#YOU HEAR ME WRITERS
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i do unironically think the best artists of our generation are posting to get 20 notes and 3 reblogs btw. that fanfic with like 45 kudos is some of the best stuff ever written. those OCs you carry around have some of the richest backstories and worldbuilding someone has ever seen. please do not think that reaching only a few people when you post means your art isn't worth celebrating.
#i often wonder about how many things would be considered classic or high art had they only received the marketing#how many short films that were made for class could have been the most powerful thing you'd ever seen? if you'd seen them?#“you know the greatest films of all time were never made” etc etc#but like. these works of art ARE being made. it's just enjoyed by a smaller audience with equal impact though#i think about this one furry i used to follow on insta who had the coolest worldbuilding ever. it's been years.#thought prompted by that sketch of nimona from ten years ago that was just for a character design#posted to the creator's tumblr and now it's nominated for best animated feature film at the oscars#and by the genuine emotional reaction a fan comic made me feel. how much work had gone into it. how beautiful it was to me.#idk what to tag this but i hope whoever needs to hear it does#writing#writer#fandom#fandom culture#artist
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That feeling when he can't stand to see you that way, no matter what you do, no matter what you say😩😭💔
#scott pilgrims precious little life#scott pilgrim vs the world#spvtw#spto#scott pilgrim#wallace wells#lisa miller#scollace#kim pine#natalie adams#envy adams#don't rlly know if I like how this turned out but oh well;;;#hope its obvious that this is based on the song “Scott Pilgrim” which the creation the comics were inspired from#the lyrics always make me think of Wallace and Lisa's feelings for Scott every time I hear it#ofc you could also relate it to Kim especially since the singers voice kind of reminds me of her#but overall the lyrics fit these two much better since Scott never truly “saw them that way” despite how long they've liked him#and they always seem happier to see him compared to Kim#Im surprised tho that I havent yet seen anyone draw these two together now that their dialogue parallels have been acknowledged more lately#also tho I wish more people pointed out that they both got cucked by red heads LOL#and Kim and Envy actually do look really similar when scott first meets them#makes me wonder if Scott subconsciously went for Envy since she reminded him of Kim (which would be fitting given that you could argue that#Envy dated Scott because he reminded her of Todd. Since he and Scott are confirmed to be meant to be seen as similar to one another#so much so that even their first and last names rhyme#last thing I'll add tho is that while Wallace and Lisa are very similar even personality wise#the one big difference is that despite that whole conclusion on vol4 of Scott not cheating on Ramona with Lisa because he loves her#the writers apparently think it would be “organically correct” for him to have an affair with wallace LMAO#but I guess we shouldn't be surprised since Wallace and Ramona are both in the front of the official valentines art which is clearly#a deptiction of Scotts wet dream or smth (oh and you could also argue that Wallace and Lisa parallel on that art since they're both#shirtless with white socks.. which could be a reference to how lisa wears skimpy clothes for Scott and Wallace often only wears boxers#to like sexually frustrate Scott for fun or smth
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she will destroy you.
pairing: abby anderson x afab!reader
music: crack baby or bag of bones ( or anything from puberty 2 ) - mitski
word count: 3.3k (i'm exhausted)
summary: rumours are swirling, fighting their way through your front door. you hope to keep your work and private life separate, but your proximity with your boss threatens to catch up with you.
warnings: mean!toxic!abby, cheating, porn with a LOT of plot, swearing, tipsy sex, fingering, oral (r!receiving), zero ( i mean ZERO ) aftercare, angst-ish
an: a quick intermission from cowboy!ellie because LORD. i read one page from one book abt a butch teacher yearning for the headmaster's wife and suddenly I NEED AFFAIRS!! I NEED YEARNING!! I NEED SECRECY!! and who better to do that with than a rlly mean ceo!abby who has a PhD in fucking bitches.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
“Shit.”
A line of scarlet trickles onto the warm printer paper and settles. You drop your paperwork on an unknown desk and suck your finger, hissing through your teeth at the sting. Your phone buzzes impatiently in the back pocket of your work pants, and you fumble with your non-bleeding fingers to pull it out.
we’ll talk abt this when u get home
see u after ur party i guess
A shit fucking day.
You hall back to your desk, defeat slumping heavy on your shoulders. The Office makes an effort not to stare as you walk by, low whispers hot on your feet like coals in a firewalk. You pretend very poorly not to see the half-lidded, secretive looks shared between your old work friends by the water cooler. Water off a duck’s back, your mom used to say in a nonchalant way when you cried to her about mean girls at school. Not that you ever really knew what that meant.
You were never really thankful to be shut off from the rest of the cubicles, until now. A fortress of frosted glass and a heavy door, your desk was the secluded gateway to a place dreaded. Just you and The Boss, which you guess didn’t help the flying tongues of the old, bored fucks in accounting, but it kept people away. Away from you, with their knowing looks and unknowing laughs.
You huff, settling into your uncomfortable desk chair and digging out a small first aid kit your dad bought you when you first started. Pulling the seal off the small tin, you eye its contents. Disinfectant, thermometer, some loose aspirin and bandaids. You whine lightly as you wrap one tightly around your ring finger, feeling it throb and pulse, like a complaint. Get over yourself, you tell your body.
A sharp - ahem - breaks through your mumbling silence. She’s never sick, she never coughs. It’s a bodiless beckoning, a call into the wild, it’s the wordless agreement you have with her. You pick up your notebook, and the nearest working pen, and shuffle quickly through the open door into her office.
The opaque shades are drawn, the natural light greying and dying on the dark, decaying herringbone floor.
Abby is bathed in the orange light of her desk lamp. With impeccable, almost effortless posture, she’s resting her forearms on her desk, one hand scratching notes into her diary, the other distractedly tapping on the leather top. You follow the shadows that the folds in her dress shirt create, your eyes falling on the contour of her body.
You know she frequents a few gyms. You’re the one who schedules late night international calls around her evening runs, and her weights sessions, and her triweekly spin class. But now, the results of her efforts are on display, tightly wrapped in expensive cotton, perfectly tailored, down to the very last stitch, to her existence. You swallow an uncomfortable feeling when she deigns to meet your eye.
She looks you over in the way she always does, an uncaring, but judgemental once-over, like an army sergeant inspecting a uniform. she hones in on the bandaid,
“Workplace injury?”
Her voice has the warmth of a dying cigarette, rolling like well-spoken honey off her lips. You almost feel ashamed, your finger so offensive to her you could chop it off. You almost feel like you wouldn’t even mind. You start picking at the ends of the bandaid with your thumb.
“Paper cut.” Your voice is always so out of place here. An echo of something that does not belong. She nods her head, ever so slightly, as if she understood.
“Don’t think you can go claiming compensation for that.” It’s a joke you’re not allowed to laugh at. You smile lightly instead. It’s short-lived, “I need you to correct some seating arrangements for tonight.”
Yes, of course. No problem. In wordless agreement, Abby starts listing off adjustments, complaints and warnings from guests about not being seated next to their five ex-husbands, or their whining step-children, or ex-business partners fallen from grace. your pen fingers begin to ache as the whole process draws out.
“And I’m going to need you seated at my table, to keep track of my evening itinerary.”
Uncertainty quickly sows its seeds in your stomach. The unopened messages from your girlfriend burn their way through pocket, searing at your legs like a brand on cattle. Everyone knows, everyone will know. Every detail of your life will be laid bare, and you’ll be tried publicly and without mercy. Your bandaid begins to unravel as you rub anxiously at the glue underneath.
You need to do something, something to get things back under control.
“Actually,” You start, unsure. Abby meets your eye quickly, without hesitation, “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it tonight.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” It’s quick, and condescending. Undercutting any sudden courage you may have had, she meets your eye and stares you down, pinning you under ice, almost imploring you to feel terrified. And then she looks away, busy packing away the seating chart, and you wonder if she even looked at you at all.
She stands, and you try to meet her, your hands clutching your notebook.
“Your attendance tonight is mandatory.” She says it slowly, harshly, like it’s hard for you to understand. Her eyes chase quickly over your outfit, “It’s a black tie event.”
You’re left alone in a dark office, hyperventilating.
The apartment is empty and cold when you arrive home. 7 unanswered texts to your girlfriend tell you she doesn’t want you near her, but she isn’t packed. You expect her to come home, hopefully in the hour you have before you have to go again, and you contemplate just blowing the gala off to wait.
Abby’s voice is sharp in your head, a familiar dedication wringing your body. You can’t leave her. She needs you there.
You put off the conversation with your girlfriend into the furthest parts of your mind, allowing yourself to be swallowed in the minor decisions of clothes and hair and accessories. It’s not until you’re throwing your shoes on, and three times you think you hear her keys in the door, that you give up.
The phone rings 5 times before going to voicemail.
Hey. Listen. I know we said we weren’t going to talk until we were face to face but..
Whatever Maria told you wasn’t true, okay? I promise-I fucking promise you, nothings happened. Baby, okay? People are fucking bored, and I love you, so so much. I’ve gotta go to this one thing tonight - i tried to get out of it i swear -, and i’ll come home and we can talk, and we can fix this. Okay? Jus-Just, gimme some time to explain. Okay. I love you. Bye.
Echoes of quiet chatter uncomfortably ebb and flow off the walls of the ballroom. Too many people. Shoes scuff the cheap marble as the rich make their rounds, with light touches and reused laughter. They all hate each other.
Abby is a familiar sight. Wearing the same thing she has all day, she looks staggering. Hands just breaching her suit pockets, comfortably falling at her side, her hair in a calculated braid, designed to make her look approachable.
The air here agrees with her, her smile wide and effortless. You know she’s come straight from a meeting, and you suppose that adds to her charm. The Working Woman, a success story. Her rich friends, who spend their inheritances on shares and indoor tennis courts, lap it up. She’s a foreign object, something unfamiliar and wild.
You don’t interrupt, skimming the sidelines to get to your table. You can feel her glance, without substance, before returning to her conversation. Your event planner ( a shitty flip notebook that fits in every small clutch you own ) sits on the tablecloth at your seat, and you wait. Eyeing the glasses at the placemats next you, you can tell a few drinks has been shared, raking your eyes over Abby’s looser disposition.
She’s happy, and charming. She’s been drinking bourbon. Mint, with ice and syrup, the way you serve it to her in her office, when the occasion calls for celebration.
Her conversation finishes, her soft hands bidding gentle, kind goodbyes to the couple as they move on. She’s a friend to the people that matter.
“I expected you here before me.”
She doesn’t bother to look at you as she sits, instead fixing her napkin to her lap. You watch as the veins in her neck rise and fall as she talks, “Doesn’t matter now. Run me through everything.”
Right, fuck. You open your notebook and run your fingers over the scratchy writing. Your days leading up to this were spent copying details from obscure emails, tidbits you thought Abby needed to remember. Late nights at the office, life abandoned, deciphering biographies and 2 hour youtube deep dives. You can watch yourself fall asleep from the future, your handwriting slipping, long and longer strokes, spelling dissolving, long words abandoned. your pen fell to the floor, and you slept at your desk. Twenty missed calls. You argued when you came home in the morning.
“The Ambassador is arriving around 8:00pm with his new wife, also named Rebecca. Oh, Old Rebecca emailed asking why she didn’t receive an invitation.”
She’s slowly sipping at another whiskey, a different cocktail she ordered just as you’d arrived. The orange peel brushes her nose as she tilts the glass, her jaw tightens as she swallows, “Tell her the venue was at capacity. Send some flowers.”
It continues like this for a bit. Quiet and attentive, she listens to what you have to say, as her eyes follow the crowd. You too, spy people that you know, a few slimy execs that share a whisper and a boisterous laugh as they look your way. You order gin.
Soon enough, Abby checks her watch. An inexpensive, vintage piece of leather and quartz. She excuses herself with a measure of politeness. It’s time for an hour of speeches that don’t matter, before you’re finally allowed to eat. You sigh.
A quiet buzz rips through the growing silence. You open your clutch and hide your phone under the silk tablecloth, away from the disapproving elderly eyes.
i told u to leave me alone
jesus christ
A pit in your stomach. Dark, pressing, ever present. Your saliva is heavy in your mouth, and you feel like shrinking away. Luckily, the waiter isn’t far. Drinks are discounted for the company staff.
Finally, speeches finish. Abby looked nice on the stage, effervescent under the lights. Her hair catches warm light nicely in the strands.
The food comes, but people disregard it for shallow conversations. Plates are taken away full, apart from slim, polite pickings. Your table orders more drinks, and syrupy laughter echoes as anecdotes about private schools and hedge funds are shared. You don’t belong here. Your body becomes unsteady, restless. Your legs shaking, a hand finds you thigh in the veiled secrecy of the table cloth.
Abby’s not looking at you, too engaged in tipsy conversation to draw attention. A nice gesture, but it’s not. It’s wordless agreement. Her thumb traces the outside of your thigh mindlessly, her jaw clenching as she feels your gaze.
You hesitate.
What else did you have to do? Apart from go home and wait for an argument.
You let her touch you a little longer, soft, ghostly. It’s kind, unmistakably. You let yourself revel in it, in her uncommon affection, before excusing yourself to the bathroom.
Abby follows not long after. She’s confident, her position charismatic, not unlike the other times she finds a drink, and then goes to find you. She doesn’t stop, so sure that you’ll follow her trail as you’ve done so often before. But you hesitate, again.
She turns back to you, a look on her face that’s hard to decipher. You stumble in your reasoning.
“It’s just-, my girlfrien-“
“Are you coming? Or not?”
Your palms itch, you swallow.
What kind of sick sacrifice. Unfair to have both, some would say, but some don’t know you. How wicked it is to taste both fruit and have to choose the sweeter. Fuck. The drinks settle in your stomach.
Your girlfriend wasn’t coming home tonight anyway, not really.
She’s leading you up the stairs, hands flush to her body. You grip the cold handrail to hold you steady. She’s already steps ahead, the appropriate distance.
A quiet corner doesn’t need to be found. She’s been here before. You’ve been here before. The holy emptiness of the second floor is an accustomed comfort.
She’s quick and calculated, despite the mix of drinks on her breath. One hand pushing you to the wall, the other finding the zipper for your dress. It falls off you like it never belonged to you, kicked away and piled into a corner, forgotten.
Gripping you like you’d run away, she palms your tits and presses crescent moons into your hips. She holds her head away from you, watching you down her nose as you squirm. Abby has always remained detached, carefully groomed a distance between you that now feels too sacred to break. You long to feel her kiss you, to feel her intimately, to run your hands along her arms and feel every curve, every outline. You’ve needed to touch her since the moment you met her. Craved it.
Abby is disrespectful, impatient. She cups your pussy, still hidden in slick panties, letting the rough ball of her palm grind against your clit. It sets you on fire, and she chases it with a hand on your mouth to keep you quiet.
“Get rid of them.”
You strip fast, in a very unflattering way, you’re certain, and throw your underwear close to the ghost of your dress. She moves against you again, her hand softer as it wraps around your lips and cheeks. You look at her, hoping to see that softness echoed on her face, but her eyes are elsewhere, too focused on the movement your tits make as she holds you against the wall.
Painstakingly, her fingers slide inside you, her hand pressing down on your mouth as you moan around the feeling of her, the intoxication. Your hands lock and unlock, your nails digging at scratching at the wood boards on the wall as you try to balance yourself.
Merciless. She rocks into you, letting you fall into step with her, find her pace, a relentless one. You feel her melting into your core, her fingers curling and stretching your walls as she pounds into you, again, again, again. You sound pathetic, behind the mask of her hand, whining as she leaves, and nearly screaming when she returns.
Abby watches as your face contorts around her fingers, feels you wrap around her. If she feels even a fraction of what she gives you, you wouldn't know. Her eyes remain unkind, left at a distance, but her breathing is staggered. short, laboured. she looks over you, you feel it, feel as her eyelashes rise as she rakes over your body.
You need it to be desire in her eyes. You need her to starve. To crave, like you do. Desperation.
Her hand moves from your mouth, your whimpering breath filling the room fast, the quiet broken. Her pace slows, and you almost rest on her fingers, left to wonder what she’s playing at. Instead, it comes down on your shoulder, still warm and wet with your breath, and she pushes you down onto her fingers, deep, deep. you feel her at the very centre of yourself, your eyes wide as the pressure builds inside you, her fingernails leaving a trail, evidence of her in your walls. She lets your ragged moans echo, hurt and pleasure. It’s an unkind end to things.
You don’t want to let it to end. You can’t.
The distance is broken. You reach out and grasp flesh, firm under your nails. You’re still riding the ecstasy pulse, the heat in your pussy, and Abby lets you stay, holding onto her as if you would fade otherwise. Your cheeks are almost touching, her breath hot on your ear, you hear her for the first time, raspy groans as you squeeze around her. She’s been holding back.
Damn it all.
“Everybody knows. Please. Please, fuck me like you know you should.”
You meet her gaze. Everything is foreign now. Her skin feels different to how you had imagined it. Softer. Her eyes are more uncertain, more than you’d ever seen before. Hesitance.
“Fuck it.”
Whiskey, and a sip of your gin, and tobacco. You didn’t even know she smoked, but you taste it on her like its the only thing she ever did. The smell of pine came in a wave as she moved, hooking her hands under your legs and hoisting you up. For months, you’ve yearned for her to kiss you, begged for it even. And now, her lips are rough, and bloody, and everywhere. Ghosts tracing your neck, unkind, stinging, exhilarating.
She moves you to the floor without fuss, holding herself over you, your legs spread around her. She’s smiling, and you become so sure that there’s something not quite right with this side of Abby. You’re quickly aware that you’ve landed in hostile territory, vulnerable, needy.
She usually didn’t like it when you begged.
Her tongue is like the rapture on your clit, spitting fire through your veins, in your nerves. You feel it creep up in your body, twisting and tightening through you like something invasive, moans and prayers dripping from your lips that only push her. her name a curse, fallen on your body. You feel her laugh against your slick walls and it jolts you.
Abby, suddenly so aware of you, so kind, so attentive, shifts her posture, “Oh, you’re so needy.” A hand grabs your face, pulling it up from the floor in a dead lull. Her name rolls off your pretty lips once more, “What? You beg for me, and now you can’t take me?” Her tone is mocking, “Which is it? Hm?”
A cacophony. You, you, you. Your head foggy, unsure of what she wants to hear, you beg for again, telling her you can it take it. I can, please, abby.
Her laugh is cruel, mocking as her mouth finds you again, sending cold vibrations up your legs. Slut echoes against your clit.
Inside of you, she feels like a god. Her fingers stretching your walls, pressing deep against your centre at an excruciating pace, and her tongue lazily laps up all that you give her.
“Fuck! Fu-uck, fuck!”
It’s clear to Abby that the caution she so carefully designed was useless now. People knew, and fuck it if they knew. Fuck it if they heard you dripping on her fingers, calling out her name. Fuck it if they stop the music, and turn to listen - fucking perverts - because it’s her. And you’re the one begging for her.
Stars creep in through the haze in your vision, and Abby’s trying to ask you something harsh, but you don’t hear it. You’re tethered to the feeling of her fingers, your whole body knotting around her like a planet in orbit of the sun.
You’d burn if she wanted you to, happily.
You’re so fucking tight around her fingers, your legs shaking and a vicious call ripping through your body. Her Name.
The warmth from your body is too much, and the cool of the floor is lulling, soothing, as you collapse. Abby’s fingers leave you empty, incomplete. You whine as she leaves you, your walls tightening around the absence of her. She wipes your cotton slick on your leg.
She stands, and rolls her shoulders. Fixes the few hairs that fall out of place. Guiltless.
“Get dressed, before someone sees you.”
#i'm gonna get back to cowboy!ellie i swear#i have so many people in my inbox begging for her I HEAR U!!#i just needed a change of pace bc writers block yk#idk what it is w me and mean women but cowboy!ellie is also going to be a bit mean i fear#also i was going to write this w ellie as the gf but i couldn't fit it in#but it is implied!!#abby anderson x reader#abby anderson smut#abby tlou#abby anderson x female reader#abby anderson#abby anderson x y/n#abby anderson x you#tlou abby#abby x reader#abby the last of us
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“Mother,
how do I properly bury the pasts living inside me?
Mary,
what do I do with the dead things I carry?
Mary,
can I be forgiven if I don't have a god?
Do I deserve to forgive myself?”
-eleos
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DO WHAT YOU CAN AND DONT BE A DICK ON THE INTERNET
i was writing a post about how it's unhelpful to shame average people for not meeting your standards of activism and calling them evil and things like that bc shame is not a reliable motivator and you don't know these people blah blah blah. and then i ended up writing this so here u go:
like. let's imagine you're an average guy. you work a job under a shitty manager and you still can't pay rent and afford groceries at the same time. you have untreated physical and mental illness and/or trauma. you don't have energy to cook a full meal. one of the microwave foods you like is being recalled. lead or e. coli or something. you can't remember when you last had water. you are too tired to clean the mold and algae off the corners of your brita. and who knows what is in the tap water.
a new episode of your favorite show just came out. you post about it. someone comments or makes a video about you and several others who are not posting about [serious issue]. saying you are heartless and inhuman. and you've heard about [serious issue] on a site or from someone who is supposed to be the most trustworthy on this topic. this random person on the internet is telling you things that don't match up to that. they're telling you that you should've had researched more. that not knowing enough is not an excuse. there is mold in your brita filter.
the video about you has thousands of comments. they're saying they think you should know what it's like to experience [serious issue]. then maybe you would take it seriously. you have the privilege to post about your favorite show. you are being lazy. these people are like piranhas. your dinner has e. coli or something. you have to clean your brita.
you want to research [serious issue]. you care about people. you started to but you are hearing different stories. one of your sources is from the same internet the random person came from. you thought you weren't supposed to trust the internet? another source can't even stand up against itself. that one is supposed to be trustworthy.
you see someone getting torn apart for posting misinformation. comments say they should have done their research. these people are like piranhas.
now you're seeing it. raw footage. you need a break and your notifications are flooded. why haven't you posted about this yet??? it's the least you could do. are you lazy??? don't you care??? these people are like piranhas. you still need to clean the brita.
no more internet. you need to clean the brita. sponge, soap. tap water. thin green and black streaks coming off the corners of the pitcher. all done. well now the sponge has mold on it. new sponge. your brita filter is getting old. new filter. do you even deserve a new filter? do you deserve fresh water? whatever, just refill it. tap water. waiting. tap water. waiting. tap water, fridge. check your phone.
brita filters are getting recalled.
lead or e. coli or something.
#ohio#i still think about you#this exact situation hasn't happened to me#it's partly based off my experience and partly off of others#and britas have not been recalled to my knowledge but i do know they're like#not a great or amazingly effective brand#i hear they are very bare bones#like they're alright#don't worry about lead in ur brita is what i'm saying#handmadeorganicpost#art#??#writing#prose#poetry#writer#this is not about one situation#i've seen this pattern since 2020 at the earliest
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So. Did you know there's a backstory to Dick's mullet?
Because there is.
Mirage convinced Dick to let her restyle him while she was impersonating Kori. Which he went along with, because Kori had been incredibly depressed for the last several weeks and nothing Dick said or did seemed to be helping her. Dick had pretty clearly hit the point where he was willing to do just about anything to make her happy again.
Which I know doesn't even begin to compare to the many other ways Mirage took advantage of him (trust me, I just read it,) but has made me hate the mullet jokes now, because that was not Dick's choice.
(I'm sure it's just a coincidence Dick's hair & costume came out of it looking a lot more like the future!Dick Mirage was pining over. Contrasts between future!Dick & the classic Discowing Dick was wearing in the arc right before this one below the cut.)
-------------------------------------------
Here's future!Dick...
....Aaaand Discowing.
Obviously, she somehow magically grew his hair out several inches. But even beyond that...
Look at the stripe shape & placement on the new suit, lining up with both future!Dick's stripes & his mesh armbands.
Look at the glove shape, going from a segmented gauntlet to a single elbow-length piece with a curved upper edge.
While Dick's boots are considerably less dramatic than his future self's thigh-highs, they are still much more strongly emphasized in Mirage's version of the costume.
While future!Dick has the diamond on his abdomen like Discowing, future!Dick's costume has much less detailing around his abdomen.
Discowing also isn't the one with a utility belt. A belt which just so happens to have the same insignia as future!Dick's shield. Weird that.
While neither of the prior versions have the little glider-cape, I would like to note it's something future!Dick probably could've gotten a lot of use out of, given the way his sidekick usually carried him around.
.
So anyway, I have gone from being kinda tired of the mullet jokes to actively disliking them. Less jokes about the mullet, more jokes about the rat-tail please.
#Hmu if you wanna hear how FUCKING CREEPY Mirage was towards Dick before the writers decided that her treatment of him was funny actually.#Reading the whole Team Titans debacle feels like losing my goddamn mind.#(Justice for the Levine twins though; the change in writers did them so dirty and then they got erased from all of time.)#Also let me know if you want to hear about how Dick falling for Mirage's trick is 1000% believable actually given the circumstances.#I'm not adding it to this one because it would derail my main point & also involves my fucking nemesis: The Mid-Crisis Starfire Wedding Arc#//#dc mirage#teen titans#90s teen titans#90s titans#nightwing#dick grayson's mullet#nightwing's mullet#discowing#dick grayson#richard grayson#dick grayson's hair#dick grayson's fashion choices#dick grayson fashion disaster#nightwing dick grayson#nightwing!dick grayson#nightwing dick#nightwing!dick#Nightwing 95#dick grayson's rattail#dick grayson's ponytail#nightwing's ponytail#nightwing's rattail#batfam#batfamily
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So important for fanfic writers of Maglor to invent this beautiful dark and mysterious feanorian minstrel that everyone thinks is an eldritch being beyond our comprehension, and then say “also, he’s a bit pathetic”
#maglor#so important#the silmarillion#feanorians#silmarillion#silm#tolkien#feanor#sons of feanor#fanfic writers are you hearing me?
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It's so interesting and so exceedingly frustrating how agab is being utilized now within the queer community as a way to isolate and sort nonbinary and genderqueer folks into binary boxes that determine their moral purity levels, and their authority to do and write and exist.
The way nonbinary writers are being put under accusation of fetishizing gay men while their AGAB is continually brought up in a way that feels like queer-space-approved misgendering.
The way feminist circles that are supposedly trans-inclusive will use the word AFAB in a way that implicitly but intentionally isolates nonbinary people who aren't AFAB from joining. It's for women*.
The way the language is already flawed and leaves out intersex folks from the conversations while focusing on a binary of sex that isn't truthful.
The constant obsessing over whether someone is AFAB or AMAB and whether or not that gives them the privilege to join, do, write, or be present in certain spaces really really concerns me. How are we supposed to dismantle a binary system of gender if we can't even move past forcibly assigning and focusing on people's genders assigned at birth?
#and yes i understand! that agab language can in some circumstances be helpful in inclusive language and in the medical world but ultimately#is misgendering and unnecessary it should be up to the person to disclose their agab not an expectation of them to give up freely#I think that inclusive language shouldnt be misgendering in nature and agab as far as i can tell should only be used in select discussions#and certainly not as a way to frame a nonbinary writer as a “biological woman” but in a way where the queer community will nod along and sa#“oh they have a point” because you used the word AFAB instead#honestly afab is the term i see used most frequently and most harmfully towards other nonbinary people who don't identify w the label#to exclude trans women and amab nonbinary people#to frame nonbinary people as “still women” because of their assigned gender at birth#also i understand its not as simple as “not using” these terms bc they still serve a purpose and are important#but as they leave the queer community and as they enter the hands of cis queer people they become weapons#i wish i could like manifest my thoughts super clearly but i really cant bc its a difficult situation#its just another example of misogyny and bio-essentialism creeping into the queer community#because the patriarchy impacts all things including our discussions of trans oppression and gender we need to stop viewing it#as a strict binary of male female and oh sometimes we'll mention nonbinary people but we're all afab and amabs at the end of the day <3#like flames literal flames#if you wanna like chip into the conversation just shoot me an ask or respond to the post i'd love to hear other peoples perspectives#im not infalliable so if i said anything you view as incorrect especially in regards to intersex folks and how you all would like to be#included in these discussions as im not intersex but am aware of how agab is a subject that leans into the idea of a binary of sex#so yeah rant over <3#retro.bullshit#rant
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literally theres no heterosexual reason for hangman and rooster’s arc words to be “you look good.” like those are the words you, joseph kosinski, chose to represent their relationship development?? those are the ones you chose to repeat, to call back to?? it could’ve been “bradshaw as i live and breathe” or jake could’ve said “bradshaw” and bradley could’ve replied “as i live and breathe,” acknowledging how he saved his life and bradley is living and breathing cuz of him. or he could’ve even said “hangman as i live and breathe” or any variation of these and it wouldve be securely no homo bro and narratively satisfying
but noooo.
jake could’ve said “i’ll see you back on the carrier” and bradley could’ve replied “lead the way” calling back to “the only place you’ll lead anyone is an early grave” except now he trusts him to lead them, BUT NO.
it’s “you look good.”
i mean im not complaining im just so baffled they Wanted rooster to tell hangman he looked good. they Needed that to be the dialogue. they said this man will emerge from firey death and his first thought will be that his frenemy is so fucking pretty prettiest man he ever saw he can’t Not comment on it
and okay im sure no matter what they said that scene would’ve been incredibly gay but they couldve have more deniability than “you look good” top gun maverick writers i am on your doorstep
#hangster#top gun maverick#bradley rooster bradshaw#jake hangman seresin#im sorry im insane like#do you hear me tgm writers show me your neurons#blu posts
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"Good morning Canary," Tango greets him brightly, in a voice that's liquid sunshine. "It's time to get the session started! We've got cows to feed and a chicken-barbeque-ificator to make."
He ducks out of the house he built, with materials he gathered while Jimmy was out begging for a bucket of water. He hasn't once brought this up. He hasn't once reminded Jimmy he isn't being very helpful, or told him he makes dumb decisions. He hasn't made Jimmy the butt of a joke, unless the joke is about both of them.
Jimmy stands and stretches. The house is full of the smell of food, which is funny because Tango says he can't cook. Just like how he says he can't build, except he built their house, and Impulse used to gush about the crazy things Tango would build when they were in the Southlands together. Jimmy wonders what people have told Tango about him. He knows the canary thing, obviously. Does he know they're doomed, because he's here?
It's not that Jimmy feels useless, or pathetic. It's just that, well, he's used to people bringing it up by now, isn't he? It's a fun game. Remind Jimmy he's a bit useless at times. Except Tango isn't playing along.
Jimmy grabs the finished chicken from the furnace and eats his breakfast while he walks. Tango is replanting some wheat in the garden and muttering to himself as he works. He can't go mining, he's too vulnerable. Except he went down into the mines yesterday when Jimmy was taking damage, to make sure he was okay.
There's a lot of things that Tango can't do.
He can't cook. He can't build. He can't mine. He can't fight.
There's a lot of things that Tango won't do, too.
He won't play along. He won't hold things against Jimmy. He won't remind him he's kind of useless sometimes.
Jimmy wonders what else Tango can't, won't, do.
Tango looks up from the wheat field and cuts off his muttering with a nervous laugh.
"Oh hey Canary! Welcome to the land of the living." He hands Jimmy a few pieces of wheat. "Thanks for getting those cows yesterday, by the way! That's gonna be a life saver later."
Jimmy smiles and laughs. It's weird, being congratulated like this. It's not that he isn't loved, or has never gotten praise. It's just that most people aren't so forward with it. Genuine. Jimmy can't take a compliment. He's never had to before. He's used to digging for them through veiled words and backhanded fondness.
"Well hey, don't worry about it big man," Jimmy stammers. "You know I've got us covered."
"Well at least one of us knows what he's doing, right?" Tango laughs, and once again Jimmy feels like he's being washed in liquid sunlight.
Tango can't do a lot of things. He can't build a house. He can't cook. He can't mine.
Tango won't do even more. He won't put Jimmy in his place. He won't play along. He won't acknowledge his own accomplishments.
Maybe they really were made for each other. Maybe, for once, the universe knew what it was doing when it tied their souls with string.
Jimmy wanders back to the pen to feed the cows. He wonders if the canary is ever fond of the coal mine, if the dark halls and cold stone bring it comfort before the end. He wonders if the mine is ever fond of the birdsong, if it ever regrets it's choking embrace.
There's a lot of things Tango can't do. Jimmy wonders what they can't do together.
#the barking writer#jimmy solidarity#tangotek#the canary and his coal mine#dlsmp spoilers#double life smp spoilers#sorry this hit me like a baseball bat to the face#anyway im hear to tell you all to listen to#canary in a coal mine by the crane wives
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i took a little break from Ad Astra but I'm trying to get back into it and I'm excited so!! I want some input akdjks according to the lore i've made up for my own story, wings in the watcher realm appear different that wings that players would have in an actual world.
So I've been trying to think of what wings I should give Scar when he's in the Watcher realm; i wanted something flashy and like. celestial feeling? to go with the slight star theme the fics got going on. My first option was common starling wings but i have too many options that i like now and I want help so ajskdkj please let me know which one of these you'd like to see the most in the fic!!
(examples under the cut)
click to see full images :]
Wallcreeper ^
Common Starling ^
Magpie ^
Violet backed starling ^
#please help me AKJSDKJ#also if there's a completely different bird you feel like would fit feel free to send me an ask to plead your case asjdkjs#and also feel free to plead your case for one of the listed ones too i'd love to hear any reasoning you guys come up with#i've been really struggling with writers block which sucks :( but my motivation is slowly coming back#so i've been outlining the next chapter today!!#poll#ad astra
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okay i meant to make this post forever ago but my personal opinion on why so many people were so dissatisfied with lightfalll (disclaimer: i am not one of these people, i love lightfall SO much), is that lightfall was kind of subjected to a really aggressive marketing campaign.
like, stick with me here, i feel like almost all the lightfall release content (the trailers especially) were so focused on battling the witness, how this battle has been centuries in the making and this is the Second Collapse Finally Finding Us, only for there to be,,, no real resolution. the end was left on such a severe cliffhanger, but not only that, there was NO battle with the witness. the witness didn't even seem to be having a hard time at all with what we WERE throwing at it.
and for narrative reasons *i* am obsessed with this ending; in terms of storytelling i adore practically every creative decision that was made in lightfall, but i think the reason that so many people were so upset about it is because lightfall had such intense marketing and was rooted in the implication that this was the End of Days, only for us to get almost no closure, and instead so many more questions.
(there's also something to be said, i think, about the fact that the people who ARE most upset about this are like, the youtube gamer dudebros who's content is very very often rooted in the aggressive, violence-and-warfare, pvp-centric, no-interest-in-lore approach to destiny, and that the people i've seen primarily ENJOYING the narrative decisions (or at least being understanding about it) are the artists and writers and loremasters of the fandom, but i'm not quite sure,,, how to expand on that point.)
#like. something something yt dudebros who are like 'uhhh destiny is about violence and war and the lore is only for people who suck at pvp#and destiny is a shitty evil game i hate it sooooo much hashtag 26871435 hours recorded gameplay' asshats#being the ones complaining MOST about the narrative in. a narrative driven game. and refusing to engage with ANY lore in a LORE HEAVY GAME#vs. the community on here thats full of artists and writers and people who actually like to analyze the story and characters#and engage with the lore and have any emotional attachment at all to the characters and world and themes#being the ones who are like. appreciative of the narrative decisions made and looking forward to where the story will take us and#looking at the game with LOVE instead of hatred and malice#and even if you didn't like lightfall!!! people in the latter category are still the people who i keep seeing be like#'yeah even if i didn't personally like it i can understand the significance of this narrative decision.'#'i acknowledge that bungie put so much time and effort and passion into making this even if it wasnt satisfying to me personally.'#'i have the critical thinking skills to understand that bungie is not a sentient malicious entity trying to ruin my life; me; specifically'#like. do you get what im saying. gamer dudebros who think the world revolves around them vs the fandom members who actually understand art#bc. thats what destiny is. its art. the whole thing is a massive art project made by a group of people that are very passionate about it.#do you hear what im saying at ALL its like two separate fandoms for the same piece of media the difference is so stark#mine#destiny 2#lightfall#destiny 2 lightfall#eos destiny essays
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I personally think a nice way to give us more chances to talk to Halsin in Act 3 is giving us the option to ask him for a new story from his 350 years of life, and we get a new tidbit of information that changes based on how high his approval is, or whether or not he's being romanced. If the approval is low, he shares little or refuses. I want a chance to hear about how much he studies, meditates, and hibernates and not just the salacious parts!
#BG3 Musing#Halsin Posting#halsin is very clear that he's lived a while and feels a lot older than he is#i want to hear more about high forest and the emerald grove#i want a way for him to tell me things about himself that don't involve me having to have a rendezvous that casually brings up a bad memory#yknow?#karlach asking him for stories and him immediately being like 'no one really cares about those they're only really interested in escapades'#and wyll being like 'do you actually do anything besides meditate council fight train and make love?' and halsin just nonchalantly#'is such an existence lacking?' i know thats supposed to be funny#but he sounds so put upon by it#like okay and..?#maybe im just a sap but i want to hear more general stuff#if that writer on twitter is serious about taking suggestions heres one#also this isn't an invite to bash on act 3 halsin - most of the companions are dead air after you do their quest#this is an encompassing larian issue all around where the companions sort of all fall flat midway through act 3#but that's another point entirely
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TTD - True Evil 2/4
part1 part2 part3 part 4
*
Hero considered themself as a simple person: when there was a mystery, answers had to be found. For answers to be found, you had to ask those who were hiding something. It was clear that Villain would not talk to them, but there was one obvious solution left. Sighing, they pulled out their phone and sent a text to Superhero.
The next morning, they entered the elite training room, forcing their lips to smile. They hated this place. Superhero, under the pretext that Hero couldn’t be hurt by his laser beams, never stopped training when they were there. It was true that Hero’s powers technically protected them, but being so close to something so deadly was nothing pleasant, and if they were immune to lasers, they weren’t to wreckage.
Superhero was already in here. He was kicking a brick construction in a corner. After two or three tries, it all crumbled. Superhero shook his head.
“Too slow. Too weak,” he mumbled for himself.
Hero cleared their throat. Superhero turned his head and beamed at them.
“Ah, it’s you! I’m happy to see you.”
“You are?”
Superhero chuckled and took them by the shoulder:
“I want to apologize for the last time. I was a little too direct. A leader-”
His gaze became unfocused:
“A good leader has to give positive vibes. You have to forgive me. As you know, my week has been complicated. In a life of battles, sometimes you forget yourself.”
It was true that Superhero made the news nearly every day. He rarely rested and took down Supervillains once a week. He wasn’t at the top of the agency for nothing. Hero, who maybe had to fight five or six times since they’d begun the job, nodded:
“I understand.”
Superhero looked at them from top to toe and made a wan smile in answer.
“I wanted to ask about Villain,” said Hero.
Their boss shook his head with a slight frown, grasping their shoulder with a little more strength:
“Can’t you make an investigation by yourself? See, this is what worries me. You can’t cry for help every time you meet an obstacle. Do the work yourself. Now, forgive me, I have to train.”
“I made it, sir. To begin with, Villain is an orphan, left at birth. No one knows about their family.”
“Now, it that an excuse for villainy? You of all people should know-”
“The thing is, sir, I have a rather clear idea about Villain’s background. What I don’t know is what they have done, except for some petty robberies. Their file mentions murders, but I can’t find concrete proof anywhere.”
“Seek harder.”
“With all due respect sir, that’s what I’m doing. I’ve looked into the history, and you helped writing this… file.”
The last word was pronounced through clenched teeth. The pressure on their shoulder had just become painful. It didn’t last long, though. Superhero let them go, their gaze unfocused. Hero stepped back hastily, massaging their shoulder.
“Sir?”
“You-”
He stopped. Hero glanced at the door behind them. It wasn’t far, but they couldn’t dream of getting out without being caught. They couldn’t compete with someone with super speed. Hero pushed back that thought – come on, it was their boss – and tried to keep their professional-looking face when Superhero smiled at them again, with a grin as small and forced as theirs.
“You were right to come to me. Maybe I should have told you first. We could have avoided all of this. Let’s go in my office.”
Hero followed him to the stairs. They had never gone up there. It was usually a place reserved for important people, superheroes or at least top-ranked heroes. They always imagined a really fancy place. It was…a bit of a disappointment, to tell the truth. The corridor itself was empty and cold, without tables or chairs. Superhero’s place was a small, cramped room, with an old office that occupied most of the space and an old, closed cupboard. There was no decoration, nothing on the gray, thick walls. Two stools were the only sitting accommodations. Hero stayed up, looking at the place with confusion, while their chief went to the cupboard (not without difficulty) to pick up a little box. He pulled out of it what looked like a pair of earbuds, and put one of them on.
“Do you know what it is?”
“No, sir.”
“They are from a friend I saved once from – no matter. They allow reliving the memories of the one who wears it. It’s very useful for interrogations.”
“I don’t understand-”
“I know you don’t. Villain is a cold-blooded killer, Hero, since they were a child. And I know more than anyone since I’ve seen them do it.”
Hero recoiled. Their boss noticed and had a grim smile.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to relive that, but then, you’re right. I shouldn’t spare myself if it hides the truth.”
Then his voice dropped into a growl:
“Take it. Take it and read my mind if it takes that to convince you.”
Hero looked into the pale red eyes that stared at him.
I’m immune to lasers. I’m immune to lasers. I’m not immune if he crushes my spine if he fires me if- no. Stop it.
They put the Not-Earbuds on.
*
Next part here
Check the These Two Dorks Masterlist or Tag for more snippets with this Hero and Villain. This is how they met and now they’re roommates.
Or back to Hero x Villain Masterlist.
#hero x villain#hero villain community#writeblr#writers on tumblr#my writing#creative writing#heroes and villains#hero and villain#original fiction#writing snippet#writing dialogue#writers#writing community#original character villain x hero#hero x villain community#heroes and villains community#oc#these two dorks#the sound you hear is me frenziedly patching up a plot hole#I had no idea what Hero’s abilities were when I wrote Superhero for the first time#why the hell would they be afraid of him if they’re protected from his beams?#this is my answer#making it up as I go
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I need to stream my writing on twitch or some shit. Nobody would watch but it'd make sure that I don't get too distracted
#Comment if you'd watch me stream my writing#Even if it's just for a specific piece#In the hypothetical of me doing this I wouldn't show my face but you might hear me singing along to my music if I forget to mute myself#It also would come with a free curated playlist playing on random so if you like my indie folk/pop music taste lmk#Also I'm not asking if you'd like watch the writing bc I know that the only people who will do that are my best friends and like#Maybe clove if they're bored enough and I need advice#But like. Would u have it playing in the background#Is writing streaming something that could be like a calming bg thing#Can I be lofi girl for you#writing#writeblr#writers on tumblr#writing blog#writerscommunity
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idk life being life and art block being art block but
damn, some of y'all either got no fucking manners, can't mind your business, can't keep your shitbird mouths shut when there's nothing nice in there to start, bumming out people I know because clinical foolishness is going around
here's a wip I guess; tmnt (general) fans I fuck with you and sorry ig for not bullying some turtles for the giggles
tmnt (rise) fans... guys are on some thin motherfucking ice, fix your posture if you can't fix your fucking attitudes
#bitch I tried giving the Rise section the benefit of the doubt#like you know maybe they just had to find a groove in this fandom since a lot of new tmnt fans came in through Rise I've seen#it's as old as me and I was new to it once too#hell Rise brought me BACK to TMNT#.......and then I hear the absolute FUCKERY you put Rise artists and writers through#not only here but insta and twitter too???#can't even be grateful for the fandom food served#if you don't wanna eat the fandom “chicken”#then you don't gotta sit there and eat the fandom “chicken”#go fix a plate of fandom “steak”#fandom “lobster”#you don't have to put the fandom “chicken” on your plate#euphemistically speaking#shit we're on the pissing on the poor reading comprehension site... oh thefuck well#tl;dr mind your FUCKING manners
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