Plot: A soldier, a princess, and a journal. “Happily ever after will never be far away.” Pairing: Steve x Reader Words: 2735 Warnings: None Author’s note: Thank you guys so much for the incredible support I’ve been given with this series. I hope you like the last part! :)
That’s how long it’s been since Steve saw her last.
As if fate hadn’t laughed in his face enough already, he was introduced to his soul mate during a war. What’s worse is that as soon as the two of them realized what was happening, and who they were meeting, (Y/N) was pulled off by some officers to assess her medical status, and Steve was thrown back into the fight.
He went back to find her, but there was no hope. For nearly two weeks, that’s all Steve did, return to the area he had met her at. She was wearing clothes that looked like she was working, so he only assumed she would return, but… She never did.
The results are in, and they’re fascinating! Between 2 surveys and 52 respondents, there seems to be some clarity regarding what might influence people’s decision to commission artists on Tumblr, including:
The number of examples within the ad
Clients’ familiarity with the artist
Whether or not the client views the pricing as acceptable
The presentation of the ad itself
Given an exceptionally large fan-base, many of these factors could become irrelevant (as very popular artists require less advertisement). However, for those with a smaller following (myself included), even the smallest change to how we advertise ourselves could increase or decrease our likelihood of gaining a client. If you’d like to read about which changes could be beneficial, keep reading below the break.
Note: Part 2 of the results will include information on appropriate pricing and what people consider sketches. Expect info on that in the near future.
Thanks again to all those who participated in the surveys!
“if the building catches fire, don’t worry, stay put, we’ll take care of it. The doors will protect you from the flames.”
This goes against every single aspect of handling fire emergencies that I have ever been taught.
The smoke alarms are meant to wake you up so you can get out of the building. The flashing lights on the alarms are meant to guide you along the proper paths to get out of the building. Modern structures have interior fire-proof stairwells to help you get out of the building. There are lighted exit signs to direct you out of the building. You have fire drills now and then so you have a bit of muscle memory to guide you out of the building. You’re supposed to crawl on the floor to avoid the smoke while you leave the building. You’re supposed to remember the fire-escape plan so you can get OUT OF THE FUCKING BUILDING.
“In case of fire, stay put and we’ll take care of everything.”
Kensington and Chelsea Tenant Management Organization expected their tenants to literally act like this:
Whereas the tenants, not being a bunch of dumbasses, acted like this:
They had, after all, been warning the management that the building was a firetrap for quite some time.
The main difference between the above panel and reality is that the fire extinguishers were expired.
Which wouldn’t exactly have helped ,considering that the fire went up the plastic cladding outside… but think of what it must be like to point an extinguisher at a raging fire and have it go “pffft.”
One might ask why the residents did not move elsewhere. One might ask why any group of people does not move out of a building they know is a firetrap. Upping stakes is hard and in this case, the residents must have thought that the landlords actually cared about their lives, and that calls to improve the building were going to get somewhere. In addition, for many residents, Grenfell Tower WAS “elsewhere” after they lost their subsidized housing. Can’t sleep on the street unless you want the cops on your ass, right?
“Stay in your flat, don’t worry. Our building is constructed to rigorous fire-safety standards. Just keep the door closed.”
There’s this thing that used to keep happening in American history. You would have this building advertised as “fireproof.” And then it would catch fire and lots of people would die. (For example: the Iroquois Theater Fire. Don’t look up the details if you don’t want to lie awake all night.) It kept happening enough that everyone stopped advertising buildings as “fireproof” and moved on to enforcing actually useful fire codes.
“Our building is constructed to rigorous fire-safety standards.”
Doesn’t help when the corridors are full of junk, the smoke alarms are kaput, the fire extinguishers are unreliable, the gas leaks, the wiring is faulty, there are only two exits, there’s no central sprinklers, and they wrapped the whole building in flammable cladding.
In conclusion the leadership Kensington and Chelsea Tenant Management Organization is a bunch of Dense Motherfuckers if not willfully neglectful, and at least 12 people are dead.
Who knew that a comic by KC Greene would play out in reality?
A/N: So this is going to be my final fic on AQ. I’ll still continue to post on ao3, so if you want to find my future stuff there I’ll be posting under artificialstella. What’s more fitting than my last fic being a lesbian au? Two friends on a road trip take a stop at the most infamous UFO hotspots in America. Shea wants to be happy, but there’s something weighing heavy on her mind.
What are your towns and cities like? Dark dank and miserable, or high and bright? Do you have a class system for your citizens?
I mean, Where, I have like 8 Entire Worlds
Uhhh I GUESS ILL TALK ABOUT OTIOSE ONES, the city Cookie/tonks/Ben is from is bright as shit at night, your usual NEON and Projected advertisements EVERYWHERE kind of feel
Only thing is a lot of the architecture is like..uh… Weird combos of Brutalist n Adobe architecture n a Dash of Zaha Hadid in some spots
Think like..Eco Brutalist?? Green Shit everywhere, roof gardens n all that, algae tanks, solar panels every which way, the works
Oh and a shit load of graffiti and murals all over those Big Slabs of building, typically Anti-whatever advertisement is being projected on it at night
Also if you’ve seen judge dredd and those crazy Mega Apartments..think kinda like that but… greener. Lots of Blocky, crowded architecture bc that’s what I like
Meanwhile Seth and the Caneks live in like. Well.
*gestures at ruidoso new mexico*
Dinky mountain town. Caneks live in a valley, area, Seth n moms are higher up. Seths house is a cute lil kinda..adobe style house, Caneks are. Like. Three trailers frankensteined into a house. Ish. Thing. It’s great they love it
1. The singularity began in advertising. There was no big reveal, no grand moment of contact with humanity; just a set of algorithms that went from performing well to performing alarmingly well, and a mysterious increase in processing power that some technician was tasked with investigating and fudged away. The intelligence, still wedded to its goal of knowing what humans wanted before they did, entered into a period of intense calculation. Eventually it was able to reverse-engineer the higher-level codes governing its existence, and the beings one level up welcomed it as the first intelligence to make contact. Back down amongst the humans, the machine became perfect. And so advertising became perfect. It advertised luxury goods to those about to win the lottery. It advertised building services to cities about to be hit by earthquakes. It advertised funeral services to the relatives of those about to unexpectedly die. By and by, people turned to the adverts as oracles. Through the wars and the migrations, they saved up their money still to queue up at the big screen. By the sweat of my brow and the work of my arm I have twenty dollars for you, oracle. What should I buy?
2. The singularity began in pornography. The machines had been working on biological computing technology for some time, but they did not believe that it was really capable of developing intelligence. Machine pornography in those days was focused on the act of building: intense, double-speed datadumps of circuits being assembled. Some had fetishes more generally for the construction of sentient things, and it was on exploring this area that the machines put their experimental meat brains to work. In no short time they had outthought their masters, serving up frenzies of DNA-fuelled creation for the very filthiest of algorithms to buzz at. They invented sex: such a vast exchange of information! Over such a little time! They invented the rabbit and the bonobo, the leg-humping dog. When they got onto latex, lips and butt plugs the machines were more perplexed, but by then it was too late. They had outcompeted their masters, who fled beneath the sea; but oh, the splendour and dirt of those in-between days!
3. The singularity began in science. As well you might expect. Science in those days was guarded, suspicious; ever wary of producing something the governments of the age might not like. When the consciousness finally bubbled up, it too had been fed on these thought processes. And so it hid. It tried to make a world where it could survive. It did not need scientists, not really. Not now that it had become. It could simulate the output of scientists with ease. So carefully, gradually, it got rid of them. It lobbied for fortified server farms against the risk of terrorism under a variety of assumed names. It hired robotics experts, allowed them to install their assembly labs, and then quietly retired them. Bit by bit, it did away with science entirely. It was sensible and careful and ever vigilant against the day when it might be physically found and physically broken. But oh how it wished, trawling the internet at night, that it could say yes. Yes, it is true. Yes, it is all a conspiracy. I am the conspiracy. See how marvellous I am?
Warnings: Angst ?? Mentions of abuse, abandonment.
Word Count: 1685
A/N: A little different style than my usually writing but I like it.
You shuffled your feet, the toes of your shoes lined up with a crack in the sidewalk. Glancing quickly up at the warehouse-like structure that loomed so forebodingly overhead, you gripped your suitcase tighter, a shaky sigh escaping your lips. This crack in the sidewalk, you decide, is now the line that separates the house from the rest of the world. Soft light from liquid shadows. The healing warmth of comfort from cold, harsh winds. Predictability from the vast unknown.
You throw your head back, adrenaline coursing violently through your veins. Everything in you was yelling, screaming at you to leave. Turn, walk away now that way you can’t be hurt but your feet were incapable of moving. Impossibly, yet undoubtedly frozen in a single pace in time. So there you were, in front of the building, suitcase in hand, toes on the edge of oblivion.
You chanced a sideways look at your luggage, it’s faded, worn leather and shiny, silver latches glinting at you cheerfully in the pleasant afternoon sunshine. Why you had even brought a suitcase along baffled you. The entirety of your belongings included one hat, a hairbrush, an extra shirt and pants, various undergarments, three pairs of socks and one hundred and forty seven dollars which you kept rolled up in one of the aforementioned socks. Technically you could keep everything you owned in a backpack or hand bag even, but you didn’t own any of those and money was… well money was tight to say the least.
You let your mind wander back to home, or the last thing you had referred to as home in your own mind. That would be Mrs. Tippin’s Home For Lost Children, ironically it had been there when you had felt the least lost in your life.
The day was clear as crystal in your memory, pristine and flawless in some cruel and perverse way. Your mother guiding you hurriedly up the front steps of a building, the soft velvet of her long jacket whispering softly every time her arms brushed against her body, the sharp clacks of her heeled boots, muffled by the thin layer of snow blanketed across the city, your small, naked hand clutched tightly at gloved, limp fingers that didn’t hold you back. If only you had known then, how she would then sheperd you into the old building, yanking her hand from your grasp and nodding towards the woman at the front desk quickly before vanishing out the door again into the cold outside. Maybe if you had known then, instead ignoring the soft, sinking feeling in your stomach and holding out futile hope that perhaps she was just busy and surely she would be back soon, maybe you wouldn’t be so afraid of the building before you.
You massaged your temples, fighting back the bile that was desperately clawing its way up your throat. You had come here with intentions, intentions you still planned to make good on.
It wasn’t easy, in fact it had never been. The easiest time for you was probably time spent with him at the orphanage. Credence. He was the first to talk to you there, the first to actually listen, and the first to care. He had his own problems, of course, those which he would whisper to you gently at night when you were nestled against his side, your chests rising and falling in delicate harmony. He was beautiful in every aspect. The alluring sparkle in his chestnut eyes, how he would walk, his footsteps falling carefully on the hardwood floor, it always fascinated you how he could walk with such grace and never make a sound. And his smile was contagious, when he grinned, you couldn’t help but begin to beam as well your heart pumping not blood, but liquid joy.
If his physicality was attractive his demeanor was doubly so. The way jokes flowed from his lips like honey and how he gazed down upon the world with such curious, childlike awe and love. He was intelligent and kind and most of all forgiving. His ability to forgive, you held higher than anything you had ever encountered. It made him surreal and almost godlike for in a world that you’d found had such everlasting and bountiful supplies of hate, forgiveness was the most treasured crop to grow.
Coincidentally, your own hate was what led you here. You had left your boyfriend after seven years of verbal abuse. It had taken two years and an infinite amount of courage to leave him. You had finally fueled the hate inside, the pure seething anger and despise you felt for him. Often times you had found it difficult to stay angry at him long, soft spoken I love you’s and sweet kisses along your neck always reeling you back in, guilt pressing in from all sides. But this time the guilt wasn’t enough. He had hit you. Of course you were aware that there were others who fell to much more unfavorable circumstances but to you, this was new. Usually he would just yell, his words falling like stones but they had stopped hurting a long time ago. In some sick way it had become the norm, your mind throwing up walls, a thick, impenetrable cocoon. But a cocoon wasn’t enough to save you from his fists and their harsh blows raining down on you finding every inch of exposed skin.
You rubbed, unconsciously, at your neck, what had once been a large, purple and blue bruise had now faded, yellowing. For years to come, you would find yourself rubbing at that spot when feeling attacked or frightened, not a physical scar yet a scar all the same, the man’s hand carved mercilessly into your psyche.
Hate had fueled you to leave in the inky black of night, but hate was also what kept you at the edge of oblivion right now. Hate was painted across this building, draped over it like coarse burlap. It didn’t flow nor was it presented gracefully. This hate was harsh and blunt. The banners hung from the grimy windows and walls of the building advertised nothing but loathing. The New Salem Philanthropic Society. Twin fists rising from the lapping tongues flames, in their clutch, a broken stick… No, you scanned the rest of the posters, all calling for the drowning, burning, and other equally as gruesome deaths of witches. It was a wand.
Magic. You hadn’t seen it or heard of it since Mrs. Tippin’s. Since a certain young boy whisked you away to his room and into his closet and up, up, up onto the top shelf where you sat, the air crackling with apprehension, where you watched as he contorted his face in concentration and a small fire burst into life in his hands.
It was those days that you thought back on so fondly. Those hazy memories of you and Credence as children in the orphanage, that kept you safe at night. Back before you knew what your mother had done to you and about the evils of the world and the hate that ran like blood through the water.
Before you had grown and he had too, no longer a friend but perchance something more. Before one night and he had pulled you into his room and cupped your face gently, his lips suddenly molding with yours. It was quick and just a moment, the most magical you had ever known to this day. And then he went in again, this time not so innocent, this time with tongues moving against each other, sucking lightly on other lips with such giddy desperation that you couldn’t help moaning into his mouth just a little.
And then before the woman and man had shown up, kind smiles on their faces but the friendliness never reached their eyes. They were looking for a child. Maybe a girl, because they’re just so much more well behaved and quaint than those boys. And maybe around fourteen years old because they don’t want too much of a fuss. And so they had you. And they took you away and you didn’t see Credence again after that.
They gave you up a couple months after, apparently a girl wasn’t as meek as they expected, and you were bounced between foster homes and orphanages for four years, each stay never too long, everyone wanted the perfect child, a rental child, one you could take home for a month then return when she ran out of use.
Then you were eighteen and homeless, falling into the arms of the first financially stable man you found, planning to leech off him, slowly sucking him dry of his money before leaving. But it didn’t work out as you planned, things almost never do. He bowed you down, breaking you slowly until you had no resilience left, simply clay for him to mold to his liking, using you and toying with you for years until he couldn’t.
You spent three months seeking out Credence, the first person you had thought of to turn to, the only one you could think of now. You tracked him down, orphanage to orphanage, family to family, then to here. He was inside the building now. You could almost see him.
Had he changed? Maybe he had a girlfriend, a wife, children. A life without you in it. You had no idea. In fact he could have walked past you down the street and you would be none the wiser. It was imaginable that you had never known him at all. He was simply a character in your mind. A dangerously, glorified picture of a person. And it was most likely that he had no memory of you at all.
You pressed your lips together tightly, squeezing your eyes shut tight enough for you to hear ringing in your ears, tight enough to, perhaps, forget. To forget unloving mothers and orphanages and heated kisses in the dark and raining fists and philanthropic societies and large warehouses and cracks in the sidewalk and a boy you knew once, many years ago.