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Top Misconceptions People Have about Pulp-Era Science Fiction

A lot of people I run into have all kinds of misconceptions about what pulp-era scifi, from the 1920s-1950s, was actually like. 


“Pulp-Era Science Fiction was about optimistic futures.”

Optimistic futures were always, always vastly outnumbered by end of the world stories with mutants, Frankenstein creations that turn against us, murderous robot rebellions, terrifying alien invasions, and atomic horror. People don’t change. Then as now, we were more interested in hearing about how it could all go wrong. 

To quote H.L. Gold, editor of Galaxy Science Fiction, in 1952: 

“Over 90% of stories submitted to Galaxy Science Fiction still nag away at atomic, hydrogen and bacteriological war, the post atomic world, reversion to barbarism, mutant children killed because they have only ten toes and fingers instead of twelve….the temptation is strong to write, ‘look, fellers, the end isn’t here yet.’”

The movie Tomorrowland is a particulary egregious example of this tremendous misconception (and I can’t believe Brad Bird passed on making Force Awakens to make a movie that was 90 minutes of driving through the Florida swamps). In reality, pre-1960s scifi novels trafficked in dread, dystopian futures, and fear. There was simply never a time when optimistic scifi was overrepresented, even the boyish Jules Verne became skeptical of the possibilities of technology all the way at the turn of the century. One of the most famous pulp scifi yarns was Jack Williamson’s The Humanoids, about a race of Borg-like robots who so totally micromanage humans “for our own protection” that they leave us with nothing to do but wait “with folded hands.”


“Pulp scifi often featured muscular, large-chinned, womanizing main characters.”

Here’s the image often used in parodies of pulp scifi: the main character is a big-chinned, ultra-muscular dope in tights who is a compulsive womanizer and talks like Adam West in Batman. Whenever I see this, I think to myself…what exactly is it they’re making fun of?

It’s more normal than you think to find parodies of things that never actually existed. Mystery buffs and historians, for example, can’t find a single straight example of “the Butler did it.” It’s a thing people think is a thing that was never a thing, and another example would be the idea of the “silent film villain” in a mustache and top hat (which there are no straight examples of, either). There are no non-parody examples of Superman changing in a phone booth; he just never did this.

In reality, my favorite description of pulp mag era science fiction heroes is that they are “wisecracking Anglo-Saxon engineers addicted to alcohol and tobacco who like nothing better than to explain things to others that they already know.” The average pulp scifi hero had speech patterns best described as “Mid-Century American Wiseass” than like Adam West or the Lone Ranger. 

The nearest the Spaceman Spiff stereotype came to hitting the mark was with the magazine heroes of the Lensmen and Captain Future, and they’re both nowhere near close. Captain Future was a muscular hero with a chin, but he also had a Captain Picard level desire to use diplomacy first, and believed that most encounters with aliens were only hostile due to misunderstandings and lack of communication (and the story makes him right). He also didn’t seem interested in women, mostly because he had better things to do for the solar system and didn’t have the time for love. The Lensmen, on the other hand, had a ruthless, bloodthirsty streak, and were very much like the “murder machine” Brock Sampson (an attitude somewhat justified by the stakes in their struggle). 


“Pulp Era Scifi were mainly action/adventure stories with good vs. evil.” 

This is a half-truth, since, like so much other genre fiction, scifi has always been sugared up with fight scenes and chases. And there was a period, early in the century, when most scifi followed the Edgar Rice Burroughs model and were basically just Westerns or swashbucklers with different props, ray guns instead of six-shooters. But the key thing to remember is how weird so much of this scifi was, and that science fiction, starting in the mid-1930s, eventually became something other than just adventure stories with different trappings. 

One of my favorite examples of this is A. Bertram Chandler’s story, “Giant-Killer.” The story is about rats on a starship who acquire intelligence due to proximity to the star drive’s radiation, and who set about killing the human crew one by one. Another great example is Eando Binder’s Adam Link stories, told from the point of view of a robot who is held responsible for the death of his creator.

What’s more, one of the best writers to come out of this era is best known for never having truly evil bad guys: Isaac Asimov. His “Caves of Steel,” published in 1953, had no true villains. The Spacers, who we assumed were snobs, only isolated themselves because they had no immunities to the germs of earth.


“Racism was endemic to the pulps.”

It is absolutely true that the pulps reflected the unconscious views of society as a whole at the time, but as typical of history, the reality was usually much more complex than our mental image of the era. For instance, overt racism was usually shown as villainous: in most exploration magazines like Adventure, you can typically play “spot the evil asshole we’re not supposed to like” by seeing who calls the people of India “dirty monkeys” (as in Harold Lamb). 

Street & Smith, the largest of all of the pulp publishers, had a standing rule in the 1920s-1930s to never to use villains who were ethnic minorities because of the fear of spreading race hate by negative portrayals. In fact, in one known case, the villain of Resurrection Day was going to be a Japanese General, but the publisher demanded a revision and he was changed to an American criminal. Try to imagine if a modern-day TV network made a rule that minority groups were not to be depicted as gang bangers or drug dealers, for fear that this would create prejudice when people interact with minority groups in everyday life, and you can see how revolutionary this policy was. It’s a mistake to call this era very enlightened, but it’s also a mistake to say everyone born before 1970 was evil.


“Pulp scifi writers in the early days were indifferent to scientific reality and played fast and loose with science.”

 FALSE.

 This is, by an order of magnitude, the most false item on this list.

In fact, you might say that early science fiction fandom were obsessed with scientific accuracy to the point it was borderline anal retentive. Nearly every single one of the lettercols in Astounding Science Fiction were nitpickers fussing about scientific details. In fact, modern scifi fandom’s grudging tolerance for storytelling necessities like sound in space at the movies, or novels that use “hyperspace” are actually something of a step down from what the culture around scifi was in the 1920s-1950s. Part of it was due to the fact that organized scifi fandom came out of science clubs; Hugo Gernsback created the first scifi pulp magazine as a way to sell electronics and radio equipment to hobbyists, and the “First Fandom” of the 1930s were science enthusiasts who talked science first and the fiction that speculated about it second.

In retrospect, a lot of it was just plain obvious insecurity: in a new medium considered “kid’s stuff,” they wanted to show scifi was plausible, relevant, and something different from “fairy tales.” It’s the same insecure mentality that leads video gamers to repeatedly ask if games are art. You’ve got nothing to prove there, guys, calm down (and take it from a pulp scifi aficionado, the most interesting things are always done in the period when a medium is considered disposable trash). 

One of the best examples was the famous Howard P. Lovecraft, who published “The Shadow out of Time” in the 1936 issue of Astounding. Even though it might be the only thing from that issue that is even remotely reprinted today, the letters page from this issue practically rose up in revolt against this story as not being based on accurate science. Lovecraft was never published in Astounding ever again.

If you ever wanted to find out what Star Wars would be like if they were bigger hardasses about scientific plausibility, check out E.E. Smith’s Lensman series. People expect a big, bold, brassy space opera series with heroes and villains to play fast and loose, but it was shockingly scientifically grounded.

To be fair, science fiction was not a monolith on this. One of the earliest division in science fiction was between the Astounding Science Fiction writers based in New York, who often had engineering and scientific backgrounds and had left-wing (in some cases, literally Communist) politics, and the Amazing Stories writers based in the Midwest, who were usually self taught, and had right-wing, heartland politics. Because the Midwestern writers in Amazing Stories were often self-taught, they had a huge authority problem with science and played as fast and loose as you could get. While this is true, it’s worth noting science fiction fandom absolutely turned on Amazing Stories for this, especially when the writers started dabbling with spiritualism and other weirdness like the Shaver Mystery. And to this day, it’s impossible to find many Amazing Stories tales published elsewhere.

Forget me not

It’s been about a year since my last Miraculous Ladybug fanfic list. Given the fandom is three years old and season 2 is right around the corner (hopefully), I believe it’s time to relive and explore some of the best fanfics the fandom has to offer. By no means is this list comprehensive. Many fics aren’t on here. (I’m working on a list for newer fics, so stay tuned!)

Rainy Days by @thelastpilot (Not rated)
A storm rolls through Paris and refuses to let up, so when a water fearing cat is rescued by the kind efforts of his designing classmate he starts to pay a little closer attention to someone he should have always known better.

he’s not a siren by @miraculousturtle (Rated T)
Merman AU. Their meeting is orchestrated by fate, conducting them one at a time to step on the stage. With the flick of the baton, in time, they will sing the same song, but only if they aren’t swept away by the ocean’s mighty waves.

An Unexpected Surprise by @sweetprincessluck (Rated M)
Adrien Agreste. Age 26. A successful international supermodel, currently changing careers to a CEO of a fashion empire. Was born and raised in Paris, had moved to the USA 6 years ago, came back for a visit. Kind, handsome, lonely. Had experienced a lot, had seen even more. Had nothing left that could surprise him anymore.Except, maybe, this - a small, blonde girl, with emerald eyes and freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose – a splitting image of his mother Lillian Agreste, excluding, perhaps, the freckles.Her name was Emma. Emma Dupain-Cheng, to be exact.

Obsession by @kryallaorchid (Rated T)
Miraculous has unintended side effects. A chance encounter leaves Chat Noir in Marinette’s magic hands. Scritch and scratch, this kitty has needs. MariChat. 

Smoulder by @midnightstarlightwrites (Rated T)
In which Adrien loses a bet and becomes an underwear model, Marinette loses her mind, and the whole fiasco starts a fire which might lead to the pair discovering their identities.

Retrouvailles by @gigiree (Rated G)
There’s an art to telling stories. There’s an art to ending them. Just know that saying “the end” is just another way of saying it’s a new beginning. When she says goodbye, her luck is gone. His has just begun.Tattoo and Flowershop AU!

Over the Wall by @imthepunchlord (Rated G)
The accident, while unintentional, was costly. For her wrong doings against Chloe, Marinette is sent over the wall to die. But instead of death, she winds up in a strange, unnerving world. Good thing she’ll have a cat to watch her back in this bizarre place.

Chasing the C/h/atwalk by @runningoutofink (Rated T)
Paris. The city of lights, love and fashion. Follow the progress of Marinette Dupain Cheng as she enters the extremely competitive world of Reality television for a chance to be the winner of Project Runway: France.

Lucky Us by @geek-fashionista (Rated T)
-AU- Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s life isn’t going as planned: twenty-six, recently dumped, and running her parents’ bakery. The highlights of her day are the emails sent by her mysterious pen pal, Chat Noir. That is, until handsome model Adrien Agreste starts swinging by the bakery after hours. But how is he to know the Ladybug he loves is standing right in front of him?

Guardians by @wintermoth (Rated T)
In the year 2015, Marinette Dupain-Cheng said yes to Tikki, the kwami of Creation. Two days later, Adrien Agreste said yes to Plagg, the kwami of Destruction.For the first time in over a thousand years, the cat and the bug were starting fresh. (immortal AU)

Découvrir by @xiueryn (Rated M)
A decade apart and he still remembered her. Marinette contacts her childhood friend in hopes of rekindling their forgotten relationship despite him being a celebrity, only to assume him to be someone else entirely. AU.

Bare Necessities by @reyxa (Rated M)
Art School AU where Adrien is the nude model in Marinette’s human figure class. Major sin warning but it’s more awkward than sexy. Definitely not for little ears… or eyes I guess…

Serendipitous Fate by @skaylanphear (Rated M)
Adrien is excited to reveal his true identity, while Marinette is terrified. But Master Fu says they can’t afford to be distant any longer. Chat Noir and Ladybug are meant to work in tandem both in and out of uniform, their strength stemming from the bond created between them. Yet, teenagers are sometimes better at dancing blind than running with wide open eyes, even with the steps laid out before them.Steps in the path of an expanding world. Apart, they’ll flounder. But together, they might just stand a chance.

Tikki’s New Friend by @panda013 (Rated G)
The dog was easily the height of his chest, and the young woman walking it could have only come up to his shoulder. But she was just cheerfully walking along beside the dog, chatting and laughing happily with a redheaded young woman. The dog was a big black beast—he didn’t know the breed then, nor did he particularly care, but it whined pitifully when its equally dark-haired owner paused to read a street sign. She just giggled and reached out a hand to ruffle its fur, and the giant’s tail wagged happily.

heartstrings by @zenwisterias (Rated T)
one of marinette’s rare unlucky days turns into something treacherous. thanks to a certain cat, the real danger passes, but there are other things to be more afraid of. her heart, for example, might be one of them.

The Ladybugs and the Bees by @bullysquadess (Rated M)
This originally started as a fanfic about periods and just devolved into crack.

You Don’t Know Me by @ferisae (Rated T)
When Ladybug suffers a near-fatal accident and is presumed dead, it is up to Adrien - who has discovered Ladybug’s secret - to help her through her painstaking recovery and reacquaint her with herself. All this while trying to save Paris on his own without losing himself in the process.

Satisfaction Brought It Back by @siderealsandman (Rated E)
Most people rekindled friendships with people from high school over Facebook or Twitter. Most people met for coffee, shared pictures of their bratty children, and sent old friends Christmas letters once a year. Marinette was clearly not most people as she had somehow hooked up with her former high school crush on a bondage dating website and didn’t know it until he was standing in front of her with an identical look of bemused embarrassment plastered all over his pretty face.

A Werecat in London by @i-am-thornqueen (Rated M)
After an unfortunate encounter with an akuma while in London on a business trip, Chat Noir is forced to deal with the unexpected consequences. Can Ladybug help him return to his normal self, or will he be stuck for the rest of his life getting in touch with his wild side?

tangled ribbons by @demistories (Rated G)
Marinette is a small studio dancer who wins a scholarship to a summer long ballet intensive. Adrien is a famous ballet dancer who would rather be at home than at said intensive. The end of the summer will bring about a showcase that could make Marinette’s career, if she can ignore Chloé and focus on something other than Adrien.

The Space Between Us by @chassecroise (Rated T)
What’s a ladybug to do when her kitten becomes a cat?

Accident of the Evening by @thatwriterchickrachel (Rated T)
Adrien Agreste, rumoured royalty, just wants a normal life. But one night on the run he meets Marinette, a normal girl, with a normal life. Marinette can’t believe it. Her long-time celebrity crush had crashed into her life and was now hanging out with her and her friends in between his busy schedule.With the Annual Parisian Masquerade Ball approaching, and an announcement sure to change everything looming over them, the two young adults begin a friendship and a double life.

Emergence by @artisticflutter (Rated M)
They were only teenagers, but they are no more. Forced to awaken to new powers, both find themselves codependent on the other in order to survive and escape from their captors. They are Ladybug and Chat Noir - they are Marinette Dupain-Cheng and Adrien Agreste. Part One of a possible series.

The Lights that Lead Us Home by @oceanspray5 (Rated G)
Based on @piku-chan’s Cinderella AU on Tumblr. Marinette remains at the Palace to train as a noble and Adrien takes on more responsibilities as King. The wedding is planned for the Prince and his Princess and despite any outside meddling forces, goes off without a hitch.

Le Chat Noir by ParadiseAvenger (Rated E)
Le Chat Noir was the most popular strip club in Paris. Marinette could explain how she wound up there the first time, but she couldn’t explain how she kept coming back.

The Wingman Visits by @niuniente (Rated M)
When Chat Noir finds out Ladybug’s real identity as Marinette, he also discovers her huge crush for Adrien. As a gentleman he is Chat Noir offers to be a wingman between Marinette and Adrien, trying to get them together.

Sealed away by @ashesandhoney (Rated T)
Five years ago, Ladybug left Paris and left Chat Noir to learn how to keep it together on his own.Marinette is back in Paris with an internship at the Agreste Fashion house trying to get the spring show up and running and as much as Adrien appreciates having a friend at work, he’s distracted by Ladybug’s return and more Akuma attacks than either of them have faced before.Something big is coming and nothing can stay sealed away forever.

Cut from the Same Cloth by @baneismydragon (Rated T)
When Gabriel notices that Adrien is collecting various supplies from his office, he assumes that his son has finally decided to show an interest in the family business. However when he tries to show his support by showing up at a school presentation, things quickly spiral out of control and everyone learns more than they bargained for

Désolé by @pozolegirl (Rated G)
‘The Cat’s out of the Bag’ as Adrien would say, and now Marinette and Adrien must work through their emotions during this new reveal of identities, all while Hawkmoth is hot on their trail and not about to let them slip away from him, taking matters into his own hands.

Sing the Song of Sailing Sirens by @princessofharte (Rated T)
Adrien Agreste is the Pirate Lord of the High Seas, chasing a British flagship until Le Chat Noir is blown off course into a green storm.

This is not a complete list of the best fics in the fandom. Many of these authors have written multiple fanfics for this fandom and they are all amazing. Indeed, many of the fics on AO3 with the most hits, the most kudos, and the most comments were other fics not mentioned here but completed by many of these authors. Every work of fanfiction is amazing. If you want to help encourage writers to write more awesome fanfiction, please leave a comment on their works. It can be as short as “This is great!” Seriously. We live off validation.

It’s not narcissism if I add in my own fic here, right?

Was there anything I missed? Leave it in the reblogs and spread the word so that others–including myself–can read it!

art theft in the phandom

This morning I woke up to several panicked messages from friends letting me know that somebody had tweeted a drawing of mine, claimed that it was their own, and that Phil had ‘liked’ this stolen artwork on twitter:

This person not only had the gall to upload it and suggest that they’d made it, but they also criticised the way I had drawn his face and then accepted compliments from other people, as seen in this screenshot:

This drawing means a lot to me. Ready Player One has been my favourite novel for four years now, and I was thrilled when Phil first mentioned it in one of his liveshows. It’s not a particularly well-known book, and it made me so happy to hear that Phil also enjoyed it.

I spent nine hours on that drawing. Nine hours hunched over that damn graphics tablet with a cramping hand and shoulders. I constantly redrew the pose even though I suck at anatomy because I wanted it to be perfect. I worked right into the early hours of the morning because I didn’t want to stop. I was so excited. I knew that Phil would enjoy this drawing.

The only other time I’ve been noticed by Dan or Phil was in 2015, when I tweeted another artwork at Phil. He ‘liked’ it and I almost had a heart attack.  It was an incredible feeling and I wanted to feel that again.
Everybody here knows how difficult it is to be noticed by Dan and Phil. Most people never get it. I was certain that this artwork would be recognised, and I was correct. It just wasn’t in the way that I wanted it to be.

The art thief deleted the tweet after being called out (they haven’t apologised or answered any of my messages yet), and I’ve posted my drawing again in an attempt to have it rightfully credited to me. Despite my best efforts, I doubt that Phil will see it again, or, if he does, I don’t know whether he’ll act. The pride and accomplishment that I felt after completing this drawing has been marred by this shitty, talentless person with low self-esteem and weak ethics. And what happened to me isn’t an isolated incident.

Take, for example, @phantheraglama and @maddox-rider’s constant struggle with people who repost their art. Or when @arctoids and @incaseyouart discovered that their work was traced and used in Dan’s The Urge video. I was there when @pinofs found themselves in a situation similar to mine, when Dan liked a tweet from someone who traced their drawing. 

It’s not limited to ‘art’ artists either. Some of my friends, @phansdick, @insanityplaysfics and @crescendohowell have their incredible phanfiction reposted constantly. @moaninghowell, @themostfuniveverhad and @moonlitdan’s edits have been stolen and posted, too. And this isn’t everyone. These are only the people I’m aware of, and the ones who are lucky enough to have had their plight seen by others. There are many, many other artists who don’t have enough followers to be noticed, or who never get the recognition they deserve because the thief has more followers than they do, and anything they say is overshadowed by that.

After scouring through copyright and code of conduct laws for various social media, I’ve learnt that unfortunately there is nothing you can really do except report the problem and hope that staff are able to delete the offending post. Since most phan artists don’t actually legally buy a copyright, we are completely reliant on the decency of others to prevent art theft from occurring. Most of the phandom is great and works to support artists, but unfortunately, the bad eclipses the good. The ‘good’ majority is irrelevant when there are ‘bad’ people out there, doing bad things.

So how do you stop this from happening? You can’t. There are, however, ways to make it harder for people to actually steal your art, a lesson I wish I had taken to heart before this happened.

1. Put your watermark in a noticeable place and make it your username, not your actual name. Write it somewhere that has a distinctive pattern or colours that are hard to replicate so that nobody can brush over it easily.

2. Specify in your caption what you’d like done with your art. Every artist is different – some are okay with people reposting their art with credit, others aren’t. Make sure you tell people what you want, as many people repost things with the good intention of getting it more recognition. 

3. If all else (including nicely messaging them) fails, report the shit out of the person.

And to anyone who has ever stolen art, know this: Your way of getting recognised by Dan and Phil is crap. Any reblog, like, note or compliment that you get is OURS. None of that goodness is directed to you. You have done nothing but shit on the hard work and achievements of other people. You’re the scum of the phandom.

I think that Vic, from @incaseyouart, phrased it really well: It takes many years to develop a fine skill such as drawing, because to learn is to develop your style by referencing other artists and material. Tracing and reposting someone’s image, and other forms of art theft, are cheap ways of reproducing art. It is plagiarism of great effort. Not only does it steal from the original artist’s feelings of accomplishment and pride over their creation, it also discourages proper skill development. Do not repost, create. Do not steal, learn.

I hope that we can start up a discussion about art theft again. I really don’t want anyone else to go through this stressful and disheartening experience.


Update: The person has apologised and seems to regret what they’ve done. Phil also liked my post on Twitter again! Thanks to everyone who helped, and Phil for seeing the issue and fixing it :) Even though this was a win for me, unfortunately art theft is still a huge issue. Let’s not forget that.

the art of slaying dragons

“Cooking is at once child’s play and adult joy. And cooking done with care is an act of love.”
― Craig Claiborne

Nalu | Chef/RivalsToLovers AU
part 1/? 

words: 1475
rated: M
read: all

I can’t even believe it myself, but I am… back?! And it feels great. :’) I know I haven’t written in ages but I hope you haven’t forgotten me entirely my pals my buddies my frends… and this time around I’m writing about one of the great loves of my life: food. ;) Well, maybe not only about food. But there will be food. Yum.

 Cooking, despite what some might try to tell you, is an art.

It is art, and it is magic. There is art in an idea, in the careful execution, in the swirls and patterns of thoughtful arrangement on a simple plate. There is magic in old, scribbled recipes that endure time, in the love you pour into your creations, in that first bite. It is in the smiles of the people who taste your food, in the way they come to know you without ever having met you, because you took a part of your soul and held it to their lips.

The art of cooking—

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

Resisting the urge to hurl her pen against the next wall, Lucy Heartfilia leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Maybe this was why she had not become a food critic in the end. As much as she loved writing, it did not come easy to her. It was hard. What she could do, however – what she had taught herself to do with passion and endurance – was to create dishes that spoke for her. Or at least she hoped that was what she did. Some days, she didn’t know anymore.

Maybe this wasn’t the best time in her life to be writing an article for a renowned food magazine, when she wasn’t even sure if she deserved to be in it. With a heavy sigh, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and tried to focus on the task at hand.

But she did not finish it that night, or the night after.


“Chef, appetizer for table six is ready to go.”

“Thanks, Cana. Gajeel, ready to go on the main?”

“Aye.”

“Cana, send it out. Gajeel, start in five. I want this energy to continue, alright team?”

“Yes, Chef!”

Lucy was in her element. She was in control. Everything happening was happening as it should; the magic (as she liked to call it) was flowing splendidly tonight. Yesterday’s doubts were still in the back of her mind, the anxiety over that new restaurant across the street a thorn in her side, but for tonight she pushed it all away. This year, she reassured herself, would be the year she would finally earn her first michelin star.

There was no one who could do it like Lucy Heartfilia. No restaurant that could rival The Fairy’s Tail, not in this street or this city or the entire fucking country. She had to believe this.

“Chef. Chef! Lucy!”

Blinking away her stupor, Lucy gave a start. She found herself confronted with the stern face of her head waitress, Aquarius. She swallowed. The scowl on her face bode nothing well.

“The guest at table seven asked to speak to you.”

All that Lucy heard in her tone and bearing was ‘What did you do wrong now, silly girl?’ but she merely nodded and skidded away from the woman’s likely wrath. Lucy might be her boss, but god, could Aquarius still be scary after all these years.

Scary, too, was the prospect of meeting that guest. It didn’t help that Aquarius had not hinted at the nature of the request. Would she be met with a complaint or a compliment?

Pondering this simple yet nerve-wrecking question, she made her way through the kitchen doors and out into the dining area, into her restaurant. For Lucy, it was the kitchen which felt most like home: this was where she lived as much as she worked. But here, amidst neatly decked tables and careful arrangements, amidst the sound of conversation, softly clinking cutlery and low laughter, here was where the soul of her restaurant lay. It felt good to remember that from time to time. Here, what she did felt easy and joyful and right. The blood, sweat and tears that had brought her to this point lay behind her, forgotten easily in the face of what her work could accomplish. Steaming plates, inviting dishes, colourful details… it all looked so simple, despite the hours of thought so many people had put into it. Her food brought people together; it made them smile.

And that was all she had ever wanted, in a way.

The table she was headed for was one of the small ones close to the wall, with the soft emerald cushions. There was only one person sitting there, comfortably lodged between table and wall, looking entirely at peace with the world. Some of the tension dropped off Lucy’s shoulders. His eyes moved and caught her approaching, and the smile that spread across his face lit up his eyes in a way that was, she found, entirely pleasant. A very good, content smile.

Her initial impression, however, was quickly redacted when she arrived at the table and he opened his mouth. 

Keep reading

Papa Henry AU

(In which Henry comes back in order to protect his beloved Toons from Joey.)

30 years ago, he had been drafted. He had packed up most of his things, save for his old desk and a handful of ideas that would never see the light of day outside of a drawer. Any project of his that DID get to the final drawing board was quickly turned over to Joey and entrusted in his care-

“I trusted you with them, Joey…”

30 years later and here he was, in his old studio with the creations he had left behind. Everyone battered, bruised, covered in some variation of blood and ink just like the rest of the studio. The overwhelming smell of ink and images of what possibly went down here were enough to make Henry sick to his stomach.

“He tortured us… For 30 years.” Bendy rasped, slinking slowly over to his creator and resting heavily against him.

“I know…” Henry sighed as he looked down at the little devil.

His ink was smudged over his eyes, but it was nothing a bit of liquid paper couldn’t fix… Just a fresh new design and-

“It’s going to take a lot to fix you all up…” The old creator slipped his arms gently around his creation and cradled him as he would his own child. “But that’ll go beyond what I can do…”

“… Thanks for coming back, Henry.” Fat, black drops of ink flowed down the toon’s once white cheek.

“… I’m sorry for leaving you guys…”

Memeing Into the Void: The Case That We Have Entered The Last Stage of Internet Culture

Conjecture: Internet culture, specifically meme culture, can be roughly divided into distinct movements associated with time periods, much in the same way that paintings can be categorized into their respective art movements. Here’s my best attempt at doing so:

The Original Meme Era (1993-2009): The foundational period of modern internet culture, the creation of the first internet memes, characterized mostly by sincere attempts at humor: lolcats, fails, rick rolling, rage comics etc.

The Ironic Meme Era (2010-2014): Internet memes become mainstream and accessible by popular media, in response meme elitism and ironic memes are born, characterized by parodies of other memes: dank memes, Dolan, ironic fandoms (Shrek, Bee Movie), montage parodies etc.

The Post-Ironic Meme Era (2015-2016): anti-memes, multiple layers of irony, memes begin to take on depressive and nihilistic overtones, irony and sincerity begin to become blended together and ambiguous: deliberate shitposting, bone hurting juice, bottom text, I have crippling depression etc.

The Last Meme Era (2017- )


Conjecture: There is an upper limit on how meta you can get; there are only so many levels of irony you can stack on top of each other before your conceptual framework implodes on itself. Let’s set aside the fact that Reddit is the Lyme disease of the internet for a moment and take r/Circlejerk as an example. The sub was created to humorously criticize the perceived manner in which greater Reddit had become a masturbatory echo chamber devoid of meaning or purpose. Naturally, it was only a matter of time before r/Circlejerk itself became an echo chamber, except this time with an even bigger superiority complex. Thus r/metaCirclejerk was created to make fun of the people making fun of reddit.  Naturally, r/metametaCirclejerk was formed next… but that’s the end of the series; there is no r/metametametaCirclejerk. This would be unnecessary and redundant, because once you get this many layers removed you lose track of who and what you’re responding to. The bottom drops out; r/metametaCirclejerk is much more about playing with the idea of meta-criticism on the Reddit platform rather than a direct mockery of r/metaCirclejerk itself. To put it more simply, I’m positing that once you get to about three layers of irony in any given media, the meaning begins to fall apart and you can go no further. This principle explains why we are currently in the final iteration of internet culture.

What is the Last Meme Era? It is nothing more than the self-cannibalization of the meme. Notice that every meme era is a direct response to the previous era, but there is no and can be no response to the Last Meme Era. The internet is bathing in its own digestive juices. To reject the Last Meme Era is in itself an expression of the movement.

This example is quintessentially representative of the Last Meme Era. Consider how many layers of culture you have to be familiar with to even understand what it means. The John C Miller meme itself exists exclusively as corruptions of other memes and furthermore is an anti-humorous rebuttal to the appropriation of internet memes by a private corporation for profit. The meme this image is based on (bone hurting juice) also exclusively exists as modifications of other memes, and is arguably a neo-dadaist celebration of nonsense. Finally, the original web comic is a morbid parody of a children’s book.


Conjecture: Culture is inseparable from the society that creates it, and this includes internet culture; every new meme created is fundamentally the product of late stage capitalism. As of 2014 less than one out of every four films released isn’t a reboot/remake, sequel/prequel, part of a franchise, or otherwise based on another work of media, and it’s only gotten worse since then. There are no new ideas, only perversions and corruptions of previous ideas; creativity has been crushed out of us in supplication to the profit motive. Society is eating itself. The 8 richest people in the world own more wealth than the bottom 3.7 billion. Quite literally all the money in the world wouldn’t be enough to pay off the world’s debt. Corporations are murdering their own customer base and then bemoaning that there’s no one left to buy their products.

Meme culture is necessarily a reflection of society, and as a society we can’t tell if and when we’re serious anymore. The president of the United States is a reality television star who is incapable of stringing more than one complete sentence together. Is this an extended joke? Does it even matter? The nation has been coopted by fascists who choose to represent themselves with a cartoon frog. We live in a post-truth world now, the public has stopped even pretending to care about reality anymore. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked. Mental illness is a societal problem as much as it is a psychological one; everyone has become badly sick so how can we be surprised that despair is now a meme? And what the fuck is vaporwave?

Culture has stagnated. There is nowhere to go from here but revolution or extinction. We are all memeing into the void; this is the Last Meme Era.

anonymous asked:

Now that you've mentioned Keith's bike I'm curious about where it may have come from. Another memento of his mom? Something that the people who brought Blue to Earth left behind?

Believe it or not someone was just talking to me about this. Credit to dhaarijmens who I… cannot @ for some reason, for this screengrab:

So the poster up behind Hunk’s head, at a glance, would seem to be an advertisement for the bike. Oh, mystery solved, it’s normal Earth technology and Pidge just had coincidentally never seen anything like it before. Pidge… the… science enthusiast. Hm.

So I went deeper.

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NewtXReader - The Perfect Gift

Request: Newt x Reader where Newt has an immense fear of something (you decide) and he’s approached with it but the reader aka his girlfriend comforts him?

masterlist

——————————————————————-

The smell of Jacob’s cinnamon cookies and Queenie’s delicious cooking, woke you gently from your sleep. Stretching your muscles, you sunk deeper into the fluffy pillow. Turning softly on your side you came face to face with Newt’s vibrant green eyes, studying every curve of your body. Let’s just say your nightgown was slightly on the revealing side. Shuffling closer you cuddled deep into his body, running a finger lightly against his broad chest. A gentle hum of happiness coming from his lips.

This was the first year you and Newt had spent Christmas together as a couple and life couldn’t be more bliss. Although personally you wished that it was just the 2 of you in the case, both of you had decided to spend the holiday at the Goldstein’s apartment. Your friends where your family after all.

You really couldn’t complain though as you still got to wake up to the most handsome freckled face in the whole world. Newt pulled the covers further over both of your bodies, making a cosy cocoon. “Merry Christmas”, he huskily mumbled into your hair, still very disoriented in his half asleep state. Giggling at his ticklish actions, you placed a gentle peck on his slightly chapped lips. “Merry Christmas”, you quietly replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

But before you could dip your head down for another kiss, Queenie burst into the room, completely unaware of your loved up position. Unable to control her childlike excitement she squealed, “Come on lovebirds! You two can be cuties later, I wanna open the presents”.

Her whines weren’t met with any response as in a blink of an eye, Queenie had rushed back to the living room, not even allowing her to take no for an answer.

Newt’s chest slightly vibrated as he chuckled at Queenie’s immature nature, the sound being sweet music to your ears. Placing one last kiss on those lovable lips, Newt slipped from the sheets off to tend to the creatures. The warmth of his body leaving you completely. It was almost like he was your personal hot water bottle.

Although you desperately wanted to persuade him to come back into bed again, you knew that just because it was Christmas that didn’t mean he couldn’t tend to his duties. The creatures came first and his dedication was always something you had admired about him.

“Don’t take too long love” you called after him. His playful laughter being the only response you received, you decided to savour the residual heat left from him, curling back up under the covers.

5 more minutes wouldn’t hurt?

————————————————————————————–

*1 hour later*

After forcing yourself from the bed and making yourself presentable, you joined Jacob and the Goldstein sisters underneath the decorated Christmas tree. Newt had obviously lost track of time and was still in his case, however it was difficult to get Queenie to wait any longer.

Tina had organised all the presents into little piles according to person, to prevent Queenie from opening the wrong gift. It was easy for her to get carried away in her exhilaration.

Noticing her sister’s eagerness Tina finally gave in, “fineeee, Queenie you go first”,she sighed.

Letting out a quick squeal, Queenie didn’t need to be asked twice before tearing through all her presents. Her hands moved in a blur as she undid the hours of wrapping. To be honest her speed was making you dizzy. 

Her feminine taste was highlighted by everything she received, nearly every present having at least one tone of pink in it. Pink nightgowns, pink shoes, pink scarf, pink hat…..it was starting to make you feel nausea.

Tina received more sensible gifts such as books and stationary, although she was thankful nevertheless. Jacob was given cooking equipment and recipe books to keep him ticking over (and of course a pink tie from Queenie, which you knew for a fact he’d never wear).

The residue of torn wrapping paper lay scattered all over the living room floor. You were overwhelmed at the beautiful gifts you had received from the others but to be honest your mind was somewhere else. Where was Newt?

Almost as soon as the thought passed your mind, an out of breath, flushed Newt appeared into the room, “sorry the niffler was being extra difficult” he puffed sending a sorry smile in your direction.

“Thought Pickett had taken you hostage!” You playfully teased as you ushered him over to where the gifts lay. Studying his surroundings Newt noticed the expensive presents everyone else had given you. A silver ring with a blue Jewel from Tina, Perfume from Queenie and a baking kit from Jacob. His cheeks redden as worry started to cloud his mind.

Looking into your hopeful eyes, his world started to come crashing down. He saw the excitement laced in your eyes, unaware of what you where about to receive from him. Your hope was tearing Newt apart, what exactly had you been expecting? Designer dresses, expensive fragrances, priceless jewellery?Unfortunately all of these guesses where far out of a Magozoologist’s salary. He couldn’t afford the gifts that most women wanted…

“Do I get to open yours now Mr Scamander?”, you excitedly asked, a warm smile beaming on your face. You didn’t really care what Newt had bought you however Newt remained oblivious to this.

He looked down to the crumpled piece of paper in his hand, before quickly stuffing it back into his coat. It was worthless compared to the fine gifts the others had given you.

Although he knew you would be accepting for whatever he gave you, Newt feared you would figure out the truth. The truth that he would never be enough. Just not in terms of giving presents but as a boyfriend. As the realisation hit him a soft frown washed over his face. He especially didn’t want to face the embarrassment of losing you in front of the others and holding back his tears wasn’t a guarantee.

Unbeknown to Newt, his worries had caught the attention of a certain legilimen. Reading his mind, Queenie shot a concerned glance in Newt’s direction before making a change of topic, “I think the turkey’s nearly ready? Why don’t you open Newt’s present later?” she suggested throwing a sympathetic look once more at Newt.

Although you were slightly disappointed that the wait would be extended, you failed to notice the relief plastered on Newt’s face. He silently thanked Queenie for giving him more time and excuse himself for ‘a breath of fresh air’.

As everyone sat down at the Christmas table, Newt dashed out the apartment door into the empty streets. Not a single person to be seen. Maybe now he could go out and purchase another gift, one more for deserving of you.

Although after an hour of relentless searching it was clear that all hope was lost. Every store closed for the Christmas break no one in a right mind would be open over the holiays. What was he going to do? He couldn’t return back with what he’d originally planned to give you.

“Bugger” he mumbled, running a hand through his mess auburn hair. Finally giving up, Newt trailed back to the apartment to face the inevitable.

Opening the door, he noticed the empty Christmas dinner plates sitting by the sink. Had he really been away for that long? Looking around he saw that no one else was in the room, only you who was anxiously pacing back and forward.

Noticing you Newt’s presence you rushed over to him, tightly wrapping your arms around his tall frame. Nuzzling into his chest, relief flushed through your body.

“Merlin Newt, where did you go? You missed all of Christmas dinner..” Angry undertones laced your voice, although they were purely out of concern for him. You couldn’t even enjoy your Christmas meal, you were so worried about him.

However upon nothing the solemn look on Newt’s face your anger deceased. “Newt…did you forget to get me something?” You wearily asked, noticing his defeatist attitude. You didn’t really mind but wished that if he had forgotten, he would of told you straight up.

“No - well - it’s just… I did buy you something but - it’s not good enough” Newt downheartedly mumbled the last part under his breath. Sorrow dripped from his voice as he completely avoided giving you eye contact. Is this what he was scared of all along?

An amused smile spread across your face, as you caressed Newt’s cheek, “I’d be honoured to receive anything from you”. Giving him a reassuring look you lightly pressed you lips against his.

Taking a nervous deep breath in, Newt slipped his hand into his pocket, revealing the paper he had been hiding all night. Shakily handing it to you, you unraveled the crumpled edges to find a beautiful illustration.

Before your gaze lay an image of a girl. Each pencil line capturing the uniqueness and beauty of the woman, hours and hours of work obviously had been put into the creation of it. So much life and expression where drawn into her eyes, as though she had seen the entire world. Signed at the bottom was Newt’s name, handwriting you could only identify as his. Running your eyes over the drawing once more, the realisation finally set in.

It was you.

Was this how he saw you? As elegant and alluring as this? Although slightly dog-eared it was perfect. A happy tear rolled down your cheek, slightly staining the paper. Noticing the smudge the tear had caused, you immediately apologised, “God Newt I’m so sorry - I didn’t mean to ruin it”

“It was ruined from the moment a drew it” he muttered under his breath, still avoiding your gaze.

“What are you talking about?” You softly gasped in shock, “shhhhh don’t tell the others but this is my favourite present”. You cheekily whispered, making sure that only he heard.

“But-t it not worth as much as your others presents….” He sighed, still looking upset.

“Newt I don’t need any expensive jewellery, fancy clothes or anything….when I met you I got the perfect gift I could ever ask for”.

Without thought, Newt brought his lips to meet yours. Closing your eyes, you responded equally, loving the safe and passionate feeling Newt provided. He kissed you again and again, each kiss more intense than the last. He couldn’t believe it. You loved the drawing. Wrapping his arms around your frame, Newt’s heart raced wildly as he felt you press against him. Time was lost until a mildly disgusted voice rang behind you.

“Seriously you two? On Jesus’ birthday?” Tina playfully remarked.

——————————————————————-

Please like and reblog if you enjoyed! Excuse any mistakes but its 12:08am here and I’m dead. Feel free to send in more requests! Also check out my other new fanfic 'embarassed’ on my masterlist Xx

The problem with Bethesda's stories isn't bad writing, but a lack thereof.

I know it’s been said a lot, but I’ve been thinking a lot lately about just why Bethesda’s take on the Fallout series never clicked with me. Well, there’s a lot of mechanical reasons, but it’s also because the writing is just… bad. At least, that’s what I thought. But I’ve come to realise that the writing isn’t necessarily bad, it’s more that there isn’t any at all.

Spoilers for Fallout 3, Fallout: New Vegas and Fallout 4 below.

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Edmund x Reader: Hidden kisses

Prompt/ask: Hey can I ask for a Edmund x reader where you are Caspian’s twin sister and they fall for each other but Caspian doesn’t like it

Word count: 642

Warnings: None

Setting: VDT

A/N: Sorry if this isn’t exactly what you wanted! I hope you like it regardless.


The air on the Dawn Treader was clear and chilly. You remembered feeling the same breeze on the back of your neck in your distant, murky days spent in Telmar-although those winds were much less extraordinary. 

You inhaled sharply, breathing in the crystal draft surrounding you. The Narnian sea was exceptionally lovely at night. It seemed to dance before you, each wave rippling in the most magical and captivating way, forcing you into a trance of its beauty. 

“You alright?” A voice inquired tenderly from beside you. 

You clearly didn’t seem to notice when Edmund came up to join you on the deck; most of the crew had already gone to bed. 

Edmund always seemed to be there-not that you were complaining. The boy had something about him that captured your interest almost instantly, something that welcomed your presence. Maybe it was those questioning eyes, that messy hair, that soft-spoken tone…or maybe it was just Edmund. You had only just met the young King, and yet you felt as if you had known him for an eternity.

You nodded slowly, averting your gaze from the waters to Edmund’s soft brown eyes, hidden mostly by the dark.

“I just needed some air.” You said, barely moving your lips as you did so. Edmund nodded, seemingly in understanding. He leaned over the edge of the deck, looking out into the vast water-mass you had just been admiring. 

“Lovely, isn’t it?” He suggested thoughtfully. You remained silent, watching him.
“Did you have oceans like this in Telmar? Well, I suppose, Narnia.” He let out a small, nervous laugh. “Uh-you and Caspian grew up together in Telmar however, am I correct? Before you, I mean-” Edmund murmured, fumbling over his words a little.

You chuckled, playing with a strand of loose hair that had fallen into your eyes. “Edmund, I only knew my brother for a mere month of my childhood before we were separated.” You said casually, pausing to lean back away from the side of the deck. “We had the chance to reconnect about a week before the Dawn Treader set sail, actually.” 

Edmund nodded, breathing in. The two of you remained silent for a moment, taking in the feeling of the swaying ship and the increasingly chilly air.


“Oh, look!” Edmund announced suddenly, breaking the silence. In the dark, you could make out the form of him gesturing towards the sky.

“Stars.”

Sure enough, as you glanced towards the heavens, you could see a blanket of constellations. It was nothing like you had ever seen before-never in your entire life. 

They weren’t very luminous-you had to look directly up at the sky to catch their light-but they were magnificent. Paintings of centaurs and lions filled the canvas of the sky, showering the stars from each constellation below into your stunned eyes. 

“…wow.” Was all you could muster, so astounded by the images before you. 

“Aren’t they wonderful?” Edmund asked softly. 

You felt him move closer to you, his breathing pace increasing ever-so-slightly. His breath was so close to your neck you could feel the heat radiating off of your skin. 

“Y/n?” 

“Mhm?” 

Edmund paused, his fingertips brushing against your waist and his lips grazing across your ear. 

“Can I kiss you?” He muttered in what was almost a low growl. 

“Edmund! What in Holy Aslan are you doing to my sister?”

Edmund flinched, releasing you immediately and facing Caspian with a dumbfounded expression. 

Caspian, who was glaring at Edmund in utter disgust, was standing in the small threshold where the steps leading to the cabins were. He appeared to be holding what looked to be a wooden cup.

“Caspian-” You started, almost close to laughter. Before you could finish, the cup was flying past your ear and into Edmund’s face.

It seemed like you would have to find some more creative kissing spots.

Paper Heart

Originally posted by dreamyoongi

Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Angst, Fluff,

Word Count: 5.9k

Summary: Late night wallowing and a childhood superstition of wishing on stars grants you a little more than you had asked for.

A/N: In honor of the anniversary of this blog, I present to you, the product of my own self wallowing whoops.

“I hate this part, paper hearts, and I’ll hold a piece of yours.”

The life of working in an office was mediocre. Wake up, rush to work, stare at the same three gray walls for eight hours, with the exception of lunch breaks in the staff room, which contain off-white walls and even a cheesy ‘hang in there!‘ poster of that unfortunate cat hanging on for its dear life that someone tacked up above the refrigerator for kicks. To be honest, it only managed to make the whole scenario more depressing. And yet, no matter how dull or how monotonous your life seemed to be, there was one thing you still shamefully clung to, shown in your advocacy in semi-casual Fridays, in the calendar you kept beside your computer screen with the gorgeous photographs of the year’s top twelve vacation destinations, in the sketchbook hastily shoved  beneath a pile of paperwork from prying eyes - your pride. And that was why when your co-worker sidled up to your cubicle thirty minutes before the end of your shift with the stupidest proposition she’d come up with so far, your immediate answer was, “Hell no.”

Heejin pouts, leaning all her weight over the back of your desk chair so that you roll much too close to the desk for comfort. “C'mon, it’s just me and Hoseok, it’ll be fun, I promise!”

“That’s what you said last time!” You turn abruptly in your seat with a glare, nearly knocking Heejin over. “I know I don’t get out much, but I refuse to be someone’s third wheel.”

Your friend’s pleading look quickly 180’s to one of concern. “Have we always made you feel like that?”

You sigh, running your hands across your face, ignoring Heejin’s cringe when you pull back with streaks of mascara across your palms. “No, of course not. It’s just that ever since you and Hoseok started sleeping together-,”

“-and only that!-”

“-I feel like I’m intruding on something.” From the very beginning of your employment, you had spent pretty much every work day comfortably squashed between Heejin and Hoseok, your closest friends and coworkers. The three of you were practically inseparable; the three musketeers, the power team of the company’s advertising department. Yet one drunken night about a month ago, when you had left early in the middle of your group’s weekly tradition of let’s find a cool new way to get plastered in favor of sleep, whatever tension that had been building between your friends (with your notice) had finally reached its peak. You found out only by calling Heejin the next day to ask if she had seen your jacket anywhere - apparently left behind at whatever bar you had been loitering - only to have a very hung over Hoseok answer the phone, thinking that it was his. What came next was a lot of shouting and screams of disbelief on their end, while you stared at the phone in shock until you assume it was the appropriate time to hang up (specifically when Hoseok’s yelp of pain turned into something that sounded a little too much like a moan). Both approached you on Monday morning red in the cheeks, completely avoiding eye contact. You had promptly swiveled around in your chair to look at Heejin with a smirk.

“So when’s the wedding? Can I be the flower girl?”

“Y/N shut the fuck up.”

You hadn’t missed the fond smile that Hoseok hid by ducking his head.

Now, Heejin studies her nails in faux disinterest. “Fine, I’ll let it slide this time, but only if you tell me you have something better to do first that doesn’t include your sketchbook and a bottle of wine.”

You open your mouth to make up some sort of lie, but the knowing look on your friend’s face has you coming up short. You huff. “You’re right, I don’t, but I’d much rather stay at home tonight. I’ll go with you guys next time, alright?”

“Alright,” she reluctantly complies, bending over for a moment to pick up her bag on the other side of the cubicle wall. Heejin hesitates, peeping around your doorway. “And you’re sure this has nothing to do with-,”

“Go already!”

Standing to usher her out of your cubicle by the shoulders, you shove her towards where Hoseok waits patiently by the elevator. He gives you an enthusiastic wave. “You coming, Y/N? I heard on the news we can spot a shooting star tonight. I know this great bar where we can-,”

Heejin shakes her head, surely giving him a sour face out of your view. Hoseok makes a nearly identical pout. You roll your eyes; they’re made for each other.

Your friend wraps you a tight hug before waltzing off to link arms with Hoseok. “Have fun on your date!” The elevator doors slide shut just as Heejin flashes her tongue.

Yet despite your insistence, by the end of the night you had ended up exactly where your friends had expected you to be; curled up on the sofa with a half empty bottle and drawing in your sketchbook in the light of your tv.

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anonymous asked:

as a person who creates content myself, I do not understand why you're so pressed about your work being posted. If someone reposts mine and just goes credit: then whatever I'm chill with it why are you making such a big deal out of it, nothing you share on the internet is private and of course people will share it around, you need to chill the fuck out

So here I am, trying to get away from all the negativity in this site and on the internet because I have spent months trying to convince myself to not delete this blog and have been getting more reasons to delete for the last few days. And then I came into my blog to find solitude on the one hour I had before my exam and comes this message. To be honest, I wanted to just delete this message and block your ass from my blog, but since you have rudely told me to “chill the fuck out”, so I closed my app instead, walked into campus with a wide fake smile over my face and hoped that I could “chill” within the next hours of the exams so I can respond to you properly.

Now, since you told me yourself that you are a content creator, I need you to imagine this. Imagine yourself creating whatever content you make. I don’t know how long you need to make them, but let me just generalize it by how long me and my fellow writers needed to write. Let’s say you spent almost a full week creating your content - planning, choosing the images and concept of your content, working on them to be exactly how you wanted them to appear, then finalize it with editing. You lose hours of sleep, losing concentration on your class/work, and even think about the content while you’re out with friends - and then you feel the anxiety about posting them on the internet. You spend minutes, hours, contemplating in front of your screen, thinking - “will people like it? Is it good enough? will I have notes?” And then you take a deep breath and click that “post” button, and off the children of your creation went to the surface of the internet and beyond reach of your followers. And then the whole day and the next you find people looking at our content, giving likes and reblog, adding notes, commenting, giving feedbacks and spreading them around more with reblogs. Imagine how you feel. Doesn’t it feel exhilarating? Do you feel good about yourself and proud to see how people react to your creation? Of course you do.

Now come the reposters. Imagine they come to your blog, copy your creation and repost them on their blog/site/page. They don’t ask permission, they don’t ask if it’s okay to repost them with or without credit, and they don’t credit you properly (no links, just names, not even your full url), or even worse, they repost without taking your captions either. Imagine people coming to their blog, finding the content, and then praising them, giving them likes, reblogging the contents on their blog, adding their notes. Do you feel the spread? Do you get the notes? Do you receive the messages of the viewer asking you if you can share more quality contents as the ones they found? No. They will talk to the reposters. They will add the reposters’ notes. Do they come into your blog to give you a praise? No. Because I know that there are people who are too lazy to find source when it is not added, and because credits without linking back does not bring viewers back into your blog as the source. Do you feel good about this? Do you really feel proud having somebody else receiving feedbacks and praises (and probably more followers) of your hard work instead of yourself?

This is what happens to us. That is what we feel. This is what we are up against. Yes, I am well aware that this is the internet. People have easy access on every content being shared throughout the internet, and the only thing that I am asking (along with everyone else) is to be respected. Why is it so hard to respect our preferences of not having our work being distributed without our knowledge? Why is it so hard to respect our wish to protect our work? Aside from this blog, I also create things for a living. I have my work taken, stolen, being rebranded by plagiarists in real life. It sucks. It hurts. But the most painful thing I have to endure is losing money. Now we spread our work and our contents here for free, and the only thing I gain from sharing my contents are people’s feedbacks, the notes, the likes, the reactions and the respects. Nothing more. Now if I lose all of that, what else do I have left? Why is it so hard to have people ask for permission first? Have you not seen content makers asking people to “not repost”, to “not cut the credits on pictures” and to “not delete caption”? Have you not seen gif makers adding their credit on their gifs instead of captions because people repost them without their knowledge? Do you think people would do this if they are okay having their content reposted?

Look, if you are okay having your credits taken away from you and your content, then it’s fine with me. If you’re okay about people reposting without permission and proper credit, then I have no say on it. If you are okay with plagiarism, then please do not attempt to impose your personal preference to us when we are all here trying to protect our work the only way we can. And if you don’t agree with me, then it’s fine with me. Just don’t tell me how to feel or think, because you have no idea what it’s like to be me.

I've Got a Rock 'n' Roll Heart

I’ve Got a Rock ‘n’ Roll Heart

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Summary: Reader gives Jensen a birthday present he’ll never forget.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 904

Thank You @ellen-reincarnated1967 for encouraging me to write this.

Note: No disrespect to Jensen, Daneel  and their beautiful family. For the purposes of this story Jensen and Daneel are not together. Also the song used in this story and in the title are I’ve Got A Rock N’ Roll Heart by Eric Clapton. I did make one change to the lyrics, that will be explained in the story.

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thegaypumpingthroughyourveins  asked:

One of Graves' biggest passions, though he would never admit it out loud, is knitting. When Newt's birthday comes, he gets an anonymous gift that contains a pale blue sweater knit with love with a picture of a hipogriff.

@thegaypumpingthroughyourveins This is gross, I love it.

Healing from the physical damage Grindelwald had laid upon his body had turned out to be relatively simple. Not easy, no - Graves would never go so far as to say easy - but simple. Take these potions, rest for these many days, perform these exercises to regain the musculature lost, eat this many calories, drink this much water; orders, Graves could follow.

It was the after part that he struggled with. After his body had healed. After all visible signs it had ever happened were gone. Graves had always been a very physical creature. So it was beyond his comprehension when he woke up one day feeling amazing only to realize that his heart was still sick. His body had never felt better, but he was loathe to leave his bed in the morning and dreaded even more the act of climbing into it at night - deterred to sleep lest he dream. Lest he fall back into that place…

So he works more; anything to keep him from his house and the silence that waited for him there. Anything to keep his mind off the gnawing sense of emptiness in his chest. Anything to keep him moving, lest he stop moving altogether.

And when Picquery catches onto to this and forces him to leave his office on time because honestly, Graves, you just survived a madman. I’m not going to let you work yourself to death when only just got you back - Graves decides to start making daily walks through Central Park. At first only in the evenings but as time passes, he goes in the mornings too and it’s then that she meets her:

Julie-Ann Marie Smith.

He had been sitting on a park bench and staring out over the expanse of the park when she randomly sat next to him one day, this innocent little No-Maj. She had a curtain of cute silver curls atop her head and these huge spectacles that made his blue eyes two sizes too big to not be comical. She wore her Sunday best every day, her neck and wrists and ears outlined in modest jewelry.

“May I join you, young man?” She had asked quite kindly, her hands trembling where they held up her rather hefty looking bag.

Graves blinked, then made a point of scooting over to make room for her.

“Of course,” he said.

“Thank you.”

It turned out the woman came to the park to knit that day, and as Graves would later find, every day. He watched as she pulled out two long, wicked looking needles and a ball of soft yarn and simply began to knit right next to a total stranger.

He had thought about leaving from his morning walk early, only… he couldn’t stop watching her hands weave such plain and simple yarn into something long and grand and elaborate. There was something soothing in the gesture of her needles, in the way the fibers melded into something greater, in the way she created something out of nothing. Without realizing it, his fingers danced in the air from where they hung between his knees, hunched over as he was while watching her. He startled when she suddenly spoke.

“Would you like for me to teach you?”

“E-excuse me?”

“Knitting. Would you like for me to teach you?” She asked again, her eyes never lifting from her work, but still somehow growing gentle. “You look as though you’ve got a bit of an inch in your hands. I find it helps me keep my hands occupied when I get an inch. I tend to lately, since he passed.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Graves said.

“Thank you,” she smiled, and something glimmered behind the thick lens of her glasses.

“I’m afraid I must go,” Graves said, rising to his feet only to pause. He watched her for a moment, contemplating. Curious. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer another day.”

“I’m not hard to find,” she smiled. 

They end up making somewhat of a ritual together. Every morning, thirty minutes before work, Graves met Julie-Ann in the park at their bench. He brought coffee for himself, tea for her and two of those oddly shaped scones everyone’s been going on about for the both of them. She teaches him to knit and once he’s learned, they knit together every morning.

Its soothing for his hands and occupies his mind. He sleeps better after sitting beside his fireplace knitting until he’s weary. It helps him clear his head for his cases and actually makes it far easier for him to connect the dots between patterns in his criminal cases than ever before. It lowers his blood pressure and winds him down after a hard day at work. 

The only problem is - what does one do with several dozen blankets and scarves and mittens?

He thinks of Credence and the other Barebone children, and decides to give them away.

Time passes that way for a while, kind and patient and healing. He overhears Tina telling Queenie and Newt about how she’s been seeing a lot of orphans running around with finely knit sweaters and mittens and scarves and how wonderful that is - some organization must have finally taken an interest in New York’s children - and Graves can’t help but smile ever so slightly, proud. If Queenie catches his gaze as she hands him his coffee later and smiles at him strangely, neither of them comment on why.

But even so, Graves’ favorite reaction he has gotten to any of his creations has to be when Newt Scamander finds a simple brown package on his desk one day - no note, except for a simple tag that reads “Happy Birthday”. 

It is a simple sweater, nothing too elaborate - Graves isn’t that good yet. But it’s made of fine, soft yarn; the sort of sweater you relax in when it snows. And into the yarn, Graves had weaved a gentle spell that wove the image of a hippogriff into the front - grand and tall and proud. 

He overhears Newt asking quite nearly everyone who created such a kind gesture for him, but no one knows. And no one dares ask the director, because why would a man like Percival Graves own knitting needles?

Graves smiles over the rim of his cup, listening to them try and solve the mystery. It isn’t until Christmas that he’s found out.

“Mr. Graves,” Newt asks, lingering at his door. 

Graves blinks. It’s late and most of his people have left to go attend Christmas with their respective families. He thought it was only himself in the office at this point. But here Newt is, case in one hand, a familiar package in the other.

“Mr. Scamander,” Graves greets in return, eyes on the package and the familiar length of scarf tumbling slightly out its side.

Newt walks into his office, more confident as he goes.

“I didn’t realize anyone else was here,” Newt says, eyes wandering along the office as he goes.

“Neither did I,” Graves says. “You don’t have plans?”

“For Christmas? No. Going home didn’t quite pan out this year. Rarely does. You?”

“Nothing to go home to,” Graves says before he can stop himself. Silence reigns between them.

“Would you like to spend Christmas night with me, then?” Newt asks, and Graves blinks - surprised.

He accepts.

They spend their Christmas night in the employee lounge by the fire, exchanging polite conversation followed by kind stories. They discuss this and that. They talk about Theseus, their connection in common. They talk about Newt’s beasts and, as Newt becomes more and more comfortable over their fire whiskey, the goals he has for his creatures (and the illegal extent of his case within). 

Graves decides not to take note of it. It it Christmas after all.

It isn’t until late that night or perhaps early morning that Newt finally tottered onto his feet, case in hand, ready to depart for the night. Graves rose to his feet to see him off, determined to spend the night in his office - no point in going home at this hour.

“Well I had a lovely evening, Mr. Graves,” he says, “Thank you.”

“As did I,” Graves says. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Scamander.”

“Merry Christmas,” he says back, then bends to pick up his little package as he catches sight of it out of the corner of his eye. “Oh, I almost forgot!”

The scarf unravels from the package extravagantly - yellows and blacks and grays. Newt smiles fondly, his fingers digging into the soft yarn pleasantly. He looks up at Graves with a strange look.

“Your secret santa gift?” Graves bluffs.

“Yes,” Newt says.

Graves looks at the scarf in the man’s scarred hands and feels a plume of pride. He really likes the way the Hufflepuff themed scarf had turned out. He had tried to replicate the one Newt had said he lost, burned accidentally by a baby dragon he had in his care for a week. 

And from the look on Newt’s face, he very much likes the outcome too. Graves watches as the man takes the scarf in his hands and deftly winds it around his neck until his mouth and nose is all but lost in its warmth. But even so, Graves can tell the man is smiling. 

Graves doesn’t know it smells like him. Like whiskey and old books and rich cologne. Newt cherishes it.

“I suppose this is goodnight then,” Newt says, suddenly walking toward him. Graves doesn’t realize his intent until its too late - until there’s lips on his cheek, chaste and bashful.

And then they’re gone.

“Thank you for my scarf, Mr. Graves,” Newt says, blushing, as he walks away. Graves stiffens.

“How do you know it was me?” Graves challenges him, eyes on his back as he goes. Newt pauses, glances at him over his shoulder, and smiles.

“You’re the only one I told about my old scarf,” he says. “Because I knew you were the only one who wouldn’t make fun of me for losing another article of clothing to my creatures.”

Graves blinked. People made fun of him? But –

“Goodnight, Percival,” Newt said, his smile as warm as the whiskey in Graves’ belly. 

“Goodnight, Newt.”

Sometimes Rain Falls

A BTS Fanfiction

Type: AU/Alternative Universe

Summary: Sometimes a normal life is a good one to lead; its nice…its easy…
But sometimes, normal isn’t the way that things were meant to be. And when you’re chosen as a possible candidate for one of the kingdom’s 7 princes, life isn’t as nice and easy as you always presumed it to be…especially when you catch the eye of more than one of them…

Trailer

Masterlist

A/N: Buckle up kiddos, its a long’un!

Epilogue

The sun rising over the horizon through your bedroom window has you squinting against its bright light, grumbling against the onslaught of the morning and the list of things you had to do that immediately begins to reel through your mind, before swinging your legs over the side and getting to your feet, stretching as you finally open your eyes to let the day in.

You’d dreamt of him again last night.

Who are you?

Ever since the morning you’d woken up to go to the princes’ parade, and your mind had recalled the incredibly vivid images of a brunette prince, with a smile as bright as the sun and eyes as kind as a doe, you’d been struck by the realness of the man, the dream continuing to recur for the past week, even despite your disappointment at not having been picked to be a princess at the celebration…

However, since then you’d continued to dream of this elusive price, and, as each night had gone by, you’d noticed that the dreams had begun to change slightly…

The first time he’d appeared behind your eyelids, you’d simply seen his face as he stood across from you in a small beautifully blooming meadow that dropped off to the side into a cliff face, whilst the remainder of the space was cut off by bushes, almost like the area was its own entity.

The entire time you’d watched him you’d felt a pull toward him, like you wanted to embrace him but something unseen was holding you back, stopping you from getting any closer, from knowing anything more about him. However, before you could ever even act on the desire you could feel burning inside of you for you to touch him, you’d woken up to the morning struggling over your window sill and you’d immediately set to your days tasks to try and forget the uneasy feeling the dream had left you with, finding yourself starting at any man with brunette hair that you’d walk past, before frowning when you realized it wasn’t the right shade of chestnut, or that it didn’t shine as brightly as the image of his hair in your mind.

The second night, you’d been surprised to find yourself a step closer to him, although still unable to get any nearer.

However, from that distance you’d been able to make out the tired circles beneath his eyes, the sight making you slightly sad despite the warm smile he was offering your way, and so when you’re unable to move closer once again you find yourself becoming distressed, not paying attention as to why, before his face is fading away and you wake up once again, this time in a cold sweat, and being greeted by the sight of the sun timidly sat on the horizon, as though it was waiting for your permission to enter your room and wake you from the dream.

The third night you’d been closer still…but this time, things had been different.

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8

Some of my old drawings.It is assumed each had a name that I don’t fucking remember.

By me ;) Carmen E.R.

I think there’s nothing new to do sometimes I do a drawing and then I realize that it looks like another do for someone else (I don’t like copy because it is notorious… always. Maybe some artist inspire me)  What can arise from the creativity someone did before and someone will do after. How much is the creation of something new?
Of course there is the possibility of creating something that has never been done But…? The mind is so conditioned to the images that we sees everywhere

Meditation is perhaps a good way to do it, empty the mind and let the imagination do its own thing or in meditation connect with other planes and let your hand be moved by another entity with which I have connected or guide me through An idea, images, concepts, mental connection, whatever. Much of what I know (which is perhaps very little) I’ve learned it that way.

In addition I believe that the occult artist must achieve Excellence (not in terms of beauty) but in terms of the excellence in showing the work for those who must see, see and for those who sees it to do it beyond the form.

On the other hand who wants to reach beauty in their art approaches “god one” to “creator god” since the perfection, power and beauty are their characteristics and their traps, well deformation of time / space too and bla bla.

It’s just my way of seeing this

8

He composed, in his own mind, with Combeferre’s philosophical and penetrating eloquence, Feuilly’s cosmopolitan enthusiasm, Courfeyrac’s verve, Bahorel’s smile, Jean Prouvaire’s melancholy, Joly’s science, Bossuet’s sarcasms, a sort of electric spark which took fire nearly everywhere at once.- Enjolras and his Lieutenants, 4.1.6

I’ve heard people joke about what a horrible speech that would be, but… that’s The Speech, that’s the Quel Horizon speech. They’re all in there. (I don’t know where he got the Goats of Darkness, but I am inclined to blame the Romantics.) I’ll probably post these separately later with more about the quotes and all (and for now please do click through for the bigger images)  but for now, Happy First Barricade Day! 

Hopefully pt 1; I’ll see tomorrow.

Anyway, The Speech under the cut! 

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Frozen

Title: Frozen – If It Can Bleed Part Three

Characters/Pairing: Dean x Female!Reader, Sam, Serina (OC Villain)

Word Count: 2 570

Warnings: Dead Body, Supernatural Type Violence, Blood

Summary: The reader is a genetically enhanced assassin who’s on the run from her creator, but what will happen when she get’s taken back to the bunker by Sam and Dean? Or falls for one of the Winchesters…

Author’s Note: I don’t really have much to say this week but feedback is always appreciated and I hope you guys like part three! If you want to be tagged in future parts of this series please send me an Ask or add yourself to This List!

If It Can Bleed: Part One | Part Two

If you would like to read any of my other fics please check out my Masterlist!

*Gif is not mine, all gifs used on my blog are from Google Images.*

     A few weeks after you and Dean’s blow-up-turned-love-confessional – in which neither of you actually said I love you, an omission that hung over your head daily - you finally found yourself out on a new case, the last several hunts having been solo missions for Sam as you and the eldest Winchester had been occupied with … something else. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t happy to be out hunting again, but you had to admit there was a small part of you that wanted nothing more than to stay wrapped up Dean’s strong arms, his scent and warmth all around you, the rest of the loud, deadly world locked on the surface as you hid in your underground fortress. But all good things must come to an end.

     This was your end, in more ways than you knew.

     New case, dead body, real world. It was all back, and it was time for you to come out of your Dean Winchester cocoon and rejoin society like the regular person you were pretending to be. You just wished it didn’t have to be quite so soon.

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Fic: Five Signs of the Werewolf

Summary: Snape never subs for Lupin’s class, and Lupin teaches the DADA lesson on werewolves  

Warnings: None (werewolves?)

Notes: I needed to practice writing in past-tense (which for some reason I never seem to do) and this slid out. Because I’m new to this style, I intentionally channeled Rowling’s prose as a guide, and thus this piece is from Harry’s perspective. Feedback and constructive criticism are, as always, appreciated. :)

Information on werewolves generally taken from Pottermore, with the caveat that I assume Lupin knows nothing about the ‘werecubs’ running amok in the Forbidden Forest. Image from Pottermore.

Read on AO3 or below:

“Today, we shall discuss  - werewolves.”

Lupin set an artistic rendering of a werewolf - a perverted Vitruvian man - onto the projector, and a collective shiver slid over the class. Lavender Brown had actually sucked in her breath, but Lupin continued as if he had not noticed the exaggerated reaction. “If you will please turn to page 394. Your O.W.L. will usually call for you to identify the five signs of the werewolf” - Hermione, Harry noticed, sat up a little straighter - “so you would be well advised to commit them to memory. They are not difficult.” Lupin tapped his wan to the projector, and the diagram shifted to a list of the five distinguishing features. “The snout of the werewolf… ”

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