#SAME EXACT SONGS AND DRILL???

[a-concert-just-for-me]

The nationalism in southern football games is unmatched (said while grimacing)

[furiouszealot]

UPDATE: As of 25/04/2025, 4chan is back up and running again. This post and its addendum will be kept as is, and will no longer be updated unless it goes back down again. If you were on /ghost/, it was a pleasure shitposting with you.

All right, I know no one gives a shit, but let me give you a recounting of the fall of 4chan from the perspective of someone who was there and has been lurking both 4chan and tumblr for a few years now.

I'll try to provide as much context as I can, but a lot of images were either lost or im too lazy to look for them in the +5000 reply thread in soyjak party.

Anyways, info below:

So, necessary context: a few years back, 4chan had a board called /qa/, which if you know little about the page, you may think every board is like /b/ or /pol/, which means a containment cess pool of grifters, (you) baiters, incels, and other deranged individuals. The thing is, /qa/ was somehow worse. The entire board was plagued and infested with soyjack edits, board culture was a nuclear disaster, anons were incredibly hostile in there, you know the drill, the big bad 4chan, but this time its actually true.

One day, moderation deleted /qa/, anons that posted there got mad, tried to raid other boards, failed, and then moved on to an altchan called soyjack party, which entire purpose you can guess from its name alone.

Apparently, the boards that allow pdf uploads (paper and origami, for example) didn't check if the uploaded file was actually a pdf file, so postscript files could be used to get access. This is as far as my understanding of web backend goes, sorry.

The hacker claims to have been working on this since 2021, and that he had access since about a year ago, but was recopilating data.

Now, what actually happened when the hack ocurred? Well, a banner of miku dancing with a song that played automatically was placed on top of every board, with the text "/QA/ IS BACK", this was possible because apparently no board was ever deleted, they were just hidden from the public.

A thread was then made on soyjack party, claiming authorship over the hack, and shit went south from there. Anons went en masse to talk there, a lot of weird discussion happened, the thread got the bump limit removed and got pinned, more than 5k posts were amassed on the first night alone. Keep in mind this happened at about 8 pm and most of the stuff went on through midnight.

So, the hacker leaked some things, first of all, the html files for the entirety of /j/ and the email address for every moderation member (important note: the pressence of .gov mails was disproven by the hacker themselves, so i guess there were never any feds), what is /j/? the board exclusive for jannies and moderators to discuss actions taken on the website regarding spam, ban evaders, threads spiraling out of control, etc. Among other things, some of the inner workings of 4chan got revealed, such as the web extension for jannies that allows them to do their job easily, how reports are handled, and other stuff. (Anecdotically, some guy got permabanned for calling anons jews or n-words over a 100 times in the same few threads)

Then, the source code got leaked. Important to say, the hacker removed the part of the source code related to the captcha, as to not facilitate bot attacks on the future, and all information related to email verification or 4chan pass users information also got removed, so all in all users are safe.

What was found on the sourcecode? That it was old, mostly. Most boards used code that hasn't been updated since about 2016, and /flash/ used the exact same code from when it was created back on 2011.

From there, desuarchive, a site that archives threads that die from bump limit, opened a dragon ball general on ghost mode, and thus began what later got called /ghost/, a solely text based thread with well over 20k replies as of right now, where a fraction of the 4chan population took refuge and is currently discussing random things with no particular topic. Kinda hard to read, but its comfy.

What does this mean for other sites? Not a lot, really. A lot of anons already crossposted in 4chan and tumblr already, and the ones that din't most likely wont come here. Some of the bigger/most dedicated groups, like /vt/, migrated to other boards. Various altchans are trying/tried to catch some of the flock of users that got lost, but i doubt it will get anywhere, since soyjak party for example was struggling with just the influx of users that came for the hack thread given its poor infrastructure. Kiwifarms saw a surge of new accounts apparently, but a lot of anons kinda loathe the idea of having to register, so theres that.

Smaller communities, such as generals that didn't get a lot of traffic, or boards on the slower end (say, /ic/, /lit/, etc) will probably vanish or disseminate until (or if) 4chan comes back up. I'd say give it a month, don't get your hopes up whether you want it to stay dead or want it to come back.

Given how many anons are staying on places like /ghost/ or other similar archives with the same ghost posting feature, i doubt it will be as bad as people are making it sound. Besides, the communities that are most likely to migrate to places like tumblr are either /co/, /vg/ or /lgbt/ refugees, which aren't THAT bad. Not every board was like the main cesspools (/b/, /r9k/, /pol/).

From now on, either 4chan comes back up in a few weeks (somewhere between 2 weeks to a month is expected), altchans capture the migrating anons, or a brand new imageboard rises from the ashes to become the new go-to site for old 4chan posters.

In conclusion, nothing ever happens, but also don't worry, chances are this won't affect tumblr in the slightest. If it does, you can cash in your "you were wrong" ticket whenever you want, i'll take the L.

As a footnote, keep in mind: NO users were compromised, if you ever posted there and are worried for your safety, physical or digital, you are safe.

Edit: Forgot to add, if you are a 4chan refugee, im BEGGING you to dm me and tell what board you were from and where are you migrating, if at all.

[g0dlyunsub]

sweet revenge.

in which a female unsub dares spencer to hurt you in exchange for a victim’s whereabouts. 

pairing :: spencer x fem bau!reader

warnings :: established relationship, allusions to murders, kidnapping, and physical violence (slapping), fluff (and a wee bit of angst)

word count :: 1.9k

author’s note :: lately spencer x bau!reader is all i ever think about

accompanying song :: watch your mouth by the backseat lovers

01 - who are you protecting?

“my name is doctor spencer reid. and this,” spencer says as he turns the photo of the missing girl in his hand, “is angie, the girl that you’ve kidnapped. now tell me, where is she?”

the woman bangs her handcuffs against the table and breaks into a hysterical laughter.

“you’re funny, calling yourself doctor. do you say that so you'll be treated with the same level of respect as all of the other agents? maybe it runs deeper than that. what you lack in physicality you make up for in your intelligence, and in turn they protect you,” she jeers, staring straight into his eyes with a conniving smile.

spencer doesn’t seem to be fazed by her words, clasping his hands together and leaning towards her with an icy glare.

“tell me where she is.” his words fall like needles on shattered glass, countering her sharpness with immaculate professionalism.

you watch the interaction unravel from behind the one-way glass of the interrogation room, and bite your nails as you wait for her to fold.

“tell me this, tell me that. why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself, doctor.” the unsub clicks her tongue when she says doctor, and leans back in her seat with a satisfied grin.

“i know what you’re trying to play here, but it won’t work. tell me where you’re keeping her and maybe we’ll talk about a deal.” spencer’s voice is cold, calm, and collected, exactly the opposite of how you’re feeling right now -- and you're not even the one interrogating her.

“i’m going to need a better response than that. but hey, at least i’m not the one being held captive, right?” she comments with a smirk, staring at the mirrored wall with a taunting expression. her gaze is like a direct blow, provoking the anger that’s begging for release behind your gritted teeth. you clench your jaw and let out a frustrated exhale, knowing she can’t hear you or see you from the other side.

the air fills with silence for at least another minute, during which spencer’s eyes drills into the unsub’s like he’s challenging her to a staredown.

“what do you want to ask me?” he poses at last, his gaze unflinching as he tilts his head to the side.

“that’s more like it,” the woman retorts as she toys with the rattling sounds of the handcuffs. “there's something i'd like for you to explain. i asked to speak with a female agent, but they sent in the exact opposite. why?"

spencer squints, his eyes a telling desire for her elaboration.

“who are you trying to protect?”

there’s no response from spencer’s end.

after a pause, she whispers, “it’s someone on your team, isn’t it?”

spencer’s eyes shift to the floor before he can stop himself, a millisecond of a reaction that doesn’t go unnoticed by the unsub. she raises her brows, curiosity plaguing her expression.

“do you have a girlfriend, spencer?”

you breathe and bite down on the insides of your cheeks.

that’s enough.

“i’m going in, hotch,” you announce, leaving the room with angry strides drowning out the sounds of hotch’s calls to stop you.

02 - a damn shame.

“agent l/n,” you announce as you swing open the door, entering the room with the echoing clacks of your heels.

“and you must be the girlfriend. we meet at last,” she says with a beaming smile, and her greeting instantly crumples whatever patience you had left for her. “i’d shake your hand, but i’m stuck in these really tight cuffs.”

“where is she?” you demand, pulling up the seat next to spencer.

“are fbi agents even allowed to date?” she counters, ignoring your question with a lousy sigh.

you snap your fingers and point to the photo to divert her attention. “you wanted to see me and i’m here. now give us the location.”

she pouts, tilting her head to the side as she looks you up and down. you feel uncomfortable under her scrutinizing gaze but you don’t show it, for you know the mind games she’s trying to play.

“you two have any children?” she hums, finally tearing her gaze away from you. it latches onto spencer instead, and she licks the corner of her lips in a sickeningly perverse move.

“no,” spencer responds. you can tell that agitation hasn’t soiled his tone, while yours certainly has, tainted through and through.

“such a damn shame. i’d be jumping at the idea to start a family with him, if i were you. he's hot,” she utters while flashing her teeth, and you clench your jaw in disgust. if she's trying to make you feel jealous, those words definitely aren't going to cut it.

“here’s how it’s going to go. you say the location now, or any deal is off the table,” you hiss, slamming the table with one hand.

“i stand corrected,” she says with a slight chuckle, pretending to act apologetic as she playfully mouths a sorry in your direction. “i’ll tell you under one condition.”

“and what’s that?” spencer asks, watching intently as she wets her lips.

“i want you, doctor reid, to slap her on the face.”

03 - do it.

“no.”

spencer immediately stands and grabs your hand, preparing to storm out of the room with the photo in his other hand.

you don’t know how to react to what she’s just said, when the cruel smile tugs at the corner of her lips and a wicked laugh exits her mouth.

“it’s just one slap in exchange for saving a life. i think i’m being generous here,” she continues while spencer’s grip on your wrist tightens.

“no. and you know what? you won’t see the light of day for as long as you continue to respire on the face of this earth, i’ll make sure of that. no one will ever visit you, no one will remember your name, and the only happiness you’ll feel is when the dust of your bones celebrate no longer having to tie its essence with yours.” 

spencer spits the words like daggers, and drops the eloquently compiled strings of utter violence like bombs in her face. you wish you had the same composure to rebuke her, but you sit in silence, completely stupefied. that's her request?

“we’re done here,” spencer reiterates and coldly turns his shoulder against the unsub. he tugs at your hand to follow him out, but you don’t move.

“spence,” you say instead, and look up at him. your hesitation draws an amused smile from the woman.

you feel the tears prick your eyes and stifle a choking cry as your boyfriend's figure starts to swim in your water.

as much as you hate the terms of the deal, it’s the only way you’ll get her answer. and if it means sustaining a smack to the cheek for five seconds, then so be it.

“do it. please.”

spencer’s mouth drops and his face contorts into a look of horror. his eyes gloss over yours with disbelief at what you’ve just said. you flinch when the unsub starts to holler maniacally, slamming her hands repeatedly against the table. 

“you heard her, do it!” she yells, fuming with excitement.

“no, i won’t,” he grits as he turns to face the woman with bloodshot eyes, “is this funny to you?”

“very. look at her, she’s practically begging you to do it. why don’t you? you’d be doing a great favor,” she shrugs, moving her fingers to her lips and pretending to zip them shut.

the worst part, you know spencer won’t do it. so you grab his hand and raise it, high enough so that his palm lies a few inches from your face.

“it’s okay, just do it,” you whisper, urging him with pleading eyes. angie has at most three hours left to survive, and you have no other leads. so what choice do you have?

“no!” spencer shouts and forces his hand out of your grip.

“it won’t hurt, i promise,” you assure him, doubling down with your words.

he looks at you with such soft eyes, raised brows and parted lips, you want to slap yourself for him. it’s so unfair.

“close your eyes, please,” he finally lets out with a quivering exhale, the sad glimmer in his eyes an apology in itself. this is it, this is what it’s all coming down to. in exchange for securing the girl’s safety, you're paying the price with your dignity.

04 - do you trust me?

you clench your fists and wait for the stinging contact of his outstretched palm.

but it never lands.

instead, the softest lips press against your left cheek, warmth instantly seeping through your skin when it lands. you open your eyes to see spencer, slowly pulling away after planting the kiss on your face. you take a step back in shock, but his hand’s wrapped around your waist, holding you in place. 

he wipes the tears that are watering the surface of your eyes and brushes your cheek gently.

“did you really think i was going to hurt you?”

you restrain your sniffles as best as you can, but you can't help it when one escapes. he grasps your hands as you hold back the stream of tears threatening to wet your skin.

the unsub groans and the both of you turn to face her.

“oh how romantic. but now you won’t ever get your answers,” she tuts, shaking her head in disapproval.

spencer chuckles, and she looks up in surprise.

“actually, i don't think we’ll need your help. you know what i think?” spencer starts, pressing his hands against the table and leaning over her with a stance meant to intimidate. 

“you force others to do it. you force the victims to plot against each other and kill. you get off on the fact that you can manipulate others to inflict violence for you, just like you tried with me. this,” spencer continues as he lowers his gaze warningly, “was a mere test to my hypothesis, and you just corroborated my theory.”

“which is why all of this is happening in your mother’s home, where she forced you to kill the woman with whom your father cheated. she manipulated you and you followed her footsteps to become a manipulator yourself,” you say, jumping at the conclusion that spencer’s setting you up for. it all makes sense, and you’re able to put the last pieces of the puzzle together with his ingenious account.

“bullshit,” the woman blurts, dropping her fists against the table.

“it won’t be when we see you in court for all four accounts of murder and an additional charge for threatening abuse by proxy against a federal agent,” you finish as she grimaces.

“the two of you won’t last,” she ignores, her face blazing with rage.

spencer looks at you with raised brows, a look of challenge immediately signaling to you what to do next. you laugh in response, locking eyes with the unsub as you wrap your arms around spencer’s neck and lean in, kissing him on the lips with graceful fluidity. you deepen the kiss when you see her look down in disgust, caving in and yelling to be taken away on her own volition. 

a sigh finally laxes from your lips when morgan enters the room to take her away, winking at the both of you as he leaves. spencer doesn't seem to care, though, and pulls you in closer.

"do you trust me?" he asks, your foreheads pressing against each other.

"always." you smile and stand on your toes to kiss him again.

you’ve never tasted revenge this sweet in your life.

[justmeeeehiii]

Care for me

You decide to do your girlfriend a little favor by buying new lingerie and surprising her…

Warnings: (slight)SMUT!! lactating, sex, fingering (r receiving), cunnulingus (r receiving), mommy!billie, sub!reader, fem!reader, top!billie, I didn’t proof read… lol…, this is my first ever post… have mercy on me!

Word count: 1315 words

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

It was a sunny day, the Californian sun having no mercy on the citizens.

You were at Billie’s and yours shared house, tanning by the pool, shirtless, of course.

Just how Billie liked it.

But Billie wasn’t here, she was working with her brother Finneas, trying to come up with a new song for her album “Hit me hard and soft”.

It was a lonely day, you did some chores, started a new painting, played with shark, but it just wasn’t the same without your beloved girlfriend.

On days like these, Billie would usually stay in the studio until sunrise, working hard.

You didn’t mind, you never did.

You love the work she does, it’s always amazing to listen to a new song, watch her edit it, cut it, come up with a cover for the album.

You loved that about her, her creative mind.

She was just as creative in bed…

You and Claudia decided to go shopping, get some new lingerie for your partners to fuck you in.

“Hey, Clauds? Do you like this?”

you asked her, waiting to for an answer.

You held up a black, Lacey lingerie-Set, dazzled with some sparks, but not too much, just how you liked it.

“Oh, Billie is going to freak out when she sees you in this!”

You bought the set after Claudia’s respond, excited to wear it for Billie tonight.

After you got home, you fed shark and got ready for bed, putting on the new lingerie, of course.

It was late, 2 am, to be exact, and Billie wasn’t home yet.

Just as you were wondering if you should call her, you heard the door open and close.

You decided to wait in your shared bedroom for Billie, sitting in bed with your legs crossed.

“Ugh, I had the worst fucking day of my life, today!”

Billie complained, not even looking at you, as she came through your bedroom door.

She angrily threw her bag on the floor and stripped just as aggressively.

“I can’t come up with one god damn song! And my manager keeps fucking things up! I told him to order confetti for the tour and he forgot! And then, he just tells me that it can’t be delivered till next May?! Dude, I’m going on tour in a few MONTHS, I don’t know what to do, I’m just so stressed….”

You listened to her complain, not saying anything and waiting for her to turn around.

“Hey mama, are you good, you haven’t said anythi-“

As Billie turned around, she stopped mid sentence, taking in your beauty.

It was like she was struck by lighting, trying to gather herself.

“Hi Billie…”

You sheepishly said, turning a little red when you saw Billie looking you up and down, stopping at your breasts.

“Hi, mama… what’s this for?”

“I went shopping with Claudia today, bought some new lingerie… do you like it?”

You asked her, knowing that she definitely did like it.

Billie crawled into bed, giving you a long, passionate kiss and deepening it by holding the back of your neck.

“Fuck, you look amazing…” she husked out breathlessly.

“I bought it just for you… I can relieve some of that stress you’ve got…”

Billie was getting wetter and hornier by the second, feeling like a hungry animal being teased with a perfect steak.

“Oh, I would love that…”

She replied taking off her bra, as she had already removed her clothes while complaining earlier.

Just as you were about to say something, she cut you off by kissing you.

She kissed your lips, then your neck, then wondered down to your panties, taking them off with her teeth.

She breathed in sharply, already wet for her.

“You’re so wet for me and I haven’t even touched you properly” Billie chuckled, while taking off your panties and shoving them in your mouth.

“If you keep quiet, I’ll reward you… if you don’t… well.. you know the drill.”

She was talking about your casual punishment, a spanking.

You secretly loved getting spanked by her, being bent over her lap, begging for mercy, being dominated by the only person who could make you feel this way…

Just as you were daydreaming about getting spanked, you felt Billie’s tongue on your clit.

Circling it clockwise, exactly how you linked it.

You let out a soft moan and a sigh, griping Billie’s hair.

Not being able to talk through the panties stuffed in your mouth, your moan came out muffled.

“Billie…”

“Shhh, didn’t I tell you to be quiet? Be a good girl for mommy…”

Billie’s dirty talking had no mercy on you, your wetness only growing with her words.

Billie continued licking, sucking and biting your clit, stimulating it just enough for you to get turned on but not enough to cum.

She thrusted two of her fingers inside you and you let out a long, lustful moan.

Billie was good at this, really good.

She knew when to speed up and when to stop to tease you and deny you of pleasure.

As she continued thrusting her finders in and out of you, you arched your back, gripping the white sheets under you.

Your moans got louder, and Billie’s finders faster.

“Come on baby, cum. Cum in mommy’s fingers…”

Were the last words you heard before reaching your climax, breaking completely underneath Billie.

Coming down from your high, Billie removed the panties from your mouth and replaced them with her two fingers, making you taste yourself.

“Suck.” She commanded, and you obeyed.

“Good girl, you did so good…” Billie whispered in your ear softly, biting your earlobe and placing a kiss on the small area behind your earlobe.

You were exhausted, obviously.

Having sex with Billie was one of the best but at the some time the most tiring things, and she knew that.

She knew that you loved aftercare afterwards, being babied by her.

She got up, leaving you all alone on the low cold bed and you complained by groaning.

“Billie, come back…”

“I’ll be right there baby, just hold on a sec.”

She replied from the bathroom.

Coming back, you saw that she has a bowl and a cloth in her hand.

She gently parted your legs, exposing your pussy to the cold air and started cleaning you up with the wet cloth.

You didn’t like the cold air hitting your warm, glistening pussy, so you whined, just like you always would.

“Shh I know, I know sweet girl, but mommy has to clean you up.”

After finishing cleaning you up, she placed a little kiss on your sensitive clit, making you jump.

Chuckling, she set the bowl and washcloth aside and gently placed you in her lap, holding you like moms hold their newborns.

Looking into your big eyes, she caressed your face, getting a few strands of hair out of the way.

“I’m so proud of you, sweet girl.

You know how to satisfy mommy,

you did a great job.

My sweet, sweet baby.”

She told you, making you feel validated.

You felt your eyelids get heavier and Billie noticed, placing a boob in your mouth, she nursed you.

It comforted you, having skin to skin with your girlfriend and lactating, feeling my the warm milk fill your mouth.

Billie wasn’t pregnant, no.

But after she found out you had a little thing for her boobs and nursing, she started taking pills to make her milk flow.

The things your mommy does for you…

Billie hummed a little melody, rocking you from side to side, helping you fall asleep.

“Sleep, my love. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

After that, you peacefully fell asleep in your girlfriend’s arms, wondering you deserved to be loved like this.

[melodic-haze]

thinking abt sub firefly and how cute she would be !!!! even tho she's a stellaron hunter and could kill you at any moment in her sam form she'd still follow ur every command bc of her massive praise kink she's just like that!! 😓😓😓

☆ — DEMO TRACK: sub!Firefly x dom!Reader

☆ — TYPE: NSFW

☆ — CONTENT WARNINGS: Reader with a dick/strap referred to as such

☆ — NOTES: I FINALLY GOT TO HER OUGGHGHH ANONNNN I DIDN'T FORGET YOU TRUST MEEEE I love Firefly so baaaaaaad

ANOTHER PERSON WHO CAN KILL ME WITHOUT A SECOND THOUGHT IF SHE WANTED TO 🥰🥰🥰🥰 oh how I do love power differences

God she's so cute despite being absolutely deadly, nobody can fault me for wanting to bully her a lil bit right??? :((((((

Firefly would do anything for you no matter what (or, well, for as long as the script allows it). You could make an off-handed comment about how you wanted this little thing and she'd come up to you w the exact same thing the next day. You could ask her to do something and she would drop whatever she was occupied with just to cater to you

She's sooooo unbelievably eager to please, it's like you could as her to do ANYTHING you asked and she'd eagerly meet your needs.......and that includes less-than-innocent exchanges too 🫶

Oh she'd be so perfect, always desperate to fulfill your every demand and going above and beyond to please you. If she were giving head, she'd tell you that you don't need to make any moves whatsoever bc she'll be happy to do it for you :(((( this sweet sweet girl ily

You consider yourself extremely blessed to witness the sight above you.

After all, it's not every day that someone has a Stellaron Hunter on their lap in pursuit of euphoric release.

So many people were afraid of the entity named SAM and the sea of flames he could bring upon those that needed it per the script that Elio gave him, and yet.. here 'he' was, in much more of a vulnerable state in the form of a lovely lady eager to please.

All you had to do was say it, relay your demands; she would give you the universe if you wanted it all to yourself. But for now?

For now you had settled upon commanding this supposedly feared servant to Destiny's Slave as if she were your own in this little tryst of yours.

(And hell, barring Elio's little group, she may as well be.)

You hear your lover moan, you hear her whimper, you hear her shaky exhales as she bounces on your cock over and over and over. Her pace alternates between a slow, tantalising grind to a fast, hard ride of desperation—the pace switching at the most perfect times due to a mix of your brilliant direction and the mental notes and drilled habits within Firefly's pretty little head from all the times you've done this erotic form of song and dance.

You can't help but stroke her cheek as she moves on you, can't help but to shift your hand over to toy with her hair lightly as she does her best to please you (and herself). And you just can't help but say those two words--

"Good girl..."

--when she reacts so delightfully: her breath hitches as her hips stutter in movement, though she still continues to move; she lets out a loud moan as her eyes nearly roll to the back of her head and her steadying hands gripped onto your thighs with a sudden increase in force.

She doesn't answer you back vocally but that's alright—she hasn't cum yet without your permission and she was still determined to please you.

She's such a good girl, and she'd do whatever it takes to deserve your praise and your praise alone.

She would take WHATEVER you give her. Soft pampering??? By god she's all OVER IT SING HER UPPP!! A rough pounding? She's durable, she says she can take it :3 Overstimming her until she can't think anymore?? Or maybe even edging her until she wants to go batshit wild but can't bc it's you?????? Go right ahead, she's all yours to play with ✌️

Makes EVERYTHING worth it for her, when you constantly praise her for allllll the good things she's done. Tell her that she's been so good to you, tell her that she's the sweetest girl ever, tell her you wouldn't have anyone else to tend to and be tended to, tell her that you love every bit of her and go into detail❗️❗️❗️ She'd go HILARIOUSLY red, both from sheer embarrassment and from the hot manifestation of her lust pooling in between her thighs

All you need is to say that she's fully and utterly yours, that you wouldn't have it any other way, and not only will she respond in kind, she'll go above and beyond....in any way you want her to

In short guys I love Firefly I can't wait to roll for her 🥰🥰🥰

[vysociti]

Me In Your Sweater, You Said It Looked Better On Me...

It started off as any other normal day.

You got up before your alarm clock went off, starting your day a bit earlier than usual. It didn’t matter much since the last part of your morning routine always took up more time depending on the day.

What could this task possibly be? Why, waking up the lazy prodigy of Japan, of course! Seishiro wasn’t a morning person—far from it, actually. He’d always whine when you tried to wake him up, even pulling you under the covers with him. And well... there’s no way you can say no to this big baby.

This, however, was when your normal day took a sudden turn. Whether it was a good or bad turn was still up for debate.

Walking to Seishiro’s apartment was easy. It’d only take about ten minutes on foot, five if you were ever in a hurry. His apartment door was unlocked, which, knowing Seishiro, probably meant he forgot to lock it after getting home from practice. You brushed it off and walked inside, only half-concerned about the unlocked door.

The apartment was empty. No, really—there was no one inside. Even Choki was gone. He wasn’t where he was usually stationed, but what was really weird was the absence of one Seishiro Nagi. Your mind immediately went into overdrive. Being an overthinker was not healthy. Was he kidnapped? Did he run away? No, that would be too much of a hassle for Seishiro. AH! Where could he have—?

Your frantic thoughts were abruptly stopped when you heard the front door close.

"found you."

You knew that voice well, soft yet monotone. It always seemed softer when he was talking to you—or was that just your imagination? You turned around to greet him, but before you could, you were engulfed by a gentle warmth and the faint, comforting smell of something familiar.

"You’re up early. What’s the occasion?" You meant to tease, but with how he was clinging to you, your voice softened, and you leaned into his touch.

"Reo said today was important."

"Oh? Did he now?"

"mhm."

What was so special about today? Wasn’t it just another normal day? Let’s see... it was Tuesday, right? December 3rd, to be exact. What’s special about—

Oh.

Oh.

Right. December 3rd. If you remembered correctly, Reo had recently been listening to a lot of songs and looking up their meanings when he came across that one song.

"Heather" by Conan Gray.

The first lyrics. That was why December 3rd was important—it had something to do with giving someone you care about your favorite sweater, right?

The thought of Reo drilling these concepts into Seishiro’s thick skull made you chuckle. Seishiro, still leaning his entire weight on you, shifted his head slightly, now resting it on your shoulder.

"laughing? I wanna laugh too..."

He was being cute again. He was always so cute.

"It’s just a funny thought, Nagi... The fact that Reo got you to wake up early is amusing. Even I haven’t done that. Makes me a bit jealous." Finally, you found your teasing tone.

But of course, Seishiro being Seishiro, it didn’t last. For some reason (you knew the reason), he stiffened. You couldn’t help but wonder if you’d said too much.

Seishiro and you had been dating for a few months now. Ten months, two weeks, and six days, to be precise.

He’d confessed—or stated, really—on a random day, during a random week, in a random month. It was like he suddenly realized what he felt and blurted it out without a second thought.

"i'm in love with you."

He’d said it in the same monotone yet gentle voice he used when telling you he’d won a game or beaten a tough boss. To others, it sounded blank and emotionless. To you, it was giddy, childlike even—in a way only Seishiro Nagi could manage.

And now, he was about to use that voice again.

"it’s always for you."

Whoever said Seishiro Nagi had no rizz was a liar.

It was supposed to be winter, right? Why did it feel like summer?!

He didn’t even give you time to react before continuing. Hesitant at first, he unwrapped his arms from around you.

"like now..."

Then he started to... Huh? He gave you his... sweater? Oh.

"i looked for you."

He paused, taking a deep breath.

"Reo told me to give my sweater to someone I liked..."

"Me..?"

"..things like this can be a hassle, but if it’s for you..."

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. You got the message. You really got the message, which is why your face was burning up.

It was normal for lovers to do sweet things like this, but knowing that Seishiro—Seishiro, who thought everything was a hassle—put in the effort to wake up early, get ready, and walk to and from your place just to do this simple, wholesome action? God, it made your heart do backflips.

You felt like crying, laughing, screaming, and kicking your feet—probably not in that order.

But he didn’t need to see you cry. Not now. Not when he looked like this.

He was blushing, the faint pink on his cheeks giving him away. He avoided your gaze, scratching the back of his neck.

With a smile, you slightly covered your lower face with his sweater—the sweater that smelled like him—all while keeping your eyes on him.

"I’ll treasure this."

Finally looking back at you, you could almost spot a small smile on his face.

"if it’s for you... it isn’t that much of a hassle."

Yup. This was so much better than a normal day.

Bonus!

"By the way, Nagi.. Where's Choki?"

"oh. left him at your place. :×"

"Right.. You walked to my house..—wait a second.. You came to my house?! Why didn't I see you?"

"Reo took me there. he's still outside. :×"

"Reo's still.. Tell him to come in??"

"but..."

"Nagi."

"...Seishiro.."

"Why is that the thing your focused on??"

".. :×"

"Seishiro."

Ding!

"shot him a text."

"Good."

[clowns0up-felix]

HII YOUR ART IS THE TASTIEST THING EVER AND EVERY TIME U POST I ASCEND TO ANOTHER REALM OF EXISTENCE

and!! What tloz headcanons have u been thinking abt lately? If u wanna talk about some brainworms :D

THANK YOUUUU !! ^_^ it seems as though you found my hidden message of wanting to talk about my hcs ,, smirks well well well

There’s so many I think about every day ehhhh which ones do I even pick , I think I’ll go w the ones my last post showcased mostly? Which would be my tfh hc, uhmm .. was gonna talk about sheikxruto but I’ll do that in another ask..!

(Putting it under here vv bc kinda long lol)

Triforce hero but it’s Mural, Wolf and Mage: A while ago I was brainstorming w two friends about tfh and they really liked my idea that the 3 guys in the game were 3 links from the lm instead of Mural + copies of mural or mural + two random other guys, and together we chose Wolf and Mage! Tfh would be happening simultaneously to hw, hw being the reason wolf and mage are in murals world for it..! For mural it still would just be his normal timeline, having it after albw.

It’d be before the lm for all 3 so they don’t know each other at all and then get to meet again later yay! It’s not a super serious hc and just fun ^_^ i don’t remember why wolf got the emo haircut

They call each other Red Green and Blue during tfh I’d think ??

Some random small ones I like:

- at the end of hw Mask gives Linkle his Bremen Mask! She has and cherishes it all the years up until the lm where they meet again ^_^

- Malon and Sailor are related , just with really really much time between them

- Marin goes to Sailors era w him and Tetra after hw

- Ravio started to put a lot of research and money into magic after albw to figure out how to create portals between Hyrule and Lorule again ! (Which he succeeded in like, a few months later) ,, when the lm happens he and Mural are chilling together and he’s experimenting w some magic stuff and then Mural , for different reasons, gets ripped away and Ravio straight up thinks it’s his fault bc he was fucking around and found out lol

- Bunny writes letters to Marin about whatever currently bothers her, mostly about the yearning 🙄 she’s also btw a bard (idk if I’ve talked about this on the blog) and travels the land to spread music that come from her adventures,, especially Marin’s song yk the drill

- Bunny meets Ralph during the lm (which is b4 ooa so they’re strangers) by falling on him and breaking his right arm

- mural, rift, sunder, and mage all know the ballad of the wind fish because of bunny spreading and making it popular in her era! Marin herself was able to teach Mask, Captain, Sailor and Linkle the song during hw!! So a lotta links know it ^.^ Captain is tone deaf af tho so he can’t sing it. By the time it’s Sunders era the song has become a popular children’s lullaby :)))

- Sprout is missing two teeth currently (milk teeth that fell out)

- when Sunder and Zelda are 6-7 Zelda sneaks away into castle town where she meets link and they spend a few hours hanging out and having fun! Zelda at that time has bangs that keep falling into his eyes so Link gifts him her favorite blue hairclips that Zelda wears to this day ! (T4t Zelink if anyone’s confused about the pronouns)

- speaking of them after botw they have a little cucco den next to their house with 3 coccos that Clavia takes care of when they’re out of town

- Mural has a pet Remlit named Rupoor

- I MUSTVE mentioned this b4 but I can’t remember so I might repeat myself ,, Dawn has narcolepsy

- Picori idolizes the hell out of the hero of the sky, has been his biggest fan ever since he was a kid

- Mask has a childish fondness of bugs, other random things he loves are fishing and cheese

- mask has a super light dialect,,,, likeee the kokiri do speak hylian but just oh so slightly different (also way more somber yk) bc usually groups thatre separate from other people speaking a language won’t speak with the exact same dialect yk ,, Also would make him seem stranger bc he speaks hylian but there’s just something very VERY slightly different about how he pronounces things! Maybe he has some different words for things

- if sailor is approached from the right (can’t see bc missing eye) he can tell bc the wind tells him

- Captain always carries hidden weapons with him, like a knife in his boots or one under his pillow when he sleeps as examples

- Sailor once broke Captains nose in a play fist fight during hw

THATS ENOUGH FOR EVER ..

[ferret-queen]

a while ago I made headcanons of the harkers so now I'm gonna give y'all ones of the larks <3

Cole:

their a worry wort, like they would stress if they were a minute late to a play. they worry about Kingsley a lot in particular

they bite their nails when stressed, which Perrine gets on their ass about. they will stress eat as well

they take things VERY seriously. even pretend or boardgames

they have a HUGE ass fear of bugs, which doesn't coincide with Kingsley's bug liking. and King will use this to bother Cole by bringing bugs in the house and showing them

their like Charlie Brown and Dipper Pines in personality

their very skittish, which again Kingsley uses it to it's advantage

Cole: "did you hear that? I think someones outside"

Clem: "it's a tree Cole"

they like to give Clemié things like flowers, rocks, stuffed animals, trinkets, etc. and writes songs and poems for them

Clementine:

their like to think positively, though if stressed out enough they will kinda have a breakdown but will just smile through it and continue thinking positively

Perrine: "Clemié, are you okay?"

Clem: "I am fine, I am fine.. everything is FINE"

they like to throw tea parties and Cole will happily join. they don't care as long as they get the spend time with Clemié

has an unGODLY amount of stuffed animals and trinkets. but no dolls..they don't like dolls..

idk the time period yaelokre is set in but they probably wear like those hair curlers. and a sleeping mask and night gown to sleep

they will comfort Cole when their stressed and give them a cookie or smth

they focus on their appearance a lot due to being raised by their parents like that

their like the mom of the group

Perrine:

their the older sister of the group and does most of the things like cooking, outside work, and hunting

they tell Cole to not be so stressed even though their a fvcking hypocrite cause they are the exact same if not worse

their a perfectionist and will stress over the play, and if anybody messes up their like drill sergeant

they have anger issues but will try to control them for the others sake

they rarely take their braids down, only when bathing or swimming. which makes them very tender headed

they make a lot soup..like a lot..

they snort when they laugh but is very embarrassed about it

Kingsley:

they have no inside voice whatsoever

they like bugs and reptiles, and will bring them in the house

they call everyone babygirl, especially Cole just for shits and giggles

they like to be funny and make the others laugh, which is their form of comforting

they are very blunt and will often say things they think and Perrine will have to tell them to shut up

they shed like a dog. like they have a lot of hair. the others will find their hair on them, in the oven, on furniture, in the air, on stage..

one time someone was being mean to it so it flipped them off. and the others were like 😧😦😬

they'll sneak into Perrine's room when their asleep to move around their skulls, but Perrine always catches them

alrighty that's it, hope you like em😊

[randomvarious]

Today's compilation:

Astralwerks Summer Sampler 1998 1998 Big Beat / Indie Pop / Downtempo / Drill n Bass

Now, this is a document. If electronic music outside of Eurodance and some commercial house remixes of pop tunes ever lived on the fringes of the American mainstream in the late 90s, it was almost all because of a label in New York City called Astralwerks. With the backing of EMI, they were able to wiggle their way into the broad alternative music conversation, landing their material on film and videogame soundtracks and getting plenty of that youthful cutting-edge cool kids bubbling-under indie buzz among the music cognoscenti too. Their top acts like Fatboy Slim and the Chemical Brothers were leading the big beat revolution over in the UK, and some of that was also managing to seep Stateside, with the CBs' debut album, Exit Planet Dust, selling 750,000 copies, and their follow-up, 1997's Dig Your Own Hole, achieving similarly with a peak at #14 on the Billboard 200 album chart as well. The Chems and Fatboy were being recognized for their energetic difference-splitting of rock, hip hop, and dance, and while a group like C&C Music Factory had laughably laid claim to that same type of concept just a handful of years prior, the rapid evolution of music technology that was occurring throughout the mid-to-late 90s was enabling the big beaters to do it in a way that sounded objectively far more innovative and far less hokey.

And although Astralwerks was largely responsible for big beat entering the American consciousness and being the most successful electronic label in the States at the time because of it, they were also a lot more than just big beat too, as this sweet ephemeral sampler of theirs from the summer of 1998 clearly demonstrates. Fatboy Slim is undoubtedly the biggest name on here, offering up his highly overplayed signature hit, "The Rockafeller Skank," but trailing right behind him is the dynamic French duo of AIR too, with the acoustic guitar-strumming, hand-clapping, spacey synthesizer-playing, carefree indie-poppy airy groove of "Kelly Watch the Stars" 😌.

But if you want the top underheard indie-alt-electronic gem of them all from this CD, then (here comes a fucking mouthful) Skull Valley's re-remix of Tranquility Bass' "'91 Dance Party Mix" of Minnesota indie rockers Low's "Over the Ocean" is the one to really covet here. Maxed out feelgood vocal chillout banger that's already plenty good before it hits its satisfying peak, with a brief infusion of super reverbed and hazy horn splashes 🎺💦. The song originally appeared on an EP of Low remixes that wasn't very highly rated, so it's nice to get what was probably the cream of its own crop sliced out onto this sampler here 👍.

So, while much of the US seems to currently be in the grips of a stifling heatwave, I really think this summer sampler from 27 years ago that was offered by the country's own most popular electronic and alt-indie dance label at the time makes for a pretty excellent complement to this exact moment. A great slate of tunes that highlights a couple of Astralwerks' most popular acts while also making plenty of room for an eclectic blend of some of their less commercially successful names too. If only the US could've embraced more than just this label, then maybe the country's music landscape could've been a lot more of a vibrant rival to the UK's rather than being so rigidly segregated and still largely averse to most forms of electronic music 🫤.

Highlights:

Gearwhore - "This Picture" Fatboy Slim - "The Rockefeller Skank (Edit)" AIR - "Kelly Watch the Stars (Edit)" µ-Ziq - "Brace Yourself (Remix)" Low - "Over the Ocean (Re-Remix of Tranquility Bass '91 Party Dance Mix)" Lewis Parker - "Shadows of Autumn" Alpha - "Slim (Underdog Remix)" Fantom - "Faithful"

[tyriq-edits]

Megop - Castle in the Air

Far to the south, in the city of Iacon, lives a young carpet merchant called D-16. In his dreams, he is the long-lost son of a great prince. But this dream is a complete castle in the air… or is it?

CW: Not Beta Read

When D-16 woke he found himself still laying on top of the carpet. However as he blinked his optics open he realised that his ceiling had disappeared. So had his floor. In their place stood the vast open starry sky above and plush grass beneath. 

D-16 slowly got up from his resting place on the dusty carpet and looked around in a mix of astonishment and bewilderment. He had found himself in the middle of a beautiful - no scrap that - the most beautiful garden known to Cybertron.

It was the exact garden he had attempted to daydream about earlier that day while taking care of Elita’s carpet shop. The greenest of grass covered the ground and lush ferns and palm trees stood lined up in a perfect mix of both symmetry and just enough ‘wild randomness’ to hide the fact that this wonder of nature had been planted my bots and had not came into being on its own volition like forests. The tree’s giant leaves certainly were ideal for offering shade from the scorching Iaconian sun during the day. But now at night, their morning dew on their smooth blades reflected the moon’s light like tiny crystals. And, poking out from between the ferns, the most graceful of energon flowers dotted and illuminated the dark night with their pulsing blue petals.

From within the trees D-16 could hear the cries of bronze cicadas and the melody of the occasional Cybertronian nightingale coming together in a perfect orchestral harmony. Somewhere beyond the tall fern leaves and bushes surrounding him, he could make out a distinct splattering sound. A fountain must be nearby, D-16 concluded. 

The grass flattened under the wind in beautiful shimmering waves, each blade turned momentarily to reflect brilliant moonlight. The grey mech stepped slowly and carefully off the old carpet and onto the grass, his optics still blown up wide in mesmerisation. The grass’s softness left D-16 in near physical shock, making the young mech halt in his treks. The halms beneath his pedes were bending so delicately and smoothly, D-16 had been convinced for a moment he was walking on cotton and clouds. He was almost tempted to let himself fall head first into its cozy green embrace, convinced it would feel like sleeping on a bed made for a king. 

Luckily even in his deepest of dreams he was still lucid enough to use enough common sense to not follow through with that impulse. No matter how inviting the cushy lawn looked. 

Because surely there could be no other explanation than for this to be another one of D-16’s vivid dreams. Daydreaming was the one thing he was best at after all.

D-16 was only a mere carpet merchant. And the shop he worked at wasn’t even his to call his own. It belonged to a sharp tongued femme named Elita-1, who ran the store like a drill sergeant. So day in and day out he’d slave away at the bazaar, yelling to passerbies to “come on in and take a look at the finest selection of carpets Iacon- NO- all of Cybertron had to offer” and then for ones that did decide to stay and take a gander at his merchandise, it was always the same song and dance. First: Let the customer roam the shop on their own for a little while before approaching them to offer his services and advice. Then proceed to put the customer on a pedestal, while putting himself down. Rain down compliments and praises upon the potential buyer. Following the same base script each time: 

“Oh most sensible of customers, I could not help but notice you ogling one of my mistress's smaller rugs. Are you looking for something small in particular? I assure you, oh pearl of travelers, that this poor lowly salesman has far better and grander carpets to offer.” 

Then he’d show them a carpet he believed they would absolutely dislike, before showing them the actual ‘perfect fit’. A little trick he had picked up after years of working in the trade. When people see the worst they could end up with first, they will find the actual best option all the more appealing. 

And now repeat this same scenario at least 70 times every day for several vorns with just enough holidays sprinkled throughout to keep a mech from fully going insane and losing his grip on reality. Could anyone truly blame D-16 under these circumstances for developing a love for spacing out and letting his daydreams carry him off to distant lands whenever Elita-1 wasn’t around or when business was going slow? Of course not. 

D-16 was only a mere carpet merchant. But whenever he closed his eyes, he became the long lost son of a mighty prince of a land far to the east. So distant in fact that no one in Iacon had ever even heard of it. But he had been kidnapped as a young defenceless sparkling from his crib by an outlaw named Lockdown. But as the fiend was attempting to escape with the child to Iacon, still questioning if he should either sell him to one of his sire’s enemies or demand a hefty ransom for the child, Lockdown had found himself confronted by a brave mech. A carpet merchant from Iacon. The merchant had jumped at the kidnapper and wrestled the crying sparkling from his arms and chased the villain to run away into the desert with his tail between his legs. The merchant, unaware of the sparkling’s true heritage, adopted him as his own. 

This daydream of course comfortably ignored the fact that Megatron never grew up with a sire, biological or adoptive for that matter. But that was hardly of interest to the silver mech. After all, D-16 had also never ventured outside of the safety of Iacon’s fortification walls and yet his dreams took him to distant lands. All the way to the heart of the desert to take revenge upon Lockdown and in the end return to his homeland and reunite with his biological sire. 

And his sire’s palace always included a garden just like this one. One he had attempted to dream about just earlier that day before his daydream had been rudely interrupted by a customer. A rather strange fellow at that. 

The customer had been an old model. A few vorns away from the scrap heap, if you’d ask D-16. The mech’s frame, or the parts of it he could see under the large garment covering him, had been covered in dust and sand. A clear indicator of him being a nomad. One that had just crossed the treacherous path through the desert to reach the heaven of Iacon. His facial plate was hidden from the world behind a thick pair of visors and a steel battle mask. 

D-16 clearly remembered how he had nearly fallen off his chair by the counter when the old rust bucket first spoke to him. 

“Excuse me, son of a great establishment. Do you buy carpets for selling?” he had asked, while towering over the silver mech, his frame blocking out the sun completely, downing D-16 in shadow. His voice was raspy and filled with ghostly static, struggling to stay barely above a whisper as he spoke. His voice box must have been damaged by inhaled sand or maybe it had simply started to malfunction due to the mech’s age. Who could say for certain? 

D-16 had clambered onto the counter desk, his optics shooting up at the giant old timer: “I am but a lowly employee, oh great wanderer of large distances” D-16 had responded, switching to his overly polite merchant-persona, while trying to hide how truly intimidated he was by the bot’s size and spooky voice 

“This shop belongs to the exalted Mistress Elita-1. But yes. We do in fact buy carpets, oh mighty desert explorer!” D-16 had explained, the stench of the mech’s travels was by that point reaching his enstril and the young mech had to fight every program screaming at him to not physically start dry heaving from the foul smell. He would never hear the end of it from Elita if she found out he had chased off a potential customer because of something silly like the client’s lack of a recent bath. 

“Fantastic” the travelerer had answered, dragging out each syllable as he began fishing for something inside his subspace before finally revealing an old -perhaps even more ancient then the client himself- ragged carpet. The threads at the end had become all tethered and loose. Not to mention: Whatever fine pattern must have adorned this rug vorns ago, was now hidden behind a thick layer of blackened dust and, what D-16 assumed to be dried up mud. 

“I wish to sell this, dear employee of this illustrious house.” the customer’s hoarse voice had fought against the noise of the bazaar surrounding them. 

He is using the same compliment strategy as me. He must be of the trades, too. D-16 had noticed. Better stay alert with this one. Sly foxes as we merchants are. 

D-16 reached for the carpet with hesitant digits. Examining and assessing the dirty fabric’s quality to the best of his abilities given the rug’s condition. 

“This humble layman could take this masterwork of tapestry off of your well used servos for… 30 Shanix.” And D-16 was being generous for that price.

“500 Shanix” the traveler’s raspy voice box had countered. 

“What?”

“500 Shanix. That is how much I demand for this carpet.” 

“Surely you jest, oh king of the desert!” D-16 had laughed nervously “The best this lowest of low salesmen can stretch is 50 Shanix.”

“500 Shanix” the cloaked mech repeated, leaning down to D-16’s facial plate until their enstril were a mere hair length apart “Not more. Not less.”

Though nut to crack.

“My  humblest and noblest colleague of trade, I urge you to see reason!” D-16 argued “I am just a simple poor carpet merchant! There is no way I could ever pay that much for this… errr-” for the first time D-16 had scrambled for words, trying to find the kindest way possible to describe this rug as anything but a ‘ratty lump’ “Antique!” he had hastily blurted out after an awkward pause. 

“My dear diamond in the rough”, the stranger had spoken with a strained yet pinched voice “You would not be paying me for a simple rug. What if I told you that this 

Inconspicuous carpet… could fly?”

A flying carpet. Any bot who had their brain module intact would have thought the stranger to be a madman or the worst scam artist to ever enter Iacon’s bazaar. A flying carpet. Everyone knew that the art of flying was reserved to those lucky few who were forged as seekers or flying types. A flying carpet. Those things only exist within legends and the imagination of bots stuck with grounded altmodes. A flying carpet. Whoever would fall for a story like that? 

Well D-16 would. 

D-16’s memories were frankly a bit hazy afterwards. He could not remember why he found himself so easily swayed by the foreigner’s claim. But fortunately for him, he did manage to cough up the 500 Shanix the wanderer had demanded for the rug. Unfortunately for him he did that by grabbing 500 Shanix from the shop’s cash register.

Elita was gonna hang and quarter him when she found out where the last month’s earnings had vanished to. But that was a problem for future D-16 to face. Until then he had found himself the proud owner of a verified magical flying carpet. 

Too bad just that D-16 had neglected to ask the customer how to get the carpet to fly. So D-16 had seized the chance that his boss would not be back for several hours at least and had closed the shop for a prolonged ‘lunch break’. During which he had just yelled different magic incantations at the carpet. From a formal “Fly my woven steed” to the well-known “Abracadabra” and finally a good old classic “JUST GET UP AND FLY YOU LAZY RUG!”

But nothing seemed to work. To which D-16 decided to just admit defeat (for now) and use the dusty old carpet as an impromptu sleeping mat. Maybe a small round of dreaming might help him think of some other magic spells that might work. 

And that is how his dream must have surely taken him to one of his favourite parts of each “perfect imaginary life”. His triumphant return to his real sire’s palace. And oh how magnificent of a palace his brain module had dreamt up this time. It was truly a splendour. The only thing missing now to complete and perfect this dream was the reveal of a noblebot he had been promised to as a sparkling, prior to his kidnapping. 

Sometimes his promised conjunx was a mech. Other times a femme. But in every dream they were the most beautiful and elegant bot Cybertron had ever had the honour of calling one of its inhabitants. However beauty was not all the fiancé of his dreams had to offer. Without fail their dreams gave them wits beyond compare and the sharpest of minds. 

Any bot would gladly go to war for a beloved like that. So maybe it was for the best that they were just a mere product of his wild imagination. 

And as if on demand, on the far end of the palace garden, sitting by a magnificent energon fountain, D-16 saw him. A gorgeous noblemech with the most radiant blue and red coloured frame in all of Iacon. The colour of his optics matched that of the fountain’s abundant energon. The mech swayed one servo lazily around in the fountain, creating small whirlpools in the energon with soft swirly motions. And his voice. Oh that lovely clear voice humming an unknown melody. 

No doubt about it. This must be the prince - his fiancé - of tonight’s dream. Probably the most stunning one his mind had conjured up yet. 

D-16, slowly took off his sleeping cap, laying it down on a bench by the bushes, as he stared in awe at the gorgeous bot by the well. 

The carpet merchant had to admit, he felt almost intimidated by the mech’s beauty, as he felt himself both drawn to him yet too shy - too uncertain- too approach him. So he just stood there, still like the marble and bronze sculptures adorning the garden.

The mech must have sensed D-16’s presence as his attention drifted suddenly from his rippled reflection in the fountain to him. 

“Are you a new kind of servant?” he called out, retracting his servo from the fountain and skipping over the damp grass to get a closer look at the new face. 

“No… masterpiece of my imagination”, D-16 spoke, his voice dripping with mesmerisation. The mech now stood right in front of him “Know that I am the long lost son of a distant prince!”

“Oh” the mech blinked a few times, as if trying to process the information “So… does that mean you are some other sort of femme?”

D-16 stared at the mech of his dreams with perplexity. 

“I am not a femme! You can rest assured: I am very much a mech.” he blurted out. Surely people did say the weirdest things in dreams every so often. But this is the first time someone had mistaken him for anything but a mech. 

“No no no, that can’t be.” the mech shook his helm as he began circling D-16 curiously “You are the wrong shape and frame to be a mech. A real mech is at least 3 times your size. Especially one claiming to be a prince.”

Rude. 

“Well you are a mech too and you are not exactly the tallest bot either.” D-16 countered. 

“Well yeah for now!” the mech retorted, blowing up his cheeks defiantly “But once I become a certified Prime I’ll tower over you.”

“Yeah but you do see now that size alone is not what defines a mech, right?”

“Ah! You do have a point there…”, he admitted bashfully. “Could it be that you’ve… never seen another mech before in your life?” D-16 asked hesitantly. 

“Of course I haven’t!” he exclaimed “I’ve only ever seen my sire before. But I have seen quite a lot of him so I do know what mechs are supposed to look like.” 

“But you do go outside right?” D-16 inquired

“I am outside right now, am I not?” he giggled, spreading out his arms to point at the garden surrounding them “Out in the open air, enjoying my night garden. It was a gift from my Sire, you know?”

“No I mean- Outside! Outside the palace. Have you ever been in the town? Seen the people there?”

“Well… no” he admitted, letting his helm fall down in defeat. He twirled around and let himself plummet back down at the ledge of the fountain, his optics once again focussed on his own reflection. D-16 followed him slowly, unsurely sitting down at the ledge beside him. 

“My sire said I might be able to go outside someday… If my future conjunx allows it, that is.”

“Why would I forbid you from going outside?” D-16 blurted out. 

The prince merely stared at him, his helm tilted and a brow ridge raised in confusion as if he wanted to make sure he had heard D-16 correctly. 

“You are not prince Ultra Magnus.” he said matter of factly, as if he were simply stating the time. 

Well this was new. 

This was the first time in his dreams where the beautiful bot was NOT his fiancé. 

“Y-yes! You’re right. Sorry I don’t know what came over me-” D-16 stammered in one breath “Wait! Did you just say… Ultra Magnus is your fiancé?”

“Yes?” he confirmed, the expression of confusion deepening upon his face plate

“But isn’t he like…” D-16 fiddled with his servos trying to find the right words “ancient?”

“Well…” he replied “I’ve obviously never seen him myself but my Sire assured me he is a mech in his prime. Just like my Sire is. But the fact of the matter stays: Until I get married to Ultra Magnus, I must stay inside the palace.”

“I don’t understand… Why would your own Sire keep you hidden- no. Imprisoned in this palace?”

“I believe it has to do with the violent nature of mechs.” the prince disclosed “My sire said that if another mech saw me before Lord Ultra Magnus did, he would instantly fall in love with me and carry me off to become his conjunx instead. ‘Most mechs are just like beasts’, he always says ‘They lack all sense of self control and mercy!” His voice dropped several octaves while quoting his sire in an attempt to imitate him. 

“Well I am not a beast.” D-16 declared, crossing his arms over his chassis. 

“Indeed you are not.” the prince agreed “Which in turn proves you must actually be a femme! Maybe your sire raised you to believe you’re a mech, for reasons of his own? Similar to why mine keeps me hidden away in the palace?”

“He did no such thing, trust me.” D-16 rubbed his temples, slowly growing frustrated over this argument. But at the same time he did not fail to notice how earnest the other one’s worry seemed to be. And frankly the worried frown on his facial plate and the distinct way his optics shone in resonance with the fountain’s energon made him all the more beautiful. 

“Then tell me about your Sire. And that distant land you come from. Perhaps we can find the answer for your strange self image in that?” the prince suggested, scooting closer to D-16, glancing at the carpet seller with pleading optics.

“I told you I am indeed a mech!” D-16 asserted before sighing exhaustedly “But very well. Maybe if I tell you, you will finally believe me”

And so D-16 began to recount the tails of his many past dreams. Of the palace he had grown up in, the riches and beauty of his Sire’s magnificent kingdom, of how he had been stolen by the fiend Lockdown as a mere sparkling before being rescued by his foster sire. He told him about the many perils he faced to return back to his homeland and how his sire had recognised him the very klick he laid eyes upon him, even after all the years they had been apart.

And the prince listened to each word attentively with bated breath, only interrupting to shout “no way!”, “That’s terrific!” “And what did you do then?!” In between D-16’s narration.

When D-16’s story had finally concluded he turned towards the blue prince with a confident smile. 

“So as you can see, neither my adoptive nor my actual sire have motive or cause to try and hide my own gender from me. They are both honest and upstanding citizens.” D-16 proclaimed, hoping to have finally convinced the prince that he was indeed a mech. 

But the mech just put a digit to his chin, his forehead twisting into a deep, thoughtful frown. 

Oh no. 

“You are correct that, based on your description, neither of your sires seem like the type of bots that would raise their sparkling to believe such a falsehood. And yet I just cannot handle the fact that someone as small as you is supposed to be a mech.”

D-16 sighed in defeat. Was there nothing he could do to finally convince the other one that he was indeed a HE? 

Suddenly the carpet merchant’s optics blew up and one could have almost seen a little light bulb appear above his helm. 

D-16 snapped his fingers as an ecstatic smile crept onto his facial plate.

“Say… About that fiancé of yours.” he began to steer the conversation away from his imaginary sires “Ultra Magnus. Would you not agree that it seems rather unfair that your sire is forcing you to marry a mech you have never seen before?”

“I mean I cannot claim that this thought has never crossed my mind” the mech admitted “but I have already told you why my sire won’t let me see other mechs. They would just kidnap me and-” 

“Yes I know, but I might have an idea on how you can get a clearer picture of what mechs look like without having you leave the palace. Or even come face to face with one. Well except for me that is.” D-16 intercepted the sheltered prince, mumbling the last part into a non-existing beard. 

“You do?” the other one shot up in excitement, his optics twinkling like the stars. 

“I do.” D-16 confirmed “Here is the plan. I shall return tomorrow night with portraits and paintings of different mechs from around Iacon. Then you shall finally see that mechs do come in different shapes and sizes. And it will give you a frame of reference to compare your fiancé Lord Ultra Magnus to.” D-16 had to actively insure that his speech stayed formal and fitting for a distant prince, noticing his speech pattern almost slip into ‘the tongue of commoners’ out of sheer eagerness and enthusiasm over his own idea. 

“That would indeed be rather instructive” the mech giggled “And it would give me an excuse to see you again. I rather enjoyed our talk and listening to you about your travels and adventures! It has been the most fun I must have had in vorns!”

D-16 felt his fans whirring and a rosy tint spreading across his cheeks. Oh why did his brain module have to create the most magnificent being for this dream only to then promise him to another mech. 

The irony of being jealous towards a real nobleman over a mech that did not even exist, was not lost on D-16. 

“Then so it shall be!” D-16 pronounced, standing up and bowing deeply in front of the prince “We shall meet here by the well tomorrow at midnight!” 

“I will await your return.” the prince answered, returning D-16’s bow respectfully with a slightly less deeper one.

Suddenly the prince’s gaze wandered off behind D-16. 

“The sun is starting to rise” the blue mech stated calmly, pointing at a thin golden line creeping over the distant desert dunes and city walls “I should probably head back indoors for now too. Before my Sire or maids notice I am not in my room. And you too should probably go back for now. Goodness knows what my Sire will do if he finds out someone has snuck into the palace.”

“Oh! Right you are!” D-16 scrambled back towards whence he came - in other words the carpet- while waving back towards the prince “I’ll see you at midnight-” That’s when he realised he had never even asked the mech the most important question. 

“Excuse me but what is your name?”

“I will tell you only if you promise that you will not laugh. It is a rather silly name…” 

“You have my word!”

“It’s Orion Pax. Like the star constellation.” 

A silly name? That is no silly name. It was the most perfect and fitting name for the most perfect mech he had ever dreamed up. 

“Then let me give you my name in return. Call me D-16.” the carpet merchant replied.

A soft smile tucked at the corners of Orion’s mouth. 

“Until midnight then, D-16.” Orion spoke as he headed back inside the palace.

“Yes. Until midnight, Orion Pax.” D-16 echoed the prince’s words, amazed by how easily the name Orion Pax left his lisps. Like the sweetest energon syrup. 

When D-16 finally reached his carpet, he remembered he still had no idea how to get the accursed piece of tapestry to fly upon command. 

But this was still just a dream at the end of the day. So he decided to leave the palace the same way he entered it. By laying down upon the carpet, closing his optics and falling back asleep. 

When D-16’s optics came back online he found himself blinded by a glaring light of the midday sun, streaming through the chinks of the carpet shop’s window curtain. 

D-16 rubbed his optics, feeling both energised by the beautiful dream he just had, and yet feeling not an ounce refreshed despite having slept until noon, judging by the sun’s position and the heat. 

He had missed opening up the shop this morning. 

Add that to the list of reasons why Elita-1 would rip him a new one, once she returned from her trip to Velocitron. 

D-16’s servo groggily reached up towards his helm, to take off his sleeping cap. Only to be met with the cold metal surface of his own helm. His optics shot upon as he began looking all around him in search of his hat. But it was nowhere in sight. 

Okay D-16. Think, think, think. Where did you last leave it? Did I take it off at any point during the night? No. I was asleep the entire time. The only time I took it off was… in… the… dream garden…

His servo sank from the top of his helm, across his facial plate, before resting above his mouth in pure shock as the realisation began to sink in.

It hadn’t been a dream. 

*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*

Whoo! Finally another one shot for yet another Megop AU! I had announced this one a couple of weeks ago in a poll, so I hope y'all didn't have to wait too long and that the end result delivered on your expectations.

This AU, as explained in the initial poll, is based on my favourite book of all times: Castle in the Ai by Dianna Wynne Jones. The same author who wrote the book "Howl's moving castle"

This isn't One Shot a 1:1 copy of Dianna's book and how this scene was worded and described in it. I only adopted some of the more "important" dialogue and quotes from her book directly.

The rest are my very own words and writing. So don't treat this as a substitute for the original book. In fact I urge you all to please go read "Castle in the Air" if you enjoyed this One Shot in any shape or form. Or read the entire How trilogy while you're at it

But yeah for this AU like discussed in my Poll, D-16 is the carpet merchant suffering from maladaptive daydreaming - Abdullah- and Orion is the exalted Princess Flower-in-the-night.

And while they did not appear in this One Shot, Starscream is the genie in this AU and either Windblade, Bumblebee or Skyfire would take on the role of Sophie (Fight it out in the comments who would be the best fit). Thundercracker and his dog Buster take on the roll of Jamal and his own dog. I am a bit uncertain yet on who should take on the role of the Genie Hasruel and Dalzel who kidnap Princess Flower-in-the-night later on. So suggestions are welcome.

For the roles of the Strangian Soldier and his beloved Princess Beatrice(who also got kidnapped by the Genies) I was debating on using either Soundwave and Hot Rod or Drift and Ratchet. But in this case too suggestions are welcome if you think someone else would be more fitting.

As always: If you have thoughts or ideas for this AU let me know. Or heck you can post your own version (and if you do please tag me in it, I would love to see more Transformers Fairy Tale AUs)

Constructive Criticism regarding my Writing is ALWAYS welcome just please don't be an ass about it. Thanks!

This fic has been crossposted to AO3

[shaunamilfman]

Christmas with the Yellowjackets Headcanons

didn't have enough to make individual posts so i just threw them all together. includes Jackie, Tai, Van, Nat, Shauna, Misty, and Lottie. (seperately, you're not dating all of them lmao)

"All I want for Christmas is you" plays while Jackie Taylor is in the car, 5 injured 3 dead. Jackie loves Christmas music. She's got that shit blasting all hours of the day. if you hear one more Christmas song you think you might just scream. 

Jackie is so into Christmas. She's got the tree up and fully decorated by 12:01 AM the Friday after Thanksgiving. she started buying new decorations November 1st. She's not putting those decorations up, however: that's what she has you for. you lowkey dread the holidays just because of drill sergeant Jackie ordering you around the tree to put up ornaments and lights and shit. they all have exact placements that she's planned out ahead of time. 

Jackie forces shauna and you to watch Christmas movies every year. it's always the same exact ones but Jackie is so excited every year. she has custom made stockings with your names on it and everything. her house is the go to spot for Christmas parties every year. she has mistletoe everywhere and will use it as an excuse to kiss you. 

Jackie's gifts are also very thoughtful and indicative of the amount of attention she pays to you. Jackie without fail manages to get you things you never even knew you wanted but now cherish above your other possessions. she's full on wrapping them. they're all very festive and different prints that somehow all tie together anyways 

Tai Turner 100% wouldn't decorate for Christmas if you didn't make her. she's so content to exchange gifts in her bland house. if you make her get a tree though she's running the tree decorating like it's the navy. that shit is going to be aesthetic and evenly spaced out if it's going in her house. 

she'll let you have one of those really small ones in your room if you wanna decorate one yourself with fun ornaments. she rolls her eyes whenever she sees it but is secretly fond of it

Tai's presents are always perfectly wrapped with the optimum folds and tape placements. She refuses to be bad at anything, and certainly isn't going to let wrapping paper get one over on her. Tai buys presents whenever she sees something and all of her Christmas shopping is done by like August. 

she'll wear a Santa hat if to ask her but it's about as far as she'll get into the Christmas spirit

Van Palmer loves Christmas. She has such happy memories from her childhood of sitting on the couch watching Christmas movies all day. She likes going around to Christmas parties and getting to see all her friends in cheery moods. 

I definitely think Van spends most of December walking around in the ugliest Christmas themed boxers you've ever seen. You're rewatching her favorite Christmas movies and she's wearing Christmas tree print boxers, some kind of Christmas themed innuendo shirt (this Santa goes down or some shit), and her trusty Santa hat. 

Van puts real effort in wrapping up your presents but she's still not good at it. they're unwrapping slightly at the edges and there's way more tape than is needed. She definitely gets you a gag gift every year and after you open it she's like 😁😁 as she pulls out your real present 

Nat Scatorccio is not great at coming up with gift ideas. She'll power through it and eventually get you something you'd like, but god damn would she kill to just get an Amazon link. she either hands you something wrapped in crinkled up printer paper or it's double bagged in the plastic bag it came in. 

Nat would enjoy useful items more than anything I feel. You ask her what she wants for Christmas and she's like “🤔🤔… Broom.” she's completely serious about it; she'd be happy if you just bought her groceries. 

Nat's very hesitant about holiday stuff because her family never really celebrated it all that much as a kid. She enjoys how happy it makes you more than anything. She almost cried when you get her a stocking with her name on it. It's so precious to her as a representation of her place in your life. She grins so wide whenever she sees it. 

Nat loves those super dumb Christmas shirts. Like ‘My other car is a sleigh’ or something. ‘Jingle my bells’. she has no shame, truly. 

Shauna Shipman also isn't super into holidays in general i feel. she'll let you put a tree up and decorate whatever you wanted and wouldn't really care how it looked. holidays for her are more about spending time with you and her friends and family. she remembers holiday stuff fondly but doesn't care much to get into the holiday spirit unless that's your thing. she enjoys the weather a lot and loves to have the excuse of the cold to cuddle in bed with you all day. 

Shauna complains incessantly about how all the radio stations only play Christmas music. she's fuming on almost every car ride because of it she's so dramatic. If she sees s Christmas movie on she will change the channel. Jackie's forced her to watch them so many times she can almost quote them. 

Shauna gets you something she knows you'd like, definitely something you've mentioned before. I think she'd also make you something special. something like a mixtape or a little poem she wrote about you, just something to express her feelings about you. Shauna wraps your presents but it's just whatever wrapping paper she has on hand. one present is covered in gingerbread men and the other says ‘Happy Birthday!’ all over it

Lottie Matthews blushes when she gets caught under mistletoe with you even when you're in a committed relationship. she's so shy about it for some reason.

i also think Lottie's parents were very absent as a kid so she probably never got to celebrate Christmas all that much either. She absolutely beaming whenever you get her a stocking or want to wear ugly Christmas sweaters or something. she loves anything about Christmas that reassures her position in your life. 

Lottie spends way too much money on you every year without fail. she just loves and appreciates you so much and wants to give you everything you could ever want. they're all things that you'd actually want or use and she's clearly put a lot of thought into each one. 

Misty Quigley is so happy to be included you have no idea. she's literally in awe when she sees that you have a stocking with her name on it. i think she might actually cry when she got back home. You ask her if she wants to go to an ugly sweater party with you and she almost passes out. She immediately has so many ideas, you guys will be winning the contest if she has anything to say about it. 

I feel like misty could get a little overwhelming just because there's so many things that she feels like she lost out on as a kid that she wants to make up for with her partner. Misty tries to force cute holiday moments just a little bit but you know she means well. Misty stands underneath the mistletoe until you come over from wherever you are and kiss her. she's so quietly smug about it too. 

Misty spends like 3 hours watching tutorials on how to wrap presents. She's perfected it to an art form. she stumbles into bed exhausted and covered in tape, it looks like a bomb went off. she hands you a present with like origami stars and shit on top when Christmas comes. Misty's the type to wrap the book she got you to look like a chair somehow. 

[francesderwent]

Hello! I hope this doesn't come across as a Taylor-bashing question. While I believe that artists should be able to sing/write/create about their lived experience, there's something about the way Taylor handled mental health in this album that rubbed me the wrong way. I'll try to put it succinctly in three points: 1) TTPD seems to spill out the mental health issues/depression of Joe Alwyn, who seems like a very private person. I don't want to bring celebrity drama into this, but there's something discomfiting abot Taylor being more subtle and silent about his mental illness when they were together, and then spilling about it when they've broken up. 2) The way that she writes about mental illness/depression strikes me as hurtful. An example: "You sacrificed us to the gods of your bluest days." The takeaway seems to be an accusation that the subject chose his depression over her, which is...iffy. 3) The aesthetic of her album seems to be 'insanity' and 'mental torture' and, especially given the above two, it seems to be in poor taste?

I don't mean that Taylor shouldn't write about her experience about being resentful for a partner's mental illness/how they handled it, it just seems she's threading a sketchy line and I'm not sure if she handled that very well. But, I would really appreciate it if you have another way of looking at this. I do like Taylor's songs, and I appreciate your insights to them!

well first of all I sincerely love you for numbering your ask, it’s so readable and coherent. bless!! I’ll answer in order:

I think she absolutely was not any more subtle or silent about his struggles while they were together. his sadness has been all over so many of her love songs about him, using the exact same images that she brings back in ttpd. she says in hoax, “don’t want no other shade of blue but you, no other sadness in the world would do”. and she talks in the long pond sessions about this for her being an example of true love, the person you want to be with in really dark times. in renegade she says “the shape of you was jagged and weak, there was nowhere for me to stay, but I stayed anyway”. a lot of what she says in ttpd is a purposeful callback to words of love she spoke in earlier songs, not undoing them, but mourning the fact they weren’t enough. mirrorball says “I’m still trying everything to get you laughing at me”, So Long London says “I stopped trying to make him laugh, stopped trying to drill the safe”. it’s not about airing his private business, she doesn’t give us any more details now than she did when they were in love. the only difference is in how it made her feel.

I don’t think Taylor is saying that her partner chose depression over her, or that it’s his fault for not pulling himself out of it. if we look at You’re Losing Me along with this album, I think it’s abundantly clear that the reason she left is because She Wanted To Be Married. “do something babe, say something. choose something babe, I’ve got nothing to believe unless you’re choosing me.” “are we really gonna talk about timing in times like these??” she wanted them to choose each other despite everything difficult and sad. and he simply never did. you can say that a huge commitment like that would be horrifically hard for a person deeply depressed, but she waited six years, and he was showing more interest in anything but her (“I’m the best thing at this party” “I founded the club she’s heard great things about” “it’s not right to be scared every day of a love affair” “fell victim to interlopers’ glances”). “is it your anxiety that stops you from giving me everything or do you just not want to?” indeed.

I don’t think there’s any reason to assume this is merely an album aesthetic. I don’t necessarily take it as literal-diagnostic as some other commenters have, but when Taylor talks about her mental health on this album, I think we can take her pretty seriously. “how much sad did you think I had”, “am I allowed to cry”, “you don’t get to tell me about sad” are repeated through this album, but it’s not new. “I’m with you even if it makes me blue” in Paper Rings, “when my depression works the graveyard shift all of the people I ghosted stand there in the room” in Anti-Hero, “a house, not a home, all alone 'cause nobody's there, where I pace in my pen and my friends found friends who care” from Dear Reader. she’s suffering too. the breakdown that happens over the course of this album is not a performance, it is very very real and a long time coming.

tldr: I think she really really loved him. and she loved him while both of them were really sad. he didn’t choose depression over her, but he also didn’t choose her, and that finally broke her. she has every right to leave a relationship that’s dragging on and never going anywhere to seek somebody who wants the same life she does.

[maltmealo]

Chapter 6: Start a war

"Do you hear that?"

"hear what?"

A hiss of frustration left your mouth as you looked down at your chest, your own blood had come off reasonably quickly, but the bright blue substance had stained your skin. skin starting to flake off where it touched, great, you probably swallowed something that was disintegrating your stomach. A soft sigh left your mouth, leaving the stain alone for now.

Stream rolled off your body in waves as you stepped out of the shower, turning the water off after you. Grabbing one of the dusty cabinet towels you dry yourself off, stopping in front of the mirror. The bright blue stain on your chest stands out like a tattoo, you lean on the counter staring at yourself with a tired expression.

Killer, truck, aliens, you repeat in your head as you look at yourself. You got chased by the person who killed your friend, you got hit by a truck, and now you're temporarily living with aliens. your headache was gone though, that was good. You sigh and decide to finally exit the bathroom, running a hand through your damp hair and shut the door behind you.

"Human, do you feel better?" The deep voice made you jump, Optimus had been waiting for you in the exact same spot you had left him in.

"Yeah, thanks…" you say, leaning on the wall behind you. The metal red and blue giant kneeled down in an attempt to seem less threatening as he offered his hand again.

"You must be confused." He states as you climb into his palm, kneeling firmly in the center. He stands up and begins to move down the hallway, taking long strides to move, he keeps his hand as steady as possible to ensure that you don't get jostled.

"Very." You reply, looking up at him. "Can you explain to me what exactly is going on?"

“Yes,” Optimus replied, his face ever unchanging, the dull humming that was surrounding your ears changing. Instead of the constant humming, it sounded like a slow somber song, whispering melodies of long lost battle and even longer lost friends. “We are Cybertronians, a race of non-organic beings, our race has been divided due to a war between our factions, the Autobots and the Decepticons. Myself being the leader of the Autobots, and Megatron being the leader of the Decepticons.”

There was a moment of silence, the somber melody ringing in your ears as you speak.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for? You did not cause the war, nor are you wrong for asking what is going on.” Optimus speaks as you enter the room you first woke up in, Ratchet standing at the massive computer, not giving a second glance at the two of you.

“I’m sorry that you’re in a war, no one deserves to be in a war.” The silence comes back, you start to connect the dots, how rough they looked, how sad every word sounded. “I’m sorry.”

The repetition of the words echoed through the room, the metal walls making everything sound louder. Optimus lowered his hand so you could get back onto the platform. your bare feet touch the cold metal, a chill running up your spine as you severely regret not putting your socks back on, even if they were stinky.

“Optimus, Agent Fowler is bringing a human doctor with him to check her.” Ratchet grumbled, finally breaking the empty silence.

“Has this doctor been properly informed and given the proper clearance?" Optimus asked, turning his attention to Ratchet, after Ratchet nods, Optimus speaks again. "Tell him we will ground bridge him until this doctor proves that he is trustworthy."

Ratchet nods again and types something into the gigantic computer. You sit there in silence for a while, still trying to process everything that is going on.

"Human, I can assure you that you are safe here, there is no reason to stress," Optimus speaks, lowering himself so that you two were eye level again. The sharp glowing blue eyes drilling into you.

"Kinda hard not to." You retort, the ground is the most interesting thing in the room at the moment, choosing to turn your gaze to stare at that instead of the drilling stare.

"I swear to you, as leader of the Autobots, no harm will come to you as long as you are in our custody."

"It's not that I don't believe you, it's just the fact that I don't exist at all here and the fact that I'm being held by giant metal aliens is kind of, oh I don't know, shocking?" You say, returning your gaze to Optimus.

"Cybertronians." Ratchet corrects, not tearing his attention away from the screen.

“I understand your frustration, to be torn away from your home and then put in a situation where your life may be in danger is a shocking experience for anyone,” Optimus says, the somber melody changing to a slow yet determined beat.

“Wait, what do you mean my life is in danger?” you interject, “I thought you said I was safe here.”

“You are safe here, but if you were to leave the base even for a moment with the EMF reading you have right now, the Decepticons would undoubtedly find you, and they will not hesitate to torture you for whatever information you might have gained while you were here.” Optimus pauses, a huff of warm air blowing from the vents on his shoulders. “And whatever happened to your body while traveling through that portal.”

“What? What happened to my body?” you asked nervously, looking between the two metal giants, who were sharing a look.

“We are unsure of the effect this may have on you but…” Optimus starts to say, his face scrunching up in discomfort as he tries to explain what is happening to you.

“Your EMF signal is changing rapidly, for cybertronians, this could be an indicator that you had a multitude of things wrong with your body, but for a human…” Ratchet pauses, his eyes meeting yours. “We have no idea.”

“What do you mean my EMF signal is changing rapidly?”

“I mean your EMF is increasing at rapid speeds, it's quickly surpassing even our own EMFs,” Ratchet explains calmly, pulling up a chart of you when you first arrived.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” You ask nervously, wringing your hands together in an attempt to comfort yourself, not even one day of giant robots, and you're already too deep.

“We have no idea,” Ratchet says not doing much to calm you down. God, were you going to die again? Was the rapid increase of your EMF going to fry your brain? Scramble everything up so you are nothing more than a lobotomized animal? Ratchet notices your increasing panic and begins to speak again, “But then again, you humans are resilient, you may not have any effects whatsoever.”

“Ratchet is correct, even though you may be small, humans have an incredible ability to bounce back from even the worst injuries,” Optimus confirm, giving a reassuring nod to you, “Even if you do not, we will make sure nothing bad happens to you, we will find a way to fix this.”

“Comforting.” You say sarcastically, sitting down on the floor and putting your head on your knees with a groan, “My body is dying and I'm at risk of being kidnapped by evil robots.”

“You're not dying,” Ratchet says firmly, his frown deepening as the calm beat gets overtaken by a steady wind chime sound off in the distance, “we won’t let you.”

You close your eyes, trying to focus on the wind chimes, not really caring where they were coming from at the moment.

“Thank you.”

They seem surprised by your sudden gratefulness, Optimus is the first to recover.

“Why are you thanking us?”

“Because you didn’t have to save me, and yet you did, so, thanks.”

“We did have to save you, as Autobots it's our duty to protect the innocent from the Decepticons.”

“Yeah, thanks for doing that.”

Optimus seemed even more surprised, even though he didn't show it, the windchimes slowly faded into the background as the slow melody returned.

“You are welcome, human.”

[parzival911]

Ripples in Time: Date Deja Vu Edition

A few months ago, I published a post where I alluded to elaborating on what's became a core belief about the Universe and how it works. Tonight feels like the time to take up that challenge.

I've previously blogged about my thoughts regarding fate and free will. In short, things don't just happen: while not predetermined, the Universe stretches out a hand if you choose to accept it. It speaks to you in omens, but ones for your eyes only. I've gathered some signs are more universal, but they're generally personalized, like one's love language. My mind's always worked well with numbers, especially dates as a history geek. If there's a number I need to retain, I turn to a historical year/date and it never fails. Ex. My old phone number had 6279. That became

'62 (Cuban Missile Crisis) and

'79 (Iran Hostage Crisis)

As such, it's no surprise to me in a world with no coincidences left, my omens would really resonate through "ripples in time." I've given thought to exploring beyond the ones established below; the other part of me prefers not to heed Doc Brown's advice. Without further adieu then...

October 26

2006 - Spirit Week, specifically "Dress Like a Faculty Member." One of my APUSH students arrived as me, as I detailed in my diary, "the complete idiosyncratic layout (eyebrows, moustache/goatee, cocked glasses)." Then she drew my face on a piece of looseleaf "to tape the facial hair on" and signed it, "Mr. V ❤️" (You're welcome to wager a SWAG on her name.)

2009 - "Zaynab announced to me during the drill she'd drawn a picture of my face in her notebook... and afterwards I had to drop my head leaning over the front table." Zaynab already reminded me of her predecessor, but to mirror her to that degree.... yeah.*

If you'd like to have fun, search YouTube for "groovy kind of love." I deliberately chose the result with no date provided. (Didn't matter.)

October 23

Ever since reading "Inferno," I've known according to a medieval monk with too much time on his hands, if taking the Tanakh literally, creation of the Universe began on this date in 4004 BC in my birth sign.

2004 - My older sister celebrated her wedding, complete with a Mass (according to my father's wishes).

2008 - Assisting in a blood drive meant "I signed into the church at 3:53 pm... I affirmed afterward one nurse was named Debra..." I headed back to school to attend the volleyball game. This means I crossed the same space where I'd met my muse, almost to the day.

2009 - "For the second straight year I spent Deb's wedding anniversary in a church." In this instance, as I revisited, it stemmed from seeing a high school friend perform, portraying a nun.

Honorable Mention: October 25, 2009

When I began preparing this post, this wasn't on the list. Searching YouTube for the songs my intuition told me to play last night, I found both were uploaded on the exact same day (this one). The next song from my old mixed tape, the very first search result I swear.

More fun with Google: search what happened cinematically on that date (and October 26) in the year 1985.

July 22 / October 29

The originator omen and the one whose weirdness has only amplified the older I am. (Including what I found tonight.) Buckle up.

July 22, 1994 - "I almost talked to a girl I liked."  This ranked as the first time she caught my eye.  (She's significant since she's the first girl I ever asked out.) Her name was Emily.**

October 1994 - We conducted an antiquated ritual called "letters."  Emily writes her first, but delays sending it; it gets postmarked October 29.

July 23, 1995 - The chess tournament that wasn't.  My 13-year-old self writes, "If I had played, I would have been fighting Emily!" Ten years, we began dating as adults; the honeymoon phase went so far, she drafted a wedding guest list.

July 22, 2006 - The fight that led to the relationship's end.  (We're friends again.) She becomes a math teacher for the county.

October 29, 2006 - That was the date (2006) my dating Emily ended. A date I really can't forget given its historic importance.***

I change schools, ultimately working with another Emily in the Math Department. They're opposites in eye color (blue vs. brown), hair color (blonde vs. brunette), even religion (Lutheran vs. Catholic). But Emily #2 invites me among her trivia friends to her wedding. My gut tells me you can guess the date she chose 😉

As far as coincidences existing, the defense rests.

Hoping I proficiently prosecuted my case, Parzival

* Proving my point: I chose a song from the suggestion sidebar. I played this video before, but didn't recall the publication date. ** All I did was search the next song ("making me dizzy"). The algorithm somehow sees that and suggests the lasting song from this phase of my dating her. *** I only picked it because I figured, "Hey, it's Investopedia, good source."

[interrogatormentors]

BOOK 2, EVENT 5: A1A100MKII ONLINE

“Y’ain’t listening to me. We whet your teeth on your slurry-siblings and set you loose before you molt. This is by design, Captor, think. What are the chief responsibilities of an interrogatormentor?”

“We are the right hand of the Empire. We are jailers, executioners, bodyguards, and inquisitors. We topple rebellions; we topple civilizations. ”

“So many jobs, and yet so much emphasis on the act of interrogation. Why? Torture. Doesn’t. Work. The suffering will spit sermons if they think it will give us what we want. Don’t fucking matter if it’s the truth. We're designed for cruelty and when we inevitably fall, the Empire has the perfect scapegoat that the masses can celebrate the culling of after enacting so much misery.”

—

Sollux inhaled through his nose, out through his mouth. Pozoia breathed the exact same way, an automatic tandem every interrogatormentor fell into when in a group to minimize their presence when hunting wayward trolls. Sollux held his breath a moment before resuming the simple act of breathing, an active break from the habit Pozoia and Rapard and all of his instructors had drilled into him. And yet, the same mantra droned its insidious song. Turn those emotions off, cullbait. “You slipped your lead.” He took note of the yellow thread and the rumors flying around Pozoia’s initial disappearance. “Your matesprit’s looking for you.”

Pozoia cocked his head to the side by an increment. He closed and locked the door. “All that observation power, and you didn’t leave while you had the chance.” His drawl lay thicker on his tongue than when Sollux had known him, now a layer of swamp scum clinging to aquarium glass rather than a lilt lifting his commands across the training gymnasium. He blinked more too but not constantly, his eyes harboring no telltale redness from what appeared to be constant irritation. Something else caused his eyelids to flutter like frantic flutterbeasts.

“Riarra blocked the door,” Sollux said.

“He blocked my vision. Only when he left could I confirm your presence. He can’t bother us none now he’s in a meeting.”  

Sollux couldn’t help the quick flick of his eyes to the door with that no doubt intentional slip of information, a usually innocuous gesture considering the average person couldn’t easily detect where his eyes, devoid of the usual yellowed sclera, were pointed. Interrogatormentors, however, were not average people any longer. Even a rusty axe had a sharpness to its edge, and Pozoia proved no exception as he took advantage of the split in Sollux’s attention and lunged.

Sollux automatically brought his arms up in a defensive motion, his deadened psionics fighting and failing to shore up his defenses. Pozoia ducked under Sollux’s pitiful attempt at defending himself completely, metal elbow driving into Sollux’s gut. Sollux wheezed, grabbing onto the offending arm to wrench Pozoia closer and put him on the defensive.

Rather than allowing that there was a loud hiss as the mechanical joint disengaged from its shoulder mount, and the limb went limp in Sollux’s grip. Sollux paused for a millisecond to adjust his grip and in that time Pozoia kicked up, a precision strike of his boot driving into the hollow of Sollux’s mandible and knocking his head back. Sollux released the false arm, and Pozoia used the scant few seconds afforded to him to reattach his arm before peeling off his jacket and scarf and flinging them forward to cover a second charge forward. 

The fact the scarf had been embroidered to the jacket itself allowed Sollux time to prepare. He didn’t even attempt to swat away the jacket, instead bracing himself behind the fabric. As Pozoia plowed into him, shoulder driving his mass forward, Sollux slid one foot back. He moved with Pozoia, his own brows furrowed behind the protective covering of leather and fabric. All of Pozoia’s attacks so far were bum-rushes, overaggressive, and risky–all moves that Pozoia had scorned as the tactics of a floundering animal that risked drowning itself along with its assailant rather than surfacing from the muck victorious. Pozoia thought himself dying or lost. The real question remained: lost to the Empire, or himself?

The charge ended, Pozoia taking an additional step to get out of Sollux’s range as the latter troll swiped his left arm out to toss the jacket to the ground. Pozoia bounced on his heels once before–no, he rolled back on his heels once before bouncing back up, eyes briefly unfocused before snapping back into awareness as he clicked his tongue to avoid the way his teeth clicked on what would have been sensitive flesh and muscle. He followed up with a roundhouse kick off the back leg that threw his whole body forward, and Sollux caught the blow to his shin. He let out a wordless yell, breaking the eerie silence that they’d fought in so far.

Pozoia did not react to the noise, nor did he break when Sollux took advantage of his new position to hook his hand in the crook of Pozoia’s mechanical knee. Another pneumatic hiss sounded and Sollux inhaled sharply to center himself. Pain served to his advantage. It sharpened his pan back into the interrogatormentor’s scalpel, dulling the doubts and fears crowding his mind seeing Pozoia now that Karkat and Aradia had ruined everything by starting to deprogram him. Pozoia’s prosthetic folded in on itself, rendering Sollux’s fingerbones to powdered fiberglass with an authoritative crunch. Sollux gritted his teeth to the point they scraped against each other, the second row tucked haphazardly behind the first splintering on his tongue as he finagled his psionic cuff to bear the brunt of the prosthetic’s pressure. He twisted until his wrist popped wetly and sparks flew in front of his eyes. Still the cuff held firm.

Pozoia started tipping, readying to unlock his metal joint, and Sollux felt a curse about to roll off his tongue before he stuffed it back down his windchute. He needed the old him, the emotionless guillotine blade hovering in cold indifference to his own suffering, not the ancient prototype of himself that curled in a chair coding looping firewalls while cringing at the thought of suffering in the stars. To live is to suffer, O Sufferer, sang a voice he almost knew, deep in the still-metal part of his pan in dizzying binary.

Pozoia’s leg snapped open again and Sollux fell back on his ass. He tried to roll completely in a reverse-somersault, but sweeps of sitting in front of a husktop like a saltwater detritiscuttler and his time locked in a cellblock caught up to him. He could not fight a nature–in a one-on-one fight the highblood had the advantage against a lowblood. Instead he twisted, rolling onto his bad wrist and bad shoulder simultaneously. The resulting shock of pain crystallized into something actionable and Sollux folded his bad arm to his chest, using his elbow and good arm to shove himself into a kneel before popping back onto his feet. Pozoia lowered himself, eyes heavy-lidded and cautious now–an ambush predator pulled free from the reeds with blood and brackish water seeping from its rotting teeth.

Sollux widened his stance in the same way his lusus had taught him, an antithesis to Pozoia’s emphasis during training on speed and fighting against type. He stood in the stance of a psion, one foot slightly offset from the other but still wide to prevent an optic blast from knocking him off-balance but allowing for a quick spring into the air if necessary. Pozoia circled on the edges of Sollux’s physical reach, but too close for a psionic blast. He’d fallen for the stance despite the cuff still clasped around Sollux’s wrecked wrist which allowed Sollux a chance to study his opponent for the few seconds afforded to him.

Another flurry of blinks from Pozoia then, punctuated by a sharp exhale and a heavier footfall than usual as he recognized his error and had to rewrite his plan of attack. Needle track marks riddled Pozoia’s fleshy skin. but only one matched a long-healed wound on Sollux’s own arm to indicate an IV tube. Pozoia’s IV wound in comparison bled idly, reopened from the strain of the fight, but the others were precise pinpricks that chased the median nerve rather than the vein. Each old needleprick served as a hallmark of a faulty mindscourge desperate enough to inject compounds that handicapped limb movement and dampened the natural beat of the heart to quiet it and direct all blood to inflamed nerves in the pan. Such medications were wildly expensive and illegal under the callous eye of the Empire that viewed any person stricken by disease or disability as a blight, and their usage carried a culling sentence if caught.

Not all ceruleans possessed mindscourging abilities and Pozoia never gave any indication to his pupils that he had any to speak of. Those that had them lived a cursed life of constant consumption to fuel the demands of mental abilities just as their psionic cousins did. Through training Sollux had learned to recognize the telltale barbed hooks of a mindscourge, unconscious lines connecting to the offending mindscourge who honestly at times had no idea their honeyed words contained razors due to how casually their abilities wove themselves into their own minds. A psion could operate without their psionics, albeit with changes to their metabolism of food and soporifics. A mindscourge had their abilities tangled in an insidious web–to convince their own limbs to move and communicate they required input from scourging to move their dense pockets of highblood muscle on featherlight frames. Robbed of their abilities, a mindscourge fought a losing battle as their body cannibalized itself to fuel something they no longer had and led to strokes and seizures before the death knell tolled.

Further musing proved impossible as Pozoia wrenched a towel rack from the wall, the metal screaming as he twisted it like putty and swung it at Sollux’s face. Sollux ducked, the metal tube pinging off one of his horns and setting his teeth on edge. The strike reverberated around Sollux’s skull. Sollux shook his head to clear the disorientation, forcing his shaking hand open from its ruined, curling claw and slashing out at Pozoia’s face with a wet slap.

Despite the clumsiness of the blow Pozoia clearly didn’t expect an attack from that side and he took an unsteady step back. His head turned just a fraction as his nose wrinkled in incredulous distaste that appeared alien on a seasoned interrogatormentor, and exposed a bit of his collarbone that first his uniform and then later his high-collared jacket and scarf combo had all hidden. Sollux whipped out with a kick, arcing high and crashing into Pozoia’s nose. To avoid catastrophic damage Pozoia moved with the blow and turned his head to the side, and Sollux breezed past him. Pozoia hissed behind Sollux and the yellowblood turned to see him lowering his head into a goring posture–but not before Sollux got a better look at an ancient, wicked scar radiating from a puncture wound that had gone necrotic and hollowed itself into a crater of flesh inches that pulsed with sickly blue veins even now with each beat of the pusher below skin rendered to rotting vellum. The placement matched where a sniper would tuck ammo while they reloaded and cradled a rifle to their shoulder. Pozoia carried himself like an armored fossil-clawbeast sliding through a stagnant bayou, but he’d let a dart fall into the chink of his own scales in his haste to secure a catch. 

Sollux circled around Pozoia to the side of his blunted horn, long-since shattered and smoothed down and bandaged to silence exposed nerve endings. He’d always worn that horn bandage, a puzzle piece that only now clicked into place. A healthy mindscourge would have rewritten that neural path of nerve pain long ago into obsolescence long ago, and the average cerulean wouldn’t suffer the constant agony and seizures resulting from the body’s automatic attempt to do so–the endings would simply die and callous over time just like with any other troll. Pozoia cracked his neck with a series of rattling pops to make use of the motion he’d started, prowling in tandem with Sollux but maintaining his position to keep him from the door in a distorted facsimile of Riarra’s earlier actions.

Pozoia kicked up a chunk of the towel rack into his hand then, and Sollux made direct eye contact with the highblood about to strike. Pozoia had a brief moment of deliberation, swinging the pipe around in his hand as the highblood considered the psion bereft of the only thing that could put him on the same level as a highblood.

No. The hesitation lasted too long. Sollux cradled his injured hand as casually as he could get away with as someone viewing him through the interrogatormentor lens, injured limb tucked against his hip, but the cerulean did not go for the bait. He wouldn’t have even called a bluff–Sollux had no doubt in his mind that an unbridled charge would result in his own pan-matter splattered across the wall in a smear of yellow and gray like turned grubloaf hurled by a petulant pupa. Yet Pozoia doubted his own capabilities, hobbled by the paralyzing message drilled into him by the empire like every other troll from the moment of pupation in a dizzying chant of highbloods and lowbloods pitted against each other since time immemorial: You live because you are like us. Any weakness and you are like them. Help us destroy them so only we remain. Play your part or die. 

Sollux rushed in for the brief window of time afforded to him, grabbing onto the metal pipe. Pozoia hissed through his teeth and in the confusion tightened his grip rather than fixing his stance in a bid for the upper hand. Sollux tugged the pipe as Pozoia shoved in retaliation, and together they toppled onto the ground in a mess of limbs.

Pozoia quickly proved the victor of the scuffle that ensued, straddling Sollux and bearing his weight down onto the pipe gripped tight in both of his hands and one of Sollux’s own. “You’re a fool, Sollux Captor. Your graduation is a testament to the interrogatormented farce.”

Sollux clenched his jaw as he fought to keep Pozoia from throttling him. The cerulean’s grip was firm where Sollux’s single arm quaked from the effort of keeping his imminent culling at bay. “You came after me. Attachments are a weakness, sir, and a vendetta counts.” He forced his injured hand to move while Pozoia snarled above him, ignoring the shards of glass comprising his finger bones scraping against flesh and nerve as he sought out the fork he’d tucked into the waistband of his pants on impulse when setting out to replace the sign-in sheet.

“Y’ain’t listening to me,” Pozoia said. He shifted, driving his knee into Sollux’s gut. Sollux coughed and wheezed, writhing like a mind honeybee with its wings caught by a parasitic wasp. The predator leaned in over its catch, icy sweat rolling off the end of the highblood’s nose to land directly upon Sollux’s ashen cheeks. “We whet your teeth on your slurry-siblings and set you loose before you molt. This is by design, Captor, think.” The pipe lifted for but a moment from Sollux’s throat, but Sollux continued to cling to the metal for dear life to deflect attention from his injured hand. Pozoia’s drawl dropped, his voice lilting up into the perfect and clipped diction of a superior officer. “What are the chief responsibilities of an interrogatormentor?”

Sollux coughed, and for the first time pain dulled his senses as his fingers struggled to untangle the fork embedded in the fabric of his pants. Why had he attached it so securely? In his addled state he responded automatically, helpless under perigees of conditioning and the screaming of his overstimulated nerves. “We are the right hand of the Empire. We are jailers, executioners, bodyguards, and inquisitors. We topple rebellions; we topple civilizations.”

“So many jobs, and yet so much emphasis on the act of interrogation. Why?” Pozoia buried his metal fingers in Sollux’s hair, the hair he’d grown out to the point his Empire-mandated undercut had grown out into something unruly and yet so easy to manhandle. Pozoia began slamming the back of Sollux’s head into the ground, punctuating his words with several ringing blows that blurred Sollux’s vision further and further. “Torture. Doesn’t. Work. The suffering will spit sermons if they think it will give us what we want. Don’t fucking matter if it’s the truth.” Pozoia dropped Sollux’s head, which thudded one last time on the ground. Sollux struggled to maintain consciousness, his tunneling vision encapsulating the raving highblood above him in a ring of hellfire. “We’re designed for cruelty and when we inevitably fall, the Empire has the perfect scapegoat that the masses can celebrate the culling of after enacting so much misery. May your death be a mercy away from Her voyeurism, you pathetic grublet. I will enjoy our funeral pyre.”

Pozoia shook Sollux’s uninjured hand off the pipe as Sollux’s aching digits, things that once upon a time could once have been called fingers, finally fished the fork from where he’d hidden it like a furtive nutbeast. Sollux passed it to his good hand as Pozoia shifted the jagged end of the pipe down towards the pusher fluttering frantically against Sollux’s breastbone.

The pipe came down with cold indifference and Sollux flung his injured hand up to catch it. For a single second he held the pauper’s blade aloft cupped in his hand and the next second Pozoia bore down. Sollux screamed automatically as the jagged metal pierced his palm, but even as his own agony ripped its way from his throat he forced his fingers to grip the metal and brace to prevent further damage. He jammed the fork in the hollow of the cuff created by his liquified bones, wrenching hard as he tipped his body to the side as much as he could with a highblood intent on his death weighing him down. He used the momentum of the strike intended for his heart, all the highblood strength involved and his own desperation to live, and there was a wet pop as his hand slithered free of the cuff like a degloved beast. Skin clung to the cuff and remained, and his hand rippled with exposed muscle pulsing blood wetly onto the floor.

The long-silent voices of the doomed began to scream as the cuff clattered to the ground in a bloom of sunshine yellow, a damned choir in Sollux’s aural cavities. Each one fought for the primary place at the pissbaby scream-podium, but none mattered. Sollux dropped the fork and brought up his good hand to grip the metal, channeling all of his psionics into it. Pozoia’s eyes widened, and a resounding psionic thunder-clap boomed through the entire exercise room as Sollux blasted him back. Pozoia hit the wall hard, disappearing in shimmering coils of smoke that rippled like a roiling stormcloud with otherworldly lightning.

Sollux wrenched the pipe from his spiked palm, coughing and shuddering as he rolled onto his front. He forced himself to stand, anchoring the weapon on the ground to push him up only to rise further, psionics buoying him aloft in a whirlwind storm when his muscles failed to support him. The return of his psionics intoxicated him, and he whipped his arm holding the pipe. His psionics surged along its length and the metal groaned, the lights flickering above his head in tandem with the pounding of his heart. Blood cascaded from Sollux’s mouth and from his mangled wreck of a hand.

Over the roaring surge in his ears Sollux heard the telltale click of Pozoia’s tongue against the roof of his mouth as the other troll returned to consciousness. Whether due to a seizure or from slamming into the wall, the tell remained. A single blast in that direction would explode Pozoia’s skull and Sollux could already taste the viscera on his tongue. 

Sollux fired but his hand shook–not from hesitation but from pain wracking his entire body. His psionic blast cleared the smoke in an artful sweep, the acrid smell of burning flesh and psionic ozone left behind. Pozoia’s eyes were wide and bloodshot, a quaking expanse of ice that threatened to fall into the sea. He charged forward, cutting through what remained of the smoke to close the gap before a second psionic blast could go off in time. Close range psionics had never been Sollux’s specialty–he’d always favored throwing blades or eyebeams. Fighting close range with blades of psionic hardlight took massive energy stores that Sollux simply did not have after perigees of inactivity. Hurling Pozoia himself similarly disqualified itself by virtue of needing to tap into the body’s natural electric field to wrench at the limbs, something that mounted in difficulty the more unwilling the subject was.

Sollux let go of the pipe, throwing his arm out. The walls shook, dust falling from the ceiling as the length of metal obeyed his command, slamming lengthwise into Pozoia’s throat. Pozoia was knocked back and he rolled, clawing back to his feet with little momentum lost. Sollux pulled the pipe back to hover around his head, rotating to aim its pointed end towards the other troll. “You deserve this,” Pozoia gritted out. “You know what you did. You can’t go back to what you were. Y’ain’t good enough for the Empire to take you back. You’re too dangerous to roam free.” The rage warped his voice until it bubbled from his throat like bile, turning it rough and somehow uglier than even the harshest bark he’d ever used while grinding Sollux into the dirt during training. In his current state, Pozoia’s rage and adrenaline would keep him going and bent on Sollux’s destruction until his brain finally ran out of oxygen long after his heart stopped beating. Death provided the only escape from this interaction.

No, no it didn’t have to be. The interrogator’s thought process clouded Sollux’s mind still, but it had Pozoia deeper in his clutches. “You’re fucking pathetic,” Sollux hissed. He rose in the air and twisted in an arc that left a ribbon of blood behind, briefly suspended in the air by his own psionics in a sanguine halo. “I don’t need to be who I was.” He spiraled and came down in a crash of tile and sparks, aiming for a spot he knew Pozoia wasn’t. Pozoia fell for the feint, zigzagging only to catch a hail of electrified blood that sizzled on his skin. The cerulean howled, taking a brief step back as he clawed at his own face until he reopened old scars along his own jaw.

Sollux ripped at his own shirt one handed, tearing a strip of cloth and tossing it into the air. Two objects became three as the cafeteria fork joined the haphazard arsenal, and Sollux lifted his injured hand. He raised his good hand shakily, forcing his fingers down with audible crunches into a finger-gun position. Above him he tied the fork to the sharp end of the pipe with the fragment of shirt. He fired a bolt of blue, then red, then blue again to maintain a constant psionic power rather than burning himself out with them in tandem. Pozoia fell to the defensive, a credit to his training that even running on animal instinct he managed to have some self preservation. The cloth wrapped over itself, reinforced by Sollux’s own blood as he twisted it over and over again with a dexterity that would have a helming scout raving at his scores and discipline.

The newly crafted weapon fell into his hand. He hovered over Pozoia with his makeshift trident in a bastardized perversion of empiric power–a psion holding the culling fork over a highblood too defective in his own eyes for society to bear. The culling fork did not fall but instead rocketed past Pozoia, scraping his cheek in a fine line in a clear message. Sollux twisted in midair, hand still contorted into a finger-gun, and he fired another blast. He slammed backwards from his self-made psionic cannon, just in time for his false trident to hit an exposed electrical outlet. 

Sparks cascaded around Sollux, the lights going out completely. Pozoia’s reddened eyes glittered in the gloom, but Sollux ignored the predator eyeshine zeroing in on him. “Pathetic,” Sollux repeated, wheezing a bit. He forced his mutilated hand open, resting his wound above the pipe’s blunt end that groaned as the metal warped and burned. “I’m not going to tear myself apart mourning the good old days and play woe is fucking me. I’m done with it. Nostalgia is a fucking poison in the Empire’s hands, and my friends know I’m me. They’ll remember the good times for me. You know what the thing I do know is?” He slammed his hand down, and with his psionics he impaled his hand.  “I’m the best fucking psion this side of the Empire.” His nose filled with the scent of burning flesh as he skewered himself, fountains of red and blue and yellow sparks erupting from his mouth and eyes and nose, and his palm came to rest upon the electrical outlet as he completed the circuit.

Pulsing rivulets of flesh floated before him and he fell back into himself, further back into the metal in his pan helming had shackled him to. He’d resisted the programming same as he’d always resisted mindscourging–halfway and capriciously–but in this moment he opened his mind up and pried open his own operating system. Meat was meat but meat he was no longer, not completely, and sirens blared in his pan as he registered an intruder. He bit the alarms in the bud before they could chirp in his determination to suss out the anomaly himself, hoisting the security shutters aloft before they could snap shut and ensconce him in a protective shell. No need to cause an alarm and incite panic erroneously. He scoured himself for the interloper and aborted the protocols in the same breath as he walked in tandem with himself and the thing that was not him, fraternal twins vying to drown the other in the same electrical current and scoring themselves against the slurrybank.

Down. Go down. He went down into the murky layers of his old security, cobbled together by prayers. His own hardware stared back at him and he fell back into old thoroughfares, a drowned squeakbeast scuttling back onto a sinking ship after it proved too sour for the sea to swallow. And swallow he did, familiar lungfuls thick with old honeycomb cobbled together clumsily by a mutant desperate to preserve the work of a compatriot stolen to the stars. Galaxies wheeled so high overhead and around in sickening columns of binary that had always pulsed so indifferently as the helmsman A1A100MKII floundered under the weight of his own security mechanisms he’d created when names mattered and he felt the drones on his neck. He knew Karkat would need insulation and protection over the thing he would become, and in this moment he became the home he had to return to.

A1A100MKII screamed into nothing 01001011 01000001 01010010 01001011 01000001 01010100 but it wasn’t safe, not for him, a wildfire martyr on the psionic pyre of the helmscolumn sprouting from a destroyed hand grasping for salvation. Fighting through the cloud of machinery, Karkat became an image blossoming before the helmsman’s visual processors–he languished in a meeting unaware of the planetary assault upon the base’s mind. The backdoor. Karkat was gap in the defenses A1A100MKII needed with Karkat’s earnest but clumsy reconstruction of A1A100MKII’s skeleton and the helmsman betrayed himself by cracking his own skull for the virus to enter. 01001011 01000001 01010010 01001011 01000001 01010100 became words became a plea, and he burrowed deeper into the asteroid’s core to find a way to communicate his peril quickly and quietly. 

He didn’t have much time. If Pozoia raged much longer, he’d suffer worse than a fleeting absence seizure that let him keep his feet. More than A1A100MKII wanted to preserve his host’s body, he didn’t want the Empire to win. While the invader's revisiting of his old systems left reformations in its wake, code knitting itself together into new neural pathways to clean up hanging brackets and tighten the spaghetti code cobbled together from a corpse, he left the old programmer’s loyalties alone despite the virus’ own software demanding a personality reset and override. It wasn’t his anymore, he didn’t have the right, but he left that love alone. 

He spoke in his own voice without having to fight, his strangled whisper shaking off cobwebs from the programming gullyworks of the base. He’d built himself up in furtive days programming alone behind blackout curtains to block out the Empress’ eye burning a hole into Alternia’s surface. He always knew he’d helm, someday, someday he’d be caught in the same feedback loop he found himself now, and Karkat and Feferi both had elected to keep his voice alive in the AI’s vocal databanks. He could see her now, for all Karkat and Aradia had worked to hide her from his Empire-tainted sight, long hair woven between the cogs of the rebellion’s machine.

Water flooded his core, boiling before his eyes and reminding him to fall back into line and purpose and seek a cause. He turned from Karkat in favor of a different block entirely, searching the thick brambles of himself and peeling back his own spines to find the fuschia pupa nesting in his guts. He needed someone that could stand up to a raging highblood, if not in strength but in authority to minimize the bloodshed required. He found her, hopping from base system into her palmhusk and peering from her camera. She didn’t look up as her palmhusk buzzed with residual feedback, clearly used to the temperamental machinations of a skeleton crew-run base. “Your presence is required in the exercise room,” said a voice that was both that of the person A1A100MKII had been and not his, pre-recorded phonetic sounds cobbled together by his own impulses and piped through the air vents to circumvent his own security trying to devour his own tail. His voice fueled every announcement the base had, save for the wing of the virus’ origin point. Someone had manually shut them off there, no doubt in the attempt to avoid exacerbating the infection with a paradoxical panic. It reached this block just fine.

The notification was dismissed flippantly, uncomprehending eyes distorting to bulbous discs in the palmhusk’s fish-eye lens. The helmsman’s mistake forced himself to fight through his own programs rewriting him from the ground up as he spent longer inside. “FF, help me,” Sollux choked out, and A1A100MKII died upon his own blade. 

Pozoia wrenched Sollux from the wall, and they screamed together as the current exploded through them both. Where Sollux channeled the marriage of psionics and electricity into something actionable Pozoia was thrown back, and Sollux heard a thud before the sound of the cerulean somehow managing to get to his feet. Sollux opened his eyes that swam with blood and tears, and he could do nothing more than gurgle as he struggled to force his mind back into order after his rapid ejection from the base’s system. He could only smell burning blood acrid in his nostrils, the doomed drowned out by the overwhelming, looming certainty that he stared down his end.

Sollux met Pozoia’s eyes, what felt like concrete blocks fixed to his own eyeballs and weighing them down to sink them deep into the back of his own skull. Pozoia picked up a large weight and hurled it forward, and Sollux flung his hand up to shield himself with a wall of red light. Pozoia let out a feral scream, battering at the psionic shield. Sollux blinked sweat from his eyes, spitting out a blood clot as he forced both his arms up in a crossing brace just as Aradia had to shield herself from his own attacks. A pulse of blue, and more layers of psionic energy started pressing themselves up against the first as Pozoia mindlessly clawed his way through. The cerulean even started gnawing at the edges of the psionic shield as sparks licked his flashing teeth, a thrashing lusus blinded by bloodlust as it tried to crash its way through a windowpane at its prey.

Sollux’x injured arm shook and then fell, and the motion brought his psionics down with it. Pozoia shot forward, grabbing Sollux up by the throat and hoisting him skyward. Sollux redirected his psionics down to his own neck, filling it with fire that threatened to burn him alive in an effort to reinforce his throat from being crushed. Pozoia’s metal hand creaked, his pupils lost in a sea of scarlet hatred. Sollux met those eyes, ignoring his instinct to shy away, and Pozoia did not falter as Sollux invited his own psionics up and out and through. Red to blue to red again flashed before his eyes in rapid succession as he built and broke down a rapid series of psionic blasts, forcing them back into his own eyes to force the color to change in a hypnotic rhythm and bathing the dim exercise room in oscillating light. 

Pozoia’s interrogatormentor training fought through the rage, and he ripped his gaze from Sollux’s. His grip loosened, and Sollux dropped into a heap on the floor. Blood began oozing from Pozoia’s lips, bubbling through his teeth as he staggered back to disappear in the murky smoke still choking the dim block. Sollux hauled himself up, trying not to look at his injured arm whose hand had split completely open down the middle. His pinky and ring finger barely hung onto his sorry excuse for a hand after Pozoia had torn it from the wall. Sollux took one step, then another, managing two more before staggering forward and falling to a knee.

A tongue tap sounded through the smoke, and Sollux spat a remnant of psionic energy from his mouth. He snapped his own tongue down and the sparks followed his frail conductor to crack against the cerulean’s face and keep him at bay. A curl then, blood pooling in the trough his tongue created as Sollux funneled further psionics to wrap around Pozoia’s arm and wrench him to the side and back. Pozoia let out another frustrated yell, a sure sign his rage had returned full force even though Sollux could barely see him through the gloom and haze of blood glazing his eyes. 

A thud echoed through the block, and Sollux’s acidic digestive pouch dropped through his guts. Metal creaked against metal before the door was torn open, and instinctive fear clouded his pan still humming with helming hardware as a raging mass of hair and horns battered her way inside. He’d never met Feferi, not in person, but he knew the Empress and this was her mirror clad in pastels.

Sollux’s chin automatically tipped up and back in supplication and he lost his balance, head smacking again to the ground as he crumpled. Feferi’s battle cries rang guttural and shrill all at once as he fell, a noise meant to echo through the vast trenches of the ocean, but in this moment only Sollux’s ears cared. She’d listened. Someone didn’t want him to die. The doomed choir roared in his ears, drowning out the sound of two highbloods shrieking at each other as he lost consciousness. 

Sollux returned to himself somewhere new that stung his nose with its sterility, and he screwed his eyes shut to try and block out the light attempting to worm itself underneath his aching eyelids. His fingers twitched–first on one hand, then the other which sent dull pain sluggishly working its way up to his elbow joint. Sollux turned his head to the side on his pillow, peeling open his eyes to see an arm entirely swathed in bandages soaked in dried tyrian blood. Curtains were drawn around the platform but he obviously lay in some sort of medbay, and it troubled him that he was somewhere so public. Curtains or not, anyone could come in and see a former interrogatormentor and agent of the Empire. Sollux’s brows knitted together, but before he could do more than exhibit vague confusion someone had latched onto his other hand. 

Sollux didn’t have to look to know Aradia’s warmth, and he swallowed hard as she reached out with her free hand to cup his face and point it towards her. She spoke, but the long-absent voices of the doomed started up their incessant chattering then and filled Sollux’s aural cavities with panicked cotton. Aradia let out a soft sigh, pushing some hair behind Sollux’s ear. His skin burned in the wake of her fingers, but he fixated on the motion and held onto it rather than the pain still radiating from his arm despite no doubt a potent cocktail of painkillers pumped through him. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume your pan is still full of almost-ghost soup?” Aradia asked.

Sollux snorted. “I got used to them not being around. Whose stupid idea was it to take me off my leash?”

Aradia flicked his nose. “Karkat’s. He’s not a psion, so I don’t think he really understands what it’s like to wake up with coffin brain. He seemed to think you wouldn’t want to wake up defenseless.”

Sollux pulled a face. Something about him felt ominous about being with his psionics, but he was too exhausted and drugged up to bring himself to care. “While I appreciate it, I was two steps from a psionic meltdown. I haven’t really earned–”

Aradia smacked his face firmly, palm against his cheek and shooting Sollux straight back into wigglerhood after he’d made a fool of himself after chasing her down a ravine and she’d papped him for the first time. Aradia had wanted to go digging for somewhere she heard a battleship had gone down centuries ago, an old orphaning vessel or something, and she’d heard herself down the narrow crevasse carved by its iron hull. He couldn’t let her go alone, especially not since it was the first time anyone had invited him out pretty much ever. So hopped up on concern and grudging pale butterflies he’d followed. Aradia dropped down without warning, too quickly for her to have run down and he’d dropped his disinterested facade, hurling himself like a javelin into the ravine.

He remembered losing control of his psionics, jamming himself essentially up to his waist head-first into the side of the gravel dirt wall. After managing to extricate himself he stomped his way down, slipping half the way down, only to find Aradia happily using a priceless piece of the battleship’s ancient hull to dig up a crater that a skeleton half-poked up out of. She’d turned, staring at him encrusted in dirt and scraped up as he was as if one of the many skeletons she had articulated in artful poses around her hive–a morbid fascination and delight–before her face crumpled as she remembered to be concerned about the living. She apologized for running off, she’d just gotten so excited, and had found a bit of hull embedded into the side that she’d sledded down on, and when he kept fussing she had papped him.

Sollux stared at her now as he had then and Aradia looked just as surprised as he was, but her eyes crinkled up as she grinned wide when he didn’t turn his face away just like they were both six again. “No self-deprecation. I have two options for you.” 

She reached into her shirt, and from the ever-convenient storage of her sphere harness pulled out two objects. One was a psionic cuff similar to the old one Sollux had worn, only now with a breakaway clasp. “This will get you there, and by there I mean a little peace until you can get your pan back up to speed. The boring option.” 

Aradia wiggled the other, a clicky bracelet of psionic-alloy beads interspersed with white ones of varying sizes and roughly rounded down into almost-uniform balls. “Karkat said this one was in poor taste. Well, his exact words were something along the lines of wondering how in the world you’d ever look his way in comparison to whatever we have going on. Which, by the way, I’m not supposed to tell you.” When Sollux raised his eyebrow Aradia started running her fingers along the white beads. “Hamate, pisiform, lunate, and some metacarpal shards,” she explained. “Feferi can heal a lot, but she can’t replace bone. I thought you’d appreciate what couldn’t be shoved back into you not going to waste!” 

Sollux blinked rapidly, but held out his arm as best he could. He’d need a sling to keep it immobile while it healed the rest of the way. “Never change, you macabre haunted doll.” Aradia laughed and unhooked the clasp of the bracelet made out of his own hand and finger bones, fixing it around his wrist. The voices of the doom quieted somewhat, the bone softening the effects of psionic alloy and allowing psionic energy to still flow through him to a degree without drowning him in other people’s misery. “How much of me is metal, now?”

Aradia shrugged. “Less than me, that’s for sure. Just some bone. Feferi didn’t sleep for a whole day so she could be a flesh witch and keep your hand from losing form without the bone while Equius made a new skeleton thing to put in there. I made sure he didn’t put in anything else.” Her eyes were a little too bright then, almost angry, and Sollux cleared his throat before changing the subject.

“...Where is Feferi?” he asked. “I know she’s here now.”

“You did good, calling for her and not me or Karkat,” Aradia said, but her shoulders slumped a little. “Unfortunately, the fact you were able to get to her in the first place freaked everyone out. Karkat’s been trying to argue your case the past while that you were just trying to defend yourself and avoid culling someone who I personally think deserved to be buried without funeral rights. Honestly, I think they’re all in one of their stupid council meetings right now. Even Kanaya’s here, I think, but I’m not sure I trust her opinion on you managing to hack the base and yourself by extension. I’d trust Equius more with that and I–”

She stopped as a commotion started up outside the curtains, and Sollux struggled to sit up to see as she got up from the seat adjacent to the platform to investigate. She parted the curtains, and Sollux caught a glimpse of a troll staggering into the medbay. The teal sitting at the medbay desk stood up to try and intercept the troll, who moved jerkily into the room holding a cooler and past her. Sollux felt his mouth dry up as he registered the fact the troll wasn’t wearing a shirt, revealing an expertly stitched-up y-cut that had opened up their torso and closed it again. The troll had an olive ribbon tightly wrapped around their neck and as they made eye contact with Sollux through the gap in the curtains.

“Hello, Sollux. We found you,” the troll said in a voice that wasn’t his, a smug voice that didn’t fit that rattled with a robotic tinniness. The troll that spoke with Rosmer Leywet’s voice set down the cooler and reached up with shaky hands, tears streaking from their eyes. “Thought we wouldn’t notice those power scores flaring up out of nowhere in the middle of contested space?”

“What a shame, what a shame. You know how hard it was to time sending one of your little buddies back in time to your scores waking up again?” came a new voice, a feminine voice, and Sollux could almost see the smug way that Zesaim hid the smile in her eyes with the reflection of her glasses in the light. The troll began shakily untying the fanciful bow tied snugly around their throat.

“We wouldn't want you to miss the gift we got for you. Good evening, by the way, in whatever medbay you find yourself in! This one’s a little undercooked, but I hope he’ll do.” Rosmer added. He tittered, imitating a voice that matched the gurgling that came from beneath the unraveling olive ribbon.

The troll’s head lolled to the side and then off, held up only by his spinal cord which snapped free from the vertebrae with no support from its reinforcing ribbon. His tongue had been replaced with a transmitter, from which the pair now cackled. Sollux staggered out of bed, dodging drunkenly out of the way as Aradia grabbed for his arm, and reached down. He ripped out the metal tongue from the skull, tossing the head to the side. The decapitated head spun out, still blinking rapidly before the pupils rolled back and the poor troll lost brain function for good. Sollux dropped the transmitter and started stomping despite not currently wearing any shoes, crushing it to a thin wafer of metal and wire. Zesaim and Rosmer both kept laughing from the same false tongue as the speaker was warmed and deformed, crackling and static choked, and only when the transmitter was destroyed did Sollux let up. His foot stung, shrapnel embedded into the entire length of his foot.

He made eye contact with Aradia, who had covered her mouth as she stood frozen next to Sollux’s medical platform. The teal ran over to the body on the ground, hands hovering with the grasping despair of a docterror left to watch someone die in agony, but Sollux walked past. He didn’t have to look at the corpse to know what the Surgeons Rosmer and Zesaim did to their victims. 

Instead Sollux went to the cooler, kicking it over and open. The docterror inhaled sharply as a mess of organs spilled out, loosely packed but meticulously arranged in loose packets of bundled cling wrap and jars of embalming fluid rolling out to clatter on the floor. Sollux began smashing the organs with a stony expression, holding out a hand as the docterror lunged forward across the corpse to try and stop him. A lung crunched against his foot–a tracking device embedded and tucked within it. “The Surgeons pull a trick where they implant a daywalker parasite into trolls after harvesting every organ, so they can keep the troll alive long enough to send back to their loved ones before the parasite takes over their mind,” Sollux said shortly. He found the spleen, and another tracker was obliterated with a crinkle of electronics. “You’ll want to burn this body. The parasite will be small. Check the spine–they’re trying to breed a fire-resistant strain.” Filtration bags, first one and then the other, popped underneath his bare foot. Only one crunched with a tracking device or some other tiny bit of machinery. The other squished wetly against the tile. “Let’s hope this test subject was another failure.”

Sollux took a shuddering breath, and met Aradia’s eyes. She did not speak, taking him in as he was with bronze blood spattered up to his knee. He could feel viscera underneath his toenails, and for the first time in sweeps such a sensation made his skin crawl.  “Take me to that council meeting, AA. Now.” He looked down at himself. The blood coating his skin had him in half a mind to hurl himself out an airlock to avoid the way his mind began to spiral from the gory fumes. “...After I take a shower.”

“Yeah, probably a good call. I wouldn’t want Kanaya to get peckish.”

“Gross.”

[fachefaucheux]

WriteFest! // Days 4-14 + Genre Musings and Inat

So, I’m behind.

As of this morning, I’m at 45k. Which is great! Awesome! That is objectively an asston of words. Probably half a novel, if I was a normal person who wrote normal word count stories. Unfortunately, I’m supposed to be closing in on 75k. So…not great. But seeing as how we’ve all been living through A Hell Of A Time, especially last week, I’m not going to beat myself up over it too much. I’ve only had one day where I skipped writing entirely. (At least in terms of drafting…I did edit a full chapter that day, which is probably why I wrote nothing, because editing is the absolute worst.) And one day off over 2 weeks is…uh, hopefully not our future vision of a leisurely and unproductive pace, lol.

One thing I’ve noticed about myself as a writer is that I’m pretty damn inconsistent. Or, well, not just as a writer, but just on the whole. I’ve never been the kind of person who can stick to a “do something every day at the same time for the same amount of time” scheme. Of course, I have some sort of routine — humans are creatures of habit, we all fall into some kind of pattern. Mine is just very “vibes based”, so to speak. Some days, I’ll fall into the writing zone and barf up 10k worth of nonsense. Other days, I’m feeling the research side of things, or just feel like reading someone else’s work to get a fresh perspective. (I am never vibing with editing. Editing is always torture. But that’s for another post.)

I’ve never been able to follow a rulebook. I am a hopeless contrarian, oftentimes to my own detriment. In Serbia, there’s a sort of…hmm, cultural mindset, maybe? It’s called inat. Sometimes it gets translated as spitefulness, other times as stubbornness or perseverance. 

Your friends, your family, everyone tells you that doing something is a bad idea. But now you want to do it even more than when you asked for their advice, because what do they know? That’s inat. Some judgmental person tells you you’ll never be good at something, so then you throw out everything else in your life and grind at that one thing until you’re objectively skilled, just because that asshole told you you’d never make it. That’s also inat. It’s that “fuck you, I’ll do what I want” spirit, sometimes taken to unhelpful ends.

My Serbian language teacher once asked me why I was keeping my watchband held together with a band-aid instead of going to the shop she’d recommended to get a replacement, and I shrugged and said, “well, you know, I’ve been busy lately.” She smiled and shook her finger at me and said, “I see, you’re becoming a real Serbian now. Soon you’ll be skipping your lessons and telling me “the only thing I have to do in life is die!”

To be frank, she called my bluff pretty well. And maybe that’s why I didn’t have too many problems adjusting during my year in Belgrade. Because I’d been following inat long before I acquired my weird fixation on the Balkans.

This leads me to the genre problem.

I’ve always come at genre from the perspective that it exists more for the reader than the writer — a way of lumping together vaguely similar story elements and types so that readers can find the kinds of books they want to read. And I’m well aware of its connection to marketing, as much as I despise marketing with every fiber of my being. You drill down to the exact core of readers who you want to enjoy your book, you write for them, then you sell it to them. Or something. Like I said, I hate marketing, so I haven’t invested much time into it. (Probably because someone once told me it was important, and I was like, fuck you! I’ll ignore it. Inat in action.)

I wandered into both Canticle and the Niv/Yule story arc (which I really need to find a proper title for, instead of just shamelessly stealing a bunch of song titles and lyrics…) not from the perspective of “I want to write x genre of story”, but more from the perspective of “these two idiots would make for a fun couple, I wonder how they get from point A to point B?”. Most of the other elements — magic, angels/demons, whatever my passing historical fixation was at the time — came along for the ride because I just thought they were neat and fun. Which makes for an interesting story (or so I’ve been told), but not one that fits into the best genre boxes.

Take Canticle, for example. It’s really in some sort of genre black hole. There’s not enough historical immersion for it to be a true historical story, but at the same time, historical circumstance (the aftermath of the English Civil War, Louis XIV’s court, modernizing Europe) plays a big role in the themes and attitudes in it. It’s got some of the elements of your usual epic fantasy — empires and kingdoms and armies and the world in peril — but, uh, it’s not very action-forward, seeing as how most of what the reader sees are not the battles themselves but the aftermath in the infirmary. 

Even when it comes to romance, it’s not quite there. I’ve always thought of it as a romance at its core, because my only driving force when I first started drafting it was answering the question of “how did Gen and Mirk get together?”, but it doesn’t really follow the standard romance plot beats. The uncomfortable position I usually find myself in when discussing the story with other writers or workshopping chapters is that it doesn’t have enough romance for the romantasy readers/writers, and not enough fantasy action/too much relationship nonsense for the general fantasy readers/writers.

So, what am I supposed to do with it when it does come time to do the dreaded marketing? Or the even more dreaded editing? I suppose I could cut and edit to make it fit neater into one or two specific genre boxes, but, well. I feel that would kill the spirit of the story that the small band of readers (for whom I am eternally grateful) seems to find appealing. At the end of the day, I’m probably going to bank more on trope-based tagging and advertising guiding the sort of readers who’d appreciate it to the story. (Also, inat. You want me to make this fit into your genre requirements? Fuck you! I do what I want! Even if it means no one reads the damn thing!)

It’s hard for me to identify the genre of the story, but the dynamics are clear. The slow burn, it is glacial. The grumpy x sunshine is on point. And hurt/comfort? You want that? Canticle has it for…uh…centuries, lol. And, to be honest, I tend to look for dynamics/tropes in the books I read more than I do genre. I’ll read a contemporary or a sci-fi or a western, anything to get another dose of that black cat x golden retriever dynamic that I find so appealing (and can’t seem to keep out of anything I write). 

Anyway, enough blathering! And back to chipping away at my word count deficit! Since, you know, speaking of black cat x golden retriever…I’ve got another chapter of Mushroom Picking Season to write.