I keep forgetting about this :sob:
Anyway, random drabbles with edgy titles I didn't feel like changing.
(TW! IMPLIED EMOTIONAL ABUSE AND PARENTIFICATION.)
(IT'S NOT GRAPHIC WHATSOEVER, BUT PLEASE KEEP YOUR COMFORTABILITY IN MIND REGARDLESS.)
These were also made during various stages of being half asleep so sorry if I don't make a single lick of sense lmao
|| Unknown Means to an End || AU: ITERATION LOE || MAIN CHARACTER: Dove ||
There was one thing he always knew no matter what.
He was her little Dove, she loved him, cared for him, saw him as her child for a couple of years. After all, he was a genius, a natural one at that, and he was useful.
Dove was useful, and Mama would love him as long as he'd continue to be.
That was fine though, he loved being with her, he loved the scarf she made him, loved the Dove pins even more. He loved the fact his Mama was considerate enough to get him glasses, considerate enough to let him meet people, to let him play, to let him eat, to let him be happy, to let him exist.
She was so nice to him, allowed him to breathe, to still be around, to let him help his twin brother.
Mama was always so sweet.
She was the reason Dove was alive, that Dove could get his little Mik walking again, that Dove was so happy to simply exist and breathe and be alive. She gave him that luxury, and he shouldn't take it for granted.
So, Dove made himself useful. He would be a good Turtledove for her, and she would give him what he needed to make his family happy.
No more Dad going out for days for food, sometimes coming back empty handed just because he was that worried. No more of his twin staring at them longly as they ran around or simply ate breakfast. No more tears flowing after Leo accidentally broke Raf's arm again.
No more pain, and maybe one day, no more hiding.
But that wasn't now. So all Dove had to do was be a good picture perfect son, and his family would be happy again.
|| There Comes a Time || AU: ITERATION LOE || MAIN CHARACTER: Dove ||
There comes a time where you have to stop holding onto the words of your parents and discover the truth for yourself. A time where you are finally no longer being coddled. A time where you are forced to be just like they were, but better.
And it fucking sucks. Dove can attest to that.
Except this wasn't his father, no, this was his own mother. He dreaded the thought of following in her footsteps, he dreaded it more than the day he lost his Mom, his real one, and he just knew he couldn't do it.
He has a family, people to look after, and he would've left long ago if being in this position didn't give him the chance to save his sibling. His Twin at that, and he'd rather endure this torture and life day by day than have to lose them.
Any of them.
So he stayed silent. He kept to his role of Perfect Son while grieving his Mom, and missing his family. He listened to whatever his Mother requested, gave her what she wanted tenfold and hoped to god it would be enough that she'd stay quiet when he left.
If there's one thing that always stays true, it's that no matter how much of a genius you are as a child, you're still a dumb and naïve kid.
Why would she ever let go of him when she has seen his potential? When she's seen how capable he is? If Dove knew that it mattered, he would've been just as useless as his Mom warned him to be, but he knew he was special, and he was desperate.
It didn't matter. When it came time to go, she had said no. She wanted him to stay, had cried faux tears over a child that was only briefly hers, had whined about losing the only person she had left.
And if there's one thing everyone knows, it's that no matter what, you always have to listen to your Mother.
|| Making Do With What You Have || AU: Robots, Robots, and– Oh! More Robots. (RROMR) || MAIN CHARACTER: Frida ||
She didn’t know what to think when her mother walked in with a little boy. She didn’t even know how to begin to process it when she was told that same little boy was just a robot. A nice little deal someone owed her mother as always.
He was silent, and freaky, and always smiling, and Frida didn't like him. Not at first at least.
If there was one thing clear, it was that he was supposed to replicate someone, but it was not a good job whatsoever. He was supposed to be the leader, he hardly said two words to her, and he seemed to look down on her in a way.
It was only the first time they fought that she realized, that they realized, he wouldn't compare.
It hardly took five moves before he was down, and even less than that the second time. He was made to be talented, but a robot can only compare so much to true years of training and work, even if it's booted in their brain.
That day.. was also when his look completely changed towards her. He didn't talk more, but he practically had stars in his eyes whenever she was around him. It was pathetic, and it showed just how utterly weak he was, how less than, how much better Frida was of a soldier.
And she cared for him.
Not because she wanted to, oh god no, but it was because of how utterly useless he was. He wasn't better than her, he provided no new ideas, no tactics, nothing. He was designed to be a leader, just like her other was, but he couldn't even compare to the turtle before, even if he was probably dead and died as just a baby.
He was a pathetic excuse of a remake and nothing more, but.. Frida could make him better. He was a hunk of metal that didn't matter, but they wouldn't get rid of him. She even got grounded for suggesting so! If that was going to be it, she was going to make him better. Make him worthy of being around her and working for her mother.
To be claimed as her mothers son. To call this robot her other, her brother at that.
He may be an empty shell now, but she would make him oh so much more than ever thought possible.
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looking at (vetted) gofundmes for people trying to escape palestine and i don't know how many of you actually click on the gofundme links you reblog but i would like to point out, for what it's worth, just how amazing it is that so many have raised so much money. it may overall feel like a drop in the ocean but the fact that several gofundmes have raised tens of thousands of dollars is amazing. it is so expensive to leave gaza right now, and people still need money after they escape. but regardless of what propaganda the US, UK, canada, and other western nations are trying to pump out, people across the world are doing what they can to help these people survive. many of them are still very far from their goals (like this one and this one and this one) and some of them are very close to high goals (like this one), and some of them have reached almost double their original goal.
and that's not even addressing direct aid or organizations that take continuous donations for distribution of food, menstrual products, etc. the PCRF has raised $16,000,000 of their target goal of $20,000,000 to fund current aid and long-term relief efforts in gaza. ANERA's febuary 13th update discusses the material ways they helped palestinians today:
(ANERA donate link)
my point is, it often feels like the world is turning a blind eye to palestine. but i would like to point out that there is an important difference between "the world" and "western political leaders and media narratives". a breathtaking amount of real people, the people who make up the world, are trying to help. in the face of israel attempting to commit genocide, the world is saying No. These people deserve to live. and literally sending millions of dollars internationally, through the internet connection that israel has desperately been trying to destroy.
it may not feel like it matters in the grand scheme of things. but to the people who get fresh clothes, or a hot meal, or blankets, or the kids who get new toys, or to the people who are able to bring their families to safety, it matters to them. go make someone's day better. i've linked so many options with ways to do that.
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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
you create because you're greedy.
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