does RoosterTeeth still prohibit/bitch about artists selling their own orignal work of RT characters
You mean legally protect their IP then yeah probably? I haven’t really checked up on it tbh. I know artist still sell anyway, but since i have worked for them I don’t want to go against you know, the law lol.
“Your face is starting to heal up nicely.” Liam leans in close to Jaal’s face. He doesn’t think about it. Usually, when people don’t want him in their personal space, people are quick to tell him to back off. Unless they’re Vetra.
Vetra’s likely to toss him across the ship if he gets in her personal space without invitation again.
Jaal isn’t like that. Liam appreciates that among the angarans, as if personal space isn’t a thing with them. He thinks it might be the large family structures. You live too close to people, you stop caring about things like being in each other’s faces.
This has purpose right now, though.
There’s that bullet scar across Jaal’s face. Every time Liam looks at it, he remembers the dip in his heart rate, the stutter in his chest when he thought it was much worse. It’s cliche, though. A ridiculous movie subplot where the love interest finally realizes they care because of a critical emergency.
An uncomfortable look crosses over Jaal’s face for a brief second before he gives an easy shrug. Liam steps back. “I am told that scars are popular among the Milky Way species. Sara said I would be, how did she put it? Prized.”
Liam can’t help the way the snort makes it way up his throat first before it reaches his nose, and he tosses his head back in a gasping laugh. Sara would.
“Is that wrong?” Jaal looks concerned.
“Not even a little bit.” He’s still laughing. “People dig scars. It’s a thing.”
And there Jaal goes, nodding to himself slowly, processing this information. It’s weird, how they can have so many little differences.
“I’ve gotta say, I’m jealous,” Liam says. He crosses his arms over his chest.
Jaal looks over Liam then, frowning. “Do you not have scars yourself, Liam?”
“None as pretty as yours.” He has scars, but he’s always been pretty good about keeping out of too much physical harm. He likes the adventure, but not so much the downtime that’s required of recovery. There’s always been something else to do, more shit to get himself into. You can’t do that from a hospital bed.
But the disappointed look on Jaal’s face hits him in a way that he’s not sure if he’s ready to think about yet.
“That’s too bad. I had hoped we could match in attractive scars.”
Jaal says it like he has no idea what he sounds like.
Liam can’t tell if he wants to laugh or throw his hands up in frustration. “Now, hold on. Hold on. I might have something you could find attractive.”
Without hesitation, he lifts his shirt. Sure, Jaal’s seen him shirtless before. Honestly, who hasn’t. But he doubts that anyone has inspected his abs in any detailed scrutiny. So with a grin, he points to a long, very faint scar below his stomach, above his waistband. Jaal has to lean in, squinting, to see what he’s pointing out.
“Appendix removed when I was 15.”
“You had an organ taken out? Is that a rite of passage?” Jaal’s fingers are warm against Liam’s skin, and he has to not jump as they trace the scar.
Liam’s face screws up a bit. He’s mostly working to ignore the pads of angaran fingers. It’s not working. “Yeah, it’s something like that.”
Jaal looks at him, suddenly serious. “It’s a worthy scar, Liam.”
think about how many cute intimate photos dan and phil have from singapore :( all the sweet sentimental photos that they took of each other to capture each moment and keep as personal little memories :( the pictures too meaningful to post :( im hurt
The most uncomfortable part about this is that none of this matters. A lot of people in need of help live like what those rich people experienced in the festival but this event isn’t going to bring attention to that or help those people at all. In fact, the locals in the Bahamas are probably going to have to clean up after all of this and the world is gonna continue to be a shit hole for most people with a few ignorant people on a platform.
i follow a trail of pennies and meet you
at the crest of the hill, you holding
a four-leaf clover in each hand
and one between your lips, and i
wonder what liquid luck must taste like
see, i know myself; i know all the selves
spaced evenly across the branching worlds
and it is only this world where the tumbling dice
led me to stand before you
(basic probability is taught with cards
and i know nothing about them
but this i have always known to be true:
if you let hearts drop from your willing hands
too often, they will come fewer
and farther apart) and i
have no intention of pressing my luck