, but a string of coffee houses later and here you are. You'll take it. 

It's 9:30 am, and you stand outside, wondering whether or not to try the door. Keen, but not too keen. It's a line you're trying to toe without much experience, especially with an establishment like this. 

A pretty woman with an undercut and a butterfly neck tattoo stirs you out of your calculations. 

“Hey, I'm Chloe. You're the new girl, right? Eddie bet you'd be early.” 

Blushing at the entirely accurate first impression, you try to stop your nose scrunching in distaste. As if reading your mind, Chloe chuckles.

“Ah, don't worry about him, he's an idiot. Come on, I'll show you the ropes.” 

Chloe is the piercer that basically rents a place in the shop, where she's been for around three years, she explains. There's also Julio, who does more realistic tattoo work, and Miranda who works part time. 

Chloe turns out to be warm and welcoming, showing you how they book clients in, how to take payments, and the phone note system. It's straightforward work, stuff you'll master in no time. In fact, you feel comfortable enough by 10 am to sit at the counter on your own.

Mac arrives on time, giving you a quick check in and taking down all your information on a yellow legal pad. 

“Do you not have a computer in here?” you ask, genuinely puzzled. 

“Oh no, not yet. I don't know how to work those things, Miss.” Mac chuckles, and gets to his station to prepare for his first client.

At 10:45 am Eddie walks through the door as if he owns the place. 

Your eyes widen at his brazen lateness, but no one seems to bat an eyelid. It boils your blood; to be that disrespectful and clearly not care. How could someone act like that? 

“Hey princess, didn't think you'd come back,” he smiles, reaching for your hand. 

Oh I'm not falling for that again. 

You pull your hand into your lap, expecting trickery from him. A smug grin smears across his face at the gesture, as if he knew you'd do that. It makes you even more annoyed. 

“Eddie, the book says you start,” you say, flicking through the tome in front of you, “ah, at 10 am today.” 

“It's walk-in Wednesday sweetheart. There's no one here.” 

He's got a point. Chloe had explained the tattoo artists work a shift of Wednesdays, someone is always available for walk-ins for small and pre designed pieces. Today is Eddie's turn, and he's right, no one is here. 

“Well, there could have been,” you snark back, folding your arms. 

He crosses into the shop, pushing the little gate open and stands next to you, arms crossed. The height you had is now lost, forcing you to look up at him. 

“As far as I know, you ain't the boss of me. I suggest taking the stick out of your ass before you come here.” 

Mouth falling open in outrage, you move to reply but he's already turned away. 

“Oh, and princess, there ain't a dress code.” 

He's gone, disappearing upstairs. Blushing crimson, you cross your arms as if you can hide the conservative outfit you're wearing. 

You're beginning to see why Mac asked if you could put up with Eddie. 

********************

Halfway through the day, you realise just why Mac puts up with Eddie. 

“Hey! Seeing if I can book with Eddie?” 

“Any appointments with Eddie?” 

“Just checking to see if Eddie had any cancellations?” 

It seems most calls are about him. As you check his schedule, it's not only fully booked for the next 6 months, they've even started a waiting list at the back. 

“Any walk-ins?”

The words next to your ear make you jump bodily, almost losing your place on your chair in alarm. 

“You scared me! No, I would have said,” turning to him, you're sucked into those deep brown eyes once again. “Why do you do walk-in Wednesdays if you're so… so popular?” 

Eddie flashes a smile at you, full of self importance. “I don't know sweetheart, Van Gogh wasn't made to doodle!” Shouting the last part at the back of Mac's head, he turns to you. “We just divided the shifts, so it was fair, that's all. Why, want a tattoo?” 

You roll your eyes. “No, I was just wondering.”

“Do you have any, princess?” 

“Not that it's any of your business, but no, I don't.” 

The laugh that rips from Eddie's chest is hearty and full of amusement. 

“You work in a tattoo shop and you don't have any? That's practically blasphemy!” 

The little bell above the door rings, and a nervous guy looks around before walking in. Before you see what he wants, you shout to Eddie's retreating back. 

“Van Gogh was only famous after he died, you know!” 

It's a little later on in the day; you've done a stock take, ordered more ink, and neatened up the consent sheets three times. The phone hasn't rung in a while, and you're bored out of your mind. 

Chloe walks over, coat in her hand. 

“Hey, how you getting on?” 

“I'm good, just bored.” 

She laughs, “it's not always this quiet, mid week and all. Mac's done for the day, and I'm heading off. You gonna be OK?” 

You glance over to Eddie, who to your surprise is tattooing his own fingers. 

“What, with the untrained monkey? I'll live.” 

She laughs harder at that, “he's not so bad, once you get to know him.” Lowering her voice, she whispers, “he's good at some things, you know.” The conspiratorial wink fills in what she isn't saying. Cheeks flushed, you gawp at Eddie and back at Chloe. 

“Huh? W-what, are you like, an item?” You ask, entirely thrown. 

“Oh no, he's not exactly boyfriend material. It was just one night, but bloody hell. Anyway, it's not like that anymore, we're just friends now. Maybe you two should just, you know.” 

A blush floods your face, almost reaching the roots of your hair. “I don't- I don't, do that.” 

“I'm just saying, it's an option. It'd stop the bickering at least. I can sense the tension from all the way over there.” 

Without a further word, she leaves you sitting on your stool, trying to remember how to breathe. 

Right, let's just play nice. 

Walking over to his station, you try to glimpse what he's tattooing. 

“I thought Van Gogh wasn't made to doodle” you quip, trying to keep it light. 

“This is different” he responds, not looking up at you.

“You know, that's a waste of a needle.” 

Eddie turns the machine off and rolls his eyes at you. 

“Who made you Princess of the Needles, hmmm?” 

“Mac did actually, when he asked me to check the stock,” you reply hotly, folding your arms. Stopping for a second, you take a breath. Play nice, you're supposed to be playing nice. 

“Sorry, I didn't mean to-” 

Eddie turns the machine back on and continues with his impromptu tattoo. 

“Can't you just be… professional?” You ask over the buzzing. 

“Can't you just relax for a second? No ones here. Fuck, you need to get laid.” 

Mouth dropping open in shock, you grab your bag and stomp out of the store, anger fuelling every step. 

********************

Right, be calm, put together. You've dealt with worse people. 

It's true. At the coffee shop you had on edge caffeine addicts shout in your face almost on a daily basis, but none of them got under your skin like Eddie did. Then again, none of them had spat truths like venom in your face.

Breathe. Just breathe. 

Taking the leap, you walk into the shop, coffees and a tray of donuts in hand; a small peace offering. To your surprise, he is already at his station, sorting through ink pots. 

You make quick work of handing out coffee and donuts to everyone, until you reach his side. There's plastic wrap around one of his fingers, you assume from his little tattoo session yesterday. It only serves to remind you of how tetchy you were. 

“Morning Eddie.” 

“So you came back. Tough little princess ain't ya? Remove the stick from your ass yet?” The grin he flashes you is wide but there's a bite to his words. 

He's trying to rile you up, but you ignore it, thrusting a coffee at him. 

“I'll be nice if you will.” 

Tension laces the air as he stares at your outstretched hand, but he takes the coffee. 

“I'm sorry Eddie.” 

Opening the box of donuts, you gesture for him to take one. He does, stuffing half of it into his mouth. 

“What about you?” you ask.

“Huh?” He mumbles through a mouthful of crumbs. 

“Are you sorry…?” 

“What for?” 

Setting your jaw, your hand is about two seconds from slapping the shit out of him, but you need the money. So, you huff and walk away. 

“What did I do?” He huffs, shouting it to the shop. 

“You should just say sorry, you've clearly upset her.” Chloe calls over to him, a slight smile on her face. 

“Yeah, how do you know?” 

“You upset everyone Eddie.” She laughs, and stands to greet her first client. 

It's a tense kind of day, with neither you nor Eddie backing down, only speaking to each other if absolutely necessary. By the time everyone's left it's just you and him again. 

He's finishing up with a client, telling them about aftercare as they gush about their new ink. It's difficult to deny, the guy is talented. This phoenix tattoo looks like it's popping right off of the skin, the flames so bright and detailed you could swear you saw them move. 

Once they've left, there's an awkward pause. Eddie breaks the silence first. 

“Listen, I'm sorry sweetheart. I shouldn't have been rude to you. So I'll make you a deal. I'll give you a tattoo, for free, and we ask each other questions, get to know each other. What do you say?” 

Smiling in spite of yourself, you turn to face him. “And why would I want a tattoo?” 

He visibly relaxes at your grin, and flashes one of his own. “Come on, I'm the best. I promise I'll be gentle.” 

“We close at six, so it'll have to wait.” 

Eddie looks at the clock, and bobs his head with each tick. Twenty seconds later he turns to you, eyebrows raised.

“Fine, I suppose it is a bit silly to work in a tattoo shop with no ink.” 

He punches the air with glee, forcing you to smile despite your better judgement. 

“Well then, what are you thinking, got any ideas in mind?” 

“I want a heart on my hip” he groans, putting his face in his hands, “hang on, before you judge, I want one like this.” 

Pulling a book from your bag, you turn to the page neatly bookmarked. It's an anatomical heart from a textbook you own, a line and dot drawing.

“Oh.” Eddie's eyes light up, “that's pretty metal, actually. So, you just happen to have this on you?” 

“No, I've been thinking about it for a while. It's… not what people would expect. And when I got the job here, I was working up the courage to get it. Carrying around the book was a promise to myself, I think.” 

He busies himself with getting a stencil ready, the drawing supplied speeding up the process. 

“Right, climb on up princess, show me where you want it.”

Blushing, you unzip your skirt at the back and roll it down slightly, shifting your blouse up high. The smile Eddie gives you is salacious, but he doesn't say a word. 

“Right here?” Softly his fingertips graze you, making you jump. That simple act crackles over your skin in an electricity unknown to you. 

“Y-yes,” you practically whisper it, face crimson. 

“So, questions. Can I go first?” 

“Sure” you nod, feeling vulnerable flashing this much skin. 

“OK,” he starts, pressing the stencil down, “I'll start with an easy one. How old are you?” 

“23.” 

He nods, prepping the needle, “your turn princess.” 

“How old are you?” 

“Ah, copycat,” he grins, testing the gun, the sudden noise making you jump, “I'm 30 sweetheart. I know, I look younger.” 

Act younger is more like it. 

“I'm gonna start, you still alright?” 

“Uh huh.” 

“Atta girl. It'll feel like a scratch.” 

He leans forward as his words burn your insides. Atta girl? Part of you wanted to tell him you're not a fucking horse, but another, deeper, part keens at the praise, kicking it's feet and twirling its hair like some dizzy schoolgirl.

The needle touches and you jump, but it's fine. It's easy. If anything, it's rather nice? You gasp at the feeling, your feet wiggling. 

“Right, next question. Why here, why this job?” 

The gun is moving across your skin, consuming all rational thought. You could lie, but a part of you feels like he'd know somehow. 

“I thought it was a printers shop, or a copy place.” 

He laughs briefly, but continues to focus on your new ink. 

“I knew it. Pretty, innocent thing like you, wandering into this den of depravity? Too good to be true.” 

Glazing over his comment, you think of a question to ask. 

“How did you start working here?” 

Eddie scoffs and turns off his machine for a moment, “you need to get creative, stop using my questions.” 

“I really want to know!” You say, meeting his derisory look. 

“Fine, quid pro quo and all that shit. Been here seven years. I begged. I begged Mac for an apprenticeship everyday for a week. He gave in, and here I am. Ask something else, that was boring.” 

You wrack your brains, trying to think of something original, far too aware of the steadying hand that he's pushing onto your abdomen. 

“What band is that?” 

It's the only thing that pops into your mind. He follows your eye line to his t-shirt. 

“Oh this? This is my band, Corroded Coffin. You should come see us sometime.” 

“Oh, what do you play?” 

His face lights up, “I sing, and play guitar. That's why my fingers are so rough-” he holds one up, covered in black latex, “-oh yeah, gloves.” 

After you both share a chuckle, there's a breath of quiet between you, except for the sound of the tattoo gun.

“My turn,” he says, smiling at your hip, “I gotta know, are you a virgin?” 

It's a miracle that he's as responsive as he is, since the question knocks you sideways. You sit up in shock, but he's already moved the needle off and away. 

“You can't just ask that, it's… it's rude!” you splutter, face glowing red. 

There's no trace of apology on his face. In fact, his grin only widens with your reply. 

“I thought so. Don't worry, I'm not gonna tease you about it.” 

Laying back down, you try to think of something to say, but it just doesn't arrive. He can read you like an open book and it's deeply unsettling, not to mention embarrassing. 

“Your turn princess.” 

“I don't want to play anymore.” 

“Oh come on, I'm being nice! Ask me something.” 

“Fine. What was your last wet dream about?” 

To your dismay, he smiles yet again.

“You, sweetheart.” 

Huffing, you cross your arms in annoyance. “Fine, don't answer.” 

He's focusing on your tattoo, tongue poking out in concentration, “I'm nearly done, then you can go back to hating me.” 

“I don't hate you. I've never hated anyone,” you respond in truth. Eddie's eyebrows raise, but he remains focused. 

“Really? You must have had a much better childhood than mine.”

It's quiet for a bit. You're not sure how to respond to that, feeling the cloud of his memory hanging thickly in the air between you. 

“All done.” 

“Huh?” 

He chuckles and points at your new ink, “take a look.” 

It's beautiful. All line and dot work, like it was pulled from the book itself and glued to your hip. 

“It's amazing Eddie. Thank you.” 

The grin he shoots you is warm as he wraps your new ink and then removes his gloves. “No problem. I'll lock up, the sheets on aftercare are right there. But you knew that.” 

Smiling affectionately, you take one and stand up, hovering for a second. 

“Eddie what do I owe-” 

“-not a damn thing. See you in the morning, princess.”

********************

The next few days were much more pleasant. Eddie was flirty, yes, but he seemed to understand when to stop. You had been nicer to him, biting back on the comments when you could. There was a rhythm to it, a constant dance of him flustering you and you annoying him. 

Things really felt like they were falling into place. Until Eddie decided to cross the line. 

Walk in Wednesday again, and the shop was dead. Julio was on shift, sitting in the back having a nap. 

“Hey Mac, can I ask you something?” 

“Sure, what is it Miss?” 

“Well, how do people know about our Wednesdays?” 

“Mostly word of mouth. We handed out flyers before, but it didn't really pick up. Honestly, I'm thinking of scrapping it.” He shrugs, taking a sip of coffee. 

“Before you do, I have an idea. I can design some flyers, get them out to the coffee shop I used to work at. It's by campus, I'm sure a few students would jump at the chance. You could offer a student discount, get them in the door?” You stare at him wide eyed, hoping he likes the idea. The little speech was one you'd practised about fourteen times before actually saying it to him. 

He stares at you for a moment, then smiles. “You know, that's a good idea. I like it. Tell you what, you make it a success and I'll give you a raise.” 

“Oh, thank you! I'll get on it.” You beam, and start planning the flyer. 

Ten minutes later you have your head down, your attention entirely on the paper in front of you. The noisy shop was purely a background soundtrack, including the approaching footsteps. Then, there's a whisper, directly in your ear. 

“What you up to, princess?” 

“Fuck!” 

You scream it out and jump so high you fall off your stool. Eddie's in bits, laughing so hard he's clutching his stomach. 

“I'm sorry I didn't mean to,” he says, looking the least sorry you've ever seen a person look. 

Clambering off the floor to berate him, your mouth flops open when you hear a rip. As you desperately turn your head to look down, you see where your pencil skirt has torn right next to the seam nearly up to your ass. 

“Fuck's sake Eddie! What the hell am I gonna do!” 

Hands shaking, you clench your jaw in panic, trying to frantically come up with a way to rectify it. Eddie holds his hands up to you as if he were approaching a wild animal. 

“Just calm down princess, it's only a skirt.” 

Pouting, you hit him on the arm. 

“It's not just a skirt! I can't work like this, how can I go home and change, I won't be able to fix it and-” 

Eddie smiles and holds one of your hands. 

“It's gonna be OK, we can sort something out. You seriously need to chill, have a big O or something.” He chuckles, clearly meaning for it to be a joke, but it's hitting too close to home. 

It's never happened for you. You've kissed guys, sure, but whenever they reach into your pants, it's either uncomfortable or downright painful. Even your own desperate fumblings haven't got you there. Most of the time you just feel stupid and awkward trying to touch yourself. So, you'd given up, thinking you're broken. That it'll never happen for you. 

Tears well immediately in your eyes. He knows he fucked up, it's written all over his face. As he opens his mouth to speak you rip your hand from his grasp and run to the restroom sobbing. 

It's stupid, it's so stupid. You know that, but the tears won't stop falling, face hot and scrunched as you sit on the closed toilet seat with your head in your hands. Your breath is heavy, gulping and wet; you dimly wonder if you can just stay here until the shop closes.

There's a gentle knock on the door. 

“Sweetheart, can I come in?” It's Eddie, voice softer than you've ever heard it. 

“Go away” you manage. It's shaky and pathetic sounding, but it's out there. 

“I'm not going anywhere. Talk to me, you'll feel better, I promise.” 

He tries the door, turning the handle before you get a chance to lock it. Jumping upright, you go to push him away but he grabs your wrist and pulls you into him. His embrace takes away that edge and pretty soon you're just sobbing into his chest. 

As he strokes the back of your head, he makes shushing noises, his other arm wrapped tight around your shoulders. You're not sure how long you stay like that, in the warmth of his hold, his body pressed against yours. The tenderness calms you down until your tears stop, but he doesn't pull away. 

After a while, he whispers, “feel a little better?” 

“Y-yeah,” you say, voice returning to itself. 

Only then does he release you, rubbing a thumb under your eye to wipe moisture away. 

“I didn't mean to hurt you. You wanna go somewhere and talk about it?” 

“I- I've never- I don't talk about- I-” you shake your head as if to clear it. A part of you wants to hit him, to shout at him, but his gaze is so concerned that you agree. Your shoulders slump, losing a bit of tension. “OK.” 

Smiling at you, he whips his flannel shirt off, leaving him in a white vest, and ties it around your waist. 

“For your modesty. Come with me.” 

Puzzled, you follow him out of the bathroom and back into the shop where Mac is sitting looking worried. 

“What's going-” 

Eddie interrupts, “emergency late lunch needed, alright? Can you cancel my 3 o clock?” 

Mac seems confused, but looks at Eddie's earnest face, and your emotional one, and nods. 

“Not a problem.” 

“Thanks, man.” 

Before you can ask where you're going, he pulls you from the shop by the arm and across the street into a dimly lit bar, depositing you in the nearest booth. 

“I'll be right back.” 

If he's uncomfortable by his appearance, he doesn't show it. The way he strides up to the bar, it's as if he owns the place. It's remarkable, the sheer confidence he embodies like a second skin. 

“Hey, John!” He hollers, knuckles knocking on the wood of the bar. 

John appears, a gruff, stocky guy with a buzz cut and a sour face. 

“What the fuck are you doing here.” 

“Oh come on, you know you missed me.” 

John's face screws into something akin to a smile. “What do you want, you little shit.” 

“I love it when you talk dirty,” Eddie grins and winks, “two beers please.” 

A grunt and a nod, and John puts the beers down on the bar. As Eddie reaches for his wallet John waves a hand in dismissal. 

“Put that away boy, your money ain't good here. Besides, your lady friend looks like she needs it.” 

You flush and tear your eyes away, embarrassed. Eddie walks back over and puts a beer in front of you. 

“Eddie, we're still working I-” 

“It's one beer. It's alright.” 

You shrug and take a sip, nodding at the bartender, “he knows I'm upset, do I look a mess?” 

Shaking his head so hard it releases some of his wayward waves from their confines, he tips his beer at you, before he takes a long chug. 

“No,” he says enthusiastically, “you look just as pretty as you always do.” 

Scoffing, you turn your eyes downward. Eddie ignores your response, instead pressing on what happened earlier. 

“Sorry again,” he says, sounding genuinely distressed, "I don't want to see anyone hurt from something I said, least of all you.” 

Meeting his gaze, you smile incredulously. “Oh? And why me?” 

“Come on, don't make me say it.” 

Staring at him, you fold your arms in an act of defiance. He rolls his eyes and looks at you. 

“I like you. You're uptight, and mean to me, and a little conceited, but I like you. I don't want you to hurt. Can we just be friends? I'm a pretty good listener, you know? I can help.” 

Heat floods your insides. Eyes scanning him for any sign of a joke, you come up empty. 

‘I'm not conceited,” you counter weakly, clinging on to the familiar push and pull. 

“And I'm the Easter bunny.” 

Giggling, you take another sip of beer. 

“Come on, friends? Talk to me.” 

Sighing deeply, you fix your gaze at the table, forefinger tracing patterns in the condensation from your drink. “Promise not to laugh?” 

“I promise.” 

You can't tell how genuine he's being, as you don't dare look at his face, nerves controlling your every limb. His voice seems honest enough. 

“I- I have a problem, something I can't physically do. You reminded me of it. It's not your fault.” Shrugging in an attempt to make this look less serious than it is for you, you take a pull out of your beer bottle once more.

“Wait, are you saying…” he chuckles a little in disbelief, “have you never… had an orgasm before?” 

“Eddie, be quiet!” You urgently whisper, looking around the bar. 

“No one's listening sweetheart, no spies in here,” he says in a low tone, hand reaching out to grasp yours. Your first instinct is to shake his hand away but he holds firm, rough fingertips rubbing against your knuckles. 

“Eddie, I'm broken,” you whimper, voice breaking, “I can't do it.” 

“Oh sweetheart,” he responds, chock full of emotion, “you're not broken. You are perfect.” 

Pulling your hand away, you keep your eyes away from his, unwilling to meet that burning gaze of his. Unwilling to lose yourself in those sultry dark eyes. 

“I can't do it. Anytime some guy tries, it hurts. I've given up to be honest. I just wasn't made for it.” 

He laughs again, dragging his hand over his face. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, the problem ain't you. Have you- have you tried, fixing it, on your own?” The last part is a whisper, you assume to protect your feelings. 

“Yeah, but I just feel stupid and awkward. I don't know.” 

There's a little silence between you as you both dwell in the suffocating fog of your confession, neither of you willing to clear it. 

“Listen, this may be way out of your comfort zone, but I'm saying it anyway. If you don't like it, we'll forget it, and I won't mention it again.” 

Finally looking at him, at the vulnerability on his face, you nod, not trusting your voice. 

“I can… maybe I can help you. Show you you're not broken? As a favour between friends.” 

You laugh mirthlessly and finish your beer. “That's a little more than a favour, Eddie.” 

“We can keep it professional.” 

You stare at him wide eyed. His messy hair and dark glittering eyes. At the way he slumps in his seat like a king or a delinquent, you can't decide which. At his taunt frame, the tattoos spackling every available inch of his skin. Your eyebrows raise of their own accord. 

“Professional? You?” 

“Yeah, me! I can do it, you know. I could make you come.” 

A shiver forces its merry way down your spine at his words. 

“You're really confident.” 

“You haven't seen what I can do.” 

Blushing hard, you attempt to control yourself. “Look, if we're going to do this, I need you to promise some things.” 

“Ah, of course, you would have rules,” he grins, as he leans back and spreads in his seat, “continue.” 

Searching your mind for a moment, you try to glean what you need. 

“First of all, we need to be discreet, and professional at all times, clear?” 

“As crystal,” he grins wolfishly, “anything else?” 

“Yeah- I think,” you wrack your brains, trying to come up with something that would make this less intimate. Anything. But the roguish nature of his presence makes it hard to even think of a thing. Finally, your eyes widen at the idea that suddenly crosses your mind. 

“Final rule. No kissing.” 

He pouts, looking at your chest and back up, “no kissing anywhere?” 

“N-no, no kissing on the mouth.” 

Grin returning, he winks at you, a gesture that flips your stomach inside out. 

“Kinky. Alright, deal,” he leans forward to give his hand to yours. A hand covered in ink and calluses. Roughness and tenderness. 

You shake it.

********************

For the next couple of days, your little arrangement isn't brought up. A wild thought hammers itself into your mind; either he wasn't serious, or you imagined it. 

Those theories are put to bed on day three. 

After you let Mac know about the flyers and the bonus poster you designed, you sit back and enjoy the praise given to you. It's funny, the feeling of being told a job has been well done makes you happier than you care to admit.

Eddie turns up at the counter, whistling through his teeth. “Sweet looking flyers, how'd you swing those?” 

“I designed them. I've got a degree in design and marketing, if you didn't know,” you sniff, rearranging the stationary on the counter to avoid his eyes. 

“Maybe you could help me design some for my band. These look pretty metal.” He says, picking one up and looking at it closely. 

“Maybe.” 

Eddie leans in close, so close you feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek. 

“If you're still up for our arrangement, I'm free tonight.” 

Heat immediately flushes your face. Ignoring him entirely, you write your address and a time on a notepad, and thrust the paper into his hands. 

“Covert, I like it. See you then princess.” 

By the time 9pm rolls around you're a jittery mass of nerves, having changed clothes no less than four times, tidied your apartment, changed the bedsheets and paced so much you're surprised there's not a groove in the floorboards. 

In the end you'd decided on a baggy band t-shirt and your sleep shorts. It was a rational calculation to make Eddie think you're just wearing what you usually would at home and therefore show you're not nervous. I mean, you are wearing what you'd usually wear at home. He didn't need to know about how long it took you to reach that decision. 

The sound of the intercom buzzing sends your pulse into overdrive. Pressing the button, you let out a strangled “Hello?” 

“Hey princess.” 

“Come on up.” 

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck…

A soft knock at the door and you count to five, trying to remember how to breathe. When you open the door, you're stunned. He's leaning on the doorframe in a fucking button up shirt. It's black, and clings to him deliciously. His hair looks a little damp, loose around his shoulders, and his aftershave is making you feel dizzy. 

“Oh, you didn't need- I mean-” you point at his shirt, and he looks down and chuckles. 

“Just came from band practice. Took a shower, and this was clean,” he shrugs and shoulders into your apartment. “Nice place. Where's all your stuff?” 

You look around at your sparse apartment. Everything in order, down to the fresh flowers on your tiny dining table. 

“This is all my stuff,” you say, confused, “I don't like clutter.” 

He chuckles, walking over to you. “No wonder I annoy you. I am clutter.” 

He's close now, close enough so that you have to look up to see his face. His rough fingers ghost your arm, sending a wave of goosebumps over your skin. 

“Nice seeing you in something casual. L7, right?” He asks, pointing at the t-shirt. 

“Yeah, you know who they are?” 

“I'm surprised you do. Thought you'd be a Mariah Carey kinda girl.” 

You scrunch your face in distaste. “No, not at all. You don't know everything about me.” 

He leans in, warm breath a whisper in your ear. “I know some things about you.” 

Squirming hotly, you lead him to your room before you lose your nerve. 

“So, the princess's bedchamber. It's nice,” he remarks, flopping down on the bed as if it were his own. 

“Take your boots off,” you snip, folding your arms. 

“Ah, there she is.” He smiles, but does as instructed. Once more he's laying back into your scattered pillows looking perfectly at ease. You, on the other hand, stand there, spine a vertical rod as you stare back at him. 

 “Come on then, sit down.” 

Nervously you sit at the foot of the bed with your legs crossed. 

“Now princess, what do you do when you touch yourself?” 

Blushing furiously, you stammer out, “what, do you expect me to like, show you?” 

He chuckles, diffusing some of the tension. “As much as I'd like that, I don't think you're ready for that kinda shit. Just tell me, what's your thought process?” 

Staring at him for a little too long, you open your mouth and close it again. He rolls his eyes. 

“Look, if you want me to help I'll help, but you gotta give me something here.” He looks as if he's about to get up and leave; your arm shoots out on its own accord, grabbing his leg to stop him. 

“Sorry, sorry. I just, I've never spoken about this kinda stuff. I don't know about any process, I just… reach down and fiddle around?” You blush even more. 

“So you don't like, watch anything? Or read anything?” He looks a little amused.

“What on earth are you talking about?” 

“Porn, sweetheart.” 

It's so blunt that you jump a little. “Oh no, I've never, oh no no.” 

“Christ,” he whispers, “right, you can like, set the mood. Look at something to turn you on? It'd probably help you feel less awkward.” 

“Oh. Right.” 

“And do you ever just like, slouch? I feel like I'm back at school looking at ya.” 

“Huh?” 

“Just, come here.” He pats the little space between his spread legs and you hesitate for a second before you crawl over to him. 

“How do you want me to sit, like cross legged or-” 

He grabs your hips and spins you, forcing your back into his crotch.

“Stop trying to control every little thing,” he says in a hard tone, one you're too embarrassed to admit makes your insides tingle. Softer, he continues. “Look, if you're ever gonna get there you need to relax, stop trying to control it, and stop overthinking.” 

“Great, all of the things I'm shit at.” 

His laugh is loud, it vibrates into your spine. “I'll help you, OK? You trust me?” 

“In a very limited sense of the word, yeah.” 

“Lemme rephrase. You still OK to do this?” 

“Yeah.”

“Good. Just relax.” 

You're not sure what you are expecting, but it certainly isn't his hands winding into your hair, fingertips rubbing softly at your scalp. It shoots tingles down your spine, your entire head feeling fuzzy and warm. 

You stifle a whimper, biting your lip. His fingers stop. 

“If you want to make noises, you can. Tells me I'm doing a good job. That goes for everything else too, alright?” 

“Alright.” You whisper. 

“You comfortable?” 

“Yeah it's just- well-”

“Tell me.” 

“I think it's your shirt buttons, they're digging into my back a bit,” you admit, feeling the sharp points down your spine. 

“Easily fixed.” He taps your arm and you lean forward. Some rustling, and he throws his shirt to the foot of your bed. 

“Now just chill sweetheart.” 

His fingers begin rubbing at you again, thumbs sinking low to pop at the bubbles in your neck. 

“Fuck, that's really nice.” 

He hums appreciatively, working his hands lower and dropping them to your shoulders. The massaging continues, and you feel yourself melting, your body moulding into his. Your legs, once ramrod straight, have bent a little and parted of their own accord, the muscles loosening. Even your breathing has slowed. 

“That's better, atta girl,” he says and you whine at the words, a little pathetic mewling sound that tumbles past your lips.

“Oh, you like that, don't you?” The smile is evident in his voice, a smug tone smeared liberally across each word. 

“You, you're so-” you begin, but his hand drags across the front of your shirt, just over the tops of your breasts.

“I'm so what?” He whispers in your ear.

“So, so arrogant,” you huff. He laughs, a husky chuckle, and dances the tips of his fingers over your clothed nipple. Gasping, you grasp at his thighs either side of you.

“Yeah? What else am I?” He says, nibbling at your earlobe. 

“You- you're cocky, and- and self assured- Oh God!” 

Rudely interrupted by him tweaking your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, you swear, back arching off of him for a moment. 

“You know,” he says in a gravelly tone directly in your ear, “those are pretty much the same thing.” 

“You drive me crazy,” you huff, squirming a little against him as his hands explore your chest over your shirt.

“Good crazy or bad crazy?” He smiles, then bites softly at your neck. 

“I- I haven't decided yet.” 

“Good. I can say the same about you,” he admits, his hands trailing lower, pulling your shirt up so he can stroke at your bare sides. The touch of fingertips on your skin sends a river of sensations through you that run deep into your core. 

“Are you going to- what are you doing, exactly?” You breathe, starting to move against him. 

“I'm warming you up sweetheart. Why, don't you like it?” 

Genuinely curious, you try to ask what you want to know without using the words. 

 “N- no, I do. Do you have to, erm, get warmed up? When you, you know.” 

He lets out a little huff of a laugh. “Guys are a little less… complicated, than girls. For the most part.” 

“Oh. OK, so you can just. I mean, you just, get excited?” Your breathing becomes more ragged when the tip of his thumb grazes the underside of your breast. 

“Sweetheart, I got hard seeing you in these little shorts.” Running a finger down your stomach, he lightly pings the elastic of your sleep shorts as if to accentuate his point. 

“Really?” 

There's no denying it when he moves his hips up and you feel his solid bulge press into the small of your back. 

“Really. Can I take this off?” He asks, twisting the hem of your shirt in one hand. 

“Yeah.” It's a whisper. You're a little scared of being bare chested, but not having to see his face helps. Plus, he's wound you up so much you're on the verge of begging for his touches, pleading for more. 

He guides your top up, up, up, revealing you slowly. Coaxing it over your head, you move your arms up so he can remove it. It ends up in a heap on top of his shirt. One tattooed arm wraps around your waist, pulling you toward him more, his hardness pushing against your ass. 

His breathing is unsteady as he grinds his hips, pushing onto you further. Gasping, your fingers are vices, firmly attached to his thighs in a vain attempt to anchor you. 

Suddenly his hand is winding into your hair, tugging your head aside so he can run a fat tongue across your neck. You shudder at the sensation, feeling the hard ball of his tongue piercing against your throat When he takes his pillowy lips and sucks at the spot between your neck and shoulder a moan slips out. Grunting in approval, his hands are on your bare tits, fingers pinching at your hardened nipples. 

“Holy hell!” 

He laughs, running rough fingers down your body, circling your new ink, then dipping down past your waistband. Those tattooed fingers barely brush your pubic hair, teasing you, then glide back up to your stomach. 

“Eddie, please.” 

Your voice is small, not your own. Eddie groans low in your ear, rubbing his length into the fat of your ass.

“Fuck, princess, I like you saying my name like that. You want me to touch you right here?” he says, pressing down hard over your clothed clit. 

The sheer relief of having his touch where you need it gets you close to tears; a gulping shudder of a sob rips from deep in your chest. 

“See, you're not broken, sweetheart. Can I take these off?” 

Shaking, you hook your fingers into your sleep shorts and pull them down your legs, air hitting your most intimate area. Eddie huffs in your ear, his inked hands rubbing up the insides of your thighs. 

“You're so fuckin’ sexy.”

Before you can retort, his fingers dip down to your entrance, gathering your slick. You can hear how wet you are, but it's not in you to think about it. You can't think, only feel. 

When his fingers run up and start rubbing circles into your clit, your response is visceral. Bucking up, you chase the feeling, searching for even more. 

“I'm gonna slip a finger in, alright princess?” 

You nod, waiting for the pain, wincing before it even starts.

“It's OK, you're fine, you gotta relax baby.” He strokes your stomach with his free hand, pressing kisses to your temple. 

The tip of his finger breaches you, and the pain doesn't come. Your soaking wet cunt invites him in, warm and pulsing with arousal. He slips it into the hilt, his palm pressing into your clit, and your moan is long and loud. It's never felt like this. Never has it stoked a fire in your gut, bubbled your insides like pop rocks and Coke, turned you into a writhing mess. 

He fucks his finger into you, slipping a second in to join the first, and you move your hips, chasing the building tightness in your belly. Each thrust of his hand has you bucking, and in turn rubbing against his member trapped within its denim prison. 

“That's it, good fuckin’ girl.” His voice is strained, as if he's trying hard not to lose control. 

“Eddie, oh fuck, f-feels so- good, yes, please, please-” 

You're not sure what you're begging for, and Eddie doesn't seem to be in any state to ask, but it doesn't matter. His fingers fuck into you in earnest, stroking hard against some spot inside that has you babbling and quivering around him. 

“God, you're so tight, this little cunts gonna drive me crazy. So wet and perfect, Jesus Christ.”

The feeling seems too much and not enough, and it grows higher and higher, flooding your body with a pleasure so intense you're sure you black out. The only thing you're aware of is your voice screaming out his name as your body thrusts wildly into his grip. Finally, it dissipates, your body melting against his form, sweating and spent. 

You take a breath, and another, trying to gather your wits enough to speak. Eddie speaks first.

“So sweetheart, everything you dreamed it would be?” He asks as he strokes your hair. 

“Better. Fuck, Eddie. Thank you.” 

“Anytime. Seriously. Any. Time. Day, night, weekends, holidays-” 

You giggle, slapping his thigh, and sit up, grabbing your discarded shirt to cover up. 

“Sorry, that was probably a little er, frustrating for you.” You say as you glance at his bare torso, drinking in the sight with your eyes for the first time. He's lean, but ripped, a faint sheen of sweating making his tattoos glisten in the low light. 

“What do you mean sweetheart?” 

“Well, doing that, not getting anything in return...” 

He chuckles lightly, “Oh I wouldn't say that,” he glances down, gesturing to his jeans, “full disclosure, I came in my pants.” 

“Really?” your eyes widen, staring at him with disbelief. 

“I ain't lying. Wanna check?” He waggles his eyebrows at you, making you laugh again. 

“You seem better already. Right, I better go.” 

Shoulders deflating, you pout, “I suppose you better.” 

“Hey don't look at me like that. I hoped that helped. Sleep tight, drink some water. I'll see you tomorrow princess.” 

And just like that, he leaves. Of course he leaves, it was just a deal you struck, nothing more. A favour. you wipe stray tears from your eyes and try not to focus on the sound of the front door shutting. 

As you collapse on the bed, exhausted, you think about his hands, his words. There's something screaming inside, telling you you're playing with fire, but as you drift off you can't find it in you to mind.

Taglist

@liminalpebble @eddies-puppet @rip-quizilla @micheledawn1975 @vanilla-demon @millercontracting @roanniom @josephquinnsfreckles @leelei1980 @mrsjellymunson @usedtobecooler @eddiesprincess86 @ali-r3n @choke-me-eddie @littlebebebunny @big-ope-vibes

[anarchopuppy]

You are not immune to ads. Ads are not becoming ineffective due to oversaturation or savvy young people or whatever. Billions of dollars are poured into market research and analytics every year, corporations would know if ads were a waste of money way way before a tiktok comment section and stop spending money on them

By believing yourself to be "too smart" to be affected by advertising you're only making yourself far less mindful of and more susceptible to it. The ads you're exposed to poison your mind - be aware of that so you can combat it, and try to be exposed to as few as possible

[xerith-42]

I know it seems like striking on social media might not do enough, but as someone who has been outright obsessively using the internet since I was a child to the point that it is literally woven in my soul, been active and involved in online activism for about five years, and been using social media as marketing for about the same amount of time, I can confidently say that

THIS FUCKING WORKS!!

People base their entire businesses on their success on social media. They look at trending topics on twitter and don't see bite sized chunks of culture distilled to its finest and worst moments, they see market data! They don't see you as a single human being, they see you as a data point among thousands run through a probably AI assisted system that's prone to fucking up, that determines everything they're going to do.

How they're going to advertise, who they target it with it, what the general public wants. Every single major corporation uses data from social media websites to do this. Every. Single. One. Social media is a lot of things, and one of those things is a tool for business and politics. We know for a fact that social media politics bleeds out into the real world very fucking quickly.

Even if you can't strike financially, even if you have to go to work or school to survive, striking on social media is one of the best things you can do. Even if it's quiet. People are going to notice when thousands upon thousands of users across various sites go completely dark, and even more when some of them start getting real fucking loud about this. The US Capitalist Infused Government loves sweeping war crimes under the rug once they think the general public has forgotten about their atrocities and fallen into complacency. This system has been doing this for literal centuries.

Social media is just the newest and most expansive form we as a species have developed in the ongoing invention of ways to express our thoughts about things. It's the weirdest one, that's for sure, but executives pay attention to it. They don't often seek to understand it beyond a very basic level, because as I said, they view us as numbers on a screen, not as multifaceted incredibly and deeply fucked human beings. They do not seek to understand us on a personal level unless they think the cost of it won't outweigh the potential profit.

Pattern recognition is the tool of the moment. Machine Learning. Gathering endless amounts of data so we can replicate human existence through machines. You may think that social media strikes are ineffective because social media is just on the internet and it's "not real", but it is real! You are really doing stuff! You are contributing! Even if you're just lurking! Basic amounts of engagement can make a huge impact in a busted algorithm. Maybe you're not someone who would ever be drafted into an actual war-zone due to physical or mental health conditions, but you are probably a part of a key demographic of people that businesses are absolutely hungry for.

The budding adult has always been the target of greedy capitalists basically since this system was established and continued to get worse over time. The stage of your life when you are in the age range of 18-25 is an incredibly important transitional period, followed by a transitional period every six months until you lose sense of what six months even is because you haven't been happy in eight, and if you're in the 18-25 range currently, you got extra fucked by the pandemic. The world is in a turbulent stage and we are at the center of all of it and have been since 2001. Every single social media marketing expert will tell you the 18-25 demographic of social media users is a target demographic, because they are the most prone to extremes due to a life chock full of them.

We have to remember to be human, but we have to also know how to speak their language. They just see us as numbers? Let's show them some fucking numbers. Make posts about Gaza trend on every platform you have your hands on. Even if it's just liking posts, that gives them a slight boost in the algorithm. Commenting on posts is especially important on sites like Twitter and Instagram. But across every site the most important thing to do is reblog/retweet/share/send/copy link, whatever it is for that site, it is the biggest thing that everyone, and I mean EVERYONE looks at.

From a humble artist to a head of marketing at a billion dollar corporation about to have a meeting with a barely over 21 intern about how they need to run the twitter account, to said intern bumbling their way through adulthood with a job they only feel they're good at because they've been using social media since Skype was invented. We need to be loud, we need to make sure this can't be ignored, we can't sweep this under the rug. Mass media, especially coming out of the West, has been trying to censor, de-sanitize, and keep this issue quiet.

DO NOT LET YOURSELF BE SILENCED

There are tens of thousands of DEAD CHILDREN who have been BOMBED while in CIVILIAN AREAS and that is a FUCKING WAR CRIME.

THIS IS A GENOCIDE

Say that as many times as you can. Do not let it be ignored. A silent populous is a complacent one. Use your voice, even as small as it may seem. Make noise. Be loud. Be annoying. Don't let this be ignored. Talk about it everywhere you go. Do not let this be ignored.

Sometimes even we get disconnected from the real people around us. We base our sense of worth as a person based on the numbers going up or down but instead of developing a gambling addiction we just got angry about it but still fall into it because of cultural conditioning. But even if you only have let's say, completely random example, 70 followers. And only a small percent of them will see your post. Let's say maybe 20 on average, 30 on a good day, and even higher based on the machinations of fate. That's still 20 people who took time out of their day to read something you wrote, process something you created, share a part of your experience of living.

And likely they felt compelled to share it too, therefore increasing the spread of people who feel your influence. 20 people may not seem like a lot, but that has a major impact. Now imagine posts into the hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands and even millions. Those aren't just numbers. Each and every single one of those is just another person who might have reblogged a post because someone they like shared it, or because they wanted to spread its message, and that simple act causes a single post to have massive waves of effects from simple ripples.

Don't let yourself be discouraged. Don't think your voice or your impact "isn't enough to matter." Everything counts.

Don't let this be ignored. Don't become complacent. Know that every little thing counts, and to do every little thing you can.

[wingedcatgirl]

aspiring artists, please for the love of anything have the self-awareness to not be this person

dming random people you've never spoken to is annoying and ineffective. which is true of most advertising but especially this kind.

[windvexer]

Chickens Have a Prey Drive: the tiny velociraptor's peckables for protecting the coop

A list of stuff I believe about protections and all such, written in the style of the evil overlord list, which I have been fond of for two decades. Take what you like, leave the rest behind.

|. The best time to make protections is before you need them. The second best time is when you need them.

You can make a wide variety of protections ahead of time, whether or not you think you'll ever actually need them, and then learn to "pause" or "lay down to bed" the magic until you ever need it. This provides ample practice in not only spellcasting, but also in magical validation, and learning to pause and restart ongoing spellwork.

2. If your general protections fail, make specific ones.

3. Unless you have specific information that a failed ward was already out of energy when its boundaries were tested, recharging it is probably not going to fix your problem.

4. Protections change things. If you create a protection and it changes nothing about your life, it probably was not cast well.

If you created a protection against advertisements, something about your life should change. The wifi goes down and you can't go on the internet. Someone reblogs a post explaining how to install adblockers. Something happens every single time an ad comes up on screen, thereby distracting you. Where once you slavered with rage at advertisements, now you barely notice them and feel emotionally numb when you do. Etc.

A corollary to the above rule: if you need a way to verify preventative protections against things that are already not happening, use your same spellcasting techniques to make protections against things that are already happening, and see if you can get them to stop.

5. Protections using only "visualization" without energy work, spellwork, prayers, petitions, magical sacrifice, or other forms of metaphysical empowerment, are often ineffective/inert. This is because imagining things really hard is not automatically an act of magic.

Conceptualize visualized energies as being empty shells that then need to be filled up with some kind of metaphysical power. They hold a little energy on their own, but without being solidified, they will fade away over time.

6. It's possible to empower protections only with your personal belief or faith that they will work. But this is a bad idea for most people.

Willpower is not infinite. At a certain point, it runs out. Willpower runs out faster if you use a lot of it. The "batteries" of any spell drain faster when that spell is actively being used, I.E., protections run out of energy faster when they are being tested. Building a spell that relies on your personal willpower to protect you means that you are betting you will have enough willpower during a time of high personal stress to keep the protection going. Not only that, but metaphysically speaking, it is completely possible for the strength of your personal willpower to simply be weaker than whatever it is you want to protect against. (Shout out to the energy suns who have no idea what I'm talking about)

7. Ask for help when you need it.

Please note: this does not say engage in a formal petition ritual, or pay spirits for services, or whatever. It says what it means: ask for help. Ask your gods, spirits, and ancestors. Ask the house and the trees. Ask the sky and the grass. Ask your stuffed animals and your old spell vessels. Ask grace itself. You do not need to know their names. You do not need to have an ongoing, perfect, healthy relationship beforehand. Just ask.

8. Depending on how you're doing it, cleansing and banishing are not the same thing.

9. Powerful and effective protection spells can be performed with one (1) correspondence.

There is a time and place to make elaborate oils using 13 consecrated ingredients, and that time and place is after you've dealt with this current spiritual emergency. You can spend those new XP points earned in combat on leveling up your badass premade potions. Addendum to the above rule: the one (1) powerful correspondence will be found in your kitchen.

10. If you performed a cleansing/banishing/protection/whatever and the Symptom was not resolved, then the whatever failed and you need to try again.

11. Wards can and do trap unwanted presences inside.

If you do not have protections up, only place them after you've banished. If you already have wards, temporarily pause them or "open them up" so that things can get through. Or be very clever and construct wards in such a way that things can get out, but not in.

12. Don't wait before you begin taking care of hauntings or malefica.

Don't wait to research and order arcane little herb packets you read off correspondence lists. Don't wait for powerful magical timings. Begin acting. If you actually are dealing with a serious problem that needs special circumstances to be resolved, you probably won't have the data you need until you start trying to solve the problem, and see first hand what works and what doesn't work.

13. Many protections are best conceptualized as treatments, not cures.

A fence will rot if it is not maintained. Permanency in spellwork is a lofty goal that is difficult to achieve. If you are not tending to your protections and re-upping them as needed, they are going to burn out and over time, eventually degrade and fail. One solution is to intentionally put to bed various protections you don't need in the moment, and waking them up as desired. Beginner-level energy work protections, like shields, often only last 24h or even much less.

14. Ask yourself what may be going on with "advanced" practitioners who say they don't use and don't need protections.

Have they cultivated personal power that deters spiritual intrusions? Are they spirit workers or worshipers who receive spiritual protection outside of spellwork? Do they have a powerful natural talent for personal protection that they don't realize they're using? Do they have an ongoing routine of personal cleansing and empowerments that stop problems before they arise? Do they walk a personal path that simply never intersects with dangerous spiritual situations? When you see someone say, "I don't protect and I've never needed to," this should not be taken to mean that if you need to protect, something is wrong with you.

15. While it may be useful to have a heavy-handed protection amulet around in case you need it, cloaking yourself, your property, or your life in powerful protections may cause problems.

16. If you need protection, you need it.

17. It's wise to keep track of what protections you've cast, especially for the prolific spellcaster. Protections can have long-lasting and unexpected implications.

18. It's wise to construct protections with the foresight that you may need to pause their effects or modify their exact focus.

19. Putting things around the four corners of the property really does work great.

20. "Protection" may be best conceptualized as an umbrella term that contains many aspects: building walls, hiding from prying eyes, forming good relationships, preemptively resolving conflict, removing aggressors, and diplomacy.

It's better to have a stick than not have a stick, but a stick is still a poor tool when only talking things out will do.

21. "No, fuck off" might be a powerful act of magic, but it's not like practitioners are out here developing whole-ass spells and rituals for protections just for funsies.

22. You do not need to confirm that something is Going On before engaging in a course of self-cleansing, banishment, and protections - just in case.

23. The best protection spell is one which you are able to cast when you need it.

24. Shielding is a useful trick, and is a good introduction to energy work.

On-demand energy work protections may be draining to many, especially to those who aren't really energy workers and who don't actively develop that muscle or battery. If you find yourself needing daily protection but are becoming fatigued by relying on energy work, try switching to a protective amulet empowered by evoking correspondences or through prayers - anything that draws on external energy. These tend to hold their charge for much longer.

25. Protection won't shield you from symptoms of your disorder or illness, but they may be able to assist with limiting stressors and triggers.

26. For those finding that the regular upkeep of necessary protections has become too draining, experiment with enchanting batches of oils, waters, incense, etc., to easily feed spell vessels.

27. The astute witch will note that protections can and will block the ability of ancestors, guides, guardians, and other forms of desired spirit contact.

28. The practitioner who desires to fucketh about with their dreams does well to first protect their dreams.

[do-it-for-the-fandom]

Tuesday October 9th, 2012.

One thing she had always been oddly proud of was her ability to detach. No matter what was going on in her life, she had always had this uncanny ability to put it aside and focus on whatever it was she needed to focus on. It came in handy both at work and in her personal life. She could stuff just about anything into some hidden compartment of her mind, all but forgotten about until she was ready to address it again.

Or, at least, that was what she had always thought. But now, as she stood in a stall of the 4th floor bathroom at the precinct with her palms pressed to the wall, keeping herself steady as she sucked in each ineffective breath, she was beginning to question whether or not she had ever been able to detach as well as she thought she had.

It had started with an innocent question. How's Castle?

She rattled off the usual answer: he's fine, keeping busy writing, being his usual pain-in-the-ass self. Then she cemented the lie with her best smile.

"Well, tell that pain in the ass that we get it." Espo gestured between himself and Ryan. "We aren't total jerks, we understand the new relationship, want to spend all your time together bliss-"

"But he promised us unlimited Madden," Ryan added with a playfully-disapproving shake of his head. "He's letting the team down."

Beckett rolled her eyes. "Well, I'm sure your wife appreciates the fact that you're not wasting all your time playing video games, Ryan," she said pointedly.

Ryan shrugged. "She doesn't mind. It gives her a chance to watch her shows or read her lovey-dovey books," he explained. "Besides, that's not the point. The point is-" he hesitated and Beckett smiled.

This should be interesting.

"It's Bro Code. You don't bail on the boys," he finished confidently.

Esposito nodded enthusiastically. "Never bail on the boys," he reiterated. "Not even on your death bed."

The words hit her like an iron fist to the gut, knocked the air from her lungs.

"Why would you say that?"

The boys looked at her, confused.

She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly, tried to mentally reset, tried to tuck that flare of raw emotion back into it's little corner of her mind. But it fought her, kicked and screamed and clawed it's way free. Tears stung behind her eyes and her anxieties began to build up in her throat.

"I'm sorry." The words came out a breathless, trembling whisper.

Before they could say anything, before they could ask if she was okay, she rushed off to the bathroom. There she had stayed for almost fifteen minutes now, trying to calm the beating of her heart, to ease the fear that kept her hands shaking and her head spinning.

Castle wasn't dying. He couldn't. He wouldn't do that to her.

Still, Esposito's voiced echoed in her mind like a cruel taunt. Not even on your death bed.

Did he know something she didn't?

She heard the bathroom door open and she covered her mouth with her hand to try and stifle her shaky breaths. She listened to each step as the person on the other side of the stall moved closer, until they stopped outside her door.

"Detective?" the gentle yet authoritative voice beckoned.

Beckett let out a breath and wiped her tears. "I'll, uh- I'll just be one moment," she said.

"You have two very concerned partners standing at the door not letting anyone in." Gates waited a beat before continuing. "I understand that you are a private person, Detective. I respect that about you. I don't like to advertise my personal business, either, but sometimes-" She sighed. "Sometimes, when the people we love are unwell, we bottle things up too much."

Beckett unlocked the stall door and opened it, just enough for her Captain to come into view. Gates was leaning against the ceramic basin, her arms folded in front of her chest. If it weren't for the sympathetic smile on her face and the softness in her eyes, Beckett would think she were about to be lectured like never before.

"How'd you know?"

"Last week I stopped by the hospital to visit a friend," Gates explained. Her voice was soft and understanding, almost nurturing. "I saw Mister Castle come out of the oncology ward. He had a patient ID wristband on."

"He didn't mention seeing you."

"I don't think he did."

Gates stepped away from the sink, gestured to it with the wave of her hand.

Beckett stepped out from the safety of her stall and turned on the tap, filled her cupped hands with cold water and splashed it over her face. The water felt like ice against her overheated skin, but it felt good, it shocked the breath back into her lungs. She curled her hands around the ceramic basin and closed her eyes as she inhaled deeply.

In, two, three. Out, two, three.

When she opened her eyes again, Gates was holding out paper towel for her.

"Thank you," she muttered quietly as she accepted the proffered towel.

She dabbed the towel to her face, hyper-aware of her Captain's watchful eye.

"Anything you need, Detective," Gates started after a few moments of silence. She placed her hand on the detective's shoulder and their eyes met in the mirror's reflection. "You just let me know."

"Thank you, Sir."

[thenightfolknetwork]

HELLO!!!!! GAVE ADVERTISMENT MOONS AGO!! VERY VERY GOOD FOR BUSINESS!!! SO MANY HANDS!!! SO MUCH M O N I E S!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ££££££££€€€€€€

But... not all sunshine and roses...

HANDS SOLD GREAT!! GREAT AND FAST!!! HAPPY CUSTOMERS GALORE!!!!! UNTIL... Dolores.

DOLORES!!!!!!!!!!

I KNOW YOU READ THESE DOLORES!!!!!

EVIL VILE DOLORES!!! YELLS AT CUSTOMERS DOLORES!!! EATS THE MERCHANDISE WITHOUT PAY DOLORES!!!!!

CONTACTED LOCAL WITCHES FOR BANISHMENT RUNES!! BEGGED LOCAL WIZARD FOR NASTY CURSES!!! WEPT TO THE INDEPENDANT MERCHANT'S GUILD OF THE UNITED KINGDOM BUT NO!!! NOTHING!!!

She is still here!!!

AT WIT'S END!! OLD FISHMARKET CLOSE NOT JUST BUSINESS!! ITS HOME!!! LEAVE MY HOME DOLORES!!!

CUSTOMERS SUFFER!! MERCHANDISE SUFFER!! I SUFFER!!!! THE LAW TURNS BLIND EYES TO DOLORES!!! I FEEL...

helpless

Please!! How to banish nasty not-customer!!! HOW TO BANISH THE SCOURGE OF MY YELP REVIEW PAGE

Yes, I remember your advert. Vividly. I'm pleased to hear the investment paid off and that you saw a satisfying response.

I am so sorry this despicable person is causing you so much trouble. You are well within your rights as a business-owner to refuse to serve anyone creating such a hostile working environment - not to mention someone who is repeatedly stealing/eating your stock.

I am rather struck, however, at how ineffective your efforts have been thus far. She appears to possess an astonishing degree of power if she is able to resist banishment, curses, and the full might of the Independent Merchant's Guild.

This leads me to wonder what precisely is the true nature of this "Dolores" person. Reader, I'm afraid you may be dealing with a rather more powerful entity than you may initially have understood.

I want to be clear before I continue that the Nightfolk Network has a zero-tolerance policy for any kind of bigotry or hatred. I will not tolerate any anti-infernal comments on this post, or any suggestion that anything I'm about to say is true of extra-planar individuals in a general sense.

However, a reasonable assessment of the situation suggests that Dolores is drawing on powers beyond this world to enforce her presence in your shop. She may well be feeding on your distress and anger, maintaining a form she knows will be effective in causing the kind of response she desires.

I'm afraid there is no easy way of handling such a powerful entity. You will need to gather supplies and allies - from what you've told me, you'll need at least one Ancestral Weapon of Unsuspected Power, a handful of Ominous Rocks and at least one Magic User On The Cusp Of Being Overtaken By Their Own Powers. If you can contrive to make yourself a Chosen One, all the better - your local wizard should be able to knock up a decent prophecy to tick the necessary boxes.

Defeating the despicable Dolores will take a great deal of time and effort. But I truly believe that, with enough dedication and hard work, you'll be able to see it through.

And if dedication and hard work don't help, you can always pick up a bit of Power of Friendship to daub on the doorframe. That should do the trick.

[For more creaturely advice, check out Monstrous Agonies on your podcast platform of choice, or visit monstrousproductions.org for more info]

[darkpoisonouslove]

HotD S02E07

Honestly, I do not have much to say about this episode (I think... it's still possible for my thoughts to spiral out of control as I start writing them out). There was barely any Greens content, which made me a little bored, I have to say. The thing is that they are kind of dragging their feet here. I get the feeling they're trying to get as many seasons as possible out of a single book but, like, maybe you could have explored the events of season 1 in two seasons then? We literally sprinted through more than 20 years in one season and now things are moving quite slowly. Anyway, more details under the cut:

Does Addam realize he could have just taken Seasmoke and fucked off to do whatever he wants? What was Rhaenyra going to do? Fight him and risk her life or at least losing Syrax to someone that isn't even her enemy in the war? Sure, he doesn't know Valyrian but Seasmoke didn't really seam to give much of a shit about that anyway. What I'm saying is basically that Rhaenyra is so lucky that Addam's ambitions of earning recognition only go so far because Seasmoke definitely would have fought Syrax tooth and nail to protect Addam if he had decided not to bend the knee.

Meanwhile Corlys during this whole episode:

His interaction with Addam was so awkward! Well, gee, thanks, dad, for the praise! Are we going to see him actually do anything as Hand?

Jasper trying to talk Larys into breaking the news of Rhaenyra's new dragon rider to Aemond was so funny. You can clearly hear him thinking "Well, he already hates Larys. Why should I draw his ire? Honestly, Larys should just take one for the team and tell him the news, which will 100% set him off!" Larys refusing to be the scapegoat by going "Tis' but a fable." The Larys content is popping off these last few episodes! I have to say that it's funny how ineffective Aemond has made his own Council by being so harsh and completely unwilling to listen to any of them. If he hadn't made it so clear he doesn't give a shit about their opinions and would trample them down for daring to say anything, they might have warned him earlier and they could have prevented Rhaenyra from getting more dragons. Not like she didn't have to outsource bastards from King's Landing. Had Aemond known about any of this, he could have intervened in some way but he brought this on himself.

I see we're not going to address the Rhaenyra and Mysaria kiss from last episode.

Oscar Tully, the man that you are! I don't really have much to say about the whole Harrenhal segment besides how fun it was watching this young boy completely destroy Daemon in front of everyone. He even forced him into a situation where Daemon has to do what Oscar wanted of him and after this obvious demonstration that Daemon will turn on his allies with the wind, he's pretty much further cemented the impression he made on the Riverlands lords that they should never consider him their leader. I like how they made it understandable why Oscar is so set on keeping old oaths since that's the way the Riverlands function. The choice to only make Daemon "succeed" through factors that he has entirely no control of is priceless, it has to be said. At this point they can just write "loser" on his forehead.

That red cloak for Rhaenyra's maid is such a baffling design choice. She's supposed to be incognito but she stands out like a sore thumb. Besides, only someone rich can afford to have clothes dyed in such a rich red color. It instantly makes it obvious she is working for someone of noble birth and makes her so very easy to keep track of even in a crowd. Why have they done this?

Someone pointed out that putting up fliers when the general population is illiterate is a really funny way to advertise and I have to agree.

Respectfully, I do not give a shit about Hugh and his dead child. Maybe I would have if they had actually shown the death and didn't make him act like that's in the past already. Also, maybe once let a woman want something? I mean, they just lost their daughter. Let his wife want to have the power and means to prevent that from happening to other people and to any future children they might have ffs. This show only pretends to be feminist but will not let women want anything for 3 seconds.

I wrote a whole essay on Larys and Aegon and I've decided to make it the focus of its own post that you can find here.

Rhaena's scene is a perfect demonstration of what I mean when I say that they're dragging their feet. They just hinted that there will be exciting developments in the next episode and didn't do anything to actually move that plot line along. They could have easily cut that scene and put a condensed version of it in the next episode right before Rhaena actually gets to claim Sheepstealer.

The focus for this episode is obviously Rhaenyra's plan with the Dragonseeds and that has had some very interesting developments.

First of all, love how they show us that Rhaenyra is exactly her father's daughter. She hasn't thought this through anymore than Viserys did. He wanted her to be his heir but still married and raped Alicent because he just wanted to have sex and then proceeded to ignore his children from her and the problem that having legitimate sons is creating for the entire realm. Rhaenyra just wanted to have sex with Harwin and had three illegitimate sons and now to win the war for her own inheritance she has to take away the only symbol of legitimacy that Jace has. By very clearly showing that just random bastards that know nothing of the tradition surrounding dragons and can't even speak the language of the dragons can just as successfully ride them, she totally destroys the idea that Jace is somehow more than any Targaryen bastard that you can find at Fleabottom. Great job, Rhaenyra!

To be fair, all her options are equally bad but she's the one that did this. If she hadn't had illegitimate children, she literally wouldn't have been facing this problem. She just thought that her being princess and heir to the throne will give her a pass for anything but she has set Jace up for another war now. When she dies and he ascends the throne, there will be people who will think him not worthy of it because he's not any different from all the other bastards that were raised as the lowest links of society. There will also be the other bastards with dragons that can try to steal his throne. People were saying that Alicent is at fault for everything bad that happens to her children because she put Aegon on the throne but Rhaenyra is doing the exact same thing to Jace now and it is for a crown. She knew from the start her claim was shaky and that Jace's claim as her heir is even more shaky. She still proceeded because she wanted that crown.

The dragon tamers revolting against Rhaenyra's actions was such a great representation of how interlaced the dragons are with the classism and the "divine right to rule" of the Targaryens. To win this war Rhaenyra literally has to tear down the very pillars on which the supremacy of her house is built. She's self-destructing in slow motion because yes, she might win and get to sit the throne but the people will get disillusioned about the dragons being gods and about the Targaryens having the sole claim to the throne if any bastard can walk in directly from the street and claim a dragon. That voiceover in the beginning of season 1 saying the only thing that can destroy the House of the Dragon is itself sure is getting proven correct.

They finally let Rhaenyra do something that would tear down her image of the hero partially. Isn't it funny how she was so horrified by what happened to Ser Stefan but had no problem leaving 30-40 bastards to die? Sure, she had proof that her wild idea can be done once Addam and Seasmoke bonded but she knew very well that a lot of those people would die and she just didn't really care. Good thing they don't know about Ser Stefan's attempt and her reaction to that. Otherwise, they could easily turn their new dragons on her since she clearly still thinks them lesser.

I liked the way they did the bonding moment between Hugh and Vermithor. Hugh really showed he meant business and earned Vermithor's respect. But on the tail end of that, Ulf's scene was a fucking joke. Silverwing should have eaten him whole. Especially since he stepped in her clutch of eggs. Him getting a taste of what riding a dragon is like was still kind of cute. Also quite a revolutionary step for Westerosi society, though I have a feeling Rhaenyra won't like what that step leads to in the end.

Stop teasing me with mentions of Daeron, show! I am almost 100% convinced that they won't get him in here until season 3 so what's the point? Especially since we already heard the exact same information in the previous episode.

The writing for Alicent is so unserious fr. The way they are letting her wallow in this self-pity because there's nothing else for her to do is atrocious. Especially since the last trigger apparently was the riot in last episode, which is just an insult. What do you mean that all of her sacrifice and service to the realm was just so she would be hated? She's supposed to be beloved by the small folk. I hate the writers so much for the way they're constantly throwing stuff in to make you hate the Greens, and switching plot beats around, giving all the ones that earn sympathy to the Blacks. I've been ranting about that all season, however, so I'll leave it at that.

People that still think Alicent was trying to drown herself are so baffling to me. I could have told you she wasn't going to do it just from the trailer for this episode. It was clearly shown that she took off her dress before entering the lake. (Btw did the music while she was removing her green dress remind anyone else of "The Green Dress" theme from Rhaenyra's wedding? But a lot more solemn and just straight-up resigned? Which would fit perfectly with her stupid arc.) You don't take off your clothes if you mean to drown as it'd be easier to drown with more clothes on. And also, are we talking about the same woman? Alicent? Committing suicide????? After she saved Criston from doing the same???? I know she's on a downward spiral but she was just chilling in that water. That didn't look like someone trying to drown themselves. I guess that "I'm not sure I mean to [return to the city]" line could have sounded suicidal but I have only one thing to say to that: Alicent, get your ass back to the Red Keep right this instant istfg. Aemond just torched Aegon and she and Helaena were attacked and she just... leaves?????? Girl, what about your children? They need you! At least the trailer for the next episode shows that she's back.

People saying that Aemond should leave Helaena alone and not ask her to join the fight, you don't even deserve the RIP. I am different from you aka better. Please, for the love of fuck, get her on Dreamfyre and let her do something at last! They have completely glossed over and erased the effect that her son's death has on her but that at least means that she is totally capable of getting on her dragon and frying a bunch of people. I am seriously hoping that she will!

P.S. I might have known I was going to write a whole essay despite "having nothing to say". *sigh*

[canmom]

Yes, what 'AI art' promises to do is something that has happened many times before in capitalism. Even in the 'art industry', we've seen technology all but do away with entire lines of work, such as the illustration styles that withered after photography proved to better serve the needs of advertisers and clients who wanted a realistic likeness.

And it sucked for those illustrators. Maybe not the well established ones, but the ones who had hoped to enter that industry. Just as it sucked for the textile industry workers when the mechanical loom appeared.

Trying to suppress AI art through legal means may be a strategy with little chance of success and high potential for collateral damage. The Luddites found that machine-breaking proved an ineffective strategy (edit: because the government killed them), the miners of Wales were not able to stop Thatcher closing the pits and importing materials (edit: because the government beat the shit out of them). But to treat workers - in one of the few lines of work to still offer any sort of intrinsic fulfilment, at least in theory - who may be responding in a knee-jerk way to an impending threat to their ability to continue that practice and possibly survive at all, with scorn and derision? To justify that with Marx? Come off it.

Certainly, sure, the real enemy was capitalism all along. If AI were never invented, art would still be a precarious industry where you have to work stupidly hard on a speculative basis to even get a chance to get a foot in the door. An industry valuing predictability would still prefer to elevate bland, repetitive artwork; it would still push the chosen few artists who make it and get jobs to work themselves into an early death; we would still be faced with the implications of turning creation into 'content' in a social media feed. In a less precarious world, one where artists were free to pursue our practices with ample support and no fear of not making rent if there's a bad month, AI image generators would not even be a concern.

But we don't live in that world and I have no idea how to bring it closer. There isn't a 'start the revolution' button I can just press if I don't like my lot under capitalism.

What AI promises to do, what its proponents claim, really is to make everything worse in this industry. AI has many limitations compared to a human artist, but that doesn't matter for doing damage. For the employed artist, the threat of AI is going to become a similar labour discipline tool as the threat of outsourcing to a country where labour is cheaper, or the threat of installing robot tills in retail. "Don't make too much of a fuss, we can replace you." It doesn't matter if it isn't entirely true, it's another cudgel against labour organising.

In the already often miserably exploitative world of small scale illustration commissions which many artists use to support themselves while learning? Now you don't just have to compete against Fiverr's race to the bottom. The good chaps at Silicon Valley have helpfully built an obedient data centre than can do a 'good enough' job for many clients even faster and cheaper, that never gets tired. You'd better hope you have a loyal audience already, or else the independent income and exec function to work on art as a hobby on top of everything else you need to do to get by. Illustration commissions is already a pretty saturated market, turning something that ought to be a dream job into a grind. So... let's add more pressure, eh?

Worse, a lack of realistic routes to learn will likely ripple on up, similar to how the miserable conditions and high attrition of inbetweeners in anime led to a situation where there aren't enough key animators, so the industry increasingly draws from self-taught hobbyists and relies on a limited pool of overworked sakkans to paper over the gaps caused by their lack of training.

None of these problems are unique to AI. But they're all going to be made worse by it. And obviously people are going to be afraid of that coming, before we know how it will all shake out for sure. That's not a stupid reaction.

The argument over what is Real Art(TM) may be corny, but it reflects the fact that for most of us trying to make art, it is not nearly so fulfilling to type prompts into a computer and pick your favourite result as it is to draw on your own visual library and experiences and understanding of light and form and symbols and shape and etc., to go through the meditative process of solving the problems of the drawing yourself, to get the satisfaction of 'omg I made that' at the end. I'm sure creating the AI system in the first place had that sort of fulfilment for its programmers, but using it is to be a curator more than a creator, or at least to shift the creativity into coming up with combinations of keywords rather than directly making pictures, and that just doesn't grab me in the same way at all. If people enjoy it that's genuinely great for them, but I don't think very many people who set out to be an artist would get the same satisfaction out of typing prompts. It's not something we wanted automated. (Perhaps we could compare it to creating an aimbot for an FPS game.)

But that's a fairly tricky thing to articulate, so it is not surprising that it gets mixed up in ideology like 'artiness is proportional to hours spent'. Unfortunate, but that doesn't make the intuitive alarm signal misplaced. If AI art can find a niche as just another tool for expression, great, I'll shut up - but if it becomes a widespread sentiment of 'why are you wasting your time painting, just let the AI do it', we've lost something valuable. 'We want to replace artists' is the explicit sentiment of many of the AI's creators and proponents, so it's not like this is a baseless fear.

Trying to develop an art practice under capitalism is always a pretty awkward bargain at best. AI won't destroy the drives that lead us to make art, and won't do much to liberate us either. My hope is that it will become an easily ignored sideshow to the kinds of art I like; my fear is that this is only the beginning of its impact and a lot that's valuable will be lost in the chaos.

Did photography 'liberate' illustration? It's true that after the demise of the realist painting of Loomis's generation, new forms of illustration arose: scifi and fantasy illustration, many kinds of stylised illustration. But idk, that argument feels weird - if you cut down a tree to build a house where it used to stand, and a new tree grows nearby, is that liberating trees? It's hard to put any valence on that. In any case, AI proponents are trying for a fully general replacement to all types of illustration, including potential new ones. (Perhaps that's nothing more than tech cult hype; at the moment its stylistic repertoire is more limited.)

And perhaps we might expect, as capitalism continues to throw off labour without much hope of new industries arising to absorb it, that there will come a point where the balance tips and for better or worse, a vast social transformation unfolds suddenly and unexpectedly.

Would be nice if I can live long enough to see it.

Living off commissions is already proving not viable for me, regardless of AI - so I'm training to go into a different creative industry (game dev) where there's more demand in the present era, and I'll have to develop visual art more slowly, with whatever energy and executive function I can spare. I hope I will enjoy working in game dev, and I'm lucky to have skills that even make it an option, but I don't love that I have to make that decision based on what can keep a roof overhead and not on what I most want to spend my time learning to make. And I can only imagine the feeling of someone who found a seemingly stable niche doing something they truly enjoy, and now face getting thrown back into this corner.

The AI problem may just be a symptom of capitalism, but that just makes it less tractable. It may be 'just a tool', but that tool is embedded in a whole mess of social relations. Who runs the AI, who stands to benefit? Better to articulate a critique of AI-in-capitalism that navigates around the blind alleys than to cast scorn on people reaching for the first way out they can see to a genuinely bleak situation.

[zagreus]

your last reblog might have some misinfo

genuinely, thanks for caring, but can you be more specific?

because if you mean the post about nightshade and glaze being ineffective and you're referencing the "debunk" in the notes from someone who clearly doesn't understand the technology involved and only cites the devs themselves (who obviously wouldnt be advertising the many ways in which the tech they're pushing fails to perform as intended), you're just mistaken I'm afraid.

also like. i know the op of that post and trust their knowledge on the subject a lot more than some rando misusing buzzwords

[marsti]

tumblr is not currently selling your art to midjourney. the deal has not been made. even if it had, the data is currently unusable. i am begging you all to chill and stop sharing posts promoting nightshade and glaze as the last bastions of artistic integrity against evil tech companies.

i think what annoys me about a lot of the ways people online talk about AI art is that a lot of the proposed "solutions" i see championed are functionally just riding on the idea of un-opening pandora's box, which means they're incredibly ineffective because that's just not something we can do at this point. and worse, that sentiment is exploitable.

sure it makes you feel like you, personally, as a creator, have control over this new development threatening your livelihood. but that's not a good thing! glaze is a grift that uses the exact same technology as stable diffusion and straight up doesn't work as advertised, the creators bank on you feeling that way. it doesn't protect you against anything, it just makes you feel good, meanwhile the creators gets money and exposure out of your fear.

if you didn't know, the same developers who made glaze are also behind nightshade. and what do they do with nightshade's popularity? well it's simple, they've studied the effect it has on AI art algorithms. and then they sold the research.

and you must understand, even if everything i've said wasn't the case, making the pictures these algorithms produce compatible for training algorithms again is as easy as running them through a de-noising upscaler.

and i'm an artist myself. i do not want my art used in that way. i do not want to be in midjourney's training data, i don't want someone to make a LORA of my work without my consent, i don't want any of that. but still, ask yourself: who benefits from making us panicked and afraid every single time a new AI deal is mentioned? because it's not you or me. there is a problem, and no problem has ever been solved through fear.

which is also why i'm not here to say you're evil for using these tools, or that they are secretly worse than the companies you're trying to combat by using them. it's not wrong to want to feel safe, you are perfectly within your right to do what makes you feel in control. you can keep using them if that's what you want! but please, be aware of what's going on here.

there is no going back. the technology exists, we have to accept it. because the sooner we accept this is the reality we live in, the sooner we'll be able to fight it. but i am begging you all to stop pretending easy solutions exists to this problem, there are none.

demand transparency. demand control. demand that this things be opt-in. demand compensation.

you will not be saved from companies trying to profit from these algorithms by simply going to their competitors.