#Arcadian Dead

[tearinthepages]

Writer Intro

Hey there, I'm Ivy! I use She/Her pronouns and I like to write. I've been writing for as long as I can remember, but nothing I've written has worked for me so I'm trying something new on here. I've tried writing a couple novels, but I've had a lot of trouble getting my brain to be able to format my thoughts properly so instead of trying to fight it and force my writing, decreasing the quality, I want to focus on my stories still, just in short pieces that I might be able to sew together into a bigger tapestry some day!

Things I plan to post about: Arcadian Dead ~ My main writing project, a group of paranormal investigators struggling after the freak death of a friend The Witches Cats ~ A queer romance from the pov of a witches familiars Nothing Ends ~ A narrative from the unaware pov from the same character after the universe continuously ends and begins Open Space ~ Two lovers are separated by space, war, and ideals Generic short stories Poetry Short personal quotes

Ideally I want to write for TV, movies, or comics

[madlovenovelist]

The Perfect Storm

How a number of unplanned events derailed my start to 2024 An April (or should I say Jan-Apr) Wrap-up Despite my forward planning, it did not help when I was faced with a number of personal issues that presented themselves in the start of 2024. Sick and hospitalised family, a death, and some legal drama. It was hard to keep focused and stay level headed with a strong emotional toll… so the…

[sunshinestatecineplex]

SXSW 2024: Narrative Spotlight - 10 Films To Check Out

Many of the biggest films of SXSW will be marked for the Narrative Spotlight section. While the headliners will represent the blockbuster, SXSW 2024: Narrative Spotlight features nearly two dozen other exciting films. Below, we’ve bookmarked ten that deserve your attention during the festival. Watch for these to become surprise hits in 2024. Credit: David BukachSXSW 2024: Narrative Spotlight A…

[quietnowherebesideyou]

I think it was the belief in love and the togetherness that we all had. The fact we clearly loved each other very deeply. The fact that we shared everything... and we did it on record as well. We really opened ourselves up. There was no privacy; we had gigs in our flats. Our breakup was very public, and we sang about it together. It was just so inclusive... I think that’s what people hold on to.

In terms of mythology, we had that covered with our Arcadian manifesto, with Albion being our vessel and Arcadia being our destination... I still feel like that now...I think the good ship Albion has become a greater vessel, and there are a lot of people onboard...It’s still strong and, remarkably, we are still together after 20 years, when it really looked like … Well, from my view, I thought everyone would be dead... There wasn’t a hope for us getting this far, and we’re about to celebrate our 20th anniversary...We built the brick-and-mortar embodiment of our dream. It’s had to become more practical...to still have those dreams and to deal with all the normal shit that you have to if you want to live beyond 27...So it’s now about a little bit more than just being on a boat. Maybe it’s about docking and establishing this so-called land, be it or not in Arcadia...Being a bit older and wiser, it’s making something that other people can live in, too, and encouraging people to create and be alive...It’s timeless. It’s human nature to be drawn to the sea chantey. There’s a metaphor for everything you can encounter. From great white whales to sirens to rum, to a lot of rum, to keel-hauling and lashings on the deck....there’s hopelessness and hopefulness. When you’re at sea, it can all end. There’s yearning and longing. But then when you’re there at sea, you romanticize everything in life, on land, in the past and the future.

-- Carl Barat on the enduring aspect of Libertines mythology, Vulture 2022 (x)

[exilethegame]

Hiii as someone who ADORES making playlists to listen while reading can I ask if there's a commander playlist? I know it might be difficult because of how the player chooses but are there any songs you'd say just fit no matter the route?

I don't have a Commander playlist, no! I've considered making one, but I can never pick a genre of music to stick with. I do however have playlists for all the ROs, Marcelle, + Trystan tho! You can find those here (and yes, this did remind me to update them today <3).

That being said, while I've never made an official playlist, I do have some songs that I think fit all Commanders as a basic character.

Goodbye - Apparat, Soap&Skin

"Lay down next to me, don't listen when I scream. Bury your doubts and fall asleep. / Find out I was just a bad dream. / Let the bed sheet soak up my tears, and watch the only way out disappear. / Don't tell me why. Kiss me goodbye."

When You Break - Bear's Den

"When you break, it's too late for you to fall apart. / And the blame that you claim, is all your own fault . . . / You keep begging for forgiveness, but you don't think you've done wrong."

Clap When You're Gone - Chelsea Wolfe

"They'll clap when you die. / They'll love you when you're dead. / And they'll understand. / And you'll be forgiven then."

Eight - Sleeping At Last

"I was just a kid who grew up strong enough to pick this armor up / and suddenly it fit. / God, that was so long ago, long ago, long ago. / I was little, I was weak and perfectly naive / and I grew up too quick."

Wolves of the Revolution - The Arcadian Wild

" . . . From the wolves you run, barefoot. / With their libelous, venomous words, they shoot . . . / And you're trapped inside of your own heart. / It's a spectator's sport, just play your part."

A Good Man - Semler

"I think you'd rather they hate you, but I don't think they do. / They're just sad you keep killing the good man in you. / Oh, what have you become? / Oh, you were your mother's son."

[embossross]

The Art Collector

Prologue >> Chapter 1 >> Masterlist

✣ Pairing: Mikey x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+ dark explicit content, minors DNI

✣ Series: part of the In the Belly of the Beast fic universe

✣ Chapter CWs: references to past cheating, drinking, author is not an artist and is Reaching for this character lol

✣ Story CWs: yandere, stalking, dubcon, kidnap, sex (ptv, oral), rough sex, and probably more to come

✣Synopsis: Mikey isn't like your typical boyfriends. He isn't an artist. He doesn't sport a messy bun or name drop Heidegger. He's just an antisocial IT guy. Or at least that's what he's told you...You may not know your boyfriend as well as you think you do, and by the time you realize your mistake, it may be too late for him. Or you.

✣ Word Count: ~6k and counting

It wasn’t raining or snowing, yet here you stood, struggling. You cupped a hand over the lighter, clove cigarette dangling from your pursed lips. This time you succeeded. A lungful of bitter smoke flooded your belly, and every synapse fired in relief at the familiar rush. You sank into a crouch, back against the wall as you savored your first smoke in six weeks.

On the other side of the wall, inside where it was warm and the harsh, unseasonable winds didn’t beat down like a father’s heavy hand, a dozen or so patrons wandered a little art gallery. It was the opening night of your first ever solo exhibition.

Thirty-eight minutes. That was how long you had survived playacting your official role as artist on display before you had snuck through a door marked employees’ only to smoke away the heartburn that flared in the face of phoniness.

To exhibit anywhere, even a dingy little art gallery in a dead backstreet of Kichijoji, one that saw less foot traffic than a 21st century Blockbuster video, was an enormous privilege. At twenty-seven, most artists slaved away at parttime jobs to afford cup ramen or hung up their paints for a life of housewife drudgery. You were so very fortunate, and if you were the type for positive affirmations, you would remind yourself of that more regularly.

The reverberations of polite dialogue trickled from inside, past the open door, to where you hid. You needn’t hear the exact words to know what they were saying. Trivialities as they strolled past work that dwarfed months of your life. Whether their comments were good or bad, asinine or nuanced, it didn’t make much difference.

Was it wrong to make art not just for the sake of its creation but in the hopes that someone, anyone, might find in your work the hidden messages that you knew were there, just out of your grasp, if only someone might decode them for you?

The breaking point that had sent you fleeing for the alley came from a smartly dressed woman, who praised one of your paintings as an ‘arcadian fantasy,’ as a ‘violent refusal of modern social organization,’ and return to innocence. She had categorized it as a clear response to the Tōhoku tsunami’s continued psychological and economic impact on the Yutori generation.

The painting in question depicted four schoolchildren at play. Lush green grass layered in oils dominated the background, leaving no visual queues as to the time of day, weather, or location as if the playground extended for eternity: back, back, back. The children appeared happy, but upon closer study, the viewer would find each child was built from an amalgamation of swirls. The swirls varied in size, but each one spiraled predictably at the same angle and to the same inevitable end. Using your most delicate paintbrush to measure to exactitude the angles, you had labored for hundreds of hours on that piece.

During the painting process, when you would stumble home after a night of drinking, you would get lost in those swirls, a sense of overwhelming mawkishness rising up from your gut at how each child was bound for the same destination. Everything was so predetermined in their young lives.

The spiral motif appeared again and again in tonight’s collection, going largely unnoticed by the gallery’s patrons. The only time your swirls seized attention was in your one interactive piece: four wooden panels, 75x225 centimeters, one fitted as a door to create a cramped room. Inside the panels were covered in tar paper and painted a deep black. Then, you had layered on the swirls in a gritty grey, so they dominated every spare millimeter of space, spinning and spinning. You had dubbed it the panic attack room because closed inside, you would be confronted with the inverse of infinity, feel the walls moving closer with every winding spiral.

The two “journalists” there that night – one an art blogger, the other covering for a university newspaper – both attended solely to try out that room. They thought it might make an attractive picture spot as interactive art was all the rage.

Speaking to them earlier, both presumed so much about your work and influences. You must have so admired Kusama Yayoi’s infinity rooms, they said; yes, you recognized Kusama as one of the greatest living artists, but no she was not a direct inspiration for your piece. The art blogger asked if, like the French-American sculptor Louise Bourgeois, you saw the spiral as a symbol of “freedom and control;” no, not remotely. The student journalist wondered if you’d read Uzumaki by Junji Ito as it depicted spirals in horror; no, you had never heard of it.

One of your friends, Shiyuri, had urged you to spell out the meaning behind your work on the placards that accompanied each piece.

“Don’t just name your art,” she had insisted. “Give people some guidance, some keywords, or shit, so they know they’re looking in the right direction.”

You had thanked her for the suggestion, even stared at a blank Word document for a half hour hoping to write out something helpful, but the words did not come. Behind each artwork yawned a question, dreadful and all-encompassing, and you painted in the hopes that someone, someday might answer. Maybe then you would finally understand yourself.

“There you are!” the curator boomed, peering around the doorway to where you crouched. “I’ve been looking everywhere. You won’t believe it. Every piece! Sold! Just like that!”

“I can believe it,” you breathed out around a last, lingering puff of smoke.

The curator’s beard twitched as he rushed to tell you about the phone call.  A mysterious figure had bid to buy every single painting on display for the full asking price. He hadn’t even tried to haggle! The man’s fingers waggled as he spoke as if imagining the bills he would count and caress once he received his commission for hosting your work. He led you back inside with a hand at your back and the promise of celebratory champagne.

Inside, the orangish lights cast your work in warm tones that drew out their vibrancy. People flocked to the paintings now that they saw the lauded stamp of approval beside each, the sought after “sold” sticker that warned them this was their last chance to see the collection before it was locked away forever.

The champagned tasted fine as it fizzed down your throat. Around you, the blogger and student journalist prattled about how artist patronage of this sort was so uncommon these days. The curator boasted how he put you on the map with this exhibit. Your show was officially a success.

When ten rolled around and the last of the patrons left the gallery, you and your friends made the short walk to Harmonica Alley, settling on the first empty bar you found. It was standing room only, so you formed a single column at the bar. Your group tallied six in total: you, your four housemates, and one of your housemate’s new boyfriend. An hour ago, you had texted an invitation to the jazz musician you were seeing, but he shot back that he was busy with a gig and couldn’t join. He promised to see you soon and capped off the message with a winking emoji.

The once quiet bar grew rowdy as your friends settled into place. All of you were artists, renting a house together, a commune of sorts for creatives not long out of school. You shared the two bedrooms on the second floor with Shiyuri and Kii, rotating the private room every month to keep things equitable. Then, on the first floor, you’d hung a curtain over what was probably meant to be a dining room to create a makeshift bedroom for the boys, Yuudai and Fujio. There was a basement as well, but by unanimous vote that was retained as a studio for your collective use.

By the time you ordered a third round of beers – on you and your new windfall you assured your friends – everyone was red cheeked and loud as only twenty-somethings on a Friday night can be.

Normally, conversation would turn to topics like whether the newest arthouse film was worth seeing, the status and inspiration behind your current projects, and any household gossip, but tonight your housemates were joined by Kii’s new boyfriend, Shinosuke, and he couldn’t resist asking the obvious question.

Who had bought all your paintings tonight? And why weren’t you more surprised?

Your friends exhausted that topic months ago but as Shinosuke was himself an art student, the kind who monologued about the virtues of sacrifice in the name of art, fashioning himself as a starving idealist in the vein of a young Yoshizawa Akira – as if his parents didn’t deposit a tidy sum in his bank account every month – he fixated on the night’s dreamlike events.

“I don’t know who bought them,” you admitted.

“I think it might’ve been that woman in the fur coat. She looked like she had money, and she said she liked the painting of the empty hallway,” Shinosuke said.

“No, no, we know it’s a man, and that he always orders everything over the phone,” Kii explained.

“Always? Wait, so this has happened before?”

You shrugged, too bored by the saga of your good fortune to answer, but Yuudai jumped in and answered for you, “It happens nonstop. Everything she’s put up for sale in the last six months. This mystery guy just calls right up and buys it all. I’ve been telling the universe to send him my way, but so far, no dice.”

Seven months actually. It had been seven months since the first strange purchase. The lack of name hadn’t seemed so odd then when the cash was warm in your pocket. Then, your next painting had sold within mere hours of debuting. Then, the next. The guarantee that your work would sell was why you could afford to exhibit in a real gallery in the first place. It also earned you enough money to pay your water bill, to no longer worry over the expense of new brushes or the cost of good tampons. You even stashed a little away in savings. Thanks to your mysterious benefactor, you were the most financially stable member of your art collective.

“How can you have no idea?” Shinosuke demanded. “How would this rich, art-loving guy even find you? And why would he buy up all your art?”

“It’s not that crazy. Some artists have exclusive patrons even today. It’s rare, but it happens,” you said.

Shinosuke pressed his stomach into the bar and leveled you with a smirk. “Sounds like a sugar daddy situation to me. If he has any hot friends, hook me up, okay? I’d sell more than my body to get my art out there.”

Dents in the shape of fingerprints mangled your beer can. Kii’s faux-outrage, more worried about Shinosuke pimping himself out than the insult to her friend, saved you from having to respond.

Maybe Shinouske’s dumb remark could be chalked up to male pride. It was the kind of comment that almost any male artist languishing in obscurity might make when faced with a woman’s comparative success. They all figured that success came entirely at their own expense, a kind of stolen recognition. The art world thrived on scarcity, and you didn’t entirely blame Shinosuke for his resentment.

But you wondered if Shinouske’s mind might circle sugar daddies for a different reason. Kii might have run her mouth about that time you slept with your professor.

(You hadn’t slept with your professor to improve your grades, mind you, or for any other professional advantage. You had slept with him because you were young, and you liked the way his hands shaped around clay in your pottery class. You had slept with him because it was lonely that first year at CalTech, where you discovered your English was less “conversational” than passable. You had slept with him because you liked the way he would gasp out, like a confession, that you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever been with as you rolled around in cum-stained sheets that his wife would later clean. Like you said, you had been young. You would do it all differently now.)

The congratulatory beer doesn’t warm you on the way down. There wasn’t much to celebrate anyway when everyone took your success for granted these days, when your art would only be hidden away from the world in some rich asshole’s vault.

That was the other reason for the exhibit. You wanted someone, anyone, to see your work before it disappeared from your sight forever.

You excused yourself as if to the bathroom but made a beeline for the exit. A second cigarette laid crumbled in the pocket of your jeans, and since you were already off the bandwagon, you figured you might as well enjoy.

Thick cloud cover shaded the night in misty grays, but the moon glowed down unimpeded like someone had punched a hole in the sky just to let it shine. Still, the wattage of the moon couldn’t compete with the many LED lights that shone from streetlamps and storefronts alike. You had dressed for a warm spring night, but the wind had other ideas, stinging the bared skin of your arms and legs.

Once again, you struggled with your lighter, but before the spark could flicker to life, a hand, ghostly in the moonlight, held a flame up to your cigarette.

You screamed.

There were no blind spots on the narrow road, and there should have been no way to approach you without the sixth sense you possessed as a born-and-bred city dweller kicking in to warn you. Yet here stood a stranger. You raised a hand to your forehead to check for fever, wondering if you drank too much at the bar.

The man – because of course it was a man, you thought wryly – was shabbily dressed in a too-large black tee-shirt and joggers. The baggy clothes concealed his frame, but he looked small, shockingly so. Sharp clavicles jutted out above his shirt collar, and his gaunt cheekbones stood in sharp relief against a shadowed face. He might have been any age, a boyish prettiness put him in his early twenties, but his eyes…his eyes had seen things. Between his frailty and bottle blonde hair, he looked like he daylighted as a pretty boy idol.

“You scared me.”

He didn’t offer an apology. You couldn’t place what about this stranger unsettled you. The happy chatter of your friends drifted from the open entryway only a short distance away. Most of the other shops on the street were sealed shut by metal gates, but passersby ambled past the opening of the alleyway every few seconds. There was no rational reason to feel afraid, but you couldn’t escape the impression his icy smirk left on you, the impression of stumbling into a vampire movie and now playing the part of the woman who dies stupidly. His face of contradictions, his silent tread as he approached, and now, his undeniable presence all unnerved you.

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating?” the man asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the artist, right? Didn’t all your art sell?” the stranger jerked his head in the direction of the gallery.

“Yeah, yes, drinks on me tonight!” you said.

“Oh, thanks. But I’ll take a rain check.”

Reality rebalanced itself as you laughed. The only horrors that awaited you were the hangover symptoms sure to greet you in the morning. This guy was just some starving artist who stopped by for a drink after the show, same as you and your friends.

“I liked your show. I’m not surprised it sold out as fast as it did,” the stranger said.

You don’t deign to thank him in the same way he avoided apologizing for scaring you. Strange to start off a conversation on such a rude foundation, but the polite niceties seem superfluous when judged against this man’s innate intensity.

“What kind of art do you make?” you asked.

The stranger chuckled. When he shook his head, the messy blond locks that framed his face swung momentarily to shield his eyes. The fine strands looked baby soft, almost translucent.

“I’m no artist,” he said.

“Really? If you’re not an artist, why do you go to shows? Usually, the only people who come to these sorts of things are other artists or friends of the artist. I’m not a big name, so it’s not like I draw a crowd.”

“I don’t. I just walked into yours because it was there. First time I’ve ever done that.”

“Ah, so when you say it was good, you mean it was better than the alternative, which is nothing,” you teased.

“No. Your art moved me.”

Such simple words. Such black eyes. They could suck you in. Yet the sensation of falling was almost pleasant, a kind of indulgence that raised goosepimples up and down your arms.

“What…what about it moved you?” you croaked.

The man shrugged. “I don’t know anything about art, remember? I can’t explain it.”

“Nah, I’m sure you can. All theory does is teach people to lie about what they’re seeing. I mean, I love reading theory to spark ideas or challenge my preconceived notions, but I think it’s more helpful in the creation of art than in the understanding of it. You go to school, and they teach you how to contextualize everything within these discourses, even if they don’t actually apply to what you’re looking at. As if art isn’t a visual medium. All you need to understand it is to look. Or, well, at least that’s what I think.”

Another half-assed dissertation on your work would send you to the hospital. This man claimed to be moved by your art, and you wanted to know what he felt, not what sounded impressive to the ear.

“How to explain it? Looking at your paintings, those spiral things especially, it’s like they sucked me in. But, rather than pulling me outside of myself, they pushed me back into myself, like the block hole was inside me, and so to look at your art was to look at myself. Does that make sense? I never liked art growing up. I always thought it was stupid the way artists tried to make something beautiful when nothing they make could ever beat a sunrise. The world is beautiful, I thought, but humans? We’re too ugly, too corrupted to create something truly beautiful. Looking at your art, I don’t see beauty, but I do see myself, every ugly part, and there’s something beautiful in that. Almost.”

As he spoke, the stranger met your gaze with unflinching eyes. You swore they swirled with all the same power and loss as your paintings. True to his words, they sucked you into their depths.

“See, you don’t need to learn theory to talk about art. Actually, you kind of stumbled into centuries long discourses about the possibilities and purposes of representation in art. And, while I’m not going to agree that aesthetics don’t matter or that beauty is impossible – because, hello, I am an artist – I know exactly what you mean. There’s a theory called the Formulation Theory of Expression that basically just says art is an outward expression of the artist’s inward feelings. When I paint, it’s because there’s something inside me that I don’t understand, and when I put it on the canvas or whatever…I can look at it outside myself. And then, I feel like I can conquer it or at least live with it.”

At some point while you spoke, you wrapped your arms around yourself, rubbing at chilled flesh. The cramped alley created a wind tunnel effect, directing all the elements straight at your lightly clothed body. The stranger’s eyes tracked your shiver.

“You’re cold.”

“Yeah, I think it might storm. This wind is weird,” you said.

“I don’t have a jacket to give you…” the stranger frowned.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

“How about we take a walk? It’ll be warmer if we keep moving,” he offered.

You glanced back at the bar where your friends remained happily ensconced. Through the entrance, you could see Shiyuri flirt with the bartender. The bar shaded in yellows and reds looked toasty, the simplest way to warm up. Your stranger, on the other hand, looked cold and somehow otherworldly, like he could never join your friends for a pint and a chat, like he was meant to wander the streets like a wraith until the sun rose and dissolved him back into the sea.

“Why not? So long as we don’t go too far,” you agreed.

With an illicit thrum of adventure, like you were doing something naughty, you took the stranger’s icy hand in yours and led him onto the main drag. You debated whether to head to Inokashira Park to enjoy the moonlight on the water or the opposite direction to stroll the shopping on Sun Road before deciding on the latter. The man let you drag him along without complaint.

You set a steady pace until you reached the shelter of Sun Road. Glass paneling overhead blocked out the moon and shielded you from the worst of the elements. Soon, you were warm, blood pumping strongly in your veins, but you didn’t let go of the man’s hand as his fingers stayed chilly in your grip.

An hour passed without you accounting for it. Childhood memories of Osaka and the free-wheeling college years you spent in Pasadena, venturing into L.A. as the mood struck, provided a benchmark against which you judged all cities. Since moving to Tokyo six years back, you were sure of one thing. You loved Tokyo with your whole heart.

You loved its tall buildings, the character of those varied architectural styles that never sought unity with one another and made for such an ugly skyline. You loved that it made a wonderland of the skies, climbing up, up, up as the city grew ever taller, loved that it made a playground of the underground, carving shops and restaurants out of earth and rock to accompany the subway system. You loved its people, who set the speed and schedule of the city. All that life happening just outside your door if you only thought to look.

It was a rare treat to visit Musashino as you sometimes went months without leaving your district, let alone Tokyo, and as you wandered about, you considered that your love just might extend to Tokyo’s network of satellite cities, too, thankful for the supportive flavor they added to the place you had made your chosen home.

Your eyes feasted on the vibrancy around you: the messy mix of old and new, high and low – a fortune teller’s impromptu stand blocking the entrance to a Krispy Kreme, a high fashion boutique on one side of the road and a hundred yen shop on the other. The smell of fresh bread wafted from a bakery only to be replaced by the heady scent of perfume from a department store a few steps beyond. A few shops had yet to take down their Golden Week decorations, and colorful carp streamers gaped with dumb open mouths down from those storefronts.

As you walked, the conversation flowed easily between you both. You would talk for a few minutes about aesthetics, and then he would return with a dazzling compliment, delivered as if it were the merest trifle, about how your art made him feel seen for the first time in so very long. He told you about old friends, who had insisted they understood him just because they were always looking but in reality, only saw the afterimage of the man he once was and refused to see the shell in front of them. You told him how you never felt less seen than after someone looked at your work, the contradiction and frustration of failing to communicate when you poured your soul into each piece.

You never talked like this with your friends. They would have called you pretentious, a death knell in your world, and scolded you for not appreciating the honor of even having an audience in the first place. The stranger, on the other hand, showed no signs of irritation as you unburdened yourself, your steps growing lighter and lighter with each confession.

Several times, you almost walked right into a trash can or utility pole. The stranger jerked you out of the way each time. After another near accident, your body bumped into his and stayed there, glued to his side where it was safest.

The many sights of the shopping distract were distracting enough, but it was the man’s eyes that increasingly tripped you up. They were all-consuming as they listened so intently to your every word. Yes, listened! His eyes rather than his ears received what you said. So black, they were almost a void. You wondered how you might capture them on paper. Charcoal was the obvious choice, but you doubted you would be able to render the nuances, the momentary flecks of light that warmed his haunted face and made the contrasting darkness all the more harrowing. Cold sweat collected in the creases of your arms if you stared into them too long.

“You know, I’m not always this moody,” you said, having just finished angstily opining against your audience. “I get anxious about showing my work, but on a normal day, I’m a lot of fun.”

“Oh, yeah?” the man hummed.

“Yes, very fun and bright,” you said cheerfully as if to prove yourself. “I’m a super fun friend to have because I love to go out and try new things, see shows, visit new places. And, I always have a ton of energy because I drink too much coffee, which now that I say it, doesn’t sound like a positive, but I swear it is. And, I am a great conversationalist, which…that one you already know.”

The ghostly facsimile of a smile brightened the stranger’s face as he said, “Well, I’m sold. You sound like a fun friend to have.”

“And you? Your turn to pitch me.”

“Pitch you?’

“Yeah, you now wanna be my friend, so you’ve gotta convince me that I want to be friends with you, too?” you teased.

“Your friend, huh? I guess that depends. Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

Thoughts of the jazz musician you’d been seeing made you hesitate. You thought of his fingers, so nimble as they danced across piano keys, his smile – cool and remote and the right kind of unattainable to make your heart race –, and his deep bass rumble when he got excited about music. You liked him, maybe enough to consider making him your boyfriend, but neither of you had broached the topic yet, and left in the no man’s land of situationships, you had no loyalties to betray.

Until now, you had balanced precariously on the line between friendly and flirtatious with this stranger, not entirely sure which direction you ought to tip. Despite his dismissal of aesthetics, the man’s face was certainly aesthetically appealing. Not merely handsome, but arresting, the kind of face you could stare at for hours. And, when he spoke about your art, your tummy buzzed with a feeling not so different from infatuation.

So, you answered honestly.

“Not really.”

The stranger nodded, once again quirking his lips into something that almost passed as a smile but didn’t penetrate his eyes.

“Well, what’s there to say about me? I have err, security, money, and time? I work from home doing IT stuff, so I set my own schedule,” he said, and then grew quiet for several long beats as he struggled to come up with more. “I…am a good driver. I have a license to drive cars and motorbikes.”

“Well, that does sound fun. I don’t have a license,” you giggled, and then you knocked your shoulder into his. “Come on, you’re supposed to be selling yourself to me. Tell me that you’re the funniest guy in every room or something.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not the point. This dark and mysterious act is hot and all, but I want to know what you’re like on like a Wednesday afternoon not just on a Friday night when you’re brooding outside bars,” you said.

“I used to be fun,” the man conceded. “I was somehow always the leader in this friend group I had as a kid. People just looked to me. And I had all these dreams and ideas and the ambition to see them out. I was always reaching for something, and my friends were right there with me.”

“What changed?”

“My family died.”

“Oh my God!”

Stunned by the barefaced admission, you dropped his hand for a moment and then hurried to relace your fingers with his. Every time you compared him in your mind to a ghost or wraith or vampire returned to you. He wasn’t some dead thing but the very opposite, startlingly and devastatingly alive despite his loss.

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed to say. “For your loss I mean, and for all those jokes. I didn’t mean to be such an asshole.”

“It’s okay. It’s been over ten years now since my sister died, so I’m used to living with it. I figured you would understand after looking at your paintings. I could tell you’ve lost people, too,” he said.

“Not really, actually. I’ve only lost a grandmother I wasn’t that close to,” you admitted.

He came to a halt, right in the center of the sidewalk and studied you. A generator, in the alley behind his back, whirred loudly. When you looked at him, the darkness of the alley seemed to reach forward as if to swallow him up.

“I don’t understand. Your art has so much pain in it. Grief.”

“It does in a way. When I was a kid, I went through this – and I’m so sorry, this is so awfully morbid after what you just said about your sister – but I went through this obsession with corpses. I would beg my mom to take me to cemeteries everywhere we went. We actually visited the one up ahead at Gesso-ji Temple once. I wasn’t obsessed with death but the corpse itself. I’ve always been fascinated by abjection, the revulsion we feel at something that was once the self, transformed into the other. It’s in most of my works, this interrogation of what is that which is no longer us. How much of the self is left in the corpse? It must not be much based on the way we react to them. Anyway, I guess I have this perversity in me. I can’t forget that everything ends even when I’m happiest. Especially then. So, I find myself mourning people that are still there. It’s kind of sick when you think about it,” you said.

Maybe that morbidity explained your love of Tokyo. A city on the verge. One seismic shift, and then, collapse. The Tokyo Skytree would fall, devastation, evacuation. An ending both symbolic and true. But until that day, it shone brighter than anywhere else, glowing like a beacon for whatever astronauts peered down from space.

Engrossed by you as if you yourself were a work of precious art, the stranger continued walking without once looking away from your face.

“That’s smart,” he said finally. “I wish I’d known to mourn people while I still could. I would have appreciated them more. Kept them safe.”

Persistent buzzing from your pocket reminded you that you were hardly appreciating your own friends. They probably thought you’d fallen in the toilet at this point. You asked the man if he minded and fished out your phone. There were four missed calls and ten unread messages. You skipped reading any as you could imagine well enough what your friends wanted and dialed Kii.

“Hey, sorry about that,” you said when she answered.

“Where are you? We wanna head home, and the subway’s gonna close in an hour.”

“I needed some fresh air and ended up taking a walk. Didn’t realize how long it’s been. If you give me twenty minutes, I can come back with you guys.”

“Well, you better. Don’t forget you’re paying!” Kii cheered.

As you chatted, the man loomed over your shoulder, or loomed wasn’t quite right. He didn’t have that tall, physically intimidating presence some men had. His stillness, however, was eerie, his ability to stand patiently as you made plans without fiddling with his own phone or scratching a single itch. The only motion he indulged was scanning his surroundings, dark eyes missing nothing.

“Sorry about that, but I have to get back. Walk me?” you asked.

The man hooked his elbow through yours this time, and you walked arm in arm back to the bar. He kept you busy with questions about how you learned to paint, your next collection, your hopes for your career. After hearing about his family, his reticence no longer struck you as weird, and you appreciated his desire to simply listen.

Exiting Sun Road, the night returned in full force. The cityscape was a living thing, loud with sighing exhaust pipes and gurgling streams overheard as you crossed over storm drains. You made sure to appreciate every moment of it.

Somehow, the hurried walk back felt longer than the leisurely, initial stroll from the bar. Time froze and then sped up when you talked to this strange man, but too soon, you were back. Sounds of your friends’ good cheer trickled from the bar.

“Well, I’ve gotta get back to my friends. Thanks for keeping me warm,” you said.

Once more, the stranger’s mouth moved, corners curling up, but this time, even though the air was still, you shuddered with your whole body. You had the strangest impression that he didn’t want to let you go. That he wouldn’t let you go.

This figment of your overactive imagination passed quickly as he merely nodded.

“I’ll be on the lookout for your next show, then. It was fun,” he said.

“Fun? You? In that case, why wait? Let me give you my number, and we can grab a drink sometime.”

You typed your number into his phone without scrutinizing the spontaneous decision beyond the basics that he was hot and his hand fit well in yours. He may not have been your usual type – not an artist, no messy bun, not a single name drop to Heidegger the entire conversation – but he was attractive in a midnight kind of way, and he saw something in your art that you wanted to see for yourself.

Watching his retreating back, you were struck by the thought that he might be what you had been looking for all this time.

“Hey, wait a second!” you called after him. “I just realized, you know my name, but I don’t know yours!”

“Sangawa Manaomi,” the man answered quickly. “But my friends call me Mikey.”

‘Well, friend, Mikey it is then!”

You would be waiting for his call.

[no6secretsanta]

Art and Playlist for 

@twitchystitchwitch

From: @miszoblin

Happy Holidays!

I draw you a Inukashi listening to music on a walk with dog bc your request about playlist accually made me want to try making one! So here you go. 

It was my first time making playlist for character and I am so happy that this character was Inukashi!! Hope you like it and find it matching to Inukashi as I did. I made it mostly from the willing to survive that Inukashi had.

Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/12doCCnySxG3wRNtOjVaXi?si=07da178707b1434a 

playlist name on Spotify: Inukashi playlist while walking with dogs

Forever - Labrinth

I’ll live forever, I’ll live forever.

Revolution - The Score

All my wolves, begin to howlWake me up, the time is nowOh, can you hear the drumming?Oh, there’s a revolution coming

We Come Running - Youngblood Hawke

Under a pale blue skyYou never felt so coldAnother sleepless night

Never go where we belongEchoes in the dead of dawnSoon they’re gonna knowThe sound, the sound, the soundWhen we come running

Burning Pile - Mother Mother

All my troubles on a burning pileAll lit up and I start to smileIf I catch fire then I’ll change my aimThrow my troubles at the world again

Run Boy Run - Woodkid

Tomorrow is another dayAnd you won’t have to hide awayYou’ll be a man, boy!But for now it’s time to run, it’s time to run!

When Will I See You Again - Shakka (dedication to Nezumi)

But you know, you know I’ll see you againYou know, you know I’ll see you again

I Will Survive - J2

I know I’ll stay alive I’ve got all my life to live I’ve got all my love to give and I I will survive

They/Them/Theirs - Worries

What if I don’t want something that applies to me?What if there’s no better word than just not saying anything, anything?

Wolves of the Revolution - The Arcadian Wild

Born young and wildDon’t let them cut your tailJust a pinch of salt in the wound, you’ll be fineOne last lifeline, I’m hanging high

Who Are You, Really? - Mikky Ekko

Who, who are you really?And where are you going?I have nothing left to prove‘Cause I have nothing left to loseSee me bare my teeth for youWho, who are you?

Running With The Wolves - AURORA

Trick or treat, what would it be?I walk alone, I’m everythingMy ears can hear and my mouth can speakMy spirit talks, I know my soul believes

Eleanor Rigby - Cody Fry(dedication to all this clients of dogs hotel)

All the lonely peopleWhere do they all come from?All the lonely peopleWhere do they all belong?

My Goodbye - Jorge Rivera-Herrans

this song is anime! Inukashi and Nezumi talking.

This way, you won’t disappoint meThis way, you won’t waste my timeThis way, I’ll close the doorConsider this as my goodbye

At least I know what I’m fighting forWhy’s your life spent all alone?You’re alone

[ofmiceandwomen]

Tagged by @cadmusfly. Of course you can tag me. I welcome any distraction these days because I’m fed up with my work)

Last song: Liar (The Arcadian Wild)

All have been led astray. We’ve all fallen short in some way. Please understand I’m ashamed. and I beg of you, please find your grace.

‘Cause I’m not in a right state of mind. I just wish I had strength to admit it.

My stubbornness will put up a fight, but I don’t deserve to win it.

I’m left in the dark pondering my mistakes, but in the light I swear I will deny it all.

Currently watching:

The last thing I watched was probably Hazbin Hotel. It was an insane ride and I really enjoyed it!

Three ships:

Okay. It’s hard to pick three because I have so many

Russingon (the Silm) - because that’s the one I’m willing to die for

Admiral Nelson/Captain Hardy (dead problematic Brits edition) - my new discovery and I’m all here for it and maybe I will go to hell for all the historical rpf but whatever! Don’t tell me there is a heterosexual explanation for “Kiss me Hardy!”

The last one goes to Lord Asriel Belacqua x Major John Parry from His Dark Materials and it’s an absolute rare pair

My favourite colours:

Burgundy, red, dark blue, dark green

First ship:

I believe it was actually Morgoth/Sauron or Glorthelion? (The Silm has been with me for 13 years now)

Currently consuming:

I just had chicken wrap with herbs and vegetables in the museum bistro

Last movie seen:

I believe it was The Night House (2020). It was pretty fucked up but I enjoyed the plot and the twists. Didn’t manage to get me scared though.

Relationship status:

I have been in a happy relationship for 6 years and it means everything to me.

Currently working on:

My goddamn thesis in order to get this bloody degree. I hate it, because I’m not much of a writer. I’m out of the words and out of energy.

Thank you!

This was fun.

Now, the dreaded part: tagging!

I tag @thisisnoplaceofhonour @the-symphony-of-lydia-brown @lymira @mersilisk @im-not-a-ghost-i-swear @isa-ko

And of course anyone who wants to do this!

[silverselfshippingchaos]

Pairing: Ash (self-insert)/Basch fon Ronsenburg

Word Count: Almost 800.

Warnings: suggestive if you squint, literally just them making out, takes place a year after the game, vague ff12 spoilers

Synopsis: Unfortunately so, not even being a married woman could save Ash from the responsibility of being the Flame of Rabanastre. And yet, in times of peace, the distance between her and her husband felt farther than ever. With enough nagging from her friends and comrades, Ash takes the journey to reunite with her husband. And clearly, her knight in shining armor missed her just as much as she missed him.

The Arcadian silks are smooth and soft against Ash's bare back as she lies down against the back, letting Basch climb on top of her with ease. Ash makes herself comfortable against the cushioned pillows. Her hair was down, a halo of black curls that Basch had been so eager to feel once again. After all, it wasn't often they had time for themselves since the war ended, so all the time they had together was savored.

Ash's hands grasp at the sheets,

"Now these... These are nice."

"Aren't they?"

Basch's voice is deep and rough, and it's clear that the last thing he's focused on is the look of the damn sheets.

"You look beautiful with the red as your canvas."

Ash could never get enough of him, and she never planned to. The ring on her finger was but a physical representation of a promise that was always there, even when Basch was behind bars for two years. Still, despite it all, Ash thinks to herself that she was the luckiest woman in all of Ivalice to have such a view all to herself.

Ash humors his words with a soft smirk. Her fingers trail up from the red, silken sheets up his arm. Her touch is gently, her nails just dragging along his scarred skin and muscle to eventually rest her hand upon his cheek. She takes a moment to truly admire him.

They were older now, so much older than they were when they meet, but blue-gray eyes like a perfect storm always stayed the same. His hair was shorter now, in an attempt to look like someone who he never truly was. To the world, Basch was dead. To her, Basch was her life.

"It is rather exquisite bedding... Though I would expect nothing less from the Emperor's loyal protector."

Through the thin, white curtains blowing softly from the window, there was little but the moonlight illuminating them. Ash liked it that way—It reminded her of old times. Nothing but them and the sand beneath the stars, the sounds of quiet gasps and whispers of love the only thing either of them could care about. Archades wasn't the deserts she called home, but Basch's arms were home enough.

A flame needs a spark, and that's exactly what he was to her.

Ash leans her head back with a soft moan as her partner kisses her neck. If this is what happened whenever she got out of Rabanastre for a month, perhaps she had better become Archadia's Flame instead, always within arms reach of her loyal knight.

Basch leans in to pepper kisses along Ash's jaw, the poke of his short beard a contrast to the soft, feather-like touches of his lips.

Ash can feel him chuckle,

"I am much more than that, my lady. Allow me to show you."

They had been lovers for years, friends for even longer. It's not heated passion or lust that brought them together on that quiet night in the castle, but rather the feeling of two lovers reuniting. And Ash has no complaints.

There is nothing quick or hungry about the way Basch kisses her. Basch does not just kiss her. Basch worships Ash. Her body is one that he knows all too well. It was one that he had known when he was so much more than the man he was now, one that he had known whenever he was held in chains in Nalbina, and one that he had known in the hot, Dalmascan nights that left him red and exhausted.

Every inch of her is something that he knows so intimately, so he takes his time kissing her, feeling her as if to memorize her with his lips once more.

How could she? She had spent so many nights in Rabanastre dreaming night and day about her husband's arms only to realize that, as always, the real thing is so much better. Basch's lips trail down to her clavicle, kissing and sucking soft bruises that he knew Ash loved. The sweet melody of her breath and soft whispers of I love you only serving as motivation for him to continue. After all, it was a knight's job to serve his lady.

His hand trails to the side to meet hers, their fingers interlocking in a way that only affirmed the belief that, yes, they truly were made for each other. Ash simply closes her eyes and sighs, basking in the feeling.

Perfect in every single way is what Basch was to her.

[mjjune]

THE WOLF DOESN'T PLAY WITH ITS FOOD

He tightens his grip on his ax. “Show yourself.” Another flash of silver eyes, this time with the silhouette of long, sharp ears and snout in the fog. It is gone again before he can react. The voice laughs a low, sinister hum. He tenses, but fights his instinct to attack or run. The Wolf doesn’t play with its food. So I am not food.

A PLAYLIST image description in the alt text. click subtitle or image to hear playlist on youtube!

HEAVEN IS HERE / FLORENCE + THE MACHINE and i ride in my red dress / and time stretches endless with my gun in my hand / you know i always get my man THE WOLF / PHILDEL i'll leave with your head, oh, i'll leave you for dead, sire the wishes i've made are too vicious to tell WOLVES WITHOUT TEETH / OF MONSTERS & MEN you hover like a hummingbird / haunt me in my sleep i breathe what is yours / you breathe what is mine RIBS / THE CRANE WIVES the dark doesn't frighten me / i chose to close my eyes don't let them sell you any armor / all your ribs are still your own COUNTING PATHS / MATTHEW & THE ATLAS soon your touch will disappear / something that i should have come to fear no one's ever looked at me that way HELL OR HIGH WATER / THE RESCUES trees are burning, ravens fly / smoke is filling up the sky bury everything they said / never fall, never fall THRONE / SAINT MESA you hate my bad behavior / you cut my loosened tongue you play the part of savior / i watch you come undone THE HORROR & THE WILD / THE AMAZING DEVIL remember me i ask, remember me i sing / give me back my heart, you wingless thing / think of all the horrors that i promised you i'd bring LIAR / THE ARCADIAN WILD i need you to see through my act / to tell me i'm wrong, to take off the mask or else i'll be left in the lie / and i'll deceive my way straight to demise

Taglist:

@annetilney @bebewrites @diemohnblume @eventideintrigue @isabellebissonrouthier @lexiklecksi @little-mouse-gardens @mr-writes @perasperaadastrawriting @phantomnations @wildswrites comment or message me to be added/removed!

[holistichiatus]

Music Tag Game

RULES: You can usually tell a lot about a person by the type of music they listen to. Put your playlist on shuffle and list the first 10 songs, and then tag 10 people. No skipping!

Thanks for the tag, @ritens and @melanodis ^^

The Ghost on the Shore - Lord Huron

Wolves of the Revolution - The Arcadian Wild

High Barbary - Storm Weather Shanty Choir

Love Love Love - The Mountain Goats

Not Dead Yet - Lord Huron

MOMS AWAY - Miracles of Modern Science

Crows (DJ-Kicks)-Mixed - Forest Swords

Second Chances - Gregory Alan Isakov

Ends of the Earth - Lord Huron

Dying Alone - American Pets

tagging uuhhhh @sodafrog13 @sanchomps @ragri5 @r2mich2 @alteredsilicone that's everyone i feel comfortable tagging ghfjkd no pressure, ofc ^^

[crumb]

Damon has been cast in an upcoming Blumhouse/Amazon Prime Horror Action series and as a series regular!!! I'm fucking screaming! His character is “the owner of a successful country music club" named Lucky. 😭 I'm so excited for this! Full Article from BloodyDisgusting:

Four new cast members join Kevin Bacon and Jennifer Nettles on Blumhouse TV’s “The Bondsman,” an action horror series for Amazon’s Prime Video. That includes actor Damon Herriman (Run Rabbit Run, The Nightingale, “Mindhunter”). Variety reports that Herriman, Beth Grant (No Country For Old Men, Donnie Darko), Maxwell Jenkins (“Arcadian,” “Lost In Space”) and Jolene Purdy (“The White Lotus,” “Orange Is The New Black”) have all joined the show in series regular roles. The action horror series “centers on Hub Halloran (Kevin Bacon), a backwoods bounty hunter who comes back from the dead with an unexpected second chance at life, love, and a nearly-forgotten musical career — only to find that his old job now has a demonic new twist.” “The Bondsman” was created by Grainger David (The Chair), who will also executive produce. Erik Oleson will serve as showrunner and executive producer via CrimeThink. Jennifer Nettles will play Hub Halloran’s ex-wife, Maryanne. Beth Grant will play Kitty, the mother of Hub Halloran. Herriman will appear as Lucky, who is described as “the owner of a successful country music club, who is in a relationship with Maryanne.” Jenkins will play Cade, Hub and Maryanne’s son. Jolene Purdy will play Midge, who is described as “weary with the understated gravitas of someone who’s learned the hard way how to hold her ground in a male-dominated world. Midge may look unassuming but she’s actually a secret emissary.” Amazon ordered eight half-hour episodes of “The Bondsman.” Jason Blum, Chris McCumber, Jeremy Gold, and Chris Dickie for Blumhouse TV also executive produce, as does Paul Shapiro from CrimeThink. Bacon will also executive produce in addition to leading the series. “The Bondsman” also marks the latest collaboration between Blumhouse and Amazon. Blumhouse is also behind Prime Video’s horror dramedy “The Horror of Dolores Roach,” which debuted last summer on the streaming platform.

[deepwoundsandfadedscars]

We don't talk enough about whumpy songs, do you have any recommendations? i mean, look at the lyrics of these songs, whumpy asf: Bleeding out - Imagine Dragons, Stitches - Shawn Mendes, I'm a sucker for pain- Imagine Dragons, etc

YES 👏 those are all fantastic songs, I love them so much. And ooh buddy did you send me into a hyperfocus zone for the past like hour and a half at least, I think I went through every playlist I've ever made + liked songs 😂😂 unless noted, I haven't watched the music videos for most of these so full disclosure I don't know what you'll find on youtube, I made this list from Spotify

Bloodshot - Sam Tinnesz

See You Bleed - Ramsey

Run for Your Life - K.Flay

Partners in Crime - Set It Off, Ash Costello

Choke - I DON'T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME (acoustic version feels even whumpier to me tbh)

Liar - The Arcadian Wild (mildly, but I like it)

She Doesn't Sleep - Anthony Amorim

Hit and Run - LOLO

Blood - My Chemical Romance

I Can't Decide - Scissor Sisters

An Unhealthy Obsession - The Blake Robinson Synthetic Orchestra (very heavily about stalking lol)

Body - Mother Mother

Champion - American Authors, Beau Young Prince

Trouble - Valerie Broussard

Siren Head - Chills, CORPSE (horror based topic but corpse voice make brain go brr)

In Hell I'll Be in Good Company - The Dead South

Sloppy Seconds - Watsky (mainly the first verse)

The London Air Raids - Vian Izak (civilians during war cw)

Bulletproof - La Roux

This is Love - Air Traffic Controller

Kill of the Night - Gin Wigmore

Dying Day - Gin Wigmore

Doombop! - The Toxhards (music video is funny but also whump vibes)

Dead! - My Chemical Romance

Rusted From the Rain - Billy Talent

River Below - Billy Talent

Cult leader - KiNG MALA

Run Boy Run - Woodkid

Bones - NateWantsToBattle (music video is pretty great too)

As We Fall - League of Legends (check out the music video!!!)

I Hope You Die in a Fire - Grand Commander

Stronger - The Score

Kiss With A Fist - Florence+ The Machine (cw for domestic abuse but it's like. Kinda a bop tbh)

The Wolves - JJ and The Pillars

Hell's Comin' with Me - Poor Man's Poison

[playlists-in-fall]

- folk adjacent songs

all the best debts - fever dolls

change and change and change and change - the airborne toxic event

cherry - morningsiders

civil war - the arcadian wild

cocaine and abel - the airborne toxic event

deep river blues - doc watson

ends of the earth - lord huron

fare the well (dink’s song) - oscar isaac

flowers - james spaite

from dusk to dawn - fever dolls

golden dandelions - barns courntey

graveclothes - birdtalker

hang me, oh hang me - oscar isaac

hey, runner! - the arcadian wild

i iv v - don mccloskey

kickin’ da leaves - judah & the lion

knockin’ - carolina chocolate drops

moonshine - hippo campus

not dead yet - lord huron

oh, sleeper - the arcadian wild

poor isaac - the airborne toxic event

starcrossed losers - the fratellis

stella - cereus bright

subterranean homesick blues - the lumineers

tell it like it is - the arcadian wild

there is a time - the dillards

wander. wonder. - the arcadian wild

[mantleoflight]

Wrong Place, Wrong Time, Wrong Everything || Pt 2

The Vex tunnel shone like a distorted Warp space, neon latices forming and shattering, pieces of half-manifest Vex debris appearing and vanishing in an instant. Echo gripped the dual helm sticks she used to steer for all they were worth, desperately trying to keep on course while praying she wouldn’t burst into splinters.

“Echo! I see an end!” Whisper shouted, her guardian barely hearing her over the turbulence. “Keep holding on, we’re almost out!!!”

The cockpit shook violently as turbulence intensified, and for a moment, Echo thought she was going to be crushed by the sheer g forces pushing on her. Then, like the snap of a rubber band, they were out, the light of the Vex net vanishing as they escaped into real space.

The Velocimancer wobbled its wings, it's nose dipping as Echo throttled back and tried to regain her bearings. “We’re not dead?” She asked, blinking stars from her dazzled optics.

“Not yet,” Whisper answered quickly, “but we’ve got hostiles! Dog fighters ahead!”

The shapes of round, black ships with wings like twisted candy wrappers roared and twisted as long, more conventional shaped ships chased and were chased by the black candy fighters.

"What in the absolute-" Echo began when Whisper cut her off. "FIGHTERS UP TOP, DIVE 90-0-23!"

Echo pushed her flight sticks forward and down, sending her ship into a sharp nose dive as two fighters roared passed, swerving to avoid hitting her. Blue light trailed in the wake behind her as she went, but as she looked up from the front, she saw her position had revealed a whole space battle happening above her.

Two huge ships glided through space, trading canon fire like ketches of the Old Crews but bigger. Part of her thought of the large war freighters the Cabal had stationed protectively over the Last City, Psion star fighters ready to launch in their hanger bays, or that the Shadow Legion had stationed on Neomuna with their destructive Nighthawks and tanks.

Around one flew the black, candy-shaped ships, their engines roaring like angry ascendant hive knights. Meanwhile around another flew the white, needle-nosed ships trading red laser fire for green with the black ones. But with them were also odd ships that looked something like an Arcadian jump ship but with no wings and only its engines secured to the main body. What kind of ship was that?

Echo shook her head and glanced at her ghost. "Oh boy, Whisper triangulate our current position and get us the heck away from these guys. I don't want to be part of whatever party these guys are having."

Whisper chirped and extended her scanning reach. "Got it - ECHO!"

"HOLY--" Echo hauled on her helm sticks, maneuvering her ship as she threaded through a knot of fighting forces. In the moments the hunter had looked at the battle and glanced at her ghost, her ship had soared down and around the main part of the conflict only to find herself in the other half of it! Unbeknownst to her, she had come in at a split vector, right through the middle of the main forces of fighting and unfortunately like all dog fights, forces move.

"Hang on!" she shouted and shifted in her seat, weaving and juking as she tried to thread her way out of the battle. Finally, she saw an opening and took it and a whole planet opened up to her.

A planet! Her ship was made for interplanetary travel! If she could get down there, she could do a warp snap perpendicular to it, allowing her to get past the atmosphere and get to cover before she ended up mince meat for these dog fighters.

With that in mind, the long nosed jumpship wove its way through the fray, dodging red and green laser blasts as Echo tried to escape from the battle. With any luck, the other fighters would be too busy to worry about a blueberry like her. After all, from the looks of the war carriers, they had much bigger problems to deal with.

[gameknigh]

Anyways here is a list of about 200 things I am no longer allowed to do within the UNSC ONI or Spartan Operations, I do not regret any of these

My proper military title is ‘Spartan Sam’ not ‘Princess Anastasia’.

Not allowed to threaten anyone with black magic.

Not allowed to challenge anyone’s disbelief of black magic by asking for hair.

Not allowed to get silicone breast implants.

Not allowed to play ‘Pulp Fiction’ with a suction-cup dart pistol and any officer.

Not allowed to add ‘In accordance with the prophesy’ to the end of answers I give to a question an officer asks me.

Not allowed to add pictures of officers I don’t like to War Criminal posters.

Not allowed to title any product ‘Get Over it’.

Not allowed to purchase anyone’s soul on Government time.

Not allowed to join the communist party.

Not allowed to join any militia.

N ot allowed to form any militia.

Not allowed out of my office when the president visited Boston.

Not allowed to train adopted stray dogs to ‘Sic Brass!’

Must get a haircut even if it tampers with my ‘Sampson like powers’.

God may not contradict any of my orders.

May no longer perform my now (in)famous ‘Barbie Girl Dance’ while on duty.

May not call any officers immoral, untrustworthy, lying, slime, even if I’m right.

Must not taunt the Harvestians any more.

Must attempt to not antagonize ODSTs.

Must never call an ODST a ‘Wanker’.

Must never ask anyone who outranks me if they’ve been smoking crack.

Must not tell any officer that I am smarter than they are, especially if it’s true.

Never confuse a Revian soldier for a Martian one.

Never tell a German soldier that ‘We kicked your ass in World War 2!’

Don’t take the batteries out of the other Spartan’s alarm clocks (Even if they do hit snooze about forty times).

The Irish Spartans are not after ‘Me frosted lucky charms’.

Not allowed to wake an Non-Commissioned Officer by repeatedly banging on the head with a bag of trash.

Not allowed to let sock puppets take responsibility for any of my actions.

Not allowed to let sock puppets take command of my post.

Not allowed to chew gum at formation, unless I brought enough for everybody.

(Next day) Not allowed to chew gum at formation even if I *did* bring enough for everybody.

Not allowed to sing ‘High Speed Dirt’ by Megadeth during airborne operations. (‘See the earth below/Soon to make a crater/Blue sky, black death, I’m off to meet my maker’)

Can’t have flashbacks to wars I was not in. (The Interplanetary War isn’t over).

Our medic is called ‘Sgt Larwasa’, not ‘Dr. Feelgood’.

Our supply Sgt is ‘Sgt Watkins’ not ‘Sugar Daddy’.

Not allowed to ask for the day off due to religious purposes, on the basis that the world is going to end, more than once.

I do not have super-powers.

Camouflage body paint is not a uniform.

I am not the atheist chaplain.

I am not authorized to fire officers.

Not allowed to trade military equipment for ‘magic beans’.

Not allowed to sell magic beans during duty hours.

Not allowed to quote ‘Dr Seuss’ on military operations.

Not allowed to yell ‘Take that Cobra’ at the rifle range.

Not allowed to quote ‘Full Metal Jacket ‘ at the rifle range.

‘Napalm sticks to kids’ is *not* a motivational phrase.

An order to ‘Put Kiwi on my boots’ does *not* involve fruit.

An order to ‘Make my Boots black and shiny’ does not involve electrical tape.

The proper response to a lawful order is not ‘Why?’

The following words and phrases may not be used in a cadence- based, necrophilia, I hate everyone in this formation and wish they were dead, all Marines are latent homosexuals, Arcadian yoga, Gotterdammerung, or any references to squid.

May not make posters depicting the leadership failings of my chain of command.

‘The Giant Space Ants’ are not at the top of my chain of command.

It is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission, no longer applies to Spartan Sam.

Command decisions do *not* need to be ratified by a 2/3 majority.

There are no evil clowns living under my bed.

There is no ‘Anti-Mime’ campaign on Harvest.

I am not the Spartan Ops Mascot.

I may not line my helmet with tin foil to ‘Block out the space mind control lasers’.

May not pretend to be a fascist stormtrooper on duty

I am not authorized to prescribe any form of medication.

May not conduct psychological experiments on my chain of command.

The MP checkpoint is not an Imperial Stormtrooper roadblock, so I should not tell them “You don’t need to see my identification, these are not the droids you are looking for.”

I may not call block my chain of command.

I am neither the king nor queen of cheese.

Not allowed to wear MJOLNIR to any army functions.

May not bring a drag queen to the battalion formal dance.

May not form any press gangs.

Must not start any SITREP (Situation Report) with “I recently had an experience I just had to write you about….”

Must not use military vehicles to ‘Squish’ things.

May not challenge anyone in my chain of command to the ‘field of honor’.

If the thought of something makes me giggle for longer than 15 seconds, I am to assume that I am not allowed to do it.

Must not refer to the Commander as ‘Dad’.

I am not authorized to initiate Jihad.

When asked to give a few words at a military ceremony ‘Romper Bomper Stomper Boo’ is probably not appropriate.

Nerve gas is not funny.

Crucifixes do not ward off ONI officers, and I should not test that.

I am not in need of a more suitable host body.

The proper response to a chemical weapon attack is not ‘Tell my chain of command what I really think about them, and then poke holes in their masks.’

A smiley face is not used to mark a minefield.

Claymore mines are not filled with yummy candy, and it is wrong to tell new soldiers that they are.

I am not allowed to mount a bayonet on a crew-served weapon.

Rodents are not entitled to burial with full military honors, even if they are “casualties of war”.

My commander is not old enough to have fought in the Second American Civil War, and I should stop implying that he did.

Vodka, green food coloring, and a ‘Cool Mint’ Listerine® bottle is not a good combination.

I am not allowed to bum cigarettes off of anyone under twelve.

I may not trade my rifle for any of the following: Cigarettes, booze, Unggoy, Kalishnikovs, Covenant Armored vehicles, small children, or bootleg CD’s.

Must not mock command decisions in front of the press.

Should not taunt members of the press, even if they are really fat, exceptionally stupid, and working for the UEG.

I am not authorized to change national policy in the Eastern Orion Arm.

Never, ever, attempt to correct a Spartan II about anything.

I am not qualified to operate any Covenant, UNSC, Banished, or Swords of Sanghelios Armored vehicles.

I cannot trade my CO to the Covies.

Crucifying mice – bad idea.

Burn pits for classified material are not revel fires – therefore it is wrong to dance naked around them.

I cannot arrest children for being rude.

An EO briefing is probably not the best place to unveil my newest off color joke.

Radioactive material should not be stored in the barracks.

I should not teach other soldiers to say offensive and crude things in Sangheli, under the guise of teaching them how to say potentially useful phrases.

Two drink limit does not mean first and last.

Two drink limit does not mean two kinds of drinks.

Two drink limit does not mean the drinks can be as large as I like.

‘No Drinking Of Alcoholic Beverages’ does not imply that a Jack Daniel’s ® IV is acceptable.

“Shpadoinkle” is not a real word.

The Microsoft ® ‘Dancing Paperclip’ is not authorized to countermand any orders.

‘I’m drunk’ is a bad answer to any question posed by my commander.

The loudspeaker system is not a forum to voice my ideas.

The loudspeaker system is not to be used to replace the radio.

The loudspeaker system is not to be used to broadcast the soundtrack to a porno movie.

Shouting ‘Let’s do the village! Let’s do the whole ****ing village!’ while out on a mission is bad.

Should not show up at the front gate wearing part of a Sangheli Combat Harness, messily drunk.

Even if my commander did it.

I am not authorized to sell mineral rights.

Not allowed to use a broadsword to disprove ‘The Pen is Mightier than the sword’.

I should not drink three quarts of blue food coloring before a urine test.

Nor should I drink three quarts of red food coloring, and scream during the same.

J should not threaten suicide with pop rocks and Coke ®.

Putting red ‘Mike and Ike’s’ ® into a prescription medicine bottle, and then eating them all in a formation is not funny.

Must not create new ONI forms, then insist they be filled out.

On Sports Day PT, a wedgie is not considered a legal tackle.

The proper way to report to my Commander is ‘Spartan Sam, reporting as ordered, Sir’ not ‘You can’t prove a thing!’

The following items do not exist: Keys to the Drop Zone, A box of grid squares, blinker fluid, winter air for tires, canopy lights, or MJOLNIR oil.

Shouldn’t treat ‘piss-bottles’ with extra-strength icy hot.

Teaching Sangheli children to taunt other soldiers is not nice.

I will no longer perform ‘lap-dances’ while in MJOLNIR.

The revolution is not now.

When detained by MP’s, I do not have a right to a strip search.

No part of the MJOLNIR armor is edible.

Bodychecking General officers is not a good idea.

Past lives have absolutely no effect on the chain of command.

Take that hat off.

There is no such thing as a were-virgin.

I do not get ‘that time of month’.

No, the pants are not optional.

Not allowed to operate a business out of the barracks.

Not allowed to ‘defect’ to Covenant during training missions.

On training missions, try not to shoot down the General’s helicopter.

‘A full magazine and some privacy’ is not the way to help a potential suicide.

I am not allowed to create new levels of security clearance.

Furby ® is not allowed into classified areas. (I swear to the gods, I did not make that up, it’s actually ONI policy).

We do not ‘charge into battle, naked, like the Celts’.

Any device that can crawl across the table on medium, does not need to be brought into the office.

I am not to refer to a formation as ‘the boxy rectangle thingie’.

I am not ‘A lesbian trapped in a man’s body’.

On Army documents, my race is not ‘Other’.

Nor is it ‘Secretariat, in the third’.

Pokémon® trainer is not an MOS.

There is no FM for ‘wall-to-wall counseling’.

My chain of command has neither the time, nor the inclination to hear about what I did with six boxes of Fruit Roll-Ups. ®

When operating a military vehicle I may *not* attempt something ‘I saw in a cartoon’.

My name is not a killing word.

I am not the Emperor of anything.

Must not taunt officers in the throes of nicotine withdrawal, with cigarettes.

May not challenge officers to ‘Meet me on the field of honor, at dawn’.

Must not make s’mores while on guard duty.

Our Warthogs cannot be assembled into a giant battle-robot.

The proper response to a briefing is not ‘That’s what you think’.

The Masons, and Gray Aliens are not in our chain of command.

Shouldn’t take incriminating photos of my chain of command.

Shouldn’t use Photoshop ® to create incriminating photos of my chain of command.

I am not allowed to give Spartan augmentations

Not allowed to lead a ‘Coup’ during training missions.

I should not confess to crimes that took place before I was born.

My chain of command is not interested in why I ‘just happen’ to have a kilt, an inflatable sheep, and a box of rubber bands in the back of my car.

Must not valiantly push officers onto hand grenades to save the squad.

Despite the confusing similarity in the names, the “Safety Dance” and the “Safety Briefing” are never to be combined.

“To conquer the earth with an army of flying monkeys” is a bad long term goal to give the re-enlistment NCO.

NEVER nail a stuffed bunny to a cross and put it up in front of the Battalion Headquarters sign as an “Easter Desecration.”

Don’t write up false gigs on a Warthog PMCS. (“Broken clutch pedal”, “Number three turbine has frequent flame-outs”, “flux capacitor emits loud whine when engaged”)

Not allowed to get shot.

Not allowed to play into the deluded fantasies of the civlians who are “hearing conversations” from the CMA, ONI, UNSC and SoS due to the microchip the aliens implanted in their brain.

Must not make T-shirts up depciting a Grunt with the writing “Breath Oxygen or Die” in Unggoy to bring as civilian attire when preparing to deploy to their homeworld.

Must not go on nine deployments in six years that require a security clearance that I don’t have, even if the ONI tells me repeatedly that I have one and I have no reason to question them.

Do not convince NCO’s that their razorbumps are the result of microscopic parasites.

Do not lick Spartan IIs

Do not change Smart AI’s avatars to “obscene” things or pictures of my Cat

Do not show up to the UNSC Infinity in a “Anime Bunnysuit and fishnets”

Do not use a 560 year old H&K XM8 because ‘it looks enough like a battle rifle’

Well, that concludes the list. I probably shouldn’t have done some of these, but I definitely don’t regret the second to last (I looked hot AF).