#it’s like loosely based on it but general idea stays same

[hanakihan]

an anecdote about a philosopher who asked a conqueror to move away and stop blocking sunlight

listen I spend too much effort on this shit which is basically a scene from a fanfic that I just wrote in my head I sure am doing things in wrong order ain’t I

ANYWAY for those unaware it’s based on Ancient Greece anecdote about Alexander the Great meeting with Diogenes and later completely disrespecting the great conqueror himself without actually offending him

Diogenes’ philosophy honestly gives me such strong Ratio vibes (or more like other way around) AND I encourage people to create more AUs involving Ratio and Ancient Greece stuff

[chuluoyi]

✎ throughout heaven and earth

- gojo satoru x reader

a sudden mission. a curse beyond your grade. all hell breaks loose when gojo realizes that there are hidden machinations behind the incident that befalls you

genre: feral!gojo, injured!reader, hurt/comfort, exponential fluff !

note: we need a gojo who will go ballistic against the higher-ups for dragging you in their mess :) refer to this for the reader's CT, and this loosely takes place after the events in heaven's fury, and the epilogue is based on this very brilliant idea :))

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

Something isn’t right.

You should’ve known it was strange when they assigned you with a sudden mission with little to no briefing. You should’ve gone through with your gut feeling and informed Satoru about it.

Because if you did... now you wouldn’t be running for your life like this, frantically dodging the hacks and slashes of this chainsaw-like cursed spirit that was evidently not a Grade 2 as what you were told.

“Ah!” you yelped as the sharp ends of its body struck your shoulder, leaving you bleeding openly. This was no small wound—it was deep enough to make you stagger.

You had to do something about this because merely avoiding wouldn’t save your life. You had to come back in one piece. You have to— for your baby and Satoru.

What if I can’t? The sheer thought made you tremble. Your baby boy was still so little and he needed you more than anyone, and Satoru...

God, you couldn’t bear to leave him alone. Not again. He couldn't handle losing someone again, not after all he had already lost.

You gripped your whip—your cursed weapon—tightly amidst your bleeding hand. You had barely enough cursed energy for a domain expansion that guaranteed a sure-hit effect. You have one shot. This was all or nothing.

But you weren’t sure if it would work, because you were on the verge of exhaustion, and this was a special grade curse. Your domain expansion was definitely not as refined as the Satoru’s, and this monster was an enemy of his class.

“Satoru...” your voice came out in a sob. You were terribly scared, and honestly you were entitled to. You weren’t even sure you would survive this at all, and all you could think now was your husband’s silly grin and how much you loved him.

And right afterwards, you saw the cursed spirit lunging at you, and with everything left that you had, you screamed—

“Domain Expansion: Transcendent Veil!”

“Gojo-sensei, p-please come back... Nee-san is...!”

Satoru was in Kyoto when he received that call from Megumi— and that moment shattered his world as he knew it.

“Megumi, what is it?”

“She w-was sent on a mission... but then it's a special grade— a-and... she... she e-exorcised it b-but—!”

He teleported without second thought to Tokyo. His mind was blank, the only sound he could hear was his own violent heartbeats, and his fists were clenched so tightly.

“The cursed spirit got her too… It made a cut on her neck.”

His most precious wife... the one person he must protect at all cost, was now possibly—

“Megumi.” He saw him sitting on the hallway of the headquarters’ hospital the with his son on his lap—you had asked him to look after your baby—and the boy looked up to him.

“Gojo-sensei...” Megumi appeared shaken, and seeing that, Satoru immediately took his child from his hands, pulling the little kid into his embrace.

“Go back home, I’ll stay here.”

In all his life, Megumi had never seen Gojo Satoru as calm as he was now. He looked fearsome, as if he was in the battlefield.

“Ichiji.” Satoru turned to the other man rigidly standing next to Megumi, causing him to stiffen up even more. He didn’t say anything further as he pat his little son’s back, and yet Ichiji knew all the same what he wanted from him.

“It’s from… the higher ups, Gojo-san.” Ichiji gulped as he said it. “Y/N-san was suddenly called in yesterday night, and she was told it was an urgent mission.”

“Who called her?”

“It was…”

When Ichiji told him the name, suddenly Satoru barked a snort, and his lips curled into a manic grin. It was a menacing sight for both Ichiji and Megumi, as he looked almost unhinged if not for his secure grip on his son.

But contrary to what they were thinking, what filled Satoru at that moment was pure, unadulterated fury. A righteous sense of being crossed—because, how fucking dare they?

Those higher ups first pressed him to execute Yuji, and when he paid them no mind… now they staged this atrocity against you, most definitely to serve as a warning to him.

“Ichiji, tell them that I’ll pay a visit tomorrow. And drive Megumi home tonight.”

He would make his point loud and clear. He would show them how wrong it was to ever test him. But…

The plan barely satisfied him. They hurt you. His heart finally lurched as he processed the fact… when he heard his baby’s soft whimper against his shoulder.

. . .

You sustained serious injuries, but finally, you were out of critical condition.

When Satoru was allowed to see you, you were still connected to many monitors and breathing machine. He brought your baby too inside, and upon clearly seeing both of them, suddenly your eyes welled up with tears.

“Hey…” his hand gripped yours reassuringly. You sniffled when the strain of your broken ribs made you almost cry out in pain, and Satoru immediately calmed you down.

“Sweets— hey, don’t cry, yeah? You did good.” He pressed a soft kiss on the back of your hand. “You did freaking good. You’re okay now. You’re going to recover, yeah?”

You gave him a tearful little nod, feeling so grateful that you could see him again. And unbeknownst to you, seeing you like this broke his heart too.

“Mwa...” your baby, cradled in your husband’s arms, suddenly stretched his tiny hands towards you, and Satoru handed him over for you to hold.

With the little strength you possessed, you reached out to stroke his soft cheeks. Your son... the thought of how close you came to death brought another tear rolling down your cheek.

All sort of thoughts went through Satoru’s head at the sight. His wife, the mother of his son, who is proud of him for everything he does—

—and their sorry asses dared to hurt you.

Suddenly all he saw was red.

And he swore he would make it right to you. Soon.

“Ah, Satoru-kun… to what I owe the pleasure?”

“…I’ve heard that it was you who assigned that special grade mission to my wife, correct?”

“Oh, that. First of all, I must apologize for my... oversight. We were misinformed... Our scouts made a mistake while filling the files.”

Satoru was trying not to lose his composure first thing after coming here. Really.

But the knowing tone of the elderly Jujutsu Commander only fueled his rage, growing stronger the longer he stood behind this stupid paper divider.

“So it’s a mistake, huh?” he repeated in a satire manner. “Then do you know that my wife has just gotten out of her maternity leave this week?”

The man behind the divider chuckled quietly. “Satoru-kun… I know the sentiment. Of course you’ll be worried, and it did end in a rather… unfortunate incident. However, jujutsu sorcerers are bound to their duty, and your wife cannot rely too heavily on her status as a member of the Gojo clan to be excluded from—”

Fuck it. He had no patience any longer.

“Seems like I need to be a lot rougher, after all.”

Suddenly the room crackled with electricity and the Jujutsu Commander gasped at the sense of foreboding he felt. “Gojo, you can’t—!”

“Heh, but I can.” He let out the most satisfied laugh before opening his palm and chanting in a lower voice: “Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue.”

In a matter of seconds, the audience chamber of jujutsu headquarters turned into a pile of destruction. The commander barely made it out the deadly vacuum vortex with a shriek.

“Ah! N-no! Get a-away from me!” Satoru stared down at him coldly through his unobstructed heavenly eyes, as he pitifully tried to crawl away. He took one step towards him, stomped on his hand ruthlessly—causing the man to scream, before he got down to his level.

“N-no! Please, s-spare me...!”

“This is my first and last warning to you.” It was beyond terrifying, to see those six eyes in this close proximity. But even more dreadful was the tight chokehold on his throat—

“If you ever try to pull this idiotic stunt again on my wife, know that I can and I will snap your neck.” Satoru’s face split into a sinister grin as he tapped the man’s nape, before he crushed the bones of his hand with a crack and made him howl. “Remember that, yeah?”

. . . that day, none in jujutsu headquarters dared to spread any word about Gojo Satoru’s outrageous conduct, even when it was an attack against their own highest ranking leader.

“Satoru, you don’t have to, really—”

“Nuh, uh! I’ve promised you I’ll nurse you back to health!”

Unaware of anything and everything, you thought that your loving husband was a silly jester trying to make you feel better. On the fifth day of your stay in hospital, you were well enough to eat solid food, and Satoru insisted on spoon feeding you the fruits he cut himself.

“Good girl,” he praised with a wholly playful smile as you chewed on the watermelon. You looked at him with a mock frown, pursing your lips.

“You’re making me look like a kid.”

“You are, in fact, my second kid, so I have all rights to baby you.”

You let out a giggle, but then suddenly your throat felt like it was closing in and you coughed. Instinctively, you reached for your neck— your fingers tracing the scar there.

You still could remember the sense of paralyzing fear you felt as soon as your neck was cut. The heavy bleeding that followed, the way the world blacking out around you…

“Sweets…?” Satoru put down the plate and got a grip on your trembling figure. He gently pushed your chin up to meet his eyes. “Hey, look at me. Look at me, hmm?”

Your frantic eyes locked onto his, and your rapid breathing steadied. Your clammy hand reached out to touch his face... before you lunged forward, throwing your arms around him.

“Sweetheart…” Satoru hugged you back in return, sighing against the nape on your neck, as he planted a soft kiss there.

You tried your best not to cry but it was hard not to while remembering everything.

“I-I was so scared…”

“Mhm.”

“I-I kept thinking… w-what if I c-can’t see you… or baby again…? I… I s-still want to do a lot of… things… w-with you…”

The way you shook in his arms like a fragile leaf made something inside him burn. He was supposed to provide you with security, give you a life far removed from curses—

Having left that warning against the higher-ups wasn’t enough, he should’ve made him beg for his life more—

“Listen to me,” Satoru said as he broke the hug, the deep frown in his grave expression made you almost sob. He gently wiped your overflowing tears with the pads of his thumbs.

“Stop thinking that. You’re alright. You’re going to get better. You and me—we are going to raise our son together.”

You took in each of his words fully, even as your lips quivered.

“And mark my words…” Right in this moment, you thought that your husband was most dashing as he gave you his promises—as his blue eyes glimmered under the light. “They won’t ever lay their hands on you ever again. Not while I’m here. Not ever. I already made sure of that.”

You were curious about what he did, but you chose not to press further when Satoru leaned in suddenly and brushed his lips against yours in a soft kiss, melting your heart into mush.

When he pulled away, it was his usual teasing grin on his handsome face. “Now, I only have one duty left— that is to get my cute wife back on her feet. So, be a good little wifey and have lots of fruits and sleep, okay?”

You giggled freely this time, feeling tremendously safe and loved, and instead of answering, you chose to peck his lips instead— hoping that he’d know that you trusted him with your whole life.

. . .

“By the way… Satoru, where’s our baby?” you missed your pumpkin, and while being with your funny husband lifted your spirits, you wanted to cuddle him too.

He chuckled in response. “Ah! Since Megumi is on an assignment, I left him with Ichiji earlier! Don’t worry, I’ll come pick him up soon, ‘kay?”

Epilogue

“I’m going out for a bit, and if you ever make him upset or cry… I can and I will sense it! So Ichiji—do your best!”

“Bwa…”

“Eeek!”

Ichiji stared at Baby Gojo with literal sweat on his forehead, as the little being curiously looked up at him.

By all means, this baby was adorable. Even more so when his father dressed him in a shark onesie. It was a peculiar choice—just like any of Gojo’s choices were—but it sure made the baby look even more endearing.

But the thing is… he didn’t feel secure enough to hold him! Especially when he didn’t know if Gojo’s claim of telepathic connection with his son was true or not!

Amidst his thoughts, suddenly Ichiji felt a soft touch on his arm and immediately turned to find the little munchkin putting his little hand on him and staring at him with such pureness unbefitting of Gojo Satoru’s son.

How can this baby be a stark contrast to his father? Ichiji was almost tempted to snuggle him, but he knew better.

“O-oh… d-don’t touch me…”

And as he retracted his hand back, the baby suddenly widened his eyes, feeling betrayed apparently, as his little lips wobbled and face scrunched up, so ready to burst into tears—

“Hic…”

“—!! Nooo! Don’t cry! Your father will fry me! Eeek!!”

[buboplague]

hello. i'm an art nerd and as such do art nerd things like study art. you are one of my favorite artists for your smooth and organic lines. is your style of line work something you've developed unintentionally over time or is it a matter of intention and technique? ive noticed you're able to do a lot with very little, which is something i strive for in my own art. happy late easter if you celebrated btw

oh this is an interesting question! I've never really stopped to think about this before.

I think it's a bit of both, but mostly unintentional and developed over time as a characteristic of the way I prefer to draw.

I draw quickly, erase minimally, like continuous lines, and enjoy the actual physical feeling of drawing messy, and I think that's helped me be more confident in my lines in general and contributes to how it looks. Being precise and accurate is usually not my goal, so it's ok if something is off (please never flip my sketches haha). I like the way drawing like this feels.

But there are also a lot of styles I love that use fluid lines, like ukiyoe art and artists inspired by those same styles, or others' quick gestural drawings. Seeing those inspire me to stay loose, or not care about accuracy, simplify things, etc, and folding these concepts it into my work is intentional, because it loops back into enjoying the way it's done. I don't really have much advice or technique for how to achieve this deliberately because I guess I'm not really sure myself LOL but based on how I approach things myself, these are tips to try (which it looks like you're doing some already!):

draw with pen on paper. If you mess up just go with it, or try again from the beginning. Don't get hung up on erasing and fixing things, just keep drawing

practice speed, with timed gesture drawing or other methods of practice you're comfortable with; try it without picking up the pen

turning stabilization off while drawing digitally for a more natural line (entirely subjective, but stabilization trips me up so bad and feels weird)

draw from life. It can be random objects around the house, or random photos, but draw things you normally wouldn't - train your hand to follow your eye, as this will help you see the way you use line, and is an easy way to practice what kinds of lines you want without getting hung up on idea generation, or if the character looks right, expectations, etc.

It's okay to be impatient and lazy sometimes LOL. Sometimes doing the bare minimum helps you to learn where you want to simplify or stylize things. "Good enough" is also a pretty useful catchphrase sometimes

I hope something in this post helps! And sorry if it doesn't, I'm not very good at articulating my own art or thought processes.

Thank you for your kind words and for enjoying my work. happy late easter!

[jackdelroys]

[apology] for jack delroy, if you want!!! so glad people are writing for this man 🙏

super excited to write for him!! he's everything 🫶 thank you for the request! i could talk for hours about jack and the psychology behind him auuugh

[ apology ] a kiss offered as a way to apologize or make amends

THE last thing he'd expected when he entered his dressing room was to see you, perched carefully on the couch that lined the far wall. You'd taken the liberty of making yourself a drink, a question he didn't have to even ask, not with the way you'd motioned the glass towards the minibar adjacent to your seat.

"I didn't know you were here," he muttered, glancing out the doorway cautiously before shutting the door and locking it, "I looked for you. I haven't seen you all night."

You shrugged, explaining that you'd come late.

The casual tone of your response eased his tensions. He tosses the jacket of his suit aside, pulling his tie loose and approaching the bar himself. He pours his usual, and takes a sip as the bitter twang of alcohol and mixers hit his tongue.

"You did great tonight."

He turns, hearing how close you are. As he looks you over, a sigh escapes him, and with it the lingering anxiety that he generally carried post-show. He comments on the outfit you've worn -- you look nice. The way he says it, so quietly, so earnestly is almost jarring compared to the Jack you've just watched on the stage set for the past hour or so; But at the same time, it doesn't worry you. This is the Jack saved for you, the one that's opened up to you alone, in private.

There's something so endearing about it, the idea, and he can see you thinking, with a questioning look does he lean forward just slightly, and with reassurance and a light but dismissive laugh do you meet him halfway, pressing your lips to his. He looks nice, too.

You taste like cherry. It's sweet and simple and easy to remember, and he'll never admit it but it's the reason he always restocks the flavored cola in the minibar every week. He likes being able to remember you like this, so sweet and pretty and gentle -- or maybe not so much gentle as it was calculated, he changes his mind as he feels your fingers tug at the hair at the base of his neck.

He allows an arm to slip around your waist and he pulls you to him, not so much caring now if his neatly pressed shirt wrinkles, or stains for that matter, as he fumbles his drink and spills some between yourselves and the carpet. With both hands free, it's easier to maneuver you until you're hoisted onto the bar's flat-topped surface anyhow.

"I'm sorry I was late," you offer, pushing away from his eyes the bangs that have come loose in all of their meticulously, promenade-drenched elegance.

"Don't apologize," you can barely hear him over the way he's buried himself in your neck now, between kisses and half-taken breaths he's still trying to refill his drink, all the while distracting you with the way his mouth feels against your skin.

You don't know how long you stay there like that, with his wandering hands and other affections, but by the time you're stumbling out of the dressing room into the empty studio, you're as drunk on his kisses as he is his whiskey, and you're taking his keys and offering (without taking no for an answer) to at least drive him home safely. He's wearing that goofy grin again, the one he puts on for the cameras, as he hands them to you, his touch lingering on your palm.

"Y'really think I did good today?"

You nod, nudging him in the direction of the passenger seat.

"You did perfect, baby."

Perfect, baby.

Even through his drunken haze, he giggles, in a giddy sort of way. Even if you'd said it to appease him, he liked the sound of it.

It was definitely something he could get used to.

[da-birb-writes-sometimes]

Through the Labyrinth the Thread Guides; Idia Shroud

Strings tie together fates. Strings build fates. But should the thread unravel, will your fate follow?

Supporting Roles; Ortho Shroud & Grim

Content; Soulmate AU (I use the term soul match instead), gender-neutral reader, can be read as familial, platonic, or romantic, hurt/comfort, Idia being prime wet cat energy

Content Warnings; Idia & Ortho's backstory (brief mentions of death), some heavy self-depreciation & blaming (Idia), swearing, crying (Idia)

Word Count; 5.5 K

Do not put mine - or other creators’ - works into AI; that shit steals.

In rare instances, humans are given soul matches. It is an odd occurrence, but in a select few families, it is quite common to have one. One of these families being the Shrouds.

There is a story, a myth from aeons past, of a woman using a ball of thread to lead her and others in her company to safety. There is another tale, that one’s life is like that of a string, which the three fates cut with their shears. Strings connect things. Connect people in often invisible ways. They can create. If one snaps, or is loose, everything can unravel. But they can also ensnare; like the sticky strings of a spider’s web. Strings are something the Shroud family is well acquainted with. Alongside the family curse was a family blessing, placed upon them by the God of the Underworld.

No two strings are the same, as they reflected the qualities they shared with the person at the other end. The base colour would stay the same, but the brightness would change with their match’s emotions and well-being. The brighter and lighter the colour, the happier and better their match was. The darker the colour… it meant they were unwell, or under extreme conditions. But there were conflicting ideas within the family over the generations, all written down in a codex that dated back to the very first Shroud.

But, as with any blessing, there is a price to pay for such happiness. For nothing in this world comes for free. Each Shroud is born with two strings. The string on the right leads to the person who will love them for them, of comfort zones, a safety net if you will. The string on the left leads to someone who will change them, make them reassess their life. Right is the known, and left is the unknown. These strings can lead to many different types of relationships; familial, platonic, romantic, and many more.

The strings don’t ever disappear, but if the other person connected by the string dies, then their shared string snaps. The thread around their finger, now white, serving as a cruel reminder of what was. Or in some cases, of what could have been. 

Another steep price is that the person at the end of the winding thread, should they choose their match, will also be subjected to the Shroud family’s curse. So there are many cases across the decades of select Shrouds choosing to ignore the thread, to not bring someone else to their fate. But not all matches felt the same way, as a few matches actively searched and confronted their match. These pairings serve as a reminder; that even though you may try to ignore fate, it will catch up to you. And both are transported into a labyrinth, disguised from each other; only able to get out with each other and without the one looking back.

Is this guarantee of happiness truly worth putting someone else, someone innocent, through the same cursed fate as them though? Many a Shroud, if not all, are conflicted by the prospect. Should happiness really come at the cost of someone else’s? Even if they would be happy together?

…

…

…

Idia looked into the crib where the yellow string on his right hand led, glowing a faint sunshine gold. This baby — Ortho — was supposed to be the person who will love him for him? 

“Idia, honey, what’s with the frown,” his mom asked, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

Idia peered into the crib, where Ortho was peacefully sound asleep. “My thread leads to him,” he muttered. He knew that eventually he and Ortho would bond, but it would be several years until the two could really get close. You can’t exactly have a conversation or play more complex games with a baby. “What does that mean?”

Mrs. Shroud hummed, her usual chipperness being a bit more subdued due to the little amount of sleep she was getting. Well, both parents really, but Mr Shroud just was extra tired and quiet when compared to his wife. “Well, remember the stories I tell you when you go to sleep, honey?”

“Like… Ariadne and the string? But that’s just a story, Mom,” Idia huffed, pushing the mobile and making the pegasi fly in a slow circle. “Plus Ariadne didn’t have a happy ending… the hero didn’t stay with her.”

Mrs. Shroud’s eyes were fixed on him, and she was thinking. “Well, the string that led to Theseus was on her left hand, dear; the left string changes us, for better or for worse. But on her right hand was another string, much like the string on yours. The string on your right hand is for those who will love you as you are. Regardless of what happens.”

Idia looked down into the crib again, where the pegasi cast dancing shadows. “But he’s so … small.”  

“Well he is a baby,” Mrs. Shroud laughed, looking between her bewildered son and her peacefully sleeping baby. “Don’t worry, before long the two of you will be running and playing. You’ll be the best of friends, trust me. Okay?”

Idia didn’t look impressed but he nodded at his mom before heading back to his room. He finally knew where the yellow string, the string on his right hand, led. But why was the string on his right hand floating up before fading out into nothingness? A translucent thread, save for the tiniest hint of blue. No one in the stories, either old or new, had a string that went up. If his soul match were dead his thread would be white and hanging limply off of his finger. But no, it just led somewhere where he couldn’t see. A place that no one knew of.

Left strings lead to someone who will change us. But Idia had heard enough stories of how left threads led to either happiness or utter despair. After all, Ariadne’s left thread only brought her heartbreak, and her other soul match, the God of Revelry, was the only one that brought her solace. 

…

Laughter haunted his mind. Cheer-filled laughter. Love. memories haunted his mind. But they were only that, memories. Memories could not replace Ortho. Memories could not bring back his brother. Memories could not fix everything that has happened.

It’s all my fault. He looked down at the mechanical parts. It’s all my fault. How long has it been since he last slept? It’s all my fault. “It’s all my fault,” he hissed, shoving the parts away in frustration.

Ortho wouldn’t have… We wouldn’t- Ortho would still be here if it weren’t for me! That was what Idia constantly told himself since the incident. If it weren’t for me, Ortho would be here! I’m no hero! I just want my brother back! GIVE ME MY BROTHER BACK!

But he wouldn’t get Ortho back, not truly. Death is a permanent thing, it cannot be undone. But Idia was not the only one hurting, for his parents were also grieving.

“Island of Woe,” Idia sighed, looking into the reflection off of one of the many monitors. “Rather fitting. Nothing but misery… but pain. Is this to be our fate?” His hair, once a dull blue, was now shining a brilliant angry red. “Is this Ortho’s fate? To die because of my influence?! He’s a kid! HE DIDN’T KNOW!” I’m just a kid. But as soon as the anger came up, it vanished, and the room went back to its dim blue glow from the multiple screens showing blueprints.

Sighing, Idia went back to work, fiddling with wires and reading over blueprints and various magic texts. If magic alone could not bring back Ortho, then maybe technology could. The past two years have been like this; Idia working long into the night, trying to find a way, any possible way, to bring Ortho back.

It’s all my fault, so the least I can do is make it right. He didn’t care how long it took him, he was going to make sure that Ortho would be back home. 

The thread on the right-hand leads you to someone who will love you as you are. Idia loved Ortho, and he would still love him, even if his brother was now made of steel and wires.

“Here goes nothing.” What was this, the one-hundredth attempt? He spent nearly three months working on this body, but now was the moment of truth. “Please, please work.”

And he started up Ortho’s programming, waiting for the blue flame to ignite. And as the blue flame sparked to life, the string on Idia’s right hand connected itself to Ortho. Glowing a blinding yellow, changing from a bright pastel to a dark ochre, mirroring the complex emotions running through the older Shroud’s mind.

But the string on his left hand was still translucent and led nowhere, nowhere but up.

…

…

…

Eyes, eyes are everywhere. Voices are everywhere. And Idia could see all of this from the other side of the screen. Where the others were standing around the mirror chamber, whispering amongst themselves, Idia sat at his desk, watching everything take place. He really didn’t even want to be there, even virtually, but the Housewarden of each dorm was required to attend, he just happened to pull a few strings so he didn’t have to endure the social interaction.

Besides, the ceremony was the same every year, and Idia really didn’t need to be there to welcome the newcomers. So he wasn’t, instead watching and adding his input as needed, working on a new customization for Ortho. He looked down at his hand. The thread on his left hand was still translucent and went nowhere but up, fading into nothing. Idia still didn’t know what that was meant to mean, and there were no records in the family library or database about any other cases. 

Left is the unknown. Left is what changes you. But what is there to change? Why should Idia change? He looked to his right hand, where the yellow thread on his pinky connected to Ortho. Right is who loves you for you. All Idia needed was Ortho, he didn’t need nor want anyone else. Especially someone waltzing in uninvited to throw a wrench in his life. Ortho was all Idia needed. Ortho was all Idia wanted. Never again was he going to lose his brother. He would go to the ends of the world and back for him.

The ceremony didn’t go off without a hitch though. Through the screen, Idia saw blue fire, saw students clamouring out to escape the flames. But the fire is not what caught Idia’s eye though, no. What caught his eye was that the thread on his left hand was glowing blue, and led outside his door, out into the campus of Night Raven College. 

He felt a lump form in his throat. Left changes you. The thread dulled in its luminosity, becoming clouded. Confused. Both Idia and the person at the other end of the thread were confused. For Idia, it was that the thread was… active? It was the realization that the person who would change him was here, and that thought alone terrified him. But for the other person at the end of the thread, it was an entirely different kind of confusion. It was more along the lines of “Where the hell am I? WHY AM I IN A COFFIN?! WHY IS EVERYTHING ON FIRE?!” type of confusion.

And out of all the possible colours it had to be blue. Blue has many meanings; inspiration, imagination, trust, and wisdom. But also sadness. Feeling blue was called that for a reason. Blue hardly brought anything without sadness. But at the same time, it was all too fitting that the thread that he shared with his soul match was blue. Of course, Idia would bring nothing but sadness to his match.

Would I change them for the worse? I can’t drag them into this… I can’t do this. “I’m sorry, but I can’t be in your life,” he whispered, grabbing a pair of scissors. He drew the thread taut and brought the blades in, before snipping. But the tread didn’t break, instead, it cut through the scissors, changing from faded blue to a blazing gold, before fading back to blue.

Yeah, there was no chance of Idia removing the molten scissors from the floor of his room. His face paled, and he stared at the thread.

Others had tried to cut the thread off before him, but the scissors just bounced off. They didn’t cut through and melt metal. That wasn’t normal. None of this was normal. Idia wasn’t normal.

“Who are you?” But the thread didn’t answer, still glowing faintly, shifting from cyan to navy. The cyan shifted to navy, indicating they were feeling much the same. Idia brought his knees to his chest and hid his head into the space between them. Who are you, and what’s going to happen?

…

…

Saying that you weren’t happy would be a gross understatement. You were the furthest thing from happy. You were here, wherever here was, you nearly got burned alive by some cat creature that had adopted you as his hench-human, and some weird birdman had “graciously” let you stay in a dilapidated house infested with ghosts. So yeah, you were not having a good night.

“Why,” you seethed, looking through the cracked windows at the darkening sky. “Why me?” But all you got for an answer was creaking wood and the whistling of wind coming in through the many cracks in the walls and ceiling. You plopped down on one of the ancient sofas and fell straight through to the ground. Yeah, sure, why not?!

Today was a mess, a disastrous mess. But at least now, everything was quiet… for the most part, but whatever was to come could wait until tomorrow when you were somewhat well rested. In all of the ruckus and noise though, there was a silent change. Curiously, on each hand, on your pinky, were coloured strings.

On your right, a purple string, glowing with lilac and deep violet. With that string, you saw where it ended, which was on Grim’s right paw. But on your left hand, you couldn’t see the ending for the blue thread, glowing a faint navy. It led outside of the door and kept on going before disappearing off into campus. You didn’t know what strings meant here, but back at home, red strings were a popular trope in soulmate fanfiction. Here though? No clue. What does it mean to have two? Why were they different colours? Why did they just appear now?

The glowing strings didn’t answer, of course, and continued glowing. Fading between different shades of their respective colours, but the blue string remained a dark navy. To be fair though, nothing really made sense here. So, sure, why not?

There’s no bed… well, a proper bed. So the floor it is I guess. It wasn’t the most ideal of situations, but it was a bit better than sleeping outside. Looking up to the ceiling, you started counting the cracks to take your mind off of things. Fifty-six, fifty-seven… How many cracks could a ceiling have until it didn’t count as a ceiling? Sighing, you tugged at the blue string, seeing if you would get some kind of answer back. But nope. Nada. Zero. You got zilch as an answer. But the string was less of the dark, deep, navy, and there was a hint of a true blue in the mix.

You rubbed your eyes and kept on tugging at the string every time you counted another crack. One hundred and … I lost count FU- you groaned in defeat. You gave one last pull at the string before deciding to try and get some shut-eye. If today was just beginning, then, boy howdy, more chaos and shenanigans were sure to come your way. And what chaos and shenanigans they were.

…

…

…

Idia was antsy today, more antsy than usual. Every night, at around the same time, he would feel the thread on his left pinky tug. It was insistent, but it was the same number every time. He hadn’t made any sort of move with his string since he tried to cut it. And honestly, he was scared to even touch it. Fearing that should he interact with the string, that it would bring his other soul match into his life. Finally, he felt the last tug, which was always the strongest, and sighed with relief.

At first, Idia thought it was just his match trying to get his attention, and that was still a possibility, but it was the same amount of tugs every night. They didn’t pull the string at any other time, only at night. So perhaps trying to get his attention wasn’t the point. Maybe it was Morse code? But the tugging was the same quick motion. Unless his match was just saying E two hundred and thirteen times with a T at the end, they weren’t trying to get a message across. Then what did they want? What were they doing? Why were they doing it? 

“Why am I thinking about them,” he hissed under his breath, placing his forehead on his desk. I don’t want to think about them… they’ll change everything.

And while many people in his family had good relationships with their match on their left string, there was always the chance that it could end horribly. They would hate me anyways… the only one that likes me is Ortho. All I need is Ortho.

“They can’t hate you if you don’t give them the chance to know you!” Ortho had seamlessly snuck into the room, and apparently Idia had said his thoughts out loud too. Ortho looked at Idia’s left hand, he couldn’t actually see the thread, but he knew it was there, and he knew it had appeared the day of the ceremony. Knew that Idia was quietly obsessing on not meeting his soul match. “You can’t avoid them forever, nii-san!”

I can’t avoid them forever. Ortho was right in that, since the threads would tighten and force the reluctant one — aka Idia — to them. And he cringed at the thought of his thread practically dragging him to his soul match. If they already thought he was some loser, then surely that introduction wouldn’t bolster any confidence. “They don’t need me… they don’t want me.”

Ortho frowned, and their connected thread turned a dark ochre, reflecting Ortho’s frustration at his older brother’s resistance. “How do you know that, though?”

“I just do,” Idia huffed. 

He loved his younger brother, loved him so much that he couldn’t live without him, but sometimes Idia wished that he would drop the subject of soul matches. Stop trying to make him change his mind. Right is for those who love you regardless of everything. But Idia knew Ortho only did it to try and make him happy. Left is who changes you. 

Ortho yanked on their thread, forcing Idia out of his own head. “No, no you don’t. And maybe they won’t change you, but you just might change for them.” Change is a part of life. Enjoy life, Idia. Ortho didn’t say that though, hoping that Idia would get out of his comfort zone, take a chance, go on a quest, and find the other person at the end of the string. Wherever they may be.

…

…

…

Something was wrong. The thread on your finger had turned black, and led to nowhere, fading into the air. It had happened right as you had entered the air zone of the Island of Woe. 

Go back! Turn back! Now is a BAD time! But was there ever a good time? Would there ever be a good time? And despite the alarm bells practically screaming in your head, you advanced. Originally you came here to rescue your friends — even if a few were more reluctant to call you that — but there was something more. It was as if you were here for a reason. 

The right string, your string that led to Grim, was glowing a faint, dark violet. He’s scared. And like hell were you going to abandon your demanding fur-child. Yes, he gave you constant migraines and set the kitchen on fire too many times to really count — forty-seven though according to Deuce — but you loved the little asshole. Loved him enough to face down Idia… Idia who was surrounded by blot. But that wasn’t all, no. Both of you were in a maze, a labyrinth, made of ink. And Idia wasn’t all there, and you knew that a part of him was outside of the maze, as was a part of you. But the parts that mattered were here, stuck in the dripping labyrinth, together.

  And then Idia was gone, either being teleported to somewhere else in the maze, or back outside. In your mind you could see the events unfolding, but you weren’t really there. In the darkness there were two sources of light. The thread on your left pinky was now glowing a blinding gold, and weaving between the inky walls. Going forward. But there was also the string on your right hand, glowing a faint purple and led up. In order to get out of this maze it looked like you would have to follow the blue thread now turned gold which blazed forward like the Sun across the horizon. 

In your mind you could see everyone fighting Idia, could see yourself fighting Idia, but you were following the gold thread through the silent maze.

“Where are you bringing me?” But all you got for an answer was a slight change in brightness. None of this made sense. I really should have researched this when I had the chance. That’s a problem for future me though. 

The thread eventually stopped though, stopping in front of a figure sitting on the ground with his knees to his chest, hugging them. A figure made of blue, gold, and yellow flame. 

…

Idia felt his chest and eyes burning. Why am I crying? He looked through his tear-warped vision, but he was in some sort of labyrinth. Why am I here? The thread was glowing gold, much as it had when he had attempted to cut it. But instead of being unbearably hot, it was warm, like his favourite hoodie. Comforting. But the thread on his right hand had snapped again, and was white. Ortho was gone again. It’s all my fault. Everything is always my fault.

Left changes us. Left is the unknown. Left is possibility.

But it’s also pain, uncertainty, fear, rejection—

“But how do you know that though?” That’s what Ortho said. And Idia didn’t know those things, not for certain.

He curled into himself, trying to ground himself. A curt laugh escaping from his lips. “A labyrinth of all places,” he said quietly into the dripping gloom. Fitting, since Ariadne was hurt most by the person she met there. Are you trying to tell me they’ll come in here, waltzing in like some hot shot hero, only then to ditch me for someone else?

But the thread only continued to glow, leading out into the maze. The only way out is forward. But Idia couldn’t move, he felt frozen, stuck. So he just sat there, letting out the built up grief of years and years come out. The tears gently rolled down his face before falling into the ink. 

“Are you okay?”

A voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and Idia looked up. Standing at the entrance(?), exit(?) of the labyrinth was a figure, their voice distorted, and their body made up of blue, gold, and lilac flames. And he and they were connected together through the gold cord.

Idia moved in further on himself. “No,” he hissed. Obviously he was not okay. “G-go away! I don’t need you!”

But the figure only got closer, and came down to sit next to him, quietly waiting for him. “I may or may not know you, cuz honestly I can’t tell with the weird voice filter and flame suit, but I think you do need me… I know nothing about what this means,” you picked up the gold thread connecting the two of you together, “but I do know it means we’re connected in some way. Also that we can only get out with each other, regardless of if we like it or not.”

Regardless of if we like it or not. Idia hated this entire situation. He was stuck in here, in this maze with his soul match’s inner flame, but he was also outside. Left changes us. “I don’t want you.” I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t want any of this.

It stung a bit, but you knew there was no bite to their bark. “You may not want me, and I may not want you, but I think we need each other. Cuz whatever these strings are, seem to have a mind of their own.” You got off the ground and offered your hand to your gloomy companion. “Now, are you going to sit here in the dark, or do you want to get out of this place?”

Idia looked up at them. You may not want me, and I may not want you, but I think we need each other. They were right. He wouldn’t be able to leave this maze without them. And right now, they were glowing as bright as the Sun, warm, comforting, and bright. Left is to change. Left is the unknown. So, Idia took their hand.

…

…

The two of you walked in silence throughout the maze, the only sound being the drip drip drip of ink hitting the ground. The further you went from where your fellow flame person was moping, the more light there was, and the ink was slowly fading out. But there was still a long ways to go. But the silence was suffocating, especially since you had some questions that needed answering.

“So,” you cleared your throat, breaking the quiet. “What do these strings mean?”

The flame figure, who was in actuality Idia, beside you tripped. They don’t know? How could they not know? “... they’re soul match threads…”

Soul match? “And what does that mean?” It’s not my fault that I don’t know anything about this. I didn’t really receive a “Welcome to Twisted Wonderland!” brochure.

Idia sighed. He was still nervous around you, but the anonymity of the voice filters and the fact that you were made of fire helped calm his nerves enough. “The one on the right is for the person who loves you for you, regardless of flaws.” And his had broke again, Ortho was gone again. “The left thread is for the person who will change you… it also means the unknown.”

“I don’t want you!” So that’s why they were so defensive. “Well, change can be scary. It can be good or bad,” you hummed. “But life is filled with change… Life is change. You can’t truly live without changing, without taking a chance on the unknown.”

“You’re pretty wise,” it slipped out of his mouth before Idia knew, and he was glad that the fire didn’t change colour like his hair did, or else he would have been bright pink. “Sorry, forget I s-said that!”

But you just chuckled, “Meh, just have learned a lot in the past couple of months… blue does mean wisdom though.”

“It also means sadness.” Idia stopped walking. “I don’t want to bring sadness into your life… it seems to be the only thing I bring.”

“Blue can mean a hundred different things, you just have to decide what it means for you. For me? It means a bright clear sky. It’s water. It’s the bright blue of … my friend’s fire. It can mean anything. You just have to give it meaning.” You didn’t really know why you were saying all of this, but you felt like you could be honest with the stranger beside you.

Left changes you. Left is the unknown… the left can be something you choose for yourself? Idia had always thought that his soul match would be different from him. Try to forcibly change him. But they weren’t. They were helping him, giving him… advice? Helping him out of the maze. Which at first was filled with dark ink, but now instead of stepping on the dark surface, they were in a maze made of white marble, and a blue sky dotted with white clouds overhead.

You didn’t look back at Idia when he stopped walking, and instead waited patiently. You don’t know why, but you had a feeling that if you looked back, they would disappear, heading back to the darkness of the centre of the labyrinth. “Come on, we’re almost out.” You offered your hand again, waiting. “Let’s get out of here.”

This time Idia took your hand without a second thought. A blinding light forced the both of you to close your eyes and you found yourselves out of the maze. To the aftermath of the overblot.

…

…

…

It was a week before the physical string on your and Idia’s hand came back. But this time it was different; instead of being purely blue it was a mix of blue and gold, taking on a marbled appearance. Idia’s right thread to Ortho was back too, and he was overjoyed to have his brother back.

“You met them, didn’t you? In the labyrinth?” Ortho asked, noticing that his brother was different, not a bad different either. “That’s how you escaped the blot.”

Idia nodded. Without his soul match, he would still be stuck in the blot, stuck in the dark maze… stuck in obsessing and blaming himself for what happened in the past. Left is the unknown. Left is the future. “They… they were kind.”

Ortho looked at Idia, and there was a smile in his eyes. “Go to them then, nii-san!!!” He harshly pulled on his thread to push his message home. “What are you waiting for, Idia?!”

What am I waiting for? They had already reached out to him, saved him, so it was only fair to find them in return… to show that he changed. So, he gently plucked at the thread, holding his breath as he waited for an answer. And he felt a pull back as an answer.

Just think of it as a side adventure in a game. This isn’t some boss battle. This isn’t a bad ending in an otome game… This isn’t a game though. 

…

You were smothering Grim in hugs and kisses. “I LOVE YOU, YOU FLUFFY JERK!” You muffled into his fur as he tried to escape your affection.

“Nyeh! You’re choking me! Let me go, hench-human!” Grim squirmed out of your grasp, but hugged your leg. “... I missed you too.”

After everything with Idia’s overblot, you had been giving Grim extra love. Yes, he could be an ass at times, but he’s still your friend, and you loved him regardless. Right is for those who love you regardless of anything else. You loved Grim, regardless of everything that he’s done. And he loved you. You two were family. A vibrating sensation on your left hand pulled you from the sweet moment.

The thread connected to your hand was slowly vibrating. So, they’re reaching out? … maybe I did change them? And you lightly pulled on the string. You wanted to find them, if for nothing else than to make sure that they were okay.

“Grim, don’t start any house fires when I’m gone,” you placed a kiss on his forehead before going out the door. Ramshackle was still a disaster zone, but it was still home to you. You could always fix it later. It could wait. But the other person at the end of your blue and gold marbled thread could not.

You didn’t know who they were, you didn’t know who to expect, but you were open to the possibilities. You were open to change, open to the unknown. Open to the future, whatever that may look like with them.

Eventually your string stopped, and looking up from the thread you saw Idia, shaking slightly and looking at the string connecting you two. Focusing so strongly that you had came that he hadn’t even looked up to see who his soul match was.

“I know what you may think of me, but…” he took in a shaky breath, trying to get the vulnerability of his voice under control. “I’m trying to change, accepting that what happened, happened. But it’s going to take me a while to level up-” He cringed at the gaming slang he used.

You placed your hand on his. “How do you know what I think about you if you never really asked me?”

Idia’s head snapped up and he looked at you with wide eyes, hair flashing a flustered pink. “It’s you?!” He practically squeaked. The strong, responsible, and kind Prefect?! “NOT THAT THAT’S A BAD THING THOUGH!”

“Do you think change is so scary, now that we know it’s each other?”

Idia looked into your eyes, and he knew his answer. “As long as we have each other, no. It’s not.”

Fin!

Author's Note; Did I use a popular soulmate trope with the string of fate? Yes. Do I care? No~. I did tie in the mythology of Ariadne, but also of Orpheus & Eurydice. Also some colour language because I can. I hope you enjoy Idia's story! If you like my work, or want to read the other Soul Match AU stories I have, do check out my masterlist!

Tags!

@inkybloom-luv @eynnwwyjth @xxoomiii

[moonsofmachinery]

So this isnt a pride req but you still don't have to answer!! But how do you draw so quickly?? I swear you draw like 2-4 times a day? I wanna get on a really good schedule about that so I can keep up with a art blog but idk how to draw fast! How'd you do it?

I hope it helps If I go over my entire process here because I've been wanting to showcase my process for awhile anyways :}

Haha! Yeah, i usually try and draw ~4 things min a day. Now, let me clarify, to run an art blog you don't have to draw fast! I do try and take breaks if I need them!!! But a lot of my speed has to do with the fact I've just been in a very art-inclined mood as of late :} It's a lot easier to draw if you WANT to draw! and knowing people like my stuff is a huge motivator.

Long post below where I explain my process and some of the shortcuts I take!! :]

For more skill-based tips though, my method definitely helps. Drawing lineless and paying attention to my stabilizer helps a lot. I'm definitely not a perfectionist when it comes to my art and I do tend to reuse poses I KNOW im comfortable with if I'm not in the mood to go all out.

I sketch freely with loose stabilizer using a pencil-like pen that allows me to get a good idea of the details I want down... Ex:

I have a very good grasp on the way i draw slugcats and how their bodies are shaped! Depending on the characters you're drawing, you should try drawing them a TON to get to a point where you can sketch them without even looking at a ref of any kind. My designs tend to stay consistent as I have a solid idea of each slugcat in my mind! It helps me pace myself as I generally don't need refs! :}

Next, I blot out my main body shape. I then, using a clip layer, add in lines and line in limbs! Generally I do this all in the same colour, get the main shapes down before you add detail and all that...

I blot out different regions of my character in different colours and section off areas to ensure I can later select these and go over them! Doing lineless helps me a ton as I don't use a lot of layers! it's just the style im more used to :}

Lastly, I add in my colours and adjust places where I can adding in all markings and details and recolouring where I need to! I use the selection wand to help me and I also use clip layers.

The details are relatively easy for me, most of the time its just getting to doodle whatever I want to make the colour combo look the best I can!!! :} The final result of this one will be posted on its own, but I just use CSP tools to add an outline-- I'm not sure if you use Clip Studio Paint, but if you do, you can use the effect feature!

Its just a little thing I add to make my drawing pop against the background!!!! :D

Anddd thats how I pump out art at an inhuman rate! Drawing is one of the few things I can do without my chronic pain kicking my ass so a lot of my day is spent at my computer cozy n' arting! Drawing for too long does cause fatigue in anyone though! I reccomend listening to something engaging in the background (if your attention can take it) and taking regular breaks every ~15-30 minutes.

This piece took me 30 minutes?? maybe a little more! I hope this gave you what you were lookin for :D!!!!! I wish u well in ur art blog n' make sure not to stress urself!!!!!

[multiverseprincess]

cupid's season | j.h.s (AU) | fall season | blurb #1

multi's note: hey y’all! Cupid’s Season is a series, loosely based on Emma by Jane Austen and its various adaptations. (Yep, this is an AU)

This is the first thing I’ve posted in a while, feedback is greatly appreciated!

tw: amateur writing? unmatched energy (flangst), allusions to smut, fwb situations, mentions of frats, and social events/situations.

Reader has a nickname. Reader is a cis-genered fem.

--------x--------

Basking in the afterglow with Jake was always normal. Until it wasn’t. And when things got weird, Jake got talkative- he always was talkative but this, this broke her heart more than her brain-

“Dais”

“Jake”

“Do you think, do you think your room’s flooring is tilted?”

She got up from where she was resting on his chest, moving to perch herself on her elbow- looking at him, eyes slightly squinty.

“What?” she said, slightly scratchy from all the activity before

Jake could talk her ears off- about Javy’s new investment ideas, about Natasha’s new decor, and even his newest trip to the UK where he stopped by a grocery store and saw the chipotle sauce and it reminded him of her so he bought it for her without a second thought. Jake talked. But not about the things that mattered.

“I just think- that the floor might be slightly tilted,” he said enunciating the words carefully because her reaction and tone threw him off.

She groaned, laying back down, this time on her pillow- “Jake”

“Daisy” he breathed shuffling closer to her and pulling her into his arms. His body was always her safe space. Since he’d moved into the house next door with his aunt and uncle when he was 17.

It didn’t take a lot of effort from her end to make friends, ever. But Jake, Jake was a different story. He played the world around him until he got what he wanted. He radiated a gold-like energy that was hard not to be attracted to. He was warm too- always looking out for his sisters and calling his parents regularly. He stayed in his lane, for the most part socially, but once Javy and Natasha entered the scene, that changed. He walked into spaces, and you’d hear him before you saw him. At 19 he got into a frat and since, he developed a cocky sense of self, which she admits was earned.

Straight A’s, sports scholarship, and he had more to offer than just a good lay. He stayed true to his southern roots and was famous among the girls for his clean and golden boy personality. He was destined for success and he saw it through. Now, at 26- as a CEO and no longer her neighbor but her best friend/frenemy, she knew who he was. While, she managed to stay next to him, through all these phases- she still felt a sense of distance or rather a longing for more.

The benefits had somehow always been there. A quite secret of sorts in their friend group- he wasn’t her first but there was something very intimate and absolute about what they did. Every time they fell into the sheets, whatever transpired, felt like both were telling each other something simple, something sure, and something that warranted all the affection that kept showing itself whenever the other needed it.

It felt like their bodies said- “yeah, this is why” Why for all the times he picked her up, went out of his way when she needed him, when he cleaned up her messes without asking questions, when he covered for her and when he bought her random ass gifts or cooked for her- just because.

Why for all the times she made him dinner when he straight crashed in her bedroom, after coming over after a hard day (sans sex sometimes), when she invited him to parties that she knew he would network the hell out, or when she drove him to his office for whole two months even though it was on the other end of the city.

Talking about it with words just never happened though. She wanted to bring it up many times and he knew but never pushed her. She wondered why he wouldn’t bring it up though. Maybe he didn’t feel the same way was the obvious conclusion for her. But one night when she drunkenly confessed to Nat, she vehemently denied it-

“He may love you more than his old lady” His old lady of course is his truck- the rare reminder he bought from Texas at 16.

As she lay next to him right now, she wasn’t not too sure.

--------x--------

[alittlefrenchtree]

So. The Idea of You.

It’s not spoilers free. I’m talking about details and a couple of (very expected) plot twists.

As quickly mentioned before, I hadn’t huge expectations for the movie and I’ve watched only because I’m interested with what Nick as an actor, even on projects that aren’t for me or that I’m not really enthusiastic about.

My main goal was to not be angry at the end of it. And I’ve kind of succeed? I was briefly angry after one hour and forty minutes BUT nobody acted on the said stupid idea so I didn’t stay angry at the end. Yay.

Things I liked about the movie :

-Roughly the first… Lets say 50 minutes to be generous (roughly until the night at the nyc hotel included). It was silly and cringe and absolutely ridiculous but it was fun. I think it’s even funnier if you followed a band when you were a teenager and read or write the same self insert scenario in fan fictions. And since I did, I laughed a lot. Both Nick and Anne sold the thing from their first scene together. As seen during the promo tour, the duo works quite well on screen.

-The very few glimpses we had at the weight of celebrity on Hayes’ shoulders. When Solène asked if it happens a lot, when he gets recognized in the car, when simple daily life things as even grabbing a thing to eat is an impossible problem to solve, when he understands it’s because he’s famous that he’s loosing his relationship… It’s one of my favorite subjects to write about so I would have been on board with that anywhere and anytime but watching it on Hayes Nick’s face broke my heart all the same. I know this is not that kind of movie but I would have been delighted if it was more about that.

-The very few tries at portraying how boysbands created around a casting process destroy the kids they’re hiring. How each member is pushed in a little box to fit a role that is identifiable, very narrowed and marketable. How music is never at the center of anything for this kids who are dreaming of it. How they all have an expiration date and how they’re all left alone with huge mental health problems that usually leads to self-destruction. I find ironical that in a movie that is described as something for 40yo women who were told they have an expiration date, it’s the 24yo male character who is the target of that through an industry of billions of dollars in their script.

Things I disliked :

-…everything else? I swear I tried to keep an open mind about light, fun and silly cute but the majority of what I’ve watched and heard only felt shallow and empty. I was hard to root for a couple when the majority of the development of their relationship is glossed over. In the second half, bounding and solving problems are mainly portrayed the same way (tonguing each other romantically kissing). Any attempt to develop something past the first half of the movie is terrible. The writing is atrocious even for a light and fun thing. There are cute and fun moments in the second half but there are so little and rare I was mostly bored out of my mind.

-the person who wrote the PR kit and sent Anne and Nick in front of every camera around the world to say that it’s a movie about female pleasure and that female pleasure is a whole character of the movie on the base of an unrealistic 12 secondes fingering scene alone. Straight women around the world, you have my whole compassion, because that was sad as fuck. I understand all too well the need to take liberties with marketing speeches but damn 💀

Here you go! Remember that every word is a personal opinion, disliking half a movie is different from hate and hating the people who worked on it and if you want to write to me saying you disagree with every word I wrote, it’s ok too. But I suggest you to write more arguments than insults if you don’t want to waste your time 😘

[sparklypinkflightsuit]

The Containment Diaries: Entry 1

Pairing: Virologist!Bob Floyd x Reader AND Aviator!Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Apocalypse AU: Loosely based on Stephen Kings ‘The Stand’

Series Summary: A deadly virus has escaped the research compound where you live and work as head Botanist. The military have evacuated and you and a few of the best and brightest have been tasked with finding a cure. Alongside you is your esteemed colleague and Virologist Dr Robert Floyd.

While aboard an aircraft carrier, you meet charming and boyish Fighter Pilot Bradley Bradshaw, and find yourself falling for both men.

As you navigate the cruel new world you’ve found yourself thrust into, who will you choose to keep you from losing your mind?

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Warnings: Warfare, Military Inaccuracies (I’m but a layman, I have no idea what I’m talking about) Smut, Love Triangle, Angst, Fluff, Alcohol, Breakdowns, Apocalyptic themes, Swearing. I think that’s all!

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The first siren sounded at 2:46am. The sky was pitch black and the street lamps had not yet turned on for the morning.

You shot out of bed as your phone blared, the message flashing continuously across your screen;

‘Please stay alert for the following announcement.’

You waited as the noise continued its incessant honking, your heart in your throat as you waited.

You had all been prepped for this, an impending warning. Ever since the outbreak a few weeks ago, there had been talks of nuking if they couldn’t contain it, and you had been on edge ever since.

Yesterday the military arrived, but still you were advised that it was only precautionary and they, mostly, had everything under control and contained to the Infectious Diseases unit on the north side.

Your phone flashed again with another message;

‘All personnel to meet at the South Exit. Evacuations to begin immediately. Do not stop to pack personal belongings.’

You shot out of bed and threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. The cold New England winters were bitter and wet this time of year.

Although you had been told not to pack anything, you grabbed a small backpack and threw in a few essentials; your toothbrush, underwear, socks, mascara (you wouldn’t go anywhere without at least your eyes on) and then you put on your sneakers before you dashed out the door of the apartment complex.

In the dark streets lining the several apartment blocks in the compound, you saw hoards of your colleagues hurriedly exiting their buildings and swarming towards the south side. Fear and impatience already thick in the air as people pushed passed one another.

The street lamps finally flickered on, usually not doing so until 5am, they must have been manually triggered for this occasion.

You noticed how everyone had the same look of worry, etched into a deep frown on their faces. Hundreds of scared adults wrapped in their warmest civvies.

You made your way down the street as fast as you could without pushing passed anyone, and noticed that the military stood either side, funnelling everyone in the same direction.

“Come on, please. My daughter works on the north side, I need to make sure she got out ok. I’ll come straight back I swear!” A man begged one of the military personnel, who held a hand to the mans chest as he pushed him back, shaking his head.

You didn’t catch the rest of the conversation as you were now being pushed by people behind you, a desperate bid to stay on your feet or be trampled by the nervous crowd.

Eventually you reached the South Exit, a series of heavy gates flanked by guarded watch towers. The compound you worked on was so highly protected that you had to have specific clearance before leaving the compound, and no visitors were allowed.

The military stood in neat lines and directed everyone to sit down in rows, tension thick in the air as everyone wondered what was happening. After what felt like forever, when everyone had filed in, the General pulled out a megaphone and drew everyone’s eager attention.

“Alright everybody, I know you must all be scared and confused. It’s very important that everyone listens and does as they’re instructed, as we have to do this quickly.” He turned around to look at his men and women as they ushered in the last few stragglers.

“I’m going to call out your names in alphabetical order, and with your name I’m going to assign you to group A or group B. Group A, when I call your names, you will get up and form a line to the left. Group B, there will be a heck of a lot more of you, so you’ll form three or four lines over to the right.” He instructed, his arm jutting out in the direction of each group.

Everyone murmured to one another, and you sat nervously as you waited.

Name after name was called out, some you recognised and some you didn’t, people shuffling left and right and forming lines. Eventually your name was called.

You stood. “Group A!” The general instructed, and you moved towards the shorter line, considerably more nervous now than you were before. You carefully stepped over hands and legs as you stumbled through the dimly lit courtyard.

Once you had reached the line, a man in uniform placed a tag around your wrist. You flicked your wrist over and were just able to make out your name in the dark.

“I heard we’re getting shipped out to sea to work on a cure.” The woman in front of you whispered loudly to her friend. You recognised her as Alberta from the Infectious Diseases department.

“Well I’d rather be shipped off than be left here when the bombs go off.” Her friend responded.

Your heart began to pound against your chest as you listened.

“Ladies, I don’t think it’s a good idea to speculate right now. Especially not when you’re talking loud enough for group B to hear you.” A deep voice drawled from in front of the two women.

You recognised the twang and turned to look at Dr Robert Floyd as he reprimanded the two scientists, who said nothing, a sour frown on their faces.

You smiled at him, almost if to say thank you, and Dr Floyd nodded at you with a soft smile back, before turning his attention to the front of the line.

You knew of Dr Floyd from fleeting glances in the hallways of your joint apartment block and the occasional times he’d visited the Botany lab for samples of plants he needed for experimental drugs. Most of all you knew of Dr Floyd through gossip that the women in your department allowed to flow freely.

The female scientists and lab techs were shameless when it came to Dr Robert Floyd, never hiding the fact that they were obviously flirting, hard, every time he passed them in the halls or when he approached them for anything work related.

Dr Floyd was extremely handsome, undoubtedly brilliant, and, probably most endearingly, he was extremely shy around the ladies.

He could be hard on his colleagues when he knew they weren’t doing what they should be, but the moment he realised he was being flirted with, Dr Floyd would shut down and go bright red.

You, on the other hand, were not shy, but tried to stay out of everyone’s way, you were not a fan of conflict which was so often rife in the compound, and you just wanted to get on with your job.

You loved plants and you were brilliant at what you did, and to add to the brains, you were also breathtakingly beautiful, which often caused jealousy in your circles. You tried to make it from one day to the next without getting on anyone’s bad side, but it also made it hard to relax and make friends when the competition was so rife.

There were not that many eligible bachelors in the compound, and even though you were not actively on the hunt for one, some of your colleagues felt that you took attention away from them, so when Dr Floyd paid you that tiny bit of attention, the women in front of you shot you a dirty look.

You stood and waited in the short line for what felt like hours, the line for group B growing ever longer. By the time the sun poked its shining head over the cascading walls of the compound, you were finally being ushered one by one into the trucks.

You noticed group B being ushered into what appeared to be school busses, and you overheard one of the army personnel speaking with some of them.

“Your emergency contacts have been notified, they’ll be there to pick you up. Those of you without an emergency contact will be provided with basic room and board until this is all over.”

You stopped listening as you reached the truck and you were helped up into the back. You were instructed to take a seat along the side bench and you’d be briefed shortly.

You sat down next to an older Doctor you didn’t recognise, who gave you a kind smile. He must have noticed you your nervous expression as he mumbled something along the lines of “We’re in the best place we can be.” To which you forced a smile back. Your pulse was so loud in your ears you could barely focus on anything as people started to file in.

You felt someone settle in next to you, but didn’t realise who it was until he spoke.

“Hope you have some snacks in that bag. I think it’s gonna be a long drive.”

He chuckled softly, bringing you out of your trance.

“Oh.” You grinned after a moment. “No… not unless you want to eat a pair of socks?”

Dr Floyd laughed, the corner of his eyes crinkling.

“Practical, I like that.” He said as he pulled his own backpack onto his lap and pulled out a pair of his own socks. “Snap.”

You laughed unexpectedly, a loud snort escaping you, and you clasped your hand over your mouth as the whole truck turned to look at you.

“Sorry.” You mumbled, but this only humoured Dr Floyd more, a deep grin etched on his face.

“I’m Bob.” He said, sticking out a hand for you to shake. You took it.

“I’m (Y/N), but my friends and family call me Rue.” You introduced yourself.

“Why Rue?” Bob asked.

“It’s a medicinal plant I was obsessed with as a kid. I was always telling anyone who would listen about the ‘Common Rue’ and asking them if they had a headache so I could try and make them medicine.” You chuckled awkwardly.

“Is that why you’re a Botanist now?” He asked you with a furrowed brow as he studied you intently. You were surprised that Bob remembered.

“I guess so. It was either that or art, but I figured Botany would get me into more debt and take up more of my time so I chose that.” You joked, Bob chuckled again.

Just before Bob could respond, one of the army personnel climbed into the truck and addressed your small group.

“Hello ladies and gentlemen. I’m Sergeant Williams. I know this must be confusing, but everything is going to be fine. We’ve selected each of you specifically because you are the best in your field, and we need your help.” He scanned the truck making eye contact with each of you.

“The virus has been contained, for now, however we don’t know that nuking this thing will eradicate it completely.” He continued. As he spoke, people began to murmur to one another.

“I’ll need quiet please.” He instructed sternly, and the truck grew silent again.

“We’re taking you all aboard our largest aircraft carrier out in the south Atlantic sea, it’s safe and secluded and has all the equipment you’ll need.”

“Equipment for what?” Somebody asked.

“A cure.” Sergeant Williams put simply, “We need a cure. Truth be told we’ve never seen anything quite like this before. If Ebola and Rabies had a baby, even that wouldn’t be quite as bad.” He suddenly looked grave as he continued quietly. “We can try to contain this thing, kill it even, but what we haven’t told you is that we’ve been trying to do just that for weeks. We couldn’t risk letting anyone panic, so we cordoned off the infectious diseases unit and isolated anyone who came in contact with it to be sure, but it’s proving harder than it looks…” he trailed off, but soon realised how terrified everyone looked.

“However, that’s why we have our brightest and best on the job. We’ve specially selected each of you based on your knowledge and what you bring to the table, you’ll work together and before you know it this will all be over.”

“But what about our families?” Someone called.

“You’re doing this for your families! If you don’t, who do you think will be able to?” Sergeant Williams began to sweat, and as everyone whispered to one another, you sat with your head against the trucks tarpaulin wall and tried not to be sick. Truth be told, you thought you were not meant to be there. If it was only the best of the best, there was definitely some mistake. Your imposter syndrome well and truly flaring up, you thought about sticking up your hand and explaining there must have been a mix up.

But before you could, Bob turned to you with a reassuring smile, and chuckled.

“No pressure then I guess.”

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- Entry 2 Here -

I don’t have a Taglist for this series but I will be updating my Masterlist as I go 💛

[leo-crafts-theories]

Joel

Okay so Joel is a species I've just been referring to as a "fryad", which I fully admit is a goofy name but it's kinda grown on me and anyway I don't have any better ideas.

So. What is a fryad? Well, it's like a dryad, but instead of having a home tree, they have a home... heat source. Fiery place. As a fryad, Joel has a radius around his home where the closer he is, the more energetic and the more powerful he is. His home fiery source? The spawn lava pool in s10!

This doesn't mean he can't go elsewhere. With the exception of Empires 1 and a couple other series, I generally think of mcyts' characters as being the same people unless stated otherwise. But the fun advantage of a heat source over a tree is, they're generally at least a little bit mobile. Joel can pick up some of his home lava and take it with him to other places, and he'll probably end up relatively depowered but otherwise fine! And because lava is renewable via dripstone, or can be mixed with other lava, he can even slowly grow a new pool if he thinks he'll be staying in a new place for a while. (It takes a while for power to build in a source, so simply putting a little bit of source in a big pool does not a big source pool instantly make)

His more natural, powered-up form is loosely kitsune-inspired. He's magmatic, surrounded by flames, all in the shape of a fox-man - pointed ears and snout, paws for hands and feet, big fluffy-looking tail (do not pet the floof! It is made of fire!). The magmatic parts are mostly just whatever Minecraft lava is normally made of, but one can stick other materials into him and have them melt/burn into his form. He has a constant copper intrusion across his head that burns green.

In his depowered form, Joel looks mostly human, but depending on luck, distraction, general vibes, etc. he may at any point still sport some traits from his natural form - e.g. foxy ears, fiery fox tail, or patches of flames across his body that vaguely resemble fur. His iconic green streak is always made of fire, and his eyes always are dark with a deep glow of lavalight like the core of a magma cube.

The spawn pool isn't there anymore. What does that mean for Joel? Well... each of the hermits has a bucket of lava that came from that pool, stashed safely somewhere in their base - either as a mini pool, or just a bucket in an inventory. This vastly increased Joel's effective range in the world, but has (temporarily, at least) left him more or less stuck in his depowered form most of the time, unless he's in certain populated areas. The hermits around Magical Mountain have pooled their lavas together under the mountain, giving Joel a new main source point and a lot more access to his power while he's there.

[bubybubsters]

Left Behind (Lucien x reader)

a/n: I’m mostly winging it but thanks to a comment I have the general gist! Y/n is from the Dawn court btw (I’m in love with the Dawn court).

slight summary: Lucien left y/n for Elain 15 years ago Elain who still gave him the cold shoulder. His life was just getting back on track when he meets a girl age 14 with red hair and russet eyes.

⚠️: nah, ya know the drill, angst!

masterlist part 2 part 3 epilogue

Lucien’s POV

Lucien Vanserra had no idea why every night dreams of her haunted him. Why his thoughts swirled around her. He’d left her 15 years ago and yet she haunted his every breath. Everywhere he went was tainted by the memory of her except the night court. But in the night court Elain was constantly giving him the cold shoulder and he couldn’t stay there. He didn’t have a purpose there.

That was why Lucien was currently standing outside Julian and Vassa’s manor. He stared at the manor, hoping she wasn’t here before barging in and sending out a flair of magic to alert them of his presence.

Jurian came running and hugged him tight murmuring, “you’re an idiot.” Lucien smiled, happy to be home. Jurian led him to the dining room before smirking at him. “Finally come to join us Fierling?” Lucien sighed.

“Well-” he was cut off by a loud banging on the door and a voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

“Open up you prick, my moms going to kill me.” Lucien glanced at Jurian who had gone an interesting shade of white and raised a brow. Jurian gave him a look that probably said stay here and shut the hell up before he went to open the door.

Lucien hesitated before moving on silent feet to listen in.

“I’ll kill him, mom’s trained me.”

“No, Alex, he’s stronger, besides your mom would kill me for letting you try.” Jurian sounded vaguely panicked and was trying not to raise his voice.

“At least let me meet him, see what my mom saw in him. See if he would have been a good father. See if he’s worth fighting for.”

a long pause followed the girls words and Lucien thought of what he’d heard. See if he would have been a good father? What did that mean? Was he a father? That thought excited him, he loved kids. Who was that girl and why did her voice sound so familiar? Before he could try to answer those questions, footsteps echoed down the hall and Lucien quickly moved back to his seat.

Jurian and the girl, Alex, appeared in the doorway and Lucien’s breath caught in his throat. She looked like him, the same shoulder length red hair (I have no idea how long Lucien’s hair is) and same russet eyes. But in subtler ways, Alex looked like her. Y/n. The same nose and mouth but Lucien’s eyes caught on the white Peregryn wings that were unmistakably from the Dawn Court. And most damning of all was her age, Alex looked about 14 probably born a few months after Lucien had left y/n.

Alex stared at him in awe before an indifferent mask settled over her face and her russet eyes became unbearably cold. Lucien finally found his voice.

“you- you’re my daughter.”

A/n: part two anyone? Alex’s character is loosely based off my younger self. If you want to be tagged in part two just say so.

[murawei]

Lu'ran - Is basically just self-insert. Her name supposedly roughly translates to "painter". She is from Omaticaya clan. When I was coming up with her name and traits I was thinking something along the lines of "artist, traveller". She is a painter, but first and foremost - she's an explorer. She can't stay put in one place, she wants to go everywhere and see everything. She happily talks to humans. She wanted to visit the Metkayina clan and eventually that's what she set off to do.

Mawkrit - also based on a real life friend but much more loosely, so I wouldn't say he's a full fledged insert, just an oc. Originally I wanted his name to mean something as well but it wasn't working out so it's just a generated Na'vi name that starts with the same letter. As a child he earned the nickname - "A'loreyu", which later in life became a sort of "stage name".

"Loreyu" is what na'vi call those plants that retract when you touch them. 'ampi - means to touch. I found in some dictionary a long phrase combining the two to mean "touched loreyu" as a phrase to mean "someone who is very shy/bashful" but it was obviously too long to be a name, so I thought maybe I could combine it diffrently. Other na'vi kids would startle him by screaming "A" at him and he would run away thus earning the nickname "A'loreyu".

He is a dancer, a very graceful and effeminate one at that. His clan adores him, but he is very soft spoken and insecure because he doesn't swim as fast as the others.

_________________________________________________________________

Lu'ran and A'loreyu meet when she visits his clan, at first his people are wary of her, but they link up, she comes up with very unique and intricate body paint designs for his performances and the two of them kinda become an iconic duo.

I have some ideas on how to develop this story but generally it's just for funsies, I see their relationship as platonic, familial matters don'treallyinterestthem anyway, they're justchanneling the spirit of Eywa and serving it up, but hey, who knows I leave that up for interpretation for now.

Also the names might be incorrect, but I found it too hard to fully figure out how to make one, so I did as best I could, if someone who knows better wants to correct them, sure, but until then they're Lu'ran and A'loreyu

About art also. So far in the movies we only ever really see painting (specifically body paint and tattoos), dancing and singing/chanting as parts of rituals, but there's plenty of dialogue to suggest Na'vi have at least recreational music. I don't know about visual art, but I find it hard to believe that a highly emotionally intelligent species like them doesn't partake in artistic activities to their fullest extent.

[blimbo-buddy]

another bug world no mercy question, perhaps a little silly one. how do the different bugs view gender? is there trans / nonbinary bugs....like are certain societies more accepting of them than others? i noticed some of the terms you used in the naming post were gendered things (king/queen, mother, sir/madame) so im wondering how those would go if somebug transed their gender

So it somewhat depends on the bug kingdom itself and their culture. Something that also alters the views of gender in the bug kingdoms is the species itself as well

Gastropods and Annelids (Worms) have looser views on gender because in real life, snails, slugs, and worms are all intersex

So in the canon of Bug World No Mercy, all of the characters who fall under either gastropod or annelid are canonically intersex

Slug/Worm society uses their gendered terms very loosely and it's not uncommon to see a slug/worm refer to themselves with he/him, she/her, they/them, or even another set of pronouns

With the Slugs specifically, though they have the title of King/Queen, it doesn't automatically mean that the Slug ruler is a male or female slug based on their title.

Both the Slugs and Worms typically have a "Leaning" term for their citizen's identities

Let me give an example: While Queen Mulch's sister, Ditch, takes up she/her pronouns, Ditch leans more towards masculinity

Generally, Slug and Worm society don't have real "Ideal male/female slugs/snails" ideals going on

However, not all worms have these loose views on gender. Enter: The Hammerhead Slugs. This part might have themes of transphobia with their society, be warned:

While Hammerhead Slugs are both male and female in real life as well, the Hammerheads that came to America began to craft together a strict guide pertaining to them

They must adhere to these guidelines set in place by law

I don't have a solid list of their strict guides yet, that'll definitely be covered in their kingdom guide though (Whenever that comes out)

While a Hammerhead Slug can very much transition to the opposite gender, they are almost immediately expected to begin their process of adhering to the strict rules put onto that gender they're transitioning to. If they try fighting back against those guides? Shame, sneering, shunning. Maybe even prison time, because by law, they are to obey these guidelines

Ants/Bees/Wasps:

Drones (Which in the story, is just a term for males of the species) who decide to become workers doesn't always mean that they transition from MTF. But it's also not uncommon for that to be the case

Drones who transition from MTF have their pheromones change

The smell of the bugs depends on who we're talking about.

Ants:

Female Ants: Damp soil and freshly cut grass

Drone(Male) Ants: Soot

Bees:

Female Bees: Pollen, generally floral

Drone(Male) Bees: Sour fruit

Wasps:

Female Wasps: Tree sap

Drone(Male) Wasps: Wet stone

Once again though, not every Drone who becomes a worker will be MTF, nor will their pheromones change. That is only if the Drone chooses to transition.

These three kingdoms are pretty relaxed when it comes to the topic of transitioning, although not as loose with gender as the Slug/Worm kingdoms are

In all three kingdoms, an ant/bee/wasp can very much be nonbinary as well as FTM

Nonbinary and FTM ants/bees/wasps are typically with the Head/Lead ants

FTM Head or Lead ants/bees/wasps go through the same pheromone change process as their MTF bugs, although they stay as their previous rank

The reason I specifically named these bug kingdoms above is just because they're the ones I have a solid idea of. They're bound to change in some form later down the line.

Also before anyone can say this: I would rather everyone not say something like "Well the Hammerhead Slugs may be evil but at least they're a little cool with transitioning" just because there's so much other horrible shit to them and how they are in the story (Plus their motives)

[maple-writes]

My attempt to introduce Bristlecone:

Details subject to change without notice as I think of better ideas lol

Tagging @concealeddarkness13 since they said they were curious!

Text version under the cut:

Slide one: Bristlecone!

I am trying yet again to edit this story

Slide two: ... Bristlecone?

An older wip (finished last draft back in 2018)

Not sure if I’ll keep the title Bristlecone but I don’t have any better ideas either

I’m finally getting back to it (hopefully)

It’s editing/revising time now

Setting – fantasy with wild west inspiration (simply because I thought it would be neat)

Kind of a murder mystery, kind of a general mystery, kind of an adventure

Which means one of these characters could be the culprit… Or not… It’s a mystery…

Slide three: Viper (one of the POV characters)

That’s not her real name

Deputy of the Aristata and unofficially Winter’s girlfriend (They act as more than just working partners but neither has said anything to each other to acknowledge this)

Observant but tends to ignore her gut feelings

Loves horses, and is in charge of training them

Is unable to speak to people she doesn't know, and then can only manage a whisper

Has had a rough decade or so before joining the Aristata to say the least

Slide four: Honey Davis (the other POV character)

That’s not his real name

Was training to take Cecil’s place as a Mortician Mage until recent events stopped that

Newly recruited as a mercenary to the Aristata

He has some… Secrets (some of which he himself doesn’t even know)

Orphaned as a child when his parents were executed (for good reason)

Something off about him. Eyes shine at night like a cat.

Kind, gentle, and would have made a very good Mortician Mage

Slide five: Winter Balfouriana

This is her real name!

Leader and founder of the Aristata

Viper’s girlfriend

Last surviving member of fairly powerful/noble family of demon slayers

Prior to the “disaster” which killed her family, her mother had trained her in enchanted metalsmithing

Tenacious and strategic, and genuinely cares for her mercenaries

Respectful and fair

Slide six: Stark Jiang

Sees the best in people and tends to treat people as friends unless proven otherwise

Tbh to the point where it’s easy to forget he’s just as deadly as Viper

The first person to join Winter as a mercenary, before their little group even had a name

Pretty hard to rattle him and most of the time he’s just vibing

Very reliable and very trustworthy

Slide seven: Other people

Cecil Davis – Wayton’s Mortician Mage and the man   who took in Honey after he was orphaned 

Taiga – Cecil’s weird dog

Lady Alabaster – Countess of Vindale. She hired   the Aristata to settle a conflict with a   neighbouring Lord

Ren Alabaster – Lady Alabaster’s son (he’s gone   missing)

Annie and Theo – The other two members of the   Aristata

Slide eight: Stuff that's going on

Basically, Lady Alabaster’s son goes missing in the middle of the night

That same night Winter finds Honey alone in desert

 The Aristata agree to stay under Lady Alabaster’s employment to try and find her son

So what happened to Ren Alabaster?

Is he even still alive?

What’s the deal with this Honey kid?

Could it perhaps be an issue that Viper doesn’t like to accept what she knows to be true and instead deny to avoid recognizing uncomfortable truths?

Who knows, could be anything!

Slide nine: ~worldbuilding~

It’s fantasy loosely based on wild west aesthetic

There are demons, there are gods and there are fae (technically all three are the same thing but it’s complicated)

Most of the story comes out of a place called Vindale, governed by Lady Alabaster

[loneberry]

Interview on AI / Tech / Poetry / Labor

My writer friend Christopher Soto is interviewing me for a piece on poetry, AI, creative writing, and labor. Most of this is going to be cut, so why not post the first draft here?

*

CS: Recently we went on a hike and were talking about the intersection of literary production and artificial intelligence. You described us as part of “the last generation to experience raw human emotion,” can you elaborate on this idea?

JW: Let me clarify that remark. We’ve been cyborgs and pharmacological hybrids for a long time. I don’t think there’s something like an ideal state of authentic humanness, nor do I think that humanness is better than non-humanness. What I’m referring to is the saturation of distractions, which for me reached a crisis point during the pandemic, when my existence was almost entirely mediated by the internet. Just before the pandemic I had ditched my smartphone for almost a year, but got back on it during quarantine since I was always connected anyway. I became palpably aware of how the very rhythm of my being is regulated by technology designed—using behavioral science research—to be addictive by high-jacking the dopamine reward system. I think people dramatically overstate their “will” and “agency” in relation to technology. 

Being hyper-connected made me feel my emotional life was becoming increasingly shallow, that I was just being numbly-entertained-toward-death, and pharmacologically adjusted to serenely endure this horrific existential condition while the world literally burns. As a poet, I find it very disturbing. For me, being a poet is not necessarily about the production of poetry, but about the training of a certain kind of consciousness: the dilation of perception and emotional states, the sensitization of one’s antennae, the tuning of one’s soul for a greater awareness of the mystery of existence, its splendors and absurdities. 

CS: We have talked about literary production becoming a collaboration with artificial intelligence, so that the writers of tomorrow will essentially be prompt makers and editors, which input prompts into AI and then edit creative works based on the responses provided. What do you think this would mean for the future of literary culture and cultural production? 

JW: I think we could soon reach a point where certain types of writing (screenwriting, journalism, newsletters, web content production) and certain para-literary activities (editing, proofreading, researching) could be fully or partially automated. Some say that the new job that will be created as a result of generative AI and Large Language Models (LLMs) like ChatGPT will be “prompt writer.” There may come a day when plot-driven commercial fiction is written by AI with the help of prompt writers. 

A lot of writers economically support their literary practice through various forms of commercial writing and editing—some of those jobs might disappear. In recent decades, it’s already gotten so difficult to survive economically as a writer. At the same time, it’s gotten hard to survive in general, given how obscenely high rent is these days. You can’t just scrape by on almost nothing and hope it works out at the end of the month by frantically combing your couch cushions and the pockets of dirty jeans for loose change and cash. You need good credit to even rent a place! On a societal level, art suffers when subsistence costs are high—it becomes more commercially driven, and artists become more “professionalized.”  

CS: Do you think that AI will just stay as a mechanism that will help facilitate human writing of poetry but never become “the artist”? I anticipate there will be a shrinking in the distinctions between “the artist” and “the editor.”

JW: I’ve already heard of writers and students using AI to help edit and develop their work, or generate ideas. But I don’t really trust the aesthetic judgment of ChatGPT, ha! 

CS: I’m excited to see the mechanics of literary production transform. You are a bit more hesitant, why so? Are there any AI attempts at literature, which you’ve seen already, that feel particularly noteworthy?

JW: Maybe on some deep level I’m a basic bitch who has a sentimental attachment to the way “writing” has been done for nearly 5,500 years. From cuneiform clay tablets to computer keyboards, the writing process has actually changed very little for thousands of years. It was probably ripe for disruption. But I’m ultimately disturbed by the collective effect it will have on language use—the move toward a statistical norm and the treatment of language as purely informational. I had already started to fret about this when Gmail started autocompleting my emails. (ChatGPT is basically a sophisticated auto-complete that convincingly mimics understanding. This is why it “hallucinates” made-up citations and rattles off fake facts.)

Will the weird, jagged, irregular effusions of language gradually be purged as we drift toward the statistical average? I don’t know, maybe I think of it as something akin to language eugenics. Perhaps I’m hopelessly modernist in my view that language is not about transmitting information or even advancing a plot, but the wayward movement of a thought: the sentence as a technology of consciousness, with its serpentine twists and turns, perverse digressions, and rhythmic pulsations.

I’ve seen AI being used in the conceptual writing and art world for a while now. Some of it is cool and novel in a “party trick” kind of way (like the Twitter poetry bots I followed when I used to use Twitter), but I’ve yet to encounter AI work that I’ve been enamored with. I don’t doubt that AI will (very) soon be able to produce really impressive work,  and that’s partly because it’s parasitic on past human creativity insofar as it’s trained on vast reams of linguistic data generated by humans. 

CS: Can emotion or spontaneity ever be captured by an algorithm? Is there any way in which AI is like the subconscious (making connections between unrelated concepts, juxtaposing words in a way that pleases the ear and mind, using knowledge in unforeseen ways)?

JW: The AI can convincingly mimic emotion. Tell ChatGPT about your problems and you will feel like it really cares, like it’s really listening to you, just like you might feel when you are personally addressed—are interpolated—by the language of advertising written in a voice of concern or understanding.

For nearly a century, artists have used aleatory methods to make connections and generate juxtapositions that get us beyond the limits of human consciousness, whether it’s the surrealist exquisite corpse practice, William S. Burroughs’s cut-up method, or John Cage’s use of the I Ching and other chance methods in his music compositions. AI could certainly be deployed to such ends. Yet LLMs like ChatGPT are designed to be “predictable” in the same way that autocomplete uses probabilities to predict the next word. I think unlocking a weirder side of AI might involve finding ways to break or fuck with it so it doesn’t just generate the mediocrity of the average.

CS: Do you think collaborations between literary artists with artificial intelligence will create a new economy of poetry in the English speaking United States or will it fall into and transform one of the currently existing poetry economies (academia, spoken word, insta poetry)?

JW: How many poets do you know who can support themselves on their poetry alone? I think I know zero. (Maybe Lisa Robertson could count?) Mostly, I know poets who teach in the academy, poets who do astrology, poets who work as editors at publishing houses, poets who have office day jobs, etc. I don’t think AI will change that. Maybe generative AI will create a glut of language that will make poets even more superfluous, ha!

CS: At large, poetry isn’t very lucrative but this doesn’t mean that it doesn’t impact people’s livelihoods still. Why do you think it is important to think specifically about the intersection of poetry and AI?

JW: The thing I love about poetry is its uselessness, the way it is, with a few exceptions, superfluous to capital, difficult to commodify, gratuitous in its insistence on avowing that which has been marked valueless by our hyper-commercial culture. When I think of Sapphic lyrics or Homeric epics, I am reminded that poets once occupied a quite prominent social position, as keepers of history or ceremonial performers. In a culture oriented almost exclusively around lucre, there’s not really a place for poetry. At a dinner party recently I tried to explain “what I do” to entrepreneurs and realized I came across as “quaint,” that what I do will always register as doing nothing to those who use money as a metric to measure the value of a particular activity. Yet at the same time, the intense pressure to perform in our brutally competitive society has generated a hunger for poetry—poetry as a space to preserve the incalculable and restore the part of us that has been destroyed by the soul-crushing dictates of capital. 

On a conceptual level, it’s interesting that the things that make poetry so “difficult” and inaccessible to some people—it’s ambiguity, lack of clearness of meaning, context dependency, and attention to the non-semantic register of signification—is also what has made language such a tricky problem for AI developers. Language isn’t simply a system of rules, which is why the statistical approach beat the linguistic rules-based approach in the natural language processing wars.

CS: What would you consider the start of collaborations between artificial intelligence and poets? I’m thinking about Rupi Kaurs using instapoetry as a closed form that is responsive to algorithmic metrics. By responding to the algorithms that make her poetry go viral, she is in effect collaborating with AI, right? I’m also thinking of Kien Liam’s book “Extinction Theory” that was written with the help of search engine responses. Maybe this depends on our definition of artificial intelligence?

JW: I suppose we’re always collaborating with technology. Since I’ve written most of my works longhand (my first draft of Carceral Capitalism was written on index cards), I often think about how the technology of the computer actually changes the texture of my thinking. Technology can also shape the “form” of writing—think of the way that the character limit of Twitter encodes a particular form. We’ve certainly reached a point where writers are not simply “responding” to AI, but AI is directly shaping the written work.

CS: Do you think AI will influence some literary genres more than others and why? I’m thinking commercial genres like popular non-fiction might be the first to change.

JW: I think writing that is informational (popular non-fiction) or plot-driven is ripe for automation. I don’t know why, but whenever I ask ChatGPT to write poetry or imitate the style of a writer with an idiosyncratic style (Virginia Woolf, W. G. Sebald), the results are atrocious. I’m sure it will improve quickly, though. 

CS: The Writers Guild of America is currently about to strike, in part over how to renegotiate the use of AI in Hollywood. As a scholar of carceral studies, what do you think is an ethical approach to understanding intellectual property and the likeness of an artist, in the era of AI?

JW: Since I’m fundamentally against private property, I’m against intellectual property as well. Yet AI developers use the “fair use” paradigm to claim they are justified in training their systems on copyrighted works. In my ideal world, we would not need to commodify our works in order to eat, but since we live in a market society, we must pay attention to the question of how writers are going to be able to put food on the table. The fact that generative AI is parasitic on the entire archive of human creativity is fundamentally a labor problem. Should AI be allowed to imitate living writers and artists, and will the imitations be commercialized at the expense of living creators? The legal architecture undergirding generative AI hasn’t been worked out yet, but I’m ultimately in favor of enshrining strong labor protections for living creators.

CS: How is AI going to redefine certain concepts, like originality and plagiarism? I think we have already seen some examples of this in the music industry, such as the AI generated songs using the voice of musicians like Drake. In poetry might it look like someone asking AI to create poems in Shakespearean sonnets but with the vernacular of lets say, Maya Angelou?

JW: The voice imitation software trips me out. I started doing research on voice surveillance in early 2019 and tested out some voice mimicking technology then. It was terrible. Now, it can replicate someone’s voice with uncanny accuracy. The technology is evolving so rapidly. 

I don’t feel particularly attached to an idea of originality. Mixing, collaging, generating new things by constellating old things—it’s all part of the creative churn. I love it when art circulates and mixes in a way that is wild and free. But the question of how artists will support themselves when technology enables endless, free replicability is a question that needs to be addressed. 

CS: This opens up the conversation of racial appropriation (and digital Black face) via AI. The literary world has a history of racial imposters. What might this look like when intersecting with AI?

JW: Since AI is ultimately a mimicry-machine, I think this is certainly a risk. I can imagine an author asking ChatGPT to rewrite a chunk of dialogue in, say, Black Vernacular English. (Although as someone who is opposed to the ownership model of culture and in favor of hybridity, I have complicated views on the idea of cultural appropriation in general.)

CS: How do you think the literary community, specifically the awards part of the community, might react if they discover that a writer has been generating their books in collaboration with AI?

JW: I think if it’s done covertly they will treat it as plagiarism rather than collaboration. Done overtly, it becomes a way to market a book. (Though I think the “AI book” is old-hat at this point.)

CS: In closing, are there any parallels that you see between what is happening now and the industrial revolution? I am thinking about the automation of labor and whether AI can help lead us to universal basic income, a post-work economy, or at least a reduced work week?

JW: There are definitely parallels with the industrial revolution, which put our species on this path of ever-accelerating accumulation (well, some say it all began with the Agricultural Revolution, though David Wengrow and David Graeber critique the agricultural theory of social inequality in The Dawn of Everything). Without a doubt, LLMs and generative AI will profoundly reshape the economy, leading some industries to collapse completely (the education technology company Chegg was the first to crash) while others are transformed—that tendency toward creative destruction is an inherent feature of capitalism. Generative AI will make humans more “efficient” and “productive.” But what is all this efficiency for? Technology has been evolving at breakneck speed since the industrial revolution and we are still working just as long and hard. Efficiency has become our bondage. Once the logic of accumulation enters the bloodstream, it seems hard to stop, partly because accumulation is bottomless (until we hit a hard ecological limit) and feeds on itself. As the Austrian writer Robert Musil wrote in The Man Without Qualities, “We have gained reality and lost dream. No more lounging under a tree and peering at the sky between one’s big and second toes; there’s work to be done. To be efficient, one cannot be hungry and dreamy but must eat steak and keep moving. It is exactly as though the old, inefficient breed of humanity had fallen asleep on an anthill and found, when the new breed awoke, that the ants had crept into its bloodstream, making it move frantically ever since, unable to shake off that rotten feeling of antlike industry.” 

I wish writers could just sit around and be dreamy instead of having to eat steak and keep moving. I do hope we one day arrive at a post-work society. It makes me sad to think that we’ve tacitly accepted a system where we spend our lives toiling for the profit generation of the ownership class, squandering our short, precious life on this planet. 

[originemesis]

@micsmasmuses cont. from xxx

There’s a loud laugh that escapes him. Already dressed with a snap of his fingers. A sharp toothed grin looks his way as he eyes Adam over. Coming closer to him to really get a look. Not like he made a move to leave after all! He can’t help but make a slight move as a finger gently runs under his chin and leans close. Still grinning wide as he makes himself his height to look Adam in the eyes. It’s been a while since he really looked at him, took in his sweet familiar scent and everything. “If it didn’t happen then why aren’t you leaving. Did you miss me? Did you miss me sticking my dick down your tight throat” he purrs. His hand soon resting on his chest as he looks him in the eyes of his really stupid mask. “Will ya stick around if I say I missed you?” He teases him with a pout. Batting his lashes as he presses close. Getting a feel he makes a slight face. He runs his hands over his middle as brow raises. “Soft- why are you soft? Did you let yourself go up there in heaven?” He smirks at him.

There's something mildly irritating about the way the other could be instantly dressed with a finger snap, and yet he'd just been waiting around for heaven's scapegoat of the day to come trip-trapping into his powder room- as if he had anything to show off. The first man would know- he was the Dickmaster, after all. His first two wives were clearly clinically lacking in taste.

With the frontal assault to the senses finally subdued and garbed, he lowered the wing with the same surly energy of a sore loser that picked rock against paper, and tucked the hook of it back beneath his arm. If there was one thing he hated most about dealing with this clown, it was that he was all too aware of just how the first human souls shrunk from sudden and blatant displays of nudity like bats with a whole ass flashlight aimed at their face. So of course the fucker was gonna have a field day with him whenever he was forced down for an in person visit via nude jump scares.

The feathers at the base of his shoulders rose ever so slightly the closer the other stalked until they bristled immediately upon a gloved hand fondling his chin and tipping it back as if to take a peek down the high ridges of his collar whose spikes served little more as deterrents then the emoted teeth that flash a warning at the shape shifter once he caught that look in his eyes-...wait, his... eyes? Adam squinted, the depth of his gaze swiveling down, distracted. "-did you seriously just summon some high heels? Nice complex." For the head of hell, anyway.

Though it seemed there wasn't any complex that was going to distract him from digging at why heaven's general was reaching up to roll his palm up the back of his neck to straighten his collar back before talons twitched and snatched Lucifer's face to dig the sharp ends in, squishing those dumb clown cheeks harshly like doing so might alleviate the heat he feels pooling under his mask. "I'm here because my bitch of a boss said so... and because she probably wants your dick down my throat, so." To shut him the hell up, anyway. Ugh, little did she fucking know... his throat clenched and he gave a sharp ruffle of feathers, an indication the other's words were getting under his gear.

"...?!"

There was a brief skip of his better judgement when the sentiment stalled between them. Jaunty as it was, he wasn't entirely immune to coaxing that gave him any idea that someone- shockingly, would have him stay with them...well, willingly. And faced with such an idea after being turned loose from the embassy with it practically celebrating his departure like the dickwads they were, well. High strung shoulders sagged, and his teeth became a troubled frown as a deeper breath pushed his chest into the trailing touch. "We still have a meeting you know. Afterwards I...might need a drink." Because dealing with the devil was so tedious-right?! Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight?

Case in fucking point- any semblance of a quiet resolve reached immediately shattered with the jovial gut patting through his robe. His wings flared in offense, his gut noticeably sucked in after the fact. "Oh, it must be so easy to judge me, Mr. Height Adjustment?! Fuck off. We can't all fake being perfect-" Though from his gear that looked the farthest thing from humanity's faults, it was likely clear to the real shape shifter between them that he'd tried to do... just that.