Literally Just For Me.

I will be ridiculously honest, I like this story just don’t wanna lose this post again 💅🏾

A Night to Remember (Part 1)

ModernAU!Viktor x f!Reader x Jayce Talis | 4K | 18+

Jayce and Viktor hold an end-of-semester party for their co-workers at the university, but not for entirely innocent reasons. They’re both hoping you’ll show up and give either of them a chance, since you’ve been extremely flirty with both of them in the past. This turns into a little friendly competition, and ends in a way neither of them expected.

A/n: this ended up being so damn long that I decided to break it into parts. probably there will be 3 or 4 in total. strap in for the long haul babes, because this is going to be a long ride 😏 

PART 2 | PART 3

Everything was perfect. All the best bottles were lined up against the bar wall, Jayce having to refrain from reaching out and completely centering each one. The house’s music system was connected and streaming a curated playlist Viktor had put together, containing all your favourite songs. All that was left was for you to show up.

“Heard anything yet?” Jayce asked, bringing his thumb to his mouth. Viktor lifted a hand and wrapped it around his wrist, tugging it away before he could start chewing on his nail.

“Well…” Viktor leant against the counter next to his friend, pressing on the little circle of your face. Your recent Instagram story popped up, showing a mirror selfie of you surrounded by your friends as you got ready, a black cowboy hat askew on your head as you lifted a bottle of apple cider to your lips.

“You told her she didn’t need to bring anything, right?” Jayce asked nervously. “I don’t have any party tricks, dude. I’m the cocktail guy, That’s it.”

Viktor huffed a laugh, “Someone’s nervous.”

“Hey,” he frowned, “I’m not the one meticulously planning to queue up the ‘perfect entrance song’ for (Y/n)’s arrival. Seriously, how are you going to time that- Ow!”

Viktor’s smile fell as he accidentally stomped his cane down onto Jayce’s foot. “My bad,” he shrugged, locking his phone and slipping it into his pocket. “She will be here in approximately…” Viktor tapped his chin, muttering, “based on previous parties, she tends to arrive almost an hour late. Never the full hour, though, she never wants to appear rude… hmph, I would say fifteen minutes.”

Jayce shook his head, laughing. “You’re so fucking whipped.”

“Eh, I prefer ‘well-prepared’,” Viktor replied, “Anyway, I am only as ‘whipped’ as you.”

Keep reading

Oh absolutely.

come get ya juice

neighbour!Ghost x reader

Consistently tossing a polite little ‘good morning’ to your scary neighbour when you cross paths on your way out of the house, and every single time you’re rewarded with no more than a noncommittal grunt passing his notched lips or a level stare and a flick of his cigarette, something making it clear he’s not all too pleased with the social interaction.

One day, you decide you’re pestering him too much and just stop. 

Walking past him with your head low, he has the audacity to whistle at you like he's calling for a pet- and it works. 

He looks inconvenienced, his gaze accusing you of something along the lines of ‘-how dare you disturb the morning routine you've gotten me accustomed to.’ and indeed you did, making him feel surprisingly unsettled- another one of the tethering anchor points he relies on snapping and flying away within seconds, regardless of how inconsequential a gesture it had seemed to you. 

“You forgetting something?” he grumbled in a tone that would surely leave someone else wondering if you owe the dubious-looking man with a balaclava hitched up over his nose an unresolved debt.

you don't skip the greeting next time.

mail-order bride x simon "ghost" riley masterlist

banner by @cynicalrosebud

this story is meant to be open-ended and vague. a collection of scenarios between simon and his mail-ordered bride.

cw: this piece isn't necessarily nsfw or dark, but i will not promise it won't contain these themes as these pieces are literally posted on the spot with random prompts (18+)

early delivery

no privacy

help wanted

get off my lawn

views

quiet hours

expectations

necessity

no past

laundry day

stars align

comfort place

summer heat

movie night

mirror thoughts

left behind

it's orange

oopsies

plan b

besties

lunch date

reality

dinner date

honesty

make a wish

open book

wants and needs

the same sky

no control

easy

show off

tactical

perfect height

too pretty

before

googly eyes

in every life

helping hand

a past life

#mail-order tag (lore + more lmao)

Generative AI Is Bad For Your Creative Brain

In the wake of early announcing that their blog will no longer be posting fanfiction, I wanted to offer a different perspective than the ones I’ve been seeing in the argument against the use of AI in fandom spaces. Often, I’m seeing the arguments that the use of generative AI or Large Language Models (LLMs) make creative expression more accessible. Certainly, putting a prompt into a chat box and refining the output as desired is faster than writing a 5000 word fanfiction or learning to draw digitally or traditionally. But I would argue that the use of chat bots and generative AI actually limits - and ultimately reduces - one’s ability to enjoy creativity.

Creativity, defined by the Cambridge Advanced Learner’s Dictionary & Thesaurus, is the ability to produce or use original and unusual ideas. By definition, the use of generative AI discourages the brain from engaging with thoughts creatively. ChatGPT, character bots, and other generative AI products have to be trained on already existing text. In order to produce something “usable,” LLMs analyzes patterns within text to organize information into what the computer has been trained to identify as “desirable” outputs. These outputs are not always accurate due to the fact that computers don’t “think” the way that human brains do. They don’t create. They take the most common and refined data points and combine them according to predetermined templates to assemble a product. In the case of chat bots that are fed writing samples from authors, the product is not original - it’s a mishmash of the writings that were fed into the system.

Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) is a therapy modality developed by Marsha M. Linehan based on the understanding that growth comes when we accept that we are doing our best and we can work to better ourselves further. Within this modality, a few core concepts are explored, but for this argument I want to focus on Mindfulness and Emotion Regulation. Mindfulness, put simply, is awareness of the information our senses are telling us about the present moment. Emotion regulation is our ability to identify, understand, validate, and control our reaction to the emotions that result from changes in our environment. One of the skills taught within emotion regulation is Building Mastery - putting forth effort into an activity or skill in order to experience the pleasure that comes with seeing the fruits of your labor. These are by no means the only mechanisms of growth or skill development, however, I believe that mindfulness, emotion regulation, and building mastery are a large part of the core of creativity. When someone uses generative AI to imitate fanfiction, roleplay, fanart, etc., the core experience of creative expression is undermined.

Creating engages the body. As a writer who uses pen and paper as well as word processors while drafting, I had to learn how my body best engages with my process. The ideal pen and paper, the fact that I need glasses to work on my computer, the height of the table all factor into how I create. I don’t use audio recordings or transcriptions because that’s not a skill I’ve cultivated, but other authors use those tools as a way to assist their creative process. I can’t speak with any authority to the experience of visual artists, but my understanding is that the feedback and feel of their physical tools, the programs they use, and many other factors are not just part of how they learned their craft, they are essential to their art.

Generative AI invites users to bypass mindfully engaging with the physical act of creating. Part of becoming a person who creates from the vision in one’s head is the physical act of practicing. How did I learn to write? By sitting down and making myself write, over and over, word after word. I had to learn the rhythms of my body, and to listen when pain tells me to stop. I do not consider myself a visual artist - I have not put in the hours to learn to consistently combine line and color and form to show the world the idea in my head.

But I could.

Learning a new skill is possible. But one must be able to regulate one’s unpleasant emotions to be able to get there. The emotion that gets in the way of most people starting their creative journey is anxiety. Instead of a focus on “fear,” I like to define this emotion as “unpleasant anticipation.” In Atlas of the Heart, Brene Brown identifies anxiety as both a trait (a long term characteristic) and a state (a temporary condition). That is, we can be naturally predisposed to be impacted by anxiety, and experience unpleasant anticipation in response to an event. And the action drive associated with anxiety is to avoid the unpleasant stimulus.

Starting a new project, developing a new skill, and leaning into a creative endevor can inspire and cause people to react to anxiety. There is an unpleasant anticipation of things not turning out exactly correctly, of being judged negatively, of being unnoticed or even ignored. There is a lot less anxiety to be had in submitting a prompt to a machine than to look at a blank page and possibly make what could be a mistake. Unfortunately, the more something is avoided, the more anxiety is generated when it comes up again. Using generative AI doesn’t encourage starting a new project and learning a new skill - in fact, it makes the prospect more distressing to the mind, and encourages further avoidance of developing a personal creative process.

One of the best ways to reduce anxiety about a task, according to DBT, is for a person to do that task. Opposite action is a method of reducing the intensity of an emotion by going against its action urge. The action urge of anxiety is to avoid, and so opposite action encourages someone to approach the thing they are anxious about. This doesn’t mean that everyone who has anxiety about creating should make themselves write a 50k word fanfiction as their first project. But in order to reduce anxiety about dealing with a blank page, one must face and engage with a blank page. Even a single sentence fragment, two lines intersecting, an unintentional drop of ink means the page is no longer blank. If those are still difficult to approach a prompt, tutorial, or guided exercise can be used to reinforce the understanding that a blank page can be changed, slowly but surely by your own hand.

(As an aside, I would discourage the use of AI prompt generators - these often use prompts that were already created by a real person without credit. Prompt blogs and posts exist right here on tumblr, as well as imagines and headcannons that people often label “free to a good home.” These prompts can also often be specific to fandom, style, mood, etc., if you’re looking for something specific.)

In the current social media and content consumption culture, it’s easy to feel like the first attempt should be a perfect final product. But creating isn’t just about the final product. It’s about the process. Bo Burnam’s Inside is phenomenal, but I think the outtakes are just as important. We didn’t get That Funny Feeling and How the World Works and All Eyes on Me because Bo Burnham woke up and decided to write songs in the same day. We got them because he’s been been developing and honing his craft, as well as learning about himself as a person and artist, since he was a teenager. Building mastery in any skill takes time, and it’s often slow.

Slow is an important word, when it comes to creating. The fact that skill takes time to develop and a final piece of art takes time regardless of skill is it’s own source of anxiety. Compared to @sentientcave, who writes about 2k words per day, I’m very slow. And for all the time it takes me, my writing isn’t perfect - I find typos after posting and sometimes my phrasing is awkward. But my writing is better than it was, and my confidence is much higher. I can sit and write for longer and longer periods, my projects are more diverse, I’m sharing them with people, even before the final edits are done. And I only learned how to do this because I took the time to push through the discomfort of not being as fast or as skilled as I want to be in order to learn what works for me and what doesn’t.

Building mastery - getting better at a skill over time so that you can see your own progress - isn’t just about getting better. It’s about feeling better about your abilities. Confidence, excitement, and pride are important emotions to associate with our own actions. It teaches us that we are capable of making ourselves feel better by engaging with our creativity, a confidence that can be generalized to other activities.

Generative AI doesn’t encourage its users to try new things, to make mistakes, and to see what works. It doesn’t reward new accomplishments to encourage the building of new skills by connecting to old ones. The reward centers of the brain have nothing to respond to to associate with the action of the user. There is a short term input-reward pathway, but it’s only associated with using the AI prompter. It’s designed to encourage the user to come back over and over again, not develop the skill to think and create for themselves.

I don’t know that anyone will change their minds after reading this. It’s imperfect, and I’ve summarized concepts that can take months or years to learn. But I can say that I learned something from the process of writing it. I see some of the flaws, and I can see how my essay writing has changed over the years. This might have been faster to plug into AI as a prompt, but I can see how much more confidence I have in my own voice and opinions. And that’s not something chatGPT can ever replicate.

when youre tired on public transit and start thinking "let me rest my eyes a bit" thats the devil talking

TikTok “beauty influencers” get me so :,)

This Juvia place shit is so :,)

White women in the beauty industry are sooooo fucking entitled and it leaks into the community because once something is made that doesn’t cater to white women, it’s a fucking witch hunt

Bitch Juvia’s is a Black Woman owned beauty brand, that, even though she honestly does not have to, caters to white women when beauty brands hardly have them in mind when creating shades for woman of color or take into account undertones. I used their palettes religiously in high school, their payoff is crazy good and they ALWAYS have pigment in their products

BECAUSE THEY ARE MEANT TO SHOW UP ON DARKER SKIN

I don’t know man maybe it’s because I as a white girl know what products to say away from because they are not for MY skin, it makes me so angry to see a pale rich girl put a g l o b of liquid blush on their face, not the back of their hand, to blend it out and then are angry that it’s “overly pigmented and impossible to work with.”

something something ‘mutt!simon calling purebreed!reader his breeding bitch’ something somethig

Communion | AU Priest Miguel O’Hara x female Reader

A/N: I commissioned the above Priest Miguel. Ever since the artist sent the sketch, (@ ejpuki on twitter plz go show love!) this story has been a brewin’ in my cranium. I am not a newbie when it comes to fanfic, but a virgin to writing Miguel. Please accept this offering to the mania that is fandom. Feedback is appreciated. I know the tenses are probably all over the place. Part 2 is live!!. Let me know if you’re interested ~~

Warnings: Religious content, parents, dirty-minded reader, no mention of Y/N

As you sat in the middle pew, aisle seats, you fiddled with the dress your mother guilted you into wearing. The hem of the skirt had a little fraying and you couldn’t help but pick at it.

The meddling was met with a small smack on your wrist from your mother.

“Stop! You’re going to make it worse! I know it’s an old dress but it will only look that way if you pick at it.” The sharpness in tone and the lacy lilac dress from high school brought you back to all of the Sunday mornings you’d been ripped from the comfort of your bed to attend church.

Church. Your head was already starting to hurt from the early morning light pouring through the stained glasses windows, but your tried to remain neutral to spare mom.

Your relationship with the Almighty soured not long after your father passed. Faith was hard to come by and the struggles you’d faced recently only strained that even further.

“Sorry, mama.” You say quietly, acting like you’re still twelve and not in your mid twenties.

Ever since you moved back in you’ve had to live under “her rules”. Sunday service is one of those rules. Considering the headache you’ve caused her recently, you ignore your own and do as she asks. It’s only fair.

But church? Last week was your first time back inside a church since leaving for college five years ago. It was the same one you’d been dragged to in your younger years. The same stained pews, same old books of Psalms, same feeling of estrangement despite being surrounded by the same old folks.

Your mom had turned her attention to the lady that lived on our street and you turned your own attention to your fingernails, scraping underneath them for dirt that wasn’t there. You think about how you had dropped the habit until moving back in, but was interrupted by microphone static.

You pulled your gaze to the front of the church and saw Father Steen tapping the microphone. Despite only being five years since you last saw him, the man seemed to have aged decades. His frail frame balanced on the podium as he spoke. You realized why the microphone was needed when he started speaking - amplifying the hushed tone of the elder addressing his congregation.

“Good morning and many blessings to you all this Sunday morning,” he began and you couldn’t help but lower your gaze back to the frayed bit of your dress. His monotone voice was… kinda boring. You hated thinking that way because Father Steen was such a good man and he cared for your mother greatly when dad passed. He was mentioning an upcoming surgery and you were back to picking at your fingernails. His voice eked on through the speakers, “so we will be having a transitional deacon come in to take over my position until I recover. This fine young man has graciously accepted this position as he is working to become a priest himself. Please welcome Mr. O’Hara as he leads us in prayer to begin communion for this month.”

There is respectful applause and your eyes are still on your hands until your mom elbows you gently. You start to apologize again for not paying attention but notice she and her pew neighbor are giggling as they clap. You start to clap your own hands as you look up at what they were giggling like schoolgirls about when your hands freeze in their clapped position - almost like you’re praying.

The deacon that Father Steen introduced was… gorgeous, and he was looking at you. You blushed, embarrassingly, under the gaze of the dark eyes. Could he tell you hadn’t been paying attention?

Well, you most certainly were now.

You pulled your eyes away from him to look at your mother who was wiggling her eyebrows at you, causing you to blush even deeper and turn back to the front.

The first thing you notice about the man standing at the front of the church was his height. He towered over the podium he placed a hand on. Father Steen came up to only just above his elbows with his hunched body.

The eyes that were watching you now surveyed the room and the light from the windows shown dark, warm pools of irises. His face…

Sharp symmetry made up his countenance. Distinct cheekbones bobbing as the smooth bronze skin stretched upwards into a smile. The strong jawline accentuated with the muscles of his lips pulling back, revealing a dazzling toothy smile.

When he spoke for the first time, you understood why your mom cried during Psalms at times. His voice was gospel.

“Thank you, all, for welcoming me into your parish. I know that you have received excellent spiritual guidance from Father Steen. I can only hope to at least partially fill his shoes in his absence.” His voice boomed throughout the church with no need for a microphone. “Before we begin the sacred ritual that is communion, let us bow our heads in prayer.”

The church around you dutifully lowered their heads, and you did the same. Hating closing your eyes to the alluring man in front of the church. At least his voice still filled your ears with song.

“Heavenly Father, we are gathered here today, in your house, in the name of your Son to receive the Body and Blood of Christ…” you decide it won’t be such a terrible sin to sneak a peek during prayer. You lift your head up to catch another glimpse at the ethereal creature leading prayer while he wasn’t looking.

But he was looking. Right at you as he continued to recite, “We are all sinners, and we are all in need of your grace and forgiveness.” You start to think about how much you needed his grace, when you pinch yourself for the blasphemy.

You’re still staring at each other as he finishes, “We pray that You will bless this communion and that it will deepen our relationships with You.” You instantly feel heat in your gut when you wonder just how deep it can go..

You think you see him grin slightly, but he pulls his eyes away from yours and you quickly put your head back down.

“In Your Blessed Name, Amen.” He ends. “Amen”, the church responds in unison and you squeak it out as well.

The first pew stands and approaches the front of the church, choir boys retrieving the communion goods. You notice that there is a split in the line as one is given the small wafer and grape juice shot by Father Steen and the other line the new deacon.

You can’t keep your eyes off him as he offers the sacrament to each person in line. He is taking longer than Father Steen, seeming to ask questions before presenting the body and blood of a savior.

As it came to be your pew’s turn, you stood. With only a few people in front of you, you studied Miguel’s figure in short glances.

Along with being a towering figure, he was a wide one as well. Muscles filled in the long-sleeved black button down shirt. His large upper body tapered off into a slim waist, tucked neatly into dark pants. A belt accentuated the fit waist even further. Your eyes trailed quickly across the thick neck that was accessorized by the all too familiar white collar of priesthood. When you were just behind one more person, your eyes fell to the floor.

Part of you wished you would be on Father Steen’s side as you feel as though you’re about to burst from this proximity of the giant man. He was bent over speaking to an elder of the church, giving her a soft smile as she blessed him for coming to ‘our little church.’

The man in line in front of you stood to Father Steen and the woman was letting Mr. O’Hara go from a sweet embrace.

Thank God, you guessed, for the years of attending communion as your muscle memory tore your legs from their form rooted position at the altar.

You approached the tall figure and your eyes are locked on the lips of the man in front of you. You see them move, hearing nothing but the beating of your heart in your eardrums.

“I-I’m sorry. What?” You sputter the words and heat creeps into your chest and face.

A soft chuckle escapes his full lips and he smiles as he repeats, “What is your name?”

You give it to him. And he says it. The way your name sounds in his music makes you smile up at him. He holds your gaze for a moment before speaking again.

“The Body of Christ.” He extends his hand in an upward position, the white wafer between his index finger and thumb.

You bow your head slightly in reverence of the offering. As you start to pull your head up again, his pinky and ring finger catch under your chin, lifting your face the rest of the way.

You breathe out a small gasp and open your mouth. He seems to mirror the action slightly as his own mouth drops slightly open. You extend your tongue a little as he places the thin wafer onto it.

His gaze is heavy as he watches you take the offering into your mouth. Your breath hitches when he runs his thumb across your pouted bottom lip, catching some saliva with it.

“Amen.” You respond and it’s not until he pulls his hand from your face when you turn to grab a small glass of grape juice. “The Precious Blood.” You hear him say behind you as you bring the glass to your lips, relishing the sweet refreshment.

Your face is red hot as you turn to walk back to your pew, ignoring your mother’s glances as she had already been back to her seat.

The burning in your cheeks is even more fiery as it dawns on you that the whole church saw the exchange. You hope, you pray, that it was perceived as a normal moment between a new Shepard and a member of his flock.

Communion wraps up and Father Steen takes a seat behind the the new head of church as he begins his sermon. The slight pressure of his thumb on your bottom lip created a pool of heat in your belly that wouldn’t go away.

You try to pay attention to the Good Word, you really do, but your mind is other places. Definitely not holy places.

Maybe coming to church won’t be too bad after all…

Disco :)

ATTENTION

If you see this you are OBLIGATED to reblog w/ the song currently stuck in your head :)