absolutely despise how every single social media platform has intrusive annoying “performance” shit baked into it now. You can’t just be online to post for fun, talk to friends, share stuff to whoever happens upon it.
Everything has a score now. Notifications that say “your post reached 1000 accounts” on insta. View counts on every tweet, so you know exactly how relevant or irrelevant your every thought or drawing is. Every app asking you over and over to turn push notifications on. 1 to 10 self-ratings on YouTube. Get twitter blue for a performance boost. give tumblr your money for a Blaze. Get an Instagram business account. Buy views. Constant scoring. Constant reminders to monetize your every waking moment.
IDK if anybody needs to hear this, but as somebody that works online being self-employed, whose career is art on the internet, I learned a long time ago that you can get by without constantly babysitting the numbers. It’ll give you mind crushing anxiety. It’ll make you manic. Highs and lows all the time. And it doesn’t help you professionally or financially! It’ll reduce you to nothing, it’ll make you hate the act of creation. It’ll make you feel like your peers despise you. It’ll isolate and intimidate you.
Turn off email and phone notifs. Turn off performance reports. 99% of the time, success will be random and unknowable. Preserve the part of yourself that makes things because you want to and you love it. idk
i fucking love tumblr on new years i scroll past a glittertext gif wishing me a happy 2002 i scroll past my mutual wishing me a happy 2018 i scroll past a gifset wishing me a happy 2013 i scroll p
ngl i get that people hype up hating writing for the bit but like. idk. yall i Do actually really like writing. it is so satisfying and fun and rewarding and i get to look back what i made over and over again and get joy every single time.
yes writing is hard but if you hate it more than you love it im kinda like. idk. find another hobby?
Polnareff is such a funny character. He has a compelling motivation and is interesting when you look at him narratively but nearly every time there's an episode dedicated to him it's Jean Pierre Polnareff's official toilet tragedy number 57 where upon entering a bathroom stall Polnareff is transported into an evil death maze by the enemy stand user King Gizzard the Lizard Wizard and he must find all the hidden notes and escape the maze before time runs out or else King Gizzard the Lizard Wizard's stand Jeff the Killer will Jeff the Kill him. Meanwhile his friends are having lunch and going "huh. Polnareff's been in there for awhile, I wonder what's taking him so long." as if they don't already know.
Pucci literally ended the universe not for DIO, but for his dead sister. He felt guilty over her death and wants to force everyone to know their fate so they can make peace with any fucked up thing that's going to happen to them. He believes that if he knew that Perla was going to die or if his brother was alive, he would've accepted it. His relationship with Weather Report and Perla impacted him more than his relationship with DIO. All that DIO did was reinforce his trauma and tell him about the heaven plan. Pucci tailored the heaven plan for his own benefit and for his own motivations.
Also, don't ship him with DIO; Pucci was literally 15-16 when he was friends with him.
Thanks for the reminder, I haven't thought about my jba fic in some time!
Everyone, if you like diopucci, kakpol, rock and roll, or a life of crime, please enjoy reading DIO WORLD TOUR 1991 and king of kings.
It’s actually really funny how many cultures have fox spirits and how many mostly consider them Complete Assholes, whether actively malicious or just dickheads that trick people
You’ve got the Kitsune that can be anywhere from incomprehensibly evil and powerful to doting mothers and good wives,
You’ve got the Huli Jing in China which were believed to be entirely female and needed male energy to survive, and did so by corrupting high-level politicians- and the Jiuweihu, the big girls that took to leading souls away from Dharma,
You’ve got the Gumiho in Korea, who just straight up eat people’s livers or steal their life force,
In Scandinavia, specifically Finland, fox spirits were believed to be the cause of Aurora Borealis, revontulet, the “fox fire”, as well as just usually messing with people, and then also the Brunnmigi for the Norse which poisoned water because fuck you,
The Celts also attributed them to be wily little bastards that existed to make fools of hunters and apparently that’s where the word “Shenanigan” came from, originally being sionnachuighim, “I play the fox” in irish gaelic,
In Europe you’ve got Reynard the asshole baron,
and from what I’ve seen a lot of native american tribes also just consider them dicks on the level of coyotes
Birthday prompt: more of sexy fem diojona if you'd like!
Dio comes to the ball dressed in a glory that this sad age has not known before and will never know again. Every head turns as she enters, men and women alike transfixed by her beauty, starving to get a scrap of attention. She ignores them all. These insects aren’t worth the merest flicker of her eyelids. She is here for Jonathan.
Dio has visited so many worlds since ascension, gone to so many places, seen so many versions of herself, of her beloved. But none of them have been exactly correct. When she finds her Jonathan, her rival, her lover, her fated counterpart, she will know. She will feel it in her heart. For now, she searches, visiting world after world in her most splendid finery, searching for the spark belonging to the woman that she loved and lost.
So: tonight. The ball. Her gown is gold and green, her lips glossy and dark, and her hair spills over her shoulder like a shining banner to announce: I am here. She goes. She picks a boring man from the crowd and deigns to dance with him. Unseen, unstoppable, she drinks his blood with the merest touch of her hand to his hand, and when the dance ends she discards him in search of other prey. Other flock to her, hungry for their own death, and she dances with them, waiting for the moment when she will spot Jonathan through the crowd.
She has drunk from most of the crowd when at last her love appears. Jonathan- Dio could never forget her- is as tall and splendid as always, a glorious flower of a woman. So handsome, so kind, so stupid, and yet so perfect. There have been so many worlds and so many disappointments, and yet-
Every time their gazes meet across a crowded room, it makes the whole search worthwhile. It makes the sad life of godhood worth living. Dio is always so hungry, and these glimpses of her Jonathan are the only thing that make her whole.
She crosses the room. She beckons Jonathan to dance. At the first touch, Dio knows that this Jonathan is not her Jonathan, though the similarities run deep, but the semblance is close. So close. Dio could be happy here for months and years, basking in this substitute, but sooner or later she would tire. She would throw a temper tantrum and destroy this beautiful substitute, who is not strong enough to withstand her. This is not the one.
After tonight she will leave this world for the next, still searching, but for tonight, just for this one night- she allows herself to pretend. She places her pale head on Jonathan’s shoulder, and Jonathan permits it. It is not the done thing for two women to dance, and yet, who would dare to stop her? Who would dare to touch her?
Only Jonathan. Jonathan, whose arms encircle Dio’s waist, who clasps Dio close enough to feel the warmth of her body and hear the beat of that splendid heart.
“I know you,” Jonathan whispers.
“I know you too,” Dio replies. She tucks her head under Jonathan’s chin. “But I am not the one you are looking for. She will come. Your Dio.”
“And who are you?” Jonathan whispers tenderly. She has not yet learned that they are enemies as well as lovers, and Dio cherishes that beautiful innocence. Jonathan is so beautiful like this, as yet unstained by Dio’s fingerprints. She is like a bud. After Dio is done with her she will be a blossom.
“I am the one who has ascended,” Dio says, knowing it will mean nothing to this lovely, familiar stranger. “Do not waste the night on questions.” Jonathan’s lips part as if she might speak, and Dio watches the minute movements of her neck, mesmerized by the sweet arch of her throat. She presses her lips to it. They move through the dance in silence, now parting to join the lines, now returning to clasp each other close. Over and over, step by step, moment by moment they go through the same dance that Dio has traced a thousand times.
“Will I see you again?” Jonathan asks when they part. Dio speaks for her counterpart when she speaks, and she speaks for herself.
“Yes,” she says. “Always.”
---One million years late, like always, but here’s the JonaDio! This is a sequel to “fresh from the kisses of death”, I guess, which is why it’s got time fuckery in it. Vaguely inspired by this tweet.
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