#fando

EXACTLY. They don’t understand how serious it is that his work is decreasing. No fandom = no money, which means fewer chances that it’s even profitable for him to tour, especially outside his continent or country. As a fandom, it’s literally in their best interest for him to be a globally in-demand artist, because that would mean high demand, which would also mean events and shows close to them as fans.

Our love for a media doesn't stop for lack of new content. Or there wouldn't be university classes focused on books written by authors dead by centuries.

We'll honour and keep those stories and characters alive in our own way, and that's the best compliment we could give to the people who made it.

Languages are dead when nobody speaks them in common life anymore, if nobody uses them and twists them. A live language is a language that changes with use. Art is a language, in that sense. We think and engage and love a product, and thus we keep it alive.

Sometimes, the point sucks. Every author is just a regular person, with their own views, biases, and misconceptions. You are not obligated to agree with their points. You might think their point is full of shit, and you might be right. If the point reeks of sexism, for example, I'm not going to sign praises to it just to have the opportunity to pat my own shoulder for "getting the point."

Sometimes, the point is not bad per se, but it is delivered in an abysmally incoherent way. The authorial intent means ridiculously little without a proper execution. And there they are, pretentious clowns crying, "Oh my god, the author raises such important topics; that's so stunning and brave!" because they are worried that criticizing the work that tackles important societal issues might make them look ignorant or bigoted. Yeah, the author surely raises those points. For slaughter. The point is a sacrificial lamb on the altar of the authorial incompetence.

Finally, sometimes people don't care about the point at all and just want to put these particular characters together and see what happens. It doesn't matter if the point is that character A and character B never love each other; there is nothing wrong with exploring the scenario where they do. It can be a thrilling thought experiment. It's what the fandom thrives on - creativity, imagination, exploration of the possibilities that the original work didn't offer, searching for answers for the questions canon left unaddressed.

Pre-Distortion, he doesn't see very well so he used to wear those kinda old-fashioned pilot glasses. You know the ones.

He also used to put up his hair in a ponytail or something.

He wore reds, off-whites, browns, stuff like that.

Distortion!Michael can't really see that well either. He sees everything, well, distorted and really saturated (sometimes he gets headaches and sensory overload because of this, especially when he's 'feeling more human').

Distortion!Michael always wears his hair down.

He wears an 80s-style parachute jacket, no glasses.

He looks for the most part like a normal guy, the Eldritch monster is only in his reflection, but sometimes his hands look a bit weird.

Though his eyes are usually a plain brown, sometimes they will change to unnatural colors when a strong light shines upon them.

He's got heterochromia in those occasions, one of them is green and the other one purple/magenta.

He's actually very handsome, like a lovechild between Achilles and the Sleeping Beauty.

Luz Noceda was looking forward to this. It's been two months since defeating Belos and saving the Demon Realm. Thanks to the Collector, they created a new portal to allow them to come between this world and back home. Luz was looking forward to spending the holidays with her friends, mom, and your muse.

Henry was terrible at loosening his tie with one hand. He always had been, and his persistent efforts to overcome the impertinent knots earned him little more than mother hen tongue clicks from Alex, which were, to be fair, far superior to the eye rolls Phillip had thrown his way for the past two decades. At this moment, Henry was, as usual, admitting defeat by the small entryway table and heading into the flat to find Alex. Maybe if he ruffled his hair and put on sad eyes before he found him, he’d get a better return than the world’s most insufferably charming put-upon sigh. Dull music floated down the hallway from their bedroom–he still couldn’t quite believe there was a “their” anything–and he blinked hard, trying to muster the appearance of Poor Henry Who Had a Tough Day But No Sweetheart Best Not to Talk About It. Quick swish of his hair against the natural part and that…what on earth was that?

“Tale as old as tiiiiiiiiiiime. It’s ME! HI! I’m the problem it’s ME!”

Oh, Christ. Henry leaned against the doorframe. Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz, you have some nerve taunting me for Drag Race. Lucky I don’t video this and post it to TikTok.

“–always rooting for the anti-hero!”

Badly as Henry wanted to dox the cheeky bastard–assuming that’s what doxxing was, which, now that he thought on it, it likely wasn’t–he couldn’t. Pile of clean clothes in a basket to his left, folded articles laid out systematically on the bed, Alex was singing along as he folded laundry. In. His. Pants. And not just any pants. No, of course not. Why on earth would the world’s most notorious disaster bisexual be standing in boxer shorts when he apparently had the option of dancing to Taylor Swift in...what the hell are those even called?! Boy shorts, Bea’s voice in his brain supplied. Can’t be called boy shorts when they’re actually on a boy. Probably don’t have a name. Don’t deserve one, there’s hardly any fabric there at all.

“For the last tiiiiiiiiiiiime!”

Oh, honestly. Henry had to put a stop to their rivalry, Alex’s turkey-terror, the compulsory closeting of the British monarchy, and now this. Must I do everything. Crossing the room as silently as possible, which was hardly necessary given Alex’s apparent absorption in his crooning, he stepped up just behind a man whose avoidance of daily scandals was absolutely miraculous. Though, to be fair, so was the back of him in those shorts things.

“–and then someone screams out: She’s laughing up at us from–”

“Hello.”

“FUCK!”

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